Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (14 page)

“What are we looking for?”

“Good grief, Lovie. I’m not Quantico. You’ll know it when you see it.”

I spot Albert’s medical records when I hear a sound not found in nature. Whirling around I see Lovie sitting in Albert’s chair with her feet propped on his desk eating a bag of potato chips.

“What in the world?”

“These were in his desk just going to waste. Since he’s deprived me of my evening’s entertainment, he owes me. Besides, I’m starving to death.”

Considering she ate enough of Mama’s roast beef to tide her over till New Year’s Day, I doubt that. Still, I wouldn’t let her stay for dessert, so I keep my smart remarks to myself and focus on the task at hand.

Albert’s medical records go all the way back to his days in Special Forces. One in particular catches my eye.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
, it reads.

“Hey, Lovie, do you think post-traumatic stress disorder could make Albert hate Christmas?”

“If I had it, I’d hate everything.” She rams another handful of chips into her mouth. “Except food.”

Suddenly a boom rocks the house and chips fly every which way.

“Hit the decks,” Lovie yells.

I don’t have to be told twice. Every window in the room lights up like Fourth of July fireworks. I don’t know whether to scream or run.

Elvis’ Opinion #8 on Love, Revenge, and Bachelor Buddies

O
rdinarily, I enjoy being home alone with my human daddy, just two buddies hanging out. Jack always fixes us a bunch of snacks, and we pile up on the couch to watch the news or whatever sport happens to be seasonable.

Tonight, though, for all the attention Jack’s paying me, I might as well be trying to get back into the “Crazy Arms” of that two-timing French poodle, Ann Margret. Listen, I’m a dog with my ear to the ground. Don’t think I don’t know she’s come down with a “Fever” for Darlene’s uppity Lhasa apso. William thinks he’s the Dalai Lama.
Dalai Lama
my crooked leg! If he’s ever had a lofty thought in his head, I’m Michael Jackson. And we all know I don’t need a moon walk and a white glove.

Anyhow, ever since Ruby Nell drove us home, Jack’s been trying to find out where Callie and Lovie are. Usually my human mom has him humming “Gentle on My Mind.” But when she’s with Lovie, Jack’s always trying to figure a way to build a “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”

He’s in the kitchen now talking to Ruby Nell on the phone. I sidle in there and lick his ankle, a dog with a purpose. Number one would be getting a little smackeral of something good, preferably with sugar and grease.

Number two would be eavesdropping. Forget about southern manners. I’ve got as many as the next dog. But when it comes to protecting my human parents, I’ll stoop to any low.

“I just wanted to make sure you got back safely after you brought me home,” Jack is saying, and he means it, too. He thinks she hung the moon, and she thinks he walks on water. (Contrary to what some of my biographers wrote, I’m smart enough to know a hackneyed phrase when I say one. But do you think I give a “Flip, Flop, and Fly”? I got to be a worldwide icon and my biographers didn’t. I’ve earned the right to talk any way I want to.)

“You’re such a sweetie to check on me, Jack!” Ruby Nell is saying. “Naturally, I got home all right. I’m an expert driver.”If Ruby Nell is a good driver, I’m Johnny Cash. If she gets one more speeding ticket, she’s liable to be singing the “Folsom Prison Blues.”

“With all the ruckus going on around Mooreville, I’m going to send Cal to spend the night with you when she gets home.”

That’s Jack’s cagey way of finding out if Callie is already there. He has a snowball’s chance in you-know-where of
sending
my human mom anywhere, and he knows it.

“I won’t be here, hon. I’m heading out to spend the night at Charlie’s.”

“Is he okay?”

“To hear him tell it he is, but I’m not taking any chances.”

When Jack pockets his cell phone, I seize my chance for food. I amble my handsome self center stage, meaning right in front of the kitchen cabinets and do my bringing-the-house-down version of “Don’t Be Cruel.”

That gets a laugh from Jack, but nary a bite. “Just a minute, boy.”

Before I can say “Pup-Peroni,” he’s on the phone with Charlie. You might think “It Ain’t No Big Thing” when he finds out Callie and Lovie aren’t there, but let me tell you, “It’s a Matter of Time” before somebody’s head rolls. And the mood Jack’s in, just about anybody’s will do.

If he didn’t have that cast, he’d be on his Harley and on my human mom’s trail. As it is, he says a word Lovie would appreciate.

