Six Feet Under Page 3

  I eyeballed her.

  “I’m not lying to your mama.” She didn’t look at me. She busied herself with some papers on her desk.

  A bigger sigh than normal escaped my body so Betty would know I wasn’t happy with her ignoring me.

  I picked up the receiver, pushed the button, and said, “Hello, Mama.”

  “I found out what restaurant he’s going to in Clay’s Ferry.” There was excitement in her voice.

  I should’ve known Mama wasn’t going to let it go. She had an itch to find out what diner she was competing against and she scratched it.

  “Betty said you weren’t busy, so I’m going to head over to the department and get you and take you to lunch,” Mama said. “We have a couple more hours until Frank gets here.”

  There she went calling him Frank again as if she knew him personally.

  “Mama, I’m knee deep in paperwork. I need to get it done. Maybe another day.” I thought my excuse was a pretty good one for thinking on my feet, which was hard to do when I was talking to her. She always seemed to fluster me.

  “We have to go on what you’d call a stakeout.” There was an uptick in her tone that I didn’t like.

  “Stakeout?” I laughed. “No. I’m not going on no stakeout,” I assured her.

  “Fine. Then how about lunch with your mama.” She wasn’t going to let it go that I didn’t have anything to do. “We can go wherever you want. I’m nervous. I need my daughter.”

  And there went the guilt she was good at. What was a lunch date with her going to hurt? After all, she’d worked really hard to get the visit from Frank Von Lee. She’d won a local cooking competition between Jolee Fischer’s food truck and Ben’s Diner. Mama’s chicken pot pie won and somehow the Culinary Channel found out and it was all she wrote after that. The least I could do was go eat with her.

  “Wherever I want?” I asked. “Is there a catch?”

  “Can’t a mama take her only daughter out to lunch?” she asked. “After all, later I’m going to be busy with Frank in town and then the filming.”

  Mama had a big ego. She’d already proclaimed herself the winner of the spot on the Culinary Channel before the contest had even begun.

  “All right.” There was no sense in arguing with her. Everyone in Cottonwood knew that what Viv Lowry wanted, Viv Lowry got. “I’ll even let you pick where we eat.”

  There was a nigglin’ suspicion that Mama was suddenly feeling generous and it was at my expense. But I was willing to play along just to see exactly what she had up her sleeve.

  Chapter Four

  I’d decided to leave Duke at the office with Betty. Not that she’d mind. I knew she’d have to get up and take him out, but she liked getting out in the community and talking to the neighbors. It was good as dispatcher to be known in town. Especially with the election coming up. Luckily, I was running unopposed, though that could change on a dime. I didn’t put anything past the people of Cottonwood.

  I’d made sure everyone in and around Cottonwood stayed happy with the department. Seeing Poppa this morning was wonderful but meant something was stirring in Cottonwood. That was bad. At least, that’d been the pattern before. When he showed up, there was either a murder or a robbery.

  Mama pulled up in her big white Escalade. Her eyes barely reached the top of the steering wheel.

  “You want me to drive?” I asked, hoping she’d agree, but Mama never let anyone drive. Not even Daddy. Ever. Poor Daddy.

  “Nope.” Once I was settled in the passenger seat, she flung the gearshift into drive and headed down the alley.

  At the stop sign, she dragged her head side to side to look both ways. I noticed the lines on her face were practically gone.

  “Mama?” I asked when she leaned way over the steering wheel to see across me. I pushed my back into the leather seat. “What on earth has happened to your face?”

  “What on earth are you talking about, Kendrick?” Mama saying my full name was a surefire way of knowing she didn’t want to answer the question.

  “I don’t know.” I gripped the door handle when she punched the gas, pulling right out in front of Doolittle Bowman’s car on West Walnut Street. She was able to turn the wheel and push the electric window button at the same time. I feared for my life and held on tighter.

  “That’s my girl. Woo wee!” Poppa yelped from the back.

