Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (17 page)

Seized by inspiration, I tie a big red Christmas bow onto Elvis’ dog collar and snap on his red leash.

“What’re you doing, Cal?”

“The last time we went snooping he got out of the truck. I’m not taking that chance again. I’ve decided to be the former Queen of Animal Rescue and he can be my mascot. Besides, Elvis will protect us.”

When Lovie looks skeptical, Elvis bares his teeth and growls. I swear, my dog knows everything I say. I guess it comes from me talking to him all the time, which is what a good dog mom is supposed to do. Furthermore, I’ll be hanging a Christmas stocking for him and getting him presents.

I do my shiny hair in a quick French twist, add a rhinestone comb, and we’re off for an evening of sleuthing. I hope it comes out better than our last time.

Nelda Lou lives in Highland Circle, one of Tupelo’s oldest neighborhoods. Located just one block east of the busy Gloster Street, a generic north/south four-lane lined with fast-food restaurants, motels, drugstores, and service stations, the prestigious Highland Circle is tucked behind brick columns and insulated from traffic noise by ancient trees surrounding upscale houses on huge lots.

As I cruise through the neighborhood looking for Nelda Lou’s house, I notice that most of the houses are dark except for huge Christmas trees alight in their front windows. Most people are shopping or going to countless Christmas parties and church pageants. Down here in the Bible Belt, you can count on seeing some version of the reenactment of Joseph and Mary following the Star of Bethlehem at least fifteen times during the holidays.

We’re in luck, though. Nelda Lou’s red-brick Georgian house is ablaze with lights, and there’s an ancient Volvo in the driveway.

“Here we go, Lovie. Act like a queen.”

“Don’t I always?”

“Not if Mama gets there first.”

Snapping on Elvis’ leash, I get my dog out of the truck, tell him to behave, smooth down my dress, and try to channel my inner queen. This is hard. I don’t think I have one. Two queens in the family are more than enough. I think of myself more as a trusted adviser. I’m just grateful not to be dressed as a man.

“Tonight I get to talk, Lovie.”

“Does that mean I get to lose my life in dark basements and discover dead bodies in freezers? Whoopee, Callie.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you. We’ll just play it by ear. I don’t think Nelda Lou has a single thing to hide.”

I just hope those are not famous last words.

Lovie prisses up the sidewalk ahead of me. As I follow along behind, I try on a beauty queen strut. Elvis makes a noise that I swear sounds like a doggie guffaw.

I’m about to punch the doorbell when Lovie’s cell phone rings. She says a quick
hello,
followed by a brief pause and, “Save yourself some trouble, Rocky. I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the only man on earth.” Much to my dismay, she hangs up without another word.

“Is he coming here?”

“Not if he’s got half a brain.”

“What would it hurt to talk to him face to face? Besides, it’s Christmas, Lovie.”

“What does Christmas have to do with my Holy Grail?”

I’m about to answer her when the front door bursts open. The woman backlit by twinkling Christmas tree lights looks like an Amazon. Besides that, she’s toting a double-barreled shot gun, and it’s aimed straight at body parts I’d rather not lose.

Lovie and I both jump back, and Elvis gets his hackles up.

“What’s all this racket out here?” If this is Nelda Lou, her voice hasn’t lost a bit of its strength since her beauty queen days. I can picture her belting out a musical number you could hear clear to the Alabama state line.

I punch Lovie, and she leaps to the rescue. “Hello! I’m Darling Stevens, former Kudzu Queen, and this is my friend, Dimple Culpepper, former Miss Mississippi Canine Rescue with her sweet little ole mascot, Rudy.”

“I never heard of that contest.” The gun is still pointed at us.

“It’s not well known,” I say, and Lovie steps on my toes.

“It’s quite elite and politically correct,” Lovie adds, “which I’m sure a woman with your beauty queen record can certainly appreciate. You are Nelda Lou Perkins, aren’t you?”

“I am.” The former Miss Sweet Potato unbends a bit and lowers her gun, but she’s still blocking the door. “What are ya’ll doing out here without your coats?”

“I left my fur in the truck,” Lovie says. “It’s a bit ostentatious for calling on neighbors, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t believe in wearing dead animals.”

A woman after my own heart. Before Lovie makes another gaff, I step into the breach.

“Actually, we’re chairing the newly formed Little Miss Tupelo Toddler Christmas pageant, and we need some expert advice.”

