Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (24 page)

Mabel Moffett could start a clothing store with her used evening gowns. She goes over the top at Mooreville’s social events, always wearing long gowns with too many fake pearls, even at Mama’s annual hog roast. And she thinks it’s a sin to be seen in the same gown twice.

Still, I’m glad the word’s getting out about the open house, and I’m glad Mama and Fayrene have thought to invite Mooreville’s glitterati. After our tangle with the law at Albert Gordon’s Santa barbecue, it won’t do for the Lee County sheriff to figure out what Lovie and I are up to. The last thing we need is a long line of uniforms.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my unexpected involvement in murder, it’s that no killer is going to tip his hand in front of a bunch of cops.

We finish our coffee and head up front, where I drape Mabel in a pink cape and take out my scissors.

“I had to stop by the post office to mail a Christmas package to my sister in Atlanta,” she says. “Did I see Jack leaving your shop?”

“He volunteered to open up this morning.”

“He seems like such a nice young man.”

“He is.”

“I told my daughter, I said, ‘Trixie, forget about marrying Roy Jessup. He’s nothing but a fertilizer and manure man. If Callie’s divorce is ever final, you need to set your cap for that handsome Jack Jones.’ ”

I cut off a chunk of her hair as big as Texas. Accidentally, of course. It never occurred to me that if I didn’t want Jack, women all over Mooreville would be clamoring for him.

“You look funny, Callie. Did I say something to upset you, hon?”

“No. I suddenly remembered I’ve got to pick up a roast for dinner.” I make myself smile at her reflection in the mirror. “Jack likes meat and potatoes.”

It’s better for Mabel to chew on that for a while than to know I’m doing some creative styling behind her back. Holy cow. I never make a miss-whack with the scissors. If I don’t learn to keep my personal feelings under wraps, I’m going to ruin my reputation as the best stylist this side of the Mississippi River.

At mid-morning, Darlene comes in, and we both get so busy I barely have time to think about my quandary over Jack. Around four, Mama drops in, which usually spells trouble. But I’m so glad to have an excuse to take a break, I don’t care if she’s come to say she needs the rest of my Christmas gift money for a little restorative jaunt to the casinos over in Tunica.

“Callie, come outside. I’ve got to show you the decorations we’re putting in the séance room.”

Leaving Darlene with one customer in her manicurist’s chair and another waiting, not to mention my dread of instant holiday poverty, I head to my small parking lot, where Mama’s Mustang is taking up two spaces. Yesterday’s storm has blown over, the weather has turned unseasonably mild, and she’s driving with the top down.

The red convertible is overflowing with gold garlands, strings of lights shaped like snowflakes, and an assortment of hang-from-the-ceiling Christmas characters. Santa’s there with Mrs. Claus and Frosty the Snowman, plus all his reindeer and Rudolph, too.

“Holy cow, where will we put the guests?”

“Jarvetis is going to put all this stuff in the store.” Just as Lovie drives up, Mama reaches into a pile of silver bells and pulls out a crystal ball and a gypsy’s scarf decorated with red roses. “
This
is what I’m talking about for the séance room. It’s the genuine article.”

“Do I even want to know where you got that?”

“It belonged to a real witch. I got it at that little antiques and junk store down at Richmond.”

“If she’s still able to straddle a broomstick, invite her to the séance open house, Aunt Ruby Nell.” Bound for Lovie.

About two miles south of Mama’s farm is the tiny farming community of Richmond. It features Richmond Baptist Church, a hole-in-the-wall store called Junk and Stuff that has a beauty shop attached, and a convenience store that Fayrene says won’t hold a candle to Gas, Grits, and Guts. I feel the same way about their beauty shop. Though Richmond would love to be as uptown as Mooreville, they don’t even have a post office, let alone a salon as cosmopolitan as Hair.Net.

“How do you know it’s genuine, Mama. I never heard of a witch in Richmond.”

“I’ve personally met one or two,” Lovie says.

“Be nice,” I tell her. “It’s Christmas.”

“This belonged to one of the Salem witches,” Mama says. “Her crystal ball got handed down from generation to generation and ended up with a descendant in Richmond.”

“That’s a little far-fetched, Mama.”

“I showed it to Bobby to verify that the crystal ball is real.” Mama stuffs it back into her car. “You’ll see.”

