Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (22 page)

“What’s going on in here? Lovie, was that you screaming?”

Believe me, I might sound like somebody in charge, but I feel like a quivering bird trying to cling to a high wire in a bad wind.

“Not yet, Cal.”

“You sure you’re all right, miss?” Abel says. “I thought it was you.”

Is this man kidding? Did he really think Lovie was the one who screamed and him right here in the room with her?

Elvis has grabbed hold of Abel’s sheet, and the way he’s hanging on, he’s not going to let go till Christmas. Something’s afoot. My dog is never wrong about people.

“Who turned out the lights?”

Holy cow. It’s Mama standing in the doorway, flicking the light switch.

“They won’t work, Mama. Something tripped a switch.”

In the front of the shop I can hear Wanda yelling “What’s going on?” and Darlene trying to calm her down.

“If you’ll call off this dog and let me get my clothes back on,” Abel says, “I can fix it.”

“Are you sure?”

I’m the one who’s not sure. Is he saying that so Lovie will put down her weapon and I’ll collar Elvis, and then he’ll be free to do his meanness? Or is he sincere?

“If you’re going to fix it, you’d better hurry,” Mama says. “I’ve already called Charlie.”

Abel suddenly goes very quiet. Does he still harbor a grudge against Uncle Charlie?

Finally he makes a sound that passes for laughter, and the tension eases a bit.

“I’ll be quick, ma’am. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

I tear Elvis away from the sheet, then we all file out and leave Abel Caine shut up in the dark. Hopefully putting on some clothes.

I motion for Lovie and Mama to come into the break room, then shut the door behind us, and we get in a huddle.

“Did you really call Uncle Charlie?”

“No, but I’m fixing to.”

“Wait a minute, Aunt Ruby Nell. I don’t think Abel Caine’s the killer.”

Mama purses her lips, which could mean any of a dozen things, none of them good.

“Why, Lovie? What did he say?”

“It’s not anything he said, Cal. It’s just a feeling I have. And you know I have good instincts about men.”

That’s debatable, but I don’t want to get into that subject with Lovie. Mama doesn’t have the same self-control.

“If we stake our lives on your instincts about men, we’ll all be dead.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Lovie opens my cutlery drawer and pulls out a paring knife. “Wonder Woman to the rescue.”

Suddenly she gives me a warning nudge, and I turn around to see Abel Caine, who has invited himself inside without knocking. The only good thing I can say about this situation is that he’s wearing clothes. He’s also staring at the knife in Lovie’s hand.

“Oh, there you are, Mr. Caine.” I try for cheerful but come off a little ragged around the edges. I give Lovie a help-me-out poke in the ribs.

“I’m making sandwiches,” she says, then whirls around to the counter and jerks up a loaf of bread. “What would you like, Mr. Caine? Pimento or ham and cheese.”

“Neither, thanks. I’m looking for the switch box.”

If he’d said ham and cheese, I might have had to kill Lovie. There’s nothing in my refrigerator except a box of Mrs. Weaver’s pimento cheese, a bag of questionable lettuce, and a pitcher of Prohibition Punch.

“Behind the last cabinet door on the right,” I tell him.

When he walks past, I try not to scrunch in closer to Mama and Lovie. I don’t care what my cousin’s instincts say, I don’t trust this man.

A big clap of thunder makes us all jump, and a torrent of rain slashes against the windows of my little beauty salon.
It’s a good time for murder
, is what I’m thinking. Though, of course, it’s daytime, and I’m not in the middle of a scary story. I’m in the middle of wishing I was somebody else. I’d have a nice quiet mama who stays home and bakes pies instead of spending my money in the casinos over in Tunica, and a less flamboyant cousin who would never think of ditching a perfectly good man who loves her to get engaged to a soon-to-be-dead Santa.

When the lights come back on, I nearly jump out of my skin.

“All set.” Abel is back in my kitchen looking only slightly less threatening in the light than he did in the semi-darkness.

“Thanks. Are you ready for that free haircut?”

“You bet.”

I head out to the front of my salon with Abel in tow. Lovie follows with Mama close behind. I notice my cousin has fixed two sandwiches. She’s scarfing down one, and Mama’s nibbling on the other. Lovie may have the worst instincts about men since Little Red Riding Hood got fooled by the Big Bad Wolf, but she knows how to set the stage for everything, including catching a killer.

