2 On the Nickel

by Maggie Toussaint

  On the Nickel

  Maggie Toussaint

  A Cleopatra Jones Mystery

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Cover design by Polly Iyer

  Copyright © 2011 by Maggie Toussaint

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9833614-5-9

  (print ISBN: 978-1-59414-954-2)

  All rights reserved.

  First Printing: March 2011

  Ebook edition: October 17, 2012

  Published in 2011 in conjunction with Tekno Books and Ed Gorman

  Published in 2012 by Muddle House Publishing

  Muddle House Publishing

  PO Box 2119

  Darien, GA 31305.

  Chapter 1

  Numbers flowed in satisfying streams through my ink pen onto the Sudoku puzzle. A nine here. A two there. I scribbled a possibility in the corner of a grid square and sipped my coffee. Patterns emerged. I inked a seven in the top row, leading to three other filled-in numbers.

  Without warning, Mama upended her oversized purse on the kitchen table. Junk clattered. Loose coins clinked. A tube of mulberry-colored lipstick rolled on top of my folded newspaper. Alarmed, I studied her as she pawed through the mound of personal items. A can of hair spray tottered on the edge of the table, and I caught it a moment before it fell.

  “Lose something?” I asked, placing the can squarely on the table.

  Mama muttered out of the side of her mouth. “My car keys.”

  Her color seemed a bit off. I set aside my puzzle to help sort through the jumble. I lifted the umbrella and plastic rain bonnet and moved them to the side. Her wallet was large enough to give birth. No keys hiding under it. I checked beneath her new hairbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a pack of breath mints. Nothing under the mini photo album, tissue packet, or her dog-eared credit card bill.

  “Don’t see any keys,” I said. “Where did you have them last?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be looking for them,” Mama huffed.

  Was something else wrong? I chewed my lip and replayed the morning in my head. Mama ate a good breakfast. Her buttercup-yellow pantsuit appeared neat and tidy, as did her mop of white curls. Her triple strands of pearls were securely clasped around her neck. So, her appetite and grooming were fine, but her behavior was off. Probably not a medical emergency.

  I breathed easier. “What’s wrong, Mama?”

  “What’s right, that’s what I’d like to know.”

  There was just enough vinegar in her voice to make me think I’d missed something big. Like maybe a luncheon date with her. Or broken a promise. But I hadn’t done those things. I pulled out a chair and invited her to sit down. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Mama.”

  “The price of gas keeps rising.” Mama sat and enumerated points on her fingers. “World peace is a myth. Social Security isn’t social or secure. And Joe Sampson had no business dying on me.”

  She’d run out of fingers, but I got the message. Guilt smacked me dead between the eyes. I had forgotten something. The anniversary of daddy’s aneurism. Usually we took a trip to the cemetery on August 21. I gulped. “Oh, Mama, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say something yesterday?”

  “I didn’t want to make a big deal of it.” Mama’s voice quivered. “It’s been three years, Cleo. I should be able to go by myself.”

  I reached over the kitchen table and covered her hands with mine. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll drive you to your meeting, then we’ll swing by Fairhope on the way home.”

  Mama sat up soldier straight. “That will eat up your whole morning.”

  “No problem. We mailed all the quarterly tax payment vouchers to our Sampson Accounting clients last week. I can’t think of anything at work that won’t keep until this afternoon.”

  Half an hour later, I was sitting in the hall at Trinity Episcopal while Mama attended her Ladies Outreach Committee meeting. I’d brought a magazine to read, but there was something else about Mama this morning that worried me. Something more than our delayed cemetery visit. I wished I knew what it was. Even though I’m good at puzzles, I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong. Knowing Mama, I wouldn’t have long to wait. I dug my magazine out of my purse and flipped through the glossy pages.

  In a little while, the gentle murmur of conversation from the meeting room rose to an angry buzz. Mama’s sharp voice sliced through the fray. “Mark my words. If you don’t change your ways, Erica, someone will change them for you.”