With that dire prediction, Mama drives off.

“Holy cow!” I say, and Lovie deadpans, “And pig, too!”

“What did you find out about Nathan Briggs, Lovie?”

“Not much. Five years ago, he was Tupelo’s Man of the Year. He’s a deacon at First Baptist and has a wife named Wendy and two daughters in college.”

“You need to make sure Wendy is invited to the open house.”

“Why me?”

“I’ve got to do something I should have done when we got back from Mexico.”

Lovie gives me this searching look. She knows. I swear, sometimes I think we can read each other’s mind.

“Do you want me along for support?” she asks.

“No. I’ll be fine. I’m taking Elvis. Just go over to Gas, Grits, and Guts and make sure Mama and Fayrene are not planning something with that crystal ball that will scandalize Mooreville.”

Lovie leaves in her van, and I go inside to tell Darlene to lock up when she leaves. Then I freshen up in the cute bathroom featuring my salon’s signature pink, load Elvis in my Dodge Ram, and head toward Mantachie.

Elvis’ Opinion # 16 on Breaking Up, Great Pies, and Mean Cats

I
f you’re wondering why Callie would take a dog as moral support for a breakup, you’ve got a lot to learn about human nature. The best moral support is not somebody who will talk your ear off and tell you how you ought to do it and afterward tell you what you did wrong.

It’s a smart canine who keeps his mouth shut, puts his head in your lap, and holds in his noxious gas till he gets out of the truck. Listen, there’s a lot to be said for a canine head on your lap. It gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling, a sense that you’re not alone and that you are totally loved, no matter how bad you mess up.

My human mom keeps her hand on my head all the way to Mantachie, but she doesn’t say anything, just drives with more caution than she usually displays when she’s behind the wheel. She’s in no hurry to get there. And who can blame her? Champ’s a good man and a doggone good vet.

If a disaster came along and I ended up without Jack, I could get used to a substitute who can give a vaccination so easy you don’t feel it.

But Jack’s still here, and nobody can take his place. Callie’s finally realized this. Still, that didn’t make her decision any easier or what she’s about to do any less difficult. I smell regret and pain all the way to Champ’s clinic.

When we go inside, his secretary tells her the vet is in his office and to just go on back. Naturally. Nobody keeps the King waiting.

“Callie?” Champ acts surprised to see her, but I can see he’s putting on a front. The vet’s a smart man. I’ve read his aura and his body language. He’s been expecting this ever since my human daddy ended up at Mooreville in Callie’s house.

My human mom is gentle as she tells Champ she can’t keep giving him false hope, that it’s not fair to any of them, that all along she’s been fooling herself.

“Champ, what I feel for you is the deep respect and loyalty of a good friend.”

“I understand, Callie. I just hope we can remain friends and that I can remain your vet.” Luke Champion shows why he’s called Champ when he gives my human mom a genuine smile and gives me a big old pat on the head. “I’d miss seeing the King, here.”

“I’m so relieved you said that. I’d hate to lose you, too.”

Callie doesn’t even know she’s crying till Champ hands her a tissue. She wipes her eyes and gives him a hug, then we’re off for our little cottage in Mooreville.

But if you think this is one of those old movie classics where the heroine walks straight home into the arms of her true love, you don’t know real life from Pup-Peroni.

Jack calls to say he has some things to do, that he’ll be at his apartment if she needs him, and we settle in to decorate the Christmas tree. Everything but the star. Callie can’t reach the top, and I wouldn’t be climbing a ladder even if I did have digits. Too many chances my portly self might take a large tumble and do major damage to my handsome face.

Be that as it may, at least we have a mostly trimmed tree, complete with colored lights. It keeps us company over the next few days while Jack is on his mysterious errand and my human mom helps get ready for the Christmas open house at Gas, Grits, and Guts.

When the big day arrives, I get all gussied up in my four-legged red suit as the one and only Santa Paws and set out with my human mom to put Mooreville on the map.

Gas, Grits, and Guts is popping with lights and filled to the brim with guests. Looks like nobody turned down the chance to hobnob with Mooreville’s answer to Lucy and Desi. Fayrene, looking like a stalk of asparagus in her green velvet suit, has even talked Jarvetis into wearing a vegetable green tie.

