Mystery Acclaim for the Mace Bauer Mystery Series:
H “The mystery aisles can always use more humor, and Sharp delivers.”—Library Journal (starred review) “An amusing tale of life and love in the kind of Florida town that tourists rarely see.”—Kirkus Reviews “Energetic plots and laugh-out-loud humor are staples of Sharp’s series.”—Oline Cogdill, South Florida Sun-Sentinel
Trash Talk Spreads Fast
Digging around the dump for Mama’s prized wedding ring, Mace Bauer suddenly stumbles upon the dead body of librarian Camilla Law. The strait-laced town of Himmarshee is scandalized, not because a killer is on the loose, but because prudish Camilla’s leather getup screams sex fetish. Good gravy! Meanwhile, Mace is desperate to help her down-in-thedumps sister, who suspects her husband is cheating on her. Tracking the two-timing cad, Mace uncovers a circle of bondage fanatics. Whips and woo-hoo? Mama’s blushing pinker than her favorite sweet wine! Mace must figure out what’s going on in little ol’ Himmarshee before another body gets trashed.
$14.99 US / $17.50 CAN ISBN 978-0-7387-3615-0
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praise for the mace bauer mystery series Mama Does Time “Who knew that a who-dun-it would not only keep you guessing—but have you laughing! Deborah Sharp is the new Edna Buchanan.” —Hoda Kotb, NBC’s Today show co-anchor “Native Floridian Deborah Sharp’s acute comic timing and detailed perceptions of old Florida sparkle in her lively debut . . . highly entertaining.” —Oline H. Cogdill, South Florida Sun-Sentinel “[A] humorous, touching reflection on familial love and politics.” —Mystery Scene “A fast-paced start to a new series with fun characters.” —MysteryReader.com “With a strong, funny heroine, colorful characters, and a look at a part of Florida the tourists rarely see, Deborah Sharp has an engaging new series.” — Elaine Viets, author of Clubbed to Death, a Dead-End Job Mystery “Mama Does Time has it all—murder, mystery and a brand-new take on Florida’s particular version of mayhem.” —Bob Morris, fourth-generation Floridian and Edgarnominated author of the Zack Chasteen Mystery series
Mama Rides Shotgun “An amusingly wild ride through parts of Florida tourists rarely visit.” —Kirkus Reviews “[Sharp’s] descriptions of a part of Florida most of us know little about add to the appeal of this entertaining mystery.” —Booklist “Sharp delivers a wide swath of humor and a keen sense of Florida’s history and present.” —Oline H. Cogdill, South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“The characterization is outstanding and the family relationships are a hoot! Can’t wait for the next installment!” —Fresh Fiction
Mama Gets Hitched “Sibling rivalry, steamy romance, a surprising killer, and plenty of catfish and hush puppies make this Southern cozy a winner.” —Publishers Weekly “A terrific combination of sleuthing and silliness.” —Colette Bancroft, St. Petersburg Times “Bound to give tourists a look at a Florida that is fast being paved out of existence.” —Kirkus Reviews “Once again Sharp has presented a humorous look at life in the interior of Florida.” —Booklist “This series is just filled with down-home charm.” —Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine
MAMA Gets TRASHED
other books by deborah sharp Mama Does Time Mama Rides Shotgun Mama Gets Hitched Mama Sees Stars
MAMA TRASHED A Mace Bauer
MYSTERY
Gets
Deborah Sharp
Midnight Ink
woodbury, minnesota
Mama Gets Trashed: A Mace Bauer Mystery © 2013 by Deborah Sharp. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2013 Book design and format by Donna Burch Cover design by Lisa Novak Cover illustration by Gail Armstrong/Illustration Ltd. Editing by Connie Hill Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Sharp, Deborah, 1954– Mama gets trashed : a Mace Bauer mystery / by Deborah Sharp. — First Edition. pages cm (A Mace Bauer mystery; #5) ISBN 978-0-7387-3615-0 1. Bauer, Mace (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Mothers and daughters— Fiction. 3. Florida—Fiction. I. Title. PS3619.H35645M366 2013 813'.6—dc23 2013012989 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America
dedication With love to Kathleen Robelen— my sweet, Southern, second mama
