Mama Does Time.

Deborah Sharp.

To the original Mama, Marion Sharp, and to my husband, Kerry Sanders.

I love you both to pieces.

Acknowledgments.

The good folks of Okeechobee, Florida, and the states cattle belt inspired fictional Himmarshee. You might recognize a few landmarks, but most everything else is made up.

Any mistakes in the book are mine, and not the fault of the experts I consulted. Henry Cabbage, spokesman for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, and two of the agencys biologists, Lindsey Hord and Steve Stiegler, guided me on gators. Allen Register, owner of Palmdales Gatorama, also helped.

Okeechobee County extension agent Pat Hogue answered my cattle questions, and the Clemons family welcomed me to the Okeechobee Livestock Market, in the same spot since 1937. Jack Knight showed me how a cattle buyer bids at auction.

The staff at the SPCA Wildlife Care Center in Fort Lauderdale allowed me to tag along on the care and feeding of critters.

My mom and real-life sisters encouraged me, and loaned their best traits to Mama, Mace, Maddie, and Marty. My husband gave his gorgeousness to Carlos Martinez. Any negative resemblance to these fictional counterparts is pure coincidence. (Yall believe me, right?) A long line of newspaper editors, including USA Todays, taught me to ask questions, listen carefully, and write tight. (Okay, so maybe this could be tighter, but I cant leave anyone out!) Several writers groups in Fort Lauderdale assisted my transition from journalism to fiction writing. Thanks to leaders Carol Lytle, Jon Frangipane and Wendell Abern, Shelley Lieber, and, especially, to my friends Joyce Sweeney and the super-talented members of the Thursday Night Group. A special nod to Kingsley Guy for the great title.

Former acquisitions editor Barbara Moore saved me from the slush pile, and the creative folks at Midnight Ink shepherded my book to publication.

Agent Whitney Lee held my hand (electronically, anyway), calmed my insecurities, and combed over my contract.

Thanks to those above, to those Ive missed, and especially to YOU, for reading Mama Does Time.

Mama just wanted to look pretty for high-stakes bingo night at the Seminole casino.

But her beautician left the peroxide on too long, and shes been shedding like an Angora sweater ever since. Now, it turns out a patchy dye job is the least of my mothers worries.

It all started with a phone call. I was just about to plop down with my left-over fried chicken in front of the TV, wanting to see if I could spot any of my ex-boyfriends on Cops, when the damned thing rang.

Mace, honey, youve got to come down here and help me. Im in a lot of trouble.

Mamas voice was shaking. She sounded scared, like the time the raccoon came crashing from the attic through the bathroom ceiling while my little sister, Marty, was in a bubble bath.

Slow down, Mama, I told her. Now, take a deep breath.

My mother is excitable. Im used to such calls. Maybe she needed me to solve a romantic crisis, or come pluck a snake out of the engine of her vintage turquoise convertible. I work outdoors in Himmarshee, Florida, in the wild regions north of Lake Okee-chobee. Im accustomed to snakes.

Start at the beginning and tell me whats wrong, I said.

I heard a shuddery sigh, and then silence. She cleared her throat. Finally she spoke.

Theyve got me down here at the police station, Mace. They think Ive killed a man.

If the kitchen counter hadnt been there for me to grab a hold of, Id have fallen out flat on the checkerboard pattern of my linoleum floor. I leaned my back against the wall and slid down slowly until my butt hit the baseboard. There I sat, clutching the receiver and searching for the proper response when your mother announces shes got one foot behind bars for murder.

Just sit tight and dont say another word. Ill be there as soon as I can.

I knew my advice would go untaken. The only time Mamas mouth is shut is when shes chewing on something.

There was a mans body in my trunk, Mace.

A strangled sob came through the phone. Then the story started pouring out.

There was an accident, she said, running the words together. Everything started at the Dairy Queen. Or maybe at bingo. Id ordered me a butterscotch dip. Then, two police cars came. I couldnt even get a second cone. A pretty young girl hit me. The man had a diamond pinky ring. She stopped for a breath. Youd better call your sisters, Mace.

The ability to make sense deserts Mama under stress. That doesnt mean she stops trying. I needed to get to her before she conversated herself right into a correctional facility.

Not another word. Do not say another word to anyone, you hear? You can fill me in when I get there. And Mama? Dont worry. Everythings going to be all right.

Even as I said it, I didnt believe it. But I hoped I sounded like I did. My two sisters and I spend a lot of time reassuring our mother that things will turn out fine. The amazing thing is, they usually do. But getting Mama from Point A to Point A-OK requires delicate maneuvering, truckloads of patience, and a fair amount of prayer.

I wasnt sure this time if all those things together would be enough.