“Why didn’t ya’ll say so in the first place?” She steps out of the way and motions us inside. Considering the gun, I’m thinking we shouldn’t even go in. Still, Lovie barrels ahead, and I can’t let her go without me. I tag along behind, keeping a tight hold on Elvis’ leash. His hackles are still up and he’s eyeing Nelda Lou’s skinny, slacks-clad legs with the same look he gets right before he pees on my favorite shoes.

As Nelda Lou leads us into a musty-smelling room featuring Victorian furniture with faded rose satin cushions, she regales us with her history of pulchritude.

“I have the distinction of entering more beauty pageants than anybody in Mississippi. Fifty, total! I was Little Miss everything you can name. Then in 1955 I won two titles in a row. Miss Pascagoula and Miss Hospitality. It was my talent that did it. I imitated the Singing River!”

She gives us a coy smile, and I smile back. Not because I’m impressed that she was the Singing River, but because she has finally put down her gun.

With the threat of sudden death removed, I observe my surroundings. Marble-topped tables. Lamps with fringed shades. Books with leather binders and gold lettering. Expensive Oriental wool rugs. The former Miss Sweet Potato has done well for herself.

On the bookshelves behind her sofa, I spot a line of framed photos. One of them shows her under a charity ball banner posing in a red evening gown with a man in a tuxedo who looks exactly like the newspaper picture I saw of the mall’s regular Santa—Nathan Briggs. Another shows a younger, prettier version of Nelda Lou with her arm around none other than Lovie’s newly murdered fiancé.

Maybe Mama was right about Nelda Lou being a valid suspect.

“That’s a beautiful girl in the photo behind you,” I say. “Your daughter?”

“Yes. And her husband.”

“Husband?” Lovie spots her recently murdered fiance’s photo and turns pale. She may be outrageous, but she draws the line at husband-stealing.

“Well, I guess you’d call him
former
, but they were seeing each other again.”

Nelda Lou’s lips are pursed, and her body language is tight. If she’s like Mama, that’s a sure sign she didn’t like her former son-in-law. But did she kill him to keep him from coming back into the family?

Nelda Lou visibly pulls herself together and gives us a perky smile. “But I was telling ya’ll about my titles. Once upon a time I was Miss Shrimp Queen!”

The way she says it, I almost expect drum rolls. But I’m onto something here, and I’m not about to let the Shrimp Queen change the subject. Besides, Elvis still has his hackles up. A sign that he smells something fishy.

“How
wonderful!
” I flash what I hope passes for a beauty queen smile. “Is that Nathan Briggs with you at the charity ball? You look
fabulous!
”

Holy cow. Talking in exclamation points is harder than I’d thought. I almost choke on the second one.

While Nelda Lou preens and postures, Lovie is still in shock that her so-called fiancé was also dating his ex-wife.

“I got that gown in New York.” The former queen of almost everything pronounces this
Noo Yawk.

I’ve spotted something else on the credenza behind the sofa, and I discreetly kick Lovie. It takes two kicks before she comes out of her fog.

“Oh, my throat is parched,” she says. “I wonder if I could have a little sip of something?”

“Forgive my manners.” Nelda Lou says this as
fo’give mah mannahs.
“Can I get ya’ll a little cuppa somethin’ sweet?”

“Wonderful!” I punch Lovie, and she rises like a phoenix coming out of the ashes.

“Do you mind if I come along?” Lovie says. “I need to stretch my legs.”

“Surely. But don’t mind the house. This was the maid’s day off.”

Elvis curls his lips back as if to say, “It’s getting knee deep in here,” and when my hostess and my cousin are out of earshot, I tell him, “Amen.” Then I make a beeline for the bookshelves. Earlier I’d spotted two photo albums, and I’m itching to see what’s inside.

If the Shrimp Queen starts back, Lovie will send up a smoke signal. I hope.

I flip through the first album and find it’s nothing more than a baby book featuring Nelda Lou’s daughter, from naked infant to gap-toothed second grader to pimple-faced graduate with an unbecoming mortar board on a bad haircut.

Later this is what I’ll say to console Lovie: “What Wayne ever saw in that woman, I can’t imagine. You’d put her in the shade, Lovie.”

And she would. That’s the truth.

The second album is some sort of travelogue of Nelda Lou’s treks into exotic foreign places.

