Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (16 page)

“I know. We’ll try not to repeat tonight’s performance at Albert’s bonfire.”

“Take Jack to the farm, and let him help you with some target practice.”

“You think I need to pack a gun?”

“Not until you can blow a hole in something smaller than the side of a barn.”

I’m glad to see Uncle Charlie’s sense of humor is still intact. I wave as he climbs into the passenger side of the Mustang, where Mama’s waiting with the music turned up too loud. You can hear “Winter Wonderland” all over Lovie’s neighborhood. I just hope her neighbors have enough Christmas spirit not to call the cops to report us for disturbing the peace.

I watch until the Mustang disappears around the corner, then hurry inside, where Lovie is wearing a purple robe and crown and holding her green plastic pitcher of Prohibition Punch.

“A crown?”

“Drink this. Queen’s orders.”

“Queen, my foot. More like the cousin who would still be stuck in Albert’s window if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Water under the bridge.”

“Amen.”

We both flop onto the sofa. In Lovie’s too-big clothes and a gazillion Band-Aids, I look like a refugee from a beleaguered country.

Still, I’m neck-deep in murder, and there are things I need to know. With my Prohibition Punch in easy reach, I open Lovie’s laptop and educate myself on weapons.

“Did you know Albert had a Glock and a Ruger?”

She looks up from the telephone directory. “What I want to know is where Abel Caine lives.”

“After tonight’s fiasco, you want to break and enter again?”

“Have you ever known anything to stop me?” I giggle thinking of the many obstacles that didn’t deter Lovie—a pigeon caught in her hair, a dunking in the Peabody fountain, a Mayan tribe who thought she was the Moon Goddess.

“See,” she adds. “There’s your answer. Besides, I sure don’t want to confront him face to face.”

“Neither do I. And if the Santa killer is after Uncle Charlie, I think he’s the most logical suspect. But what are we going to do about Mama?”

“Give her plenty of punch.”

“Not unless we’re going to drive her back to Uncle Charlie’s.”

“We can handle that. After tonight, I’d say we can handle anything.”

“Except maybe that Abel Caine character. I don’t like the thought of breaking and entering the house of an ex-con, Lovie.”

“Then what do you propose? There’s a Santa slayer still on the loose, and you’re still on the cops’ suspect list.”

My cousin doesn’t have to remind me. Furthermore, there’s a former operative from the Company sitting in his apartment over Eternal Rest Funeral Home wondering how to keep us out of harm’s way (Uncle Charlie) and an active one (Jack Jones) sitting in my living room, most likely watching TV with Elvis, and he would probably chain me to the bed if he saw me now.

And I’m not talking about for kinky purposes, either.

But I’m fresh out of plans. Steam, too, it seems. All I want to do is lean my head against the back of the sofa and fall asleep.

Lovie’s having the same trouble. We’d probably both have toppled headlong into slumber, where visions of sugar plums would be outnumbered by nightmares of murder, if Mama hadn’t come storming back into the house.

“Ha!” She makes a beeline for the Prohibition Punch. “If somebody doesn’t get me a glass in two seconds flat, I’m drinking straight from the pitcher.”

Lovie prances off toward the kitchen and is back with another glass before Mama even sits down.

“The very idea.” She slugs back Lovie’s special recipe, which features vodka and enough other strong spirits to cure just about any ailment you can think of, except a case of hubris. Which Mama has in spades. “The nerve.”

“Mama, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Nelda Lou What’s Her Face.”

“I don’t see her at the top of the suspect list, Aunt Ruby Nell.”

“Lovie’s right. As far as we know, she was nowhere near the mall when Santa and Rudolph died. We don’t know if she even has a connection with Steve Boone and Wayne. And having the hots for Uncle Charlie is hardly motive for murder.”

“Wash your mouth out with soap, Carolina. I want that witch checked out from her knobby knees to her crows’ feet.”

“Mama, you don’t even know her.”

“I don’t need to and I don’t intend to. I know what I know.”

I wonder where she got her information. Bobby’s psychic blue eye? But I’m not about to ask. Tonight I’ve had enough weird happenings to last a lifetime.

I try to steer the conversation in a more sensible and productive direction.

“Abel Caine is the one Lovie and I intend to investigate. He certainly has motive, and he probably had means and opportunity.”

“Flitter.”

