2 On the Nickel (4 page)

Adrenaline surged into my
bloodstream, demanding release. Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, I
couldn’t fight or run. I glanced over at the draped object, my unfortunate
curiosity the only outlet for all that energy.

Who was under that tarp?

A glittering object to the left
of the tarp caught my eye. I squinted to identify it and wished I hadn’t. A
chorus of oh-Gods shrilled through my head.

There was no mistaking the gold-sequined
sandal on the grassy lawn. That flashy shoe belonged to a woman I knew well, a
woman whose ancestors had founded Trinity Episcopal. A woman with enough blue
blood to start her own social register.

My empty stomach twitched,
turned, and heaved. The hairs on the back of my neck electrified, and my heart
hammered in my ears. I couldn’t feel my feet strike the ground, though when I
looked down my legs were moving.

Run, my subconscious urged. Get
as far away from here as you can. I strained forward, but a two-hundred-pound tether
held me to a turtle’s crawl. My lungs burned.

We passed the back entry into the
Sunday school and strolled under the portico entrance of the parish hall. With
each step, my body grew heavier. Everything blurred together like an impressionist
painting. I tripped over the uneven sidewalk, startling my frozen lungs into
action.

Air.

I needed air.

The sea of swimming faces parted
to let us through. Prying eyes penetrated my soundless bubble. A car horn
blared from down the street, and I jumped. Behind me, overloud laughter pealed
above the murmured voices. Were they laughing at me?

“What’s this?” Joan stepped out
of her beauty shop, scissors in one hand, a black comb in the other. With her
short, razored haircut, dark coloration, and ruffled sundress, she looked part
elf, part gypsy, and thoroughly angry.

“Police brutality.” Jonette tried
to wrest free from our beefy captor. He held fast to the squirming tangerine
dynamo.

“The long arm of the law finally
caught up with you?” The mayor stepped in our path and sneered at Jonette. In
his dark suit, white shirt, and narrow red tie, Darnell Reynolds looked like a
permanent advertisement for the Fourth of July.

Jonette’s chin shot up in the
air.

Darnell waggled a pudgy finger in
my face. “I told you to watch the company you keep, Cleo.”

“It was an accident,” I
explained, humiliation and embarrassment heating my chilled skin, triggering a
shudder. The body tremor knocked me off balance again, and I would have fallen
without Officer Wagner holding me up.

“Step aside, sir,” Officer Wagner
said to Darnell. The mayor oozed out of our way.

“Let them go.” Buck sounded
breathless after running across the street from the gas station. Grease dotted
his thin face, hands, and jeans. “If you arrest my accountant, who’ll do my
taxes? And the Tavern wouldn’t be the same without Jonette.”

Officer Wagner maintained
silence.

My personal trainer, Evan Hodges,
hove into view. His blond curls were the constant envy of someone with straw-straight hair like me. His white running gear accented his sculpted and tanned
body. Masculine approval blazed in his eyes. “Never figured you as the black
lace type, Cleo. Nice.”

My ears steamed. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Evan.” Appalled, I wished I could rescind those
spoken words. Tears brimmed in my eyes.

Oh, dear. Evan. That mound back
there was his mother. And he didn’t know. I wished I didn’t know. I couldn’t
look at him again for fear of what else might rocket out of my mouth. Clamping
my jaw shut, I trudged onward.

Hammers pounded in my head. My
torn shorts flapped in a sudden gust of wind. I counted ten pairs of sandals,
six sets of sneakers, two pairs of pumps, and four wing-tipped Oxfords on my
march of shame.

Officer Wagner halted beyond the
crowd and unlocked both sets of cuffs. “Scram.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. Ignoring the pins-and-needles sensation in my arms, I clamped one hand over my torn
shorts and caught Jonette’s eye. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Roger that,” she said.

Flashes of pain radiated from the
skin abrasions on my knees with every forward step. If a sidewalk crack opened
up, I would gladly slither right down into another universe. Britt had made his
point. I’d never fall into another crime scene.

I snuck a glance at Jonette. Did
she see the gold sandal? Did she know that Mama’s archrival was under that tarp
in the parking lot?

