Excerpt: ‘Mama Does Time’ ... for murder

“Well, look who’s here.’’ She grabbed the receptionist’s elbow and turned her in my direction. “Emma Jean, you remember my middle girl, Mace. You know, the one who works at the nature park and traps critters on the side?’’

Mama was grinning at me like I was Santa Claus bringing that baby doll she’d always wanted. “Honey, c’mon over and say hello to my bingo buddy, Emma Jean Valentine.’’

I raised an eyebrow at my mother, who appeared to be in full hostess mode.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Valentine.’’ I extended my hand across the desk, over a decorative family of Troll dolls, to a plus-sized woman in her mid-fifties.

Emma Jean, whose short skirt was in reverse proportion to her big hair, gave me a girlish grin. It was a marked contrast to her bone-crushing handshake. I offered her the pleasantries that small town manners demand. Then I put my hands on my mother’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes.

“What in the hell’s going on, Mama? When you called, you sounded like you were strapped into Ol’ Sparky, and the warden was ready to throw the switch. Where’s your car? Where’s the body? Are you being arrested?’’

My mother licked a finger and reached over to smooth my bangs. I jerked away, like I’ve been doing since I was six.

“I’m sorry, Mace. I was awful upset, what with that poor dead man and all, God rest his soul. But Emma Jean says this brand-new detective is gonna get everything straightened out. Now, calm down, honey.’’

That was rich. Her telling me to calm down.

She swiveled on the desk back to Emma Jean. “Mace isn’t usually so excitable. My youngest, Marty, is the one who falls to pieces over the littlest things. Mace is usually my rock.’’

Emma Jean had been watching us. For all I knew, she’d concealed a tiny tape recorder somewhere on her person. That might be hard to miss, though, since her pink denim outfit looked spray-painted on. A kitty-cat pin glittered on the jacket she’d tossed over her bustier. Could one of those rhinestone eyes hold a miniature microphone to capture Mama’s confession?

I was staring at the sparkly cat, plotting how to get my mother alone, when Mama spun to Emma Jean. “Would you be a doll and fetch me a dash more of that heavenly coffee?’’ She flashed a smile so luminous it could melt snow. “Extra cream, lots of sugar.’’

Turning, my mother winked at me. She might be flighty and infuriating, but occasionally a sharp mind makes itself known from beneath that badly dyed ’do.

Emma Jean heaved herself from her leather chair. Looming over Mama, she waggled an index finger six inches from her face. The nail was bright red, with a tiny white heart. “You’re not going to run out on us, are you, Rosalee? The detective will be with you shortly. And, don’t forget, we know where you live.’’

Her tone was playful. But it seemed there might be some menace in the message.

Video   Author on ‘Mama Does Time’ Nov. 4: TODAY’s Al Roker talks to author Deborah Sharp about her debut novel “Mama Does Time.” Today show

Emma Jean punched in a code and passed through a plain white door, her high heels click-clicking down the hall.

My mother sipped from the coffee dregs in her cup, then made a face. “Ice cold. And it never was nothing but lukewarm. Now I know why all my TV shows make a big deal out of bad coffee at the police station.’’

I looked around for eavesdroppers. Himmarshee isn’t exactly a criminal hotbed. We were alone in the reception area. “Should I find you a lawyer, Mama?’’

Her eyes widened. “You can’t be serious, Mace. You don’t really think I’ve murdered a man, do you? You, my own flesh and blood?’’ She shook her head. A few stray hairs floated to the surface of Emma Jean’s desk. “Your daddy’s rollin’ in his grave, girl.’’

Mama always says that Daddy, who died young of a heart attack, was her one true love. Even so, she’s seen no harm in hoping Cupid will aim true again. She’s been married four times.

“Mama, tell me — quickly. What happened?’’

“Well, first I got dressed to go to bingo. What do you think of this orange, Mace?’’ She ran a hand down the pantsuit’s fabric. “Is it too much with the shoes? I was afraid with my white hair, I’d look like a Creamsicle. I did rethink an orange-and-white scarf I’d planned to wear. ’’

“The man you’re accused of killing, Mama? Remember him?’’

“Mercy, Mace. You’re wound tighter than an eight-day clock. Of course I remember. I’m the one who found the man, dead in my trunk. I was just trying to tell you how I came to be at the Dairy Queen. I’d already started out of the parking lot, when I decided at the last minute to go back and buy me a second cone.”

A photo on Emma Jean’s desk caught my mother’s eye. She traced the image with a finger, a far-away look on her face. It showed a young Emma Jean pushing a child on a swing.

“Mama?’’

“Hmmm?’’ She looked up, her eyes unfocused. “Sorry, Mace. So, that was when I felt a tap on my bumper. The cutest young girl in a red sports car had tail-ended me. Do you think I’m too old for a little sports car like that, honey?’’

“Mama,’’ I warned.

“Anyway, the girl noticed my trunk wasn’t shut right. I tried to slam it, but it wouldn’t catch. You should have seen her face when I lifted up that heavy lid to see what was making it stick.’’

I was afraid to ask.

“It was a man’s hand, catching that little metal doohickey that makes the trunk close. His sleeve was bloody. The back of his fingers were hairy. When I close my eyes, I can still see that diamond pinky ring.’’

“How’d you know he was dead?’’

She looked at me like I was slow. “I grew up on a farm, Mace. Don’t you think I’ve seen enough animals, dead and alive, to know when any one of God’s creatures has taken its last breath? Besides, his wrist was right there. I put my fingers on it real careful, and felt for a pulse. He didn’t have one. And his skin was colder than a car seat in January.’’

Mama stared out the window into the night. “There was a blanket tossed over his face.’’ Her voice sounded soft, distant. “I wasn’t about to go messing around. I watch Law and Order. You never contaminate a crime scene. And that’s what my car was, Mace, a murder scene.’’

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