Listen, I know this is the time when a dog of my intelligence and compassion should try to make his human dad feel better. But you try being compassionate on an empty stomach, and see how much fun it is.

Holding my spot in center stage, I throw back my head and remind Jack not to “Put the Blame on Me.” Listen, I’m a short dog with four feet and no opposable digits. I can’t help it if these humans get into more trouble than I can get them out of.

And I know you’re not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition, either. Learned that in the fifth grade at Lawhon Elementary while everybody else was making fun of my overalls. Now they’re trying to outdo each other with I-knew-Elvis-when stories. But “That’s Life.” Learned that from old Blue Eyes himself.

I reckon I still have the stuff, because Jack bends down to scratch behind my ears, then hustles around fixing me a hefty snack of Milk Bone
and
Pup-Peroni.

“Don’t tell Cal.”

Does he think I’m “Crazy”? (I don’t mind borrowing from Patsy Cline, either. That woman had some pipes.) As soon as I finish eating, my lips are sealed.

Since he can’t get out of the house, Jack starts popping corn. Another tasty treat. If I hold my ears just right he’ll let me have my own bag.

Sure enough, he takes one look at cute little me and puts another bag into the microwave. One pop out of the bag, and the kitchen window lights up like Mooreville’s fixing to be raptured.

Before I can say, “There’s No Room to Rhumba in a Sports Car,” Jack is on the phone with the Lee County sheriff.

Don’t let his cast fool you. My human daddy is still the man in charge.

Chapter 11

Lethal Games, Angry Neighbors, and Annie Get Your Gun

W
hile Lovie and I cower on the floor of Albert’s den, the ruckus from outside sounds like the Second Coming. With my face in Albert’s dusty old rug and my hands over my head, I wait for I don’t know what all to befall me.

“Lovie?” No answer. Holy cow, has she been kidnapped? “Lovie, are you okay?”

She says a word that will likely get her barred from the Pearly Gates—unless I can get there first and do some fast talking. But at least I know my cousin is still her sassy self.

Lifting myself on my elbow, I risk looking around. Everything is normal in here, meaning Albert’s file cabinet is standing wide open, potato chips are everywhere, and his guns all look like they’re pointed straight at me.

Outside the racket goes up several decibels. I begin to make out voices.

“That’s my Santa. Grab him!” That’s Fayrene.

“Are you kidding me?” That voice belongs to Roy Jessup of Mooreville Feed and Seed. I’d tell him Fayrene was not kidding, but I’m in hiding. “If you stick your hand in that fire, you’ll bring back a burned nub.”

Sirens scream. Probably Mooreville’s Volunteer Fire Department to the rescue. Maybe even a Lee County squad car or two. Visions of jail dance in my head.

“Lovie, let’s get out of here.” In one fluid move I’m off the floor.

“Not so fast, missy.”

Holy cow and pig and stockings, too. Albert Gordon looks exactly like his Vietnam photo as he faces me in full camouflage. A lethal-looking weapon is pointed at the chest of my cat burglar suit, which might as well be a red-sequined sweater for all the good it’s doing me now. I’m going to have to start wearing a flak jacket.

The only good thing I can say about this situation is that I’ve never seen Lovie get off the floor so fast. You’d think she was the cousin who jogs three miles every day instead of the one who has three sausages and biscuits for breakfast, then one more with butter and jelly.

While I’m still staring into the barrel of a gun whose gauge I don’t even want to know, Lovie grabs my arm and drags me into the kitchen faster than Elvis can chase my seven formerly stray cats. Albert is right behind us.

“Quick, Lovie. The back door.”

She says a string of words that would stop a platoon of Army tanks. Through the glass panels, I can see why. The back door leads to a giant bonfire, a flock of angry neighbors trying to rescue burning Santas, Sheriff Trice, and two deputies, plus a troop of firemen trying to contain the blaze.

Lovie jerks me toward a door that goes no telling where. A hallway that leads to a bedroom, it turns out, but even I know better than to hide under the bed. If there’s one thing all this unexpected sleuthing has taught me it’s
never let yourself get cornered.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Albert calls.

Holy cow! He’s playing cat and mouse for keeps, and he’s right on our trail. Thank goodness he apparently didn’t see us duck in here. I hear loud footsteps as he stomps off in the opposite direction.

I try to shove open a window while Lovie stands guard with her baseball bat. I don’t tell her it would be no match for Albert’s gun. Let her live her last few minutes in ignorant bliss.

