Mrs. Goodfeller

By Jaycie Cash

One-of-a-kind
Laugh Out Loud Suspense

Despite constantly striving to fit in, Elyse Smith is the Rodney Dangerfield of Scissortail, Oklahoma. She never receives any respect . . . until she happens upon an 11-year-old magazine article about Anthony Scarpelli.

This notorious hit man entered the Witness Protection Program after testifying against his mob boss. The photo that accompanies the article shows Scarpelli is a dead ringer for Elyse’s very sweet, though inept, insurance salesman husband, Tony Smith, who moved to Scissortail about the same time Scarpelli went into hiding.

Realizing this could bring her the social power she’s always craved, Elyse manipulates events to convince the good people of Scissortail that Tony is really Scarpelli. Even though she privately scoffs at the very idea, the story races through town. Many accept the rumor as fact, but there are a few holdouts... until inexplicable disasters begin to befall those who refuse to buy insurance from Tony.

Since everyone is now afraid to snub them, Elyse and Tony soon find themselves at the pinnacle of Scissortail society. Yet, she begins to question how well she knows her own husband and decides Tony is not only a dangerous hit man, but cheating on her as well. Just when she’s convinced things couldn’t get worse, Elyse discovers her entire family is in deadly peril; Vito, the mobster Scarpelli’s testimony put away, has broken out of jail and come to town for revenge. Now, in order to survive, both she and her husband—even if he is a gangster—must discover within the heroes they’ve always been.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaycie Cash
• Release date: Jun 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458068378

Jaycie Cash

Jaycie Cash is the pseudonym of a woman in the book biz who is proud to have Oklahoma roots. Why the pen name? Because it seemed the best way to experiment with the self–pubbing waters—while continuing to work in traditional publishing—and try a variety of marketing approaches she could later share with others, as to whether they did or didn’t work for her. Although she grew up in a far larger place, and Scissortail, OK, is nothing more than a figment of her imagination, Jaycie feels she knows this little town, and its equally imaginary inhabitants, intimately. In fact, while she’d never lead a pet of hers around on a rope, one of Jaycie’s dogs has the same general approach to life as Buford. Jaycie is currently at work on the second book she plans to self publish, THE SPLIT-FAMILY ROBINSON.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Elyse

It was the middle of the day. Left to my own devices I’d have been sitting on my couch, letting Oprah guilt me into swearing off transfats. Again. But that wasn’t really an option right then. Two men I’d known my whole life were lying bound and gagged in my pantry, surrounded by jars of my mother’s horrible homemade pickles and boxes of Count Chocula.

Two others, someone I’d thought I knew better than anyone else and a guy I’d just met, were lying wounded and bleeding on my carpet. We’re talking the same carpet I wouldn’t let my own kids walk on without first taking off their shoes.

As for me, my trembling fingers were closed around the grip of the automatic the wounded stranger dropped when he was shot. And chances were good if I didn’t take careful aim and pull the trigger before taking my next breath, neither I nor at least four other people would be breathing for long.

I'm a simple woman, really. Simple wants. Simple needs. And, sadly, sometimes kinda simple in the head. Now, today, I realize there’s nothing wrong with keeping things simple, except for maybe the head part. Took me a hell of a long time to get here, though.

See, for most of my life I was eaten up with trying to make the people in this town treat me like I mattered, like I was more than dog poop on the bottom of someone's duct-taped-together flip flops.

So, when I happened on some information by accident and realized how, by just custom painting the truth a bit, I could use it to brighten my family’s social standing, I went for it.

Problem is, my plan worked.

The whole thing started on a Saturday. My kids and I had spent three and a half hours trying to bribe people with baskets of homemade cookies when I parked my minivan in front of Graceland Coiffures Beauty Shop. I’d always liked the slogan emblazoned across the front: If Your Hair’s Not Becoming to You, You should be Coming to Me.

Soon as I came to a stop, Nick, eight and my oldest, slid the van’s side door open. He and Morgan, his six-year-old sister, were cold-drink-seeking-missiles headed for the shop’s backroom fridge before I could turn the key off.

Keeping the AC running, I stayed in the van. With the temperature close to ninety, it was freakishly hot for March, even in Oklahoma.

I thought about how my morning had gone. Everyone had been polite. They’d all accepted their baskets; smiling as though they actually believed the cookies were gifts instead of thinly disguised bribes.

At the drug store, when I handed a basket to Helen, the owner, I could have sworn I heard someone say, Almost too painful to watch, isn’t it?

