“Who’s Jane?”
“Jane Smith. The detective from New Jersey. She said you two had a nice chat last night.”
“Jane Smith is her real name?”
“Of course. And she’d like to say hello. I’m putting you on speaker.”
I heard a hollow echo, then a flat, toneless voice: “Thanks for screwing up my arrest.”
I tried not to get my back up. I deserved that. “Hello, Detective Smith.”
“Did Tony give you any information about where he might be headed?”
“Just that he was going someplace where they don’t even speak English.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down much.”
“Well, if he’s dumping that rental car to head out by air, Orlando has more international options than the airport at West Palm Beach. So he’d be heading north. And if he wanted to stay off the Florida Turnpike and away from the state troopers who patrol it, then he’d want to take US Highway 441.”
“Well, that’s something to start with, at least,” Jane said.
I could hear Carlos on the radio, relaying the information.
“Any other details you think we should know?” she asked.
I described Tony’s clothing, and even told them about the leather seats in the Lexus and his country music CDs. As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew Carlos would wonder later how I was so familiar with the interior of the car of an alleged murderer, now a fugitive.
“Oh, yeah,” I added. “He left his gun. He’s unarmed.”
“I doubt that.” I heard the sneer in Jane’s voice. “There’s probably an arsenal and a suitcase of knives in that car.”
“I don’t think so. Tony said his father pressured him to kill that restaurant guy. It seems like he’s running more from his family’s expectations than from the law.”
Aside from the whine of the speaker, their end of the phone was silent. Then they both burst out laughing.
“Please, Mace. You can’t be that gullible,” Carlos said.
I heard my peeved sniff, magnified over the damned speaker phone.
“Did he make big, sad, puppy dog eyes when he sold you that story?” Jane asked. “I bet he said he did this Himmarshee murder because his aunt held a gun to his head, too.”
“I’m just telling you the impression I got.” I bit my tongue before I added bitch. “Why do you think he’d admit to one murder and deny the other?”
“Oh, gee whiz, I don’t know.” Jane’s voice was mocking, all naïve schoolgirl. “Maybe because he’s a lying sack of crap?”
“All righty, then. As much as I enjoy hearing what an idiot I am, I have to get to town to get my hair and nails done.”
“Oh, that’s priceless.” Jane snorted. “Gullible and vain.”
Carlos chuckled, but quickly redeemed himself. “Mace is normally a pretty good judge of character, Jane. And the only reason she’s getting dolled up is because she’s in her mother’s wedding today.”
“Mazel tov to your mother,” Jane said. “Maybe the wedding will keep you and the other civilians busy enough not to meddle in any more murder investigations.”
Carlos laughed out loud. Redemption cancelled.
“Okay,” I said, my voice as sweet as Marty’s. “Y’all have a nice day.”
I wasn’t going to sink to their level. On second thought, what the hell?
“By the way, Detective Smith, you might want to ask Carlos about out-of-town cops who think they know everything. Ask him about the time he tossed my sweet little mama in jail when everybody in town tried to tell him there was no way a Sunday-school-teaching, sherbet-pantsuit-wearing senior citizen had committed a murder.”
I slammed down the receiver, hoping for a speaker screech that would rattle their eardrums.
“Ringlets, Mama? Really?” Even Marty, the first victim, was rebelling at this latest excess.
Maddie and I stood behind her, staring in horror into the mirror at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow. Marty may have looked as adorable as an antebellum doll in her corkscrew curls. But the two of us knew: We are not cut out for cute. With my shoulders, I’d look like a line-backer channeling his inner Scarlett O’Hara. And Maddie feared a picture of her in ruffles and ringlets would get out on YouTube, compromising her ability to scare her students.
Betty gave one of the curls a final pat with her purple styling comb. The curl jiggled like a coiled spring next to Marty’s smooth cheek.
“Well, I think your hair looks splendid, honey. Betty, you’ve done a wonderful job.” Mama turned to me. “Mace, climb up in that chair. You’re next.”
As one, Maddie and I started backing toward the door.
“Oh, no you don’t!” She grabbed each of us by an arm. “Now, I don’t ask much of you girls …”
Catching Marty’s gaze in the mirror, we all rolled our eyes.
“… I saw that. But this is just one little thing I’m asking you to do on My Special Day. Mace, I promise I’ll never make you dress up again.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
“And Maddie, you’ll hear no more comments from me about your weight. Although there is one last diet I clipped out from Woman’s World I’d love you to take a look at …”
Maddie shook off Mama’s hand. “I’m outta here.”
“Sorry, honey.” She mimed zipping her lip. “You are perfect exactly as you are. Beautiful, in fact, just like your sisters.”
Linking elbows with us, Mama pleaded into the mirror. “Please, girls? It’s only for today. You can brush them out the minute Sal and I drive away with our Just Married sign.”
Sometimes, it’s easier to go along than to argue with Mama. Besides, with five pounds of ruffles, parasols, and a Pomeranian in a satin top hat leading the bridal procession, how much tackier could the ringlets really make things?
“Whatever.” Sighing, I took my place in the chair Marty vacated.
She leaned over and whispered, “Just close your eyes and think happy thoughts, Mace. It’ll be over before you know it.”
The bells jangled on the salon door, and D’Vora rushed in, late as usual. She quickly got Maddie into a chair, tossed a purple drape over her shoulders, and started brushing out her hair. D’Vora had come a long way since the unfortunate peroxide incident she inflicted upon Mama, back when she was a beautician-trainee. She’d since built a following among younger women and some of Himmarshee’s affluent newcomers. She may even be in line to buy the shop from Betty some day.
But for now, D’Vora’s boss aimed a pointed look at the salon’s wall clock, shaped like a lady wearing a bouffant hairdo.
“You know, the little hand is supposed to be on the ten, not near the eleven, when you report to work.”
“Sorry, Betty.”
D’Vora divided Maddie’s red hair with a clip, and then coated a one-inch section with setting lotion.
My sister wrinkled her nose. “That smells like bananas left in the fruit bowl too long.” Ignoring her, D’Vora wound her hair onto a Marcel curling iron, held it, released, and then sprayed again from a can that said Maximum Hold.
D’Vora said, “Something big was happening at the police department. There were a bunch of cop cars, and they had Main Street completely blocked.”
I swiveled toward her, causing Betty to nearly yank out the hank of hair she was preparing to twirl.
“Ouch!”
“Mace, anyone with a passing familiarity with beauty parlor etiquette knows to keep still in the stylist’s chair,” Betty said.