“No problem-o. You set me straight on the grammatical difference between prison and jail, remember?’’

He had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Pretty obnoxious, wasn’t I?’’

“You said it, not me.’’ I softened the criticism with a smile. Mama would be proud. “Anyway, the bathroom.’’

I gestured to the open door. The toilet, with its pink tulip seat cover, was perfectly visible through the frame. Even a bad detective could have discerned it. And from what I’d read in the Miami Herald, Carlos Martinez was a good detective.

I returned to the kitchen to find Mama feeding Teensy a doggie treat right at the table.

“Gross.’’

“Just ignore Mace, baby. You are not gross. You’re Mama’s little darlin’ dog, aren’t you?’’

I stood near the trash can, in case I needed to vomit.

Just about then, Teensy’s ears perked up and he leapt off Mama’s lap. The little nails on his paws scrabbled on peach-colored tile as he ran from the kitchen to the living room, barking all the way.

Before we had the chance to follow, we heard the front door jiggling. And then a loud knocking.

“What in the blue blazes? Open up!’’ More door-shaking, and a voice full of impatience. “Mama! Since when do you lock this front door?’’

Maddie’s irritation seeped right through the sheer curtain at the window.

By the time Mama and I made our way to the living room, Martinez had already opened the front door. “She locks it since I told her it was the safe thing to do.’’

Maddie’s mouth gaped open so wide, you could have docked an ocean liner inside. But all those years of dealing with whatever junior high-school kids can dream up had served her well. She recovered quickly.

“Detective Martinez.’’ With that inflection and the look in her eye, she might just as well have said “Detective Dog Poop.’’

“Happy to see you, too, ma’am.’’ Martinez matched Maddie’s insulting tone, syllable for syllable.

“Judging from the absence of handcuffs, may I assume you’re not here to arrest our mother again?’’ she asked.

Mama chimed in, “Now, before you say something you’ll regret, Maddie, we called the detective to come over. We’ve had a little spot of trouble.’’

“I know. I talked to Marty. She was in bed in migraine pain, with the lights out. I could barely hear her voice when I called. We only spoke a minute, but she told me about the dog.’’

“It could be simple vandalism,’’ Martinez said. “But we’re not taking any chances.’’

“Marty didn’t mention he was here.’’ Maddie pointed a long finger at the detective. She looked like the Wizard of Oz’s Wicked Witch, directing the evil monkeys at Dorothy and her pals.

But unlike the movie’s scarecrow, Martinez had a brain.

“I don’t want us to be enemies, ma’am.’’ His voice was warm and polite. “I hope your mother isn’t in any danger. But if she is, I really need your help.’’

Maddie was wearing flip-flops and her post-barbecue fat pants, but she still straightened to her school-principal posture. My sister loves nothing more than being needed.

“Well, of course, Detective. All of us want to do anything we can to help find out who really killed Jim Albert. For some reason, the murderer has involved Mama in this nasty business. Who knows what kind of message he’s sending with that stuffed dog?’’

“I’d like you to take a look at it.’’ Martinez was so respectful, he might have been seeking help from Scotland Yard. “Maybe something will strike you that didn’t strike the rest of us, ma’am.’’

“Lead the way, Detective. And please, call me Maddie.’’

“I’ll do that.’’ As Martinez turned to escort her to the stuffed dog, he threw me a wink. “And Maddie? Call me Carlos, por favor. Please.’’

___

Martinez left Mama’s a half-hour or so later. By that time, the compliments were flowing between my sister and him like floodwaters into Lake Okeechobee during the rainy season. I thought he was going to pin her with a special deputy’s badge at any minute. I actually saw Maddie bat her eyelashes. My sister being swayed like a schoolgirl was a sight to behold. Martinez must have studied with those Eastern mystics who are able to charm cobra snakes.

Maddie and I only stayed a little while after he left. We all were tired. And I had a long drive ahead to get home.

The streets of downtown Himmarshee were just about deserted. The yellow light blinked at Main and First. The sign at Gladys’ Restaurant was dark. A few cars were still parked at the Speckled Perch restaurant, where the bar’s open past midnight. Behind the wheel of Pam’s VW, I replayed in my mind some of the odd events of the evening: Delilah’s cutting remarks before church; my fight with Jeb; the mutilated toy dog.

As I sped past the courthouse on my way to State Road 98, I caught a glimpse of a familiar car from the corner of my eye. I slowed and peered toward the far end of the government lot, where the light is dim. Sal Provenza’s big Cadillac was parked next to a light-colored sedan. The two vehicles sat driver’s-side-to-driver’s-side, like squad cars sometimes do.

As I passed, Sal torched a fat cigar. I could clearly see his profile in the flickering glow. But who was in that other car, parked in a deserted spot for a clandestine meeting near midnight?

When Sal’s lighter flared a second time, I nearly ran Pam’s car into the war memorial on the courthouse square.

Carlos Martinez leaned from his driver’s window with an equally large cigar between his lips. Sal, smiling, fired him up. The detective puffed, and settled back in his seat with a contented look. As he exhaled, a smoke cloud swirled around the two men.

Sal relit his own stogie. Martinez said something. They both laughed. From my vantage point, now getting more distant in the rearview mirror of the VW, it looked like the investigator in Jim Albert’s murder and the man we all thought might be the killer were the oldest and best of friends.

I slammed on my brakes and did a U-turn.

The putt-putt-putt of the ancient VW made a stealth approach unlikely. By the time I navigated off the road, into the police department lot, and all the way to their corner in the back, Sal had started his car and gunned it. Pedal to the metal, he screeched out the exit like Dale Earnhardt Jr. in the last lap at Daytona.

As I sputtered up, Martinez got out of his car and leaned against the driver’s door. He looked completely relaxed; casual. Just an average, hard-working cop, enjoying a cigar at the end of a long day. Of course, his smoking pal happened to be the very same man Martinez had said was criminally linked to the dead mobster. And that wasn’t the least of it. He’d all but told me Sal was a suspect in that mobster’s murder.