Yet, when I’d spun my head in that direction, no one was looking at me. True, two women I’d known since high school stood a couple aisles over, but their heads were buried in a magazine. Even if one of them had said something, it hadn’t necessarily been about me. Right?

By the time I’d pulled out two baskets from inside the van, I’d almost convinced myself the world didn’t revolve around me. People had other things to discuss. I managed a smile.

But when I shut the door and turned toward the shop, I saw one thing always guaranteed to make me scowl: a certain red Corvette with white leather interior and a license plate that read BRN2WIN. Since it was parked around the corner from Graceland Coiffures, I hadn’t seen it when I’d pulled up.

Damn! I reopened the van and jerked out another basket.

Walking into Graceland is always an experience. Like any small-town beauty shop, it retains the unmistakable eau de permanent solution from decades past. What sets Graceland apart, however, is its décor: memorabilia of early, middle and late Elvis Presley. And the collection grows.

Two plaster busts of a middle-aged Elvis, complete with loose jowls, served as both wig stands and immobile greeters. As I walked in I thought, not for the first time, how much I preferred him in blonde braids to the red pageboy.

Some folks I know actually genuflect upon sight of the velvet painting on the far wall depicting Elvis’ ascent into heaven, guitar in hand and wings on his back. I, on the other hand, never do more than give a respectful little nod. That day was no exception.

Moving a bit awkwardly with three cumbersome baskets in hand, I turned to find Morgan sitting on my mother’s lap and slurping on a sweaty can of Dr. Pepper. Mama, looking a treat for a woman in her late 50s, was dressed in denim and getting her wet hair rolled by my lifelong best friend, Cecelia, who gave me a wink. Cel was looking particularly sassy, with her red hair short and quasi-spiky.

Nick, sitting in the shop’s only other beauty chair, giggled uncontrollably as Trish, the blonde bane of my existence, spun him round and round.

Much as it pained me to see my son laughing with Trish, I cranked my already forced smile even tighter and walked over to kiss Mama’s cheek. I handed her one of the baskets.

Hi, Mama. I made cookies.

Thank you, sweetheart.

Hey, one of those better be for me, Cecelia said.

Like I’d forget you, I gave her a basket of her own, along with a hug.

My smile a curved icicle, I handed the final batch to Bitchzilla. Trish.

Why, thank you, Elyse. How cute. Have you been watching Martha Stewart again?

This must be the day for presents, Mama said. Look what Trish gave me. She pulled back a plastic smock to reveal a gleaming, obviously expensive broach pinned to her blouse.

It’s 24-carat gold, Trish said, the overly long French-manicured nails of one hand propped on a jutting hip.

Two guitar strums from the Elvis clock in the corner marked the half-hour. Trish and I both glanced that way. The King’s swiveling legs, pendulums for the clock, seemed to swing with special vigor.

Well, would you look at the time, Trish murmured. Chucking my now dizzy, though no longer spinning, son under his chin, she sauntered over to Mama and kissed her cheek. The smeared mark left by the beige-pink lipstick looked like a cattle brand I’d once seen in a movie.

I’ve got to get to the club, Trish said. We’re having a luncheon before the meeting. But then you know that don’t you, Elyse, since we’ll be eating some of your delicious little cakey things for dessert.

Elyse sure does appreciate you having her baked goods served at the luncheon, Mama rushed to say.

I just hope I have as much luck pushing her nomination for membership as I did her precious little goodies, Trish said in a voice so sickly sweet it almost sent me into a sugar coma… and I don’t have diabetes.

She turned to me with a picture-perfect expression of concern and held up crossed fingers. This should be your year, Elyse. I’m doing everything I can.

My fists clenched, I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing but strange animal noises made it past the steel band suddenly circling my neck. No one else noticed, however, because Mama, Cecelia and the kids were all busy calling their goodbyes to Trish as she pulled her Ray-Bans out of her purse and headed outside.

As soon as the door closed behind her, I was able to breathe and move again. I scurried to the window. Standing to the side, so she couldn’t see me, I watched as, just like I expected, Trish pitched the basket of cookies in the public trash bin as she sauntered past. She climbed into her Vette without looking back.

Turning from the window, I shooed Nick from the chair and mimicked Trish: ’I’m doing everything I can.’ The best thing she could do for me is drop dead.

Mama gasped. Elyse! I’ll never understand it. All those years I babysat Trish, you two should be like sisters.

If she was my sister I’d have slit my wrists years ago.

