Stop questons on the murder or the real dog gets it. Then your next.

I raised my voice to carry to Mama and Marty in the living room. I think wed better call Detective Martinez.

___.

Mamas house smelled like a field of lavender flowers in Provence. Not that Ive ever been to France, but its how I imagine it, anyway.

After she changed out of her robe, Mama had gotten busy with her candles and essential oils, intent upon easing our anxiety through the miracle of aromatherapy. She dabbed lavender oil on the warm bulbs in her lamps. She lit two candles for the coffee table. Dried lavender and ylang-ylang petals simmered in a pan of water on the stove.

We might have a stuffed-animal-tossing psycho stalking us, but at least we smelled good.

How long before hell get here, Mace?

That was Marty, sitting up now, crumpling and smoothing the hem of her beige-and-brown floral blouse in nervous hands. Her leather loafers were tucked neatly under the couch.

He said hed be here as soon as he can, I answered.

We sat quietly, listening to the hips on Mamas Elvis clock swinging back and forth. Tick-tock. Jailhouse Rock.

Only fifteen minutes had passed since I phoned the police department to find Martinez. He called back quickly. But it seemed like the wait was going on hours. We stared at each other, trying not to let our eyes roam to the mutilated toy dog on the carpet.

Mama finally got up from the couch and rubbed her hands together. Well, I dont know about you girls, but all this activity has made me hungry. I think Im gonna have me a bowl of vanilla ice cream with butterscotch topping. Anybody care to join me?

Marty turned green. But, nerves or not, Ive never been one to turn down ice cream. Teensy and I followed Mama into the kitchen. She was spooning out the dessert when the dog did a double take, its little head twisting from the ice cream carton to the door and the outside beyond. Finally, Teensys territorial nature beat out his sweet tooth. He ran to the living room, barking like he believed he was a Doberman. I followed.

Hush, Mama yelled at the dog, to no discernible effect.

Headlights reflected through the windows out front, as a late-model white sedan swung into the driveway. Marty jumped up from the couch and flew into our old bedroom. I heard her lock the door from the inside.

Looking out the curtains, I yelled at my sister: You can come out, Marty. Its Detective Martinez.

The bedroom door opened slowly. I saw Martys pert nose and a curve of lip peek out. Carlos Martinez?

One and the same.

I watched from the window as he walked to the door, dressed in a white button-down shirt and gray slacks. Open collar. No tie. His hair was wet, like hed just had a shower. I slammed shut the mental door on an image of him stepping out of the bathtub, water droplets clinging to his bare chest. The fact that he was frowning, as usual, helped end my inappropriate fantasy.

The doorbell rang, the dog started doing flips, and Mama came into the living room juggling three bowls of vanilla ice cream.

Evenin, Detective, she said, as I opened the door for him. You may as well have some ice cream before you have a look at the victim. She held out the biggest serving, swimming in butterscotch.

Stepping inside, Martinez looked at the bowl like he suspected strychnine.

Go ahead, I said. Shes already forgiven you for throwing her in jail. I cant say the same for the rest of us.

Mama pushed the ice cream toward him.

Shes not going to quit until you eat some, I told him. I dipped my spoon into his bowl and took a bite. See? Nothing but a frozen dairy treat.

He took it, mumbled a thank-you, and stood with his bowl over the stuffed dog.

So it was just this toy and the note? He carefully placed one of Mamas Guideposts magazines on the hall table so he could set down the ice cream. I liked the fact that he was worried about leaving a ring on the polished wood.

He stooped down for a closer look. Any idea who mightve thrown it?

All of a sudden, I felt cranky over everything hed put us through by arresting Mama.

Oh, gee, I dont know, I said. Could it have been the real murderer? The one you didnt catch while our mama was sitting in jail?

Listen, Ms. Bauer. His eyes darkened ominously. I did what I felt was necessary with the situation and information I had at the time. Im not going to apologize, or explain myself to you.

Well, of course not. Youre arrogant. God forbid you should apologize.

Mace, thats enough. Please ignore my sister, Carlos. Out from her bedroom fortress, Marty carried the quiet authority of someone who rarely spoke out. If she was moved to criticize, I knew Id gone over the line.

Im sorry, I said, chastened. We appreciate you coming over here to check this out.

Martinez looked at me, raised eyebrows registering his surprise.

We were all just so upset about Mama. I tried to excuse my bad manners. And now, this stuffed dog. We dont know who tossed it. But I can tell you we have some suspicions about who might have killed Jim Albert.

He shifted, sitting cross-legged on the carpet to listen. I filled him in on Emma Jeans threat in church. I told him about Jeb Ennis owing money to the murder victim. And I mentioned the mysterious Sal Provenza, again.

