Mama Pursues Murderous Shadows (4 page)

Mama shook her head sadly. “Sarah is convinced that Ruby didn’t kill herself.”

“I know,” Abe said. “And she might be right, too. My gut feeling is that something went on in that motel room that we need to know before we can say for sure how Ruby died. Once I get the autopsy report, I may have something to work with. Until I get something more, though, I just don’t have enough evidence to launch an official investigation.” He looked into Mama’s eyes. “Still, Candi, it won’t do any harm for you to talk to folks about Ruby’s death. If you learn something that would support Sarah’s contention, I wouldn’t frown on it if you shared it with me.…”

F
our days later, I got a phone call from Mama.

It was almost eight on a steamy hot August evening. I’d only been in my apartment for half an hour, long enough to have tried on the two skirts I’d just purchased. I had made a stop at the Macy’s Wednesday sale, one of my favorite pastimes.

“Simone,” Mama began immediately after her greeting. “I’ve just visited Abe. He got a call from TJ Cohen, the personnel manager at the plant where Ruby Spikes worked. TJ told Abe that he’d cleaned out Ruby’s locker and found a notebook inside of it. Ruby kept a diary. She had been jotting down her feelings. Abe let me read the book. That poor woman was an emotional wreck. She wrote all about her turmoil, about her terrible marriage and how unloved she felt. And there were quite a few passages where she’d talked about being free from Otis, from
Avondale, and from the people who hurt her. Poor woman wanted desperately to find peace.”

For a moment Mama’s news fostered my hope that she would back away from trying to help Sarah out of her tax troubles. “That settles it, then,” I said. “Ruby committed suicide and Sarah might as well accept the fact that she won’t get any money from the insurance policy.”

I could hear Mama sigh—this, for those of you who don’t know Mama, was not a good sign. “I’m really worried about Sarah,” she told me. “The whole town knows that she’s lost her tax money to a scam. She told me that her neighbor, the one who had offered to buy her property, has already been looking around her place, like he’s making plans to buy her property for taxes. And she’s gotten several phone calls from people who buy land at a discount from people who are about to lose it for taxes. That poor woman is in such a state, this thing might be the death of her.”

“Come on, Mama,” I insisted. “Sarah is the victim of no one but her own greed. She got her own butt in a sling, so she deserves the pain! Besides, she’s spent years gloating over other people’s misfortune; it’s payback time. What goes around comes around!”

“That doesn’t make it easier for her,” Mama responded.

“And she’s been sickly all of her life. Falling for some lottery scam and losing her property won’t be the only thing that will put her on her death—”

Mama cut in sternly. “Simone, there’s no need for you to rub Sarah’s faults in—she’s worried sick.”

Even though Mama couldn’t see me, I rolled my eyes. “It’s about time somebody rubs her faults in her face, since she’s been throwing mud into other people’s faces for years,” I said angrily. “Sarah had no business sending her tax money to a con artist in Canada. If that had happened to somebody else in town, she’d taunt them to death!”

Mama shot back, “That’s beside the point.”

I wasn’t getting the response I’d been hoping for. I knew by Mama’s tone that she wanted to help Sarah. I tried to deflect that desire by harping on the fact that Sarah had willingly submitted to being swindled. “Mama, Sarah Jenkins
deserves
whatever happens to her. It’s not your place to get involved in trying to help her!”

I expected that Mama would give me a jab back, telling me how judgmental I sounded in my assessment of how poor Sarah had gotten herself in dire financial difficulty. Instead, when she replied, there was nothing but concern in her voice. “I’m worried about Sarah’s health and her taxes, of course, but the truth is, since Abe and I have talked again, I can’t get past the fact that it’s quite possible that poor Ruby didn’t kill herself, and if that is the case—”

“If somebody killed Ruby, what could be their motive?” I demanded. “And how could they have done it? I was there when Abe told you that there
were no fingerprints in the room except Ruby’s and the maid’s.”