But I’ll have to say if Macy’s ever needs a new decorator, Fayrene and Ruby Nell would fit the bill. Santa and Mrs. Claus, hanging from the ceiling just inside the door, greet guests. Lights are strung on every shelf in the store, with extras surrounding the disco ball Fayrene and Jarvetis won at the Memphis dance competition. A special display has been set up near the entrance to the séance room: Ruldolph and Santa’s sleigh, suspended over the pickled pigs’ lips.

Along the back wall of the store, a table is filled with holiday treats from Lovie’s Luscious Eats: her famous pies—butterscotch cream, Hershey, and pumpkin pecan—her Happy Holiday Kiss Kiss Eggnog, and enough other goodies to keep a dog who knows the art of the con busy the rest of the night.

Though everybody wants to stop and pet a beguiling basset in a Santa paws suit, I don’t waste any
ho, ho, hos
on the crowd. I reconnoiter before heading for the food.

Up front, Callie greets guests and hands out door prizes, another way of saying she’s checking out all the suspects. They’re probably checking her out, too. In a silver sequined blouse, black skirt, and the extravagant spike-heeled black calfskin designer boots I wouldn’t dream of peeing on, even in a snit, she looks like the kind of woman who wouldn’t be caught dead in a store with “Guts” in the name.

Charlie is keeping a low profile while he keeps an eye out for trouble. So is my human daddy, though he mostly has eyes for you know who.

If they want to see trouble, they’d do well to cast their attention in my direction.

Just when I’m getting ready to con the mayor’s wife out of a piece of pie, Darlene waltzes through the door. And while she’s got sense enough to realize you can’t take a Lhasa apso out in public and expect anything except embarrassment, she’s apparently got a blind spot about cats.

That stupid cat she calls Mal is with her. In a little cat carrier, granted, but how long does she think it takes a mean cat to get out of cat prison?

She sets the carrier in the corner and makes a beeline for Bobby Huckabee. The minute she turns her back, that ridiculous pox on the animal kingdom reaches toward the latch with a vicious claw.

I’d march over there and scare him out of about seven of his sorry little lives if I didn’t have pressing business with the mayor’s wife.

One more adorable basset grin in her direction, and she sets a paper plate on the floor with half a piece of pie.

“Here, you cute little Santa. I don’t need the calories.”

I start lapping up butterscotch cream, but don’t think I’m not still in charge. I know the minute Bobby leaves the front of the store. He’s going to get ready for a séance in the newly renovated back room, and he’ll be using the crystal ball of a genuine Salem witch.

I also spot that sneaky cat creeping out of his cell, heading in my direction. If he keeps on coming, I predict that the only dead who will show up for Bobby’s séance will be Darlene’s cat.

If the odious Mal puts one claw on my Santa suit—or my pie—he’s going to become the third Christmas corpse.

Chapter 19

Killing Miss Sweet Potato, Lethal Spaghetti Sauce, and Armageddon

I
t turns out that the open house at Gas, Grits, and Guts has lured some of the suspects, but not as many as I had hoped. Over the last fifteen minutes I’ve spotted Cleveland White, Nelda Lou Perkins, and Opal Stokes. Still, it’s early, and not everybody likes to be among the first arrivals at a party.

According to plan, Mama, Fayrene, Lovie, and I are spread out so we can cover the crowd. If we spot anything suspicious, our signal for help is to say in a very loud voice, “Has anybody seen Elvis?”

It’s sure to bring laughter among those who don’t know he’s a dog, and a search party of locals who know he is.

The signal was Fayrene’s idea, which surprised me. Her contributions are usually bizarre. But she said this would be a good way to “alert each other without giving anybody a Cadillac arrest.”

Well, there you go. Who wants to do CPR at a party? Especially on a Cadillac.

What I also don’t want to do is find myself alone with Jack. I haven’t told him about my breakup with Champ and don’t intend to. Whatever happens next is up to him. I don’t intend to act like a desperate woman who flits from one man to the next.

Independence, that’s my motto. If Jack comes back into my life, it will be for the right reasons. Not because I’m available, or lonely, or scared. And certainly not because I want to have children before my rapidly shriveling eggs start looking like raisins. I’ve learned the hard way that the desire for a family is not reason enough to plunge into a relationship.

I spot Uncle Charlie near the front door and head that way. When I’m a feeling a little blue, he always cheers me up.