  “Thank you!” Mama screamed and threw her hand out the window as if Doolittle had stopped and graciously let Mama out. Which she didn’t.

  I looked at the side mirror and Doolittle was giving Mama two kinds of hell. Good thing I wasn’t able to read lips because she was giving Mama the business and honking her horn.

  “Mama, you pulled out in front of her.” I sucked in a deep breath.

  “Honey, there was plenty of room. I’m sure she sped up when she saw me pulling out. That’s the way them Bowmans are.” Mama tilted her chin up as if she’d done nothing wrong.

  “That’s right, Viv.” Poppa proudly stated from the backseat. I refrained from turning around because Mama would think I was looking at Doolittle, whose front bumper was practically kissing Mama’s back bumper.

  When Mama turned right on Main Street, my mind turned over, trying to think of any restaurants Mama would privy herself to eat in on that side of town.

  “Where’re we going to eat?” I asked Mama.

  “Now don’t be going and having a dying duck fit.”

  “Trigger word,” I grumbled, knowing that this was no mother/daughter lunch to just chitchat about life.

  “What do you mean trigger word?” Sarcasm dripped in Mama’s honey-sweet southern accent.

  “Whenever I questioned anything you did when I was at home or there was something I wasn’t going to enjoy doing, you’d say ‘Kenni, don’t be going and having a dying duck fit.’” I tried my best to do her accent and tone.

  “That’s not how I sound,” Mama shot back.

  “Pretty darn good if you ask me.” Poppa cackled from the back.

  I’m not gonna lie, I huffed and puffed a little. A duck fit might have been brewing up in me.

  “Tell me what’s in that pea-pickin’ brain of yours.” I was tired of playing games.

  “Well...” She dragged the word out.

  “Now, Mama,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “I’ve decided to take you to a nice little diner over in Clay’s Ferry.” She pushed the pedal a little faster as she passed the city limits sign on the far end of town.

  “Mama, no,” I responded. “You’re going to your competition.”

  “Competition?” Mama laughed. “What have I told you all your life, Kendrick Lowry? We are in competition with no one. We are leaders.”

  “Poor, poor souls.” I prayed for the people we were about to encounter. They’d no idea what the wrath of Mama was like.

  This was Mama’s pattern. Way back when I was five and entered the pig catching contest at our annual festival, she’d made sure she’d scared all the other kids, telling them about biting pigs, so that when it was time for me to run in the muddy area to catch the pig, I was the only contestant. Then in high school when I was running for student council, she’d offered the mothers of the other candidates a place on the Cottonwood Beautification Committee if their child withdrew from the election. But when it came to running for sheriff my first time, she’d done everything in her power to sabotage me, even went as far as putting in Duke as a write-in.

  After I won, she’d sort of accepted the fact that I was an adult and making my own choices. Then, a few months ago when retired deputy Lonnie Lemar decided to run against me in the next election, Mama Bear came out and she pinned a Vote for Lowry pin on anything that she could.

  Thankfully Lonnie ended up having a few issues in his personal life that gave him back his God-given sense and he pulled out of the race, l
eaving me with no competition...yet.

  That made Mama happy, because even though she didn’t like me being sheriff, she liked losing less. So she’d decided to let me put my life on the line for the sake of saying we won.

  “What are you babbling about?” Mama’s nose curled.

  “Fascinating.” I leaned closer to Mama as she bounced us up, down, and around the hills of the back roads toward Clay Ferry. “Even when you crinkle your nose, your lines still aren’t visible.”

  “Shush your mouth, Kendrick.” Mama pulled her shoulders back. “I figured we’d just go eat lunch. No one will know we’re there. It’s healthy to go and check out your competition.”

  I smacked my hands together. Mama jumped. She scowled again.

  I took another look at Mama’s flawless face. “You’ve had some work done on your face.”

  Why hadn’t I thought of that earlier?

  “What are you talking about?” Mama held the wheel steady as she sped up.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Botox? Filler? I bet you’re the first person in Cottonwood to get a facelift.” I knew I’d get her goat.

