The three of us were sitting in the air-conditioned interior of Marty’s Saturn in the parking lot at the livestock auction, planning our investigative strategy. Of course, the topic of Mama’s betrothal had been well-covered first:

How Sal had cooked her veal piccata (“I almost swallowed the ring, girls. He hid it in a lemon slice!”). How he’d gotten on one knee (“I had to help him up!”). And how he hoped to make her forget Husbands Two, Three, and Four (“He knows I could never forget your daddy!’’).

Now, my pleas to Marty were falling on uncharacteristically deaf ears.

“Mace, Mama’s a grown woman. Your suspicions aside, Sal has been nothing but loving to her. I’m sorry to say it, but you need to butt out.’’

Mama shot me a triumphant look. “Close your mouth, honey. No telling what might land in there with all this livestock around.’’

She was unswayable with Marty on her side. But I knew my argument would win once I got Maddie involved.

Navigating the rickety wooden stairway to the Himmarshee Livestock Market can be tricky, but Mama was managing—despite the purple footwear. Marty climbed ahead of her; I stayed close behind. That way, one of us could catch her if her heel hooked on a splintery plank.

The market, the largest in Florida, dated to the 1930s. And it looked it: a ramshackle wooden building, white with barn-red trim, perched on top of a sprawling maze of livestock pens. As we made our way up, calves bawled from below. The ammonia stink of urine filled the air. Whistles and shouts came from the “alley rats,’’ the workers who move cattle down the long, dark rows that branch off into holding pens.

Upstairs, cattle buyers were just beginning to make their way to seats that surround the sunken sales pit below. We opened the door to Miss Ruth’s Restaurant, a little nook in the corner above the ring. A sign overhead said, Cows May Come and Go, But the BULL in This Place Goes On Forever.

Ruth Harris favored patriotic colors. Flags decorated the napkin holders. The curtains were stars-and-stripes. A cowgirl hat in cherry red topped Ruth’s towering white beehive. She wore a red-and-white checked shirt, tucked snugly into a blue denim skirt. A white belt with a buckle the size of Texas cinched her still-trim waist. The only thing missing was a six-shooter on a holster around her hips.

“That’s the cutest outfit you’ve got on, Ruth.’’ Mama hugged the café’s well-preserved namesake like a long-lost cousin. “You’ve sure got a theme going here.’’

We did greetings all around.

“You look awful pretty too, Rosalee. That shade is sure becoming to your coloring. It must be nice to dress up again after being in prison.’’

“Oh, honey, that was nothing but a misunderstanding.’’ Mama waved her ring hand airily.

Ruth hadn’t noticed the diamond. I figured her cataracts must be bad, as big as that stone was. Mama picked up a cow-shaped creamer from the table, turning it this way and that. She pretended to be admiring it, but really she was just trying to catch the light with her ring.

Grabbing the dappled cow from Mama, I glared at her to quit showing off. “Miss Ruth, we dropped by because we’ve been looking into who really might have killed Jim Albert,” I said.

“Of course,’’ Marty chimed in, “we knew all along Mama wasn’t the guilty party.’’

Ruth nodded, still looking sideways at Mama. She didn’t seem convinced. Or maybe she was thinking that a woman who’d murdered a man and stuffed his body in her trunk wouldn’t think twice about stealing the cow creamer she’d picked up and was playing with again.

“Did the man who got killed ever come in here?’’

“No, he sure didn’t, Mace. Although …’’

“What?’’ Marty and I both said at once.

“Well, I get my hair done at Hair Today. Rosalee, you know that.’’

Mama nodded, her chin cupped in her left hand with her ring finger splayed across her cheek.

“That sweet girl D’Vora and me were talking about how Jim Albert loaned people money. Some of the ranchers up here have been having a hard go of it. I’ve heard certain people were in the habit of visiting him before he got killed.’’

“Who, Miss Ruth? We need names,’’ I said.

She pursed her lips. The café’s owner for thirty years, her customers were her family.

“Please,’’ Marty said. “It’s important.’’

Still no answer.

“You know Jeb Ennis?’’ I asked.

She shook her head unconvincingly and moved across the restaurant to wipe down an already-spotless table. “I need to get back to work,’’ she said over her shoulder.

Every seat in the place was empty.

“If y’all can find Old Jake, you might ask him.’’ Head lowered, she continued swabbing the table. “He’s been here longer than I have. He used to work downstairs in the pens. Now, he mostly hangs around. He knows everything about everybody. And he don’t have a problem telling what he knows.’’

Mama touched Ruth’s wrist, her fingers stretched all the way up her arm. “Thanks so much, doll.’’

“You’re welcome.’’ Ruth tried to pull away. Mama held tight. Ruth finally looked down. “My, oh my.’’ Her eyes widened. “Would you look at that ring!’’

“Oh, this?’’ Mama lifted the ring to the light. “Well, honey, my boyfriend just proposed. I’m gettin’ married.’’

“Again?’’ Ruth said.

I grabbed Mama’s elbow and steered her out the door.

“Congratulations,’’ Ruth called after us as we started down the stairs.

We found Old Jake under the building, sitting on an upside-down milk crate in the shade of the pens. He looked up as we approached, his grin spreading across his white stubble beard. A few teeth were missing. Those remaining were stained brown from a chaw of tobacco, and thousands more before it, bulging in his jaw.

“Well, lookit you, Ma’am,’’ He took off his hat and beamed. “You’re as purty in that purple as a speckled pup in a red wagon.’’

Mama fluttered her lashes. “It’s boysenberry. And thank you kindly, suh.’’

Had we wandered onto the set of an old cowboy movie?

“You must be Jake,’’ Marty said.

“Old Jake, that’s what they call me.’’ He ran a hand over his head. It was mostly bald, with brown age spots and a fringe of gray. “I’m so old now, some days I’m not sure I even remember my name.’’

“Why, you don’t look a day over …’’ Mama hesitated, trying to find a number that would flatter without sounding ridiculous. “Seventy,’’ she finished.