“Thanks, Professor,’’ I said. “I’ll try to keep my references to correctional facilities correct whenever I explain to people how my mother is rotting behind bars.’’

“Actually, the rotting part comes after she’s convicted,’’ Martinez said. “Accessory to murder is a felony. It can buy you a long, long time in prison.’’

I could have throttled the arrogance right out of his voice. But then they’d send me to jail, and probably put me in that Sleep-Tite bed.

“It must strike you as strange that you’re the only one who believes my mother is involved in Jim Albert’s murder.’’ I forced a civil tone. “What evidence do you have that links her to the killing? Did you know my mother doesn’t even own a gun?’’

Ignoring my questions, Martinez looked down at a paper stapled to the file in his hand. “Is your mother acquainted with a man named Salvatore Provenza?’’ He rolled the R’s with Latin flair.

“You know she knows him,’’ I said, shifting my eyes away from the curve of his lips. “Sal was in here last night, raising a ruckus with the rest of us.’’

I didn’t reveal Big Sal was in line to become Husband Number Five. I wasn’t sure where Martinez was going with the question.

“So, he’s her boyfriend.’’ He made a little note on his paper. “Were you aware he had long-standing ties to the murder victim?’’

I knew it! My sisters and I weren’t just over-imaginative busybodies. Sal was involved in something criminal with Jimmy the Weasel.

“So?’’ I tried to sound casual. “That doesn’t prove anything. Sal and the man in Mama’s trunk were both from New York. Maybe they played on the same stickball team as kids.’’

Martinez looked at me like a teacher forced to flunk a once-promising student. “They played together, all right. But their game didn’t have anything to do with stickball.’’

“Well, what did it have to do with?’’

Another condescending look. “I’m not going to discuss that with you.’’

I thought of Henry, and the guessing games I hated. The more I wanted to know, the harder my cousin would withhold. I switched tactics.

“Whether you discuss it or not, I don’t see what any of this has to do with Mama.’’ I faked nonchalance. “Even if Sal is involved, why would you assume my mother is, too?’’

“I’m not going to share the nature of my information with you, Ms. Bauer.’’ He slipped the folder under his arm and touched the knot of his tie, as officious as a bureaucrat cutting off an unemployment check.

Had I really been thinking this smug jerk was attractive? It had been way too long between boyfriends.

“Let’s just say that when your dear mother isn’t teaching Sunday school, she’s consorting with some pretty rough characters,’’ he said. “The question is, ‘What did she know about the relationship between the victim and Salvatore Provenza, and what did she do about it?’ ’’

I remembered what Donnie Bailey had said at the jail. Hardly a woman behind bars doesn’t claim some man put her there. I got a mental picture of Mama sobbing in a cell, trying to convince a skeptical guard she’d been double-crossed by the man she loved.

If Martinez had his way, that sad scene wouldn’t play out in jail. It’d play out in prison—after he’d managed to convict my mama of murder.

The bells on the glass door jangled, announcing my entrance at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow.

Not that Betty Taylor, shop owner and news conduit, needed that cue. She probably knew the moment I made up my mind to visit, turning left from the police department instead of right.

Inside the beauty parlor, the harsh smell of permanent solution stung my nose. Hair conditioners, as fragrant as ripe fruit, softened the stronger odor. Flickering in the corner was a carnation-infused candle. That was Mama’s influence. In addition to her work with clients’ color charts, she’s also an aromatherapist. I’ll admit, the shop smelled girly, but oddly comforting, even to a tomboy like me.

Betty stood behind a chair, a pink foam roller in one hand and a strand of a customer’s wet hair in the other. Smiling at me in the mirror, she called out to her beautician trainee.

“D’Vora, c’mon out from the supply closet, girl. You won’t believe who’s here!’’

Betty did a quick twist of her customer’s hair with one hand, pulling another roller from her pocket with the other. All without breaking eye contact with my reflection in the mirror.

“Mace, toss the towels off of that chair and have a seat.’’ Another hair twist and roll. “What in the world is going on with our poor Rosalee?’’

I suppose it had been wishful thinking to imagine word hadn’t reached my mother’s co-workers. Gossip spreads at the shop like dark roots on a bottle blonde. It was just as well. I hadn’t relished the idea of breaking the news that Mama’s in the slammer.

D’Vora peeked out at me from behind the supply closet. “Mace, I’m so sorry about your mama. I just don’t know what to say.’’

D’Vora had managed to give her purple uniform some sex appeal. It was a size too small, and the top three buttons were undone. She’d appliquéd pink butterflies along the neckline, drawing even more attention to the suntanned valley between her breasts.

“That’s okay, D’Vora,’’ I said. “We’re getting the whole misunderstanding straightened out. That’s what I came by to tell y’all.’’

Her troubled frown faded. “See, Betty? Didn’t I say that? When I put that peroxide mixture on Rosalee’s hair, I didn’t understand how strong it was. And then the phone rang. I didn’t know leaving it on for just a tiny bit longer than the directions say would cause such a mess. It was just a misunderstanding, like Mace said.’’

Betty left her customer in the chair, click-clacked across the lilac-and-white floor, and snapped her fingers in front of D’Vora’s face. Snap. Snap. Snap. “Get with it, girl. That burned-up ’do you gave Rosalee is yesterday’s news. I told you she got tossed in the hoosegow. Try to focus, D’Vora.’’

D’Vora looked like a puppy spanked for peeing on the carpet. “I only wanted Mace to know I’m sorry about her mama’s hair. Of course, I’m sorry she murdered that man, too. Knowing Rosalee, she must have had a very good reason.’’

Betty shrugged an apology at me in the mirror. “You’ll have to excuse D’Vora, Mace.’’ She tapped the foam roller in her hand against the young woman’s forehead. “She was behind the door when God gave out brains.’’

I moved the towels and took a seat. “That’s all right. I just wanted to come and tell y’all that Mama’s a hundred-percent innocent. And we’re gonna prove it, too. She’ll be back here with her aromatherapy and seasonal color swatches before you know it.’’