Excerpt: ‘Mama Does Time’ ... for murder

Mama walked over to the trash and dumped her coffee cup. Then, she tore yesterday’s date — September 13 — off a wall calendar. A gift from the Gotcha Bait & Tackle shop, the calendar pictured a largemouth bass leaping over the month. When she started rubbing at a scuffmark 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 didn’t reach my chin.

“C’mon, let’s sit down.” I lowered her gently to a chair beside the desk. “Everything will be fine.’’

“I know, Mace.’’ She managed a shaky smile. “I’m just thinking of that poor dead soul. He must have had a family. I bet someone is wondering right now where he’s 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.’’

“What’d you tell them?’’

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

I didn’t 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 I’m guilty.”

“Is the detective someone we know, Mama?’’

“He’s 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. “That’s him. That’s the detective,’’ she whispered.

Deborah Sharp / Mark Gerber

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 wasn’t 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 you’re partial to dark and glowering. Which I definitely am not.

“Who’s 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. “I’m Ms. Deveraux’s daughter.’’

“And I’m Detective Martinez.’’ He gave his last name a little trill. Neither of us offered to shake hands. “You can’t be here while I talk to your mother. She may be involved in a homicide.’’

“I’m aware that a man’s 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. “I’m still talking to your mother alone, Ms. Bauer.’’

“Excuse me, Detective?’’ Mama held up a finger like she was trying to raise a point on orchids at the Garden Club. “That’s Miss Bauer. My daughter isn’t married. And, please, call her Mace. Everybody does.’’

“Mama!”

“Well, they do, honey.’’ She turned back to the detective. “I gave old family surnames to all three of my girls. The youngest is Marty, which comes from Martin. We call Madison, the oldest, Maddie for short. It’s a Southern thing.”

Mama didn’t mention these fine old English names appear nowhere in our own family background, which is Scotch and German. She didn’t think it sounded as classy to name us “McDougall,’’ “Zumwald,’’ and “Schultz.’’

She raised her finger again. “I just want to add that Mace is smart, too. She graduated top in her college class at Central Florida.’’

A vein started throbbing at Martinez’s temple. I had the oddest impulse to trace it with my thumb.

I felt a flush spreading from my hairline south. “Mama, please. Nobody cares what kind of grade point average I carried ten years ago.’’

Just then, the door behind the counter swung open, rescuing me from Mama’s compulsive matchmaking. Emma Jean pushed through backwards, balancing three coffees. She propped open the door with her ample rear end, sheathed in the same bubble-gum shade as her bustier. Setting the coffees down, she turned to us.

Video   Author on ‘Mama Does Time’ Nov. 4: TODAY’s Al Roker talks to author Deborah Sharp about her debut novel “Mama Does Time.” Today show

“Well, hey, Detective Martin-ez.’’ Her drawl turned his last name into two English words, Martin and Ez. “I saw you through the window as you drove up. Figured you could use a cup, too. Did y’all get an ID yet on that poor dead man in Rosalee’s trunk?’’

Martinez grabbed a coffee off the counter. He didn’t say thanks.

“Yeah, we did. One of the officers recognized him.’’ He tipped the cup to his lips, keeping his eyes fastened on my mother.

“Well, who was it?’’ Emma Jean picked up both remaining cups. As she handed one to me, I nodded my thanks.

Waiting, Martinez stared holes through Mama. Finally, he said, “His name was Jim Albert.’’

As soon as Emma Jean heard the name, she screamed and stumbled. She caught herself, but the last coffee went flying.

“Oh, Emma Jean!’’ Mama rushed to her friend’s side. “I am so sorry.’’

I was confused. Shouldn’t Emma Jean be apologizing, since she’d just ruined Mama’s pantsuit with lukewarm coffee splotches from top to bottom?

The receptionist threw herself, sobbing, into my mother’s open arms. I was afraid the impact would topple Mama, like she was the last pin on the lane at a bowling tournament. Martinez quickly stepped in as ballast.

“Am I missing something here?’’ He raised his eyebrows at me. I shrugged, as I helped him prop up a weeping Emma Jean.

“Oh, this is just getting more horrible by the minute, Detective.’’ Mama leaned around Emma Jean’s bulk to find Martinez. “Jim Albert was her boyfriend. And just last week, he got down on one knee and asked Emma Jean to marry him.’’

Excerpted from “Mama Does Time: A Mace Bauer Mystery” by Deborah Sharp. Copyright (c) 2008, reprinted with permission from Midnight Ink. For more information on the author, click here.  

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