“I wouldn’t mind giving him a warm something,” Linda-Ann whispered.

My sisters and I were probably the only ones to detect the pleading in Mama’s voice. Houston leaned down and hit the play button on his boom box. “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” issued forth.

“We’ll start out with something safe. Who wants a line dance lesson? Don’t worry, ladies. I don’t bite.”

“I’m in!” Linda-Ann leaped from her chair, hand raised high.

“Me, too!” That voice belonged to Dab. She’d piled her hair into a pouf on top, like a scarlet-colored feather duster. Her painted-on eyebrows were black question marks. Gold lamé hot pants shimmered as she strutted onto the dance floor, fairly drooling at the sight of Houston.

Poor guy. His bite wasn’t the one he should be worried about. True to his word, Houston kept things G-rated as the women got warmed up, drinking cheap pink wine and dancing the Electric Slide.

But before long, whoops and hollers and bumps and grinds came from the dance floor. As the levity—or maybe the lewdness—intensified, Alice quietly made for the door, leaving by herself. Meanwhile, C’ndee basked in the glow of bringing the perfect gift to the party. I sat on the sidelines, nursing a beer.

“Mace, do you have any singles?”

I nearly toppled off my chair. Maddie’s face was flushed; her hair in sweaty wisps.

“Well, we have to support Mama, don’t we?” she asked.

Oh, what an opportunity to rag on my normally prudish older sister. But in a show of solidarity, I rummaged through my purse, found six singles, and divided them evenly among Maddie, Marty, and me. As we elbowed our way through the crowd on the dance floor, we saw Houston sitting shirtless on a chair. Mama perched on his lap, wearing his cowboy hat at a rakish angle.

“You go, Rosalee!” someone yelled.

“A dollar for a kiss!” came another voice.

“A kiss?” Dab shouted. “Hell, I’ll give ten dollars, but I expect a lot more than a kiss!”

Mama slipped a bill into the waistband of Houston’s tight jeans. He’d just leaned in for a smooch when the hollering and whistling suddenly died. A shaft of daylight shone weakly onto the dance floor. The now silent crowd began moving and jostling, this way and that. Oblivious, Mama and Houston locked lips. When they finished, he gave her bottom a little pat.

“Rosalee!” The roar was like a taunted bear at the Bronx Zoo. “I saw that!”

Mama leaped off Houston’s lap so fast, the force sent him and his chair over backwards. He unconsciously brushed his jeans, like he was wiping dust after getting thrown in the rodeo ring.

Sal raised his fists. “You better get up, Cowboy, so I can knock you down again.” Mama’s face was redder than Dab’s duster ’do. She rushed to her groom’s side. But Sal kept stomping toward Houston, as if Mama wasn’t hanging from his arm like a suitcase. Houston got up. He hung his shirt from an elbow, hefted his boom box onto his shoulder, and then headed for the door.

“It’s been fun, ladies, but a fight’s not part of the show,” he said over his shoulder.

“Don’t turn your back when I’m talking to you.”

Sal’s voice was chilling. Mama let loose his arm and retreated into the safety of the crowd. Houston stopped, put the boom box on a table, and spun slowly toward Sal. His hands flexed into fists. I could almost see the testosterone coursing through his veins.

Linda-Ann breathed in my ear: “Your mama’s beau better watch out. Word is Houston is a bastard in a bar fight.”

I sized up the fighters. Weighing in at well over three hundred pounds and standing six foot four, Sal wore his customary golf duds. Today’s knickers were peach-and-aqua plaid, with a pom-pom beret in matching fabric. I had to wonder where he found peach knee socks to go with the golf shirt.

Houston squinted at Sal like a gunfighter in an old Western. Was it for effect, or had the haze of smoke from the kitchen fryers finally gotten to his eyes? He was a half-foot shorter and at least a hundred pounds lighter than Sal. But there were muscles on top of his muscles in his arms and broad shoulders. And, from all those years of hanging on to bucking broncos, he could squeeze Sal’s neck like a toothpaste tube if he ever got him in a leg hold.

I was still calculating odds when Sal pounced like a panther, fat but still fast. Before the cowboy knew what hit him, Sal had lifted him off the floor. Then he spun him around like a TV wrestler, and sent him flying into the food table. When Houston rolled off, weaving, hot sauce from the platter of wings coated his bare back like bright orange suntan oil. An onion ring hung from one ear.

He’d just lunged at Sal when the manager, fully awake now, stepped in between the two men with a raised baseball bat.

“You gentlemen are gonna have to take this outside or we call the cops. Ladies, if either of them makes a move toward the other, dial 911.”

Suddenly transformed from a hormone-addled audience to a crowd of upstanding citizens, a half-dozen women scrambled through purses and pockets for cell phones. Collecting his hat, the boom box, and some bills scattered on the floor and buffet, Houston made for the door. As light slanted in, and then disappeared with the closing door, Mama rushed to the victor’s side.

“Are you hurt, Sally? Is anything broken?”

“You mean besides my heart? I can’t believe you’d kiss another man like that, Rosie. We’re supposed to walk down the aisle tomorrow.”

Mama traced a pine knot on the dance floor with the toe of her boysenberry pump. To my surprise, Maddie stepped forward. “It was all in fun, Sal. We just got a little carried away. Mama only went along because C’ndee arranged for Houston to come perform. She didn’t want to hurt your cousin’s feelings.”

C’ndee piped up, “That’s right, Sal. I thought I’d ruined the party until Rosalee got everyone involved. It was innocent fun.”

He looked at me. I unrolled the two dollars I’d been clutching in my hand and showed him the crumpled bills. Maddie and Marty did the same. Hitching up his pants, he blew out a mouthful of air.

“Well, I didn’t see nobody else kissing the guy. And I didn’t see his paw on nobody else’s butt.”

“Mama’s the bride, Sal. She had to go first,” Marty said. “We do this at bachelorette parties all the time. It’s traditional.”

Maybe in New Jersey, I thought.

Marty was lying like a car salesman with a quota. But she sounded so sincere, and those blue eyes looked so innocent, that Sal bought it. When his shoulders rose in a What-are-ya-gonna-do? shrug, I heard Mama’s relieved sigh all the way across the dance floor.

Since the stripper was gone and the food table was trashed, the party started breaking up. Linda-Ann caught me by the door of the bathroom. “Can I ask you something, Mace?”

I glanced at my watch. One forty-five. I’d promised Rhonda I’d be back to work by two o’clock.

“Sure.” I stepped into the bar, where it was dark and quiet. Linda-Ann followed me.

“I was just wondering if you know what time Ronnie got killed on Monday?”

“Not exactly. In the morning, though, sometime before nine o’clock. We were supposed to meet him at the VFW. I went to look for him when he didn’t show up.”

Linda-Ann tugged at one of her dreadlocks. “I heard you found the body. That must have been weird.”

I nodded, not wanting to relive the experience. “Why’d you want to know about the time?”

Her eyes darted around the bar, like she was afraid someone might be lurking in one of the booths. Finally, her gaze settled on a spot on the wall, somewhere north of my right ear. “No reason, really. I was just curious.”

“C’mon, Linda-Ann.”

She studied the end of her dreadlock. Finally, she raised her eyes to mine. “It’s about Trevor.”

I waited.

“He’s been staying with me, and normally he sleeps really late because he’s up half the night researching animal rights stuff on the Internet.”