Could I tell her what I’d seen,
or would that make everything worse? Jonette shared no love for Erica, but
would she blame Mama? I hated that I had doubts about Mama. If only she hadn’t
been acting so odd lately. What a mess.

Jonette’s car sputtered to life,
and she executed a hasty U-turn on Main Street. “You know something.” She punched me in the arm. “What is it? What do you know?”

I shoved my fingers through my
tangled hair. I decided to keep my suspicions to myself. “The whole world saw me in black underwear and handcuffs.”

My friend smirked. “You swore
you’d never be caught dead in that black lingerie. Now I know you’re all talk.”

“I had an underwear emergency this morning.” My nose twitched. “These were the only clean pair in my drawer.”

The pounding in my head
intensified. That gold sandal tap-danced into my thoughts. I shuddered. “I
don’t feel right.”

“Me, neither. And that rat-faced
weasel got in my face and implied bad things about me.”

In the past, Britt gave me the benefit of the doubt. For him to act otherwise was out of character. Even though I was
still angry with Britt, I wouldn’t let Jonette disparage him. “Britt was doing
his job.”

“Britt’s Mister Straight-Arrow
all right, but I wasn’t talking about him. He’s not a rat-faced weasel. Darnell
is. And I’m going to get him back. He’s had it in for me since day one, and I’m
sick and tired of his snide remarks.”

Relief warred with bewilderment in my head. “Darnell is a total jerk.”

When Jonette’s car slowed to pull
into my gravel driveway, I breathed easier. I was home. I would get a cup of
hot tea and relax and figure everything out. But before I could gather my purse
to hop out of the car, Charlie’s sleek black BMW edged in right beside us in
Mama’s empty spot.

I closed my eyes and groaned. I
needed peace and quiet, not an ex-husband asking questions. “Wonderful. Just
wonderful. Why don’t I take a sharp stick and poke myself in the eye?”

“Because it would hurt like hell,”
Jonette said. “We’ll get rid of him.”

Woodenly, I stumbled from the
car. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, so I glued my
gaze to the front door and marched forward. The only silver lining in this was
that the girls weren’t home. Today was the first day of school, so I had the
afternoon to come up with a plausible explanation for my behavior.

I swallowed hard. I could explain
my black underwear. I could even explain being cuffed. But I couldn’t explain
what had happened to Erica Hodges.

“Clee, you’re hurt,” Charlie said,
his voice softening as he followed me inside the house.

Traitorous tears welled up in my
eyes.

Not now.

Sampson women were strong. They
did not run from trouble. Mama had drummed that into me from the cradle. Those
words haunted me, and I shivered. Was Mama in trouble? Had she stared it down
the throat? Why was she being so secretive?

I couldn’t fix Mama’s troubles
until I got myself right. “Nothing that antiseptic and a few bandages won’t
fix.” I busied myself filling the tea kettle with water. My hands steadied, but
my insides quivered like pudding. Charlie’s familiar masculine scent wafted
over, bringing with it a confusing glut of memories. I steeled myself against
them.

Charlie was just my size, the same five-foot-six height, same slight build. I knew exactly how blue his eyes went when we made
love. I’d traced the freckles on his face and arms so often I could map them in
my sleep.

After he cheated on me, I put our closeness in the trash where it belonged. No matter how much I wanted comfort, I
didn’t want his version of it.

He headed for the cabinet that
served as our household first-aid cupboard, but Jonette beat him to it. “I get
to be the nurse,” she said, snagging the Inspector Gadget lunch box of
supplies.

Charlie’s voice cracked with
intensity. “Give me that. She’s my wife.”

“No, she’s not.” Jonette cradled
the blue box and motioned me to the kitchen table. “She’s my best friend, and
I’m taking care of her.”

His face contorted. His hands
fisted at his sides. “Dammit, Cleo. I want to help.”

“I don’t need your help.” I
flinched as Jonette dabbed antiseptic on my cuts and scratches.

Charlie hovered over me. “What happened? Did Britt do this to you?”

