2 On the Nickel

On the Nickel

Maggie Toussaint

A Cleopatra Jones Mystery

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 book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without the express written permission of the publisher, except where permitted
by law.

Cover design by Polly Iyer

Copyright
© 2011 by Maggie Toussaint

Ebook
ISBN: 978-0-9833614-5-9

(print
ISBN: 978-1-59414-954-2)

All
rights reserved.

First
Printing: March 2011

Ebook
edition: October 17, 2012

Published
in 2011 in conjunction with Tekno Books and Ed Gorman

Published
in 2012 by Muddle House Publishing

Muddle
House Publishing

PO
Box 2119

Darien,
GA 31305.

Chapter
1

Numbers flowed in satisfying streams through my ink pen onto
the Sudoku puzzle. A nine here. A two there. I scribbled a possibility in the
corner of a grid square and sipped my coffee. Patterns emerged. I inked a seven
in the top row, leading to three other filled-in numbers.

Without warning, Mama upended her
oversized purse on the kitchen table. Junk clattered. Loose coins clinked. A
tube of mulberry-colored lipstick rolled on top of my folded newspaper. Alarmed, I studied her as she pawed through the mound of personal items. A can of hair spray
tottered on the edge of the table, and I caught it a moment before it fell.

“Lose something?” I asked,
placing the can squarely on the table.

Mama muttered out of the side of
her mouth. “My car keys.”

Her color seemed a bit off. I set aside my puzzle to help sort through the jumble. I lifted the umbrella and
plastic rain bonnet and moved them to the side. Her wallet was large enough to
give birth. No keys hiding under it. I checked beneath her new hairbrush, a
tube of toothpaste, and a pack of breath mints. Nothing under the mini photo
album, tissue packet, or her dog-eared credit card bill.

“Don’t see any keys,” I said. “Where
did you have them last?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be
looking for them,” Mama huffed.

Was something else wrong? I
chewed my lip and replayed the morning in my head. Mama ate a good breakfast.
Her buttercup-yellow pantsuit appeared neat and tidy, as did her mop of white
curls. Her triple strands of pearls were securely clasped around her neck. So,
her appetite and grooming were fine, but her behavior was off. Probably not a medical emergency.

I breathed easier. “What’s wrong,
Mama?”

“What’s right, that’s what I’d
like to know.”

There was just enough vinegar in
her voice to make me think I’d missed something big. Like maybe a luncheon date
with her. Or broken a promise. But I hadn’t done those things. I pulled out a
chair and invited her to sit down. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Mama.”

“The price of gas keeps rising.”
Mama sat and enumerated points on her fingers. “World peace is a myth. Social
Security isn’t social or secure. And Joe Sampson had no business dying on me.”

She’d run out of fingers, but I
got the message. Guilt smacked me dead between the eyes. I had forgotten something. The anniversary of daddy’s aneurism. Usually we took a trip to the cemetery on August 21. I gulped. “Oh, Mama, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say something yesterday?”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal
of it.” Mama’s voice quivered. “It’s been three years, Cleo. I should be able
to go by myself.”

I reached over the kitchen table
and covered her hands with mine. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll drive you to
your meeting, then we’ll swing by Fairhope on the way home.”

Mama sat up soldier straight. “That
will eat up your whole morning.”

“No problem. We mailed all the
quarterly tax payment vouchers to our Sampson Accounting clients last week. I
can’t think of anything at work that won’t keep until this afternoon.”

Half an hour later, I was sitting
in the hall at Trinity Episcopal while Mama attended her Ladies Outreach
Committee meeting. I’d brought a magazine to read, but there was something else about Mama this morning that worried me. Something more than our delayed cemetery visit. I wished I knew what it was. Even though I’m good at puzzles, I couldn’t put my
finger on what was wrong. Knowing Mama, I wouldn’t have long to wait. I dug my
magazine out of my purse and flipped through the glossy pages.

In a little while, the gentle
murmur of conversation from the meeting room rose to an angry buzz. Mama’s
sharp voice sliced through the fray. “Mark my words. If you don’t change your
ways, Erica, someone will change them for you.”

My heart stutter-stepped at the
heat in her voice. This was not good. How should I handle it? Mama would not
appreciate me trying to straighten this out. My intervention would be the
equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a penned bull. I hesitated, hoping
that the women resolved their difference of opinion on their own.