I grabbed my keys from inside the toothy grin of a stuffed alligator head I keep on my coffee table. Its a trapping souvenir from a ten-foot nuisance gator my cousin and I wrestled from a swimming pool. The pools owner, a newcomer, thought he wanted country living until the country came to call.

Within minutes, I was on my way to town to rescue Mama. I live twenty miles out, in a cottage made of native cypress cut from local swamps. But downtown Himmarshee itself isnt much more than a bug speck on the windshield of a cattle-hauling truck. It seems like every week developers plant a new subdivision sign on former pastureland. But so far, the big cattle trucks still rumble along these narrow old highways north of Lake Okeechobee.

I opened the Jeeps windows in addition to cranking the AC. Were fifty miles from the nearest ocean breeze. Even at night, the summer heat in middle Florida is like a prelude to hell.

As I sped south, a full moon spilled light on fields dotted with palmetto scrub. Cows herded together under Sabal palms, dark shadows in the distance. The Monday night traffic was light. I was at the police department in no time at all.

Inside, I rounded a corner into the lobby and spotted my motherRosalee Deveraux, sixty-two years old last Fourth of July. She was clad in an orange-sherbet-colored pantsuit and matching pumps, perched on a desk like she owned the place. Someone must have just said something funny, because Mamas head was reared back in a laugh.

The sound was reassuring. Strange, under the circumstances, but reassuring.

Well, look whos here. She grabbed the receptionists elbow and turned her in my direction. Emma Jean, you remember my middle girl, Mace. You know, the one who works at the nature park and traps critters on the side?

Mama was grinning at me like I was Santa Claus bringing that baby doll shed always wanted. Honey, cmon over and say hello to my bingo buddy, Emma Jean Valentine.

I raised an eyebrow at my mother, who appeared to be in full hostess mode.

Nice to see you again, Ms. Valentine. I extended my hand across the desk, over a decorative family of Troll dolls, to a plus-sized woman in her mid-fifties.

Emma Jean, whose short skirt was in reverse proportion to her big hair, gave me a girlish grin. It was a marked contrast to her bone-crushing handshake. I offered her the pleasantries that small town manners demand. Then I put my hands on my mothers shoulders and looked her in the eyes.

What in the hells going on, Mama? When you called, you sounded like you were strapped into Ol Sparky, and the warden was ready to throw the switch. Wheres your car? Wheres the body? Are you being arrested?

My mother licked a finger and reached over to smooth my bangs. I jerked away, like Ive been doing since I was six.

Im sorry, Mace. I was awful upset, what with that poor dead man and all, God rest his soul. But Emma Jean says this brand-new detective is gonna get everything straightened out. Now, calm down, honey.

That was rich. Her telling me to calm down.

She swiveled on the desk back to Emma Jean. Mace isnt usually so excitable. My youngest, Marty, is the one who falls to pieces over the littlest things. Mace is usually my rock.

Emma Jean had been watching us. For all I knew, shed concealed a tiny tape recorder somewhere on her person. That might be hard to miss, though, since her pink denim outfit looked spray-painted on. A kitty-cat pin glittered on the jacket shed tossed over her bustier. Could one of those rhinestone eyes hold a miniature microphone to capture Mamas confession?

I was staring at the sparkly cat, plotting how to get my mother alone, when Mama spun to Emma Jean. Would you be a doll and fetch me a dash more of that heavenly coffee? She flashed a smile so luminous it could melt snow. Extra cream, lots of sugar.

Turning, my mother winked at me. She might be flighty and infuriating, but occasionally a sharp mind makes itself known from beneath that badly dyed do.

Emma Jean heaved herself from her leather chair. Looming over Mama, she waggled an index finger six inches from her face. The nail was bright red, with a tiny white heart. Youre not going to run out on us, are you, Rosalee? The detective will be with you shortly. And, dont forget, we know where you live.

Her tone was playful. But it seemed there might be some menace in the message.

Emma Jean punched in a code and passed through a plain white door, her high heels click-clicking down the hall.

My mother sipped from the coffee dregs in her cup, then made a face. Ice cold. And it never was nothing but lukewarm. Now I know why all my TV shows make a big deal out of bad coffee at the police station.

I looked around for eavesdroppers. Himmarshee isnt exactly a criminal hotbed. We were alone in the reception area. Should I find you a lawyer, Mama?

Her eyes widened. You cant be serious, Mace. You dont really think Ive murdered a man, do you? You, my own flesh and blood? She shook her head. A few stray hairs floated to the surface of Emma Jeans desk. Your daddys rollin in his grave, girl.

Mama always says that Daddy, who died young of a heart attack, was her one true love. Even so, shes seen no harm in hoping Cupid will aim true again. Shes been married four times.

