“I expect Alice will do fine after the awful shock wears off,” Mama said. “She’s a bit of a cold fish, to tell you the truth.”

“Mama! That’s a horrible thing to say. That booze must have loosened your tongue.”

“It’s not booze, Mace. It’s only brandy. And I’m just stating a fact. She’s a good woman, but that marriage has had its problems.”

“Like most marriages,” I said.

Mama, the expert, waved her hand dismissively.

“The two of them were as different as corn and beets,” she said. “Alice never missed a Sunday at church. Ronnie would rather watch football. After he got hurt at the feed store, he’d taken an interest in getting in shape. Lately, he’d really spiffed himself up. And Alice … well, you saw Alice. I don’t think a tube of lipstick ever touched those lips. She’d sooner gamble on a Sunday than step foot into Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow, even though we could work wonders for her at the salon.”

“Mama, not everyone wants to go around looking like a painted parakeet.”

I looked meaningfully at her lemon-sherbet colored pantsuit, orange-green-and-yellow floral scarf, and platinum hair. Her lips gleamed with her favorite shade, Apricot Ice.

In return, she raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow at my ensemble: boots, jeans, and a T-shirt I’d found hanging on the bathroom doorknob that morning. It probably should have gone in the wash instead.

“I’d rather look like a parakeet than a ragged old possum you’ve dragged out of some newcomer’s attic, Mace. I’ll never understand why you don’t make more with all the physical blessings God gave you.”

“Here we go again,” I muttered, as we rounded the corner into the dining room.

What we saw next silenced both of us at once. Alice moaned, and rocked back and forth on the chair, her arms wrapped tight around her upper body. When she saw Mama, she let out the emotion it seemed had been trapped inside her chest.

“He’s dead, Rosalee! My Ronnie’s dead.” Her cry turned into a scream.

Mama rushed to her, and Alice just about collapsed on top of her, sobbing. It looked like she’d jumped right ahead to acceptance of the fact that Ronnie had been murdered. As Mama handed me the brandy bottle so she could comfort her grieving neighbor, our eyes met. I didn’t have to say a word. Mama and I both knew what I was thinking.

Alice didn’t look like such a cold fish now.

“Okay, people, there’s nuthin’ to see.” A Bronx honk blared from outside. “Nuthin’ to see here, people. Do like the officers say, now. Move along.”

I looked out the window and saw Mama’s fiancé inserting himself into the scene. His towering size, his voice, the sheer force of his personality—all these things made people do the bidding of Sal Provenza without asking questions. And that was saying something today, since he looked ridiculous in orange-and-green plaid golf knickers and a color-coordinated beret. A little orange pom-pom jiggled on the crown of the cap with every step he took.

Leaving my sisters and Mama inside with Alice Hodges, I went out to the parking lot to join Sal. The sun had broken through the rain clouds. It wasn’t even noon, and already it was hot.

As soon as Sal spotted me, he immediately stopped shepherding curious townsfolk. Worry knitted the brow below his jaunty plaid cap.

“Your mudder’s not in there is she, Mace?”

“She is, but she’s fine. Shaken up, like all of us,” I said. “Didn’t Mama tell you she had an appointment here this morning with your caterer?”

Avoiding my gaze, he tugged at the collar of his blindingly green knit shirt. Then he pulled a cigar case from the top pocket. He extracted a cigar. Tapped it. Took his time snipping off the end.

“Didn’t she?” I prodded.

He lit the cigar, puffed, and then finally looked me in the eye. “I couldn’t say, Mace. The fact of the matter is, I’ve stopped listening when your mudder talks about the wedding. I think she’s gone a little overboard.”

Overboard? Mama had plunged deep into the nuptial sea and forced the rest of us in with her. Without life jackets.

“Tell me about it,” I said.

I filled Sal in on the morning’s events, though he already knew most of the basics.

“How’d you find out about the murder?”

“Pro shop,” he answered. “Everybody at Himmarshee Links was talking about it.”

It was a relief to know Sal had been out at the new golf course community south of town. At least there was some excuse for that outfit. I’d been there, once. I’d never seen so many men who were old enough to know better dressed in colors you’d never find in nature.

“Your cousin was here earlier,” I told him.

His face darkened. He took two nervous puffs. “How were the two of them getting along?”

“Well, there was no fistfight.”

“That’s encouraging.” He exhaled.

I waved my hand in front of my face.

“Sorry, Mace.” Sal lowered the cigar, angling his three-hundred-pound heft to block the smoke from blowing my way. “Just thinking about Rosalee and C’ndee together in the same room makes me antsy. They’ve both got pretty strong personalities.”

Mention of C’ndee made me wonder if she’d disappeared. She’d left at least an hour before for coffee, and there’d been no sign of her since. Gladys’ Diner was only a couple of miles from the VFW hall. Where was she?

Just as I was about to ask Sal to tell me more about his cousin from the North, a cherry red Mustang roared up the street. C’ndee was behind the convertible’s wheel—hair flying, sunlight glinting on a pair of over-sized, gold-framed, designer sunglasses. She parked outside the crime scene tape, and began unloading cartons of take-out coffee. She fluffed her hair, thrust out her chest, and carried a cup in each hand to the closest cop she saw. A male, of course, a new hire I didn’t recognize.

She said a few words, and then handed him both cups. Smiling, she leaned in close, and then pointed over toward Sal and me. They talked a bit more, C’ndee raking a seductive hand through her big hair. He gave back one of the cups, which she opened for him. I knew she had him when he took a sip and smiled at her.

I was like an anthropologist, observing human flirting rituals I’d heard rumored, but couldn’t replicate. If you have a question about the wing-waving courtship of the anhinga, however, I’m your girl.

“That woman had better watch herself.” Mama had sidled up to me. “She might just come on to the wrong man.”

Sal grabbed her in a bear hug. “I’m so glad to see you, Rosie! Now, be nice.”

“Honey, I’m a Southern gal. I’m always nice.”

Tossing a last sultry look over her shoulder at the young cop, C’ndee grabbed two cartons of coffee cups, ducked under the tape, and sashayed toward us across the parking lot.

“My gawd!” She pushed one of the cardboard, four-cup holders into my hands without asking. “I thought I’d never get out of that diner. Must everyone tell the check-out girl every detail of their lives? ‘How’s your daughter, Donna? Still off at college?’” C’ndee affected an overdone down-South accent.

“ ‘Oh, she’s fine, honey. Having a little trouble with English lit, and of course she’s packed on a few pounds. The Freshman Fifteen, they call it. And she’s dating a boy we absolutely cannot stand. He’s from New York …’

“Aaaargh! How do you people ever get anything done?”

As if the flashy convertible wasn’t enough in a town full of pickups, C’ndee’s impatience for niceties nailed her as an outsider. In Himmarshee, everybody knows—and cares—about everybody’s business.