She propped a foot up on the dash. It was clad in a yellow sling-back sandal with a three-inch heel. The shoes matched the rest of her outfit, from the chiffon scarf tied jauntily at her neck, to the daffodils embroidered on the lapels and cuffs of her lemon-sherbet-colored pantsuit. Mama won the point. No way was I going to let her out to traipse along the roadside looking like a walking slice of banana cream pie. Everyone knew I was her daughter.

Defeated, I pulled back onto State Road 98. Marty had asked for a ride to the library, where she was going to fill in for the murdered woman’s shift. Mama was tagging along.

She tried to make up with small talk as we passed the various business establishments in Himmarshee. At Juan’s Auto Repair and Taco Shop, she said, “Juan thinks he can have my Bonneville done by the middle of next week.’’

I sat in stony silence.

Undeterred, Mama pointed out the window. “Looks like they’re having a sale at Fran’s Fancy Frocks and Duds. Do you have something to wear for Kenny’s party yet, Mace?’’

I grunted a yes.

“In that case, maybe you should start thinking about a wedding dress.’’

I rolled my eyes.

The sign for Pete’s Pawn Shop loomed into view, showing a road-kill armadillo with a word balloon over its head: Don’t Wait Too Late to Visit Pete’s.

“D’Vora from Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow said her loser husband went to Pete’s and tried to pawn her mama’s good china. Pete’s wife told him to take a hike.’’

I shrugged an I don’t care. Marty chimed in from the back seat, “I like D’Vora. What is it about good women who stay with bad men?’’

Finally, something I was interested in talking about: “Mama, you want to tackle that question? Having had five husbands certainly qualifies you as an expert.’’

She waved a hand. “Only a couple of them were bad, and only No. 2 was really bad. I’d say I wasn’t in my right mind after your daddy died. I should have given myself time to grieve, but I thought it would be good for you young girls to have a man in the house.’’

Mama was silent a moment, her eyes taking on a faraway look. She gave her head a little shake. “Number 2 was an awful mistake on my part; and an awful time, for all of us.’’

I felt a bit guilty about poking a painful place out of pure spite.

“How were you supposed to know he was a drunk and a con man who’d steal from all the relatives?’’ I said.

“There’s the library.’’ Marty’s voice rescued me just before I said I was sorry.

“Now,’’ Mama said, “be sure you don’t turn in front of that red truck up ahead and give that poor driver a heart attack. And try not to kill any pedestrians once you get in the parking lot.’’ Her advice had such a snide ring, I was glad I hadn’t apologized.

_____

We walked through the library doors, air conditioning enfolding us like wintry arms. Marty’s boss, Kresta King, hurried out from a glass-enclosed office behind the circulation desk. The welcoming smile she usually wore was gone. Up close, I could see her face was drawn and tense under her cap of curly brown hair.

“Thanks for coming in. Isn’t it awful about Camilla?’’ She put a hand on Marty’s shoulder, her voice funeral-home quiet. “We found a sister in Atlanta listed as an emergency contact in her personnel file. The police have already contacted her, and she’s on her way south.’’

“Thank goodness you didn’t have to make that call,’’ Marty said.

Kresta’s eyes widened. “Oh, that would have been horrible. I’m not sure I could have done it.’’

As much a community center as library, Marty’s workplace was usually a swirl of activity. Today, it seemed hushed. Staffers moved about slowly, cautiously, as if a thick fog blanketed the banks of computers and shelves of books. The workers, and a few customers, looked shell-shocked. I turned to Kresta. “Was Camilla popular? Did she have lots of friends here?’’

“Not really.’’ She shook her head. “Some of our patrons had even complained that she was short with them. I just think it’s sinking in how she died, and where she was found. She sat right at that desk.’’ Pointing to the reference section, she gave a little shudder. “It makes the world seem a very dangerous place. I’ve never known anyone who was murdered.’’

“We have.’’ Mama linked elbows with Marty and me, pulling each of us close. “But you still don’t get used to it.’’

An image of Camilla, garbage-strewn, diamond bracelet on her wrist, flashed through my mind. “No,’’ I said. “You don’t get used to it.’’

“That must have been hard, finding the body.’’ Kresta leaned toward us, perhaps anticipating what Mama and I would say. I didn’t want to go there.

“I was wondering, did you ever notice Camilla wearing a bracelet at work?’’ I asked.

She cocked her head; bit a thumbnail as she thought. “You know, I really couldn’t say.’’

Mama added, “It was a diamond bracelet.’’

Her mouth formed an O. “Well, that’s different. I definitely would have noticed a diamond bracelet. Not too many of those in Himmarshee.’’

I heard the doors sweep open behind us, letting in a blast of furnace-like heat from outside. Towering over two women from the Chamber of Commerce, Beatrice Graf marched in. She carried a basket with a black ribbon, and her jaws flapped a mile a minute. “It’s the right thing to do,’’ she said, as the women on each side nodded like bobble-headed dolls. “We want to make sure the family knows Himmarshee is a caring community. Mr. Mayor and I always say you’ll find your heart in Himmarshee.’’

Mama curled her lip. “She didn’t sound so big-hearted when she was carving up that poor girl’s reputation at Gladys’ Diner.’’

Marty gave Mama a quick pinch as Mrs. Mayor approached. Her face under that red perm was as tanned as a leather saddle bag. She was dressed in a white pencil skirt that would have been too short on a woman two sizes smaller. Her red-and-white polka dot blouse showed an alarming expanse of sun-freckled cleavage.

“Excuse me,’’ she flashed a chemically bleached smile at Kresta, ignoring the rest of us completely. “Aren’t you one of the help here?’’

Kresta’s smile was unenthusiastic. “I’m the branch manager. What can I do for you, Mrs. Graf?’’

“The mayor and I were out of town when that young librarian was murdered. Such a scandal to return to! I want you to make sure her family receives this token of our sympathy.’’

She held out the basket. I peered inside. There was an offer for a tanning session, some coupons from the Pork Pit, and a discount booklet for the Dairy Queen. I also saw a bass fishing lure and a couple of purple combs from Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow. Stamped on a coffee mug was Himmarshee’s civic motto, shockingly inappropriate under the circumstances: Your Journey Ends Here.

“How, er … nice,’’ Kresta said.

“It’s the least we can do,’’ said Mrs. Mayor.

“It sure is,’’ Mama agreed, side-stepping to escape Marty’s pinch.

As she handed off the basket, the threesome turned as if one, and headed toward the door. Beatrice wiggled her fingers over her shoulder at us. “Toodle-loo, ladies.’’

The doors opened with a whoosh of hot air, and they were gone.

Kresta held up the basket. “What am I supposed to do with this?’’

“Throw it in the trash?’’ Mama suggested.

“I doubt the first thing the grieving sister will want to do is drop a line in Lake Okeechobee or rush to the Queen for a butterscotch-dipped cone,’’ I said.

“Be nice, you two. She’s making an effort.’’ Marty’s gaze followed Beatrice outside. She hiked up her painted-on skirt and climbed into a black SUV. It was in a handicapped spot.

“She just wants to be liked, as do most people,’’ Marty said.

“Most people except you know who.’’ Mama pointed at me with her chin.

“That doesn’t make her a bad person, Mace.’’

We’d see about that, I thought.