“Callie, I think I know why the power went out.” Darlene comes from behind her manicure table, holding her nail dryer. “When I plugged this in, the lights went out.”

“If you ladies will allow me,” Abel says, “I can have that fixed in no time flat.”

“Great.” Darlene hands over the nail dryer while I try to send Lovie a signal she either doesn’t get or has chosen to ignore. Her sandwich already finished, she’s on my loveseat with a copy of
Entertainment Weekly.

Trying to act natural and in charge, I ease her way and flip through a copy of
Southern Living.

“The washer and dryer will be on now,” I tell her.

“Oh, goodness.” She puts the magazine back in the rack. “I guess I’d better head back, then, and get the table ready for my four o’clock.”

Why didn’t she say
five o’clock
? If Abel doesn’t hurry up with that nail dryer, he’s still going to be in my chair at four, and I don’t take him for a fool. He’s bound to notice if nobody comes through the door for a massage.

Lovie has already gone to the back, so I can’t signal her again. And I don’t want to leave Mama and Darlene, not to mention Wanda, up front with this man. No matter how helpful he is. His handyman persona could be a front.

Still, this is a perfect opportunity for me to do a little detecting on my own. I stroll to the manicure table, where Abel is seated on the frilly pink client’s stool with the nail dryer in pieces.

I lean down as if I’m inspecting his work. “My goodness, you’re handy.”

“Yep.”

“Are you an electrician?”

“Of sorts.”

“There’s a big renovation project going on down at the mall.” I leave room for him to make up his own mind whether I’m prying or just being friendly. His stare chills me.

“Been on that job myself. Too bad about poor old Steve Boone.”

“I doubt there’s a soul in Tupelo who hasn’t been in his hardware store. Everybody will miss him.”

He doesn’t comment either way, just hands the nail dryer back to Darlene, says, “All fixed,” then goes to sit in my chair.

While Wanda slides her nails back under the dryer for the finishing touch and Mama’s on the loveseat pretending to be interested in magazines, I pick up my scissors, thinking that at least I have a weapon. And if push comes to shove, I know where to plunge the blade for maximum damage.

Next I drape him with the pink plastic cape, my signature color, and fasten it around his bull-like neck. The whole time, he’s watching me in the mirror. I’m having a hard time keeping my hands from shaking.

“I probably should get capes in a different color for my male clients.”

“I don’t care what color the cape is, as long as you know what you’re doing.” He gives me another heebie-jeebie-inducing stare. “I’m told you do.”

So he’s checked up on me. I wonder if his interest had to do only with hair or if he had other reasons.

“Good cuts are my best advertisement.”

He stares at my reflection in the mirror for so long I tighten the grip on my scissors.

Darlene finally finishes Wanda’s nails, and Wanda prisses out of the shop. Which is a huge relief. If Abel Caine goes on a rampage, I’d prefer he not kill my paying customers. I feel a trickle of sweat roll down the side of my face. Finally, Abel says, “I’ve been ugly all my life. Do you think you can improve on me, Miss Callie?”

“I’ve never seen a beauty challenge I couldn’t conquer.”

Forget murder. I lift the scissors and set to work doing what I do best.

Halfway through Abel Caine’s hair makeover, Fayrene breezes through the door.

“I hope I’m not too late for my massage,” she says. “I try to be punctuated.”

I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be glad to see Mrs. Malaprop coming to my rescue.

Elvis’ Opinion # 15 on Gold Lamé, Christmas Surprises, and Aging Gracefully

T
ake it from a dog who knows more about style than any canine in Lee County: my human mom’s hair makeover on the ex-con is nothing short of spectacular.

When he leaves the shop, he hands her a tip big enough to ensure that I get plenty of Pup-Peroni in my Christmas stocking. And if I play my cards right, I’m liable to get the gold lamé doggie suit I’ve been hankering for.

Every time we go into Pet Smart, I drop the hint with a subtle performance of “Blue Christmas.” I say subtle because I’m not one to pull out all the stops for shoppers who are paying more attention to birdseed than they are to the King.

So far, Callie hasn’t bought the gold outfit. I know because I’ve sniffed out all her hiding places and torn open a few boxes. I even had a little sample or two of the doggie treats she’s saving for my stocking. Which I sincerely hope she doesn’t discover unless Jack is in the house. Having my human daddy around makes everybody more mellow.

