Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (15 page)

“Phew.” Lovie slams the other door. “Don’t turn on the heater.”

“Roll your window down and don’t say another word.”

Lovie’s nobody’s fool. She knows when I’ve reached my limit. She’s over there on the passenger side with her lip zipped, which happens only once in a blue moon. The only racket she makes is the rattling of her paper bag as she rummages for food. Chocolate, it turns out. I could smell it a mile away.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a bite?”

“You said not to say another word.”

“Smarty pants.” I reach, palm up, and she breaks off a chunk of Hershey’s with almonds, our comfort food of choice. Though after all we’ve been through tonight, it would take a six pack to settle my nerves.

My cell phone rings, and I nearly jump out of my borrowed baggy cat burglar suit. It’s Mama.

“Jack’s looking for you.”

“Mama, what happened to
hello
?”

“Where are you?”

“In my truck.”

“Going where?”

“To Lovie’s, if you must know.”

“Is that any way to act while I’m still making my Christmas gift list? Besides, since when is it a crime for a mother to ask her only daughter’s whereabouts on the most dangerous night in Mooreville’s entire history? It’s a wonder the whole neighborhood didn’t go up in flames.”

Naturally, Fayrene has already given Mama a blow-by-blow report of the doings at Albert Gordon’s bonfire. I just hope she didn’t find out Lovie and I had an up-close-and-personal view. Still, Mama’s exaggerating, as usual. But that doesn’t mean I’d want her to see me in my present condition.

I decide to try placation. “Don’t worry, Mama. My neighborhood is safe, and I’m all right.”

“Then why are you going to Lovie’s?”

To plot our next move
is not something I want to say to Mama.

“We’re having a spend-the-night party.”

“Flitter.”

“Mama, what does that mean?” I ask, but she has already hung up. With her,
flitter
can mean any number of things from
why didn’t you include me?
to
I don’t believe a word you’re saying.

“What did Aunt Ruby Nell want?”

“To be in the middle of my business.”

“Cheer up, Callie. At least Aunt Ruby Nell’s got good health and a lively sense of humor.”

“Yeah, and most of my bank account.”

Though I’ll have to admit that ever since Mama left off
restorative gambling
(her words, not mine) and took up dancing with the wrong partner, I’ve been making fiscal progress. At the rate I’m saving money, next spring I might be able to paint a beach scene on the walls of my beauty shop, add a tanning bed and a massage table, and turn the back room at Hair.Net into a tropical spa.

The idea cheers me considerably. And so does the second big chunk of chocolate Lovie hands me.

By the time we reach the city limits, I’m almost in a good mood. It’s further enhanced by the sight of the lighted snowflakes that line the streets of Tupelo and a glimpse of Christmas trees though the windows in Lovie’s neighborhood.

“Lovie, is that a car in front of your house?”

She says a word that will get her on Santa’s lump of coal in the stocking list. “What if the killer’s not Albert? What if it’s somebody else and we’re his next target?”

“Duck. I’m going to drive on by. If he’s looking for two people, maybe he won’t notice you.”

Too much snooping can get you killed. I’d take the lesson to heart if the Santa killer hadn’t almost snuffed out Uncle Charlie. Whoever’s waiting up ahead can forget about scaring me off. I’m a woman with two mortgages, eight animal mouths to feed, and a dangerous man in my bedroom. Nothing daunts me.

Still, I hold the steering wheel in a death grip and make myself stick to the speed limit. Approaching Lovie’s house at a crawl, I get a hard close look at the car parked crooked in front of her house.

Naturally, it’s a red Mustang convertible. Even if I didn’t know this is just the kind of thing Mama would do—lie in wait for us—the vanity tag gives her away.
Queen Ruby 1.

“Relax, Lovie. It’s Mama.” I spot her on the front porch, unmistakable in a caftan that makes her look like the queen of a small exotic country. And with her is another shadowy figure that can only be Uncle Charlie. “Your daddy’s with her.”

“Busted,” Lovie says.

“Big time.”

I park behind Mama’s Mustang, take a few deep breaths, then climb down from my Dodge Ram to face the music. And you can bet it won’t be “Joy to the World.”

Elvis’ Opinion #9 on Mooreville’s Godfather, Tacky Gifts, and One Smart Dog

I
guess you’re wondering why Jack’s sitting calmly in front of the TV eating popcorn when Ruby Nell calls to report that Callie’s spending the night with Lovie. It’s because he already knows my human mom is safe. Sheriff Trice didn’t waste any time calling to fill Jack in on all the details of what went down at the Gordon house.