acknowledgments I owe a huge debt to my readers, especially those who’ve stayed with the Mace Bauer Mysteries from the start. No one can predict where life will lead. You’ve made this part of the journey a total blast. Special thanks to Elaine Naiman, whose charitable donation earned her a character name; and to the Alabama ladies of the Mama Posse: Dab, Muffin, Beth, and Lucie. Y’all know what you did! As with all my books, I had help from myriad sources. Early readers of Mama Gets Trashed included Karen Feldman, Victoria Allman, and my fabulous sister, Charlene Bogolub. My agent, Whitney Lee, also applied her talents to improving the manuscript. I’m grateful for all their suggestions. Paul Laska, a law enforcement consultant, offered advice on bombs and explosions. Several sources helped me understand the ins and outs of garbage trucks. Vince Ruano, the former city manager of Bushnell, Florida, spent some time with me on the phone. David Peters and Jeff Coleman, of the Stuart, Florida, public works department, gave me an up-close gander. Any errors are mine, and should not reflect on their expertise or knowledge. I’m grateful to my editor, Terri Bischoff, and the talented staff at Midnight Ink. Lisa Novak designs great covers; Connie Hill edits like a dream; Bethany Onsgard helps spread the word. Thanks also to Alisha Bjorklund, for making “Trashed’’ sound enticing. The world’s greatest husband, Kerry Sanders, and the world’s greatest mama, Marion Sharp, have my eternal gratitude for their love and inspiration. And Okeechobee, Florida, the real-life model for fictional Himmarshee, always holds a special place in my heart. Finally, I’m indebted to book-sellers and librarians, who do so much for readers and for authors like me. Where would I be without you?
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one
I toed aside a pink take-out bag from the Pork Pit. Barbecue sauce stained the cuff on my jeans. A soggy onion ring clung like a barnacle to the leather laces of my work boots. Flies buzzed. Mountains of household trash rose around me. Brushing at a sweat droplet that rolled from my forehead down my nose, I glared at Mama. How had I let her drag me along on this search expedition to the Himmarshee dump on the hottest day of the year? “Tell me again how you tossed out your wedding ring with the garbage?’’ “I already explained all that, Mace. It was an accident.’’ She sounded more annoyed at me than she had a right to, since I was the one doing most of the looking under a scorching sun. She stood in the shade cast by my Jeep, fanning herself with a paper cutout of a largemouth bass, a freebie from Gotcha Bait & Tackle near Lake Okeechobee. “In other words,’’ I said, “you were careless because you were trashed.’’ 1
“Trashed?’’ “Right. Tipsy. Blotto. Drunk.’’ Mama pulled herself up to her full height of 4 foot 11 inches, smoothed her perfectly coiffed platinum hair, and regarded me regally. Well, as regal as someone standing in a pile of moldy cantaloupe rinds and coffee grounds can be. “I was not drunk. I’d only had a tiny glass of pink wine. Barely a thimble-full, really.’’ I stepped on a squishy disposable diaper. Used, of course. A rat ran over the toe of my boot. I decided to continue our discussion, but keep my eyes on the ground. “That’s not what Marty said. She said you just about finished the whole fiesta-sized box yourself. You barely left her enough wine for half a glass.’’ “Marty’s wrong.’’ “Right. My trustworthy little sister is a liar.’’ “She’s not lying; exaggerating, maybe. Anyhoo, I’d taken off my ring to scour the stovetop. I must have swept it off the counter into the trashcan with the used paper towels. We’ll never have to worry about the same thing happening with that new ring of yours, since you never scour anything.’’ I took pity on her and didn’t press it, figuring she felt bad enough about losing the enormous diamond wedding ring Husband No. 5 had recently given her. Amazingly, Salvatore “Big Sal’’ Provenza from Da Bronx was turning into a keeper. No such luck, apparently, with his ring. I kept quiet, working my way through another pile of rubbish. The silence stretched out, without Mama saying a word either. That was unusual enough that it made me look up to check on her.
