Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (11 page)

“And you said she was
sweet.
I never did fall for that cute little old cookie lady act.”

“She keeps Ex-Lax in her cabinet. It appears she put more than sugar in her cookies.”

“I knew it.”

“And you’ll never guess what I found in her basement.” Callie starts recounting a scene of Christmas mutilation that makes me glad she caught me before I finished my snooping. Listen, I may be a premiere dog detective who goes the second mile, but I draw the line at sacrifice.

“It figures,” Lovie says. “Anybody who would put a laxative in Christmas cookies would steal and torture the neighbors’ Christmas decorations.”

“But all that still doesn’t make her a killer.”

“Why not? Some people get the Christmas spirit. Opal gets Christmas rage.”

“But does she get mad enough to kill? And if she does, how would a former school teacher know how to turn Santa’s throne into an electric chair?”

“Just because I’m a caterer doesn’t mean I can’t re-wire a lamp.”

“You’re right, Lovie. Did you make a connection between Opal and either one of the victims?”

“Wayne was one of her students.”

“You’re kidding me! But why would she want to kill your fiancé?”

“I don’t have a clue. Why would she put Ex-Lax in cookies and hand them out at Santa’s Court?”

“If she hates Christmas so much she chops off the heads of plastic Santas, she’s bound to hate little children, too.”

“The thing I can’t figure out, Cal, is how Opal would know Wayne was Santa? Only you and Jack and I knew.”

“Plus, when he got dressed, he looked like every other mall Santa.” Cal strips off Charlie’s hat and shakes her hair out of the pins. “Did you say anything about Wayne to Cleveland?”

“No. I only let him know we had a Santa substitute and he didn’t have to worry.”

“I still can’t picture Cleveland as the killer. Did Opal know Uncle Charlie or Nathan Briggs?”

“I was just getting ready to ask her that when she jumped up and raced toward the kitchen like her coattail was on fire.”

“A few seconds earlier, and she’d have caught me in her basement. Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Next time I’ll light a cigarette and yell,
Fire
.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“That’s not the point. We need to work out a signal. I don’t intend to die at the business end of a mop.”

“Good grief, Lovie. You weren’t the one she was after. Besides, there’s not going to be a next time. We need to turn this investigation over to professionals.”

“Who? The cops? The way they were questioning you in Santa’s Court, you’re at the top of their suspect list, Cal. I can just see how they’ll react to information you’ve gleaned snooping in Opal Stokes’ basement.”

“You have a point.”

This admission makes my human mom slump. I edge over and lay my head in her lap. Listen, if there’s anybody in the world who can keep Callie from having a “Blue Christmas,” it’s yours truly.

Of course, Lovie always does her part, too. Usually with a six-pack of Hershey bars and a barrel full of sass. Currently she’s jerking off her granny wig and perking up.

“Let’s change clothes at my house, then drive by the hospital, Cal. We need to tell Daddy about Wayne before he hears it on the six o’clock news.”

“That’s a good idea. But don’t tell Uncle Charlie he was your fiancé.”

“Why not?”

“That would only upset him. He likes to think he can take care of everybody in the family.”

“Poor Wayne. He probably never would have made it into the family, anyhow.”

My human mom is wise enough to keep quiet. I know what’s on her mind. The same thing that’s on mine. Wayne was simply another of Lovie’s diversions. Deep down she’s still hoping Rocky Malone will leave Mexico and start digging for
real
treasure.

Lovie gives me a treat at her house—bacon-flavored Milk Bones. She knows when a loyal dog deserves a reward. When Callie finally parks her truck in front of the hospital and says, “Wait in the truck, and I
mean
it, Elvis,” I don’t argue.

Listen, I may be the best canine detective in the world, but I’m not a lick of good if I miss my sleep. And it’s past my nap time.

I watch until Callie is safely inside the hospital, then I give that suspicious guard who’s looking my way a snarl and curl up on the warm spot Callie left behind. Even a famous dog has to have his rest.

Chapter 8

Gentle Murder, Graceland Send-offs, and Fatal Attractions

U
ncle Charlie’s color is better, but he still looks fragile. On the way up to his room, Lovie asked if I’d be the one to tell him about Wayne.

“You can do it so much more gently than I can, Cal.”

“Sure,” I told her, but I don’t know how you can be gentle when you’re breaking the news about murder.