The window’s stuck. This is an old house with at least three previous owners since I’ve lived in the neighborhood. The latch looks like it’s covered with so many coats of paint it would take an act of God—or Jack Jones—to get it loose.

Putting my shoulder against the window, I give another big shove. Meanwhile, somebody at the back of the house pounds on the door while somebody else discharges a gun.

Forget shoving and pushing. I jerk off a perfectly good Donald J. Pliner ankle boot and proceed to ruin the heel by smashing the windowpane. Glass flies everywhere, including on me, but I have bigger worries than whether or not I’m going to bleed to death.

“Freeze!” Sheriff Trice yells.

I don’t intend to stick around to find out whether I’m going to be shot by Albert or arrested by the sheriff.

Knocking the rest of the glass out, I yell, “Lovie, dive!”

With my long legs, I step right through the window. But I can’t say the same for Lovie. She’s stuck, the top half of her viewing freedom and the bottom half saluting whatever lies behind.

“Quick, Lovie. Reach for me.”

I grab her hands and pull, but as hard as I tug, I can’t get her to budge. In the bedroom I’ve just vacated, it sounds like Armageddon.

Any minute now, Lovie’s going to say something noble like, “Save yourself, Cal. Run!” But of course, I’d never leave my cousin.

What she really says is, “If you don’t get my big ass out of here, I’m never sharing another secret with you as long as I live.”

So much for noble.

I brace one leg against the side of Albert’s house and give another tug. Lovie pops through with the ease of a cork shot from a champagne bottle. As she lands in an undignified heap on the ground, I’m looking straight through the shattered window into the grinning face of Sheriff Trice.

“I thought you could use a little help from this side, Miss Callie.” He tips his hat and winks. Behind him, I spot a deputy I don’t know leading Albert off in handcuffs.

“Aren’t you going to arrest us, too?”

“I never saw you. Have a nice evening.” With another tip of the hat, he’s gone.

“Jack’s doings, no doubt,” Lovie says from her throne on the ground.

“How do you know? Maybe Sheriff Trice just likes me.”

“It was my royal backside he had his hands on. Get me up from here.”

“If you’re going to start issuing orders, you ought to wear a crown.” I help her up for the last time, I hope.

“Next time I will.”

“Furthermore, I don’t think Sheriff Trice’s assistance has anything to do with your Holy Grail. Or your National Treasure, either.”

“Don’t be too sure about that.”

The next thing I know Lovie will be trying to overcome her grief as Santa’s almost-widow by flirting outrageously with our tough “Walking Tall” sheriff.

If I don’t do something, and fast, she’s going to end up trying to be Lee County’s answer to Mrs. Buford Pusser. But I can’t think about that right now. I’m too busy running from trouble and getting punctured by Albert’s prickly hedge. As I hotfoot it across Butch Jenkins’ yard hoping his little dog doesn’t come out and finish off what’s left of me, I pray to every goddess I know, including Martha Stewart.

Tonight I’ve been shot at, slashed with thorns and flying glass, and almost arrested. All I want is a nice bath, a cup of hot chocolate, and Elvis.

Well, who doesn’t want Elvis, but I’m talking about my dog. And I’ll have to say, with his cute little wiggle and his funny basset grin and his silly, howling imitation of “Blue Christmas” he’s a wonderful substitute.

Not that I can go home after tonight’s fiasco. It’s bad enough that Jack tries to keep tabs on my dates. If he sees my cuts and scratches, there’s no telling what he’d do.

Lovie and I have almost reached my truck when I hear Wanda calling her dog. “Sadie, baby. Where are you?”

Maybe I should have prayed to Oprah.

I freeze, hoping Wanda won’t turn on the light. Suddenly I spot Sadie baby, streaking around the side of the house.

“If that little dog barks, we’re done for.”

“Not yet.” Lovie shoulders her baseball bat. “The next person who comes after me is asking for a big headache.”

About that time, Sadie baby sidles up to me and pees on my designer boots. If Lovie laughs, I’m going to give her a cheap Christmas present.

Fortunately, she doesn’t, and Sadie trots peacefully back to the front porch, where Wanda says, “Did Mommy’s widdle baby do her widdle potty?”

“All over my cousin’s boots,” Lovie deadpans.

“They were old.” I flounce into my truck and slam the door.