This was very, very bad.
Unthinkable.
The pieces of the puzzle resolved in my head. With each connected piece, the picture became clearer. Mama and Erica. Rivals and combatants. Mama alive. Erica dead. Mama’s car damaged. Erica dead.
Even to a rank amateur like me, the evidence pointed to a devastating conclusion. I shook my head in disbelief. This was Mama I was talking about. She was stubborn, opinionated, and bossy, and those were her finer qualities.
Stars twinkled in the night sky overhead. Crickets chirped in the darkness. A light went on in my next-door neighbor’s kitchen. A diesel pickup truck rumbled past on Main Street. And I stood beside my mother’s damaged car in my driveway.
Ordinary things. Trivial things
But my life wasn’t ordinary or trivial any longer.
A cold-blooded killer lived under my roof.
Chapter 5
When the door to the outer office of Sampson Accounting finally opened on Thursday, I startled and tipped over the mug of pens on my desk. Annoyed at my clumsiness, I brushed the mess off my ledger and tucked today’s newspaper under my arm. “There you are. I was getting worried about you.” Madonna followed me to the connecting doorway.
Mama didn’t have her usual glow. Her lipstick was crooked, and her moss-green jacket was one button off from top to bottom. Her triple-stranded pearls tangled on her pale neck. Even her helmet of white hair seemed flatter than usual.
“Some days it takes longer to pull body and soul together,” Mama said. “But I’m here now. Is there an accounting emergency?”
Judging by her haphazard grooming and tardiness, the news of Erica’s death had hit her hard, not that she’d admit it. I could make sure she didn’t see our paper, but that wouldn’t stop others from telling her about the article.
“Business is slow, the same as yesterday and the day before,” I said. “I was concerned about you. The news yesterday shocked and upset me. I thought you might want to take the day off.”
Mama squared her notepads and fiddled with her pens. “I can work.”
“But you don’t have to. I can manage on my own for a few days.”
“No way. I skip work and the next thing you know I’ll be shipped off to an old folk’s home. There’s no law that says you have to retire at sixty-five. I’m still rocking along on all eight cylinders.”
“That you are, but one of your acquaintances died yesterday. Even if you didn’t like her, it’s okay to take time to process your feelings.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
“Cut that out, Cleo. I hate it when you do that thing with your eyebrows.”
My hands crept up to my face. Nothing seemed amiss. But Mama’s fleeting smile gave her away. She’d almost deflected the conversation from herself to me. Almost.
Though I hated to deliver bad news, Mama needed to know what was in this paper. She needed to know before one of her friends called to discuss it. Showing her the paper was the right thing to do. So why did I feel so lousy?
“Take a look at today’s paper.” I unfolded it on her desk. She paled at the screaming headline, jumped up, and fixed a cup of coffee. Was she running from the news or the truth?
“You have to face this, Mama,” I said.
“Maybe I don’t want to. Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Yours, Mama. If you don’t want to see it, I can read it aloud.”
Mama sniffled. “Suit yourself.”
Determined to see this through, I picked up the paper and read the top story aloud to her. “Prominent Civic Leader and Beloved Philanthropist Dead. A vehicular incident behind Trinity Episcopal Church resulted in the death of a fifty-eight-year-old Hogan’s Glen woman. Erica Crandall Hodges was pronounced dead at the scene by the county coroner, according to an official spokesperson. Detective Britt Radcliffe is investigating the incident and had no comment at press time.
“Mayor Darnell Reynolds is saddened by our loss. ‘I will personally monitor the investigation,’ Reynolds said. ‘Erica Hodges was a well-respected member of our community and she will be sorely missed. Erica’s unexpected demise leaves a large hole in many of our charitable organizations. Her death will be thoroughly investigated and appropriate measures will be taken to see that justice is served.’
“Erica Crandall Hodges was a direct descendant of Hogan’s Glen founder Lucian Crandall. Ms. Hodges was the driving force behind the Crandall Reading Room in the Hogan’s Glen Public Library. Anyone who has information about the incident is encouraged to step forward.”