Thats outrageous, Mace! Sally would never threaten Teensy. He loves him like his own. Mama stroked the flesh-and-blood Pomeranian.

In case you hadnt noticed, the stabbed dog is a replica. I crooked a thumb at Teensy.

The dog was splitting his attention between wary regard of the detective, an alpha-male threat in this female household, and pitiful begging for a bite of ice cream.

Id just die if anything bad happened. Mama shoveled ice cream onto Teensys pink tongue. Dont worry, she said, when she saw our disgusted looks. He has his own spoon.

Martinez pulled a pair of gloves and a zip-top plastic bag from his pocket, slipped on the gloves, and picked up the stuffed dog. Im not sure how much we can get from this. He dropped it with the note and brick into the bag.

I hope I dont need to tell you to keep your doors locked, he said as he stood. It may be a prank. But maybe it isnt. And thats a chance you dont want to take.

Marty begged off, heading home with the beginnings of a migraine.

Mama managed to convince Martinez to sit for a spell at the kitchen table to finish his ice cream. I caught him checking out a family of porcelain mice in gingham bonnets cavorting across a display shelf. He dabbed with a gingham napkin at a tiny drop of ice cream on his white shirt. If thatd been my spill, vanilla on white cotton, it wouldnt even merit action. When you go crawling around in the dirt after nuisance animals, you cant be too fussy about stains.

Mace, honey, why dont you show Detective Martinez where the bathroom is, so he can get some soap and water on that spot?

Like a trained investigator would get lost traversing two rooms and a hallway to the toilet. Mamas ploy was transparent. But I was too tired to point out he could find soap and water right there at the kitchen sink.

We pushed back our chairs, leaving Mama to place our bowls on the floor for Teensy to lap up the leftovers. Thank God her dishwasher water is good and hot.

Martinez stopped in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. Pictures of my sisters and me in various stages of development decorated the walls. I saw him grin as he looked at a circa-nineties shot of me in a starchy white dress, leaning against a tree. What had I been thinking with that do? I looked like Billy Ray Cyrus, with his mullet cut, in drag.

Martinez gently grasped my elbow, pulling me near. Listen, I didnt mean what I said before. He lowered his voice so Mama wouldnt overhear. I do feel bad about putting your mother in jail. I wasnt sure about the extent of her involvement. Im new here. Ive never had a whole family show up for what seemed like a party in the police lobby. And then no one would shut up. I could barely get in a word edgewise.

We do tend to get a little rambunctious, I allowed.

Its just that the police do things more formally in Miami.

I shook off his hand, crossed my arms, and leaned against the opposite wall. I wasnt quite ready to forgive him. Um-hum.

You dont give anything up, do you, Ms. Bauer? His lips had formed into a half smile. Maybe you should get a job as a detective. He was standing so close, I could feel heat from his body. I caught the scent of cologne. Exotic, like sandalwood mixed with ginger. He smelled all male, and damn sexy. I took a step sideways along the wall.

Youve found out quite a bit in these last couple of days. He stepped with me, staying close and keeping his voice low.

It helps to know who to ask. Mama always preaches modesty. She says theres nothing worse than tooting your own horn.

Ill definitely follow up on your tip about that man with the cattle ranch. Jeb Ennis, right? And he lives in Woochola?

I had a guilty twinge about steering Martinez in Jebs direction. Wauchula. We say, WAH-CHOO-LA. I opened my mouth wide, like a speech therapist coaxing a stroke victim. Mispronouncing these old Indian words will mark you as an outsider quicker than just about anything.

Ive had enough trouble with Himmarshee, he said. Whats it mean anyway?

Its supposed to mean new water, from an old Seminole legend about how Himmarshee Creek sprung up overnight. And dont worry about your pronunciation. Were probably all mangling the original Indian name anyhow. Just wait until you have to question somebody at Lake Istokpoga or Lake Weohyakapka.

Thanks for the warning. He bent in a little bow. Gracias.

No problem-o. You set me straight on the grammatical difference between prison and jail, remember?

He had the good grace to look embarrassed. Pretty obnoxious, wasnt I?

You said it, not me. I softened the criticism with a smile. Mama would be proud. Anyway, the bathroom.

I gestured to the open door. The toilet, with its pink tulip seat cover, was perfectly visible through the frame. Even a bad detective could have discerned it. And from what Id read in the Miami Herald, Carlos Martinez was a good detective.

I returned to the kitchen to find Mama feeding Teensy a doggie treat right at the table.

Gross.

Just ignore Mace, baby. You are not gross. Youre Mamas little darlin dog, arent you?

I stood near the trash can, in case I needed to vomit.