  My heart stutter-stepped at the heat in her voice. This was not good. How should I handle it? Mama would not appreciate me trying to straighten this out. My intervention would be the equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a penned bull. I hesitated, hoping that the women resolved their difference of opinion on their own.

  “You threatening me, Dee?” Erica’s nasty tone ruffled the hair on the back of my neck and spurred me into defense of my mother.

  I stashed the magazine in my shoulder bag and hurried down the pine-scented corridor, the soles of my loafers smacking against the hard tile. After their years of insulting each other, would the hostility between Mama and her arch nemesis turn physical?

  I entered the back of the meeting room in time to see Mama stride up to Erica’s podium. Ten seniors sat transfixed by the live drama. I had a very bad feeling about this. As emotional as Mama was today, her patience wouldn’t last for long. And Erica seemed to be spoiling for a fight. That wasn’t going to happen on my watch. I hurried forward, edging past the U-shaped log jam of tables and chairs. My eyes watered at the thick cloud of sweet perfume.

  Mama planted her hands on her hips. “I’m saying what nobody else has the guts to say. You are despicable. That outreach activity was supposed to bring joy and laughter to those dying children. You crushed their hopes. Worse, you gave them false hope. They were crying, Erica. You caused those dying children to suffer more.”

  Except for the red stain on Erica Hodges’ rigid cheeks, I couldn’t tell she was upset. Next to Mama’s sunny yellow suit and old-fashioned pearls, Erica’s sleek jewel-toned slacks suit, gold-threaded scarf, and apricot-colored hair looked fresh, contemporary, and on point.

  Looks could be deceiving.

  “Errors happen, Dee,” Erica said.

  Mama huffed out a great breath. “This one could have been avoided. Francine was doing a good job with scheduling before you horned in and messed it all up.”

  Across the room, Francine gasped at the mention of her name. She slid down in her seat, covered her face, and ducked her white-haired head.

  Erica surveyed the room, staring down the other matrons, before turning back to Mama. Her back arched, and her thin nose came up. “You think you could have done better?”

  “I know so. All that hard work the committee put in. You wasted it. You hurt those kids. Those circus tickets were nonrefundable. You threw away money we worked hard to raise.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Erica barked out a sharp laugh. “We’ll find more needy kids to show our civic merit. The hospital has a never-ending supply.”

  A collective gasp flashed through the room. My stride faltered as distaste soured in my stomach. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. A glance at Mama’s flame-red face and I knew Mount Delilah was about to erupt. I hurried forward.

  “That does it. I demand your resignation as chair of the Ladies Outreach Committee!” Mam
a shouted.

  “You’re out of order, Delilah Sampson,” Erica shrilled. “Sit down and shut up.”

  Mama’s mouth worked a few times with no sound emerging. She clutched her heart. I stepped up and planted my hand on her shoulder. “Mama?”

  She glared at Erica. “You can’t talk to me that way.”

  “Think again.” Erica smacked her open palm on the podium. “This is my meeting, my committee, my church, my town. I can talk to you any way I want.”

  Mama turned to face her friends. “Say something.”

  Brittle silence ensued. Not a single eyelash fluttered on the downturned gazes. Disbelief flashed through me. These women were Mama’s friends. Her best friends, but they were all intimidated by this big fish in our tiny pond. Poor Mama. We needed to get out of here before both of us did something we’d regret.

  I tapped Mama’s shoulder again. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have a family situation and have to leave. Please come with me now.”

  Mama nodded to me and inhaled shakily. She narrowed her eyes at Erica. “This isn’t over.”

  * * * * *

  “Don’t start on me, Cleo,” Mama said once we were in my Volvo. I’d had to buckle Mama’s seat belt because her hands were shaking so badly. “That ugly woman has pushed me around for the last time.”

