With a monumental effort, the woman put down the magazine and picked up the phone. She punched in a few numbers, then barked, “It’s Officer Watkins. Tell Martinez there’s a woman up here to see him.’’

She waited, listening. “How am I supposed to know?’’ She sounded irritated.

Some more listening, then, “What’s your name?’’

I stared at the Bait & Tackle shop calendar on the wall.

“Hey,’’ she raised her voice. “I said, what’s your name?’’

When I figured out she was talking to me, I told her.

“Have a seat.’’ She hung up the phone. “He’s busy, but he knows you’re out here. He’ll see you as soon as he gets to it.’’

She picked up Field & Stream again, lifting it in front of her face. I missed Emma Jean.

I was the only customer in the lobby. I didn’t think Miss Police Congeniality would mind me making a call to work while I waited. I’d already phoned in sick, but I owed my supervisor, Rhonda, an explanation. We’re close. I figured she should get the straight news from me, instead of the gossipy version from the Himmarshee Hotline.

“Hey, there. It’s Mace.’’

She’d heard all about Mama’s trouble, of course. Charging Mama as an accessory to murder was bull, I told Rhonda. I said we’re working hard on getting her out.

“I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, Mace, and I hate to pile on.’’ That was Rhonda’s warning she was about to do just that. “Remember that lady who called all hysterical over the possum? You remember, from New Jersey. She thought she had a really big rat. She’s got a new problem for you.’’

“What is it this time?’’ I asked. “A king snake in her toilet?’’

“She swears she’s seen a Florida panther prowling her property.’’

“Yeah, that’s likely. What are there, like eighty of them left? And all down in the Everglades, a hundred and fifty miles south of us. It’s probably somebody’s pet cat, hittin’ the Friskies too hard. I once had a friend with a house cat weighed thirty-one pounds. She’d toss Tiger a treat every time she walked past. That cat looked like a bowling ball with paws.’’

“Anyway, Mace, the woman’s driving us crazy. What should I tell her?’’

“Tell her the truth. Tell her my mama’s in prison. It’ll reinforce all her stereotypes. Go ahead and add that my man is a-cheatin’ and my blue eyes are cryin’ in the rain.’’

There was a long pause on the other end.

“Why would I want to do that, Mace?’’ she said, confused.

“It’s a joke, Rhonda. Like a country song? Like as long as Mama’s in prison, let’s add on the rest of the redneck clichés?’’

“Oh.’’

Rhonda, who’s black, doesn’t find anything remotely amusing about rednecks.

“All righty, then,’’ I said. “I better get goin’. Tell the New Jersey woman I’ll get out there when I can. If a panther eats her first, that’ll be one fewer fast-talking, know-it-all Yankee we have to deal with.’’

Rhonda, a fellow native Himmarsheean, was still laughing when I hung up.

I left the lobby to visit the Ladies, where I tried without success to repair my smooshed hair. I stopped at a water fountain in the hallway, loitering by a closed door to see if I could overhear anything useful about the murder. The only sound that seeped through was the tap-tap of a computer keyboard.

I returned to the lobby, where I exhausted all the details on the calendar, including counting the dots on the large mouth bass. I took my seat again, and ran through in my mind what I’d learned about Jim Albert, a.k.a. Jimmy the Weasel. I tried to imagine who in Himmarshee might have wanted a fugitive from the underworld dead.

I moved on to wondering how I’d handle the obnoxious Martinez. I wished my sister Marty were here. People fall all over themselves to tell her things. As I weighed the best way to get information, an image of Martinez’s black eyes and sculpted features forced its way into my thoughts. I tried so hard to push it aside that my head started to hurt.

I turned my attention to a dusty stack of magazines. Leafing through Correctional News, I discovered there’s been a downturn in inmate suicides. I thought that was encouraging for Mama.

Then, I opened Police magazine, and read about the problem of sudden deaths in custody. I got depressed all over again. Browsing through the advertisements aimed at prison administrators failed to lift my spirits. There were no-shank shaving razors, so inmates can’t make knives. There was a restraint bed for the crazy or unruly prisoner, complete with floor anchors and slots for straps. The name of the bed, I swear to God, was the Sleep-Tite.

Glancing at my watch, I realized I’d already been waiting for forty minutes. I tried not to get angry. After all, my mother’s fate was in Martinez’s hands. I didn’t want to tick him off. I rehearsed how I’d approach him, concentrating on the flies with honey principle, like Mama advised.

Finally, Martinez walked into the empty lobby, frowning. He had a file folder in one hand and a cell phone to his ear.

Fifty-three minutes had crawled by since I’d given my name at the desk.

I started to rise from the chair. He caught my eye and motioned me to sit down. Then, he held up a warning finger. Don’t speak, it said.

I counted to ten real slow, gripping the arms of my uncomfortable chair. Pretending my hands were around Martinez’s throat, I squeezed until my knuckles turned white. Staring at the wall calendar, I pictured his smug face on the body of the large mouth bass. I imagined a hook grabbing hold of the soft flesh inside his cheek. I’d just formed an image of Martinez as half-man, half-fish, flopping airless in the bottom of a bass boat, when I realized he was speaking.

“I don’t know what you have to look so happy about,’’ he said.

He slipped his phone into the front pocket of his blue dress shirt. I cursed myself for noticing how snugly the shirt fit his broad chest, even as he stood glaring next to my chair.

“I was just thinking about fishing,’’ I said. “But you’re right. I have absolutely nothing to smile about. Not with my elderly mother imprisoned in a hell hole.’’

“Jailed, not imprisoned.’’

“I beg your pardon?’’

“Your mother’s in jail, not prison.’’ He tucked the folder next to his chest and crossed his arms over it, teacher style. “There’s a difference. Jails are locally run, and inmates are generally waiting to be tried. Or, they’ve been tried, and they’re serving a sentence of a year or less. Prisons are run by the state or the feds. Prisoners are usually convicted felons, serving sentences of more than a year.’’