Bet Your Bottom Dollar (The Bottom Dollar Series Book 1)

by Karin Gillespie

“Oh Lord,” I said, quickening my pace. Courtney Cooper was a ruthlessly aggressive real-estate agent who would sell the dress off her mother’s back as long as she got her seven-percent commission. She’d paid to have an ad featuring her photograph inside each buggy at the Winn-Dixie, so everyone had to endure her perky, blonde visage as they stood in the checkout lines.

  “She hasn’t signed anything yet?” I asked.

  “Not yet!” Birdie said. “But she’s mighty close.”

  Timothy was on my heels as I flung open the door. I immediately spied Mavis poised over a document holding a gold pen as Courtney stood over her. A wide-eyed Attalee was watching in horror.

  “Stop!” I shouted. “Mavis, don’t sign those papers!”

  “What in the world?” Courtney asked with a frown. “Mavis and I are trying to transact business here, so if you don’t mind, sugar—”

  “I do mind, Courtney,” I said. “Mavis, I thought you were going to give me twenty-four hours.”

  Mavis rubbed her upper lip. “I know, Elizabeth, but look around. It’s Saturday morning and this place is a ghost town. Every minute I stay open is like pouring money out the window.”

  “But I wish you’d listen to my marketing idea, Mavis,” I pleaded. “I really think it could work.”

  Courtney took a step toward me in a pair of canary-yellow pumps.

  “Excuse me, Elizabeth. I don’t recall,” she said. “Which university did you get your MBA from?”

  “I don’t have an MBA, Courtney. You know that,” I said. “Mavis, all I’m asking for is—”

  “Elizabeth Polk, this store isn’t a lemonade stand. You don’t know the first thing about business. Now if you’ll excuse us, Mavis and I have a grown-up transaction to discuss. So shoo, will you?” she said with a wave of her hand.

  Mavis’s eyes were cast to the floor. “I think this is probably for the best, Elizabeth,” she said, her voice on the verge of tears.

  “It is for the best, Mavis,” Courtney said. “As everyone says, Courtney Cooper cares about her clients.”

  “You mean Courtney Cooper cares about her commission,” Attalee said. “But Elizabeth would take a bullet for you, Mavis. You need to let her say her piece.”

  I touched Mavis’s shoulder. “Please, Mavis. Give me just a few minutes.”

  Mavis looked up. Her face was moist with tears. “I don’t suppose a few minutes could hurt,” she said in a small voice.

  “Thank you, Mavis,” I said. I flung my arms around her.

  The first, shrill notes of “Dixie” pierced the air. Courtney fumbled in her pocketbook and snapped open her cell phone. She listened for a moment and then said, “I don’t care if the termites are out on the porch having a wiener roast, you tell Hal I need that termite letter and I need it today.”

  She tucked the phone back into her purse. “I have an emergency to attend to. Mavis, call me later on when this love fest is over and you’re ready to get down to business.”

  She plucked her gold pen from Mavis’s hand and flounced out of the store.

  “So what is this big plan of yours, Elizabeth?” Birdie asked. “We’re all dying to know.”

  “Are you ready to hear, Mavis?” I asked.

  Mavis smiled uncertainly and then nodded. Everyone took a seat in the break room, but I remained standing.

  As I started to speak, my mouth was dry and my hands shook, but my heart soared with excitement.

  “When folks shop at the Bottom Dollar Emporium they leave with a twenty-five-gallon trash can or a package of triple-A batteries, but that’s not all they leave with when they walk out the door.” I searched their faces. “What do we give them that they can’t get at the Super Saver Dollar Store?”

  “There’s always a pot of coffee brewing,” Birdie volunteered.

  “Last winter, I gave DeEtta Jefferson that case of the flu when I coughed on her,” Attalee offered.

  “DeEtta is a good example,” I said. “But not because you gave her the flu, Attalee. Remember when she came in here last week to buy that skein of baby-blue yarn? What did you say to her, Mavis?

  Mavis shrugged. “I just asked her how her baby blanket was coming and if she was far enough along to finish it before her grandbaby’s birth.”

