Timothy’s cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID, and sent it straight to voice mail.

“The maid said he wiggled his tongue at her like a snake, pumped his pelvis up and down, and begged her to join their little party.’’

“Ewww,’’ Marty said.

“Exactly!’’ He chuckled, his laughter trailing off to a smoker’s wheeze. “The maid came running into the office in tears. I don’t have too many rules here, but nobody harasses my staff. Especially the ones who aren’t eighteen yet.’’

“So,’’ I said, “chivalry isn’t dead after all.’’

“Absolutely. When I marched over to their room, the woman answered the door. Like I told you, she was wearing this hood deal. She said they were sorry; things had gotten a little out of hand.’’

“Did the mayor say anything?’’ I asked.

“Not a peep. His head was turned to the wall. When he left, he asked me to apologize to the maid for him, and left her an envelope with fifty bucks. He slipped me a Benjamin …”

Marty cocked her head in a question.

“A hundred-dollar bill,’’ I said. “Ben Franklin.’’

“Right. He gave me the dough, and said he’d appreciate my discretion.’’

“Misspent money, huh?’’ I said.

“I told you, I don’t like people messing with my staff. I don’t owe him a thing. Besides, I voted for the other guy.’’

“Me too,’’ Marty said.

“All that sanctimonious stuff he was spouting during the campaign about family values? It really turned me off. Turns out it was all bullshit anyway. Typical hypocritical politician.’’

He inhaled more soda. “Hey, would you girls like to join me for dinner? I get off in about twenty minutes.’’

“Naw, but thanks,’’ I said. “My sister has to get home to her husband and I’m engaged.’’ I held up my left hand, remembering too late I’d removed the ring after Carlos and I argued. The lack of lobby light worked in my favor. Timothy didn’t seem to notice my finger was bare.

While we said our goodbyes, I dug into my pocket, my fingers touching the ring. It felt hot, somehow, like it was going to burn my skin. Why hadn’t Carlos said anything about the mayor while he was lambasting me for withholding information about Kenny? Who didn’t trust whom?

Marty and I were almost to the door when I stopped and turned around.

“What did the woman in the mayor’s room sound like?’’

Timothy thought for a moment. “Classy. Like the ladies on public TV.’’

“Like Masterpiece Thea-tuh?’’ Marty asked, doing her best Downton Abbey impression.

“Exactly.’’ He drained the Hulk cup; wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She had an English accent.’’

forty-seven

The Friday morning air smelled of bacon frying and coffee brewing. Marty and I stood outside Maddie’s door, waiting for her to let us in.

“Maybe she’s feeling better,’’ Marty said, sniffing at the cooking smells. “I wonder if she’ll have pancakes, too?’’

That would be the old Maddie. She placed pancakes at the very apex of her food pyramid.

Mama parked, and hurried up the walkway to wait with us at the closed door. The kitten heels on her persimmon-colored sandals click-clicked all the way.

“Poor Maddie. She’s probably not even able to drag herself out of bed. Hang on, girls. I think I’ve got one of her front door keys in here somewhere.’’

She’d barely begun pawing through her purse, in a matching persimmon, when the door swung open. A smiling Maddie stood on the other side—hair done up neatly in a French twist; lips colored a becoming shade of pink. She quickly waved us in.

“Bacon’s about to burn. Help yourselves to some coffee.’’

She surely did look better. She was wearing her doing-battle-as-principal clothes—a dark, knee-length skirt paired with a powder-blue blouse in polished cotton. On her feet: No-nonsense pumps. Over her shoulder, Maddie spoke to Marty: “I haven’t forgotten you, sister. Instead of bacon, I’m making you eggs for protein. The pancakes are just because we like them.’’

In the kitchen, Marty and I filled our favorite coffee mugs and took our seats. Mama flitted about behind Maddie, peering first over one shoulder and then the next.

“Hadn’t you better turn that flapjack now, honey?’’ Flutter, flit. “Don’t scramble the eggs so hard.’’ Flit, flutter. “They’ll be as tough as an old saddle.’’

Maddie glanced at Marty and me and rolled her eyes. “I think I’ve got it covered, Mama. Why don’t you put out some plates and have a seat?’’ She turned again to the stove.

“You seem pretty chipper this morning,’’ I said to her back.

I didn’t add that this good mood was the last thing I expected. Maybe she hadn’t seen the late news last night, which led off with her cheating husband’s perp walk through shouting protestors. Maybe she hadn’t talked to Henry, who’d told me Kenny had spent the night at the Himmarshee County jail. Mama, Marty and I had schemed to meet at Maddie’s first thing in the morning. I’d expected us to be propping up an emotionally devastated woman. At the very least, I thought we’d be providing her with the support of her loving family.

Instead, she calmly poured batter onto a flat griddle to start another pancake. It sizzled when it met the hot pan.

“You seem surprised I seem chipper.’’ She flattened one of the flapjacks with a spatula. “Did you expect to find me with my head in the oven?’’

Mama stirred her coffee, spoon pinging against the cup.

Marty removed and re-straightened the napkins in a holder.

I contributed to the silence, my hands clasped on my lap under the table.

“Well?’’ Maddie prodded. “Did you think I’d keep moping around here forever? I talked to Henry last night. I know y’all are trying to prove Kenny had nothing to do with this awful murder.’’

She slid the scrambled eggs into a serving bowl and covered it so they wouldn’t get cold. The plated bacon went into a toaster oven. Maddie turned the temperature dial to warm. When we still hadn’t spoken, she cleared her throat.

“I want everybody to stop tiptoeing around me. I’m not dying of some terrible disease. I’m a wife who’s been cheated on. I wasn’t the first; I won’t be the last. I know in my bones my husband is no murderer. He’s only guilty of one thing, and that’s thinking with the wrong head.’’

Mama nodded. “Been there, got the T-shirt. Kenny can get in line with all the other husbands guilty of that.’’

“I appreciate everything you’ve already done to find another suspect. I’m ready to pitch in, too.’’ Maddie pointed to the answering machine on the counter. “We can start right here, right now. Listen to this.’’

She pressed play.

Beep. How does it feel to be married to a killer?

Beep. No Mercy for Murderers!

“Not that nonsense,’’ she said. “This next one.’’

After the beep, there was a long pause. Then a muffled voice spoke: The police have the wrong person in jail. Your husband didn’t kill Camilla Law. I might know who did.

Mama started to interrupt. Maddie held up a single finger, like a teacher warning an over-eager kindergartner.

The message continued.

I’m afraid to come forward. If I speak out, I could be a victim next. Tell your sister to keep hunting for the real killer. The swingers’ club holds the key.

The message ended. “Did you punch in star-69 to see the number that called you?’’ I asked.

“Of course I did: ‘Unknown.’ It was probably one of those disposable cell phones like the criminals use on TV.’’

“It sounded like they were talking through a mouthful of cotton. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, could you?’’ Marty raised her eyebrows at us.

We all shook our heads.

“Play it again,’’ Mama said.

Maddie skipped ahead to the right call.

“Wait!’’ I said, listening closely. “That’s definitely the sound of music; maybe some glasses clinking in the background.’’