“Yeah, he’s more like a buzzard,” Mama said.

Now she was name-calling. I just wished I’d turned around on that highway and checked on Sal and Sunglasses, like Mama asked me to. We’d have the real story, and her imagination wouldn’t have had a chance to spin out of control.

We all fell silent, each with our thoughts. Then, Maddie got up to rummage around in the refrigerator. She returned with three-fourths of a butterscotch pie in one hand and two take-out containers from the Pork Pit in the other. I rose to get out some plates and silverware, while Marty slipped the take-out into the microwave.

“I couldn’t eat a thing,” Mama said. “I’m too upset.”

Maddie cut her a small slice of the pie anyway. Mama pushed the plate way off to the side of her placemat, even though butterscotch was her favorite.

Once my sisters and I had filled our plates, Maddie announced: “Well, I like Sal. I’m not going to believe the worst about him until I hear what he has to say.”

Last summer, Maddie’s attitude toward Sal had been the last to change. But once he won her over, she was in his corner for life. Even if he was a New Yorker.

Marty defended him, too. “Can’t you give Sal the benefit of the doubt, Mama? Remember there were a lot of things he wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell us last summer. But everything turned out all right in the end, didn’t it?”

Mama didn’t answer. Marty’s question hung in the air, which was rich with the tangy smell of barbecue sauce, the aroma of macaroni and cheese, and the sweet scent of that pie, topped with a mountain of whipped cream.

Mama’s fork darted over her placemat for a tiny bite of her pie.

Encouraged, I said, “Your wedding shower’s tomorrow night at Betty’s, isn’t it, Mama? Be a shame to let all Betty’s preparations and those nice gifts go to waste.”

She regarded her left hand under the kitchen light. “I suppose I’d have to give Sal back his ring, too.”

Maddie added, “Not to mention, the deposits you’ll lose, canceling at this point.”

I heard Marty’s sigh of relief when Mama slipped the plate to the center of her placemat and really started in on the pie. She had it about half-gone when Teensy gave a yelp and skittered out from under the kitchen table toward the front door.

“Is that barbecue I smell?” a man’s deep voice boomed over Teensy’s barking. “Y’all better have saved me a plate.”

Our cousin Henry made his way into the kitchen, Mama’s Pomeranian yapping at his heels. Teensy did a few revolutions around Henry’s ankles, the pitch of his barking climbing higher each time he went airborne.

“Aunt Rosalee, I love you to death, but if you don’t silence that little varmint, I’m going to marinate him in sauce and stick him on a barbecue spit.”

Mama gasped, snatching Teensy off the floor and clutching him to her chest.

“You wouldn’t!” she said.

“Oh, I would,” Henry answered, but his grin belied the threat.

As Henry took a seat, I put a quarter-rack of ribs on a plate, and then doused the meat in warmed barbecue sauce. When I handed it to him, he licked his lips. “You got any cornbread? And how ’bout some baked beans?”

Maddie harrumphed. “You’d think an uninvited guest would be grateful for what he’s served.”

“Hush, Maddie.” Mama slapped her on the wrist. “You know Henry’s never a guest in this home. Henry’s family.”

As Mama got up to fetch his favorite sweet tea from the refrigerator, Henry leaned around her back and stuck out his tongue at Maddie. She balled up a paper towel and tossed it at him. It bounced off Henry’s forehead and hit Teensy, asleep on the floor.

“I saw that!” Mama’s tone was serious, but I noticed the trace of a smile on her lips.

Say what you will about Henry, and we three sisters have said plenty. We always could count on him, though, to make Mama smile. And that was just what we needed tonight.

Henry tore through his food, as focused as if he were presenting a case to keep a client off Death Row. Mama helped herself to another little sliver of butterscotch pie. Marty made coffee, and Maddie and I cleared the table.

When Henry stopped for a breath before his dessert course, he slapped himself on the forehead. “I almost forget to tell you my news!”

“Yes, even you might have trouble talking while you’re choking down half a pig.” Maddie handed him a length of paper towel.

“I noticed you weren’t exactly dainty either, Maddie, shoveling in that pie.” Henry mopped the lower half of his face.

“Your news?” I prodded.

He took his time wiping barbecue sauce off each finger, extending the dramatic moment like the grandstanding attorney he is: “Word is down at the courthouse that C’ndee Ciancio is being sought for questioning in the investigation into Ronnie’s murder.”

Marty’s hand flew to her throat, just like Mama’s. And it must have been a comfort to Henry to see my older sister’s mouth drop open in surprise. “You’re not serious?”

“Maddie, I’m as serious as the bride’s daddy at a shotgun wedding,” Henry answered. He looked at me, waiting for my reaction.

All the little questions I’d been juggling about C’ndee ran through my mind. Her links to Tony’s family, with their shady restaurant dealings up North. The fact she ran around with Darryl Dietz, and then, apparently, with Ronnie, too. Her odd behavior the day I discovered Ronnie’s body; and how she’d made herself mighty scarce ever since.

I knew it would disappoint Henry, but I wasn’t surprised.

“C’ndee’s the perfect suspect,” I said.

“Well, this is just horrible, Henry.” A frown wrinkled Mama’s brow. “If C’ndee gets tossed into the slammer, what am I supposed to do about food? We can’t order supper in a sack from the Burger King for a hundred-and-fifty wedding guests.”

“Good Lord, no!” Henry said.

“By the way, Henry, that’s the same wedding Mama was all set to cancel a half-hour before you got here,” I said.

He raised his brows. “You were calling off the wedding?”

Mama waved her hand dismissively. “Not really.”

Maddie snorted. Marty’s eyes went wide. I shrugged at my sisters.

“Well, I was upset. But I’ve given it a little thought.” She held out her hand, examining her engagement rock. “I’m not getting any younger, girls. This may be my last chance for happiness.”

We waited.

“Now,” Mama continued, “all we have to do is make sure my fiancé’s not a cheater and my caterer’s not a killer.”

A coffee vending machine in the breezeway gulped my quarters. Choosing the buttons for cream and sugar, I waited impatiently for my order to be processed.

I’d just returned from a quick circuit of the park and a morning check on the animals. I was desperate for caffeine, and our office coffeemaker was still on the fritz.

Maybe I’d go small appliance shopping on Saturday now that the wedding was off. No, wait. It was on again. I wondered how many times that would change in the two days remaining before Mama’s Special Day.

Whir. Clunk. No cup; no coffee; no coins returned.

Despite a bad feeling about my odds, I fed more money into the slot. Beep. Whir. Splash. The machine spit out a soupy brown liquid, minus the cup. There went my second seventy-five cents, dribbling down a silver drain that seemed to grin at me.

Before I returned to the office, I aimed my work boot and added a kick to the smack I’d just given the coffee machine. It resisted my persuasive efforts.