2 On the Nickel

by Maggie Toussaint

  “They’re not getting my house,” Mama insisted.

  “They won’t. Not unless you jump bail.”

  “I’m not planning on skipping town, but I’m not going to jail.” Mama looked out the window at the grassy shoulder lining the road and sniffed noisily.

  That tight feeling intensified in my stomach. “You run, they get the house, and the girls and I are out on the street.”

  “Shouldn’t have put the house up,” Mama repeated, defiance sharpening her tired voice. “I’m not letting that bitch ruin my life.”

  “She won’t. I’m going to find out who set you up. Count on it.”

  Mama banged her fisted hand on the center console. “Damn Britt for arresting me.”

  My temples pounded. I pinched my nose to relieve the pressure in my head, wishing I carried ibuprofen with me. “He proved your car is the murder weapon. The paint chips on Erica’s clothes and her DNA on the Olds confirmed that. He didn’t have any choice.”

  “He knows me.” Her pale chin jutted out. “He knows I wouldn’t kill anyone.”

  According to Bud, the circumstantial case against Mama was strong enough to convict her. “Britt can’t let his personal feelings influence his judgment. He ran the evidence through the system twice.”

  “Still, he didn’t have to arrest me.”

  I concentrated on getting us home in one piece. It had been a long evening of jumping through legal hoops. Bud had demonstrated a credible familiarity with the system, and we’d navigated through the judicial maze. Without his help, I’d still be there. So would Mama.

  Jonette and Madonna met us at the front door. I was disappointed about missing the girls, but it was good they’d gone to school. “Well?” Jonette asked. Her eye sockets were rimmed with dark circles, giving us the appearance of sisters.

  Mama shuffled into the house. “I’m old as dirt, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life making license plates unless you two brainiacs figure this out.”

  I exchanged a glance with Jonette that said, we’ll talk later. “I’m hungry. Do you want something to eat, Mama?”

  “Hell, no. I’m too tired to eat. I want to go to bed and wake up tomorrow and find out this was a bad dream.”

  “Let me know if that works,” Jonette said. “I’ve got a couple of mistakes in my life that I’d like to dream away.”

  After my divorce, I’d tried the Rip Van Winkle thing. “It doesn’t work. Sleeping too much is a useless escape mechanism.”

  “Works for me,” Mama said. “I need to escape any way I can. You young people figure this out today, you hear. I don’t have a lot of time left. I’m not spending any of it in jail.”

  “Want me to help you up the stairs, Mama?”

  “No. I’m old but I’m not completely decrepit.”

  Jonette and I fixed hot tea and toast. The steam from the tea wafted up and soothed my aching head. I slathered jelly on my toast. Sugar and caffeine fixed most of life’s problems. I prayed they’d do the trick today. Between bites I said, “Thanks for staying with the girls.”

  “You couldn’t have pried me out of this house with a crowbar. I was glad to do it.”

  It felt good to be talking about something other than Mama’s arrest. “Did Dean find someone to work your shift?”

  Jonette shrugged. “He managed.”

  Her flip tone sounded wrong. Was the entire world coming unglued? “Things aren’t any better between you two?”

  “No. I’m looking forward to him leaving tomorrow for that bartender convention in Ocean City. He watches me all the time, like he’s afraid I’m going to bolt.”

  “Are you?”

  “I don’t know.” Jonette’s forehead furrowed. She rubbed her temples. “I’m thirty-eight, and I don’t have any kids. Can’t have any kids. I’ve been with six men and couldn’t make it work with the first five. Things work with Dean. But the initial rush of excitement is gone. We’re stuck in the old homebody routine.”

  I finished my tea. For the first time in hours my stomach didn’t feel hollow or queasy. “That’s what I miss most about being married.”

  “You’re domesticated. You like the homebody thing.”

  “So do you. You just won’t admit it.”

  “Let’s not talk about my failures,” Jonette said. “What’s the deal with Delilah?”

  The too-tight feeling in my stomach returned. “She’s been charged with Erica’s murder. Tests on her car conclusively proved that it killed Erica.”

  “Dang. Everyone knows about Erica and Delilah’s heated argument on Monday. Delilah must feel trapped.”

