DIME IF I KNOWD
A DEBUTANTE DETECTIVE MYSTERY
DIME IF I KNOW
MAGGIE TOUSSAINT
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
* * *
Copyright © 2013 by Maggie Toussaint
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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 work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning, digitizing, taping, Web distribution, information networks, or information storage and retrieval systems, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.
* * *
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Toussaint, Maggie.
Dime if I know : a Cleopatra Jones mystery / Maggie Toussaint. — First Edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4328-2718-2 (hardcover) — ISBN 1-4328-2718-9 (hardcover)
eISBN 978-1-4328-2900-1 eISBN 1-4328-2900-9
1. Single mothers—Fiction. 2. Women accountants—Fiction. 3. Maryland—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.O89D56 2013
813′.6—dc23 2013008359
* * *
First Edition. First Printing: August 2013
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN 978-1-4328-2900-1 ISBN 1-4328-2900-9
Find us on Facebook– https://www.facebook.com/FiveStarCengage
Visit our website– http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/
Contact Five Star™ Publishing at [email protected]
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 17 16 15 14 13
This book is dedicated to Ben Phillips and Hunter Adams.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
Former police detective Lee Lofland provided insight into evidence and arrests. Critique partner Polly Iyer was instrumental in helping the book shine. Thanks to beta reader Craig Toussaint for that last comb-through. The nod for moral support goes to friends and family near and far. Any mistakes or errors in this book are mine and mine alone.
CHAPTER 1
* * *
Sunlight feels different in October. Thinner. Paler. Cooler. Unwanted change rides on the biting wind. In general, change doesn’t suit me, but this fall I want something different. The idea began as a whisper skulking around the edge of my summer thoughts. As weeks passed, the notion solidified. Points pro and con volleyed through my consciousness, occupying more and more of my waking hours.
“Cleo?” my golf pro boyfriend asked. “What were your swing thoughts on that shot? Did you mean to hit a duck hook?”
Rafe Golden’s voice drew me back from my musings. I could give him the answer he wanted to hear. I could pretend to be paying attention to his golf lesson, but I wouldn’t lie to him. Instead, I leaned on my six iron and studied him. “I was thinking about something else. You.”
Heat burned in his eyes, but his tanned face remained the epitome of professionalism. “The mental side of golf is as exacting as the physical. Great golfers go through the same preshot routine before they strike the ball as amateurs do. Settle your thoughts, and let muscle memory guide you.”
I nodded, breathing in his just-showered scent, treasuring the sexy twinkle in his dark eyes, the languid grace of his lanky frame, and the baritone timbre of his voice. I was so gone on him it was pathetic.
“I can do better.” With that, I whacked a few more dimpled balls, some on target, some on tangents, but mechanics like stance, grip, and swing plane didn’t hold my attention today.
My name is Cleopatra Jones, Cleo for short, and I’m crazy about my golf pro. When I’m not with him, I fantasize about the magic of his touch. When I’m with him, reality more than matches my fantasy. Who’d have thought I’d ever have a hot affair?
Not bad for a thirty-five-year-old divorcée and mother of two teens.
Not bad at all.
But trouble lurked in paradise.
I’d begun hearing wedding bells. Rafe had been clear from the start that this was an affair. I didn’t want to jeopardize my excellent fringe benefits with talk of lasting commitment. Except I couldn’t stop thinking about how nice it would be to have him as a fixture in my life, how nice it would be to wake up next to his smiling face every morning.
I wanted more than great sex and sneaking home in the middle of the night. I wanted to have this settled. To not worry about date clothes or morning breath. To be the upstanding citizen my late father expected me to be.
“Cleo?”
Uh-oh. I’d drifted off again. We’d been at this for thirty minutes, and if I kept stinking up the course, the club’s owners would surely fire Rafe for being the worst golf instructor in the known world.
I shot him a guilty smile. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible shot.”
“You seem distracted.”
“I am.” I did a quick calculation. “We’ve been at this a while now. I’ve had a dozen lessons, and I’m not improving. You’re a great instructor, I know you are. I saw what you did with Lorenzo Baker’s swing. But we should face facts. When we’re together, I can’t focus on golf.”
He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. Electricity snapped in the air between us. My thoughts veered to the last time I ran my fingers through his strawberry blond hair, to when his six-foot frame had been riveted on giving us both pleasure.
I punched him playfully in the shoulder. “I’m serious as a heart attack. Around you, everything shorts out, and my swing thoughts vanish.”
His eyebrows waggled. “I’m sure with enough repetitions we could groove your stroke.”
“More repetitions and I’ll drive away your paying customers. A lousy player like me isn’t good for your professional image. I should take lessons from another golf pro, say Fred over at the city course, or Bobby at that new place over the mountain. At least then there wouldn’t be any physical distractions.”
