“He was connected, Mace.’’ His mouth twisted to a tough-guy smirk.

“Connected to what?’’ Did I mention I hate charades as much as I do guessing games?

“You’re the most literal-minded person I know, Mace,’’ Henry said, exasperated. “You don’t even seem to try.’’

He peeked around the plastic palms to make sure none of his clients was listening. They all seemed engrossed in a Judge Judy rerun on the waiting room TV. As he leaned in close, I smelled pancakes on his breath.

“You know, ‘connected.’ Like Tony Soprano?’’ he whispered. “The Godfather movies? Jim Albert, real name Jimmy ‘the Weasel’ Albrizio, was a known member of the criminal underworld in New York. He was down here hiding out.’’

So Emma Jean’s boyfriend was a mobster. I wondered if she’d known that detail when she’d agreed to become his wife. I pictured the getting-to-know you phase of their courtship:

Emma Jean: Tell me a little bit about yourself, Jim.

Jimmy the Weasel: Well, I’m from New York originally. I did free-lance work for The Family up there.

Emma Jean: How nice that you’re close to your family …

“How’d you find this out?’’ I asked Henry.

He got that superior look he always got when he knew something I didn’t. “I’m a good lawyer; a respected member of the legal community, Mace.’’ He twirled his paper clip. “You may not be aware of it, but I’ve become a pretty big fish in this little pond we call Himmarshee. Getting information is easy if you know the right people.’’

“Which doesn’t answer my question. Who told you about Albrizio?’’

“The waitress at Gladys’ Restaurant.’’

That explained Henry’s pancake breath.

“Her cousin is married to one of the police techs who handle crime scenes. As soon as they ran the fingerprints on your mama’s corpse, they knew this murder was bigger than usual.’’

I winced. “Please don’t call that poor man in the trunk ‘Mama’s corpse,’ Henry. We both know she had nothing to do with it. It’s just a question of convincing the police she’s innocent.’’

“I’ve been busy with that angle, too, Mace. The chief owes me a favor. I represented his nephew in that vandalism mess over the Confederate flag and Martin Luther King Day. I don’t know what that moron was thinking, except that he wasn’t thinking.’’

“So, the police chief …’’ I didn’t want my aching butt parked on Henry’s hard metal chair all morning.

“Well, he was pretty pissed off when he found out that new detective arrested your mama. Martinez, right? What’s he like?’’

“An arrogant jerk.’’

“Well, Miami. What do you expect? So, Chief Johnson tells me your mama taught him Sunday school when he was a kid. Said she caught him swiping a cupcake off of some other boy’s tray, and read him the riot act. Said it didn’t matter whether the thing you steal is big or little, wrong is wrong. ‘God always knows,’ your mama told him.’’

I swallowed a lump in my throat as I remembered similar lessons she’d drilled into my head over the years.

“Anyway, the chief said he’ll look into her case personally.’’ Henry tapped the file. “That Martinez was within his rights to arrest her. But the state attorney’s office has to decide whether to file formal charges. They haven’t done that yet. And they can only hold her so long until they decide one way or the other to prosecute.’’

“What can I do, Henry?’’

“Well, Martinez is going to try to get any information that’ll make your mama look guilty. You need to find something that makes it look like she’s not.’’

“Like another suspect?’’

“That’d be nice,’’ Henry said, as he straightened out the paper clip. “Find someone else who could have done it, and Aunt Rosalee’ll be out of jail and back at home before you know it.’’

Henry paused. “Hey, does your mama still make those lemon squares with the icing? I love those.’’

His mind was beginning to turn to his mid-morning snack. I started to gather my things when my cell phone rang. I fumbled in my purse past tissues, a mini-calendar, and a pack of chewing gum. No comb, of course.

When I answered, the caller was turned away from the mouthpiece, talking to someone else. Multi-tasking has meant the end of good manners.

I waited a couple of moments and then yelled “HELLO’’ again, hoping my screech would cause permanent hearing damage.

“Yeah, hold on.’’ The caller mumbled distractedly, and then went back to talking to the third person.

I punched the end button on my cell. It rang again.

“I think we were disconnected.’’

“We weren’t disconnected,’’ I said. “I hung up. It’s rude to call someone and then act like they’re not there.’’

The caller launched into a bad imitation of a Southern matron. “Well, land’s sake, where are my manners? I do declah!’’ He switched back to his normal voice, deep with the faintest trace of an accent. “I’m terribly sorry my behavior doesn’t meet your very high standards. Perdóname, as we say. Forgive me. ’’

That didn’t sound sincere, in Spanish or English.

“Hello, Detective Martinez.’’ I made an effort to keep my voice pleasant. Neutral. He was baiting me. I didn’t intend to bite.

Henry quickly scribbled a note and passed it across the desk: “Don’t talk to the police!!’’

I nodded and waved my hand to reassure my cousin. I knew what I was doing. I needed details the detective had.

“I may seem a little short because I’m kind of busy here, Ms. Bauer. I’m investigating a murder, in case you’d forgotten.’’

I wondered whether his accent would sound sexy minus the sarcasm.

“My memory’s pretty good, Detective. Are you ready to let my mother out of jail?’’

Henry grabbed the note again, added an underline and additional exclamation points, and shook the paper in my face. I turned away, cradling the phone next to my ear.

“On the contrary, Ms. Bauer,’’ Martinez said. “Recent information has come to light.’’

That’s exactly what I wanted from him: information.

“I’m more convinced than ever your mother is where she belongs,’’ he said. “I need you to come by the police department. I’d like to talk to you about your mother’s case.’’

And there was that awful word again.