Listen, though nobody around here knows Jack’s true profession except me and Charlie and now, unfortunately, my human mom, who worries too much, Jack is a cross between the Godfather and the Terminator. He’s dark, dangerous, and mysterious. If you want to be “King of the Whole Wide World,” that’s the way to go. We may not be rolling in “Money Honey,” but we’ve got “Respect.” (I’m sure that fabulous soul sister Aretha Franklin won’t mind a nod to her hit song.)

And speaking of respect, here comes that silly cocker spaniel sneaking into the den. I can smell his intent a mile away. He’s trying to weasel his way into my human daddy’s affections. And at Christmas, to boot.

Listen, short hairy runt. That’s my job. I’m top dog around here. Numero uno. (I speak a bit of Spanish, too, I’m proud to admit.)

I bare my teeth at him and show a few hackles. If Hoyt the Lesser is looking for company, let him go back to his inferior bed and “Reach Out to Jesus.”

Fortunately for his little crooked, sawed-off legs, Hoyt tucks his tail and slinks back where he came from. Listen, I’m a dog of importance. I know how to “Make the World Go Away.”

One problem down and one to go. I sashay my handsome self back to Jack and make a valiant but failed attempt to leap onto the sofa. But if you’re thinking I should go on a diet, tell it to “Western Union.”

“Need some help, Elvis?”

Jack picks me up and settles me against his right leg, which, as far as I’m concerned is the cat-bird seat. Then he turns his attention back to the TV. QVC, to be exact.

His credit card and a note pad are at the ready, and he’s taking notes and listing numbers. Well, bless’a my soul, Jack Jones is doing a little Christmas shopping.

Currently, he’s listening to a stunning woman named Lisa who is making an ugly polyester blouse sound like something no woman can live without. To my horror, Jack jots down the number. I may have to heft myself off this couch, get down on paws and knees, and beg for a “Marguerita.” Callie wouldn’t be caught dead in that blouse. For one thing, it has polka dots, which she can’t abide. For another, it’s the wrong color for her skin tone.

I know a thing or two about style. What do you think I do around that beauty shop all day? Whistle “Dixie”?

I punch a paw down on the remote, and the channel switches to CNN, where you can listen to disaster all day long. Let me tell you, anything’s better than a tacky, inappropriate Christmas gift.

“Cut that out.” Jack switches back to QVC, where, thank “Mary Lou Brown” and “Maybelline” both, that ugly blouse is “Gone, Baby, Gone.”

Now Lisa is touting a pair of pants that not even Fayrene, who has the fashion sense of Larry King, would wear. Jack’s jotting order numbers like his life depends on it.

Haven’t I taught him a single thing about romance? If he wants back in Callie’s good graces, not to mention back in the marriage he never wanted to leave in the first place, he’ll scroll through the TV menu till he finds an online shopping show that features fine jewelry.

Wrap an expensive emerald in a pretty package, take a few voice lessons from yours truly, and Jack could have Callie singing, “Today, Tomorrow and Forever.”

Chapter 12

Caught Red-handed, Something Foul’s Afoot, and Flitter

I
hop out of my Dodge Ram primed for an argument with Mama, but to tell the truth, the little girl in me is really glad to see her. When I was growing up on the farm, Lovie and I were always getting into trouble doing things we’d been told not to. But Mama was always there with a scolding, followed by milk and cookies, a big hug, and a Band-Aid. She can skip the scolding, but I sure could use all the rest.

As I climb the steps to Lovie’s front porch, I’m trying to decide whether to play defense or offense. Lovie saves me the trouble of tough decisions. Breezing past everybody, she unlocks the front door and calls over her shoulder, “Come on in. Take a load off. I’ll put on the coffee.”

She presses the light switch, and Mama sees all my sleuthing wounds. She narrows her blue eyes and purses her lips. I stand in front of her like a six-year-old waiting for the third degree, punctuated by umpteen “Carolinas” and “Flitters .”

Instead, she hugs me for such a long time I’m close to crying. Finally she clears her throat, leads me to the sofa, and pulls me down beside her. It’s like she doesn’t want to be three inches from me.

“Callie, one of these days your stubborn sense of duty is going to get you killed. What in the world happened to you?”

