Mama Rides Shotgun (3 page)

“Dammit!’’

A heavy-set man muttered curses as he hopped on one foot. He flailed at a vine encircling his ankle. He beat at a low-growing sabal palm that threatened to knock an already battered straw hat off his head.

“I hate the woods!’’ He swore again under his breath.

He seemed unaware of our presence, probably because of the racket he was raising in the brush. Either that, or Dr. Frank Abel had lost what was left of his hearing at the same time he’d gained about three pant sizes around the waist. He was already old, and on the heavy side, when I last saw him, some ten years before. Doc Abel treated a wrist I’d sprained when a horse threw me in a riding accident a couple of hours north of Himmarshee, near Holopaw, Florida. I’d have guessed he would have retired by now.

Wynonna rushed toward him, surprisingly nimble for a woman in high-heel boots in thick undergrowth. “I’m so glad you’re here, Doc. Something awful has happened.’’ Reaching him, she offered an arm for him to hang onto. “Lawton’s had a heart attack. He’s at his cook site.’’

“Oh God, no! I need to see to him, Wynonna. Help me out of this mess.’’ He struggled some more as Wynonna leaned to untangle him from the grip of the vines.

“He’s dead, Doc. I told them how you and his other doctors tried to make him control his cholesterol. Now, Lawton’s beyond your help,’’ she said.

Doc Abel’s hand went to his own chest. Given his advanced age and the purple tint to his face, I hoped we weren’t going to have another casualty along the Cracker Trail.

“Are you sure he’s dead?’’ he asked. “I need to make sure.’’ Finally extricating himself from the clutch of the woods, Doc Abel was all business now.

I glanced at Wynonna. Her face was pale and drawn. The evening’s events were finally sinking in. She reached for my hand again.

“Mama, why don’t you take Doc over to see Lawton?’’

As she looked at Doc, I could almost see the gears spinning. Mama was actually weighing him as a match for me. But whether it was our age difference of at least forty-five years, or the fact that Lawton was lying in the woods unprotected from who-knows-what animal, she thought better of her timing.

“I’ll do it, Mace. But you know you’re better with details and I’m better with people. I should be with Wynonna once she gets to the house.’’

I shot Mama a look. Her eyes followed mine down to the vise grip Lawton’s widow had on my hand. For some reason, Wynonna had attached herself, even though I’m not generally the comforting type.

“Make sure you tell Doc
everything
we talked about,’’ I said.

Mama nodded. “Everything,’’ she repeated.

“The rest of the riders will be gathering for dinner soon,’’ I said. “We need to let Lawton’s kin know what happened before word starts to spread.’’

After they left, Wynonna and I waited a few moments to make sure they found their way. The sound of the physician stomping through the woods had just begun to fade, when we heard a loud snap of brush.

“Watch that log, Doc!’’ Mama yelled from the distance.

I pictured him toppling over, pulling down an acre of skunk vine. “I guess the doctor doesn’t do nature,’’ I said.

“Oh, my Lord, no.’’ Dropping my hand, Wynonna stepped in front to lead the way. “That man’s idea of physical activity is strolling the buffet line at the Kountry Kitchen. He’s never met a smothered pork chop or a chicken-fried steak he doesn’t like.’’

She pulled back a branch from a hickory sapling so I could pass.

“Sounds like the old saying: Do as I say, not as I do. Did Doc Abel really think Lawton would listen to him about diet and exercise, considering Doc’s own bad habits?’’ I asked.

“Oh, he wasn’t really Lawton’s main doctor anymore. Lawton started seeing a fancy cardiologist a few years back. Doc’s been slipping a bit, but he still gives out flu shots and the occasional prescription. He and Lawton go way back, and Lawton’s loyal. Doc took care of him ever since he was a little boy, you know?’’

I shook my head, and felt the web of a banana spider clinging to my eyelashes.

“Yep, Lawton and his folks were among Doc’s first patients when he was just starting out. And he kept going to him until he was a grown man, with grown kids of his own.’’ Wynonna looked over her shoulder in the direction we’d come. I wondered if she was thinking about how Doc Abel might be examining her husband’s body right now.

To distract her, I told Wynonna how Doc had iced and wrapped my wrist a decade before. As I spoke, I had a flash of him leaning over me in his exam room, reading glasses slid low on his nose. He asked me where it hurt, then gently lifted my hand this way and that. And as he did, I now remembered, he whistled that same tuneless song we’d heard in the woods tonight. That’s why his awful version of “Whistle While You Work” had sounded familiar.