  “Yes. And you ordered that color of yarn especially for DeEtta because we didn’t carry it.” I smiled.

  Birdie’s eyes gleamed and she held up a finger. “I do believe I know what Elizabeth is getting at. At the Bottom Dollar Emporium, there’s a certain personal touch that will always be lacking at the Super Saver.”

  “Exactly,” I said with a nod. “Along with a customer’s purchases comes the pleasure of connecting with another human being who knows them and cares about them as a person. That’s our strength. Old-fashioned service that you don’t run into much anymore.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Elizabeth,” Mavis said. “But sadly too many people will trade in the personal touch for stores with lower prices or bigger inventories.”

  “True,” I said. “So I thought to myself, why stop at just old-fashioned service? Why not expand on that theme? Not just to our service, but to our inventory and even our facility. Let’s make the Bottom Dollar Emporium a community gathering place that offers things the Super Saver couldn’t even dream of.”

  I pointed to the area near the cash registers. “We could have barrels of old-fashioned candy out front. Stuff you can’t get just anywhere, like wax bottles filled with juice, Necco wafers, Black Jack gum, candy lipstick, Slo Poke suckers, candy buttons on paper tape, and clear jars of stick candy in all different flavors.”

  “Horehound candy used to be my favorite,” Birdie said, dreamily.

  “I was always partial to licorice laces,” Attalee remarked.

  I nodded. “We could carry things people don’t come across that much anymore, like ice cream makers you turn with a crank. Or even whetstones, weather vanes, and corn-cob pipes. How about a collection of cast-iron cookware? Or maybe a line of old-fashioned toys like tiddlywinks, stick balls, and hobby horses.”

  I crossed to the back wall of the store, which was lined with mops, buckets, and brooms. “But the final touch would be an old-fashioned soda fountain with swivel stools. We’d serve ice cream sodas, phosphates, and—”

  “Sarsaparillas!” Attalee shouted.

  “Where would you get all of that old-timey merchandise?” Birdie asked.

  I smiled. “There are wholesalers who sell those items. A store like the one I have in mind not only becomes a gathering place for local folks, but it also brings in tourist trade. We could post a billboard on the Aiken-Augusta highway to draw travelers.”

  I could almost see the sparks flying between Mavis’s ears. But then a dark cloud crossed her face. “I’ll just bet one of those old-fashioned soda fountains costs a fortune.”

  “That’s the best part, Mavis!” I said, clasping one of her hands. “The building where the Methodist Church meets used to be the old apothecary. There’s a used soda fountain that Matilda’s been looking to get rid of. It would need to be smartened up some, but I know she’d let us have it for a song.”

  “I’d be glad to lend a hand with fixing it up,” Timothy said.

  I snapped my fingers. “See Mavis, everything’s already falling into place. I honestly believe this was meant to be.”

  We all stared at Mavis. Her gray eyes darted as she thought things through.

  “I think you may have something, Elizabeth,” she said.

  Twenty-Seven

  Want to avoid burning? Use ‘Son’ block.

  ~ Sign outside the Rock of Ages Baptist Church

  I was shaking Tabasco sauce on a mess of scrambled eggs in the skillet when Timothy’s cell phone rang. Timothy was singing “My Girl” in the shower. I answered t
he phone and heard a male voice.

  “This is Mrs. Bettis Hollingsworth’s private secretary. May I speak with Mr. Timothy Hollingsworth?”

  “He’s unavailable at the moment,” I said. “May I take a message?”

  “Yes, please do. Tell Mr. Hollingsworth that his mother is flying in from Paris this afternoon. Her connection from Paris lands at the Augusta airport at 3 p.m. She requests his company for dinner at 7 p.m. at the Summit Club in the family’s private dining room.” The snippy-sounding voice paused. “Have you got all of that?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. Seven o’clock at the Summit Club. I’ll see that he gets this. Anything else?”

  “That will be all. Thank you very much.”

  Timothy emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, toweling his hair dry. I repeated the phone message.