Lovie’s laughing so hard her crown is crooked. “Aunt Ruby Nell, would you please explain what that means.”

“It means whatever I want it to.”

“Would you care to enlighten us, Mama?”

“I’ve come up with a plan, that’s what it means. I’m not leaving Charlie’s side while that heifer’s on the loose.”

“That’s a wise plan, Mama. I’m proud of you.” Now I don’t have to worry about keeping her occupied and out of everybody’s hair.

“Watching after Charlie is not what I’m talking about, Carolina. If you’ll stop acting like I’m senile and in need of Depends, I’ll tell you my plan.”

If it’s like any number of Mama’s wild ideas, I don’t want to know. Still, at this point Lovie and I are out of ideas, out of sorts, and almost out of chocolate.

“Tell us, Mama. Any plan is better than none.” I sincerely hope those are not my famous last words.

Elvis’ Opinion # 10 on Normal, Taking Care of Business, and Plans That Don’t Include Yours Truly

B
right and early Monday morning, my human mom and I arrive to start the week off right by making Mooreville’s glitterati beautiful. Jack wasn’t too happy with her when she sashayed home this morning after spending the night at Lovie’s without so much as a “Love Letter in the Sand” (a Pat Boone song I could have done justice to). Still, he’s a man on a mission—i.e., getting out of “Heartbreak Hotel.” He knows when to express his opinions and when to keep them to himself.

He was just glad I’d be along to take care of Callie today. Forget what the uninformed think about me. Jack knows I can take care of business better than the next dog. He even got a lightning-bolt charm to put on my dog collar just to prove it.

So now here I am having a little afternoon siesta with one eye open, taking care of business.

If you want to find out everything worth knowing, spend the day in Callie’s beauty shop. Everybody who is anybody (including the Tupelo mayor’s wife, Junie Mae) comes to Hair.Net. While Callie’s shampooing Junie Mae, I’m ensconced on another of the pink satin, guitar-shaped pillows my human mom keeps in the shop especially for my relaxation and cogitation. (Listen, contrary to a few snarky reporters, I can use ten-dollar words as well as the next singer. Better than most. When I was holed up in a hotel room hiding from fans who wanted to rip my clothes off—don’t you wish!—I read the
Encylopedia Britannica
and
Webster’s Collegiate
, too. I’m nobody’s “Fool.”)

The TV weatherman’s wife, Wanda, is under the dryer, letting her permanent wave set. Darlene’s in the manicurist chair, consulting the horoscope before she paints Lovie’s nails. And little David is under the sinks with his Tonka truck, making sounds like a Peterbilt rig. Fortunately for everybody concerned, Darlene left that two-timing Lhasa apso William with Fayrene today. Ever since he’s been making eyes at my former French sweetie, I’ve been laying for him.

But if you think everything is normal here at the best little beauty shop in town, then I “Really Don’t Want to Know” what you think about anything else.

Lovie’s not here to get her nails done. She likes to do them herself. She’s here so she and Callie can finalize details on Ruby Nell’s sleuthing plan. Don’t think I came by this information because “I Got Lucky” either. I’m a dog with radar ears. And if that doesn’t work, I stoop to any low to get the goods, including eavesdropping. That’s what I did when Lovie arrived out-of-breath from catering a Christmas luncheon at All Saints Episcopal in Tupelo and the two of them hurried off to Callie’s office.

I just ambled my good-looking self over to the door, lay down like I was the “Keeper of the Key,” and dared anybody to cross my portly body. And bless’a my soul, did I get an earful. It seems the two cousins are going sleuthing tonight, all dolled up as former beauty queens. Not that they consider Nelda Lou Perkins a serious suspect. They’re only going to placate Ruby Nell, who came up with the plan. Callie won’t be packing heat, but she will be including yours truly.

Listen, I’m not a dog to take rejection lightly. Any more of this business about “leaving Elvis behind” and I’ll be packing up my Pup-Peroni and howling “I’m Movin’ On.” There are plenty of good homes that would welcome a famous singer with a heart as gold as his records—even if I am wearing a basset hound suit.

For now, though, I wait for this evening’s adventure and listen to Wanda holding forth on Albert Gordon’s bonfire.

“That old toot nearly burned my house down.”

“Law,” the mayor’s wife says, “I almost cried when I saw those burning Santas on TV.”

