“I’m going to apologize for my daughter.’’ Mama’s tone was confiding. “Mace is used to being in charge—at least she is when her big sister Maddie’s not around. Maddie bosses everyone she sees, but she doesn’t mean any harm by it.’’ Mama put her hands on her hips, settling in for a gal-to-gal chat. “Truth is, we had us a bit of trouble last summer after I found that poor dead man in the trunk of my convertible. It’s made Mace awful suspicious about anything that could, possibly, in any way, no matter how remote . . . be murder.’’
Wynonna was listening to Mama, but she hadn’t taken her eyes off me.
“What makes you think Lawton was muh . .’’ she swallowed like the word was stuck in her throat, then tried again. “What makes you think Lawton’s death wasn’t a heart attack?’’
I pointed out the Colt on the ground under Lawton.
“Is that all?’’ She shook her head, her frosted blonde bangs falling prettily into her eyes. “Lawton was probably out here practicing his quick draw. I used to come in on him all the time, showboating in front of the mirror. He thought he was something out of an old Clint Eastwood movie with all those big ol’ guns of his. ‘Make my day,’ he’d say into the mirror, his eyes all squinty like a gunslinger. When I’d catch him, and bust out laughing, he’d get so embarrassed. Y’all should see him do it. It’s real funny.’’
The half-smile died on Wynonna’s lips as she caught herself using the present tense. A tear coursed down her cheek. Mama reached over and rubbed her shoulder.
“I really loved him, you know?’’ Her voice was soft, pleading with us to believe her. “I’m well aware of what people think about me. I’m sure y’all think it, too.’’
“Oh, honey. Nobody thinks anything bad about you.’’
I thought Mama was laying it on a bit thick, but Wynonna looked at her hopefully.
“That’s nice of you to say. But yes. Yes, they do. They think I’m a gold digger.’’
Mama opened her mouth to protest. Wynonna waved a hand to ward off whatever lie Mama was about to tell.
“No, it’s all right. I’m used to it. People have always thought the worst of me, ever since I was a girl in North Carolina. I’ve never really understood why; but I think it’s the reason I’ve grown such a hard shell. I could say it until I’m blue in the face, but people will just not believe how much I loved Lawton. He was the first man who ever ‘got’ me. Soul to soul. And not just because I’m nice to look at, either. I think he would have proposed even if I was big and fat and plain as a fence post.’’
I doubted that, but I held my tongue.
“Truth is, I would have married Lawton Bramble if he didn’t have a pot to piss in. My own mother married for money. She always said it was the hardest work she ever did. We kids grew up with anything we wanted, but not a bit of love in the house. My father was rich, but he could be a cold son of a bitch.’’
Not unlike Lawton himself, I thought.
“My mother died alone and unhappy,’’ she said. “People blamed it on the stress of having been married to my dad. I’d be the last woman in the world to set my sights on a man just because he had money.’’
Wynonna stared into the dying cook fire, a faraway look in her eyes. I wondered if she was thinking about her present heartache, or about that loveless childhood home?
We sure didn’t have much money after Daddy died. And, more often than not, Mama’s antics drove my two sisters and me to distraction. But love was one thing all of us always had enough of. I suddenly felt sorry for Wynonna.
We were silent for a few moments, even Mama. An owl flew by, so low I felt a whoosh of wind as it passed. Frogs formed a chorus from the alligator grass in a creek on the Bramble land. Finally, Wynonna cleared her throat.
“Well, I guess we should head over to the house; get somebody to come on out here, like Mace said.’’ She ran a graceful hand through her hair. “I want everything to be on the up and up. I know people will imagine the worst about me. I’m not going to give them any cause to talk.’’
She looked at Lawton’s tasting mug. “I’ll leave his chili cup just where it is, too. At least ’til we get everything straightened out.’’
“Don’t worry, Wynonna. You’ll carry Lawton right here.’’ Mama put her palm to her own chest, patting at her heart. “That’s the way it is when someone you love dies.’’
Wynonna nodded, brushing at the fresh tears that spilled onto her cheeks.
I reached for her arm to steer her away. “C’mon. Let’s get you home,’’ I said.
I was surprised when she grabbed at my outstretched hand and hung on.
“Thanks, Mace. I mean it. I’m sorry I blew up at you before. I know you only have Lawton’s best interests at heart.’’
“Well, honey, of course we do,’’ Mama butted in. “Lawton’s a very dear old friend.’’
I prayed Mama wouldn’t get into just how dear their friendship had been. I sent her a warning look. Wynonna didn’t seem to notice.
“Will y’all stay with me when I break the news to Lawton’s kids?’’ she asked. “I don’t want to do that alone.’’
“Whatever you need, honey. We’ll be right beside you.’’ Mama patted Wynonna’s free hand.
With her other hand, Wynonna clutched at me like a drowning woman. She held on so tight, my fingers were going white.
We picked our way through oak trees and scrub between Lawton’s outdoor fire pit and the Bramble home. Wild hogs had torn through, digging up roots in the dirt. The ground was rough and uneven. We all cast our eyes downward, so as not to stumble in the dim light.
“Watch out, Mama. There’s a big rotten log just ahead.’’
Wynonna, at least thirty years younger than Mama and twice as strong, dropped my hand. She stepped behind me, nearly lifting Mama off her feet to help her over the log.
We started out again, single file, as the path narrowed through the hammock’s thick trees. Just then, a faint noise floated toward us on the night air. Low, droning, it was unlike the evening song of any bird I’d ever heard. I strained to catch it more clearly. Animal? Human? I couldn’t be sure. I turned and motioned for Mama and Wynonna to hold up.
“Hear that?’’ I whispered.
Mama cocked her head to listen. “Whistle While You Work,’’ she finally said. “Sorriest rendition I’ve ever heard.’’
She was right. The melody was there, but just barely. What should have been a happy, peppy tune sounded more like a dirge. Combine the thought of Lawton’s body growing cold in the clearing with that odd, cheerless song, and it was enough to raise a prickle along the back of my neck.
For a moment, the whistle seemed familiar. And then, suddenly, a sound exploded in the woods just ahead. I stopped pondering the unhappy tune. I stopped thinking about anything at all. Something crashed through the brush. It was big. It was loud. And it was coming straight for us.
“Dammit!’’
A heavy-set man muttered curses as he hopped on one foot. He flailed at a vine encircling his ankle. He beat at a low-growing sabal palm that threatened to knock an already battered straw hat off his head.
“I hate the woods!’’ He swore again under his breath.
He seemed unaware of our presence, probably because of the racket he was raising in the brush. Either that, or Dr. Frank Abel had lost what was left of his hearing at the same time he’d gained about three pant sizes around the waist. He was already old, and on the heavy side, when I last saw him, some ten years before. Doc Abel treated a wrist I’d sprained when a horse threw me in a riding accident a couple of hours north of Himmarshee, near Holopaw, Florida. I’d have guessed he would have retired by now.