She turned a gale-force glare on Martinez. Maddie’s a middle school principal. That glare gets a lot of practice.
But Martinez glared right back, adding an intimidating lift of his chin. I had an inappropriate urge to smile at him. I was that pleased to think my big sister had met her match.
“More daughters, I presume?’’ He nodded slightly at the other officer, dismissing him.
“Maddie’s my oldest girl, Detective.’’ My mother’s voice was as sweet as cane syrup. She’d slipped back into that hostess gown. “The little slip of a child by the wall is Marty, the youngest. You’ll always know Marty because she hardly says a word. That’s not a bad thing for a librarian, is it? Anyway, Mace and Maddie never do give her a chance.’’
Marty had inherited Mama’s debutante looks and diminutive size. She’s nervous, too, flitting around like a delicate bird. Maddie is her exact opposite: tall, big-boned, and outsized in everything from voice to personality. I’m somewhere between the two of them. Not as pretty as Marty; not as mean as Maddie.
“Are you charging my mother with murder?’’ Maddie folded her arms over her chest, all business.
Marty went even whiter. “You shouldn’t even mention muh … mur … that word and Mama in the same sentence, Maddie.’’
Emma Jean’s receptionist professionalism resurfaced. She stopped rocking, blew her nose, and chimed in before Martinez could answer.
“No one’s said anything about charging anyone with murder, girls. We’re just trying to find out what your mama knows about what happened. I was recently engaged to Jim Albert, the victim.’’ She balled up a paper towel and dabbed at her nose, struggling for control. Mama leaned over and patted her arm. Emma Jean gave her a brave, if wobbly, smile.
“Detective Martin Ez just wants to ask Rosalee some questions.’’
Martinez flinched a little as Emma Jean mangled his name again. He’d better get used to it. Himmarshee isn’t Miami. People from up north think we have enough trouble speaking English down here, let alone Spanish.
Maddie and I exchanged a look. The unspoken message: We’ll hash it out later, so we won’t upset Mama. Whatever the two of us decided, Marty would go along, like always. Like Mama, Marty hates disharmony more than just about anything.
Just as we all were settling down, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the outside hall. Whoever it was, they were flying to get here. Soon, the familiar odor of aftershave from the dollar store wafted into the lobby. I knew who reeked even before I saw him. Judging from the smile spreading across my mother’s face, she recognized the Eau d’ Excess, too.
“Sally, darlin’, I am so relieved to see you.’’
That would be Salvatore Provenza, “Big Sal’’ to everyone except my mother, who inexplicably calls him Sally. The pet nickname bugs my sisters and me no end. It would have bugged him, too, coming from anyone but my mother. But the man loves her like the young Elvis loved Priscilla.
“Don’t … pant … you worry … pant … about a thing, Rosalee.’’ Hands on his knees, Sal was breathing hard from his sprint to the lobby. “I’m here now.’’
My sisters and I rolled our eyes—even Marty.
Mama was holding her hand to her chest, simpering. She plays the Southern damsel to perfection when it suits her. Of course, before Daddy lost our ranch, I’d seen her string barbed wire for fencing and wrestle a two-hundred-pound calf for branding. But that was a long time ago.
Once he stopped wheezing, Sal zeroed in on Martinez. I wasn’t surprised. Emma Jean might have been the police department person in power, but Big Sal’s a chauvinist with a Big C. Then again, one look at Emma Jean, all tight clothes and teased hair, and I would have pegged Martinez as the alpha cop, too.
“What’s the nature of Mrs. Deveraux’s confinement?’’ He pronounced it “nate-cha,’’ his Bronx upbringing still lurking in his nasal passages.
“There is no confinement at this point,’’ Martinez answered. “I need to determine the nate-cha, I mean nature, of her involvement. That’s been difficult, given the constant interruptions.’’
Sal, all 307 pounds of him, ran a finger under the collar of his pastel yellow golf shirt. Puffing out his chest in a man-to-man fashion, he hooked a thumb into the expandable waistband of his rust-colored slacks.
“Well, my cousin happens to be a lawyer.’’ Lore-yah, is the way Sal said it. “I can have him here in a few hours, if Rosie needs him.’’
I had a quick flash of Joe Pesci as the over-his-head lore-yah in the movie My Cousin Vinny.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Provenza.’’ I said. “We have our own cousin, who’s also a lawyer, if it should come to that.’’
I was trying to be polite. After all, Mama may end up marrying the guy.
Maddie wasn’t as restrained. “We absolutely do not need any help from you, Mr. Provenza. Or from your ‘lore-yah’ cousin.’’
Her voice was so cold, they could have pumped it into the beer cooler down at the Booze ‘n’ Breeze drive-thru. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you and some of your New York associates aren’t responsible for this mess our mother is in.’’ Maddie moved real close to Sal, just about hissing in his face. “We’ve warned her about you, you know.’’
It’s a cliché and an unfair stereotype to assume that just because Sal is of Italian heritage and he’s from New York that he’s connected with the Mafia. But that hasn’t stopped my sisters and me from doing it. He’s been very mysterious about his past, and we watch a lot of movies. “Maddie, you apologize to Sally this instant!’’ Mama said. “I didn’t raise you to insult people.’’
My big sister towered over our mother, but she still ducked her head like a little kid when Mama used that tone.
“That’s okay, Rosie.’’ Sal patted at his impeccable hair. My sisters and I suspect he uses styling mousse. “Maddie’s just proven, once again, that even educated people can be ignorant.’’
That got Maddie’s back up. Pretty soon, we were all talking at once and nobody was listening to anybody else. All except Marty, that is. She’d edged away to the counter, where she was busy mopping up a coffee puddle from Emma Jean’s earlier spill.
Just like Mama, Marty cleans when she’s anxious. She looked like she wanted to stick her fingers in her ears, just like she used to do when our mother fought with Husband Number 2. Marty hates arguments and loud noise.
And our arguing was getting pretty darned loud. Until, suddenly, Martinez jammed his fingers in his mouth and whistled. It was long and ear-splitting, like the CSX train coming onto the crossing at Highway 98. Marty’s fingers plugged her ears. Even Maddie had her face scrunched up, like she was in noise pain.