Mama circled around me with her steaming coffee. The pungent aroma of strong coffee mixed with her heavy-handed floral perfume to form a cloying yet familiar vapor.
“So?” she asked.
Couldn’t she see that a kindergartener could connect the obvious dots from Erica to Mama? Couldn’t she see how serious this was? “Britt will ask you questions about Erica’s death. What will you tell him?”
Mama set her cup down so fast that black coffee slopped over the rim onto a stack of yellow sticky notes. Her shoulders sagged. “I’ll tell him the same thing I told you. Erica Hodges got what she deserved.”
I died a little inside. Please God, let her have an alibi. Let there be a reasonable explanation for the damage to her car. “That kind of attitude will get you arrested.”
“When it comes to Erica Hodges, all I have is attitude. That woman rode on my coattails for nearly forty years. She was a miserable excuse for a human being, and the only reason people tolerated her at all was because of her revered ancestors.”
I circled Mama’s desk, Madonna at my heels. I’d gotten nowhere with the kid-glove approach. Time to get serious. I didn’t want so much as a desk coming between us. “Be that as it may, Erica Hodges had family and friends who cared about her. Britt knows you two quarreled recently. You have to be prepared for his questions. What were you doing when she was killed?”
Mama mopped up the spilled coffee with a handful of paper towels. “Seeing as how I don’t know what time she was killed, I can’t answer your question.”
Can’t or wouldn’t? She couldn’t dissuade me that easily. “I was there for your fight with Erica on Monday. The whole room heard you two go at it.” I cleared my throat. “And there’s the little matter of your car.”
“What about my car?” Mama barred her arms across her formidable chest. The pale green fabric of her suit coat strained at the shoulder seams.
I returned Mama’s unblinking stare. “Your bumper and headlight are smashed.”
Color flooded Mama’s face. “You’re making that up. Don’t tease me like that.” The triple-stranded pearls at Mama’s neckline dug into her neck as she swallowed thickly.
I waved her toward the door. “Go look if you don’t believe me.”
Mama swept past me so fast I got caught in her draft. Madonna and I shadowed her to the driveway. Mama stood with her hands on her hips in the dappled sunlight and studied the damage. Anger then fear flashed across her face.
Her changeable expression reminded me of shock and awe, the military term for a powerful weapons demonstration. Only, Mama looked as if she’d been at the detonation end of the missiles.
“This isn’t right,” she whispered.
Her shoulders trembled, and her hand clutched at her breast. The color drained from her face. A fresh wave of alarm shot through me as I realized how stressed she was. “Let’s get you inside out of this bright sun, Mama.” And closer to your heart medication.
I steered her to the rocker in the living room, Madonna padding silently beside us, her belly waddling as she walked. I brought Mama a glass of water and her pills, then sat across from her and waited. Her color slowly returned to normal as she sat motionless in the rocking chair.
Madonna thrust her head in my lap, and I stroked her broad head. Poor Madonna. Her world had been turned upside down twice, once with her owner’s death and then again with her pregnancy. Her life would never retur
n to its old familiar routine. Events were sweeping her along in a new direction, one she’d never before envisioned.
I understood completely. I’d finally found a new normal, and now this. I wasn’t mentally prepared to deal with Mama killing anyone. Taking a life went against everything she’d ever taught me. I couldn’t reconcile her damaged car with what was in my heart. But she could. Or at least, I hoped she could.
I brushed a clump of dog hair off my fingers onto the Oriental carpet. Time for some answers. “How did that happen?” I asked, nodding toward the driveway.
Mama’s knuckles gleamed on the padded handles of her rocker. “I have no idea.”
Her lips pursed so tight that deep lines ran from her mouth clear back to her ears. I blinked in astonishment at how old and tired she looked. Mama never wrinkled her face like that. She made a point of living a wrinkle-free existence. This was really bad.
“You don’t remember hitting anything?” I asked.
“I didn’t hit anything.”
“You hit something.”