  “Britt’s sure he’s got the right person.”

  Jonette snorted. “Detective Dumb-as-Dirt is clueless. What do we have?”

  “The richest, bitchiest woman in town is dead. Run over several times by Mama’s car.”

  “I always knew that Olds was possessed.”

  “Last Tuesday, Mama drove Francine and Muriel to the seven p.m. hospitality committee meeting at church. Erica drove there in her Caddy. After the meeting broke up, Erica left first, then Mama drove Francine and Muriel home.”

  I paused to gather myself for the rest. “Mama drove over to Bud Flook’s house and stayed there for a couple of hours. Then she came home and went to bed.”

  “Bud’s house? What was she doing there?”

  I fiddled with my empty tea cup before answering. “Visiting an old friend.”

  “Someone stole her car while she was at Bud’s house?”

  “That’s the way it looks, yes.”

  “How did they know how long she would be there?”

  My fingernail traced the gouge I’d accidentally made in the table while working on my science fair project in ninth grade. At the time, I’d been frustrated because science wasn’t as straightforward as math. The tables had turned. Now I counted on science being nonlinear. “They knew her routine.”

  “Routine?” Jonette’s head popped up. “She went to see that old geezer routinely? Is she screwing him or something?”

  I closed my eyes against that image. “Or something.”

  “A couple of hours, eh?” Jonette chuckled herself into a deep belly laugh.

  “Could we get past this part? Please?”

  “Okay, spoilsport. We got senior citizen nooky, we got someone who knows how to boost a car, and we got a dead woman.”

  “A dead blackmailing woman.”

  “You’re sure about that? Who would pay blackmail these days? Everyone’s dirty laundry is already splashed all over the evening news and the Internet.”

  “The citizens of Hogan’s Glen still believe in old-fashioned honor, integrity, and reputation.”

  Jonette appeared thoughtful. “You just described yourself.”

  I ignored her remark, though I privately agreed I’d been born in the wrong generation. “Erica wasn’t blackmailing me, but she was into all of Mama’s friends.”

  “Maybe they drew straws, and the short straw had to kill her.”

  “Mama didn’t kill her. Francine and Muriel swear they didn’t kill her, though they have strong motives. They claim to be night-blind, but that could be a ruse. They had to know about Mama and Bud. Do you think either of them can hot-wire a car?”

  Jonette shrugged. “Who knows what’s in their skill set?”

  “Anyone could have driven Mama’s Olds. I wish I already knew who did it and only had to prove their guilt. Doing both in a short time frame will be hard. Who’s smart enough to pull off a premeditated crime?”

  Jonette cocked her head to the side, considering. “What about the lawyer?” she asked. “Couldn’t Bud drug your mother and run over Erica?”

  “Hmmm. His medicine chest is probably loaded with pills, like Mama’s. He would have had the means and opportunity, but why would he? Mama was already his girlfriend. What else could he want?”

  Jonette leaned back in her chair. If she was as tired as she looked and I felt, we were in trouble. But I’d sat alone for ho
urs at the jail thinking about this. “Men of Bud’s generation want to be married,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Bud Flook is a confirmed bachelor. He’s not the marrying type. He never dated any woman in town.”

  I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. “That’s because he’s been in love with Mama ever since his college days.”

  Jonette whistled through her teeth. “Holy shit.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Chapter 13

  “Caroline’s ball is the closest.” Alveeta Wagner’s orange poncho crackled as she pointed out the obvious.

  Rain dripped steadily off the brim of my red golf cap as I picked up my ball and joined her at Caroline Chiu’s ball in the rough. In this best-ball format of our league play, our foursome had naturally chosen the ball closest to the green. Thank God this was the last hole in today’s nine-hole event.

  I had better sense than to golf in the rain, but this chilly downpour had snuck up on us in the middle of our Chocolate Cake Scramble. With numb fingers, I squeezed the water out of my sodden pony tail, trying to slow the water channeling down my shirt collar. What I wouldn’t give for a cozy fire and a cup of hot coffee.

  Moisture permeated my water-resistant jacket and my navy-blue slacks. Rain wicked down my socks into my waterproof shoes and rubbed a blister on my left heel. But I wasn’t calling it quits. Not when I’d already endured four holes of rain.