At that point, Cecelia started gathering my kids together. I’m ashamed to say Mama and I had briefly forgotten they were there. I must have registered both of them going big eyed and turning their heads between Mama and me like they were at a tennis match, because, looking back, I can see that. Somehow, though, it didn’t penetrate enough at the time to make me stop and behave myself. It’s a good thing one responsible adult was present.

Hey, Cecelia told them. I’ve got a humungous box of old magazines in the back. I’ll give you a quarter for every picture of Elvis you can find.

Grinning, my mini mercenaries raced each other to the back room.

You should be ashamed, Mama railed. Trish only says good things about you. And, every year she does her best to get you into the Women’s Club.

Her best? Her best! I shouted. Who do you think it is that’s kept me out of that club, and everything else worth joining in this crappy little town?

If you go around talking ugly as this all the time, I imagine you’ve got your own mouth to blame.

I’m going to decoupage that entire wall over there with Elvis pictures, Cecelia was a tad too late to keep me from getting my feelings hurt.

Why do you always take her side? I asked my mother, a thousand similar hurts just revisited. I’m the one who’s your daughter, remember?

Cecelia, finally finished with the curlers, pulled Mama to her feet and guided her across the room. Let’s get you under the dryer, Molly.

Mama turned back to me, a gentler look on her lightly wrinkled but still beautiful face.

Baby, I’m not taking sides, she said. I never have. I just wish you could see Trish isn’t as lucky as you.

I can’t say for certain since I wasn’t glancing in one of Graceland Coiffures’ mirrors right then, but my guess is the look on my face would have made a perfect illustration for dumbstruck in the dictionary.

Dropping the dryer lid over Mama’s head, Cecelia quickly set the timer. Then she came to me, put her arm around my shoulders, and led me out of Mama’s hearing range. She knew I was about to go over the edge.

Right at that moment, though, my baby girl scampered back into the room, holding up an opened magazine.

Mommy, Mommy. Look! she cried. It’s Daddy.

I again failed to make the cut for Mother of the Year and ignored her.

As lucky as me? I hissed to Cecelia. Is she nuts?

Morgan tugged on my skirt. Mommy, look.

Uh huh, I see, I mumbled. I took the magazine from my daughter’s outstretched hand and tossed it — still open, but cover side up — on a nearby table. In that half second I’d noted it was News Bulletin, a magazine I normally avoided like the plague. If you want me to read something in my spare time it had better be full of either Hollywood gossip or recipes.

Cecelia barely swept her eyes over the cover of the magazine herself. But, being a woman of her word, she fished a quarter out of the pocket of her smock and handed it to Morgan.

Good job, sweetie, Cecelia said. Now go find another.

Morgan hightailed it toward the back again. I looked at Cecelia, intent on the one thing that took center stage in my life: my longtime resentments and hurt feelings.

I’m not the one who got a new car for my sixteenth birthday or a trip to Paris for graduation. I don’t drive a Corvette or live in a big house. What have I got?

Well, my always-wise friend drawled as she gave my shoulders a gentle shake. You’ve got the kids and Tony.

She was talking about Tony Smith, the man I’d married ten years earlier. He’d stopped off in Scissortail on his way to even he wasn’t sure where. And, although it was later before I realized it, if either Cecelia or I had bothered to really look at what my daughter had tried to show us, we would have seen a black and white photograph that looked exactly like him. It was in an almost 11-year-old magazine, under headlines that screamed MAFIA WITNESS PREPARES TO GO UNDERGROUND.

CHAPTER TWO

Elyse

Leaving the kids with Cecelia at Graceland Coiffures, I hurried off to finish my deliveries. Since I’d made all my bribery stops earlier, nothing but business was left. First stop, the State Bird Café.

Now, that may seem like a funny name for a small-town diner. But when you realize the town you’re talking about is Scissortail, Oklahoma and that the state bird of Oklahoma is the Scissortail Flycatcher, the name of the diner and several other places around town make more sense.

Big city folks tend to use words like charming or picturesque when describing Scissortail. Building wise, downtown hasn’t changed since the 1920s. Most of the signs and some of the windows are the only exteriors that have been updated since. All are made of brick and concrete, so none have ever even changed color. And although some places have false fronts that make them look taller, in the whole town there isn’t one building over two stories high.

After carefully backing my minivan into the alley between the café and the five and dime, I sat there for a few seconds. I was thinking about what Cecelia and Mama had said about me having things that rich bitch Trish didn’t have: namely the kids and my husband, Tony. And, as though my thoughts had summoned him, I looked up to see Tony strolling across the opening of the alley.