2
She was tapping away at her smart phone. I heard the whoosh sound, signaling she’d just sent a message. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!’’ “What?’’ She raised her face from the phone, all blue-eyed innocence. “Is my busting my sweaty butt to help you find your stupid ring keeping you from some more important business on that telephone?’’ “Oh, this?’’ She lifted the small electronic beast in her hand. “I was returning an email from your sister Maddie. She’s in crisis.’’ Mama closed the gap between us, and shoved the phone toward me. “Look at this picture. See the yellow dress? That’s what she’s supposed to wear to Kenny’s party next week. You know I absolutely cannot let Maddie wear that dress, Mace.’’ “Why? Is it against the law to wear yellow for your husband’s forty-fifth birthday?’’ “Don’t sass me, girl. You’re not too old for me to grab a switch.’’ She leveled a look that could still scare me a bit, even though I’m thirty-four years old and tower over her by almost a foot. “Yellow turns Maddie’s skin tone as green as my wrist got after Husband No. 3 bought me that watch from the man with the card table in New York City.’’ I shielded the phone’s screen from the sun and examined the dress. It was smiley-face yellow. I thought it looked cheerful. Mama ran the Color Me Gorgeous franchise at Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow beauty parlor, so she considered herself an expert in what shades of clothing did and did not match which skin tones. I had
3
less fashion sense than the guys at the feed store, so I didn’t really see the problem. “Maddie and her yellow dress is hardly a crisis, Mama. I’ll give you a crisis. If we don’t recover your ring, and Sal finds out you lost it even before he’s had the chance to pay it off because you got blitzed on too much sweet pink wine—’’ “—Say no more, Mace.’’ She took back the phone, and slipped it into the pocket of her orange-sherbet-colored pantsuit. “I’ll take that corner over there by the fence. I see a bunch of white paper towels and some empty cans of that dog food Teensy likes. Maybe that’ll be the trash from my house.’’ Picking up a broken broom, Mama began using it to delicately poke at garbage piles. I had to smile at the look on her face when she lifted the broom handle to examine what was stuck to the end and a banana peel dropped down her blouse. I was about to say something smart-alecky, when a sparkle of light shining between a bunch of spoiled beets and a flat bike tire caught my eye. I walked over to get a closer look. A fishy smell about knocked me out. A week’s worth of leftovers from Jimbob’s Seafood Shack moldered. Sure enough, though, I saw the unmistakable glint of a diamond. “I found it,’’ I yelled, only to hear Mama’s excited shout at the same moment. “I’ve got it!’’ she cried from across the dump. “I found my ring.’’ She was waving, and the sun reflected off the big rock returned to her hand. If Mama had found her diamond, what exactly had I found? Kicking aside some crab shells and rotten shrimp, I lifted the bike tire. Up came a stained sheet tangled in some snapped-off
4
spokes. Underneath was the body of a scantily clad woman, with one hand flung out. Against the deathly pallor of her wrist, a diamond bracelet glittered.
5
two
A lace-up bodice of black leather barely contained the upper half of the young woman’s body. On the bottom, she wore a short leather skirt, also in black, with fishnet stockings. Dark hair fanned out across a bare shoulder. What looked like a dog collar encircled her neck, black leather with silver spikes and a ring for a leash. On her left foot was a five-inch stiletto heel; the shoe’s mate was missing. Pale pink polish on her toenails gleamed through the wide mesh of the fishnet. The demure color, such a contrast to the revealing leather, made her seem especially vulnerable. Aside from the missing high heel, the rest of her clothing looked intact, if scanty. “Do you know her?’’ I asked Mama. She shook her head, eyes riveted on the body. Considering the heat, the girl couldn’t have been dumped too long ago. “Me neither. I’d say she’s in her twenties, maybe thirty. Younger than me.’’