I flounder my way through, but Uncle Charlie takes the latest Christmas murder in stride. Lovie is the one who takes things badly. I’m not used to seeing my unflappable cousin cry.

She lets Uncle Charlie hug her, and even leans on his shoulder a while, which is unusual for her. Lovie has always believed her daddy is disappointed that she’s not a boy. She tries so hard to act like she doesn’t care, she’s finally convinced herself it’s true. “Why don’t you stay here with me tonight, dear heart?” he says to Lovie. “The death of a friend is hard. You could use the company and I could, too.”

“I think I will if Cal doesn’t mind.”

“Of course not.” I tamp down on my enthusiasm. It won’t do to let Lovie see how excited I am that she’s finally dropping her tough girl attitude and letting her real feelings show. “Besides, I need to stop by the funeral home to make sure Bobby doesn’t need help getting ready for Steve Boone’s wake tonight.”

“He called to say he has everything under control, but I’d feel better if you’d check, dear heart.”

I hug Lovie and Uncle Charlie, tell them to call if they need anything, then hurry through the parking lot. I spot my truck, but no Elvis. If he’s gone missing again I’m going to scream. I barrel toward the Dodge Ram, resisting the urge to scream, “Elvis!” I’ve had enough drama today without everybody in the parking lot thinking I’ve gone stark raving crazy.

Yelling that famous name in Tupelo can cause a stampede. Half the folks here think somebody else is buried at Graceland while the King leads a simple life in the hills, venturing out only once in a blue moon. Some even declare to have spotted him at the Piggly Wiggly.

I say a little prayer, then jerk open my truck door. Elvis stands up, stretches, yawns, then gives me a slobbery dog kiss. I know this is not George Clooney—or for that matter, Jack Jones—but I was never so glad to see anybody in my life.

“Elvis! You obeyed!”

He twirls around and takes a bow. I swear, he looks like somebody on center stage, which in a way he is. I’ve spoiled him into thinking everything in my life is all about him.

Still, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with animals and people you love? I give Elvis one last cuddle, then hop into my truck and turn the keys in the ignition.

But suddenly everything that has happened in the last few days crashes around me. I can’t go another step. Leaning my head on the steering wheel, I just breathe.

Elvis nuzzles my arm, but I still don’t move. When he whines, I say, “This has been a long day, boy. And it’s not over yet.”

Satisfied, he flops onto the passenger side, while I take another deep breath before heading to Eternal Rest. It’s a wonderful old Victorian house on Jefferson Street in the heart of downtown Tupelo. When Uncle Charlie converted it into a funeral home, he used a Graceland theme minus the shag carpet. Mama’s influence, no doubt. Still, the bereaved take a great deal of comfort in knowing Uncle Charlie sends their loved ones off in grand style.

Thankfully, the parking lot is empty because nobody has died this week except Santa and his reindeer.

Holy cow, I sound like Mama. I must finally be coming undone.

After doing another deep-breathing exercise, I let myself in the front door, then take Elvis off his leash. This is a second home to him. He has the run of the place unless there’s a funeral or a viewing in progress. Of course, there have been a few times when Elvis escaped our vigilance and showed up in the chapel to howl “Amazing Grace” along with Mama. She does the music for all Uncle Charlie’s funerals, though she’s usually not howling.

Today I don’t have to worry, though. Eternal Rest is empty except for Steve Boone, who is lying in state in the blue parlor on my left. I don’t have to check to know that he looks good. When I make up the dead they look like they could pose for the cover of
Harper’s Bazaar
.

Leaving Elvis to wander toward the kitchen, probably looking for crumbs, I head toward Bobby’s office. It’s downstairs, near the embalming room and across the hall from the room I use to work my makeup magic on the deceased.

Bobby’s door is ajar, so I don’t knock. Instantly, I regret that decision. Bobby’s standing with his back to the door and his arm around the waist of a curvaceous blond. Will wonders never cease? Both of them are bent over his desk with their heads together, mumbling something.

I’m sorry to report that I lean forward, straining to hear, but only for a split second. My better nature reasserts itself, and I creep backward and pull the door almost shut. Then, calling on acting skills learned when I was a cabbage in Mr. McGregor’s garden in a second-grade play, I keep a straight face and give the door a sharp rap.