Just about then, Teensys ears perked up and he leapt off Mamas lap. The little nails on his paws scrabbled on peach-colored tile as he ran from the kitchen to the living room, barking all the way.

Before we had the chance to follow, we heard the front door jiggling. And then a loud knocking.

What in the blue blazes? Open up! More door-shaking, and a voice full of impatience. Mama! Since when do you lock this front door?

Maddies irritation seeped right through the sheer curtain at the window.

By the time Mama and I made our way to the living room, Martinez had already opened the front door. She locks it since I told her it was the safe thing to do.

Maddies mouth gaped open so wide, you could have docked an ocean liner inside. But all those years of dealing with whatever junior high-school kids can dream up had served her well. She recovered quickly.

Detective Martinez. With that inflection and the look in her eye, she might just as well have said Detective Dog Poop.

Happy to see you, too, maam. Martinez matched Maddies insulting tone, syllable for syllable.

Judging from the absence of handcuffs, may I assume youre not here to arrest our mother again? she asked.

Mama chimed in, Now, before you say something youll regret, Maddie, we called the detective to come over. Weve had a little spot of trouble.

I know. I talked to Marty. She was in bed in migraine pain, with the lights out. I could barely hear her voice when I called. We only spoke a minute, but she told me about the dog.

It could be simple vandalism, Martinez said. But were not taking any chances.

Marty didnt mention he was here. Maddie pointed a long finger at the detective. She looked like the Wizard of Ozs Wicked Witch, directing the evil monkeys at Dorothy and her pals.

But unlike the movies scarecrow, Martinez had a brain.

I dont want us to be enemies, maam. His voice was warm and polite. I hope your mother isnt in any danger. But if she is, I really need your help.

Maddie was wearing flip-flops and her post-barbecue fat pants, but she still straightened to her school-principal posture. My sister loves nothing more than being needed.

Well, of course, Detective. All of us want to do anything we can to help find out who really killed Jim Albert. For some reason, the murderer has involved Mama in this nasty business. Who knows what kind of message hes sending with that stuffed dog?

Id like you to take a look at it. Martinez was so respectful, he might have been seeking help from Scotland Yard. Maybe something will strike you that didnt strike the rest of us, maam.

Lead the way, Detective. And please, call me Maddie.

Ill do that. As Martinez turned to escort her to the stuffed dog, he threw me a wink. And Maddie? Call me Carlos, por favor. Please.

___.

Martinez left Mamas a half-hour or so later. By that time, the compliments were flowing between my sister and him like floodwaters into Lake Okeechobee during the rainy season. I thought he was going to pin her with a special deputys badge at any minute. I actually saw Maddie bat her eyelashes. My sister being swayed like a schoolgirl was a sight to behold. Martinez must have studied with those Eastern mystics who are able to charm cobra snakes.

Maddie and I only stayed a little while after he left. We all were tired. And I had a long drive ahead to get home.

The streets of downtown Himmarshee were just about deserted. The yellow light blinked at Main and First. The sign at Gladys Restaurant was dark. A few cars were still parked at the Speckled Perch restaurant, where the bars open past midnight. Behind the wheel of Pams VW, I replayed in my mind some of the odd events of the evening: Delilahs cutting remarks before church; my fight with Jeb; the mutilated toy dog.

As I sped past the courthouse on my way to State Road 98, I caught a glimpse of a familiar car from the corner of my eye. I slowed and peered toward the far end of the government lot, where the light is dim. Sal Provenzas big Cadillac was parked next to a light-colored sedan. The two vehicles sat drivers-side-to-drivers-side, like squad cars sometimes do.

As I passed, Sal torched a fat cigar. I could clearly see his profile in the flickering glow. But who was in that other car, parked in a deserted spot for a clandestine meeting near midnight?

When Sals lighter flared a second time, I nearly ran Pams car into the war memorial on the courthouse square.

Carlos Martinez leaned from his drivers window with an equally large cigar between his lips. Sal, smiling, fired him up. The detective puffed, and settled back in his seat with a contented look. As he exhaled, a smoke cloud swirled around the two men.

Sal relit his own stogie. Martinez said something. They both laughed. From my vantage point, now getting more distant in the rearview mirror of the VW, it looked like the investigator in Jim Alberts murder and the man we all thought might be the killer were the oldest and best of friends.

I slammed on my brakes and did a U-turn.

The putt-putt-putt of the ancient VW made a stealth approach unlikely. By the time I navigated off the road, into the police department lot, and all the way to their corner in the back, Sal had started his car and gunned it. Pedal to the metal, he screeched out the exit like Dale Earnhardt Jr. in the last lap at Daytona.