I gave her a shrug.

“Carlos Martinez. The detective,’’ Marty said.

Maddie and I exchanged raised eyebrows.

“What?’’ Marty said. “That’s the man’s name. Anyway, he spent a long day asking a lot of questions about Mama. He said he heard over and over what a good person she is. He was taken by surprise at the number of people who love her for one thing or another.’’

“Mama’s lived all her life in Himmarshee, Marty. She’s popular,’’ Maddie said. “That’s not exactly a news flash.’’

“Let me finish, Maddie. He said he was just doing his job when he put her in jail. It was the only way he could think of to figure things out after all of us showed up at the police department. He said he’s not as sure as he was that she belongs there.’’

If we were Catholic and Marty was a man, she could have been a priest. She’s always been good at getting confessions.

“How do you do that?’’ Maddie asked.

“Do what?’’ Marty said.

“Get people to open up.’’

“I’m curious about that, too, Marty,’’ I said. “I just spent a couple of hours out in the country with Martinez. I never even knew his first name, let alone that he was thinking about letting Mama go.’’

“I don’t think I do anything special. I just sit there and people talk.’’ Marty weighed what she wanted to say next. “But if you really want to know, Maddie, you have a tendency to judge. That might make it harder for folks to tell you things. And as for you, Mace, you give off the impression you’re more interested in animals than you are in people. So they might be reluctant to bother you with personal things.’’

For Marty, that was scalding criticism.

“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but you did ask,’’ she said quickly. “There is one other thing.’’

“Well, go ahead and tell us, Marty. It’s not like you’ve held anything else back,’’ Maddie said.

“Carlos is starting to believe Mama might know things about the murderer that she’s not even aware she knows. He wants to find out what they are before the knowledge brings her harm.”

___

I was wound up after my sisters dropped me off at home. I stood for a long time under a hot shower, lathering with the rosemary and lemon soap that Mama claims will fight bruising. I can’t attest to its therapeutic qualities, but I can say that afterwards my skin smelled exactly like lemon chicken.

I dragged out my ancient chenille robe and slipped on thin socks to sleep in. Then I had to lower the air conditioner a couple of notches. It was still September, which means full-blown summer in Florida. In addition to the swelter, we’d already had a close pass by one storm this hurricane season. Everyone dreaded the appearance of one with better aim.

I threw back the comforter on my bed, fluffed my pillow, and climbed in. Then I proceeded to stare at the ceiling for the next fifteen minutes. The bedside clock read 2:10 am.

The aroma coming off my body reminded me of the chicken I’d stashed in the ’fridge the night before, when Mama called from jail. It called me to the kitchen.

After I polished off the chicken, I ate some tortilla chips with a bowl of my homemade salsa. It’s strong enough to blow the back of your head all the way to Guadalajara. My stomach grumbled in protest. Now, sleep really did seem a long way off.

Opening a beer, I sat down at the computer and killed off a bunch of spam. I checked tomorrow’s weather—hot, but at least no new storms—and looked at some news headlines. There was an item from Orlando about a dust-up at one of the theme parks. A disgruntled parent, who’d spent too long in line under a searing sun, decked a costumed character. The last name of the man inside the cartoon-dog suit happened to be Martinez. That got me to thinking about Marty’s new best friend, and what he might be planning next. His mysterious past had already made me curious. Since he opened up to my sister, he seemed even more interesting.

I found the news archives for the Miami Herald and typed in a search with Martinez’s name and the words “police department.” When the first story popped up, my heart skidded into my stomach.

Martinez’s pregnant wife had been murdered in their Miami home.

I awoke to the smell of coffee brewing in my kitchen. I leaned over to make sure there wasn’t a pair of men’s shoes sitting under my bed. A shooting pain in my forehead reminded me that my noggin got a pretty good knock when I crashed. But even with a concussion, I think I might have remembered having sex. That’d be like forgetting your first bite of chocolate layer cake after being on a six-month fast.

Make that an eight-and-a-half-month fast.

My head was pounding. But I managed to scan under the bed and across the floor. Nope. Nothing but worn pine planks and dust bunnies. Looks like I still hadn’t tasted that chocolate cake. The only footwear in sight was mine.

I got out of bed, grabbed my granddaddy’s shotgun from the closet, and crept to the bedroom door. I didn’t think a murderer would go to the trouble of making me coffee before he killed me, but you can’t be too careful.

Peeking around the doorjamb, I spotted a familiar hand spilling three teaspoons of sugar into each of two coffee cups on the kitchen counter. As I propped the shotgun against the wall, I suddenly felt all the pains I hadn’t realized I’d had. My shoulder throbbed. My knee ached like Great Aunt Ella’s arthritis in December. I limped out of hiding.

“I don’t take that much sugar, Maddie. Marty’s the one who likes her coffee just like yours.’’

My older sister turned around, smiling in the sunlight that streamed through my window. “Well, hey, Sleepyhead. I wondered whether you were ever getting up.’’

Leave it to Maddie to sound so uncharacteristically chipper at an inappropriate time, like first thing in the morning. I mumbled a bad word, moved slowly to the counter, and waved at her to hand over the cup of too-sweet coffee.

“You’ll be sorry you’re being such a grump after I tell you my good news, Mace. Henry called me this morning. Apparently he tried to call you, too.’’ She aimed me a look. “But he kept getting your answering machine.’’

I glanced at the clock over the sink and rubbed my eyes. Twenty ’til eleven. I must have been dead to the world.

“Henry says they’re letting Mama out. The state attorney’s office has decided not to charge her.’’

I felt tears rising. The effort of blinking really fast to stop them hurt my head, so I collapsed into a kitchen chair and just let them come.