“You threatening me, Dee?” Erica’s nasty tone ruffled the hair on the back of my neck and spurred me into defense of my mother.

I stashed the magazine in my
shoulder bag and hurried down the pine-scented corridor, the soles of my loafers
smacking against the hard tile. After their years of insulting each other,
would the hostility between Mama and her arch nemesis turn physical?

I entered the back of the meeting room in time to see Mama stride up to Erica’s podium. Ten seniors sat transfixed by the
live drama. I had a very bad feeling about this. As emotional as Mama was
today, her patience wouldn’t last for long. And Erica seemed to be spoiling for
a fight. That wasn’t going to happen on my watch. I hurried forward, edging
past the U-shaped log jam of tables and chairs. My eyes watered at the thick
cloud of sweet perfume.

Mama planted her hands on her
hips. “I’m saying what nobody else has the guts to say. You are despicable.
That outreach activity was supposed to bring joy and laughter to those dying
children. You crushed their hopes. Worse, you gave them false hope. They were
crying, Erica. You caused those dying children to suffer more.”

Except for the red stain on Erica
Hodges’ rigid cheeks, I couldn’t tell she was upset. Next to Mama’s sunny
yellow suit and old-fashioned pearls, Erica’s sleek jewel-toned slacks suit,
gold-threaded scarf, and apricot-colored hair looked fresh, contemporary, and
on point.

Looks could be deceiving.

“Errors happen, Dee,” Erica said.

Mama huffed out a great breath. “This
one could have been avoided. Francine was doing a good job with scheduling
before you horned in and messed it all up.”

Across the room, Francine gasped
at the mention of her name. She slid down in her seat, covered her face, and
ducked her white-haired head.

Erica surveyed the room, staring
down the other matrons, before turning back to Mama. Her back arched, and her
thin nose came up. “You think you could have done better?”

“I know so. All that hard work
the committee put in. You wasted it. You hurt those kids. Those circus tickets
were nonrefundable. You threw away money we worked hard to raise.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Erica
barked out a sharp laugh. “We’ll find more needy kids to show our civic merit. The hospital has a never-ending supply.”

A collective gasp flashed through
the room. My stride faltered as distaste soured in my stomach. I couldn’t
believe what I was hearing. A glance at Mama’s flame-red face and I knew Mount
Delilah was about to erupt. I hurried forward.

“That does it. I demand your
resignation as chair of the Ladies Outreach Committee!” Mama shouted.

“You’re out of order, Delilah
Sampson,” Erica shrilled. “Sit down and shut up.”

Mama’s mouth worked a few times with no sound emerging. She clutched her heart. I stepped up and planted my hand on her
shoulder. “Mama?”

She glared at Erica. “You can’t
talk to me that way.”

“Think again.” Erica smacked her
open palm on the podium. “This is my meeting, my committee, my church, my town.
I can talk to you any way I want.”

Mama turned to face her friends. “Say
something.”

Brittle silence ensued. Not a
single eyelash fluttered on the downturned gazes. Disbelief flashed through me. These women were Mama’s friends. Her best friends, but they were all intimidated by this big
fish in our tiny pond. Poor Mama. We needed to get out of here before both of
us did something we’d regret.

I tapped Mama’s shoulder again. “I’m
sorry to interrupt, but I have a family situation and have to leave. Please come with me now.”

Mama nodded to me and inhaled shakily. She narrowed her eyes at Erica. “This isn’t over.”

* * * * *

“Don’t start on me, Cleo,” Mama said once we were in my Volvo. I’d had to buckle Mama’s seat belt because her
hands were shaking so badly. “That ugly woman has pushed me around for the last
time.”

I donned my sunglasses and backed
out of my parking space behind the parish hall. The cemetery visit would have
to wait. Mama needed to be home with her heart medication. “She certainly is
pushy. And her face is stretched so tight. How many facelifts, tummy tucks, and
boob jobs has she had? She looked my age, for goodness’ sake.”

“She’s fake. A complete fraud. I
hate the way she treated those poor children.”

I turned east on Main Street and
headed home. If Mama still wanted to go to the cemetery, we’d go, but only
after we picked up her meds. “Tell me about it.”