There are footsteps inside, and Bobby comes to the door. He’s followed by none other than my manicurist.

“My goodness,” I say. “Darlene!” I know,
I know.
Not very cabbage-like of me, but it has been a long day and my savoir faire is slipping.

“Oh, hi, Callie.” All smiles, Darlene opens the door wider, while I stand there speechless and Bobby looks on, red-faced. “Come on in. Bobby and I were just looking at today’s horoscope.”

He tugs his tie and expels a long breath. Poor Bobby. Listen, if he and Darlene are trying to get something going, I’m glad. He’s so shy he can barely string two words together unless he’s around Mama and Fayrene. They think he’s a true psychic and consult him all the time. He’s practically garrulous around them.

“What’s the prediction?” I stroll into the office and sit in an overstuffed beige chair in front of a bookcase bulging with books. I’m so tired I might just fall asleep.

“Clear sailing ahead,” she says. “Good thing, don’t you think, considering the two Christmas corpses in Santa’s Court? What do you see, Bobby?”

“I don’t know. My psychic eye is acting up.”

Poor Bobby. Usually he says, “There’s danger from a dark-eyed stranger.” Today I’d be inclined to agree with him. I’ve had Opal Stokes’ little beady brown eyes on me enough to feel the danger.

Darlene pats his arm. “Don’t worry. Before you can say
Pass the eggnog,
you’ll be getting psychic signals right and left.” She grins at me. “Sometimes you have to stretch your imagination a little to line up what the stars say with what Bobby gets firsthand, but he’s always right.”

I half expect him to shuffle his feet and say,
Ah, shucks.
When he says, “Thank you, ’Lene,” I nearly pass out from surprise. Considering that he calls Vanna White on
Wheel of Fortune
his best friend, his progression to a nickname for Darlene shocks me as much as if Lovie had left off using all the words she didn’t learn in Sunday School.

“I’ve gotta run.” Darlene grabs her purse and blows us a kiss. But I don’t miss that she’s sending it more in Bobby’s direction than mine. “Mama and Daddy have David at Gas, Grits, and Guts, and Mama’s going to have a conniption fit if I’m late.”

“Thanks for your help at the charity event, Darlene. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“It was fun. But I’m glad it’s over. Wow! Two murders in three days. Thank goodness the bazaar’s not open Sunday.”

“Take Monday off, too, if you want. It’s always a slow day at Hair.Net.”

“And miss all the fun? No thanks. I’ll see you there.”

She whizzes out the door with Bobby watching until she disappears.

“Well,” he says, then plops behind his desk like a man who has suddenly discovered his legs are made of straw.

“She’s very nice, Bobby. I’m happy that you two are developing a friendship.”

“Yes.”

I wait for him to say more, but when nothing is forthcoming, I rub my hands together as if I’m trying to wash away events of today. “Do I need to help you do anything to get ready for Steve’s viewing?”

“I’m all set.”

“How about the jazz funeral?”

“His family declined.”

“Not everybody appreciates a creative undertaker. Mama’s going to be busy taking care of Uncle Charlie, and Lovie and I have our hands full, so call the substitute organist and caterer.”

My phone rings, startling me almost out of my skin. “Before I forget, Bobby, call me if you have any trouble.” I press my cell phone to my ear. “Hello.”

“Callie, when are you going to get home to see about Jack?” It’s Mama.

“What are you doing at my house, Mama?”

“Since when is it a crime to check on my son-in-law?”

“Ex.”

“Flitter.”

“You didn’t tell him what I’m up to, did you?”

“What do you think I am? Senile? Get yourself home, Carolina. I need to leave so I can stay with Charlie.”

“I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Besides, Jack can take care of himself, and Lovie’s staying with Uncle Charlie tonight.”

“I’m not leaving till you get here. Furthermore, you’re bringing Jack to Sunday dinner after church. He looks like he’s starving to death.”

“Good grief, Mama, I’m not even going to dignify that with a comment. ’Bye now.” I shove my phone back in my purse and stand up.

“Be careful, Callie,” Bobby says.

“It’s been a bad day. If you tell me there’s danger from a dark-eyed stranger, I’m going to scream.”

Bobby actually grins. “My psychic powers are on the blink, but I know there’s a murderer loose.”

Coming from him, that’s the equivalent of a State of the Union address.