“I gave Sarah my word that I’d look into Ruby’s death,” Mama told me. “And you were with me when Abe encouraged me to talk to people about it!”

Now, at this point I should have been convinced that it would be useless for me to try to sway Mama. I knew all too well what I’d heard in her tone—her sleuthing instinct had been aroused by both Sarah’s plight and Abe’s concern. Still, I wasn’t ready to accept the inevitable. “What about your party?” I asked, no doubt sounding overwhelmingly concerned about my own agenda.

Surprisingly, Mama seemed to understand. “What about it?”

“Are we still going for it?”

“Of course, Simone,” she answered confidently. “I expected you’d be coming home this Saturday so that we can make further plans.”

“Yes?” I said, encouraged.

“I’m looking forward to your coming,” Mama said before she hung up.

I arrived in Otis about ten o’clock Saturday morning. My father, Abe, and Mama were sitting at the kitchen table. The sheriff was eating from a heaping plate of pancakes, sausage, and fluffy scrambled eggs. Daddy sipped from a cup of Colombian coffee whose rich aroma seemed to fill the room.

I’ll bet this is Abe’s second breakfast today
, I thought as I poured myself a full cup of fragrant coffee. I looked at Mama and smiled.

“I’ve saved your breakfast, Simone,” Mama told me. From the microwave, she pulled out a plate of food piled as high as Abe’s.

“I tried to leave early enough to get here in time,” I admitted.

“Candi’s breakfast is good any time of day,” Abe said, his mouth full of eggs.

Daddy nodded; he loves hearing people compliment Mama’s cooking.

“Candi,” Abe said to Mama between mouthfuls, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I won’t be getting the autopsy report on Ruby Spikes for another few weeks. Dr. Sanford, the only certified pathologist at the medical center who handles autopsies for this part of the state, had an accident. His car hit a tree in a rainstorm and he injured his neck. It looks like I won’t be able to do anything to change the cause of Ruby’s death until Sanford’s able to get back on the job and take care of that autopsy.”

Mama looked at Abe. “I know you haven’t set up a full investigation, but have you done anything about locating Charles Parker, the man Ruby gave that five-thousand-dollar certified check to?”

“I’ve told Rick to ask around town whether anybody knows the fella or not.”

My father stood up and rolled his shoulders. “Candi baby, why are you so interested in Charles Parker? If Ruby gave this Parker money, I bet my
week’s pay that it will be one more thing that people will tease her husband Herman about. People have been on his case so hard, around Joe’s Pool Hall, Herman is treated like a plucked chicken. I know he’s embarrassed; he tries to act like it doesn’t bother him by talking bad about Ruby. One day a few weeks ago he was so scornful I told my buddy Coal that Ruby would be better off without him. I didn’t mean for her to go off and kill herself just to get rid of him, though,” he muttered, shaking his head.

I
turned the key in the ignition. Mama reached out and touched my arm. “Watch out for my neighbor’s cat,” she warned. “That animal loves to sleep under cars.” Seconds later I flinched as a furry ball of orange and white darted out from under the wheels and across our front yard. Mama sighed with relief.

Once out on Smalls Lane, I made a left. Barbara Fleming, the woman Mama had decided would do the baking for her party, lived in Masonville, a town fifteen miles east of Otis.

When I turned into Barbara Fleming’s driveway, I checked the clock on the dashboard. It was two o’clock.

Barbara’s house was a traditional southern cottage on an oak-lined street. When this short, thin woman opened the door to us, we were ushered into an arched opening flanked by built-in bookcases.
The house had a pleasant scent, a mixture of lavender and rosemary.

Barbara Fleming had beautiful large, dark eyes with long lashes that accentuated her yellow complexion. She wore a denim dress that buttoned down the front.

We sat at the table in the all-white breakfast room making conversation as Barbara served coffee and rum-glazed banana cake. The cake was delicious, but not as good as the one Mama makes.