“Those guys? No way. Fred’s fourth wife just left him, and he’d put a ring on your finger in a heartbeat. Bobby’s always bragging about his sexual conquests. Nope. I don’t want you going to them for anything, least of all a swing tune-up. We can keep working on it. In fact, I insist that you remain my golf student.” He edged closer. “There’s nothing I like better than our private practice sessions.”
Heat steamed off my face despite the brisk temperature of the October day. We’d practiced my swing plenty in his bedroom mirror, but clothing had been optional. “Stop, please. I can’t be thinking about that now. It’s broad daylight.”
He edged closer on the pretext of examining my club grip. His voice dropped to an intimate caress. “Why not? I think about it all the time.”
A chill tangoed down my spine. My mouth went dry. I thought about it, too. About how nice it was. About how special he made me feel. About a life centered around the two of us.
Like that would happen. I had Responsibilities and Obligations. Children I dearly loved. And Mama. Couldn’t forget her.
“
You’re incorrigible,” I said.
His warm breath feathered the side of my face. “Guilty.”
“You make me feel like a teenager.”
“God, I hope so. You’re coming over tonight, right?”
I laughed, slow and sultry, now that the balance of power had shifted. “I’m not the one who got us all hot and bothered on the driving range.”
“Want to head to my office? Jasper won’t disturb us, not if he knows what’s good for him.”
“Ooh.” The thought of his assistant pro walking in on us cleared my head. I stepped back a few paces to minimize the testosterone-induced fog. “We definitely have to wait until later. I’ve got puppy duty this afternoon. Oh, and tomorrow I can’t do lunch because I’m helping Jonette with her campaign. She wants to finalize the details for her mayoral fundraiser.”
“Does she have a chance of winning?”
“Hard to say. People either like Jonette, or they say she’s got too much baggage. She entered the race to make a point with our pompous mayor, which she’s made, so she feels successful already. Darnell stepped on plenty of toes as mayor, and White Rock will hurt him.”
“Good point. That residential development is going nowhere fast. He should’ve hired a professional to manage the White Rock property before the bottom fell out of the economy.”
“As his accountant, I advised him of that very thing, but Darnell likes to hold the reins.” I brightened. “Jonette has a radically different management style. She delegates like crazy.”
“Does this mean you’ll be mayor pro tem if she wins?”
“Lordy, I hope not.”
At a faint buzzing sound, Rafe pulled his phone from his trouser pockets, studied the number displayed, and grimaced. “Sorry. I have to take this.”
“No problem. I’m packing up anyway.”
“Don’t leave. I’ll only be a minute.”
He walked over to the ligustrum hedge, leaning into the phone for privacy. My curiosity spiked. Rafe always took his calls in front of me. Who was on the phone? My thoughts detoured to a worst-case scenario. A hurt family member. An old girl friend. A newer girl friend. A younger girl friend.
I sighed. It was a miracle that Rafe Golden dated me. Women threw themselves at him. Only he was very adept at not catching them. I couldn’t remember how many times I’d pinched myself to make sure his interest in me was real.
Me. An accountant. Dating a professional athlete.
The very idea made me smile. I tucked my club into the golf bag, sauntered around to the front of the cart, and waited for my fellow. I was a lucky woman indeed, and it was about time I caught a romantic break. This relationship with Rafe felt right, even if I longed for marriage, and he liked the status quo.
Rafe slid in beside me and wheeled the cart around in a tight circle. I gripped the side of my seat to keep from being spun out of the vehicle. “Gracious. Is there a fire?”
“What? Oh. Sorry. I was in a hurry and wasn’t thinking. Something’s come up. I have to cancel tonight. All right if we move our hot date to tomorrow night?”
“Sure.” His worried expression fanned my fears. “Did you hear bad news? Is one of your golf crew injured? Can I help?”
“Nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of it.”
His rigid posture and white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel told another story. What the heck? My curiosity and suspicion accelerated from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye.
CHAPTER 2
* * *
Men.
My insides bubbled as violently as the soup kettle on the stove before me. Rafe and I had dated exclusively for months. I thought I knew him, but did I really? He refused to talk about his family and now this. He’d blown off dinner and more from me tonight with no explanation.
On a Saturday night.
Date night.
Ugly suspicions colored my thoughts.
Who’d called him? What had they wanted? Why hadn’t he told me what was going on? He owed me more than a “Sorry, I can’t make it,” didn’t he?
Wait.
Was I thinking like a girlfriend or a wife? Damn. I was overreaching. I had no right to vent wifely outrage or expect too much from our relationship. How depressing. Being a girlfriend had more gray areas than being a wife.
I grabbed a long-tined meat fork and poked a red-skinned potato. When that slid in easily, I checked the meat. The tines of the fork went right into the meat, too. Perfect. At least cooking was one thing I did well. I turned off the burner and moved dinner to an unheated area on my stovetop.
