Charlene, the waitress, ran an obstacle course between chairs and tables. Plates were stacked in a line along her left arm like planes waiting to take off in Atlanta. There was a blizzard of white order slips in the kitchen window, waiting for the cook.

Just about every seat was taken. The courthouse crowd was there, the men in neckties; the women in pantsuits or dresses. Three ranchers in blue jeans tipped back in their chairs, toothpicks in their mouths and pie plates scraped clean on their table. A couple of retirees from the RV park sipped coffee at the counter, their faces sunburned under bass-fishing hats with bands of breathable mesh.

I dropped my hair back onto my neck and started toward Henry’s table. Marty leaned forward, smiling as she listened to whatever our cousin was saying. Maddie’s arms were crossed against her chest, her face scrunched into a disapproving glare. She looked up as I approached.

“You’re just in time, Mace. Henry is entertaining us—and all three adjoining tables, I’m sure—with a story about his neighbor’s pot-bellied pig. Apparently, the poor creature suffers from severe flatulence.’’

“Pfffbt.’’ Henry forced air through his lips. “Pfffbt, pfffbbbttt.’’

“Complete with sound effects.’’ Maddie shook her head in disgust. “Henry, I’ve got middle -school students with better manners and more maturity than you.’’

He poked her gently in the arm with his fork. “Chill out, Maddie. If you wind yourself up any tighter, only dogs will be able to hear you fart.’’

Marty burst out laughing.

“Mace, please sit down and try to get your cousin under control. Marty only eggs him on.’’

While Maddie looked at me, Henry palmed a salt shaker from the table.

“Byuck, buck, buck, buck.’’ Clucking, he lifted his butt off the seat, reached down, and brought up the white shaker in the center of his hand. He offered it to Marty. “I believe this egg is yours, Madam Egger-on.’’

The harder Marty giggled; the madder Maddie got.

“All right, you two. We all know Maddie is fun to tease.’’ I took a seat. “But get serious, now. I’ve got some news you’re not going to believe.’’

I told them about the note Delilah found tucked into a hymn book.

“Maybe Emma Jean was cheating with that choir director,’’ Henry said. “He always looks you in the eye a little too hard. I don’t trust him. It’s like he’s trying to sell you on the notion he’s a better person than you.’’

“That’s not a hard sell in your case,’’ Maddie sniffed. Henry stuck out his tongue in reply. “Besides, I don’t think someone who only shows at church for weddings or funerals is qualified to judge others, Henry.’’

Maddie became a Methodist when she married Kenny. We all agreed it was a better fit for her, as the worship at Mama’s church can get pretty emotional and uninhibited. Those characteristics aren’t in my older sister’s repertoire.

Marty spoke before Henry and Maddie had the chance to start another round. “What about Al Small, from the insurance agency? Doesn’t he go to Mama’s church?’’

Marty dated a vegetarian in college, and both of them embraced Buddhism. The boy’s long gone, but the diet and religion stuck. At first Mama believed Marty would burn in hell for worshipping a false idol. But even she eventually came around. The Buddhist philosophy of never hurting a living thing is a good match for my gentle sister.

“Al and Anna Small do belong to Abundant Hope,’’ I told Marty. “Why do you ask?’’

“Anna’s in the book group I run at the library. She’s been bad-mouthing her husband in between discussion questions. She says she wants a divorce. Al’s been cheating.’’

I couldn’t imagine anyone writing “dearest darling man’’ to portly, balding Alvin Small.

“What about Pastor Bob?’’ I shifted in the chair. “Y’all heard he hit on me. Then, he just about devoured poor D’Vora, even with Delilah sitting right there in the beauty shop chair.’’

Henry shoveled some green beans onto his fork. He stopped it midway to his mouth. “Naw. It doesn’t fit, Mace.’’ He gave his head a firm shake, as confident as a defense attorney who just caught the prosecutor’s key witness in a lie. “First of all, if the pastor went after you and D’Vora, then Emma Jean’s too old for him. He likes ’em younger. Second, she’s not hot enough.’’

Maddie looked like she accidentally ate the lemon slice out of her iced tea. “Eww, Henry. I hope you’re not implying you think Mace is ‘hot.’ First-cousin hanky panky is almost incest.’’

Henry swallowed the fork load of beans. “Calm down, Maddie. I’m not saying I want to jump Mace’s bones. Though any red-blooded male who isn’t her cousin might.’’ He swiped a biscuit through a pool of gravy on his plate. “I’m just speaking objectively, as a man. Mace is a fine-looking woman with a beautiful build.’’

“Ewwww,’’ Marty and Maddie said in chorus, as I blushed.

Henry polished off the biscuit, then eyed the final meat loaf morsel. My sisters had waited on me to order lunch. But Henry claims his blood sugar gets screwy if he doesn’t stick to a strict meal schedule. Charlene was so busy she could barely breathe, let alone get back to take our order. So, as we waited with empty stomachs, we were treated to the spectacle of Henry plowing through lunch.

He speared the meat loaf sliver and pointed his fork at us. “And how do you know the note is from Emma Jean, anyway?’’

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Find another woman with the initials E.J. at that church … hell, in the whole town, or just about anywhere, really. That’d be enough for a good attorney to establish reasonable doubt. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that note could have been in that hymnal for years. Maybe a church-going woman named Elaine Johnson worked at the music-book company and slipped it in there for safekeeping. Maybe one of the teenagers at Abundant Hope did it as a prank. Anyone with a computer could have produced that note, ladies and gentlemen.’’’

Henry looked at us, pleased with his performance.

“You’ve got a point, Henry.’’ Maddie handed him a napkin. “But you might want to check your chin first for a glop of gravy if you ever do that bit for a real jury.’’

___

Charlene finally delivered the orders we gave her: A cheeseburger and extra-crispy fries for me. Chicken-fried steak for Maddie. A vegetable plate with biscuits for Marty. Henry couldn’t decide between the cherry and coconut cream pie, so he got a slice of both. I pitied the unfortunate client whose Friday afternoon appointment coincided with Henry’s crash from his sugar high.

He waited until I had a mouthful of burger to say, “Maddie told us you have some suspicions about Jeb Ennis, is that right, Mace?’’