Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (12 page)

“I’ll be careful, Bobby. Thanks.”

I give him a little hug simply because he looks like he needs it. And to tell the truth, I do, too.

Then I round up Elvis and head to Mooreville to face the music. Translated, that means face Mama and Jack at the same time; they’re a powerful duo when they’re in cahoots with each other.

As it turns out, Mama’s red Mustang convertible (what else?) is not in my driveway, and I don’t even feel like an ungrateful daughter when I say, “Hallelujah.” Elvis thumps his tail as if to say, “Amen.”

My dog bounds out the door to greet Jack, who is waiting for me on the front porch swing. Or was he waiting for Elvis? I hang back while Jack greets him as if my basset is a soldier arriving home after a three-year tour of duty in a dangerous third-world country. My conscience pricks me, and not for the first time.

But I refuse to think about divorce at Christmas. Especially since my lawn is newly covered with wire reindeer moving their spindly legs and flashing their tiny blue lights.

“Jack, who put the reindeer out?”

“I did. Ruby Nell helped.”

Now I
do
feel like an ungrateful daughter. “Why did Mama leave?”

“I told her to go on home, Cal. She needed the rest.” I ascend the steps and Jack drapes his arm not-so-casually across my shoulders. “It looks like you do, too. How does hot chocolate sound?”

“Hot chocolate, a long hot soak in the tub, and then an evening in front of the fire watching a holiday movie classic, preferably something with Jimmy Stewart.”

Jack grins at me and we say, “It’s a Wonderful Life” at the same time.

For once I’m glad Jack is in my house. I’m glad I don’t have a date. I’m glad I don’t have company.

In the gathering dusk, we walk inside, arm in arm, while the Christmas reindeer on my lawn sparkle like tiny blue stars.

Chapter 9

Up on the Rooftop, Mooreville Mayhem, and Santa Barbecue

I
’m happy to report that I wake up alone in my bed (which means Jack behaved last night and so did I), that the Sunday morning news reports nobody connected to Christmas got maimed or burned or electrocuted during the night, and that my little herd of wire reindeer is still grazing on my front lawn.

Furthermore, Jack is in the kitchen on his crutch making ham and eggs, and he’s wearing his Sunday best.

“What’s this? Eggs Benedict and a necktie? Am I in the wrong house?” I pour myself a cup of coffee and add real cream.

“If I’m going to church, I’m don’t want to embarrass Ruby Nell.”

“You’re going to
church?
”

“Call me one of the C and E crowd.” That’s the Christmas and Easter crowd, but I never thought Jack would even be part of that. “Besides, Ruby Nell invited me to Sunday dinner. If I remember, that’s not to be missed.”

Mama’s matchmaking, of course. And Jack seems only too happy to play along. Or is he serious? Still, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to let a bit of Christmas spirit sweep me into making another mistake with Jack.

After a breakfast that feels like old times, we climb into my truck, and I drive down Highway 371 south to the white-frame Wildwood Baptist Church across from Mama’s farm. This takes less than five minutes. Mooreville is convenient that way. If I drew a circle around my house and drove ten minutes in any direction, I could see everybody I know in this community.

The church was built by my Granddaddy Valentine, and most of the stained-glass windows are in memory of my relatives. When Jack and I sit on an oak pew sharing a hymnal, it’s almost like being at a family reunion. Up front, Mama pounds out “Joy to the World” on an antique mahogany upright with ball-and-claw feet. It wouldn’t be Christmas without Mama at the church piano and the congregation of Mooreville’s finest singing carols off key.

After services, Lovie joins us at Mama’s, where she reports that Uncle Charlie is being discharged from the hospital this afternoon.

“I’m glad he’s almost out of Nurse Ratched’s clutches,” Mama says, and then she serves the roast beef.

We sit around her table in the dining room, which features the scandal of Mooreville—a giant poster of one of Modigliani’s elongated, naked women. Mama got it at the Metropolitan Museum of Art six years ago when Lovie and I took her to New York.

To say Mama’s flamboyant is to say Elvis could sing—a mighty understatement.

I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t feel good to have Jack beside me sharing one of Mama’s Sunday dinners. I’m just going to say that I refuse to dwell on it.

Fortunately, I don’t have to. The sudden racket at the door is not a tornado trying to tear the house down: it’s Fayrene, bursting with bad news. She bustles in wearing a sweat suit the exact shade of a dollar bill. She’s partial to clothing the color of money.