___

Wynonna led the way up three cypress wood steps to the Bramble ranch house. A wide porch encircled the house. A line of wooden rocking chairs sat under outdoor ceiling fans. Two big front windows were open, bringing in cool air to a structure that sat in the center of flat pastureland. Since the last hurricane, only two oak trees remained for shade. For most of the year, the house baked under a scorching sun, making it intolerable without air-conditioning.

But this was February. The crisp weather was welcome. In Florida, steam baths aren’t a luxury to indulge at a spa. They’re a hardship to endure every time we walk out the front door from June straight through to October.

Wynonna’s hand was on the doorknob when we heard shouting from inside.

“And I told you I wouldn’t sch-tand for it,’’ a man yelled, his voice slurred. He waited, apparently listening, though we heard no one else speak. “Goddammit, I said no. Ab-showlutely not!’’

Something hit the wall on the other side of the door, and then clattered to the floor. Unsteady footsteps lurched inside. A few seconds later came a heavy thump, followed by the sound of shattering glass.

“Ouc-sh! That hurt!’’ The same man yelled.

Wynonna’s hand froze on the knob. “I don’t want to deal with this,’’ she whispered.

I cocked an eyebrow.

“It’s Lawton’s son, Trey. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news under the best circumstances. And now this. He’s drunk.’’

We both looked at the door. She straightened, seeming to gather her strength as she had at the cook site.

“Now or never.’’ She breathed deeply. I patted awkwardly at her shoulder, trying to do as I’d seen Mama do.

She opened the door. I followed her in, stepping carefully around the cell phone that lay in pieces near the door jamb.

Trey sat cross-legged on the floor of a large living room, next to an overturned lamp. There was a rip in the wagon-wheel shaped shade. Light bulb shards were scattered across the legs of his jeans. His head hung in his hands. Scratches crisscrossed his muscled forearms, exposed by the rolled up sleeves of a Western-cut shirt.

“Trey?’’ Wynonna’s voice was soft, tentative.

He looked up, lifting blood-shot eyes. A nasty gash left a reddish-brown streak across one cheek. His shirt, minus its top three buttons, gaped open to show a broad chest. Trey looked like he’d been on the losing side of a bar brawl.

His eyes were the same startling shade of blue as his father’s. I remembered how they’d sparkled with fun and mischief when we were in high school. I’d never seen the cruelty in Trey’s eyes that I saw the moment he focused on Wynonna.

“Well, if it ish-n’t the wicked stepmother,’’ he slurred. “Come to shake her moneymaker and bust my balls.’’

The haughty expression from the cook site returned to Wynonna’s face. She looked at Trey like he was something she’d dragged in from the paddock on the bottom of her pointy-toed boot. When she spoke, her voice was as chilly as the air rustling the curtains at the window.

“You’re pathetic, Trey.’’

I suspected the only thing keeping Wynonna from spitting on the floor as she said his name were company manners and a pricey-looking bearskin rug.

“Why don’t you stay right there on the floor, lowdown as you belong, while I make us some coffee? I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, stepson.’’

“Don’t tell me, Wynonna. Let me guess-sh. You’ve finally managed to figure out a way to get all my Daddy’s money.’’

“So then Lawton told
me I’d been the prettiest girl ever at Himmarshee High. I believe that’s the last thing I heard the poor man say.’’

As Mama’s voice floated from the front porch through the open window, I quickly looked at Trey. Not even a twitch. He’d moved from the floor to a couch, where he was sitting straight up, sound asleep. Or passed out, one.

I wasn’t at all surprised that Mama would choose to remember a compliment to her as Lawton Bramble’s final words on this earth.

“The man always did have charm, may he rest in peace,’’ she was saying to Doc Abel, as the door opened.

I put a finger to my lips and glared at her, pointing at Trey. Mama clapped a hand over her mouth, at least having the good grace to look embarrassed. Hurrying over, she perched like a small bird on the fat arm of the leather chair where I sat.

“Sorry, Mace,’’ she whispered in my ear. “My stars! That poor boy looks like something the dog’s dragged out from under the porch. He doesn’t know about his daddy yet?’’

“No thanks to you,’’ I whispered back.

Across the big room, Trey’s legs were stretched out to a low coffee table. His head slumped forward onto his chest.

“He’s been drinking,’’ I said. “I’m not even sure he noticed I was here. Wynonna’s gone to make some coffee. No sign of Belle.’’

Barely glancing at Trey, Doc plodded toward us. “That boy’s gonna have to straighten up now,’’ he said in a purposely loud voice. “It’s time for Mr. Lawton Bramble III to put aside all his foolishness and become a man.’’

That seemed harsh, considering Trey wasn’t even aware yet he’d lost his father. Then again, I didn’t know the family dynamics as well as Doc Abel did. I’d never met Trey’s sister. She was younger, and I’d heard she studied art and languages at boarding schools in Europe.