Mama, tell mequickly. What happened?

Well, first I got dressed to go to bingo. What do you think of this orange, Mace? She ran a hand down the pantsuits fabric. Is it too much with the shoes? I was afraid with my white hair, Id look like a Creamsicle. I did re-think an orange-and-white scarf Id planned to wear.

The man youre accused of killing, Mama? Remember him?

Mercy, Mace. Youre wound tighter than an eight-day clock. Of course I remember. Im the one who found the man, dead in my trunk. I was just trying to tell you how I came to be at the Dairy Queen. Id already started out of the parking lot, when I decided at the last minute to go back and buy me a second cone.

A photo on Emma Jeans desk caught my mothers eye. She traced the image with a finger, a far-away look on her face. It showed a young Emma Jean pushing a child on a swing.

Mama?

Hmmm? She looked up, her eyes unfocused. Sorry, Mace. So, that was when I felt a tap on my bumper. The cutest young girl in a red sports car had tail-ended me. Do you think Im too old for a little sports car like that, honey?

Mama, I warned.

Anyway, the girl noticed my trunk wasnt shut right. I tried to slam it, but it wouldnt catch. You should have seen her face when I lifted up that heavy lid to see what was making it stick.

I was afraid to ask.

It was a mans hand, catching that little metal doohickey that makes the trunk close. His sleeve was bloody. The back of his fingers were hairy. When I close my eyes, I can still see that diamond pinky ring.

Howd you know he was dead?

She looked at me like I was slow. I grew up on a farm, Mace. Dont you think Ive seen enough animals, dead and alive, to know when any one of Gods creatures has taken its last breath? Besides, his wrist was right there. I put my fingers on it real careful, and felt for a pulse. He didnt have one. And his skin was colder than a car seat in January.

Mama stared out the window into the night. There was a blanket tossed over his face. Her voice sounded soft, distant. I wasnt about to go messing around. I watch Law and Order. You never contaminate a crime scene. And thats what my car was, Mace, a murder scene.

Mama walked over to the trash and dumped her coffee cup. Then, she tore yesterdays dateSeptember 13off a wall calendar. A gift from the Gotcha Bait & Tackle shop, the calendar pictured a large mouth bass leaping over the month. When she started rubbing at a scuff mark on the wall, I knew Mama was more upset than she let on.

Putting my arm around her shoulder, I led her back to the desk. At barely five feet in her sherbet pumps, the top of her head didnt reach my chin.

Cmon, lets sit down. I lowered her gently to a chair beside the desk. Everything will be fine.

I know, Mace. She managed a shaky smile. Im just thinking of that poor dead soul. He must have had a family. I bet someone is wondering right now where hes at.

I steered her back to the Dairy Queen.

When we found the body, the girl started screaming, Mama said. I believe her name was Donna. Or maybe Lonna. Before I knew it, people were pouring outside. Everyone was staring, their ice creams melting all over the asphalt lot. Policemen in two different cars came, squealing tires.

Whatd you tell them?

That I had no idea how that man got into my trunk, of course. That Im innocent.

I didnt want to picture that conversation.

They made me wait inside until a detective came. He had a Spanish last name. Awfully good-looking. He seemed real impatient with my answers.

Imagine that, I thought.

He finally got up, all red in the face, and ordered the officers to bring me here to wait some more. He has more questions, he said. He acted like he thinks Im guilty.

Is the detective someone we know, Mama?

Hes brand new. Emma Jean says he used to be a policeman down in Miami, but something bad happened down there. No one talks about exactly what.

Just then, the door opened. My mother nudged me in the ribs and bent her head. Thats him. Thats the detective, she whispered.

The man in the doorway was in his late thirties or early forties. His hair was black and wavy. His dark eyes looked like they hid plenty of secrets. He wore creased jeans and a white dress shirt. His tie, light blue with white stripes, was loosened at the neck. He wasnt exceedingly tall, maybe an inch more-so than me. But he filled the frame of the door, the way confident men do. And Mama was right: he was good-looking, if youre partial to dark and glowering. Which I definitely am not.

Whos she? the detective asked Mama, crooking a thumb in my direction.

I knew people were rude in Miami, but this was ridiculous. Good looks are no excuse for bad manners.

She is Mason Bauer, Detective. I used my given name and straightened to my full five-foot-ten inches. Im Ms. Deverauxs daughter.

And Im Detective Martinez. He gave his last name a little trill. Neither of us offered to shake hands. You cant be here while I talk to your mother. She may be involved in a homicide.

Im aware that a mans body was discovered in the trunk of her car. I want to assure you my mother had nothing whatsoever to do with the man getting there.

Assure away. He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. Im still talking to your mother alone, Ms. Bauer.