“While I was sitting in my living room listening to the Sunday morning broadcast of the Sermon on the Mound, Jarvetis discovered our rooftop Santa was missing. They even took the one at Gas, Grits, and Guts.”

“Did you call the sheriff?” I ask.

“Lord,
no.
I left Jarvetis opening up the store and came straight to Ruby Nell.” Silly me. I don’t know why I even asked. “I’m about to have a heart prostration attack.”

Fayrene pulls out a chair and plops down beside Lovie while Mama fetches a glass of iced tea and a plate. Lovie passes the potatoes, Elvis smacks his lips over a roll Fayrene accidentally drops under the table, and Jack whips out his cell phone. As he leaves the room, he starts talking to no telling who. With his connections, it’s probably somebody who has formed a Mooreville Mafia.

Sunday dinner at Mama’s has turned into a three-ring circus, which happens with more frequency than I care to think about. I’m losing my appetite, but I can’t say the same for Lovie. She’s digging in as if this is the only side of beef in Mississippi and she’s at the Last Supper.

But I try to look on the bright side. At least Mama’s former dance partner showed his true colors during what we now call the Memphis mambo murders, and Thomas Whitenton is no longer invited to the Valentine family dinners. That’s one less thing to worry about.

Jack strolls back in, pocketing his cell phone. “Allegedly, the thief is Albert Gordon. He made a sweep of the neighborhood, snatching Santas.”

“How do you know?” Mama’s back in her seat, holding court at the head of the table.

For once, Jack ignores her. I’m the only person in this room besides him who knows why. On this issue, my almost-ex and I are on the same team. It won’t do for Mama to know about his dangerous connections with the Company.

“I thought he was just a quiet old retired military man who recently moved to our neighborhood,” I say. “He’s never acted like he would hurt a flea.”

“People are not always what they seem, Cal.”

“You can say that again, Jack.” But, of course, he doesn’t. I thought I’d married an international businessman and look what I got. Somebody who goes into deep cover all over the world getting shot at.

Mama gives me the evil eye, but I ignore her. Thank goodness, Lovie gives me
the look
, which means she’s going to rescue me.

“How was Albert identified as the thief?” she asks Jack. I owe her.

“While everybody in Mooreville was in church, he was in full camouflage stealing Santas. Roy Jessup spotted him.”

The owner of Mooreville Feed and Seed. If I recall there was a huge inflatable Santa by the front door.

“It’s a wonder Roy didn’t stop him,” I say. I cut Roy’s hair, and he’s not known for being wimpy.

“They had a tussle, but Gordon got away.”

I’ve had about enough of dealing with people who hate Christmas decorations.

“If he took my blue reindeer, I’m going to let Elvis take a poop on his lawn.”

“Apparently he only took the man in the red suit.” Jack winks at me. “Roy told the sheriff Gordon’s threatening to have a Santa barbecue.”

“When?” Fayrene asks, as if this is the Fourth of July and that crazy old man is planning a neighborhood picnic.

“It’s not going to happen, Fayrene. The sheriff’s out looking for him now. He was last seen heading toward the Itawamba County line.” Jack turns to me. “Don’t even think about sticking your cute nose into this.”

Major mistake. Even Mama knows better than to tell me what to do. I kick Lovie under the table and she kicks me back, our secret signal that we’ll do whatever we please, no matter who says no.

“Who, me?” I say.

“Yes, you. If Albert Gordon is lighting Santa’s fire, it’s a matter for the law.”

Lovie rolls her eyes at me, but I can’t roll mine back because Jack is watching me. Then she winks, meaning she has a plan, which always includes me. Hating Christmas is enough to put Albert Gordon on the murder suspect list, and I intend to check him out. What Jack doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“I can’t believe Albert Gordon would do such a thing,” Mama says.

“You know him?” I don’t know why I’m surprised. Mama has more secrets than the CIA.

“Not personally. But he was in Special Forces with Charlie in ’Nam.”

“I don’t know why you’re sticking up for him, Ruby Nell,” Fayrene says. “He stands at the store counting his change out loud like I’m some kind of pretty thief. And he wouldn’t put a penny in the March of Dimes jar if the devil was after him with a pitchfork. Bobby says his aurora is black as sin.”

