Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (26 page)

Coming in behind them are Mabel Moffett and her daughter Trixie, all gussied up in red taffeta ruffles and blush that clashes. After her recent jilt from Mooreville’s fertilizer man, she looks like a woman on the prowl.

“If Trixie thinks she’s going to get her claws into Jack, she’s got another think coming.”

I know whispering in public is a tacky thing to do, but I don’t think announcing you’re looking for a killer is socially correct, either.

“Grrr,” Lovie says. “Go get her, tiger.”

“Smarty pants.”

“Yeah, well. If the britches fit . . . I’m not talking about Trixie. Albert Gordon is here.”

Fayrene is already at the light switch, turning the dimmer, but I study the crowd again. Just before the lights get too low to recognize anybody’s face, I spot Albert Gordon skulking around the perimeter in full camouflage.

“He’s got a gun, Lovie,” I whisper. The room is now jam-packed, and even if I yelled, “Has anybody seen Elvis?” it’s now too dark for any of my conspirators to see what I’m talking about.

I grab Lovie’s arm and head in Albert’s direction.

“What are we going to do if we catch him?” she whispers.

“Improvise.”

“I left my Moon Goddess outfit in the jungle.”

I’m glad to see Lovie’s sense of humor is intact. Especially considering that at any minute, we could become Christmas corpses number three and four.

Latecomers are still crowding into the séance room, trying to find a space to stand. As my cousin and I push toward Albert, nobody pays us any attention.

Is Albert after Uncle Charlie? Or Nathan? Or both?

We’re close enough now to smell the grease of Albert’s camouflage paint.

“Have you still got the Prego, Cal?”

“Yes, but I don’t think I can take Albert down with a whack from a plastic bottle.”

Lovie jerks it out of my hands, holds it like a gun, then steps behind Albert, and pokes the plastic cap hard into his back.

“Freeze, sucker,” she snarls in his ear. “I’ve got a gun, and I’m itching to use it. Make my day.”

Holy cow. Who does she think she is? Clint Eastwood? Any minute now I expect Albert to turn around and blow my cousin to Kingdom Come.

Over my dead body.

I step beside Lovie, jerk a bobby pin out of my French twist, and ram it against the side of his throat.

“If you don’t think I’ll slit your throat with this stiletto, think again, buster.”

“Are you broads crazy? I can take both of you out with my bare hands.”

I notice he’s not trying. I’m still congratulating myself on how tough Lovie and I are when Uncle Charlie and Jack materialize right in front of Albert.

“Don’t even think about it,” Jack tells him, then he and Uncle Charlie hustle Albert out without even a scuffle.

“I think I’m going to wet my pants,” Lovie says as they slip out through the back door.

“Not on my designer boots.”

“Shut up.”

My cousin and I collapse against each other in relief. Now that the killer has been caught, we can enjoy the rest of the show.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . .” It’s easy to see why everybody says Fayrene once considered going into show business. She has a voice that can carry all the way to the Alabama state line.

“Close your eyes,” she says. “Let yourself slip into Bolivia.”

A few out-of-towners titter, while the Mooreville crowd remains respectful. Fayrene is their beloved Mrs. Malaprop. They know
oblivion
when they hear it.

Suddenly the crystal ball in the center of the room lights up. In the eerie glow, Bobby looks almost majestic.

“I present to you . . . psychic extra-ordinarily . . .
Bobby Huckabee!
”

As he raises his hands, a hush falls over the crowd. Something hangs over this séance room that puts little shivers along the back of my neck. Lovie squeezes my hand, a signal that she feels it, too.

“Spirits of the universe . . .” Bobby begins to chant in a fluid, ethereal voice that doesn’t sound like the shy young man who rarely strings two sentences together. “Speak to us. Speak to us now.”

The silence feels like a wool cloak. It’s too warm in here, and I’m starting to sweat.

“We implore the dead,” he says, “any old dead.”

I make a mental note to remind him to polish his patter.

Bobby clears his throat. Where are his psychic powers when he needs them most?

“Any old dead will do.” He begins to falter, then I see a hand descend onto his shoulder. Fingernails glowing with silver Christmas stars. Darlene.

“Particularly the newly Christmas dead.” Bobby has regained momentum, and his voice sweeps over us like Moses commanding the Red Sea to part. “Talk to us, Ruldoph the Red-Nosed Reindeer! Speak to us, Santa!”

