Mama drew herself up to her full five-feet-four inches. A determined gleam glittered in her eyes. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not leaving me out of this. Not when my butt is on the line. I’m manning the church kitchen for the funeral reception. That’s my final answer.”
Chapter 11
As I dressed in my black sheath dress and strappy sandals for Erica’s funeral Monday afternoon, the notion of Mama and Bud Flook as lovers danced through my head. She’d blindsided me with that news. Not that she didn’t deserve happiness.
Heat rose to my face. Gracious, who was I to judge anyone in that regard? I was enjoying being “happy” again. What would sex be like when I was in my sixties? Would it still be the blood-racing, earth-shattering, thrilling event of age thirty-eight?
I hoped so.
Madonna whimpered as I buckled the slender straps at my ankles. “You’ll be fine, Madonna. Take a short nap, and I’ll be home before you know it.”
I applied a hint of blush, dark brown mascara, and neutral lip balm, then splashed on a dab of new cologne. Slightly lemony with a hint of musk and sandalwood. Understated. Elegant. It suited the new me.
The new me came with old responsibilities—namely, saving Mama from the slammer. Unless I came up with proof she’d been framed, she would take the fall. I’d dreaded answering the door and the phone on Sunday, sure that the police would be there. But the phone hadn’t rung, and we’d had no uninvited visitors.
My suspect pool was as broad as Erica’s circle of acquaintances: basically everyone in a ten-mile radius, which was way too many to investigate. The people who spent the most time with her were those senior ladies, which was where I would focus my snooping. My gut insisted they knew more than they were telling.
Erica had been raised in historic Crandall House in Hogan’s Glen, the town her ancestor founded. She’d come from money, and she’d married money. She’d received two million in life insurance money when her husband died twenty years ago. Hard to believe she’d run through that much money in Hogan’s Glen.
I already knew she’d been short on money. She’d stiffed her hairdresser and extorted money from her peers. Every ounce of my accounting blood insisted Erica’s death was about money. One thing about money. It left a trail. All I had to do was find it.
Erica’s heirs, Evan and Eleanor, would be at the funeral. I’d read newspaper accounts of kids killing their parents for money. Hunky Evan and Perfect Eleanor didn’t appear to be cold-blooded killers, but, hey, I was desperate. If I didn’t find a credible suspect, Mama would go to prison.
I shifted a few items into my black purse and hit the stairs. The funeral started in half an hour. I planned to hang out in the church kitchen and ask everyone plenty of loaded questions. And keep Mama out of trouble. Couldn’t forget that important task.
Mama waited on the bench by the front door in her funeral attire of black crepe jacket dress, triple-stranded pearls, sheer stockings, and black pumps. Next to her were glass trays of deviled eggs and sliced banana nut bread. Both looked suspiciously normal.
“What took you so long?” she asked. “I don’t like to be late.”
I put on a good face. “You ready to kick some funeral butt?”
Mama rose. Her dark eyes sparkled. “I was born to kick funeral butt. Let’s go.”
As I drove us to the church in the Gray Beast, Mama fingered the dusty console. “Charla’s going to be driving soon. She needs a new car,” Mama said.
Yep. Mama was back in fighting form again. I’d missed sparring with her. I grinned. “Charla’s not getting a new car. If I buy a second car, she’ll get this one.”
“This car’s older than dirt. She wants something peppy.”
Alarms clanged in my head. “Peppy will get her killed. She needs a safe car to drive.”
“You sound just like your father. I tried to get him to buy you a little convertible, and he wouldn’t do it. Said he’d rather have his daughter alive.”
His caring filled me with righteous fervor. “I’m still alive, so he must have been right.”
“You accountants are a boring, dull lot,” Mama said, but there was an undercurrent of praise in her voice.
It felt good to talk about Daddy. I’d missed him so much these last few years. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d really thought about him. Maybe that was the key. Thinking about him would remind me of the things he used to do and say.