Now I’m not saying the suit makes the man. When I was putting every song I recorded on the charts and bringing millions of fans worldwide to a screaming frenzy, it was my pipes and my charisma that did the trick, baby. Not the costume.

Still, it would be nice to dress in a gold dog suit and lord it over this crooked-legged little Lhasa apso. I’m glad when closing time comes and Darlene scoops him up and leaves Hair.Net.

Callie sinks onto the loveseat beside Ruby Nell, and Lovie bursts out of the so-called massage room with her fake client right behind her, who is not a sight for the faint of heart. Fayrene is still wearing her towel, showing more of herself than I ever wanted to see. Take it from a worldly dog who’s been around and knows these things: women trying to age gracefully are better off leaving most things to the imagination.

“Talk about the elephant of surprise,” Fayrene says. “If Lovie decides to leave catering behind, she can make a living giving massages.”

Our Lovie doesn’t take offense at being called an
elephant
instead of an
element.
She just says, “Thank you,” and goes on about her business of heading back to the break room for a pitcher of Prohibition Punch and a bunch of glasses.

“I don’t know if I ought to get started on this punch.” Ruby Nell’s protests don’t mean a thing. She fills her glass to the rim and chugs a fourth of it down in one gulp.

Fayrene and Lovie follow suit, but Callie declines. My human mom knows better than to count on yours truly as the designated driver. No opposable digits and my hind legs won’t reach the gas pedal.

“Since we’re all here, there’s no need to gather at Lovie’s,” Mama says, and Fayrene says, “Amen,” and refills her glass.

Then Ruby Nell tells her to put on some clothes. I’m so relieved by this development I almost forget myself and look around for that annoying Lhasa Apso to give him a high paw.

While Fayrene’s dressing, my human mom outlines the new Christmas open house plans for Lovie. Then Fayrene comes back wearing enough green to sod a lawn.

“Bobby’s psychic eye is working again,” she says. “I really want to do a séance. It’ll be my chance to show Jarvetis he didn’t know what he was talking when he said we didn’t need the séance room.”

My best friend Trey (Jarvetis’ favorite redbone hound dog) told me all about that argument. Jarvetis told her, “Half the folks in Mooreville don’t speak to each other. What makes you think they’ll talk to the dead?”

And Fayrene told him, “You go right on with your silly idea to build business by giving away potted Canadians and a hand-knit African, but I’m the one who’s out in the manure, here.”

I howled so loud at that I scared an alley cat out of at least eight of his lives. He was going through the Gas, Grits, and Guts garbage at the time, and my full-bellied mirth sent him running into the woods behind the store.

Trey got Fayrene’s caladiums and hand-knit afghan, but I had to interpret
out in the manure (entrepreneur)
for him.

Now she’s holding forth with such passion about her séance and Bobby’s rejuvenated psychic eye that Callie says, “All right, Fayrene. Go ahead with the séance. But please don’t advertise it. We don’t want pickets out front.”

“I’ll do the catering,” Lovie says.

“Jarvetis wants to serve our speciality.”

“That’s fine, Fayrene,” Lovie says. “I can throw a few sprigs of mint around the platter and nobody will even know they’re eating pickled pigs’ lips.”

“I’m not worried about the food,” Callie says. “It’s the guest list.”

Lovie grabs a notepad and pen out of her purse, and they all start suggesting names.

“Put Nelda Lou Perkins at the top of the list.” Ruby Nell hates that woman’s guts.

“Don’t forget that old biddy who served Ex-Lax cookies.” Lovie despises seeing people ruin good recipes. “I think Opal Stokes is running neck and neck with Nelda Lou as the prime suspect.”

“Don’t forget Albert Gordon,” Ruby Nell reminds them, and Callie tells her mama, “He’s in jail.”

“Not anymore. He’s out on bail.”

“How do you know?”

“Eavesdropping on Charlie.”

“Mama, someday Uncle Charlie’s going to catch you.”

“Flitter.”

“Put Albert Gordon down,” Callie says. “Abel Caine, too. And don’t forget Cleveland White.”

“He’s not guilty,” Ruby Nell says.

“Mama, you don’t know that. Put him down, Lovie. And add Corky Kelly and Nathan Briggs.”

“Former Santa and his helper? What have we got on them?” Lovie writes them down anyhow.

“Nothing yet. But if we’re going to do this right, we need to invite anyone who has a connection to Santa’s Court.”