To silence my jealous leanings, I filled my lungs with the hearty smell of the meat and vegetable dish. Nothing signaled the changing of the seasons to me like a pot roast. Something about the stick-to-your-ribs aroma put me in mind of jumping into piles of leaves and nesting on the sofa with a thick throw and a good book.
One of these days, I’d read a book from cover to cover again. As it was, I was lucky to read a chapter at night before I fell asleep. But I couldn’t complain too much. I loved being an accountant and spending time with my two kids. With the Saint Bernard puppies and Madonna, their mom, living in my house, I had my hands full.
I turned my attention to the double batch of corn muffins. They’d crowned up nicely, so I popped them in the oven to bake. Glancing out the front window, I saw my daughters, Charla and Lexy, playing with the puppies.
Now that Moses, Arnold, and Ariel were five weeks old, I hoped housebreaking was next on their list of doggie accomplishments. Seemed like we were always cleaning up a puddle or worse in the house.
With a chocolate cake on the sideboard and a tossed salad in the fridge, I joined the girls on the lawn. Arnold barrelled over to greet me, all paws and nose on my pant leg. His tail wagged his entire body.
Lexy shook her finger at me, her green eyes flashing fire. “Don’t reward him for that. Only reward him for things he does right.”
My youngest was thirteen going on thirty. I smiled at her knowing tone. Never mind that I’d raised two great kids, she believed I knew nothing about parenting puppies.
“It’s okay. I want to play with him.” I patted my thigh. “Come on, Arnold, come say hello.”
Laughing, I let him scramble over me, enjoying the many licks on my face. Hearing the laughter, Ariel bounded over. Soon the girls and Moses joined me in a big pile of puppies and children. What a perfect family moment.
“They’re so adorable. Can we keep them?” Charla asked, her red curls as saucy as her personality. At fifteen, she cared less about logic and more about wish fulfillment.
Lexy nodded eagerly. “I could train them for shows.”
Moses bottomed out on my leg. I gave him an assist. “Jonette has her pick of the litter, and the other two will go to good homes. That’s been our plan from the start.”
“Yeah, but if one goes to Jonette, it’s still sorta ours,” Charla continued. “Madonna’s really your dog. If we kept the other puppies, one could be Lexy’s and one could be mine.”
We’d inherited the mama dog this past summer. I’d learned the hard way that having two dogs this size in our house was not a good idea. Even so, I hated to be the heavy here. I’d much rather be the fun mom that always said yes.
Except the accountant part of my brain wouldn’t shut down the computations of triple food bills, triple vet bills, triple pet care responsibilities. Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Walking Madonna was akin to steering a supertanker. I couldn’t imagine walking multiple supertankers.
“They’re cute, but puppies grow up and so do teenaged girls,” I said. “Once Jonette makes her choice, we’ll find homes for the remaining puppies.”
“I have to interview the prospective owners,” Lexy said. “These puppies deserve the very best.”
As I nodded in agreement, Mama’s Olds shimmied into the driveway. Instinctively, we each grabbed a puppy. Mama popped out of the car like a mini-tornado and hurried over to us. I hadn’t seen that much pep in her step i
n months. Maybe years.
“News,” Mama said, waving her arms. Her shock of short white curls bounced with every step of her classic navy pumps. “I have news.”
Her bright red face alarmed me. Was her heart medicine in her purse? I scrambled to my feet. “Let’s go inside and get you seated first. Then you can tell us your news.”
Her smile stretched from ear to ear. “Ain’t nothing wrong with me, but I’m partial to a little coddling now and then. Lead on, McCleo.”
Moments later, we sat around the kitchen table and gazed at Mama expectantly. Delilah Sampson might have been sixty-two, but she knew how to hook an audience. “Well?” I asked, puppy in my lap.
“Well, nothing. It’s swell, that’s what it is. Absolutely, magnificently swell.”
“What’s going on, Grammy?” Charla asked.
“I never thought I’d be saying these words out loud again, but here goes.” Mama stopped for a breath deep enough to jostle the triple-stranded pearls at her neck. “I’m getting married.”
I jumped and nearly upended little Moses. “What?”
“Who?” Lexy asked.
“Where?” Charla asked.
“You heard me,” Mama said. “I’m getting hitched. To Bud. He asked me, and I said yes.”
I felt the weight of Charla and Lexy’s gazes. “Tell us the details,” I added, torn between needing to know and remaining blissfully ignorant of the particulars.
“I’ve reserved Trinity Episcopal on Saturday, three weeks from now. Father Tim agreed to marry us.”
“Three weeks. That’s soon,” I managed, thoughts spinning.
“It won’t be a huge occasion. I thought family and a few close friends would attend. A quickie wedding is all we need; it isn’t like I’m a blushing bride. The bloom has long fallen off that azalea.”
3 Dime If I Know Page 1