What would he do in my shoes? He’d go into this funeral reception loaded for bear. He’d grill everyone there, from the kitchen help, to the clergy, to the mourners. He wouldn’t leave a stone unturned until he found out who killed Erica Hodges. I wouldn’t, either. Not when Mama’s freedom was at stake.
“Let me out here,” Mama said as I drove under the portico at the parish hall entrance.
“Forget it.” I frowned and kept driving until I found a parking space in the back. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. We’re doing this together or we’re going home.”
“I thought you trusted me.”
“I do trust you. It’s everyone else I don’t trust. Sending you in there alone is like sending Charla off in a peppy car. It’s not going to happen.”
Mama couldn’t quite hold her smile in as we walked into the parish hall together. I couldn’t remember when I’d felt this in sync with her. We were a team. I wouldn’t let her down.
“You’re late, Dee,” Francine said as we walked into the large industrial-sized kitchen bearing our containers of food. She shook an arthritic finger at Mama, the motion sending the tiny polka dots of her dress into a frenzied flight.
“Yeah, well, we can’t all be early birds like you,” Mama snapped back. “Muriel, get your head out of the fridge before you freeze your boobs off.”
Muriel peeked around the refrigerator. Her soft white hair clouded around a cherubic face and an impish smile. She’d matched her lipstick to her dusty rose-colored cardigan. “You all right, Delilah? No more house arrest?”
“Put those down over there,” Mama said, pointing me toward the center island. “Did anyone start the coffee?”
“We wouldn’t start the coffee without you,” Muriel said, containers of orange juice and ginger ale in her thin arms.
I set down the trays of deviled eggs on the stainless-steel counter. “Shouldn’t these go in the refrigerator?”
“Fine. Fine. Everyone’s a critic these days,” Mama said. She stowed our purses under the counter and pulled out red cotton vests for us to wear. The word “Hospitality” was embroidered in black thread in the upper left side of each vest.
I donned a vest, cinching the sides so that it fit me. Then I put the deviled eggs in the fridge. “What should I do?”
“All the serving dishes need to be wiped off,” Francine said.
I opened cabinets until I found the good stuff. The sterling silver dishes had been a gift to the church from Erica’s grandmother. “They look clean to me,” I observed as I pulled them down.
“Wipe them down,” Mama said, wrestling the top off the large coffee urn.
I had visions of coffee grounds flying everywhere. I placed the gleaming platters on the counter and rushed to Mama’s side. “Let me help you with that, Mama.”
She brushed me aside. “I can do it.”
I took the urn from her and tried the lid. It stuck fast until I twisted with all my might. “Good heavens. Why don’t y’all replace this monster? Get something that’s more manageable.”
Francine cackled as she poured mixed nuts into small crystal bowls. “Can we keep her, Dee? I like hearing her sass you.”
“Cleo’s not here for your entertainment.” Mama filled the coffee pot with water. “She’s here to find a murderer.”
I stopped in my tracks. This wasn’t how we had agreed to proceed. “Mama!”
She fussed with the coffee urn as if she hadn’t seriously deviated from our game plan. “I don’t care what you think, Cleopatra Jones. Francine and Muriel didn’t kill Erica.”
>
Mama’s statements clanked around the tile floor of the industrial-sized kitchen. Francine’s hand fluttered to her apricot-colored lips. “You suspected us?”
With a harsh stare at Mama, I picked up a clean dish cloth and wiped off the spotless sterling silver trays. “I suspect everyone. Muriel, last Friday you mentioned your grandson and his college entrance exams. How did you handle that?”
Muriel’s pale skin went a tone lighter than her white hair. She gripped her clutched hands to her breast. Her watery blue eyes went wide behind her large glasses.
“Cleo, you don’t need to know that,” Mama said, standing next to Muriel.
“Yes, I do, Mama. We have to eliminate suspects or we’ll never get anywhere.”
Francine turned to her sister. “She’s going to eliminate us, Muriel. I should have had Joan color my hair this morning. I always wanted to be a blonde.”
