A Dollar Short (The Bottom Dollar Series Book 2)

by Karin Gillespie

  Chiffon crouched behind a scrub of bushes bordering her lawn until she heard the crunch of Mavis’s tires on the gravel driveway out front. Then she sprinted across the backyard on her crutches, maneuvering her way around an abandoned tire, a collection of rusted lawn furniture, and a deflated kiddy pool.

  She made it to the back door without being spotted and put her hand on the knob. Locked! And she didn’t have her keys. She rattled the doorknob. “Chenille!” she said in a low voice. “It’s me. Let me in.”

  The dogs, whose pen was located on the side of the house, started raising a fuss.

  “Chenille!” Chiffon said, this time in a louder voice. She rapped her knuckles on the aluminum frame of the door. “Open up.”

  Chiffon heard a shout coming from the side of the house. “There’s someone out back!”

  A herd of people carrying cameras and microphones stampeded into the backyard. As soon as they spotted Chiffon, they thronged her like hyenas to a zebra carcass.

  “Are you Chiffon Butrell?”

  “How do you feel about your husband sleeping with Janie-Lynn Lauren?”

  Chiffon backed away from them until she was flattened against the siding of the house. “Chenille! Open up this door!” she yelled.

  “I’m from People magazine,” said a tall woman with a severe haircut. “Is it true that Lonnie has left you and your children penniless?”

  A winded man in a rumpled suit shoved in front of her. “I’m from The Globe. Have you heard that Janie-Lynn is carrying Lonnie’s love child?”

  A woman in a pair of stiletto heels tottered to the front of the crowd. “I’m from Style magazine,” she said, eyeing Chiffon critically. “Are those acid-washed jeans you’re wearing? With a fun fur?”

  The cameras whirred wildly, and Chiffon felt like a cornered fox. As the reporters and photographers pressed in closer and closer, she was seized with a sense of increasing panic. She banged on the door until her knuckles were raw, but Chenille didn’t answer.

  Then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Dewitt’s Super Soaker lying on the ground by her feet. He’d played with it on an unseasonably warm day last month, so Chiffon reckoned it might still be filled with water. She reached down to grab it and aimed it at the crowd.

  “Come any closer and you’ll get it between the eyes,” she warned. The gun had weight, so she knew it was loaded.

  Murmurs rose from the surrounding crowd. “It’s just a child’s toy.” “What, is she crazy?” “She’s bluffing.”

  Adjusting the nozzle to the highest possible setting, Chiffon put her finger on the trigger. “I’m warning you. This is a Super Soaker Elite 2500. It’s a high-powered assault weapon. I want all of you off my property. Now!”

  “It’s a squirt gun,” said a man wearing horn-rimmed glasses. He stepped forward and aimed his camera at her. “Smile pretty!” he said as he snapped a photograph. Chiffon pulled the trigger and gave it to him with both barrels. His glasses flew off his face. For good measure she sprayed the rest of the group.

  People screamed and scurried as Chiffon stumbled past them on her crutches. She made her way to the front stoop, snatched the spare key under the mat, and unlocked the door.

  “Chenille, darn it! Why didn’t you open the back door for me?” Chiffon shouted as she entered the house. Her question was answered with silence. Baffled, she walked down the hallway and peered in each of the bedrooms. The house was too quiet for anyone to be inside. When she entered the kitchen, she saw a note stuck on her refrigerator with a magnet.

  Chiffon, there’s been a medical emergency. Had to rush to the doctor. Will call soon with news.

  Chenille

  Chiffon’s heart fluttered. Gabby! She was probably running a high fever again, or maybe it was something worse. Her daughter could have swallowed a button or fallen from her changing table. Chenille wasn’t used to looking after small children and probably didn’t know you had to watch them every second.

  Chiffon grabbed the telephone book beside the fridge and frantically flipped through the pages looking for the number of the hospital emergency room in Augusta. Maybe Chenille had taken Gabby to her pediatrician, Dr. Peterson. Chiffon had left his number on a pad in the kitchen.