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Mama nodded. To my surprise, tears pooled in her eyes. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t cry. You know this isn’t the first time we’ve found a body, unfortunately. We can say a prayer for her, if you want. Either way, this poor gal is past caring.’’ Mama plucked a sherbet-hued handkerchief from her pocket. “I can’t help it, Mace. Seeing her dumped here like household garbage just breaks my heart. I think of how I’d feel if harm like this ever came to you or your sisters. She was somebody’s daughter.’’ Now I felt the sting of tears, too. Mama grabbed my hand. We recited the verses of Psalm 23, Mama filling in where I faltered: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want … When we finished, I raised my head and looked around the dump. I added a silent prayer that God would receive the soul of the dead girl into heaven. If she did get the chance to sit beside Him, I hoped she wouldn’t remember what had brought her to such an end on earth. I had the urge to cover her again with the bed sheet. But I’d already called the police, and I knew we should disturb things around the body as little as possible. We retreated a short distance away to wait. We both pressed close to my Jeep, seeking the small amount of shade the vehicle provided. The morning was young, but the sun was already demonstrating its hot hold on middle Florida. Even at eight a.m., it was sweltering. Mama had made me promise I’d swing by before work at Himmarshee Park to bring her to the dump. Now, all I could think of was how many places I’d rather be. She consulted her mirrored compact, dabbing with the handkerchief at her mascara. It was melting from the heat and her earlier tears. I squinted past her toward the open gate. 7
“Here comes a car. That’s got to be Carlos,’’ I said. Mama licked the tips of two fingers and spit-patted my unruly bangs. “Your hair’s a mess, Mace. It looks like a bunch of raccoons crawled in there and threw a party.’’ I ducked out of her reach. She offered me her mirror, and got a scowl in return. “Mama, this is a murder scene. I doubt whether a little hair frizz is going to be the paramount issue on my boyfriend’s mind.’’ “He’s not just your boyfriend anymore; he’s your fiancé. You better get used to saying the word.’’ Out came her Apricot Ice lipstick. While Mama attended to her face, I watched Carlos Martinez climb from the driver’s side of his unmarked car. A homicide detective with the Himmarshee Police Department, he was also my fiancé. I was still having a bit of trouble getting my head around that description. Not the homicide part. I was used to that, since Mama and I had managed to encounter him at an unusually high number of crime scenes over the last couple of years. It was that word, “fiancé,’’ that threw me. It had only been a couple of months since he popped the question. Before that, we’d traveled a rocky road, romantically speaking. We might be officially engaged, but I still kept expecting us to plunge into a relationship pothole or run ourselves off the pavement into a ditch at any moment. “Yoo-hoo, Carlos!’’ Mama sounded like we were at the malt shop and she was saving him a seat. “We’re over here, honey!’’ “Shhh! I’m the one who called him to come out here, so he knows where we are. He sees us,’’ I whispered. “And don’t forget there’s a body lying over there just a few yards away.’’
8
“Well, I know that, Mace! I prayed over that gal just like you did. But just because she’s gone to meet her Maker is no reason for me to be rude to my future son-in-law.’’ Carlos walked toward us, the sun casting a golden glow on his face. Despite the serious circumstances, I felt the same tingle I always got at the sight of this gorgeous man. With his black hair and eyes, his jaw set in grim determination, he looked like a Spanish conquistador charging into battle. He might be dodging garbage piles instead of galloping over the plains on an Andalusian steed, but he still looked mighty fine doing it. He waved, and allowed us a fleeting smile. “You two are in the bad place at the bad time again, aren’t you?’’ Born in Cuba, moved up to Himmarshee from Miami, Carlos sometimes got his English vernacular mixed up. “Absolutely. Wrong place; wrong time.’’ I pointed to where we’d discovered the body. “She’s over there. Earlier, Mama found a broken broom handle. We stuck it in a trash pile to mark where the girl is.’’ “And you’re sure you don’t recognize her?’’ We both shook our heads. “She’s not from Himmarshee,’’ I said. “She’s wearing some kind of sexy, black-leather getup. I can tell you I’ve never seen anything like it on sale at the Home on the Range Feed Store and Clothing Emporium.’’ He raised his eyebrows. “You should know better than to make snap judgments, Mace. You’d be surprised what people are like behind closed doors; even people in little bitty towns like Himmarshee.’’