I couldn’t believe Francine was cracking jokes. Anger hummed through my veins. “This is serious. Erica is dead, and someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look like Mama killed her. Was it one of you?”
Muriel laughed shakily. “You don’t know us very well, do you, Little Dee?”
I shook my cleaning cloth at her. “I’m not little. And I want to know what happened with your grandson, Muriel. What did you do?”
“I paid Erica off, of course. What choice did I have?”
She said it so matter-of-factly that her admission floored me. Erica had her fingers in the same pies as these women, the hospital auxiliary, the church, the library board. “How could you work beside a woman who extorted money from you for years?”
“I didn’t like her. None of us did. But we wouldn’t kill her. We made a pact years ago.”
“A pact? What kind of pact?”
“One where we would stick together. Don’t you see? Erica was into all of us.”
“You, too, Francine?”
Francine nodded.
“What did she have on you?”
Francine chewed her lip and stole a glance at Mama. “Do I have to tell her?”
Mama nodded.
“She knew about my gambling problem. She made me sign over the deed of my house to her to cover a gambling debt.”
“Your house? The house where you and Muriel live?”
“Yes. We pay her a thousand dollars a month to rent our own house. It was either that or be put out on the street.”
“Where do you get that kind of money?”
“We pool our Social. We work part-time at the drugstore. We manage.”
“What happens with your house now?”
“We don’t know.” Worry lines etched across Muriel’s powdered forehead.
“One last question,” I said. “Where did you two go on Tuesday night after the hospitality meeting?”
“We didn’t go anywhere,” Francine said. “We were in for the night. The night-blind thing, remember?”
“Are we in the clear?” Light glinted off Muriel’s oversized glasses.
“I suppose so,” I said, glumly heading back to my stack of sterling silver platters.
More food trays came in, and we didn’t get another chance to talk about Erica’s blackmailing ways again. Between making the coffee, mixing up the punch, pressing the linens, setting up the serving tables, and handling the donated food, we couldn’t catch our breath.
But the new information churned in my head. Francine had deeded her house to Erica. That meant Erica’s heirs now owned Francine’s charming little two-bedroom Victorian cottage. Would the bulletin sisters soon be homeless?
Jonette brought in a bag of fancy chocolate mints after the reception started. She was a vibrant study in royal blue. She leaned close so she wouldn’t be overheard. “Did you see the ‘For Sale’ sign?”
“What sign?” I poured the mints into a crystal dish and prayed she wasn’t talking about Francine’s house. If Mama’s friends were put out on the street, she’d insist we take them in. I’d have to move Lexy in with Charla to make everyone fit. And, if I remembered correctly, Muriel had two large cats. Between the cats, the soon-to-arrive puppies, and the people, my house would become a zoo overnight. I didn’t want that.
Jonette munched on a handful of cashews. She leaned in and whispered, “The sign in front of Crandall House. It’s on the market.”
My jaw dropped. Thoughts tumbled out of my mouth in a breathy rush. “My God. That house has been in the Crandall family for generations. I can’t believe they’d sell it. Erica isn’t even in the ground yet.”
“No kidding.”
Didn’t they value their family heritage? I peeked out the kitchen door at Evan and Eleanor. The dark knight and the ice maiden. Who knew they were so greedy? What was it with this family and money? Where did their money go?
To follow Erica’s money, I needed a credit report. My heart sank at the obvious answer. Charlie could get it for me. All I had to do was ask. There was no time to lose.
I shrugged out of my hospitality vest and handed it to Jonette. “Cover for me. I’ll be right back.”
I stepped into the crowded reception room, scanned the room, and caught Charlie’s roving eye. He loped across the room to greet me. It didn’t escape my notice that he wore the charcoal suit I’d bought him for Daddy’s funeral and the tie clip I’d given him on our last Christmas together.
My nails bit into my palms. I was doing this for Mama.
“You’re looking delectable, Mrs. Jones.” Charlie sniffed my ear. “Smell good too. Sassy. Sexy.”