  The phone rang and Chiffon snatched the receiver. “Chenille, is that you? What’s happened to Gabby?”

  The voice on the other end was husky and oddly familiar. “Is this Chiffon? This is Janie-Lynn Lauren.”

  For a moment, Chiffon was so stunned she couldn’t speak. A terrible mixture of anger and sadness roiled inside of her.

  “Where’s Lonnie?” Chiffon demanded, tears splattering her cheeks. “I need to speak to my husband. Something is terribly wrong with our baby.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “The baby’s a she, not an it, and that’s none of your business,” Chiffon said. “I want you to put Lonnie on the phone now!”

  “Lonnie isn’t here right now. Besides, he doesn’t want to talk to you,” Janie-Lynn said evenly. “But I do.”

  “There are all kinds of people here, and they’re camped outside the house. Please let me talk to Lonnie.”

  “Reporters? I was afraid of that. Have you said anything to them? It’s best not to speak with them at all.”

  “I can’t speak to anyone right now, because I need to find out what’s wrong with Gabby. You tell Lonnie that if he cares anything about his daughter, he’d better get his butt home right now!” Chiffon slammed down the phone.

  It rang again immediately.

  “Yes?” Chiffon shouted.

  “Chiffon, it’s Chenille—”

  “Thank God! What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “There’s nothing to be worried about,” Chenille said in an unruffled voice. “It was just a minor seizure; there’s absolutely no permanent damage.”

  “A seizure? Oh my Lord! Where are you?”

  “At the doctor’s. But everything’s okay,” Chenille said, exhaling with relief. “I did have quite the start, seeing those dear little eyes rolled back and those four legs twitching uncontrollably.”

  “Four legs?” Chiffon said, dumbfounded. “What are you talking about? Who has four legs?”

  “Walter, of course. Whose legs did you think I was talking about?”

  “Gabby’s! Where is Gabby? What have you done with my daughter?” Chiffon screamed.

  “Settle down. She’s with me, of course. Where else would she be?”

  Chiffon took a deep breath. “There is a note on my refrigerator from you saying there’d been a medical emergency. Naturally I assumed something was terribly wrong with Gabby. I had no idea it was just that stupid pooch of yours.”

  “First of all, Walter isn’t stupid,” Chenille said with a huff. “Second, I thought I mentioned Walter in the note.”

  “You did not. Your note says nothing about that mangy mutt.” Her voice turned shrill. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through today?”

  Fifteen

  Some days you’re the dog; some days you’re the hydrant.

  ~ Sign outside of Dr. Dupree’s veterinarian office

  After unsuccessfully trying to calm her distraught sister, Chenille put the telephone receiver down. She smiled at Dr. Dupree, who was stroking Walter behind his ears.

  “I want to thank you again, Dr. Dupree, for everything you’ve done. I’m extremely grateful.”

  She cast her eyes to the floor when she realized she’d been staring at the veterinarian. But who could blame her? His hair was dark and wavy, and his features looked as if they’d been hand-chiseled by Michelangelo.

  “It was my pleasure. Walter’s a lucky little dog. And please, call me Drake,” he said in tones so sultry and masculine it caused sweat to bead on Chenille’s upper lip.

 
“Drake,” Chenille said breathily. It was the name of the hero from her favorite romance novel, The Rogue and the Rose.

  “I’ve put some Valium in your bag. You can use it if Walter has an especially severe seizure.”

  “Administered orally?”

  “Rectally,” he said smoothly. “If it happens again, just keep calm. Speak gently to him and turn off any loud music.”

  “I don’t care for loud music. I’m an easy-listening fan,” Chenille said, forcing back a stray hair that had loosened from her headband.

  “Really?” He studied her with intense green eyes. “I don’t suppose you’re a fan of Kenny G’s?”

  “I’m mad about him,” she gushed. “When he performs his rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On,’ I get all teary-eyed. Not, of course, to take anything away from Celine Dion’s interpretation,” she added quickly.