“We’ve covered for that
power-hungry fool for years, but she went too far this time. She cancelled
Francine’s buses, said they were too expensive, and neglected to schedule other
transportation. And it wasn’t like we could fit all those kids in wheelchairs
in our cars, even if we wanted to. It took six months to set that activity up
through the hospital. Six months of everyone’s time and the church’s money. We
tried to keep her out of it, but she elbowed her way in, like she always does.
Erica has so much money and influence, everyone is afraid to stand up to her.
Everyone but me.” Mama wrung her hands. “God, I hate it for those kids. If
you’d seen the disappointment on their faces, you’d want to kill Erica, too. I
can’t take it anymore. I can’t take her anymore.”

A brown delivery van in front of me signaled a left into the bakery parking lot. I slowed until my lane cleared. “I don’t
understand. If you guys always cover for her, why didn’t someone double-check the buses?”

“We tried. Lord knows we tried.
She yelled at Francine and told her she was an incompetent fool. She made
Francine cry. Erica is a heartless bully. I’m fed up with her. Why does a
rotten person like her even come to church? God, forgive me because I have no
love for her. I want nothing to do with her.”

“That’s easy. Stay away from her.”

Mama flung her hands up in
disgust. “Walk away from my entire life? She’s not just in my church. She’s in
the garden club, bridge club, and the hospital auxiliary. There’s more overlap,
and I could remember it if I weren’t so danged mad. Basically, the woman is a
walking photo opportunity.”

Unfortunately, Erica’s picture
sold lots of newspapers. There were definite perks in descending from the
family who founded our town. I couldn’t resist handing out a bit of advice. “Don’t
elect her to be the group leader.”

“She’s a Crandall. All she has to
do is show up and she’s automatically in charge.”

“She’s powerful because you
ladies let her bully you around.”

“Spoken like a pro.” She eyed me speculatively. “What’s your ‘family situation,’ Cleo? Got another hot date with what’s his name?”

I ignored her comment about my blossoming romance with Rafe Golden. “My ‘family situation’ is you. I stopped your
argument before things got further out of hand. Granted, Erica is not a nice
person, but nothing good ever comes from showing your behind in public. You can
thank me later.”

* * * * *

Our Wednesday golf league special
event required each golfer to use only three clubs and a putter. I’d selected
my driver, my nine wood, and my trusty seven iron. With that winning
combination, I’d thought my bases were covered. Wrong. I’d been in three
bunkers without a sand wedge. Consequently my shoulders ached, my concentration
was shot, and my score resembled the national debt. This round couldn’t end
soon enough for me.

My third putt on number nine
screamed past the hole and tumbled gleefully off the back slope. It wasn’t like
I could go to my bag and grab my pitching wedge for this next shot. It wasn’t
there. This game stank. Worse, I stank at this game.

I trudged off the green.

I glanced up, hoping for
inspiration. Any sign from above that might result in my next shot holing out
would be welcomed. Instead, the soaring watercolor perfection of a cloudless
blue sky of late August mocked me. Who needed picture-perfect weather when they
were playing lousy golf? Shouldn’t there be lightning bolts or hailstones
coming my way?

How about a rogue tornado?

If a whirling funnel plunged
down, surely it would toss this worthless putter all the way to Kansas. Crows
cawed in the cornfield beside the green, their plaintive calls adding to my
sense that it wasn’t just my golf game that was in the toilet.

My name is Cleopatra Jones and
shooting a round of par golf is my goal. I’m out here every Wednesday playing
in the Hogan’s Glen Ladies Nine Hole League, working on my game, and more importantly, trying to beat my friend, Jonette Moore. We’ve been best friends ever
since elementary school. I’ve forgiven her for her bounty from the breast
fairy. She’s forgiven me for being tall and slender.

I studied my next shot. The tip
of the flag was visible over the rise.

“How much you paying for those
golf lessons?” Jonette’s pixie-like face lit up with a devilish grin. She
didn’t look like she’d been fighting gravity all day. There was a bounce in her
step and a sparkle in her amber-flecked eyes.

Maybe if I wore vibrant,
formfitting tangerine golf gear like Jonette, this game wouldn’t beat me each week. Today, my worries about Mama weighed heavily on my knee-length navy blue shorts
and white polo.

“Nothing,” I muttered, hunching
my shoulders in anticipation of her witty comeback.

“That’s your problem, Clee,”
Jonette crowed. She could crow because she’d already holed out. One tap of her
ball, and it had disappeared into the cup. “You got exactly what you paid for.
Nothing.”

I tried to pay Rafe Golden for my
private golf lessons, but he wouldn’t take my money. He’d been generous with
his instruction, but my swing thoughts vanished once he touched me with his magic fingers.