Thank God I had on my spiky sandals and towered over him. “Give it a rest, Charlie. I need to talk to you.”
Charlie put his hand on the small of my back and steered me into a vacant corner of the reception hall. He leaned one arm against the wall, blocking me in. “Excellent. Because I wanted to talk to you, babe.”
The fluorescent lights seemed overly bright, the roar of conversation in the room too loud. What did Charlie want? The only thing I had that he wanted was custody of the kids. My blood pressure spiked. He was not getting full custody of the girls. He was the adulterer. Not me.
“I want Lexy to have the digital camera she needs for the yearbook staff,” Charlie said.
I allowed myself a small breath of air, releasing my fear. Indignation followed. “You dragged me over here to tell me that?”
His smug smile made my blood boil. The girls were my Achilles’ heel, and he knew it. He’d punched my buttons, and I’d let him. Now I had to deal with his inflated male ego. “That camera is too expensive. I can’t afford it, even with the child support you pay.”
“I wasn’t asking you to pay for it. I’ll buy it. I wanted your approval first.”
That wasn’t how Charlie operated. I scrutinized the face I knew so well. The angular jaw, chiseled lips, humped nose, blue eyes, and lady-killer eyelashes. The face that had shattered my heart into a million pieces. “Who are you, and where is the real Charlie Jones?”
He sobered. “I’ve changed, babe. I’m on a mission to get my family back.”
I shook my head emphatically. “Not happening.”
“You’ve gotten your way on everything, Cleo. All I’m asking is for you to give me a chance.”
He thought a few apologies would make me forget he’d brought another woman into our bed?
No way in hell. “You can’t turn back the clock on this. I’m not stupid enough to trust you again.”
Charlie took my hand and cradled it gently. “I’m not asking you to blindly believe. I want to show you the kind of man I am. Give me this chance. That’s all I’m asking.”
His familiar scent filled my senses, and, against my will, a flood of good memories returned. Memories of us holding baby Charla. Of Charlie smiling at me on the porch swing as if I was more precious than the rarest diamond.
I tried to withdraw my hand, but he must have sensed my softening attitude. With the pad of his thumb, Charlie traced small circles on the back of my hand.
I prayed f
or divine intervention. A lightning bolt setting the church on fire would be nice. A moment passed, and nothing untoward happened. Drat. “Buy her the camera, then. I’m not stopping you.”
“That’s not all. I want to help you with this.”
“This?” I blinked in confusion.
“Your mother. Erica. The whole thing. Like we talked about in the Tavern on Saturday. Only, no rain check. I want to be involved. What can I do?”
I snatched my hand away. Letting him help wasn’t caving in. I’d come out here to ask him for his help. “I understand Erica had money troubles. I want to know what happened to her money.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. I have to go.” I moved to duck under his arm, but I misjudged the clearance needed and smacked my head into his rigid arm. I reeled and would have fallen flat on my face if Charlie hadn’t steadied me. His hands rested heavily on my waist.
Heat poured off me. Why had I thought these stupid heels were a good idea?
“You forgot something, sweetheart.” Charlie’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief.
I narrowed my gaze and shot him my death glare. He seemed entirely too pleased with himself. Was it possible he’d set me up so that he’d have reason to grab me?
“Is there a problem here?” Rafe asked.
The testosterone level in my corner of the room bounced off the chart with Rafe’s arrival. Though his outfit of khaki trousers, white Polo, and navy blazer looked less formal than Charlie’s suit, I thought he looked just right. Perfect, in fact. I smiled brightly at him and shrugged off Charlie’s grip. “No problem. None at all.”
Charlie’s gaze darkened, but he let me pass. I thanked God for that small miracle. The last thing I needed was to start a brawl at Erica’s funeral reception. “I need some punch,” I said to Rafe.
He accompanied me over to the punch bowl. Muriel dipped us two cups of punch, but I couldn’t meet her questioning gaze. I downed a cup of punch in one gulp. Rafe refused his.
2 On the Nickel Page 15