His closeness irritated me more than the stinging antiseptic. “Leave Britt out of this,” I grumped. “I fell through a
bush.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?
Should I take the girls this afternoon so you can rest?”

“Go back to work. I’m fine. I can
handle the girls.” Charlie would seize control in a heartbeat. The only way to
win was to freeze him out of my private life. Easy in concept, harder to do in
person.

Charlie’s gaze snagged on my
ripped shorts. His gaze heated. “Since when did you start wearing black
underwear?”

The pounding in my head
intensified. “I will not discuss my underwear choices with you.”

He drew closer, and I resisted
the urge to tug my shorts back together. He’d seen it all before. The only
thing new was the underpants.

His fingers stroked the top of
the ladder-back chair next to me. “Very nice. Buck didn’t mention black panties when he called me at the bank.”

I’d wondered how Charlie had
gotten here so quickly. “Buck called you?”

The kettle whistled, and Jonette
tossed in the tea. She took down three mugs, even though Charlie never drank
hot tea.

Charlie’s fingers tightened on
the chair. “He wasn’t the only one. I swear it’s getting so that as soon as I
hear there’s trouble, I know you’re in the middle of it. It’s not safe to have
you living here in town, Clee. I want you and the girls to move back home with me.”

We’d had this discussion before.
Charlie was quite intelligent about banking practices, but he was absolutely
dense when it came to his chances of winning me back. In his mixed-up mind, it
was a matter of time until I caved. I waved off his concern. “Forget it. I will
never move back into that house.”

“Yeah.” Jonette stepped between
the two of us. “Forget it.”

Charlie glared at me over the top of Jonette’s head. “Call off your pit bull, Cleo.”

Jonette’s interference had riled
him. Too bad. The volatile moods of Charlie Jones were no longer my concern. My
priorities consisted of my children, my mother, Jonette, and my house. My
business came next. Then Rafe. And my dog. Charlie was no longer in my top
five. He wasn’t even in my top ten.

I laid my palms flat on the
table. “I’m okay. My skinned knees will heal. So will my pride. You’ve got to
step back, Charlie. You’ve got to move on. I have.”

Something in my expression must
have told him not to push his luck any further. If nothing else, our divorce
had caused Charlie to master the strategic retreat. “You’re overwrought. We’ll
continue this conversation later.” He ducked around Jonette to kiss me. I turned my cheek just in time.

After Charlie left, I swapped my
ruined shorts for a pair of elastic-waist gym shorts in the laundry room.
Jonette and I carried our tea to the living room. I sat long-ways on the couch
with my feet up and contemplated her pristine appearance. “How come you aren’t scratched up?”

Jonette’s foot tapped rapidly on
the Oriental carpet beneath her wingback chair. “Because I didn’t dive through
the thicket or slide my face across a rock bed. I didn’t mean to give us away.
I only wanted a better view. Are you sure you’re okay?”

The steam from my tea infiltrated
the chaos in my head. I inhaled deeply of the soothing moisture. “I’m fine.”

Jonette gulped her tea. She
crossed and uncrossed her legs. Finally she said, “I’m with Charlie on this
one. You don’t look so good.”

A golden sandal the size of a
two-story building winged through my thoughts. Dread tangoed through my pores.
This is what came of keeping secrets. Problems assumed astronomical
proportions. “I can’t get that image out of my mind.”

“Me, neither,” Jonette said. “And
I’m going to do something about it right now.” She tore out of the house as if
the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels.

Chapter 3

I scraped my jaw up off the floor as my front door slammed behind Jonette. How bizarre. I’d been concealing my worries. Now it appeared that Jonette
had secrets, too. What was so private that she couldn’t tell her best friend?

Had she driven like a lunatic
over to the church this morning and then pushed me into the crime scene on purpose? Did she have a death wish? Had I offended her in some way? What?

This whole day seemed fun house carnival weird, without the fun. Everything felt distorted. Unreal. Like I’d been
stretched thin and then squashed flat. No matter which way I turned, the view
was skewed.