  I donned my sunglasses and backed out of my parking space behind the parish hall. The cemetery visit would have to wait. Mama needed to be home with her heart medication. “She certainly is pushy. And her face is stretched so tight. How many facelifts, tummy tucks, and boob jobs has she had? She looked my age, for goodness’ sake.”

  “She’s fake. A complete fraud. I hate the way she treated those poor children.”

  I turned east on Main Street and headed home. If Mama still wanted to go to the cemetery, we’d go, but only after we picked up her meds. “Tell me about it.”

  “We’ve covered for that power-hungry fool for years, but she went too far this time. She cancelled Francine’s buses, said they were too expensive, and neglected to schedule other transportation. And it wasn’t like we could fit all those kids in wheelchairs in our cars, even if we wanted to. It took six months to set that activity up through the hospital. Six months of everyone’s time and the church’s money. We tried to keep her out of it, but she elbowed her way in, like she always does. Erica has so much money and influence, everyone is afraid to stand up to her. Everyone but me.” Mama wrung her hands. “God, I hate it for those kids. If you’d seen the disappointment on their faces, you’d want to kill Erica, too. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take her anymore.”

  A brown delivery van in front of me signaled a left into the bakery parking lot. I slowed until my lane cleared. “I don’t understand. If you guys always cover for her, why didn’t someone double-check the buses?”

  “We tried. Lord knows we tried. She yelled at Francine and told her she was an incompetent fool. She made Francine cry. Erica is a heartless bully. I’m fed up with her. Why does a rotten person like her even come to church? God, forgive me because I have no love for her. I want nothing to do with her.”

  “That’s easy. Stay away from her.”

  Mama flung her hands up in disgust. “Walk away from my entire life? She’s not just in my church. She’s in the garden club, bridge club, and the hospital auxiliary. There’s more overlap, and I could remember it if I weren’t so danged mad. Basically, the woman is a walking photo opportunity.”

  Unfortunately, Erica’s picture sold lots of newspapers. There were definite perks in descending from the family who founded our town. I couldn’t resist handing out a bit of advice. “Don’t elect her to be the group leader.”

  “She’s a Crandall. All she has to do is show up and she’s automatically in charge.”

  “She’s powerful because you ladies let her bully you around.”

  “Spoken like a pro.” She eyed me speculatively. “What’s your ‘family situation,’ Cleo? Got another hot date with what’s his name?”

  I ignored her comment about my blossoming romance with Rafe Golden. “My ‘family situation’ is you. I stopped your argument before things got further out of hand. Granted, Erica is not a nice person, but nothing good ever comes from showing your behind in public. You can thank me later.”

  * * * * *

  Our Wednesday golf league special event required each golfer to use only three clubs and a putter. I’d selected my driver, my nine wood, and my trusty seven iron. With that winning combination, I’d thought my bases were covered. Wrong. I’d been in three bunkers without a sand wedge. Consequently my shoulders ached, my concentration was shot, and my score resembled the national debt. This round couldn’t end soon enough for me.

  My third putt on number nine screamed past the hole and tumbled gleefully off the back slope. It wasn’t like I could go to my bag and grab my pitching wedge for this next shot. It wasn’t there. This game stank. Worse, I stank at this game.

  I trudged off the green.

  I glanced up, hoping for inspiration. Any sign from above that might result in my next shot holing out would be welcomed. Instead, the soaring watercolor perfection of a cloudless blue sky of late August mocked me. Who needed picture-perfect weather when they were playing lousy golf? Shouldn’t there be lightning bolts or hailstones coming my way?

  How about a rogue tornado?

  If a whirling funnel plunged down, surely it would toss this worthless putter all the way to Kansas. Crows cawed in the cornfield beside the green, their plaintive calls adding to my sense that it wasn’t just my golf game that was in the toilet.