“My car hit something.”
“Did you loan your car to anyone recently?”
“No.”
“Did you notice it was unlocked or parked in a different place?”
“No.” Mama regarded me with unblinking brown eyes. “Why are you giving me the third degree over this?”
“Because I can’t get a straight answer out of you.”
Mama sipped her water. “Erica got me good this time. Even in death she one-upped me.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Are you smoking crack? Do you think she staged her own death? It’s not possible.”
“Erica hated me.”
“I know that, and everyone in this town knows it, too. Let’s start over. Where were you Tuesday night?”
“Out.”
We were back to that, were we? I stared at Mama, and she stared right back. “Out where?”
Mama’s head drooped, and her chin quivered. Whatever she was hiding, it greatly troubled her. Did she run over Erica? The question flashed in my head like a possessed computer cursor.
Another thought occurred to me. Mama had been forgetful and disoriented before Erica died. Was her medication to blame? Could her recent behavior be a side effect of the pills she was taking?
Nah. I picked up her prescriptions from the pharmacy. Her pills and dosage hadn’t changed in the last six months. What else would make her behavior change?
An undiagnosed medical condition could explain her odd behavior. What if she was blacking out? That would explain why she didn’t know what happened to her car.
If I was right, Mama needed a doctor’s attention. I could fix that. I stood abruptly. Madonna whimpered at being dislodged off my leg. “I’m going to get you in to see Doctor Cannon this afternoon.”
“I’m not sick.” Mama shook her head in defiance. “I don’t need a doctor. I won’t keep the appointment.”
I sank back down on the sofa and recalculated. Just because she wouldn’t go see her favorite doctor didn’t mean she was healthy. “Don’t shut me out, Mama. I want to help.”
Nothing. No response. What was she afraid of? I approached the problem from a different direction. “I’m not going to stick you in a nursing home.”
Anger flashed across her face with the intensity of a summer thunderstorm. “Damn right you’re not. This is my home.”
“Why can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
Mama seemed fascinated by the whirls in the carpet.
Frustration had me shoving my fists into the sofa cushions. The damage to her car and her unexplained absence were big problems. It irked me that she didn’t understand. “Mama, did anyone see you when you were ‘out’ Tuesday evening?”
She shot me another tight-lipped stare.
My heart sank. Daddy used to say that if it looked like a duck and quacked like a duck, it was probably a duck. Using that logic, Mama might be guilty. My back teeth ground together.
A good daughter wouldn’t let her Mama go to jail.
Although I didn’t wish ill health on Mama, a medical problem would be a convenient excuse. An illness would provide her with extenuating circumstances and possibly absolve her from any wrongdoing.
Like inadvertently running over Erica Hodges.
How could I work this medical angle?
I’d need a doctor.
I didn’t need Mama’s permission to talk to Doctor Cannon. Once he heard about her cagey behavior and possible blackout, he’d demand Mama come in for an evaluation. If he changed Mama’s medicine, it might be all the ammunition a good lawyer would need to get her off a murder conviction.
“Are we done here?” she asked.
Mama’s voice sounded suspiciously fine. My wishful thinking about a medical defense faded. Mama was nobody’s fool. She was one sharp cookie, and she’d played on my sympathy.
She’d probably counted on me overreacting and dragging her in for a battery of medical tests. At her age, they were bound to find something wrong if they looked long enough. I had to be strong here. I needed tough love to deal with a slippery Mama.
“No, we aren’t done.” I sprang to my feet and paced the room. Madonna followed my progress with sad eyes. But I couldn’t worry about the dog right now. I had to keep Mama out of jail. “Who ran over Erica Hodges?” I asked.
Mama studied the carpet. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know or won’t tell?” My shoe banged into the back of the sofa and startled the dog. Madonna scurried behind Mama’s chair.
“You’re scaring the dog, and frankly, you’re scaring me too. Are you going to kick me next?” Mama asked.