He was dressed as usual in nice khaki Dockers, a light blue cotton shirt, a navy and tan tie the kids gave him for Father’s Day, and a navy sports jacket. While he wasn’t exactly GQ material, no polyesters had been killed or injured to help make his clothes.

Tall, he was still as skinny as the day I’d met him a decade earlier. Sitting there, I thought how, even if I didn’t know him and simply passed him on the street, I’d recognize him for what he was: a family man who worked in an office.

Tony had a friendly smile on his face, so friendly it made me grin to see it. I put my hand on the van’s horn, thinking to honk and get his attention when something all too familiar made me freeze. A couple we knew from our neighborhood association stepped into my view. They were walking toward Tony and, talking to each other, obviously hadn’t noticed him until he said hello. Although he stopped to speak with them further, after a hasty Hi, the couple quickly averted their eyes and hustled past.

God, how many times had that happened when Tony and I were out somewhere? I asked myself. No matter how kind or friendly his greeting, people would always give him the tiniest smile in return before looking away or, if walking in pairs or a group, start talking all at once to each other so it wouldn’t be necessary to strike up a conversation with him. I was so sick of seeing that happen. And so glad I’d left the kids with Celia so they weren’t with me to see their dad snubbed. Again.

As for Tony, after the couple scurried past him, he only stood there long enough to take a deep breath. A now stiff smile firmly in place, he continued on his way. In a few steps he was past the alley and I could no longer see him. I knew where he’d gone though. He ate lunch everyday at The State Bird Café.

Sitting in the minivan, I didn’t even realize tears had filled my eyes until I felt a drop track its way down my cheek. I quickly brushed it away and rested my eyes against the heels of my hand.

In moments, however, sadness turned to anger. Jerking my head up, I pounded the steering wheel with my hands and swore, using what I considered a pretty creative selection of words. That ended abruptly, though, when it dawned on me Tony was the one—instead of the couple who’d just snubbed him—I kept cussing.

How was it, I wondered, honestly horrified, that I, a lifelong victim of snobbery and bullies, could be so angry with my own husband for being similarly victimized?

Because, a not so little voice jeered from the back of my head, when you married him you thought he was going to make things better for you instead of worse.

That gave me something to sit and stew over for a while.

When I finally kicked on The State Bird Café’s backdoor, Bertha, the middle-aged waitress who was going to have to do something about her varicose veins soon, was the one who answered.

Beginning to wonder if you were gonna make it today, she said around the gum in her mouth. Bertha smacked and chewed as she held the door wide, making it possible for me to slip in while balancing four big boxes filled with pies and brownies.

Yeah, sorry. I’m running a little later than planned.

Bertha shrugged. No big whoop. We haven’t run out of anything yet. But we’re close. Those goodies of yours are fast movers, girlfriend.

Glancing at her with a smile, I reflected how it was probably a good thing Bertha was addicted to gum instead of cigarettes. With that much hairspray on her heavily backcombed up do, it wouldn’t have taken more than one wrongly-flicked ash to transform her head into a torch. And, since Bertha’s heart was bigger than the pattern of red and blue lines on her legs, I’d have hated to see anything happen to her.

That nice hubby of yours is sittin’ at the counter. She nodded in the direction of the dining room.

Yeah? I asked, acting like I didn’t already know. Once I get through here I’ll have to go in and tell him ‘hey.’

Do that. He’s a real favorite of mine, you know.

Wouldn’t have anything to do with him being a big tipper, would it? I asked as I set the boxes on an old but sturdy metal table at the back of the kitchen. I held up my hand in greeting to Sarge, the cook and Bertha’s husband. He winked and raised his spatula in response.

Always leaves at least 20 percent of the tab. Gotta love that. Bertha said.

Why do you think I married him?

Bertha snorted a laugh. I forgot you were working out at the truck stop back then. She shrugged. I’ve heard of worse reasons for getting hitched. Mine, for instance. She looked pointedly at Sarge with a mock scowl.

He pursed his lips as though for a kiss and gave his hips a couple of full frontal thrusts in her direction. Bertha and I both cracked up. Still shaking her head and chortling, she pushed through the swinging door that led into the dining room.

Leaving the brownies on the table, I carried the pies over to the sliding-glass-door cooler next to Sarge’s pass-through window. I was able to see two or three people sitting at the counter. Tony was one of them.