  “Why do you suppose your mama didn’t call herself?” I asked.

  Timothy shrugged. “My mother’s a very impersonal woman. But you’ll discover that quickly enough. You’ll be meeting her tonight at the Summit Club.”

  “Tonight?” I dropped my spatula.

  “Yes.” He snitched a curl of bacon draining on a piece of paper towel. “There’s no telling how long she’ll stay. For all I know, she could be leaving the next day.”

  As soon as Timothy left for work, I ransacked my closet for a suitably impressive outfit. After a long search, I found the black dress that Meemaw had bought me to wear to my granddaddy’s funeral. I’d clean forgotten about it because looking at it made me so sad.

  Meemaw had picked it up at Ritzy Repeats, the secondhand store in Augusta where the society ladies took their castoffs. I glanced inside the dress at the label and sure enough, there was a designer name on the tag.

  I pulled the dress over my head to make sure it still fit and when I leaned down to smooth it, I saw a thatch of mousy roots on the top of my head that would have put Madonna to shame.

  Even if I wore pure mink to the Summit Club, I’d still look like white-trash, walking around with dark roots.

  I seized the phone book, flipping through it to find one of those trendy hair places in downtown Augusta. No Nice ‘n Easy for me this time. I wanted a classy cut and a first-rate dye job done with foils.

  I ended up getting lucky. The first salon I called, a place called Viva La Coiffure, had a cancellation and could take me at three p.m. Then I called Mavis asking for permission to knock off early from work.

  All morning long at the Bottom Dollar Emporium I kept peeking at my watch. The day seemed as long as a month of Sundays, even though we were busy marking down items for our “Everything Must Go Sale” so we could make room for the new merchandise we were ordering for our grand re-opening. I was headed for the stockroom when my elbow caught the edge of a shelf, knocking several packages of lime gelatin to the floor.

  “Elizabeth, your mind ain’t on your work today,” said Attalee, who was marking down bedroom slippers. “A half hour ago, you like to have dropped a jumbo can of Mussleman’s apple pie filling right on my foot. And me just recovering from last week’s accident with that can of fancy whole-kernel corn.” Attalee rubbed her leg.

  Mavis glanced at her watch. “Elizabeth has big plans today, and I’ve told her she could leave early. You can go ahead and clock out now if you want, Elizabeth.”

  “Big plans? What are you up to now, Elizabeth?” Attalee asked.

  “She’s driving to Augusta to get her hair highlighted and cut in a fancy downtown salon,” Mavis said.

  Mavis emphasized the word “salon.” She thought they were uppity places. She got her hair cut in Luna Pickens’s converted carport.

  “So, where are you meeting Timothy’s mama? Is she coming to Cayboo Creek?” Attalee asked.

  “No, to Augusta. We’re going to the Summit Club,” I said.

  “I dined at the country club in Vidalia twenty-five years ago. It was so elegant. They served lamb chops dressed in white panties,” Attalee said.

  After I clocked out and shed my smock, I drove to Augusta to Viva La Coiffure. I eased my car into a parking lot on Telfair Street, where the salon was located.

  It was one of those days when the light picks up every little sparkly thing that’s stuck in the sidewalk, making it hard to see. I put on my sunglasses and tried to spot the salon. I’d been walking the length of Telfair and couldn’t find it. So I decided to duck into a little sundry store called Wong’s to see if anyone in there could tell me where it was.

  When I opened the door, I almost collided into a hand truck full of six-packs of RC Cola. Unfortunately for me, Clip was the one who was pushing it.

  “Liz! I tried to call you a while ago, but now here you are. It must be fate,” Clip said. He lowered his aviator sunglasses on his nose.

  I put a hand on my hip. “I don’t believe in that fate nonsense.”

  “You were always the practical type. One of the many things I love about you.”

  “Whatever you say, Clip. Excuse me. I’ve got an appointment to keep.” I swept by him.

  “Wait. Don’t you want to know why I was calling you?”

  I turned my head to glance back at him.