“Shoot.” I shove the albums back into place. Though we can connect Nelda Lou to all three Santas, we don’t have a shred of evidence that proves she had a motive for murder.

Elvis growls, and I cock my ear toward the direction my cousin disappeared, but I don’t hear a single thing. Old houses are like that. So well insulated a murderer could sneak up behind you and you wouldn’t even hear him or her coming. Fortunately for my peace of mind, Nelda Lou’s gun is lying beside the sofa. If I have to, I can get to it before she does.

Elvis growls again, and I head in his direction, squat, and put my hand on his head.

“What’s the matter, boy?”

At this level I suddenly I spot the edge of a tattered-looking album through a crack in the half-shut drawer on the front of a marble-topped table. I pull it out, open the cover, and there is my uncle, sitting in his fishing boat with his old straw hat pulled down over his eyes. The next photo shows him sitting on the front porch swing at Mama’s farm, both of them sipping from glasses. In another, Uncle Charlie is striding into Eternal Rest.

I flip through page after page of these photos, most of them grainy, all of them obviously unposed and probably shot with a telephoto lens.

Elvis rumbles deep in his throat, and I shove the album back into place just in the nick of time. The Shrimp Queen returns with a cup of egg nog. Lovie follows along behind her, carrying a cup and looking guilty. As well she should. She didn’t even warn me. If it weren’t for Elvis, I would have been caught red-handed.

“Here ya’ll go.” Nelda Lou presses a cup into my hands and taps hers against it. “To a successful Little Miss Tupelo Toddler Christmas pageant. Bottoms up.”

I picture myself dead on the floor in this musty room in a tacky sequined gown that doesn’t even flatter my complexion. The best I can hope for is that at the very least, Lovie made sure this egg nog came straight from the carton and the Shrimp Queen didn’t lace it with something lethal.

I take the tiniest sip possible, though I think that’s all it takes to kill you with poison. Instantly, heat rushes into my face. Any minute now I’m going to fall dead on the floor. And not even Elvis can help me.

I notice him sidling toward Nelda Lou with a leg-lifting gleam in his eyes.

“Well! That about does it!” Surprised to find that I’m still upright and talking in exclamation points, I grab Lovie’s arm and drag her toward the door. “Thanks for your help, Nelda Lou. We’ll be in touch.”

“Oh, ya’ll
do.
Beauty pageants are my
specialty
!”

We hotfoot it toward the door. Any minute our hostess could lift that shotgun and blow us to Kingdom Come. When we make it to the front porch, I grab my dog and practically toss him onto the seat of my Dodge.

Still, Nelda Lou’s standing in her doorway with one hand behind her back. Is she holding the shotgun? She could blow out my tires.

“Act natural, Callie.”

“I’m trying.”

Instead of gunning the engine, I make myself back sedately out of her driveway. Nelda is still watching. Lovie gives her a toothy beauty queen smile and even the beauty queen wave. I fear sleuthing has stolen her brain cells.

“I hope you’re still pretending, Lovie.”

She says a word that flattens the natural body in my hair. The sequined comb slides out and thumps Elvis on the head, and he takes umbrage by chomping it into bits.

My feathers just fall. I don’t want to be doing any of this. I want to be home thinking about going down to Mama’s farm to get a Christmas tree.

Finally, out of sight of the Shrimp Queen and her fishy goings-on, I shoot through the brick entrance to Highland Circle and straight into the radar of a waiting cop.

“Well, well. What are you two beauty queens up to tonight besides exceeding the speed limit?”

“Look, officer . . .”

Oh, shoot. Lovie’s trying to sweet-talk my way out of a ticket. All I want is to get out of Highland Circle and out of these ridiculous sequins.

He’s unimpressed by her spiel or her cleavage, and I end up handing over my license. While he calls it in, my sequins start to itch, and I’m certain I’m getting a rash.

Six years and an ulcer later, at the very least, he’s back leaning in my window, handing over my license. “Miss Callie Valentine Jones. So you say you’ve been to a Christmas party in the neighborhood?”

I didn’t, but Lovie did, and it sounds like as good a lie as any.

“Yes, officer.”

“Who was at this party?”

“Nelda Lou Perkins’ friends, of course.”

“Did you happen to run into Nathan Briggs?”

“We didn’t actually stay long enough to mingle.”

“You know him?”

“Not personally. We just had a quick cup of Christmas egg nog with Miss Nela Lou Perkins.”