“Win-dy.” As the hoarse whisper hangs in the overheated room, I’m wondering why the dead would send a weather report. But, frankly, I could use a little breeze.

“Windy,” the whisper says again, “Briggs.”

Holy cow. That’s no crazed spirit talking about the weather. That’s a possible killer talking about Wendy Briggs.

I punch Lovie, and we both start creeping in the general direction of the voice.

“Speak!” Bobby’s shouting like a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher at a tent revival. Apparently, success has gone to his head.

“Wendy, you married the wrong man,” the disembodied voice says. “Leave Nathan Briggs before it’s too late.”

Somebody bolts toward the door—probably Nathan with his wife, Wendy—followed by fifty other people who suddenly realize they are not hearing the voice of the dead. It’s bedlam in the dark.

In the noisy stampede, I’m torn away from my cousin. Groping for her hand, I make contact with flesh.

“Lovie?”

“Guess again.” Arms trap me from behind, and suddenly I’m a hostage of the Santa killer. As all the puzzle pieces fall into place, I don’t know whether to scream or wet my pants. Fortunately, my social graces rise to the surface, along with the last grain of bravery I have.

“You don’t have to do this, Corky.”

“You’re too smart for your own good, Miss Jones.” As he wrestles me toward the door, who’s to notice in the rest of the chaos?

“Why did you kill Steve and Wayne?”

“Nathan was not supposed to be home with the flu.”

“And you didn’t know who was behind the beard?”

“Bingo, Miss Jones. Or should I say Mrs.?”

I see my future as being six feet under while Jack walks this life in eternal regret that he left me for a Harley Screaming Eagle.

Still, if I can keep Corky talking till we get outside where the lights are on, somebody will see us and stop him. I hope.

“But why Nathan?”

“He stole her,” Corky screams. “My cousin and best man stole my fiancé at the altar, then rubbed salt in my wounds for fifteen years. Always complaining that I was a bad elf.”

We burst from the shadows of the séance room into the Christmas lights and disco ball trophy brightness of Gas, Grits, and Guts. Mama yells, “He killed Santa and Rudolph. And now he’s got my daughter!”

She picks up a six-pack of Coors Light and charges our way. Never underestimate the power of familial love.

Neighbors and guests grab purses and jars of pickled pigs’ lips, car keys, and kegs of beer—whatever weapon is handy—as they race to my rescue.

Still, Corky is gaining the door, with me as his shield, and who is to stop him once he gets outside? And where is Jack when I need him?

There’s a roar like a wounded bull, and charging to the front of the vigilante group is the man I’ll never allow to become my ex.

“Corky, halt!” He’s pointing a gun, but even a crazed Santa killer knows Jack Jones will not try to shoot while I’m in the line of fire.

Waving her Coors, Mama catches up with Jack. Uncle Charlie and Lovie are right behind her, and my cousin’s brandishing a meat cleaver. I don’t even want to know how she got that.

Jack blocks them with his left arm.

“Stay back. You’ll make it worse. Everybody stay back.”

Somewhere in the parking lot behind me, Elvis is barking like crazy. In front of me, half of Tupelo and Mooreville are frozen behind Jack with their motley assortment of weapons. We must look like a shoot-out scene from an old TV western. Where’s the cavalry when you need them?

I try to dig in my heels, but Corky is strong for a small man. I feel myself being dragged irrevocably backward. If he ever gains his car, this will be my last Christmas.

Over my dead body.

In the tight grip of Corky’s arms, I start easing my hands toward my back.

“I’d suggest you stop right there and let Mrs. Jones go.”

Rocky Malone!

I don’t even pause to wonder how Lovie’s former boyfriend got here. Seizing the distraction, I grab a handful of Corky’s Christmas decorations—a euphemism my Valentine grandmother would surely approve—and give a big yank.

With a yowl, Corky goes down. Jack and Rocky are on top of him before he can even surrender. With his knee in Corky’s decorations, Jack grins up at me.

“Nice move.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t ever try it on me.”

“I won’t. As long as you promise to behave.”

“The only promise I’m making is to put the star on your Christmas tree.”

I smile at him. Jack Jones can put the star on my Christmas tree any time.