  “Not really. But from now on I’ll let my husband answer the phone. I’m sure he’ll be very interested in talking to you once I tell him that you refuse to let me be.”

  “I’ll let you be, if that’s what you really want.” He slid a Kool cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “But I do think there’s a couple of things you should know about that snazzy new family of yours.”

  I snorted. “Clip, what could you possibly know about the Hollingsworth family?”

  He struck a match on the sole of his shoe and said, “A lot more than you would guess. Why don’t you meet me for a drink after your appointment? I’ll fill you in on what I know about the Hollingsworths.”

  “I don’t think so, Clip.”

  “There’s a little sports bar about three blocks from here called Maurice’s. I hear they serve the best onion rings in the area.”

  I shook my head in amazement. “Clip, when are you going to understand that I’m married now? I feel like I’m talking to the wind.”

  He pushed his hair behind his ears. “I’m accepting it. But I’m also telling you that there are certain things you should know about that family.” He blew out a lopsided smoke ring. “Strange things.”

  “Heavens to Betsy, Clip. I don’t have time for this.” I glanced at my watch. “I’m going to be late for my hair appointment. You’ll just have to entertain someone else with all your big mysteries about the Hollingsworth family.”

  Clip took a long draw on his cigarette. “She came to me. The older woman in the Cadillac. Wearing these white gloves like she’d just been to a fancy tea party. Of course at the time, I didn’t know who she was or what she was up to.”

  I stopped short. “Grace Tobias came to see you? What for?”

  His grin was wider than a slice of honeydew melon. He pointed his cigarette at me and said, “Meet me at Maurice’s in an hour and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  I shot him a dark look. My curiosity had gotten the better of me.

  “Give me an hour and a half,” I said.

  I was surprised I even noticed the entrance to Viva La Coiffure, considering how distracted I was by Clip’s claim that Mrs. Tobias had paid him a visit. I couldn’t imagine what she would want with Clip of all people. It didn’t make a bit of sense to me, but I supposed I was going to have to scarf down some greasy onion rings from Maurice’s to find out.

  Viva La Coiffure’s door was black, with the letters VLC spray-painted on it in blood-red paint. It looked more like a drug dealer’s hideout than a hair salon.

  I knew I was in the right place when my nose picked up the smell of perm
solution and hair spray. If not for that I would have turned around, because the salon was decorated with rusty chains, barbed wire, and warped metal. I feared I’d need a tetanus shot if I brushed up against anything. The staff was dressed in camouflage clothing, as if they were fixing to battle enemy guerrillas instead of dark roots.

  I sat down in the reception area, and a girl wearing cat-eye glasses and combat boots got off the cell phone she’d been talking on and approached me.

  “Help you?”

  “I have an appointment at 3 p.m. They didn’t say who with. There was a cancellation.”

  The girl opened a leather appointment book. “Name?”

  “Elizabeth Po—, I mean Hollingsworth.”

  “Your appointment is with Claude. He’ll be with you in a minute.”

  I glanced through the magazines on the table, hoping for Good Housekeeping or Redbook. But all they had were thick, oversized fashion magazines. I opened one to a model wearing black lipstick and what looked like an outfit made entirely of rubber bands.

  I replaced the magazine on the coffee table. A man with a thinning goatee approached me, his dog tags banging against the front of his khaki-colored T-shirt.

  “Hi, precious, are you next?” he asked.

  “That depends. Are you Claude?” He looked vaguely familiar.

  “I suppose I am.” He stifled a cough. “This wretched incense burning in here is irritating my lungs. Would you people go easy on the jasmine, for heaven’s sakes?” He waved at the air with his hands and then looked back at me. “What are we wanting here, sugar puss? Color?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He grabbed a strand of my hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “Snookums. I think a cut should take priority. I don’t know who’s been doing your hair, but you look like you’ve been cryogenically frozen since the seventies. It’s Charlie’s Angels all over again.”

  I felt my cheeks getting hot. “I came in for color...” I took a deep breath. “Not for insults.”

  Claude raised his eyebrows. “Of course you did, pumpkin. Why don’t you come to my chair, then?”