  “You’re up Cleo,” Caroline announced.

  “Hold your horses. I’m coming.” I grabbed my wedge from my bag. Teeth chattering, I hurried back to the group. Raindrops pelted the brim of my cap. If only I hadn’t decided I needed to do something fun for myself, I could be warm and dry right now, like Jonette who was covering the Tavern for Dean.

  “Take your time,” Thelma Kress advised. She had the luxury of time because she was waterproof from head to toe.

  A gaping bunker stood between us and the pin. The sloping green fed down into a pond. A ball hit too hard would be lost. That water isn’t there, I told myself. There’s no sand trap, either. Just swing through this thick grass and make solid contact with the ball. Easy.

  I shook the excess moisture off my sand wedge. I was too miserable to bother with a practice swing. The faster I played, the sooner I’d be done with this round from hell. Tall grass arched over my shoes, lashed at my ankles. My grip seemed strong, but I had no feeling in my fingers. I stopped to re-grip, lifting the club in front of me to verify my hand position.

  Looked good. I committed to the stroke, taking the wedge back shoulder high, driving the club head forward. But grass caught my club face, decelerating my swing speed, and changing the angle of impact. My ball squirted into the poison ivy in the out-of-bounds area. My club sailed out of my hand and impaled itself in the sand trap.

  “Jeez, Cleo. If you don’t like your clubs, give ’em away. Don’t throw ’em,” Thelma said. Her bright pink vinyl raincoat shimmered when she moved. It amazed me that she could swing with that coat on.

  “Sorry about that.” I’d have been embarrassed if I wasn’t so darned cold. I snatched my club out of the trap. Could this day get any worse?

  Alveeta sashayed up to the same spot and dropped her ball. She shot me a superior glance, a glance that clearly said, I’m better than you. After my last disastrous shot, anything was certainly possible.

  But the golf gods had a sense of humor after all. Alveeta whiffed. Missed her ball by a mile. I turned to hide my smile. Alveeta and I had a long history, none of it good.

  I mouthed the right sympathetic phrases because her whiff was bad for our team. Only two chances left to hit the green. But those were our best chances. Thelma was a fifteen handicapper, Caroline an eight. Thelma nailed her shot, leaving it twelve yards below the pin, so we had a run at the cup for birdie.

  Caroline approached the shot like she did everything else. One hundred percent Asian precision. Her ball flew through the air, struck the pin, and rolled to a stop six feet past the cup.

  “Nice shot,” I said to Caroline.

  Thanks to Caroline’s skill, we lay two on the green with a birdie putt. If I played like Caroline, I wouldn’t have any trouble beating Jonette. But I wasn’t the precision golfing machine Caroline was. I was an overworked, struggling accountant with a grossly pregnant neurotic dog, two teenaged daughters, and a mother wanted for murder. A mother who swore she wouldn’t submit to jail, whose evasive actions might very well leave me homeless.

  “Morning, ladies,” Rafe looked dry in his blue and gold waterproof rain gear. He sounded suspiciously amused.

  I groaned.

  Had Rafe seen my disastrous chip? I hadn’t sunk a putt today, and my chances of sinking this one weren’t great. As the highest handicapper in the group, I would putt first. My lack of golfing prowess had to be a flaming albatross around his handsome neck. Or at least a strong deterrent to potential students.

  “Morning.” I looked up. Laughter danced in his warm eyes. My heart stalled. I looked like a drowned rat, and my golf game was stinking up his course.

  “I can fix that hitch in your swing, Cleo.” He handed out warm, dry towels to everyone. “I’ve got a cancellation in my Saturday lesson schedule. Can I pencil you in at nine o’clock?”

  How could I say no when we both knew I needed serious help? I draped the towel around my neck, snuggling into its warmth. “Sure.”

  “Where does your group stand, score-wise?” Rafe asked.

  Thelma pulled the pin. “We’re three under so far, with a birdie opportunity here.”

  “Sink this putt and the chocolate cake is yours,” Rafe said. “Two teams are already in with scores of three under and the remaining teams aren’t in the running.”