Why was this happening? My life
had finally settled into a decent routine. I loved the normalcy of knowing what
happened next. But I hated this nerve-jangling, skin-crawling, upset-stomach,
tension-headache feeling I was having right now.

Jonette’s jarring behavior added
another discordant note in a symphony of strangeness. I couldn’t explain her
irrational actions anymore than I could fathom Erica’s death.

Where was Mama?

She wasn’t here, where she was
supposed to be. She wasn’t with Muriel and Francine, or I would have seen her
at Trinity Episcopal. Her car should’ve been parked in our driveway, and she
should’ve been sitting in our office out back. But she wasn’t.

Mama was unaccounted for, and
Erica was dead.

Were the two events related?

I smelled the fear on my breath,
felt the fright diffuse through my body like carbon monoxide, stupefying my
brain. It wasn’t a stretch for me to imagine Mama had been reckless enough to
mow Erica down with her Olds. Their decades-long antagonism had reached a
critical point with Monday’s confrontation. Why?

I needed to know.

All I had in the way of data was
a series of unrelated events. No Mama. Crazy Jonette. Dead Erica. Handcuffed me. Lousy golf. And that was just the morning.

I’d planned to work this
afternoon, but my frazzled brain couldn’t do simple arithmetic much less
accounting. Neither my thoughts nor my trembling hands would settle. But
restless energy wouldn’t allow me to mope around all day.

So I cleaned house. The kitchen
floor gleamed. I cooked, too. Simmered down a pot of fresh tomatoes into a
thick, rich spaghetti sauce.

After I finished with the
downstairs bathroom, I stood listening to the sighs and creaks in this old
house. I couldn’t remember the last time this place had been so quiet. This
house usually brimmed with four females and a large dog.

The dog.

A tremor of unease flickered down
my spine. Where the heck was the dog? Normally she shadowed my every move. Was
she ill? Or even worse, in the throes of early labor? Jonette and Lexy were
supposed to oversee the whelping. Not me.

I peeled off my yellow latex
gloves and dashed up the carpeted stairs, praying there wouldn’t be a litter of
puppies in my bedroom. My prayers were answered. Only, I didn’t like the
answer.

I opened my mouth to yell and
squeaked instead. The carnage stopped me cold, shot my pulse through the roof.
Never in my life could I have imagined such a mess. My hand covered my gaping
mouth. I couldn’t bring myself to step across the threshold.

Snowy white feathers from my
lightweight goose-down comforter spilled off the bed, littering my dresser, my
closet. In the current from the ceiling fan, eddies of weightless feathers
swirled along the wooden floor. My good sheets, four-hundred-thread-count
satiny-soft deluxe sheets, were ripped to shreds. Trails of dried dog drool
adorned my beautiful maple headboard.

If I were a cartoon character,
the top of my head would have popped off, my eyes would have bulged out, and
twin jets of steam would have blasted out of my ears. Rage boiled up out of a
dark place deep inside me. “Bad dog!”

Madonna opened one eye, but she
didn’t move from atop my bed. Her paws curled down in the pillow-soft mattress
top. I was so mad I could spit nails. My fingers flexed in anticipation of
lifting the jumbo pooch and shaking her. “Get off my bed, Madonna. You’re in
big trouble.”

No response. Feathers took flight
as I stomped into my bedroom. I tugged on Madonna’s leather collar. “Get. I mean it. Get off my bed.”

Madonna didn’t budge. She looked
mortally wounded that I would raise my voice at her. My gaze strayed to her
very large stomach, and I tamped down a wave of guilt. I tugged on her collar
again. “Pregnant or not, you’re a bad dog. You’re sleeping in the laundry room
from now on, you hear me? Get up. Get out!”

Madonna exhaled heavily, sending
another flurry of snowy feathers into flight. My fists balled at my side in
impotent fury. I wanted her out of my bed right now. But she outweighed me, and
her center of gravity was low. And she seemed to understand that possession was
nine-tenths of the law.

Feathers whirled around my face.
I batted them away ineffectively. In frustration, I picked up a mangled corner
of my pillow and swatted the mattress next to Madonna. “Dammit. Get up! Get off
my bed. I’m taking you to the pound right this instant.”