  “Facelift? No such thing.” Mama dragged the pad of her finger up to the corner of her eye and tapped it a little. “I just had a little plumping done so when I go on camera, I’m not all saggy.”

  “Mama,” I gasped. “I can’t believe you did this.”

  “What?” She drew back. “Kenni, it’s national TV.”

  “You’ve lost your ever-loving mind. Poor Daddy. I hope he makes it through these next couple of days.” I shook my head.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was just like Mama to try to one-up people before they even knew they were one-upped by her. This was her specialty. Her southern manners were spot on. It was too late when you realized Mama was getting her way no matter what.

  “Enough of that. What did you think about Ben’s today?” Mama was good at changing the subject.

  “For starters, I’m not sure why he’s gone and done all this work on the diner. Its oddness was what made it so special. Don’t get me wrong, your pot pie is phenomenal, but Ben’s trying to change everything when really the focus is on you,” I said.

  “Chef Mundy wasn’t nice.” Mama’s lip twitched. “He said he’d made better pot pie than me and he even tried to make one.”

  “He did?” My brows furrowed. Mama nodded. “I’m surprised you didn’t whack him.”

  “I almost did. Luckily Ben put him in his place by telling him that the Culinary Channel was there to see me and he was there to cook the rest of the orders. The chef didn’t like that.” She shrugged. “I’m glad he’s gone.”

  I looked at the speedometer and noted the Clay’s Ferry county line was coming up soon.

  “I’m glad for Jolee. She said Ben’s crazy attitude has really taken a toll on their new relationship. Slow down, Mama,” I said. “Their sheriff isn’t as nice as me.”

  “Speaking of sheriff…” She held the wheel with her left hand and reached into her backseat.

  “What on earth are you doing?” My tone escalated. “Keep both hands on the wheel.”

  “Here.” She threw a duffle bag of mine next to me on the front seat. “I took the liberty of getting you some regular clothes from your house to put on while we went to lunch. They can’t know we’re from Cottonwood and your uniform screams it.”

  “Remind me to take your key away.” I unzipped the bag and tugged on the sweater over my uniform shirt. Mama didn’t care; she came into my house no matter what time of day it was.

  “And put a little lipstick on too. It’ll make you feel better.” Mama’s cure for everything was lipstick.

  “I don’t feel bad,” I said.

  “You probably will after you eat this food.” Mama pulled into The Little Shack barbeque joint’s parking lot.

  Chapter Five

  The Little Shack was one of those barbeque joints that you would drive by a few hundred times and wonder how on earth someone could eat in there. The shotgun establishment needed a new siding job or a good scrubbing and a fresh coat of paint. The OPEN sign only blinked the letter P. Even the parking lot needed a good overhaul. The once-concrete pavement was now in chunks.

  “Hold on.” Mama gripped the wheel and bumped the car up to the front of the door in the handicap parking spot.

  Surely she wasn’t going to park here, I thought to myself, but then she put the gearshift into park.

  “Mama, I don’t know exactly what you’ve done to your face, but it’s messed up your eyesight.” I jutted my finger toward the faded handicap sign. “Handicap, Mama.”

  She leaned her body over the front seat and opened the glovebox. She grabbed a handicap hanger and slapped it around the rearview mirror.

  “What on earth?” I took a closer look at the tag. The wheelchair was pink. “Is this real?”

  I never took a good look at the tags before; I just gave tickets to cars parked in the handicap spots with no tag in the window or on the license plate.

  “Of course it’s real or I wouldn’t have it.” She reached behind the seat and grabbed her pocketbook. She started to get out of the car. “I told you that I got a little plumping, so I’m delicate for a couple of weeks. That’s all.”

  I hollered out to her before she got out and had the opportunity to slam the door. “Did plumping make you lose your brain? You’re not handicapped.”