“Most of them were just singed, Junie Mae. Butch went over there after the fire was put out and brought ours back. He’s home now scrubbing Santa Claus with Ajax.”

“Does anybody know why Albert did it?” Darlene asks. “The TV news didn’t say.”

Lovie shoots Callie a
look,
and my human mom winks.

“All I know is he had an accomplice.” Wanda’s holding the floor. It’s obvious she considers herself an expert since she was next door to Mooreville’s biggest drama since Ruby Nell hung the nude Modigliani over her dining room table. “You ought to see my hedge where they escaped. If whoever it was sets foot on my property again, he’d better watch out. Sadie can identify him by scent.”

“Darlene!” Lovie speaks so loud everybody jumps. “I want ruby red on my nails.”

“Your horoscope says ‘Curb your impetuous nature. Caution advised.’ So I’m going with the shell pink.”

Wanda opens her mouth to keep her story going, but Lovie is too quick for her.

“I don’t give a lump of coal what my horoscope says, Darlene. I’m going with red.”

The mayor’s wife, all decked out in a dress the color of Pepto-Bismol, adds her two cents, “I’d go with the shell pink, dear. It matches everything.”

“It’s not Christmassy,” Wanda says. “Go red, Lovie.”

Around the beauty shop, everybody’s business is discussed and voted on by whoever happens to be here. It’s a small democracy where the majority usually rules unless Ruby Nell is here. Then we get a queen without the parliament.

“Red,” Lovie tells Darlene, who has the good sense to stop arguing. I can tell from the way she pinches her nose before she grabs the nail polish that she doesn’t like it. She and Bobby will probably have a long discussion this evening about people who don’t take advice from the stars and the dead.

And don’t think I don’t know about their date. He called at lunchtime while she was having a pimento and cheese sandwich in the break room, and I heard both ends of the conversation. To keep on Fayrene’s good side, those two are having to tread “Gently.” Not that Fayrene’s even close to losing her psychic. Listen, Darlene’s been twice burned at the altar, and Bobby’s not the marrying kind.

I guess I’m not either or I’d have made an honest dog out of Ann Margret before the puppies were born. “Que Sera Sera.”

Here comes David, dripping ice cream down his elbows. Excuse me while I get in a lick or two before I leave with Callie and Lovie for some detective legwork.

Chapter 13

Faded Beauty, Bogus Pageants, and the Shrimp Queen

A
s soon as my clients leave Hair.Net and Darlene sets off with her darling little boy, I set to work on transforming Lovie into the former Kudzu Queen.

Not that there ever was such a title, but there ought to be. When the U.S. Department of Agriculture imported a bunch of Japanese kudzu in the misguided attempt to halt erosion, the foreign vine became a Frankenstein’s monster that not only blanketed northeast Mississippi’s pines and deciduous trees but also took over telephone poles, fences, and abandoned barns and houses. If I stood still long enough, kudzu would grow right over me and then just keep on going.

“Higher.” Lovie’s talking about her hair. She’s got more than any two women I know, every bit of it curly and the lush golden red you can’t get from a bottle, I don’t care how good your coloring skills are.

I’m doing an upswept style that she says no beauty queen worth her crown would be without.

“If I take it any higher, you won’t be able to walk under light fixtures.”

“I’ll worry about that when the time comes. I want to look authentic.”

If anybody looks like a former beauty queen, it’s Lovie. She’s got the stature, the high color, and the big personality to carry it off. On the other hand, I’m skin and bones with sleek hair that’s not going to pouf no matter what I do. I’d do well to pass myself off as a former Little Miss Mosquito. A title Lovie has already nixed.

I anchor Lovie’s hair with one last bobby pin, and she starts slathering on as much makeup as I use to fix up the dead.

“Don’t you think that’s a tad too much?”

“TV washes you out.”

“You’re not going to be on TV.”

“Yes, but Nelda Lou won’t know that. I want to look the part.”

“Did you come up with a name for me?”

“Not yet. Just zip me into this dress, and let’s get this show on the road.”

It takes three attempts, but I finally zip Lovie into a green-sequined evening gown so small that if she takes a deep breath she’ll split its seams. I slide into a red-sequined pageant gown I borrowed from Darlene under the pretext I might need it for a Christmas party with Champ. I pride myself on honesty, but when a little white lie is the only thing that will do, I can rise to the occasion as well as the next woman.