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“Well,’’ Mama said, “I think it’s safe to say she wasn’t a churchgoer at Abundant Forgiveness Love & Charity Chapel. Not wearing an outfit like that.’’ “One thing’s for sure,’’ I said. “She ran out of Love.’’ Carlos gazed around the dump, his nose wrinkling at the stench of garbage and worse. “She ran out of Charity, too.’’ Mama said, “When Mace called you, did she mention the girl’s diamond bracelet?’’ He looked at me. I gave him an apologetic shrug. “I forgot,’’ I said. “I work at a nature park and trap nuisance critters on the side. It’s not like I’m a professional detective.’’ “I’ll remind you of that fact when you go stepping your size-ten shoes all over my investigation. Speaking of the case …’’ His sentence trailed off as he started toward the dead girl. He spoke over his shoulder. “The medical examiner and the crime scene van will be here soon. You two should go. Someone will contact you later to give official statements.’’ Mama stopped him, tugging on his arm. “I just wanted to tell you one more thing. That girl might have been short on Love and Charity, but that leather bustier she’s wearing doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Between what she’s showing up top, and that string of jewels on her wrist, your murder victim had Abundance to spare.’’
10
three
Charlene put a plate of steaming biscuits on the breakfast table at Gladys’ Diner. It was the day after Mama and I found the girl at the dump. I helped myself to two of the flaky morsels as Charlene moved around the table, filling our coffee cups from a glass carafe. When she got to my big sister, Maddie covered the rim of her cup with her hand. I’d never known her to turn down fresh, hot coffee before. Or little else, for that matter. “Are you sick?’’ Maddie touched her stomach. “Woke up with a little something.’’ “It’s probably just nerves over the big party next week.’’ Mama had just started in with Maddie about the yellow dress, when the cowbells clanged on the door of the diner. Our little sister, Marty, pushed through, with the Himmarshee Times in one hand. Mama stood up and snatched the paper away, even before Marty had a chance to sit down. “Let me see! Is there anything on that murdered girl?’’ 11
“Don’t know, Mama. I didn’t even have a moment to glance at it before someone ripped it forcibly from me.’’ Marty had been the reliably sweet sister since the three of us were girls, but she was speaking her mind more and more these days. It was partly because she had more responsibility at her library job, but I thought it was mainly Maddie rubbing off on her. Mama seemed not to notice Marty’s snarky tone. Picking up on subtle criticism wasn’t her strong suit. She took her seat again, and spread the purloined paper on the table. “Yes! Here it is: ‘Murdered Woman was New Resident.’’’ Maddie and I angled closer, each reading over one of Mama’s shoulders. Marty moved behind her, peering over the top of her head. “Ohmigod.’’ She barely breathed the words as she gripped the back of Mama’s chair. “What?’’ Maddie and I asked at once. Our sister’s fair skin had paled to alabaster. She clutched a hand to her throat. “Th … tha … that picture,’’ Marty stammered, pointing at the article’s photo of a serious-looking young woman with long dark hair and intelligent eyes. It appeared to be a reproduction of a picture on a driver’s license or employee badge. “Did you know her?’’ Mama turned in her chair to look at Marty. “She works with me at the library. I mean, worked.’’ “Oh, honey!’’ Mama patted gently at Marty’s arm. “Were you close?’’ Marty lowered herself into a seat at the table. “Not really. She’s only been with us for a few months. But we just sat together at lunch last week. It’s so weird to think she’s dead.’’ “What did you have?’’ Maddie asked.
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Mama, Marty, and I looked at her like she’d stepped off a spaceship from Planet Clueless. “Is that relevant?’’ I said. “Probably not.’’ Maddie shrugged. “I just wondered.’’ “Veggie pizza,’’ Marty said. “This says her name was Camilla Law. She was originally from England, but she’s been in the United States for several years,’’ Mama read from the paper. “That explains her accent,’’ Marty said. “A lot of people just thought she was snobby.’’ “Maybe she came from money. That would fit with the diamond bracelet,’’ I said. “What diamond bracelet?’’ Marty asked. “She was wearing one when we found her,’’ I said. “You’d never seen her wear it at work?’’ Marty shook her head. “I’d have remembered that.’’ Mama tapped the article to get our attention. “It doesn’t mention the bracelet. It goes into a few details about the black leather and fishnets, but nothing about that strange dog collar.’’ She continued scanning the story. “Your fiancé is quoted, Mace.’’ “Let me guess,’’ I said. “He told the reporter the murder is under investigation, and the authorities will pursue all possible leads.’’ Mama grinned. “Very close. He didn’t say the word ‘murder.’ He called it ‘the circumstances of the victim’s death.’” “Oh, it’s murder,’’ I said, taking a sip of my coffee. “People don’t die of natural causes while they’re out walking in the city dump wearing leather sex clothes.’’
