Mama Rides Shotgun (2 page)

A young woman stood
wringing her hands over Lawton Bramble’s body. He was stretched out on the ground at his cook site, a dark stain spreading around him. Mama grabbed my arm. I drew her close, and we approached the scene together.

“I don’t know what happened.’’ Tears on the woman’s face glistened in the firelight. She stared down at Lawton. “I came to check on him and his crazy chili. This is how I found him. I don’t know what happened,’’ she repeated, her voice getting smaller.

She was pulling so hard at the skin of her hands I thought she might strip it off. The eyes she aimed at Lawton were glassy.

“Mama, check to see if you can find a pulse.’’ I spoke softly, already suspecting by the unnatural body position and the blood that Lawton was dead. “I’m going to tend to this one here. I think she might be going into shock.’’

Mama stretched up to whisper in my ear before she hurried away. “Her name’s Wynonna, Mace. She’s Lawton’s brand-new wife.’’

Guiding Wynonna to a low plank bench, I gently sat her down. I removed the fleece vest I wore over my turtleneck, and zipped it tightly around her. It barely fit across her bust.

“Now, put your head down on your knees.’’ I spoke as distinctly and calmly as I could. “Take some slow, deep breaths. That’s good. In. Out.’’

Basic first aid is a job requirement at Himmarshee Park, where I work. We’ve had some experience at the park with emergencies, medical and otherwise. Wynonna did just as I told her, which was an encouraging sign.

“In and out. You’re doing fine.’’ I rubbed her back, feeling her breathing start to slow.

I glanced toward Mama. Kneeling, her fingers resting lightly at the side of Lawton’s throat, she looked at me and shook her head. No pulse.

She drew a compact from her jacket pocket and whipped it open. Mama couldn’t possibly be checking her lipstick at a time like this. Could she? I was relieved when she held the glass of the mirror down low, close to Lawton’s mouth.

After a moment, she raised the mirror and looked toward us again. She shook her head. No sign of breath.

Mama might be ditsy, but she’s not squeamish about death. She grew up on a farm. She volunteers at the hospital. And, less than a year ago, she discovered the body of a murder victim in the trunk of her turquoise convertible.

Giving Lawton’s cheek a gentle pat, Mama stood and started toward us. The sharp snap of her compact closing seemed to bring Wynonna back into the world. She lifted her face from her knees, two dark streaks of mascara marring her creamy skin.

“Our five-month anniversary is next Thursday.’’ She sniffled. “Lawton was taking me to Paris. I guess I’ll never get to see that Eiffel Tower now.’’

I immediately raised my eyebrows at Mama, now standing beside us at the bench. She leaned down to whisper, “Let it go, Mace. The woman’s just had an awful shock. Folks can’t be held accountable for what they say when a loved one dies so suddenly.’’

She laid a hand on Wynonna’s hair, stroking blond highlights. “Honey, do you want us to take you over to the house? Can we call someone to be with you?’’

Wynonna jumped off the wooden bench, her eyes focused now. “Oh, my Lord! What am I going to tell Trey? And Lawton’s daughter, Belle? They’ve been after him something fierce to listen to his doctors about his cholesterol.’’

“So, you think he had a heart attack,’’ I said.

“His last report from Dr. Perloff was real bad.’’ Her green eyes widened in alarm. “Why? Don’t you think that’s what it was?’’

All three of us looked across the campfire at Lawton’s body. A horse whinnied in the distance, answered by a second horse’s whicker.

“Well, there is the blood,’’ I finally said, hesitant to bring up something so gruesome to so recent a widow. At least I didn’t add how many people feared or hated Lawton Bramble, and might want to see him dead.

“What blood?’’ Confusion played across Wynonna’s pretty features.

“Uhm, Mace, honey?’’ Grabbing at my arm, Mama tugged me off the bench toward the body.

“Quit, Mama,’’ I said, trying to shake her off.

She didn’t say anything, just kept dragging me closer. Finally, she stopped next to him, out of Wynonna’s hearing. “Take a deep breath, honey.’’

I did as I was told. And as I breathed, the aroma of spicy Cow Hunter Chili filled my nose.

“Oh,’’ I said, embarrassed.

The pot of chili Lawton had been tending must have toppled when he collapsed. Examining the scene more closely now, I saw a scattering of beans and ground beef mixed into the dark stain on the sandy ground. He wore a white chef’s apron over his jeans and Western-style shirt. Bright red letters on the apron proclaimed,
It
Ain’t Hot Enuf Yet!
An oversized soup mug, decorated with a tongue in flames, sat sideways on the ground a few feet from his body. It still had about a fourth of a cup of Lawton’s chili inside.

Neither of us noticed that Wynonna had crept up behind us. Then we heard her gasp.

“That big ol’ mug is his special tasting cup,’’ she said, tears choking her voice. “Nobody ever touches that chili cup but Lawton.’’

Sobbing, Wynonna collapsed onto Mama. In high-heeled boots, she towered nearly a foot over Mama’s four-foot-eleven-inch frame. When Mama staggered under the onslaught, I stepped in to provide some ballast.