Bertha came to Tony and held up her coffee pot to see if he wanted his mug refilled. He shook his head with a smile and said, No more here, but I’m ready for my to go cup anytime, Bertha.

Have it for you in a sec, Tony.

No rush. He gave his mouth a final pat with his napkin before setting it next to his plate.

No wonder Bertha likes him, I thought to myself as I gazed at his kind face while I finished putting a cherry, an apple and a coconut cream pie into the cooler. He really is a nice guy. Mama and Cecelia are right; I’m lucky to have him, no matter how some people treat him.

Obviously unaware I was watching him, my husband glanced to the side. His eyes were quick to light on two of the biggest retailers in town: Marvin Cagle, a balding man in his fifties who owned the town’s main clothing store, and Henry Howard, who was edging up on sixty while running the hardware store that had been in his family for three generations. Holding out their coffee mugs for Bertha to top off, both were momentarily turned in Tony’s general direction.

Tony smiled and waved. They each gave a slight nod in return. But once Bertha had filled their cups, Marvin quickly returned to his cobbler and Henry tucked back into his rhubarb pie a la mode. Neither man glanced at Tony again.

Undeterred, Tony got up, took a deep breath and started their way.

No, Tony, please no. Not while I’m here, don’t make me watch, I thought to myself. Without planning to, I rushed over to the swinging door. I guess subconsciously I was planning to stop him somehow, but when I pushed the door open I heard Marvin hiss, God, he’s coming over. And the immediate embarrassment of those words nailed me to the floor, right there in the doorway.

Tony’s hearing is fine. He had to have heard Marvin as well. Nonetheless, my husband didn’t stop until he’d reached the booth. He gave each of the men a hearty handshake.

Henry. Marvin. Good to see you. Say, I’d love to work up some numbers—

Henry, who’s never bothered much with the niceties, quickly interrupted him and said: Come on, Tony. You know we buy our insurance off Trish.

His smile now paralyzed, Tony said: Sure. No problem. Well, if you ever decide you want to change—

They waved him off before he could finish. Tony stopped by the counter to pick up the Styrofoam cup of coffee he always took back to work with him. A sympathetic-looking Bertha handed it to him with a tentative smile.

Obviously forcing himself to give her a smile in return, he pulled out his wallet, extracted enough to cover his bill and his usual generous tip, and lightly slapped the money down on the counter. With a final nod and wave towards Marvin and Henry’s booth he left.

As the cafe’s door closed behind Tony, Bertha glanced toward the swinging door to the kitchen. She flushed red when she caught my eye. I assumed she was embarrassed for both Tony and me.

I felt my own cheeks heat with shame. Funny thing was, I wasn’t sure what I was most ashamed of: Tony, for being belittled, or me, for standing there and just watching someone treat him so badly. Only minutes earlier out in the minivan I’d promised myself I’d never fail to rush to his support again.

As I mulled those unhappy thoughts over, I heard Marvin ask Henry, Why do you think he even bothers asking?

Just habit by now, I expect, Henry allowed loudly. You can tell by looking in his eyes he doesn’t expect you to say yes, he’s just hoping you aren’t gonna hurt him too bad when you tell him no. That’s why I’m so fast to give him the heave ho; a quick, clean break. Easier for both of us that way. Henry took a long, noisy slurp of his coffee, managing to spill some on his tie.

Marvin clearly gave the idea a second or two of thought, before slowly nodding in agreement. Yeah, you’re probably right. Next time I see him, I’ll just say ‘Hi, Tony, I still got all the coverage I need, how you doing?’

That oughta take care of it. Henry agreed.

Allowing the swinging door to close behind me, I headed for the back exit.

Hey, Elyse, don’t you want your money? Sarge called after me.

I’ll get it tomorrow.

CHAPTER THREE

Scarpelli

REFLECTIONS OF AN EX-HIT MAN ON THE LAM

What would they think, all of ‘em, everybody I’m passing here on the sidewalk? What would they think if they knew who I really was?

Me, I’d smell it on somebody wanting to choke the life out of me bad as I want to squeeze it out of most of them. Wouldn’t matter how much they smiled at me, I’d still know. But not these stupid little shits. They look at me and got no idea what they’re seeing. Got no idea what they’ve been playing with all this time.

‘Course, not many men could have kept themselves in check the way I have… not for ten long years. Hell, if I’d known at the start it would take this long, even I wouldn’t have tried it. ‘Course back then I figured we were talkin’ three years, tops. Plus, early on, things around here were pretty sweet. Not like it