Aura,
I’m hoping, but I guess he could have somebody named Aurora stashed somewhere. I’ll do anything to find out short of being a
pretty
thief.

“I’m not sticking up for him,” Mama says. “All I’m saying is I’m surprised.”

“I’m not. You can bet your bottom britches I’d be at that barbecue, but I’ve got bigger fish to eat.” Trust Fayrene to get her metaphors wrong.

“Like what?” Mama wants to know.

“Darlene’s trying to steal Bobby Huckabee.”

Lovie’s eyebrows go up. I haven’t had a chance to tell her, and she’s wondering if I already know, and if so, why I haven’t shared the news with her. I can read her like a book.

“They’d make a cute couple, Fayrene.” Mama loves romance and takes every chance to promote it.

“Hush up, Ruby Nell. I’m not about to lose my psychic over my daughter’s foolish needs to be admired by the opposite sex.”

“Well, I never thought about it that way.”

“Lucky for you, you don’t have to think, Ruby Nell. You’ve got me and my futile mind.”

If Lovie chokes on her roast beef, I’ll have to do the Heimlich. I push my plate aside, and Mama pipes up with, “Where do you think you’re going, Carolina? I haven’t even served dessert.”

“I’m going with Lovie to get Uncle Charlie.” Turning to Jack, I smile. “Stay and visit with Mama as long as you like. I’m sure she’ll drive you home.”

“Cal . . .” He shoots me this dark look that says he’s not a bit fooled. If he’ll care to remember, I’ve been taking care of myself ever since he walked out the door—and a long time before that, to boot.

“Take care of Elvis while you’re at it, Jack. They won’t let him in the hospital.”

Lovie grabs two pieces of pecan pie to go, air kisses in Mama’s direction, then hotfoots it out the door. Jack sends
I’ll deal with you later
looks in my direction, while Elvis lowers his head to his paws and moans. He ought to be on stage. He’s acting as if I’m leaving on an African safari, never to be seen again.

Let’s just hope the
never to be seen again
part doesn’t come true.

When I get to Mama’s front yard, Lovie is waiting beside her van.

“Are you ready to pick locks?” I ask.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” We look at each other and say, “Albert Gordon,” at the same time.

I tick off the reasons we’re going to break and enter. “He has a history with Uncle Charlie, he hates Christmas, and he’s got all kinds of scary training. Motive and means, wouldn’t you say?”

“Let’s go.” Lovie unwraps a piece of pie and stuffs it into her mouth. “We’ll get Daddy out of the hospital first, then we’ll break the law.”

“Why don’t I get Uncle Charlie while you snoop around Albert’s? I’ll join you there.”

“Daddy will wonder where I am, and besides, I don’t want to be at Albert’s alone.”

“The sheriff’s probably chased him to Kingdom Come by now.”

“Or maybe not.” Lovie starts unwrapping the other piece of pie. “Do I look like a woman who wants to get killed all by herself?”

“No, you look like somebody who ate your pie and mine, too.”

“You should have spoken up sooner.”

When I spot Mama at the window, spying, I say to Lovie, “To the hospital, and hurry.” Then I hop into my Dodge and try not to peel out.
Act normal,
I tell myself, though I’m not sure I even know what normal is anymore.

Elvis’ Opinion #7 on Bad Music, Good Rump Roast, and Left Behind

I
f you think I’m the kind of dog who sits home every Sunday while the humans go to church, you’re full of “Kentucky Rain”—or Kentucky straight bourbon. I ride along in Callie’s truck wearing a pink bowtie clipped to my collar like the gentlemanly basset hound I am.

She won’t let me go into the church, though, which is fine by me. If you think that caterwauling coming from the choir sounds bad in the truck, imagine what it would be like up close and personal.

While I wait, I have my methods of entertainment. Sometimes I look out the window and see how many rabbits I can count in the woods behind the church. Sometimes I think up ways to get the attention of the cows grazing in the pasture on my right. Have you ever seen a panicky cow run? Now there’s some Sunday morning fun. Usually all I have to do is get up on my hind legs, do a little vocalizing, and watch the bovine “Bossa Nova Baby.”

In case you haven’t already guessed, my vocalizing consists of howling a verse or two from one of my solid-gold hits. Today it’s “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Callie always leaves the windows cracked so I can get fresh air, and it’s easy for a dog of my talent to project to the back of the coliseum. Or in this case, the back side of the pasture.