Elvis’ Opinion # 18 on the Star Restored, Stuffed Turkey, and a Merry Christmas to All

W
ith Corky behind bars, the crazy cookie lady and the deranged Santa barbecue man under psychiatric care, Miss Sweet Potato cooling her jets back in Highland Circle, and the singed Santas restored to their rightful rooftops, Christmas in Mooreville is back to normal. That means the chaos is almost manageable and yours truly, basset hound extraordinaire, reigns supreme.

Of course, I could have caught the Santa killer long ago if they’d turned me loose. I picked up Corky’s scent in the robing room at the mall. And when Fayrene said that he couldn’t possibly be a suspect, that everybody called him
good old Corky, always lending a hand,
I figured out how he turned Santa’s throne into an electric chair.

Turns out I was right. (Listen, don’t ever doubt the instincts of a dog with my intelligence, not to mention charm.) According to Jack and Charlie, years of being the man who could fix anything paid off when Corky Kelly turned his mind to murder. In hard hat and tool belt, he blended right in with the work crew making repairs at the mall. It would have been easy for a handyman to create a leak over the robing room, ensuring that when Santa sat on the throne Corky had rigged up as Old Sparky, his wet clothing would guarantee a quick trip to his final resting place.

But all’s well that ends well, as Charlie and Shakespeare would say. Charlie’s spending Christmas on the farm with Ruby Nell, who is up to the neck of her sequined caftan in preparations for the Valentine Christmas dinner. She vows that if Miss Sweet Potato shows up with her long-lens camera, she’ll end up in the oven covered with marshmallows.

Speaking of cooking, Lovie took Rocky Malone back to her pink house in Tupelo, presumably to stuff the Valentine Christmas turkey. Though the mood they were in when they left Gas, Grits, and Guts, I’d say the archeologist stands a better than average chance of discovering the National Treasure.

Fayrene has invited Mooreville’s new séance king, Bobby Huckabee, to her house for Christmas dinner. Of course, Darlene and cute little David will be there. Probably that silly-legged Lhasa Apso, too, but I’m not betting on the black-hearted cat.

If you think I forgot the most important people, you’d be mistaken. I’m a discreet dog. All I’m going to say about my human parents being back together is that the star is on the Christmas tree and I’m keeping the seven stray cats and that silly cocker spaniel in line so Callie and Jack can enjoy making up in peace.

When I’m not taking care of business around the Jones household and stockpiling steak bones in the back yard (Jack is a man who loves to grill), I’m busy laying my own plans.

But they’re not about to include a French poodle who got the “Fever” for a dog with a useless tail. As soon as I finish burying this bone and talk that dumb Hoyt into helping me dig the escape hole, I’m planning to cruise around the Mooreville Truck Stop. My best buddy Trey says there’s a beagle babe hanging out there just looking for “T.R.O.U.B.L.E.”

Look out, baby. Santa Paws is back in town.

Elvis has left the building.

Lovie’s Luscious Eats

Holiday Sweet Treats and More

Alice Virginia Daniel

These four recipes are from Alice Virginia Daniel, of Tupelo, Mississippi. A flamboyant redhead who knows her way around the kitchen, Alice is the author’s friend and the inspiration for Lovie.

Butterscotch Cream Pie

4 T. flour
2 T. butter
1 cup brown sugar
3 egg yolks, well beaten
¾ c. Pet milk, diluted with 1¼ c. water
1 t. vanilla

Mix above ingredients in top of double boiler, stirring occasionally, until thick; then add vanilla. Put in a pie shell already baked till just before it turns light gold. Top with meringue (recipe below) and bake in preheated oven at 350 degrees till meringue is golden. Refrigerate.

Meringue

Beat 3 egg whites and 6 T. sugar till stiff.

“This is a 100-year-old family recipe passed down with the spirit of heavenly flavor.”—Alice (Lovie)

Happy Holiday Kiss Kiss Eggnog

6 eggs, beaten
¾ cup sugar
1 pint whipping cream
1 pint bourbon
1 jigger rum
Nutmeg
1 cinnamon stick

Beat yolks separately with ¼ cup of sugar. Beat whites with ½ cup of sugar. Whip cream. Fold whites and cream into egg yolks. Add bourbon. Last, pour in rum, stirring constantly. Pour into two festive pitchers. Top with dash of nutmeg and chill until ready to serve. Pour into punch cups or mugs. Stir with a cinnamon stick. (Option: a teaspoon of vanilla ice cream added is so creamy and tasty.) Serves 8–10, but it all depends on the size of the cup. When in doubt, serve it in a beautiful punch bowl.