  “Unless they changed it for gender color, that isn’t real.” Poppa had ghosted himself into Mama’s seat and he too took a nice long look at it. “Maybe I’m here because your mama has lost her marbles. It does run in the family.”

  “You don’t think Mama is going to...” I gulped, wondering if Poppa was like the ferryman to the underworld and he was here to collect Mama.

  He shrugged.

  I jumped out of the car.

  “Oh, Mama.” I grabbed her and kissed her cheek. “I love you so much. Are you sick?”

  “Sick?” She pushed me away. “You seem to be the one with something wrong.” She twisted around on the balls of her feet and trotted into The Little Shack with her pocketbook swinging in the crook of her arm. “You need to mind your own P’s and Q’s.”

  Poppa took notice too. He made sure he stayed next to her the entire time we were there.

  “Take a seat,” the woman behind the cash register next to the door hollered out but never looked up.

  “Welcome to The Shack,” a man from the kitchen window yelled and dinged the bell resting on the ledge.

  Mama helped herself to one of the middle picnic tables. There were five picnic tables perpendicular to the door and two running along both sides of the wall to help accommodate the small shotgun of the building.

  “Mama, remember, we’re just here to taste the food.” I nodded, hoping to shut down any thoughts in her head.

  “Y’all want a coke or water?” the woman from the register asked.

  She’d moseyed over and pulled an ink pen from her messy brown updo.

  “Where’s your notepad?” Mama asked in a curt way.

  “I don’t need no notepad.” The woman’s accent was much more hick than ours.

  You’d find that in Kentucky. You could drive two hours north of here and not hear a bit of a southern accent. You could drive two miles south of here and everyone sounded like they were from the far south.

  “Hm.” Mama pursed her lips. “This doesn’t seem all that nice.”

  The woman let out a long sigh and leaned on her right side with her hip cocked out.

  “I’ll have a sweet tea.” Mama straightened her shoulders as if she were in the front pew of Cottonwood Baptist Church on display for all to see.

  “Coke or water,” the woman repeated and took the pen, scribbling something on the white paper tablecloth.

  “Is it tap or
bottled?”

  The woman stared down her nose at Mama, none too happy.

  “We’ll each have a coke,” I suggested the best bet. The woman sauntered off in no big hurry to get us the cokes.

  “I don’t drink coke. I drink tea,” Mama protested like a little child.

  “She never did like coke,” Poppa backed her up.

  “If I didn’t say coke, she’d have gotten you some toilet water because you are acting as if you are too good to be in here.” I curled my fingers together and placed them in front of me, leaning on my forearms. “You’ve got to go unnoticed. If someone finds out who you are…” Mama’s brows furrowed. She didn’t get it. I shook my head and tried again. “If they find out that we’re here to see your competition, we won’t be welcome. Now act normal.”

  Inwardly I groaned, knowing this was her normal.

  “Let’s talk about your face.” I had to bring it back up. I was in a state of shock over it. “What did you do?”

  “I might’ve had a little work done so I’ll look good on camera when they film the segment.” Mama lifted her chin and dragged her fingers along her jaw. “A little tightening here.” She moved them up to her crow’s feet. “A little filler here. Maybe a little plump up here.” She tapped her lips.

  “Why on earth would you do that?” I questioned. “You are Viv Lowry. You don’t need any help.”

  “Honey, we all need help.” Her eyes assessed me. “Tomorrow it will look better and in a week when they film, it’ll look natural.”

  Mama and I sat back enough to give the waitress some room to put the cokes down.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Where’s the menu?” Mama crossed her arms.

  “Right down there.” The woman pointed to the white paper tablecloth she’d written on that we hadn’t paid attention to. “Pulled pork, pulled beef, pulled chicken. All barbeque. French fries, hush puppies, and coleslaw.”

  Mama curled her nose.

  “I guess I’ll have the chicken.” Not a fan of the menu display, Mama put her finger in the air.

  “What’s she doing?” Poppa asked with concern. “Tell her to put her finger down.”