Mama Gets Hitched by Deborah Sharp Page A

plainly, honey, but somebody needs to tell you to quit looking at every word anybody says as the start to a fight.”
    I felt akin to that hog on Alice’s porch. Decapitated by the sharp, uncharacteristic criticism from my normally sweet sister. I sipped at my beer and stewed. Everyone else was quiet, too.
    Finally, Mama could stand the tension no longer. “Let’s all count our blessings, girls. Imagine if any one of us were Ronnie, or his poor widow, Alice.”
    I did as she said, adding a silent vow that I’d also try to be less of an argumentative jerk.
    Out of the blue, Maddie said, “Maybe that hog’s head is linked to the Mafia.”
    Mama tapped her lip with an index finger, thinking. “Wasn’t there something like that in a movie? I remember a pig’s head in a man’s bed.”
    “A horse head,” Carlos said. “From the first Godfather .”
    “With Marlon Brando as Don Corleone,” Maddie added. She was Himmarshee’s movie expert, on account of her daughter being in college in California, studying film. “The don sent the horse’s head as a message. Maybe this is the same thing.”
    Tucking her hair behind her ears, Marty stared at Maddie. “A Mafia don? In Himmarshee? That seems a little far-fetched, Sister.”
    “May I remind you of Jim Albert and his murder last summer, Marty? Not that I’m trying to start an argument.” I smiled when I said it, but I was still smarting a little.
    Carlos said, “Jim Albert’s criminal enterprise was set in place a long time before he came down here.” His eyes got a far-away, thoughtful look. I had the urge to take my thumb and smooth the wrinkle in his brow, and maybe follow that with a little something with my tongue.
    Maybe Carlos was right about the water. I was angry one minute, aroused the next. Either I was getting some kind of weird hormones from the faucet, or the shock of finding Ronnie’s body had upset me more than I let on.
    “What are you thinking?” I asked him.
    “Just that Maddie might be right.”
    My big sister beamed.
    “Not about a Mafia godfather,” he said. “But maybe about a message.”
    An image of Ronnie’s corpse popped into my brain, all jumbled up with the blood-crusted head of the pig.
    “What would the message be?” I asked. “This is what happens when you squeal?”

The neon sign for the Booze ‘n’ Breeze lit up the dark road ahead, a red-and-purple beacon for the thirsty motorist. It reminded me I could use a six-pack for the fridge at home. I put on my blinker, slowed, and turned into the drive-thru lane. As I did, my Jeep’s headlights flashed on an ancient Toyota parked next to the little store’s dumpster.
    Two things made the car stick out in Himmarshee: It was a compact, whereas most of the locals drive trucks; and it had some unusual bumper stickers for a town that likes to call itself the buckle in the cattle belt of Florida.
    Meat is Murder , the right rear bumper scolded. Fur: Brush It, Don’t Wear It , said the left side.
    I was surprised nobody had plastered over those sentiments with a more common sticker seen in these parts: Beef: It’s What’s for Dinner.
    I motored up slowly to the cashier. The Booze ‘n’ Breeze is a barn-like, wide-open building with a road right through the middle. Stock is arranged on either side. The whole idea is that drivers can mosey through and tank up without ever getting out of their cars.
    I recognized the blond dreadlocks on the head bent over a book propped on top of the cash register. When I got closer, I saw the title on the book’s spine: Animal Liberation .
    “Hey, Linda-Ann,” I said. “Doing a little light reading?”
    She looked up, eyes sleepy beneath two small silver hoops, one piercing each eyebrow. “Hey, Mace. My boyfriend gave me this.” She lifted the book so I could see it. “Trevor says after I read it, I’ll understand how we exploit and abuse animals every day.”
    An impressionable girl and an activist boyfriend. Now there’s an