Authors: Maggie Toussaint
“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 hours 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.”
“Sounds good to me.”
My hopes soared. I danced out of
my seat. Once Britt knew about Eleanor’s money problems, he had to drop the
charges against Mama. “Thanks, Charlie.”
“I’ll be home a little before six
tonight.”
Not even dinner with Charlie
could change how excited I felt. “See you then.”
I called Britt’s cell number and
told him the news.
“I told you to stay out of this,”
Britt said.
I ignored his grumpy tone. “You
arrested my mother. I can’t sit back and do nothing. She didn’t kill Erica
Hodges. Eleanor has tons of motive.”
“Motive isn’t everything. Eleanor
doesn’t live here. How would she obtain Delilah’s car?”
I hadn’t thought about that part.
I ran a scenario in my mind that worked. “She’s a smart woman, and she’s been
trained to conduct intricate, complicated procedures. I bet she followed Mama
before the murder and learned Mama’s schedule. Mama is a creature of habit.
Every Tuesday night is the same for her. She takes her friends to the
hospitality committee meeting. Then she drives over to Bud’s house. Whoever
planned this would have known that.”
“Too farfetched. Even if I buy
the concept, Eleanor didn’t have access to Delilah’s car keys. And no one hot-wired
the car. You can’t convict on motive alone.”
My theory sounded weak when he
shot holes in it. “What about fingerprints in Mama’s car? Did you have any
extra ones that didn’t belong?”
“The driver’s side of the car
only had Delilah’s prints.”
I brightened. “I drove her car
not too long ago. My prints should have been there. What if Eleanor broke into
Mama’s car, killed her mother with it, then wiped her prints off?”
Britt sighed heavily. “You’re
making this up as you go along, aren’t you? There were no signs of forced entry
to the Olds.”
“Mama didn’t do it,” I asserted. “I
swear she didn’t kill Erica.”
“Her car was the murder weapon.
We have solid proof.”
“Someone else used her car.
Besides, Mama has an alibi. She was with Bud Flook.”
“She drove herself home. Alone. She had an opportunity to kill Erica.”
“I know you think Mama is guilty,
but her activities that night don’t sound like the agenda of an angry woman
bent on murder.” I glanced into the outer office to make sure I was still
alone. “Mama told me that they fell asleep afterward and that a phone call woke
them up. If she was so relaxed and happy, why would she leave Bud’s place and
run over Erica? It doesn’t follow.”
“Bud got a call that night?”
“Yeah. Mama said it was a wrong
number.” I’d forgotten about that call until just now. “What if it was the
right number? What if the killer needed Mama to get back in her car and drive
home?”
Britt sighed again. “I’ll check
the phone records. If that leads anywhere, I’ll look into it as a favor to you.
But I’m not dropping the charges against Delilah. Her car is the murder weapon.”
“Then you should arrest her car.
Not Mama.”
“Are you finished? I have other
cases to work on.”
“You promise you’ll check on that
call?”
“Promise. Bye.”
Progress. About damned time. That phone call was important. It had to be. Once Britt saw it, too, he’d drop the charges.
Mama would get her life back. I’d get the deed to my house back and a shot at
having a sex life again. Not bad for an afternoon’s work.
* * * * *
“How many places am I setting at
the table?” Lexy asked.
I’d commandeered the kitchen.
After talking to Britt, I’d run out and bought a roast. I’d even made Charlie’s
favorite sour cream mashed potatoes. Without his running the credit reports, I
wouldn’t have cause to celebrate. He deserved a feast for helping.
Back to Lexy’s question of how
many place settings. There was an outside chance Rafe might take me up on my open-ended dinner invitation, but I didn’t want to count on it. If he came, we’d add a place for him. “Six. There’s the four of us, Bud Flook, and your father.”