  “There’s only one Celine, eh?” Drake said in respectful voice.

  “Do I detect a Northern accent?” she asked shyly.

  “I’m from Wisconsin. A very cold state. I much prefer the balmy weather of the South.”

  Gabby interrupted their chat with a loud belch.

  “I should go,” Chenille said, picking her up from the carrier. “Gabby needs to go home to her mother, and Walter needs his rest.”

  He touched her on the hand. “This is highly irregular, considering our professional relationship, but—”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you accompany me to a Kenny G concert? He’s coming to Columbia next weekend.”

  Her cheeks blazed. “Why, Dr. Dupree...I mean, Drake, I’d love to go.”

  Chenille’s heart performed aerial stunts in her chest as she pulled into the driveway of her sister’s house. Hugging Gabby to her breast, she waltzed through the media crowd gathered outside.

  “No comment,” she responded gaily to the questions volleyed her way. She tugged on Walter’s leash as he paused to sniff the leg of a reporter from Inside Edition.

  When she finally entered the house, she found Dewitt and Emily parked in front of the television set, swiftly making their way through a box of Little Debbie Swiss rolls.

  “Those snacks are terrible,” she said. “Didn’t you see the carob cookies I bought for you in the pantry?”

  “We thought they were dog treats for Walter,” Emily said.

  “They sure tasted like dog treats,” Dewitt added. “Yuck!”

  “Never mind. Where’s your mother?” Chenille asked, putting Gabby in her walker.

  “In the kitchen,” said Emily, methodically licking cream from her fingers. “Aunt Chenille, why are those people outside the house?”

  “Don’t pay them any mind,” Chenille said. “They’re shameless opportunists who prey on other people’s misery. They’ll go away eventually if we just ignore them.”

  She went into the kitchen and saw Chiffon sitting at the table with her head in her hands.

  A pillaged bag of gummy bears lay nearby. Only the green bears had been spared.

  “Are you all right?”

  Her sister laboriously lifted her head. A decapitated red bear clung to her bottom lip. “One of the reporters said Janie-Lynn was carrying Lonnie’s love child,” she said in a vacant voice.

  “Oh heavens!” Chenille dropped into a chair next to her sister. “You can’t believe a word they say. They’re just trying to rattle you.”

  Chiffon shook her head. “My husband has completely abandoned us. I spoke with Janie-Lynn Lauren after I saw your note. I thought Gabby was sick, and I told her that, but I haven’t heard a word from him. He doesn’t care about us anymore.”

  “You spoke with Janie-Lynn Lauren?”

  Chiffon nodded, telling Chenille the gist of her conversation with the movie star.

  “I wonder why she wants to talk with you,” Chenille said. “Has she called back?”

  “Tons of reporters have called, so I have the machine screening calls, but she hasn’t left a message.”

  Chenille picked up the notepad by the phone. “Here’s the numbers of those people who were interested in buying Lonnie’s things. We should contact them. You need the money.”

  Chiffon glumly eyed the long list of names and numbers, saying, “I don’t know. The buyers will want to come over here and look at everything. I don’t have the energy to go outside and face all of those reporters.”

  “I’ll handle that,” Chenille said. “As a matter of fact, I’ll even call these people back. You just stand by in case they ask questions I can’t answer.”

  Chenille started returning calls, and several potential buyers made arrangements to come by the house that evening. Then she prepared a supper of tempeh tacos and carrot sticks, but Chiffon, recovering from her gummy gorge, just picked at her food. Chenille coaxed her to finish her taco, but Chiffon folded it up in a napkin.

  “I’ll eat it later as a snack,” she said. Then she went back to her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

  Later that evening, Bert from the post office came over and bought the ATVs. While he loaded them onto his truck, Chenille stood in the carport, ignoring the questions fired at her from the media.

  Shortly afterward, Garnell Walker dropped in and agreed to buy both of the Labradors.

  As he went to release the dogs from their pen, the questions from the press came at Chenille so insistently that her patience started to fray.