Uncle Charlie has taken a seat in the wing chair across from us and is sitting there like a quiet, benevolent godfather, a man who will do anything to protect his family.

I start telling about Albert Gordon’s Santa bonfire, leaving out a few harrowing details. Halfway through the heavily edited version, Lovie comes in with four steaming cups of coffee on a tray with cream and sugar. She’s added a little chicory, and the taste reminds me of being in the French Quarter in New Orleans.

She’s also bearing first-aid ointment and Band-Aids.

Ignoring her drink, Mama grabs the first-aid supplies and sets to work patching my scratches, even the ones that don’t need it. By the time she’s finished, I’m going to look like Frankenstein’s bride.

At the end of my story, everybody sits in silence. This is the first Valentine Christmas marred by murder, and I think we’re still in a state of disbelief about how close one of our own came to being the victim.

Mama picks up her cup and gives my cousin her famous dramatic look. “I hope you’ve got some Prohibition Punch back there. Before this night is over, we’re going to need it.

Everybody laughs, but it’s the nervous kind of laughter when you’re trying too hard to see the bright side of things.

“I don’t want you two putting yourselves in any more danger,” Uncle Charlie says. “I’ve already told the Tupelo police about Albert Gordon’s beef against me.”

“What is it, Charlie?”

I can tell he’d like us to move on to another subject, but Uncle Charlie can never deny Mama.

“When we were in Special Forces together, Albert’s temper kept him from moving up in the ranks. He blamed me.”

“For Pete’s sake, Daddy. Why?”

“Who knows how a mind like that works? I got the promotions and he didn’t.”

“Is there anybody else in Tupelo who might have a beef against you, Uncle Charlie?”

He lifts his eyebrows at me, a signal that he knows full well I’m not going to sit on the sidelines and play it safe while any member of the Valentine family is at risk.

“You might as well tell us, Charlie. The girls are pretty darned good amateur sleuths, and so am I.”

Lovie’s about to burst, but she has the good sense not to let Mama see how hard she’s holding back laughter. As for me, I’m glad to have Mama’s support. Let me tell you, any woman who can write such offbeat tombstone sayings and make a success of it is formidable.

“There’s Abel Caine,” Uncle Charlie says. “He did time because of my testimony.”

“One of Katrina’s victims?” I know him because I was one of the volunteers processing the hurricane refugees who took shelter in Tupelo’s Bancorp South Coliseum. I remember him because his name is so unusual.

“Like so many of Katrina’s survivors, Abel fell in love with Tupelo and stayed. He finally got a job at Mike’s Tires.”

“How much time did he do, Charlie?”

“Ten years.”

“Holy cow. I’d say that’s motive.”

“Callie’s right.” Mama grabs a pencil off Lovie’s end table and scribbles on the edge of a newspaper lying on her coffee table. “Who else wants you dead, Charlie?”

“Nelda Lou Perkins, Miss Vardaman Sweet Potato, 1966, once told me she’d rather see me dead than lose me.”

Uncle Charlie’s eyes are twinkling, but Mama’s are not. In fact, she’s so mad I can practically see sparks shooting off her.

“If Nelda Lou messes with my family, I’ll send her back to Calhoun County and put her where sweet potatoes belong. Under the ground.”

“Now, now dear heart.”

“Don’t you
dear heart
me, Charles Sebastian Valentine. I’m not going to take this sitting down.” Mama jerks up her car keys. “I’m taking you back to your apartment. Then the girls and I have some sleuthing to do.”

“Ruby Nell, I strongly advise against that. This case is liable to turn nasty.”

“Flitter. If you think
nasty
scares a dyed-in-the-wool farm girl like me, you’ve got another think coming, Charlie.”

Mama winks at me and flounces out. For the first time since I’ve known him, Uncle Charlie looks helpless. It looks like the electric shock shook him more than I had imagined.

“What am I going to do with your mother?”

I take hold of his arm. “She’s right about you being home, Uncle Charlie. I’ll take you to her car, and when she comes back here, Lovie and I will figure out how to keep her nose out of this case.”

Lovie grabs the empty cups and heads to the kitchen. When Uncle Charlie and I step onto her front porch, the night sky has turned splendid, like a picture postcard of winter constellations you’d want to frame.

“I know you’re not going to stop until the killer is found. But please remember, dear heart, that Jack can’t be of much help till he’s out of his cast. And until I’m stronger, neither can I.”