“I’m gonna head out to my car and get my medical bag,’’ he said, speaking more softly now. “I want to be ready in case I need to administer anything to the family members tonight.’’

“Hang on a sec, Doc. I’ll step out with you,’’ I said.

The night was dark enough now to see stars scattered across the sky. Orange blossoms from surrounding groves scented the air. Sounds from the Cracker Trail riders carried from the campsite, a quarter-mile or so away. Someone strummed a guitar, the melody faint. Someone else showed off with a cow whip, loud as a gunshot.

“Listen to that whip crack,’’ Doc Abel said. “That’s why they called the old-time Florida cow hunters ‘Crackers.’’’

I walked with him across a rutted dirt driveway to his ancient station wagon. Doc Abel had to be the only person in three counties with a Saab. It’s mainly trucks and SUVs in this part of Florida, where cows still outnumber people and all the wild land has yet to be paved. I drive a beat-up Jeep. Mama has a 1967 Bonneville convertible. Her car’s turquoise, which is about as exotic as it gets in our little hometown of Himmarshee. We’re in the middle of the state: three-and-a-half hours north of Miami’s sin and sunshine, south enough of Orlando to stay out of Mickey Mouse’s big shadow.

Doc opened his car door and leaned into the back seat.

“Mama showed you the body, right? What’d you think?’’ I asked him. “Was it a heart attack?’’

“That seems fairly certain, given Lawton’s poor health.’’ He straightened, holding his black bag.

“But he should still be checked out, right?’’

“I checked him out,’’ Doc said, “and the cause of death is clear. Everything I saw is consistent with cardiac arrest.’’

When I didn’t say anything, Doc added, “That means a heart attack.’’

“I know,’’ I said. “That’s how my daddy died.’’

Doc closed the backseat door and leaned against it. “I’m sorry. How old were you when you lost him?’’

“Ten. Maddie was almost fourteen. Marty was just eight.’’

“That’s tough for girls, growing up without a father.’’

“Well, we had a few stepfathers along the way.’’

“It’s not the same, though, is it?’’

I shook my head. As I did, I caught a glimpse of something circular and ceramic on the front passenger seat of Doc’s Saab. He saw me staring at it through the window.

“Your mother told me about the trouble y’all had last summer, and about how you want to make sure there’s nothing suspicious about Lawton’s death. She said you were worried someone might mess with that tasting mug. So I brought it with me, for safekeeping.’’

I started to protest. He held up a hand.

“I’ll hang onto the cup and the crusty stuff inside until the cause of death is absolutely certain. But I can tell you right now, with nearly sixty years of medical experience, the man died of a heart attack. It happens.”

He shrugged, like Lawton’s death was of minor consequence.

I know it happens, I felt like saying. I just got through telling you it happened to my own daddy. I was having trouble getting a read on Doc Abel. One moment, he seemed kindly; the next, almost mean.

Before I had the chance to figure out what I thought about him, Wynonna called out from the porch. “Doc?’’ Her voice trembled. “You better come on in here.’’

We hurried inside to find Mama gently shaking Trey by the shoulders. He was now stretched out on the couch.

“We tried to get him up and get some coffee into him so we could tell him what happened,’’ Wynonna said.

“He’s not responding,’’ Mama added, shaking hard enough now to loosen Trey’s fillings.

Squeezing past Mama, Doc slowly lowered his bulk beside the couch. The floor seemed to shudder when his knees made contact with the bearskin rug. His fingers moved expertly to the pulse point at Trey’s wrist. He leaned toward his mouth and sniffed.

“Stinkin’ drunk, is all he is. Like usual.” Wrinkling his nose, Doc dropped Trey’s wrist like it was something nasty. “Other than a liver well on its way to being pickled, the boy’s fine.’’

After the laborious process of rising from the rug, Doc collapsed into a heavy, cowhide-upholstered chair. As I listened to his ragged breathing, my eyes returned to Trey. Drool dribbled from his open mouth. His head lolled to one side. A brewery’s worth of beer-stench escaped from his pores.

An image formed in my mind of a very different Trey. We were in high school. He’d just led the Himmarshee Brahmans to a state football championship. He strutted the halls with a perky blonde cheerleader on each arm—a king in a cowboy hat.

What in the world had happened to Trey Bramble?

Outside, a dog began to bark. A moment later we heard clunks and squeaks as a vehicle jounced over the unpaved drive.

“That’ll be Belle, Lawton’s daughter.’’ Wynonna was pulling at the skin on her hands again. “I called her earlier, and caught her on her cell. She was already on her way here for dinner. I didn’t want to tell her about Lawton on the phone, you know?’’ She looked first at me, then at Mama, for reassurance.

