At least one of the suits had the good grace to look embarrassed. But the mayor blustered on. “It was a horrible thing, but it’s over. Once we get this project off the ground, people are just going to be happy we’re bringing jobs and a boom to the tax base.’’

I think he meant boon. I said, “That’s assuming you do get it off the ground. Don’t underestimate how much people are tired of runaway growth. Maybe they don’t want yet another fake community to replace what’s real and natural about Florida.’’

One of the suits smirked. “Natural? Swamps and snakes? Bugs and humidity?’’ The others laughed.

He was hunting bear without a rifle, attacking my native state. Rhonda caught my eye again, though, and gave me the cease-and-desist glare. She’d heard me rant before about people who can’t appreciate Florida’s original beauty.

She said, “I think we can all agree we want what’s best for Himmarshee, and for justice. That’s where Mace comes in. Give her a few days, and she’ll be on her way to solving Camilla’s murder. She’s done it before.’’

A couple of the suits aimed curious looks at me. I wanted to hide again behind my bird. Sputtering, the mayor waved away Rhonda’s comment. “That’s preposterous! I’m confident the police have it in hand. They hardly need a redneck Agatha Christie sticking her nose in.’’

“Mace isn’t a redneck,’’ Rhonda said.

“That’s all right, boss. If the boot fits …’’ I lifted my foot, showing off my size-ten clodhopper. Some dried manure flaked off the heel and onto the floor.

“Well, she’s not the dumb kind of redneck, anyway,’’ Rhonda said. “She’s super-smart, even if she isn’t great with people. She keeps her mouth shut and her eyes open. I’ll tell you right now, Mace might know who killed Camilla before the police do.’’

The mayor pulled at his collar again, wiped some sweat from his forehead. He gave me a suspicious look. “Irregardless,’’ he said, as I winced at the extra ir, “surely the police don’t encourage amateurs to help solve crimes?’’

“I don’t have a bull in this rodeo, Mr. Mayor. I didn’t even know the victim. Besides, the Himmarshee police hardly need my help,’’ I said. “Carlos Martinez is the head of the homicide division, and he’s quite capable.’’

I didn’t elaborate that Carlos IS the homicide division.

“He earned his stripes solving murders in Miami,’’ Rhonda added.

“He’ll have this one wrapped up in no time,’’ I said.

The suit with the posh gold watch glanced at it. “I hope so. The sooner people forget about this murder, the more houses we can sell.’’

“I’m sure that will help Camilla’s soul rest in peace,’’ I said.

_____

It was quitting time. The mayor and his cronies had taken a couple of maps, and left to survey the park’s outlying areas. Along with the Corn Nuts and a Coke, one thing sustained me over the afternoon: The image of all those shiny black dress shoes and the mayor’s white loafers slogging through dank muck and soggy marshes. I only wished we’d had a drenching rain to make things worse.

In the parking lot, a huge Hummer commanded two spaces. I was sure it was the developers’ vehicle—a fitting symbol for an invading army. It sat in the full sun, soaking up heat. I hoped they all burned their legs on the Hummer’s black seats when they climbed in.

At the far end of the lot, the driver of a small school bus had wisely parked under the shade canopy of a live oak. She read a paperback in the front seat while a field trip group finished up. The kids were getting close. Childish laughter and piping voices filled the woods.

I heard a car engine start as I was putting some research files about birds in the back of my Jeep. The first children were just beginning to lope into the parking lot from the nature path. They were hot on the trail of a squirrel, which was making for the safety of the oak tree.

“Slow down!’’ a teacher’s voice called out.

A cluster of kids raced after the leaders, trying to close the gap on the squirrel. Only a few children heeded the teacher’s command.

The car engine revved. With a squeal of tires, a dark sedan rocketed out of a blind parking space, hidden by the big Hummer. The car’s tinted windows were rolled up. I saw the faint outline of a man in a white T-shirt behind the wheel, talking on a cell phone. He wasn’t paying attention.

The children skipped excitedly across the lot. The squirrel scampered up the tree. Gaining speed, the car came closer. The kids were directly in its path.

“Watch out!’’ I shouted.

twenty-six

The attention of the first boy in the line of children snapped from the squirrel to the speeding car. His eyes widened in fear. He seemed rooted to the pavement. The car came closer. Inside the parked bus, the driver pounded frantically on the horn: Beep! Beep! Beeeeep!

Kids scattered. The teacher screamed. Just in time, the black car swerved.

Safe, but scared, some of the kids began to cry. As the teacher hustled toward them from the woods, she tripped and fell to the parking lot pavement.

When the car zoomed past, it was close enough that I could see through the dark windows. The mayor was behind the wheel. He yakked away on his phone as if nothing had happened. As he sped for the exit, I saw a red-white-and-blue campaign sticker on his bumper: “A Mayor Should Care. Vote Graf.’’

I ran to help the teacher.

“Are you okay?’’

Wincing in pain, she tried to rise to one knee. She sank back to the asphalt. “The students?’’

I looked toward the bus. The driver was comforting everybody. Some had already taken their seats inside. “Fine. Probably a little shaken.’’

“I think I twisted my ankle.’’

I bent; she looped an arm around my neck. I hoisted her to her feet, steadying her at the waist. “Good thing you’re strong,’’ she said. “I’m not exactly a delicate flower.’’

“Me, neither.’’ I grinned. “Let’s get you over to the bus and the kids.’’

I quickly introduced myself.

“Elaine Naiman,’’ she said. “We’ll shake later.’’

She was pretty, in a studious-looking way: Thick, dark hair cut short; horn-rimmed glasses; a build that was sturdy but not fat. If Mama were here, she’d advise Elaine to grow out that glossy black hair. It was her best feature. And, of course, Mama would try to convince her to put on some Apricot Ice.

“I feel so stupid,’’ she said, as we slowly made our way to the bus. “I shouldn’t have brought the kids out here without an aide. But there were only ten signed up for the trip, and they seemed so disappointed when our aide called this morning to say she couldn’t make it.’’

She looked in the direction the car had gone. We could still faintly hear it, battering the boards of the bridge over Himmarshee Creek just before the park’s exit to the highway. “It’s a weird coincidence,’’ she said. “The aide had to cancel because some idiot on a cell phone ran a stop sign this morning and hit her car.’’

She shifted her weight, moaned. I paused, to give her a short rest.

“Speaking of idiots,’’ she said, “who was driving the black sedan?’’

“You won’t believe it,’’ I said. “That was Himmarshee’s mayor.’’

_____

I sneezed when I walked through the door to the 19th Hole Lounge. The smell of cologne and spilled wine was so strong, it was like a punch in the nose. Everything in the bar was overdone: the laughs were too loud; the backslaps too hard; the hair and makeup on the women too much. The only thing that wasn’t too much was Angel’s outfit. That was too little, with a midriff top that barely skimmed the bottom of her breasts.

Men stood two deep at the bar—ordering, of course. But also ogling, perhaps wondering if the next time she reached for a top-shelf bottle, the blouse would ride up and reveal everything she had.

She was trim and taut, with bumps and curves in all the right spots. Even I had to admit, her body was hot. As the comedian Dom Irrera always said, That don’t make me gay, does it?