Uh-oh. I hoped we weren’t going to talk about “us.” I wasn’t sure what “we” were.
He put a finger under my chin to lift my face to his. “You know that’s true, right?”
I pulled away, ducking my chin into a nod. I traced the outside seam on my workpants.
“Your enthusiasm is inspiring,” Carlos said dryly.
“I’m sorry.” I raised my eyes to his. “I feel like my emotions are on hold. I’m distracted, and nervous about Saturday. I’ve been trying to imagine who might have murdered Ronnie, and why. And I’m worried the killer’s next move might end up derailing Mama’s wedding, or worse.”
Saying my fears aloud made me think about what Henry had reported. “We heard C’ndee is a suspect.”
His brows shot up. “Who told you that?”
“Himmarshee is a small town, Carlos. People gossip.”
“What else are people saying?”
“Well,” I ran a thumb along the slat of the bench, thinking. “They’re saying she was running around with Ronnie. And that her boyfriend before Ronnie has a violent temper. And that she’s made herself mighty scarce in these last couple of days.”
“I see you’ve been busy.”
“Is she a suspect, or not?”
His features hardened into his cop look. “You know I can’t talk about that. This is an active investigation.”
“I’m not the enemy, Carlos.”
He was quiet for a moment. He finally said, “Then what are you, Mace? I thought we were the opposite of enemies, but now I just don’t know. What are we to one another?”
I stared out into the park again. A blue jay scolded me from a cypress branch. I could feel Carlos’ gaze on me, waiting. But I didn’t know what to tell him.
“Okay, I guess that’s my answer.”
He rose from the bench. I put a hand on his arm. He shook it off.
“Just give me some time,” I said.
“You’ve already had time.” His face was a wall. “But as long as I’m here, there is something else I need to ask you.”
I hoped at least I’d get an easier question this time. “Go ahead.” I was eager to change the subject.
“I went out to that fish camp you told me about. No sign of Darryl, and nobody knew anything about him, or at least that’s what they told me.” He crossed his arms over his chest, like an interrogator. “You said you talked to the son, right?”
“Stepson. Name’s Rabe.”
“Well, Rabe is supposed to be there this afternoon. I told the rest of them I’d be coming back. I think I’d have more luck talking to people out there if you were along. Would you mind?”
I thought of Darryl with his knife at that fish-cleaning station. He’d be singing a different tune with The Law standing beside me. And I couldn’t wait to see that redneck bastard squirm.
“Of course I’ll come,” I said. “And Carlos?”
He cocked his head.
“I knew you had an angle.”
It was a long ride to Darryl’s Fish Camp. Tension hung in the front seat like a heavy curtain between Carlos and me.
My Jeep was back in service with a new battery, thanks to Sal. Carlos and I decided to take it, since his unmarked car, a white Ford Crown Victoria, screamed plainclothes cop. I drove. Carlos rode shotgun.
He’d spent most of our forty-minute trip to the south end of Lake O ignoring me, making calls on his cell phone in rapid-fire Spanish. It was rude on several levels, but I cut him a break. I hadn’t exactly been Emily Post when he came to visit at Himmarshee Park.
I’m sure he thought I was jerking him around. He was entitled to cop an attitude.
The way he was machine-gunning Spanish words into the phone, I didn’t have a prayer of understanding him. I can puzzle out simple words and a few sentences, as long as the verbs are present tense, the speaker goes really S—L—O—W—L—Y, and there are hand gestures and facial expressions to help me along.
Carlos, however, seemed in no mood to help me along.
I did catch a tender tone to his voice in the first call, and the word abuela, which I remembered meant grandmother. My mind went back to the first time he told me about his granny, and the way she spent hours in the kitchen cooking his favorite Cuban dishes, even though she was well into her eighties. That was when we were getting to know each other. What had happened to the bond between us? Sometimes I wanted to make it stronger; other times it seemed I was taking it apart, piece by painful piece.
His present conversation sounded like business, though I couldn’t be sure. For all I knew, he might be placing an order for tomorrow from the new Cuban lunch counter outside of town. If so, I wondered if he remembered how much I liked those sweet fried bananas. I thought of the first time he made Cuban food for me. His face had been joyful as he fed me a forkful of delicious plátanos. We’d gone directly from the kitchen to his bedroom. No one can tell me food isn’t an aphrodisiac.
Now, I stole a glance at him in profile. His jaw was set in a hard line; his face closed and cold. No joy. He stared impassively at the scenery—sugarcane fields that seemed to stretch forever; a flat road shimmering in the June sun; the occasional agricultural truck lumbering by on the opposite side of US Highway 441.
“So you talked to your grandmother?” I finally asked, when he made no move to speak.
“About her.” His brow furrowed. “She’s sick.”
“I’m sorry.” I remembered how I felt when Maw-Maw started failing. I resisted the urge to reach over and stroke his cheek. “I hope it’s not serious.”
“She’s eighty-six, Mace. At that age, anything is serious.”
“I’ll ask Mama to add her name to the prayer list down at Abundant Forgiveness, Love and Charity Chapel.”
“Thanks. Can’t hurt. I know a lot of the old ladies at Saint John Bosco in Little Havana have been lighting candles, too.”
He shifted on the passenger seat. Tapped his fingers on one knee. “How much farther?”
“We’re almost there. But if you need to take a whiz, I can pull over into the weeds.”
His lip curled. “As inviting as that sounds, I don’t have to go. I’m just trying to remember where the fish camp is. There aren’t many landmarks out here. Everything looks the same.”
“Unlike Miami, where all the strip malls and condos display such unique and interesting differences.”
Now, why did I say that? Did I want to start a fight?
“I think we’ve already established that Miami is evil and ugly—though millions of tourists a year might dispute that—and that Himmarshee is paradise. If you don’t mind snakes, bugs, and accents so thick no one can understand a word people up here are saying.”
“Accents?” I raised an eyebrow. “At least we speak English!”
“Marginally.”
I thought of Carlos, with his precise diction and careful grooming, meeting up with Darryl, with his muddy bare feet and redneck growl. I couldn’t help it, I started to laugh.
“Son, jest wait ’til we git to that camp,” I drawled. “You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.”
Before long, the Jeep was rattling over the ruts in the dirt driveway. This time, I noticed that somebody had used the fish camp’s metal sign for target practice. Whoever had done it was a pretty good shot, too. Blue sky showed through a hole where the eyeball of a largemouth bass used to be.
“Where’s the lake?” Carlos asked.
“Can’t see it from here. The shoreline’s behind a dike, at least thirty feet tall. Two hurricanes in the 1920s killed a couple of thousand people out here, which made the government sit up and pay attention to flood control.”