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The news about her father’s death left Belle’s body rigid, her face pale. She gripped the arms of a cane-back chair like she was afraid it was going to fly away on her. The veins atop her hands bulged out, blue-grey against fair, sun-freckled skin.
“I want to go to Daddy’s cook site right now,’’ she said.
“Honey, I don’t think you should . . .’’
“Right now.’’ Belle interrupted Mama. Her lower lip quivered, but her eyes were dry.
“All right, then. This is Rosalee, Belle.’’ Doc nodded toward Mama. “She and I will take you over to see your father.’’ He glanced at Wynonna. “Are you up to making the call to the funeral home?’’
Pressing her lips together, Wynonna nodded.
“I wrote the number for you on the pad in the kitchen, by the phone,’’ Doc said.
After Doc left with Mama and Belle, the big living room was quiet, except for Trey’s snores. Wynonna’s voice was a low murmur from the kitchen. Here, it was just me and Trey, sleeping off his drunk. I hated to admit it, but he was still a handsome guy—even with a line of drool on his chin. Was it a bar fight, or something else, that had left him scratched and bruised? Where were the buttons off his shirt, which hung open to reveal his smooth chest?
I sat and studied Trey, like he was an animal in the wild. On the side, I make a little extra money trapping nuisance critters for newcomers. These are people who move to Himmarshee imagining they’ll love the country, until the country comes to call. And then they’re desperate to evict it, from the attic or the swimming pool or whatever part of their home the country has crashed.
My business depends on understanding animals well enough to predict their behavior. I like to do the same with the human animal, but that’s usually a lot more complicated.
I understood how Trey grew up: Money. Privilege. God-given talent. But I couldn’t have predicted this behavior: Drunk. Passed out. Failing to achieve his potential. He seemed wounded. I always stop to help injured animals. I just hoped Trey wouldn’t bite.
“Mace?’’ Wynonna’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. She handed me a cup of coffee, and put one for herself on an end table mounted on a wagon wheel. “Thanks for sticking around.’’
“Don’t mention it,’’ I said. “Listen, would you mind if I used your phone? I’ll keep it short. I just want to let my sisters know Mama and I are okay, in case they hear something happened on the Cracker Trail.’’
Waving me toward the kitchen, she sank into a chair next to the couch. Wynonna looked like she could use that cup of coffee.
Fortunately, I reached Maddie’s answering machine. No half-hour back-and-forth about how if Mama and I were more careful, we wouldn’t be in the position of finding another dead body, and by the way, we should watch out for snakes if we’re foolhardy enough to sleep out in the wilderness in a tent. At the sound of the beep, I simply said:
“Maddie, it’s Mace. It looks like Lawton Bramble had a fatal heart attack just as the Cracker Trail riders were arriving on his land. Wanted to let you know Mama and I are fine. I’m not sure if the rest of the ride is off or on, but I’ll be in touch. Be sure and tell Marty everything’s okay. We haven’t seen a single snake.’’
That last part was a lie. But I didn’t want to worry our little sister, Marty.
I used the toilet and washed up, using a bathroom off the kitchen. By the time I was done, my coffee had gone cold on the counter. I nuked it in the microwave, looking for the sugar bowl while I waited. I added two teaspoons to my cup, and then rooted around in the ’fridge for some half-and-half. All I saw was skim milk. I’d sooner drink it black than ruin good coffee with that thin gruel.
Carrying my cup, I tiptoed back into the living room. If Wynonna had managed to catch some sleep, I didn’t want to disturb her. She leaned forward off the chair, angled toward Trey. Her long hair had fallen like a cloak over her face. I couldn’t tell if she was awake or sleeping.
As I got closer, I saw one of Wynonna’s arms stretched out toward the couch, resting on Trey’s chest. She’d slipped her hand beneath his ripped-open shirt. Her big diamond ring glinted as she moved her hand back and forth, back and forth, massaging the bare chest of her dead husband’s son.
“Leave that dog be, Mace. We’ve got to get over to the camp.’’
A Florida cur, a cow-working dog, lay with his head on his paws on the hard-pine porch of an outbuilding on the Bramble property. He watched with sad eyes as we walked past.
“I think he was Lawton’s dog, Mama.’’ I bent to check the name on his collar. Tuck. “Look how lost he looks.’’
I’d slipped out of the Brambles’ living room without letting on what I’d seen between Wynonna and Trey. I certainly wasn’t ready to spill the beans to Mama. I didn’t want speculation about the young widow and her stepson spreading all over middle Florida until I had it clearer in my mind what was going on.
Mama and I met as she was coming back from Lawton’s cook site. Doc Abel was still there, with the body. He and Lawton’s daughter, Belle, were waiting for the van from the funeral home.
I kneeled on the pine board and stroked the dog’s head. “Hey, Tuck, old boy. How you doin’?’’
A snort came from Mama’s direction. “Maybe Carlos Martinez wouldn’t have moved back to Miamuh,’’ she said, using the old Florida pronunciation, “if you’d of paid as much attention to him as you’re paying to that hound.’’
Not this again.
“I told you, Mama, Carlos had a lot of history to reconcile with in Miami. The timing wasn’t right. We both knew it.’’
I scratched behind Tuck’s right ear. He rolled to his back so I could rub his belly.
“All I’m saying is Carlos is a good man. I know I wouldn’t have been so quick to let him get away.’’ Mama smoothed at her hair.
“I know all about it, Mama. If you were just twenty-five years younger, you’d be wearing his engagement ring by now.’’
One of her convenient memory lapses had allowed Mama to forget that Detective Carlos Martinez had nearly sent her to the slammer the previous summer for murder. Back then, he’d have been more likely to slip a pair of handcuffs around her wrists than an engagement ring around her finger.
The dog got up and shook itself as we continued across Bramble property. He followed us, tags jangling on his collar. Mama turned sideways and waved a hand in Tuck’s direction. “Go on, shoo!’’ she yelled. “Git, you rascal.’’
He stopped, cocking his head at me.
“Quit it, Mama!’’ I said. “Can’t you see the poor thing is lonely?’’ I slapped my thigh and whistled. “C’mon, Tuck. You can come with us.’’ The dog loped to my side.
Mama rolled her eyes. “Just one ounce, Mace. If you’d use just an ounce of your power to attract animals on men, you’d be married by now. You’re a smart girl, honey. But when it comes to men, you ain’t got the brains God gave a possum.’’
“Who says I want to be married?’’ I snapped at her. “You’ve marched down the aisle enough for the both of us. Enough for half the female population in Himmarshee, in fact.’’
She ignored me, leveling a firm look at Tuck. “That flea-bitten animal is not sleeping in the tent with us.’’
“You’ll be glad to have him if it gets as cold tonight as it’s supposed to get.’’
“Some women might prefer a man to a dog for warmth, Mace.’’ She arched her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Think about it, honey.’’
The parched Bermuda grass and sharp stobs sticking up from the pasture crackled under our boots. The light of the moon edged white clouds with silver, brightening the sky above us.