  “Who’s that man?” “Are you selling the family pets?” “Do the dogs belong to Lonnie?”

  Dewitt came outside just as Garnell was herding the dogs into the backseat of a van.

  “Aunt Chenille, where’s that man going with Buddy and Beau?”

  It hadn’t occurred to Chenille that Dewitt might be attached to the animals. She’d never seen him play with them or feed them.

  “Honey, why don’t you go inside? I’ll explain it to you later.”

  Dewitt stuck out his bottom lip and his hands tightened into small fists. “Those are my daddy’s dogs! Where are you taking my daddy’s dogs?” he asked Garnell.

  Garnell took a step in Chenille’s direction. He was older than she, in his early fifties, she guessed.

  “I could come back and pick the dogs up at a more convenient time, if you’d like,” he said in a low voice.

  “That’s very nice of you,” Chenille said gratefully.

  Garnell whistled for the dogs to get out of the car and led them back to the pen. When he got back, he addressed Dewitt. “See, sport, Buddy and Beau are back, safe and sound,” he said, squatting down to the child’s level.

  While Dewitt ran off to pet his dogs, Garnell got up from his haunches and said, “Call me tomorrow and let me know if they’re still for sale.”

  “I apologize for the trouble, Mr. Walker.”

  “No harm done,” he said with a kind smile. His head jerked in the direction of the reporters. “You got quite a commotion going on here.”

  “I know. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Want me to try to run these folks off for you?” he asked.

  Chenille noticed his eyes were the light blue color of his dungarees. “Thanks, but no,” she said.

  After Garnell drove away, Chenille walked over to Dewitt and squeezed his shoulder. “All right, mister. I want you in your jammies by the time I come in. Aunt Chenille has to take the trash can out to the curb.”

  The members of the media had been watching this latest drama unfold with great interest. As soon as Dewitt climbed the steps to the house and shut the door behind him, Chenille was bombarded with questions.

  “Were you planning to sell that child’s dogs under his nose?” “Who was that man?” “What kind of person sells the family dogs?”

  Chenille looked at the profusion of microphones and cameras aimed in
her direction and lost her composure. She was tired, angry, and fed up.

  “If you must know, those two dogs are indeed pets. The gentleman buying them will give them a good home. The family is only selling the animals because they desperately need the money. While Lonnie’s been off drinking champagne with Janie-Lynn Lauren, his wife struggles to put dinner on the table. He’s completely neglected his financial responsibility, and he’s left behind three very young children who don’t understand why their daddy won’t come home.”

  Her statements, rather than quelling the crowd, only launched a flurry of further questions. Chenille ignored them as she rolled the trash can down the driveway. When she left it behind, a reporter took off the lid and started rifling through it. Chenille shook her head as she watched him toss aside Chef Boyardee cans and orange rinds. Then she shoved her way through the throng of bodies and went back inside the house.

  Sixteen

  Stop, drop, and roll won’t work in hell.

  ~ Sign outside the Rock of Ages Baptist Church

  “Janie-Lynn Lives in Sin!” “America’s Sweetheart Diddling Deadbeat Dad!” “Kiddies Starve While Lonnie Drinks Dom Pérignon!” “Dog-Gone ’Cause Daddy Won’t Pay the Bills!”

  A few days later, headlines about Janie-Lynn Lauren and Lonnie shouted from every weekly magazine on the rack. Both Chiffon and Chenille had become overnight media sensations. One publication announced: “South Carolina Sibs, Chenille and Chiffon, Take Country by Storm.”

  The film of Chiffon spraying the press corps with a Super Soaker had been played on almost every television station, as had Chenille’s angry tirade to the media. Neither of the sisters was very happy with the way they were portrayed by the press.

  “‘School marmish’?” Chenille said as she thumbed through one of the many magazines that were lying by her feet. “That’s something of an insult, don’t you think?”

  “It’s better than ‘Rambo in a Rabbit Coat,’” Chiffon said from her recliner. “Every time I see that film, I cringe. I look like Sasquatch.”