  My name is Cleopatra Jones and shooting a round of par golf is my goal. I’m out here every Wednesday playing in the Hogan’s Glen Ladies Nine Hole League, working on my game, and more importantly, trying to beat my friend, Jonette Moore. We’ve been best friends ever since elementary school. I’ve forgiven her for her bounty from the breast fairy. She’s forgiven me for being tall and slender.

  I studied my next shot. The tip of the flag was visible over the rise.

  “How much you paying for those golf lessons?” Jonette’s pixie-like face lit up with a devilish grin. She didn’t look like she’d been fighting gravity all day. There was a bounce in her step and a sparkle in her amber-flecked eyes.

  Maybe if I wore vibrant, formfitting tangerine golf gear like Jonette, this game wouldn’t beat me each week. Today, my worries about Mama weighed heavily on my knee-length navy blue shorts and white polo.

  “Nothing,” I muttered, hunching my shoulders in anticipation of her witty comeback.

  “That’s your problem, Clee,” Jonette crowed. She could crow because she’d already holed out. One tap of her ball, and it had disappeared into the cup. “You got exactly what you paid for. Nothing.”

  I tried to pay Rafe Golden for my private golf lessons, but he wouldn’t take my money. He’d been generous with his instruction, but my swing thoughts vanished once he touched me with his magic fingers.

  Bottom line, he scrambled my circuits. The sizzling attraction took my breath away. It thrilled me. And it frightened the daylights out of me.

  “You’re strangling that putter,” Jonette said. “Loosen your grip. Don’t be so uptight.”

  Easy for her to say. Holding on tight helped me keep my mind on the game. As long as I gripped a club, I stayed in the here and now. I had all of next week to replay the wild shots and near misses in my head. I didn’t need them haunting me during play.

  I shot Jonette my patented death glare, and she giggled. She, of course, had only used three strokes to reach the ninth green. Her tap-in putt gave her a par for the hole.

  I dreamed about pars.

  Birdies and eagles too.

  They were endangered species in my double-bogey world.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and contemplated the trek to the cart to get my stupid seven iron. I didn’t want to expend the effort. Golf was angles and loft, numbers basically. As an accountant, numbers were my forte. I sho
uld be able to make my putter into a wedge if I got the contact angle right. I moved the ball up in my address to add loft to my flat-faced putter. The ball needed to fly over the long tufts of grass between it and the green so that its direction stayed true.

  Ignoring the doubts in my head, I whacked the ball. It sailed over the apron as planned and trickled to a stop six inches from the hole. Satisfaction hummed in my veins.

  “Nice up,” Jonette said.

  “Thanks.” I tapped in for an eight, wishing I’d turned my brain on nine holes ago. I bagged my putter and plopped into the passenger side of the golf cart.

  Jonette drove us toward the pro shop, where we would turn in our score card. The pro shop. Rafe was in there. I snatched off my red Titleist ball cap and tried to fluff my hat-flattened hair. Why didn’t golf carts come with vanity mirrors?

  “What’s the damage?” I asked, not really wanting to know my golf score but needing closure on this round of golf.

  “Not bad, not bad.” Jonette whipped our score card off the steering wheel and waved it in my face. “Double-check my math. Looks like forty-five for me and sixty-two for you.”

  I reviewed the scores, summed the numbers in my head, and signed the edge of the card to attest the scoring. “These check out.” My heart sank at the total, even though a sixty-two was eight strokes better than my score had been earlier this summer. I crushed my hat in my hands.

  In my wildest dreams I’d never imagined a handsome, sought-after hunk like Rafe Golden would be attracted to a small-town woman like me. While we weren’t professing our undying love for each other, the “L” word lurked in the back of my mind. Scary thing that, especially when I didn’t know if the feeling was mutual.

  Jonette veered off the sunny cart path into the shade of the leafy Ligustrum hedge between the course and the pro shop. She hit the brakes and shot me a razor-sharp glance. “You gonna tell me what’s eating you, or do I have to wring it out of you?”