After we’d eaten, I stirred my second cup of coffee, feeling a twinge of impatience. Mama chattered on. I wanted her to start talking about the reason we’d come. She’s hedging, I thought. My mama doesn’t want to admit that somebody else’s baking might suffice for her party.

Barbara was the one who finally brought the conversation to our purpose. “Candi,” she said, “did I understand you to say when you telephoned that you want
me
to do the baking for a party?”

Mama nodded politely. “Simone and my boys insist on throwing me and James this anniversary party—”

“It’s their thirty-fifth,” I interrupted.

Mama went on, “Simone doesn’t think it proper that I do the baking for this party, so—”

It was Barbara who interrupted this time. “Simone, do you think the flour, butter, and sugar I throw together will be anything like what your mama bakes?” she demanded.

Mama looked surprised. “You’re a good cook,”
she told Barbara. “I’ve heard more than one person in town give you proper credit.”

Barbara laughed stiffly. “The closest thing I ever get to a compliment about my cooking is that it’s a good second to yours, Candi.”

Mama shifted in her seat. “That’s just not true,” she said, clearly embarrassed.

“Barbara, if you do the baking,” I chimed in, to move the conversation along toward the road I needed it to travel, “you won’t have to compete with Mama on this one.”

Barbara’s thin shoulders relaxed. “Since you don’t bake for a living, Candi, I get more than enough people asking me to bake for their special occasions.” She smiled. “Well, what did you have in mind?”

Mama pulled out a list from her purse. “I’d like one hundred coconut cream puffs, three chocolate pound cakes, two orange cakes, three coconut-lemon cakes, six pecan pies, six apple pies, six sweet-potato pies, five butter pound cakes, and two hundred homemade butter crescent rolls.”

From the expression on her face, it was clear Barbara Fleming didn’t expect such a long list. She was staring at Mama.

“What about cheesecake?” I asked Mama sarcastically.

“Barbara, do you have a good cheesecake recipe?”

“I was only kidding,” I said hastily.

But Barbara’s look stayed serious. “That’s a tall order, Candi,” she pointed out.

For a second, I felt panic. If Barbara didn’t agree to do the baking, Mama might not think anyone else in the county was good enough to do it. “The party is five weeks from now,” I told her. As Mama was reading from her list, I couldn’t help but wonder whether or not she purposefully made it so extensive in order that Barbara wouldn’t be able to do it all. That would give Mama an excuse to pitch in and do some of the baking herself, something I was determined not to let happen.

Barbara walked over to a small desk, reached in, and pulled out a calendar. She flipped its pages and asked, “September fifteenth?”

“That’s the date,” I said.

“September fifteenth, from six to ten,” Mama said.

Barbara raised an eyebrow. “Like I said, Candi,” she began uncertainly, “it’s a tall order … but I reckon I can pull that together for you.”

I breathed a very loud sigh of relief, and Mama shot me a reproving look. “Now that
that
is settled, let’s talk dollars and cents,” I said, firmly signaling Mama to get lost for a few minutes. My brothers and I had agreed to foot all the bills for this party—we’d already determined a maximum spending limit.

Mama, as usual, instantly picked up on my look. She set her list down on the table, stood up, and looked around the room. “You have such a colorful backyard,” she said.

Barbara’s dark eyes lit up with pleasure. “It’s going
to be a garden whenever I get it finished,” she murmured. “Right now, I call it my work in progress.” She laughed.

“May I take a look?” Mama asked.

“Be my guest,” Barbara said warmly. You could see that Mama’s interest in her flowerbeds had finally thawed her chilly manner. “Just remember that it will look much better once it’s finished.”

Mama smiled and eased out through the door into the little backyard.

“N
ow that we’ve made arrangements for the baking,” Mama said, once we were seated in the Honda again, “drive me to Avondale. I had Abe call Jeff Golick, the manager of the Avondale Inn, to arrange for us to talk to him in about ten minutes, so please hurry!”