Footfalls pounded up the stairs. “Mom!
Don’t swear at the dog.” Lexy rushed in and hurled herself on the bed, wrapping
her arms protectively around the short-haired Saint Bernard. Like that would
keep me from removing the dog.

“That dog is in serious trouble.”
I gestured at the feather-filled room. “Do you see what she did?”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Lexy said in a
soothing tone. “Really. It’s okay.”

I unclenched my jaw. “This is a
monumental disaster. I gave this dog food and shelter. See how she repays me?”

“Mom, get a grip,” Lexy said. “If
you’d read any of the whelping stuff, you’d know Madonna did exactly what she
was supposed to do.”

I’d been meaning to read those
slick pamphlets and the stack of Internet articles on doggie childbirth that
Jonette and Lexy were studying, but I hadn’t gotten around to it. I’d been
through childbirth myself. I knew firsthand what labor and delivery felt like.

I glared at Lexy.

Lexy cooed at the dog and petted
her. Madonna sniffed copiously and stirred herself to lick Lexy’s hand. The
effort exhausted her. Madonna immediately lay her head back down in the tangle
of ruined bedding and moaned.

In a twinge of sympathy, I remembered how the last month of my pregnancies seemed to go on forever. “Is she in labor right
now?”

Lexy gently massaged Madonna’s
bulging stomach. “I can’t tell. Did you take her temperature? It hadn’t dropped
as of last night.”

My hands clenched into tight
fists. “No, I did not take her temperature. I came up here to check on her and
found my bed destroyed. Taking the dog’s temperature never crossed my mind.”

Lexy hopped off the bed, a trail
of feathers floating in her wake. “I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything, Mom.”

As if I could do anything. The
dog wouldn’t budge. My bed was in shreds, and my mother was missing. My head
pounded fiercely.

“Holy crap!” Charla dashed into
the room, feathers swirling and catching in her thick red hair. “What’s going
on?”

“Mom wants to get rid of Madonna.”
Lexy returned with the thermometer and tended to business.

“No way. She’s our dog, Mom.”
Charla wedged herself between me and the dog. “You said we could keep her. You
can’t get rid of her because of a little mess.”

“She destroyed my bed.” My voice
squeaked again. If I didn’t calm down, I would have a heart attack. Not good.

This was a power struggle. Power
was all about control, and right now, Madonna controlled the bed. She wasn’t
giving it up, either.

My bed.

Not hers.

I never should have let her sleep
with me in the first place. The dog thought she owned the bed, but it was mine.
I had only been sharing my bed with her. It wasn’t hers. Not by a long shot.

“Well, Lexy?” Feathers flew as I
drifted closer. “Is she in labor?”

“No,” Lexy said. “Her temperature
hasn’t dropped.”

“Why did she do this?”

“I already told you, Mom. She’s
nesting. She needs an area to have her puppies.”

I pointed over to the inflatable
kiddy pool we’d installed in the corner of my bedroom. “Why isn’t she nesting
over there in the waterproof area? I bought everything on the list. Are you
telling me I wasted my hard-earned money?”

“Maybe she wanted to nest here
because it smelled like her. Or,” Lexy brightened, “because it smelled like you.”

I grabbed my hair and yanked on
it. “Why would she need her puppy box to smell like me?”

“Dogs are particular about
scents,” Lexy said. “Madonna chose you over Charla or me or Grammy. She likes
your scent the best.”

I didn’t ask for preferential
doggie treatment. “She has a funny way of showing it. Couldn’t she like me without shredding my comforter and ripping up my sheets?”

“I’ll clean it up, Mom,” Lexy
offered.

“No. I’ll clean it up.” Charla
jerked her thumb toward her chest. “I’m the oldest. I take complete
responsibility. I’ll pay for your new sheets, too.”

“Madonna destroyed hundreds of
dollars’ worth of bedding.” To my horror, my voice shrilled to wicked-witch level.
“It will be years before you save up that much allowance. This is a disaster.”

“Lexy can bunk with me, and you
can have her room.” Charla crossed the room to hug her sister.