“We should get a doctor, or at least an ambulance, out here to do what’s right for Lawton,’’ Mama said, craning her neck around Wynonna’s generous bustline to find me. “Mace, honey, why don’t you call somebody on your cell-o-phone?’’

“My
cell
phone is in the saddlebag, Mama.’’

“There’s . . . no . . . reception . . .’’ Wynonna said between sobs. “We’ll have to walk up to the house . . . to . . . place a . . . to place a . . . call.’’

She seemed to be making an effort to control herself. She stepped away from us and gave her tight blouse a tug to rearrange it at the waist. She ran her hands through her hair, lifting and patting it back into place. Mama offered her a handkerchief from the pocket of her own powder-blue jeans. Taking the lacy blue hanky, Wynonna dabbed daintily at her nose.

“I think I’m ready to go up to the house,’’ she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’d just like to pick up that chili cup and take it with me. I want something to remember him by.’’

Something about the way Wynonna had gotten a hold of herself so quickly rubbed me the wrong way. It seemed brave, yes. But brave like she was playing the role of a distraught but determined widow in a movie. Then again, everybody grieves in different ways. Who am I to say what’s normal and not?

The three of us walked back to Lawton’s body. Now that the initial shock had passed, I immediately noticed that the air was thick with the smell of tomatoes, spiced beef, and beans. Wynonna gave us a shaky smile.

“With Lawton, it was always Cow Hunter Chili this, and Cow Hunter Chili that. ‘Cow hunters’ is what they called the old-time Florida cowboys, you know?’’

I nodded.

“He sure loved making that chili, Lawton did.’’

Mama cleared her throat. “Do you want to say your goodbyes, honey? Mace and I will stand right here with you ’til you’re done.’’

Wynonna’s tears glistened again in the light of the fire. She closed her eyes and started murmuring something that sounded like a prayer. Mama put an arm around her waist. I stood awkwardly on Wynonna’s other side, hands dangling from my wrists. As she went on, I lowered my eyes out of respect.

Gazing down, I noticed something silvery shimmering near Lawton’s right leg. Probably a tasting spoon or a cooking utensil of some sort, I thought. But it looked too bulky for that. I took a couple of steps closer. Wynonna stopped praying.

I squinted in the flashlight beam. The object was nearly hidden under Lawton’s thick leg, but the shape was unmistakable. It was a gun.

Bending at the waist,
I took a better look. Lawton wore an old-fashioned holster, a nod to the turn-of-the-century Florida frontier men who once rode the Cracker Trail. I got on my knees, lowered my head, and peered as close as I could at his right thigh. The gun was a Colt .44, lifted free of the holster.

Now, why would Lawton have had to pull that six-shooter if all he was doing when he died was making chili?

“Mace, honey? What’s going on? What’re you doin’ crawling around down there on the ground?’’

“That’s a good question.’’ Wynonna echoed Mama, her voice as cool as the darkening night. “What is it you find so interesting about my husband’s body?’’

I stood and brushed dirt and bits of dead grass from the knees of my jeans. “I’m sorry, Wynonna. I didn’t mean any disrespect.’’

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“Fact is, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to touch anything else. Or, for you to cart off that chili-tasting mug of Lawton’s.’’ I worked at keeping my voice neutral. Respectful. “I think we ought to leave everything here, just as we found it.’’

Nary a tear shone in Wynonna’s eyes now. “So that’s what you think, is it? And why is that?’’

“Because I don’t think your husband died of natural causes.’’

Mama took a sharp breath. “Mace, mind your manners! Wynonna’s already told us her husband wasn’t a well man. She’s struggling with an awful loss. The last thing she needs is you playing detective. It’s just plain cruel.’’

“Sorry,’’ I said, lifting my eyes to Lawton’s widow. “I just think we should get the authorities out here to determine exactly what happened.’’

“I’m going to apologize for my daughter.’’ Mama’s tone was confiding. “Mace is used to being in charge—at least she is when her big sister Maddie’s not around. Maddie bosses everyone she sees, but she doesn’t mean any harm by it.’’ Mama put her hands on her hips, settling in for a gal-to-gal chat. “Truth is, we had us a bit of trouble last summer after I found that poor dead man in the trunk of my convertible. It’s made Mace awful suspicious about anything that could, possibly, in any way, no matter how remote . . . be murder.’’

Wynonna was listening to Mama, but she hadn’t taken her eyes off me.

“What makes you think Lawton was muh . .’’ she swallowed like the word was stuck in her throat, then tried again. “What makes you think Lawton’s death wasn’t a heart attack?’’

I pointed out the Colt on the ground under Lawton.

“Is that all?’’ She shook her head, her frosted blonde bangs falling prettily into her eyes. “Lawton was probably out here practicing his quick draw. I used to come in on him all the time, showboating in front of the mirror. He thought he was something out of an old Clint Eastwood movie with all those big ol’ guns of his. ‘Make my day,’ he’d say into the mirror, his eyes all squinty like a gunslinger. When I’d catch him, and bust out laughing, he’d get so embarrassed. Y’all should see him do it. It’s real funny.’’

