“I’m aware that a man’s body was discovered in the trunk of her car. I want to assure you my mother had nothing whatsoever to do with the man getting there.’’

“Assure away.’’ He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “I’m still talking to your mother alone, Ms. Bauer.’’

“Excuse me, Detective?’’ Mama held up a finger like she was trying to raise a point on orchids at the Garden Club. “That’s Miss Bauer. My daughter isn’t married. And, please, call her Mace. Everybody does.’’

“Mama!”

“Well, they do, honey.’’ She turned back to the detective. “I gave old family surnames to all three of my girls. The youngest is Marty, which comes from Martin. We call Madison, the oldest, Maddie for short. It’s a Southern thing.”

Mama didn’t mention these fine old English names appear nowhere in our own family background, which is Scotch and German. She didn’t think it sounded as classy to name us “McDougall,’’ “Zumwald,’’ and “Schultz.’’

She raised her finger again. “I just want to add that Mace is smart, too. She graduated top in her college class at Central Florida.’’

A vein started throbbing at Martinez’s temple. I had the oddest impulse to trace it with my thumb.

I felt a flush spreading from my hairline south. “Mama, please. Nobody cares what kind of grade point average I carried ten years ago.’’

Just then, the door behind the counter swung open, rescuing me from Mama’s compulsive matchmaking. Emma Jean pushed through backwards, balancing three coffees. She propped open the door with her ample rear end, sheathed in the same bubble-gum shade as her bustier. Setting the coffees down, she turned to us.

“Well, hey, Detective Martin-ez.’’ Her drawl turned his last name into two English words, Martin and Ez. “I saw you through the window as you drove up. Figured you could use a cup, too. Did y’all get an ID yet on that poor dead man in Rosalee’s trunk?’’

Martinez grabbed a coffee off the counter. He didn’t say thanks.

“Yeah, we did. One of the officers recognized him.’’ He tipped the cup to his lips, keeping his eyes fastened on my mother.

“Well, who was it?’’ Emma Jean picked up both remaining cups. As she handed one to me, I nodded my thanks.

Waiting, Martinez stared holes through Mama. Finally, he said, “His name was Jim Albert.’’

As soon as Emma Jean heard the name, she screamed and stumbled. She caught herself, but the last coffee went flying.

“Oh, Emma Jean!’’ Mama rushed to her friend’s side. “I am so sorry.’’

I was confused. Shouldn’t Emma Jean be apologizing, since she’d just ruined Mama’s pantsuit with lukewarm coffee splotches from top to bottom?

The receptionist threw herself, sobbing, into my mother’s open arms. I was afraid the impact would topple Mama, like she was the last pin on the lane at a bowling tournament. Martinez quickly stepped in as ballast.

“Am I missing something here?’’ He raised his eyebrows at me. I shrugged, as I helped him prop up a weeping Emma Jean.

“Oh, this is just getting more horrible by the minute, Detective.’’ Mama leaned around Emma Jean’s bulk to find Martinez. “Jim Albert was her boyfriend. And just last week, he got down on one knee and asked Emma Jean to marry him.’’

The news that her fiancé was the dead man in Mama’s convertible hit Emma Jean hard.

She was sobbing, rocking back and forth in her receptionist’s chair. I thought each squeak from the wheels might be the last. If Emma Jean was to take a tumble, I feared what might fall out the top of that too-snug bustier.

Martinez leaned against the counter, watching his co-worker. I used the opportunity to scrutinize him: Except for the badge at his belt and the foam coffee cup in his hand, he might have been an ancient Roman, sculpted in marble. I pay attention to little details. That comes in handy for my part-time work, tracking animals. I can usually read people, too. But the expressionless detective offered no clues. He ought to try his luck at poker at the Seminole casino.

Mama pulled a sherbet-colored hanky from the pocket of her pantsuit. The lacy square of linen was no match for the volume of Emma Jean’s tears. Mama was just returning with toilet paper reinforcements from the Ladies, when we all heard voices from the hallway.

“I demand to speak to Mrs. Rosalee Deveraux,’’ the loudest voice said.

My big sister, Maddie, was bearing down on the lobby like a hurricane, her red hair flying like a warning flag. A uniformed officer trailed two paces behind, keeping a wary eye on Maddie and a hand ready near his gun. As soon as Maddie saw our mother sitting there safely, she lit into me.

“Mace, what were you thinking with that message on my answering machine: ‘Mama’s in the Himmarshee Jail. Come quick!’ I nearly had a coronary. Then, I couldn’t reach your cell. You have got to keep that phone turned on. If it’s for emergencies, I’d say this qualifies.’’

Maddie has been bossing me around since she was in kindergarten and I was in diapers. I’m well into big-girl undies now, but she’s seen no sense in stopping yet.

“Now, honey, don’t get mad at your sister,’’ Mama said. “It was me told Mace to call. I’m in a little spot of trouble.’’

“Make that a big spot,’’ I amended. “Mama found a dead man in her convertible trunk.’’

Emma Jean let out a wail, springing loose a fresh flood of tears.

“Sorry, Emma Jean,’’ I said, handing her another wad of toilet paper. “He …’’ I crooked my thumb to point at Martinez, just as he’d done to me, “… he’s the detective who thinks Mama’s mixed up in the poor man’s murder.’’

Peeking out from behind Maddie was our younger sister, Marty. Her face went pale at my announcement. But the news just seemed to make Maddie madder. She pulled herself up to her full height, which I always remind her is two-and-one-half inches shorter than mine. Her whole body swiveled back and forth and back again between Mama and Martinez, causing the eyeglasses on the chain around her neck to spin like an airplane propeller.

“I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous,’’ Maddie finally said.

“Please, Maddie.’’ Marty’s voice was hardly audible. She bunched up the fabric of her flowered dress as she spoke. “Can’t we talk about this like civilized people?’’ She glanced nervously at the cop with the gun.

Maddie steamrollered past, ignoring Marty. She stalked across the room, stopped beside Mama, and put a protective hand on her shoulder. “This woman has taught Sunday school to half of Himmarshee.’’