Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery) by Deborah Sharp Read Free Book Online Page A

strand of bright blonde hair from her eyes, she approached the table.
    “Angela Fox, this is … ’’ The blank look flitted onto Jason’s face again.
    “Mace Bauer,’’ I completed the introduction for him.
    “Sorry,’’ he said. “Your beauty must have shorted out a few of my brain cells.’’
    I didn’t doubt Jason was short a few million cells, but I suspected something other than my beauty was to blame.
    “Mace is some kind of investigator,’’ he added for Angel’s benefit.
    “Not exactly,’’ I said.
    Her brow furrowed. “Are you looking into that woman who was found murdered at the dump?’’
    “Why? Do you know something about that?’’
    “No,’’ Jason butted in quickly. “Angel’s just curious. Everybody’s talking about it.’’
    “Actually, I’m looking into something personal,’’ I said.
    She placed the sodas on the table, tucked the tray under an arm, and reached out to shake my hand. “Angel’s short for Angela, but nobody calls me that.’’
    Her grip was pleasantly firm. I never trusted a woman whose hand plopped into mine like a gutted black crappie. “What can I do for you, Mace? I can’t take much time away from the bar.’’
    “Have a seat for a few minutes.’’ Jason poured one of the Cokes; half a can in his glass and half in mine. “It’s really slow before dinner.’’
    She glanced around the almost empty room, and then stared pointedly at the empty chair. Jason jumped up to pull it out.
    “That’s a good boy,’’ Angel said.
    He beamed, like the classroom screw-up who’d just managed to impress the teacher.
    When she’d settled herself, she looked me in the eyes. Hers were sharp, assessing. I couldn’t quite place her accent, but it definitely wasn’t local. Up north, somewhere. I got right to the point, asking her about Kenny.
    “Sure, I’ve seen him around. Nice guy; sells insurance. He doesn’t seem like much of a golfer, though.’’ She turned to Jason. “You know him. He uses a set of beat-up Callaways. He’s got a big pickup with mud flaps and a No. 3 for Dale Earnhardt on the rear window.’’
    Jason looked through some sliding glass doors to the lighted parking lot beyond. The grilles of a couple of Lexuses and a Mini Cooper pointed toward the clubhouse. Kenny’s Ford F-350 would stick out in that lot like a fat man at an organic restaurant.
    “Oh, yeah: Ken,’’ he finally said. “He’s got a terrible left hook.’’
    Not knowing a hook from a slice, I brought the conversation back to my purpose. “Do you know who he plays golf with out here? My sister’s married to him, and she suspects somebody he’s been hanging around with owes him a lot of money he doesn’t want to tell her about.’’
    I’d learned most people are more comfortable poking their noses into problems about money than love.
    “I really dig the way you talk,’’ Angel blurted out. Under lashes thick with mascara, her eyes were wide and interested. “That little ol’ country gal accent is so adorable.’’
    I think I was still in diapers the last time someone called me adorable. It’s not a word usually applied to a woman who stomps around in work boots wrestling nuisance critters.
    “Thanks,’’ I said. “But back to Kenny … ”
    She lowered her voice to a seductive purr: “You know, I’ve always wanted to taste something country fresh.’’
    “Down, girl!’’ Jason slapped playfully at her wrist.
    The glare she gave him did not seem playful. With a contrite look, he stood and shoved his offending hand into a pocket. “I need to get back to the pro shop. Watch out for Angel, Mace. She’s a devil.’’
    I had no doubt he was right. “Wait a minute,” I said as he walked away. “What about Kenny?’’
    “Can’t tell you much.’’ He spoke over his shoulder. “He usually just picks up a game when somebody’s short a player. Sometimes, he fills in for a threesome with our potty-mouthed mayor.’’
    The mayor? I was so