  My mouth watered for chocolate cake. I mentally mapped out the intended path of my ball to the cup with imaginary yellow dashes. That repaired ball mark was a good intermediate point to aim at. So far so good. I addressed the ball and took a deep breath.

  “Are you trying to make that putt, Cleo?” Rafe asked.

  Heat rose to my cheeks. “Yes.”

  “You’re going to miss it right by the width of the cup. Aim a bit more to the left.”

  I adjusted my putter until he was satisfied, then struck the ball. I didn’t lift my head until I heard the ball plop into the cup. My team high-fived each other, and I got a breathtaking, toe-curling hug from the golf pro.

  “Nice job, Red,” he said, his lips nuzzling my neck.

  I shivered with delight. “Thanks for lining me up.”

  “Any time.”

  As I rode back to the clubhouse, I got to thinking there was a lesson here. Relying on Rafe wasn’t such a bad thing. We were a good team. A force to be reckoned with. I hugged that knowledge close.

  * * * * *

  After golf and chocolate cake, I went home, took a warm shower, and dried my hair. The wonderful smell of oatmeal cookies filtered upstairs. I snagged a handful for lunch and walked over to the office. Mama said she would bake the last pan and then she’d be over.

  I checked my office phone for messages. There was one from Charlie. “Call me,” he said.

  My jaw clenched, and my spirits plummeted. Stop that, I chided. You asked him to help you. You gave him a reason to call. Be a grownup.

  I dialed his work number.

  “Clee. Got something you want.” Charlie sounded tickled with himself.

  I crossed my fingers, hoping he’d done what I asked. “What?”

  “Three credit reports, but it’s going to cost you.”

  My sigh of relief turned into a huff of exasperation. “Oh? You didn’t mention a fee when you agreed to run the credit reports.”

  “I want a home-cooked meal with you and the girls. Tonight.”

  I ran my fingers through my dry hair. Dinner with Charlie. With the girls present. “Tonight?”

  “Tonight. One meal. That’s not asking too much.”

  It was asking a lot, and he knew it. “And if I don’t agree?”

>   “You want this information? Dinner’s the price you have to pay.”

  “What about wanting to help Mama out? What happened to your concern for her?”

  “I am helping Delilah, but I’m helping myself, too.”

  He had information that would help Mama. What choice did I have? None, and he knew it. “Okay. Dinner. Six o’clock sharp.”

  “Thanks. You won’t regret this, Clee.”

  From his distracted tone, I sensed he was ready to end the call. “Wait. What did you find out?”

  “Erica Hodges’ estate is flat broke. There are three dollars and eighty-one cents in her checking account. The house is mortgaged to the hilt, and her leased Caddy was repossessed. She owed money all over town.”

  That confirmed what I’d suspected after learning about her unpaid bill at the beauty shop. The richest woman in town had no money, which led to my next question. “Where did her money go?”

  “Can’t tell. For years, she took large cash withdrawals from her trust funds. Some of that money ended up in her checking account, the rest she spent. Payments through her checking account here at the bank were for routine expenses. Lights, water, garbage, phone, newspaper, that sort of thing.”

  “Her account balance isn’t enough to pay for her funeral expenses. No wonder Eleanor is selling everything.”

  “Funny you should mention Eleanor. Her credit score isn’t good, either.”

  I sat up straight. “Eleanor has money problems?”

  “She poured her income into her clinic. Lawsuits and malpractice insurance are killing her. Plus, her credit is tied to her business partner, who is heavily leveraged. If she doesn’t get a fresh infusion of cash immediately, she’ll be bankrupt.”

  That must gall the perfect Eleanor. “What about Evan? Are the Hodges all headed to bankruptcy court?”

  “Evan has a great credit score. He has steady employment at the gym, and he’s living within his means. I’d consider him a good credit risk.”

  “You’d loan him money?”

  “I would. Only he doesn’t appear to need money.”

  Excitement skittered through my veins as I put the puzzle together. “But his sister does. What if she thought killing her mother would solve her money problems? According to Evan, Eleanor inherits everything. Erica cut him out of the will years ago. I’d say that gives Eleanor a strong motive to kill her mother.”