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Mama tapped at the paper again. “Oh, y’all … listen to what our brand new mayor, Big Bill Graf, had to say. ‘The risqué clothing this young woman was wearing in no way reflects community morals in Himmarshee. We’re all about family values here.’’’ “What a tool.” Maddie stuck a teaspoon into my coffee and stole a swallow. “Needs more sugar, Mace.’’ I moved the cup out of her reach. “Sounds like he’s blaming the victim,’’ Marty said. Maddie said, “So a leather … what was it called again?’’ “Bustier,’’ Mama provided. “Right. A leather bustier is a sin, but murder is okay?’’ Maddie clucked her tongue. “A total tool.’’ “Shh,’’ I said, nodding toward a semi-private alcove at the back of the room. “Our illustrious mayor happens to be right over there, holding court.’’ A towering man, hence the nickname, Big Bill Graf had a barrel chest and a bright red face. He seemed to come from nowhere, pumping money unheard of in Himmarshee into radio advertising and yard signs. He’d won the mayoral race just a few months before. We all quieted down, to see if we could listen in. Big Bill’s booming voice carried across the crowded restaurant. “Like I told the Himmarshee Times …” His voice swelled with importance, as if he were recounting a personal conversation with the Washington Post. “Sexual deviance isn’t on our civic agenda. And I told that reporter his article better not infer that it is.’’ “I think he means ‘imply,’’’ said Maddie, the school principal. Marty shushed her.
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“We must look at how that young woman’s behavior implicated her murder,’’ the mayor continued. “Does he mean ‘was implicated in her murder?’’’ Marty whispered. I shrugged. “Maybe he means ‘precipitated her murder.’’’ “Why do people try to use big words when small ones will do just as well?’’ Mama asked. “Especially when they use them wrong.’’ Maddie dipped a clean teaspoon into Mama’s coffee for a taste. “Too much cream.’’ “Why don’t you just order a cup?’’ Marty asked. “My stomach’s upset,’’ Maddie answered. “Well don’t send your germs my way,’’ Marty said. I still watched His Honor, even though a loud table in between us had drowned out his words. Several rapt hangers-on crowded around his table, devouring every sentence. A poodle-permed woman who looked familiar gazed at him with adoring eyes. “Who’s the big gal with the golf course tan and the red poodle pouf?’’ I asked. “She could use an emergency visit to Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow.’’ “My goodness, Mace, you’ve got to get out of the woods and start paying attention to civic news. That’s Mrs. Mayor, Beatrice Graf,’’ Mama whispered behind her hand. “She’s already become a Newcomers’ Club muckety-muck. I know it’s not very Christian of me, but I think she’s as big a blowhard as her husband.’’ “Then she’s a pretty big blowhard,’’ I said. “He’s got a lot of nerve lecturing on how and why that girl came to be tossed in the dump. It’s pure character assassination. Nobody knows anything for sure yet.’’
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Just then, Beatrice Graf dropped a hand on her husband’s shoulder. He stopped talking so fast, it was like she’d hit a switch. She smiled at his audience, the ingratiating smile of a political wife. Suddenly, the chatterboxes at the loud table in between us grew quiet as Charlene stopped to take their order. The cultured voice of the mayor’s wife carried across the room. “I think at the end of the day, we’ll find that young woman was engaged in something sinful, and every one of you knows what the Bible says: the wages of sin is death.’’ Our table was hushed as each of us digested Mrs. Mayor’s words. “My stars and garters,’’ Mama finally said. “That was certainly harsh.’’
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