The half-smile died on Wynonna’s lips as she caught herself using the present tense. A tear coursed down her cheek. Mama reached over and rubbed her shoulder.

“I really loved him, you know?’’ Her voice was soft, pleading with us to believe her. “I’m well aware of what people think about me. I’m sure y’all think it, too.’’

“Oh, honey. Nobody thinks anything bad about you.’’

I thought Mama was laying it on a bit thick, but Wynonna looked at her hopefully.

“That’s nice of you to say. But yes. Yes, they do. They think I’m a gold digger.’’

Mama opened her mouth to protest. Wynonna waved a hand to ward off whatever lie Mama was about to tell.

“No, it’s all right. I’m used to it. People have always thought the worst of me, ever since I was a girl in North Carolina. I’ve never really understood why; but I think it’s the reason I’ve grown such a hard shell. I could say it until I’m blue in the face, but people will just not believe how much I loved Lawton. He was the first man who ever ‘got’ me. Soul to soul. And not just because I’m nice to look at, either. I think he would have proposed even if I was big and fat and plain as a fence post.’’

I doubted that, but I held my tongue.

“Truth is, I would have married Lawton Bramble if he didn’t have a pot to piss in. My own mother married for money. She always said it was the hardest work she ever did. We kids grew up with anything we wanted, but not a bit of love in the house. My father was rich, but he could be a cold son of a bitch.’’

Not unlike Lawton himself, I thought.

“My mother died alone and unhappy,’’ she said. “People blamed it on the stress of having been married to my dad. I’d be the last woman in the world to set my sights on a man just because he had money.’’

Wynonna stared into the dying cook fire, a faraway look in her eyes. I wondered if she was thinking about her present heartache, or about that loveless childhood home?

We sure didn’t have much money after Daddy died. And, more often than not, Mama’s antics drove my two sisters and me to distraction. But love was one thing all of us always had enough of. I suddenly felt sorry for Wynonna.

We were silent for a few moments, even Mama. An owl flew by, so low I felt a whoosh of wind as it passed. Frogs formed a chorus from the alligator grass in a creek on the Bramble land. Finally, Wynonna cleared her throat.

“Well, I guess we should head over to the house; get somebody to come on out here, like Mace said.’’ She ran a graceful hand through her hair. “I want everything to be on the up and up. I know people will imagine the worst about me. I’m not going to give them any cause to talk.’’

She looked at Lawton’s tasting mug. “I’ll leave his chili cup just where it is, too. At least ’til we get everything straightened out.’’

“Don’t worry, Wynonna. You’ll carry Lawton right here.’’ Mama put her palm to her own chest, patting at her heart. “That’s the way it is when someone you love dies.’’

Wynonna nodded, brushing at the fresh tears that spilled onto her cheeks.

I reached for her arm to steer her away. “C’mon. Let’s get you home,’’ I said.

I was surprised when she grabbed at my outstretched hand and hung on.

“Thanks, Mace. I mean it. I’m sorry I blew up at you before. I know you only have Lawton’s best interests at heart.’’

“Well, honey, of course we do,’’ Mama butted in. “Lawton’s a very dear old friend.’’

I prayed Mama wouldn’t get into just how dear their friendship had been. I sent her a warning look. Wynonna didn’t seem to notice.

“Will y’all stay with me when I break the news to Lawton’s kids?’’ she asked. “I don’t want to do that alone.’’

“Whatever you need, honey. We’ll be right beside you.’’ Mama patted Wynonna’s free hand.

With her other hand, Wynonna clutched at me like a drowning woman. She held on so tight, my fingers were going white.

We picked our way through oak trees and scrub between Lawton’s outdoor fire pit and the Bramble home. Wild hogs had torn through, digging up roots in the dirt. The ground was rough and uneven. We all cast our eyes downward, so as not to stumble in the dim light.

“Watch out, Mama. There’s a big rotten log just ahead.’’

Wynonna, at least thirty years younger than Mama and twice as strong, dropped my hand. She stepped behind me, nearly lifting Mama off her feet to help her over the log.

We started out again, single file, as the path narrowed through the hammock’s thick trees. Just then, a faint noise floated toward us on the night air. Low, droning, it was unlike the evening song of any bird I’d ever heard. I strained to catch it more clearly. Animal? Human? I couldn’t be sure. I turned and motioned for Mama and Wynonna to hold up.

“Hear that?’’ I whispered.

Mama cocked her head to listen. “Whistle While You Work,’’ she finally said. “Sorriest rendition I’ve ever heard.’’

She was right. The melody was there, but just barely. What should have been a happy, peppy tune sounded more like a dirge. Combine the thought of Lawton’s body growing cold in the clearing with that odd, cheerless song, and it was enough to raise a prickle along the back of my neck.

For a moment, the whistle seemed familiar. And then, suddenly, a sound exploded in the woods just ahead. I stopped pondering the unhappy tune. I stopped thinking about anything at all. Something crashed through the brush. It was big. It was loud. And it was coming straight for us.