“You did the right thing, honey.’’ Mama covered Wynonna’s nervous hands with her own. “That’s not the kind of news anybody should get while they’re driving.’’

The engine quit. A car door slammed. Keys jangled. Doc Abel huffed to his feet, holding his black bag ready. We all watched, waiting, as the front door opened.

“What’s everybody looking at?’’

The young woman who stepped into the room had coppery red hair, falling in wild curls past her shoulders. Her eyes were light green, the color of cypress needles in spring. The gaze she turned on us was curious, intelligent.

“Well?’’ she said.

Finally, Wynonna spoke. “Belle, why don’t you sit down? Doc Abel has something he needs to tell you.’’

___

The news about her father’s death left Belle’s body rigid, her face pale. She gripped the arms of a cane-back chair like she was afraid it was going to fly away on her. The veins atop her hands bulged out, blue-grey against fair, sun-freckled skin.

“I want to go to Daddy’s cook site right now,’’ she said.

“Honey, I don’t think you should . . .’’

“Right now.’’ Belle interrupted Mama. Her lower lip quivered, but her eyes were dry.

“All right, then. This is Rosalee, Belle.’’ Doc nodded toward Mama. “She and I will take you over to see your father.’’ He glanced at Wynonna. “Are you up to making the call to the funeral home?’’

Pressing her lips together, Wynonna nodded.

“I wrote the number for you on the pad in the kitchen, by the phone,’’ Doc said.

After Doc left with Mama and Belle, the big living room was quiet, except for Trey’s snores. Wynonna’s voice was a low murmur from the kitchen. Here, it was just me and Trey, sleeping off his drunk. I hated to admit it, but he was still a handsome guy—even with a line of drool on his chin. Was it a bar fight, or something else, that had left him scratched and bruised? Where were the buttons off his shirt, which hung open to reveal his smooth chest?

I sat and studied Trey, like he was an animal in the wild. On the side, I make a little extra money trapping nuisance critters for newcomers. These are people who move to Himmarshee imagining they’ll love the country, until the country comes to call. And then they’re desperate to evict it, from the attic or the swimming pool or whatever part of their home the country has crashed.

My business depends on understanding animals well enough to predict their behavior. I like to do the same with the human animal, but that’s usually a lot more complicated.

I understood how Trey grew up: Money. Privilege. God-given talent. But I couldn’t have predicted this behavior: Drunk. Passed out. Failing to achieve his potential. He seemed wounded. I always stop to help injured animals. I just hoped Trey wouldn’t bite.

“Mace?’’ Wynonna’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. She handed me a cup of coffee, and put one for herself on an end table mounted on a wagon wheel. “Thanks for sticking around.’’

“Don’t mention it,’’ I said. “Listen, would you mind if I used your phone? I’ll keep it short. I just want to let my sisters know Mama and I are okay, in case they hear something happened on the Cracker Trail.’’

Waving me toward the kitchen, she sank into a chair next to the couch. Wynonna looked like she could use that cup of coffee.

Fortunately, I reached Maddie’s answering machine. No half-hour back-and-forth about how if Mama and I were more careful, we wouldn’t be in the position of finding another dead body, and by the way, we should watch out for snakes if we’re foolhardy enough to sleep out in the wilderness in a tent. At the sound of the beep, I simply said:

“Maddie, it’s Mace. It looks like Lawton Bramble had a fatal heart attack just as the Cracker Trail riders were arriving on his land. Wanted to let you know Mama and I are fine. I’m not sure if the rest of the ride is off or on, but I’ll be in touch. Be sure and tell Marty everything’s okay. We haven’t seen a single snake.’’

That last part was a lie. But I didn’t want to worry our little sister, Marty.

I used the toilet and washed up, using a bathroom off the kitchen. By the time I was done, my coffee had gone cold on the counter. I nuked it in the microwave, looking for the sugar bowl while I waited. I added two teaspoons to my cup, and then rooted around in the ’fridge for some half-and-half. All I saw was skim milk. I’d sooner drink it black than ruin good coffee with that thin gruel.

Carrying my cup, I tiptoed back into the living room. If Wynonna had managed to catch some sleep, I didn’t want to disturb her. She leaned forward off the chair, angled toward Trey. Her long hair had fallen like a cloak over her face. I couldn’t tell if she was awake or sleeping.

As I got closer, I saw one of Wynonna’s arms stretched out toward the couch, resting on Trey’s chest. She’d slipped her hand beneath his ripped-open shirt. Her big diamond ring glinted as she moved her hand back and forth, back and forth, massaging the bare chest of her dead husband’s son.