“Teensy, hush!’’ Mama shouted, which just pushed the Pomeranian over the top. He hurled himself at the door, intent upon breaking through the wood frame and hurricane-resistant glass to reunite with his mistress.

Marty finally got an ankle in between the dog’s chest and the door and pushed the little ball of fluff out of the way. She had one foot off the floor, a glass of wine in her hand, and the other arm wrapped around Mama in a welcoming hug. Marty was so graceful, she could pull that off. If I tried it, I’d be out flat on Mama’s hallway rug, covered in sweet wine and dog fur.

“Ooooooh, is this Mama’s little boy? Is this her itty-bitty boy?’’

Teensy launched himself straight up and levitated, like a Harrier fighter jet. She caught the dog in his skyward orbit, planting a big kiss on his head.

“Have you girls ever seen a more adorable little angel than this one?’’ She waved one of Teensy’s paws at us.

Marty and I exchanged a look. All that Teensy lacked was a bonnet and a bassinet.

We escaped to the kitchen, entering a veritable barnyard of gingham. Mama had a thing for cute animals in country checks: Her cookie jar was a pig in a gingham cap. Her canisters pictured ducks in gingham ribbons. Bunnies frolicked in gingham bowties along a wall border.

Marty hiked up her knee-length, linen skirt and climbed onto a step stool. She removed a wine goblet from the shelf, and poured me half a glass. I motioned her to keep going. We could still hear Mama murmuring sweet nothings to the dog in the living room. Teensy’s frantic barking had mellowed to an annoying whimper.

“God forbid anything should ever happen to that creature,’’ I said, lifting the pig’s gingham hat to help myself to two macaroons.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, Mace, don’t even think about it. She loves that dog beyond description.’’

“How was Cops?’’

“Funny, but sad. As usual. Where on earth do they find those people?’’

Unlike Maddie, Marty was too nice to mention my intimate knowledge of someone who’d had a starring role

“I saw Jeb Ennis again tonight.’’

Marty’s face lit up and she sat down at the table, ready for a good story.

“It didn’t go well.’’

I leaned against the counter and filled her in on what I’d learned about Jeb’s ties to Jim Albert. I told her how he’d tried to cover up their big fight.

“I need to find out how much he owed him, Marty. Money is an excellent motive for murder.’’

“You can’t suspect Jeb, Mace.’’ Marty shook her head, blonde hair shimmering in the wagon-wheel light hanging over Mama’s table. “You dated the man.’’

“Yeah, Jeb and that handcuffed suspect on TV. My taste in men seems a little iffy.’’

“What would his motive be for putting the body in Mama’s car, Mace?’’

“I’m not sure. I haven’t figured that out yet.’’ I topped off my wine glass, and grabbed a third macaroon. “But Jeb’s not the only one who seems suspicious, Marty.’’

I told her about Emma Jean’s scene at the church, and her threat of committing violence.

“Emma Jean said that bad word, right there at Abundant Hope?’’ Marty spoke around the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. “Maybe I was wrong about her being so nice.’’

We could hear Mama moving toward her bedroom, probably going in to change to something more comfortable than her pansy hat and pantyhose. Teensy followed, tags jingling on his collar.

“Marty, why didn’t you tell us about your promotion?’’

She blushed. “I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, Mace. Not with everyone so worried about Mama and the murder.’’

“Well, it is a big deal.’’ I clinked my glass against hers. “I’ve always known you had it in you. You’ve proved you don’t have to be bossy to be boss.’’

I’d made a small pile of macaroon crumbs on the counter. I was just about to get another wine glass from the cabinet for Mama when Teensy shot out of the bedroom like a rocket. The dog was going nuts, barking and scaling the couch by the window like it was the Pomeranian version of Everest.

Mama called out, “Mace, see what in the world is wrong with that dog. He hasn’t been the same since I went to prison.’’

“Jail, Mama.’’

A loud thump sounded from the wooden porch outside the front door. I grabbed Mama’s grandma’s heavy, carved cane from the hallway umbrella stand.

“Marty,’’ I whispered. “There’s someone out there.’’

Within seconds, my sister was right behind me, clutching a cast-iron pan.

Teensy was yelping and jumping, a Pomeranian pogo stick.

As I crept toward the window, I heard a car door slam in the distance. Outside, I saw nothing but dark, empty, street in front of Mama’s house. From down the block, an engine raced. Tires squealed. Whoever had been out there was now roaring away. Or, maybe that’s what they wanted us to think.

Mama, her face a white mask of Ponds cold cream against a red satin robe, joined us in the hallway. “What in heaven’s name is all the fuss, girls?’’

I shushed her, and motioned for her to grab hold of her crazy dog.

Cracking the front door, I peeked out. What looked like a bundle of rags tied to a heavy brick sat on the porch, next to a potted Boston fern. Mama held a wriggling Teensy. Marty sidled up beside me, frying pan shaking in her hand. We stepped onto the porch.

The rag bundle was the only thing out of the ordinary. I stooped to pick it up. It was a white toy dog. Deep slashes crisscrossed synthetic plush, spilling stuffing from the head and sides. A collar dangled from the nearly decapitated stuffed animal.

I held the collar to the light spilling out the front door. Marty and Mama each crowded in over a shoulder. Together, we read the name in crude letters on the mutilated dog tag.

Teensy.

I heard a sharp gasp and then another thump on the wooden porch, much louder this time. I whirled around to find Marty collapsed in an unconscious heap. The frying pan had missed my foot by about an inch and a-half.

“Oh, my stars! Would you look at my poor baby?”

I glanced at Mama, and was relieved to see she was referring to Marty, not Teensy. She’d put down the stupid dog and was focused on her youngest daughter.