Her defensive reaction verified her mental fitness. I leaned on the sofa. My tense fingers dug into padding along the sofa back. “Of course not. Have I ever been violent with you or the girls? These questions are for your own good. Can’t you see that?”
“No.”
I covered my eyes with my hand. Mama was stonewalling me and the only reason that made any sense was that she was guilty. I didn’t want that to be true. God, I didn’t want that to be true. But I didn’t have any other answers. The chilling realization turned my stomach and I knew an awful sense of loss.
This situation was beyond my control. The only way I could help her was to delay the inevitable. That wasn’t lying. Not really. “Until we get a handle on things, leave your car parked in the driveway. We don’t want to advertise your accident.”
“The car had an accident,” Mama asserted. “I didn’t.”
“Right. The car. It drove itself into someone.”
We glared at each other again like steely-eyed gunfighters.
Why wouldn’t she tell me what happened?
“Hey, anybody home?” Jonette called from the kitchen.
Madonna thumped her tail on the hardwood floor at the familiar sound of Jonette’s voice. The dog crept out from behind the rocking chair to greet Jonette.
I blinked away my confusion and turned to greet my friend.
“Am I interrupting?” Jonette knelt to hug the dog. A sliver of tanned back winked at me as her snug blue top stayed put and her sunny shorts stretched to accommodate her new position. “I knocked. When nobody answered, I let myself in.”
“You’re always welcome here, Jonette. You know that.” How much of our conversation had she overheard? I clenched my hands together at my waist, hoping for the conversation fairy to help me out.
“I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late,” she said.
“Late?” I blinked some more.
“Don’t tell me you forgot.”
At my blank look, Jonette said, “The vet appointment. Madonna has a prenatal checkup in ten minutes. Doctor Murphy at the animal clinic. Ringing any bells now?”
“Oh.” Air leaked rapidly out of my lungs. Worry about Mama had scrambled my circuits. Maybe I needed a doctor’s appointment. “I forgot.”
“I’ll grab Madonna’s leash and wait with her outside whi
le you get your purse.” Jonette petted Madonna again and made kissing sounds. “Come on, sugar. We’re going for a walk.”
Madonna padded off with Jonette. I turned to tell Mama we’d finish this later and her rocker was empty. Didn’t she know that her furtive behavior made her appear guiltier? My hand went to my mouth. The room spun a little off its axis. I had the sensation of tumbling through a rabbit hole into another universe.
I wanted to help Mama, to protect her. How could I cover for her when she wasn’t being honest with me?
* * * * *
Jonette poked me with her elbow. “Do you have any questions, Cleo?”
I shook the wool from my head. I had plenty of questions. But the stocky veterinarian in baby-blue scrubs didn’t have the answers I needed. Only Mama had the answers, and Mama wasn’t talking. “No questions.”
I had caught the gist of what the vet said, but a doggie prenatal visit couldn’t hold my attention today. On the other hand, Jonette appeared to be hanging onto young Dr. Murphy’s every word.
The vet folded his paw-print-decorated stethoscope around his neck and caught my eye. “I urge you to minimize this dog’s distress.”
His patronizing tone cut right through my fugue. Did he believe I stayed up nights plotting ways to upset the dog? Frustration spiked through my bloodstream. “I’m already cutting her a lot of slack. You want me to spend every minute of the day with her?”
“I realize that’s unlikely, even from the most devoted pet owners.” The vet managed a little half smile that didn’t reach his slate-gray eyes. “Madonna’s anxiety is real. Relieve her distress as much as possible. A healthy, happy mom makes a great mother.”
I’d experienced that firsthand. When my marriage failed, I’d been less attentive to my daughters. I’d been lucky they hadn’t acted out. For a time it seemed all of us walked on eggshells.
Dr. Murphy was charging me eighty-five dollars for this advice. If I didn’t respond appropriately, he’d repeat himself until I got it. No sense running up extra charges on my bill. I mentally reviewed his speaking points and recited them for him. “Got it. Keep the dog calm. Let her pee as much as she wants. No problem.”
2 On the Nickel Page 6