Lexy clung to Charla. “Please,
Mom. I’ll help Charla raise the money. Madonna didn’t mean to be destructive.
She’s a victim of her instincts.”

The only victim in this room was me. I took a deep breath, then another. My head cleared a little, and I realized something special had happened. Charla and Lexy had united for a common goal, an unprecedented
event. They were willing to bunk together so that I had a bed with sheets on
it.

My anger faded. I had no spare
set of sheets. If I stuck to a tight budget this month, I could afford clearance-sale
sheets. A look of resignation must have passed across my face.

Charla declared victory by
hurling herself into my arms. Feathers twirled around us. “Thanks, Mom. You
won’t regret this. Everything will work out. You’ll see.”

“Yeah, thanks, Mom.” Lexy stayed
by Madonna’s side just in case I still thought to get rid of the dog.

This was a battle I couldn’t win.
Not without removing the dog. And, with Erica’s death weighing on my thoughts,
there had been enough loss for one day. “I want this mess cleaned up before
dinner.”

I left them to it.

My stomach growled as I stirred
the mouth-watering spaghetti sauce. I started the noodles for dinner. Upstairs,
the vacuum cleaner roared to life. A minor victory, but a victory all the same. The girls felt responsible enough for the dog to clean up her mess. Good info to file away
for when the puppies came.

I shuddered. I wasn’t ready for
puppies. This afternoon had shown me that. I’d never had the urge to chew up
sheets at any time prior to the onset of labor. Clearly I was ignorant of the
doggie version of birth. I’d better get with the program. I pulled an article
on whelping out of the stack on the kitchen table and sat down to read it while
the noodles cooked.

I’d barely started reading about
loss of doggie appetite and excessive licking of personal areas when Mama
staggered in. Not even the shoulder pads of her double-breasted mauve blazer
could disguise the droop of her frame. With her heavy step, glassy eyes, and
pale skin, I worried she was having a heart attack.

My own heart nearly stopped. I
leapt to my feet and raced to her side. “Mama! Come sit down. Let me fix you a glass of water. Where’s your nitroglycerin?”

“My heart’s fine. Forget the
water. Gimme a shot of Jack Daniels.”

It wasn’t her heart. I exhaled a
little easier. But why the booze? Mama didn’t drink. We had a bottle of Jack
Daniels left over from when Daddy was alive. The bottle hadn’t been opened in
the three years since he’d passed.

The wires of the universe must
have crossed. What else would explain the strange events of today? “What
happened?” I asked as I seated her at the table. “Where have you been all day?”

Mama sat soldier straight in a
kitchen chair and waved off my questions. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Mama, you were gone for hours.
I’ve been worried sick.” I reached behind the cookbooks over the microwave and
found the dusty liquor bottle.

“I’ve been looking after myself
for years. You can’t shoehorn me into a nursing home.”

Clever of her to try to distract me, but I was onto her tricks. And I had guilt in my arsenal. “I thought you were home keeping an eye on the dog while I golfed this morning.”

“That dog’s got better sense than
any of us. She can look after herself. I had an errand.”

I poured out a straight shot of
Jack Daniels and set it before her. Mama belted it back like water. She shoved
the shot glass over to me for a refill.

I sat down beside her and stared
her straight in the eye. I wanted answers. “Where have you been, Mama?”

She eyed her empty shot glass. “Minding
my own business, that’s what.”

Her color was coming back. The
liquor must have helped. Perhaps another shot of Jack would loosen her tongue
the rest of the way. I handed her a refill and tried again. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Mama glared at me. “It’s none of your beeswax, that’s what.”

She was hiding something. “Mama, the police responded to a call at Trinity Episcopal Church today. There was a
fatal accident in the parking lot.”

I watched her closely, hoping
against hope that her secret wasn’t related to the gruesome incident. To my
relief, Mama’s rigid posture never waivered. She seemed to be braced for bad
news. “Erica Hodges is dead,” I said as gently as possible.

Mama’s shoulders shook with
emotion. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Great gulping sobs wracked her slender
frame.