Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (8 page)

“Me, either, Cal. It’s the living I’m worried about.”

“You know something you’re not telling.”

“Not guilty.” He puts his arm along the back of the seat and caresses my neck. “Can’t a man spend a little time alone with his wife?”

“Ex.”

“Not yet.”

“For your information, we won’t be alone.”

“I don’t think the Christmas corpse is going to notice what we do.”

“What we’ll
do
, Jack, is that I’ll be applying pancake and you’ll be keeping your hands to yourself. I’m almost engaged.”

“Almost is a big word, Cal.”

Actually, he does keep his hands to himself, but Jack is the only person in the whole universe who can do nothing but sit on the sofa under the shell-shaped sconces watching me work and still make me feel as if I’ve been undressed and kissed on every inch of my skin. Even when I’m working on a corpse.

By the time we get home, I’m too worn out to protest when he kisses me good night. Fortunately, he’s makes the kiss brief, then goes to his own bed without trying to sweet-talk his way into mine.

I’m sorry to report it would have been ridiculously easy.

I get up early and dress in a jogging suit and running shoes so I can sneak out of the house without waking anybody. I need a morning run to clear my head. Leaving Lovie and Elvis snoring, I tiptoe past the guest room where Jack is sleeping. I hope. It would be just like him to be wide awake, listening to every move I make.

It’s one of those cool, brisk December mornings when the grass is frosted and scents are intensified. Inhaling the heady fragrance of cedar and pine, I sprint through my front gate and past Mabel Moffett’s and Fayrene’s houses. Overnight, Santas have sprung up on their rooftops, and North Pole scenes have appeared in their front yards. Rounding the corner into the cul de sac, I spot Frosty the Snowman on top of TV weatherman Butch Jenkins’ house.

The only house in the neighborhood not lit up like La-Guardia belongs to Mooreville’s newest resident, Albert Gordon. Either he hasn’t decorated yet or he’s the kind of person who likes to celebrate holidays quietly. Since he’s retired military and lives alone, to boot, I’d guess the latter.

I make a mental note to take him a tin of Lovie’s chocolate cherry Christmas cookies.

By the time I return to my cottage I feel ready to face whatever the day brings. My little house welcomes me with a pinecone wreath on the door, pine garlands strung on the front porch railings, and electric candles glowing in every window. I have everything except my tree. Usually Uncle Charlie digs up a small cedar on the farm and balls the roots in burlap so he can replant it after Christmas. I don’t know what I’ll do this year. Like Miss Scarlett, I’ll have to think about that tomorrow.

Jack is in my kitchen in his pajamas pants, sans top, propped on his crutch and making scrambled eggs Mexican style. My favorite.

“Hey, Cal. I thought you’d be hungry. I know I am.”

“Eggs sound great.” Ignoring how one look from him can cause goose bumps, I make myself act breezy. “I’ll wake up Lovie so we can get a quick start.” With the old Santa back on the job, I’m looking forward to being in the Hair.Net booth today.

“She’s already gone.”

“So soon?”

“Cleveland called and said Nathan Briggs had a relapse. She’s gone to help her fiancé get into his Santa suit.” Jack sets the plate in front of me, steam still rising from the eggs. That’s not the only place it’s rising. “It’s just us, Cal.”

I grab my fork and dig in. Between bites I say, “I’d better hurry. If Wayne is Santa, that means I’m still an elf.”

Jack runs his hand over my hair, which he knows I absolutely love, then gives my neck a little squeeze before he sits at the table and starts eating the eggs. As if he has not set me on fire.

“Be careful today. Take Elvis.”

I’m not going to argue with him today. I’m only too happy to get out of my own house, where temptation lies around every corner. Reminding myself that Jack and I tried to be a couple once and failed, I hurry to Barnes Crossing Mall to find Wayne already suited up and inside the dressing room putting on his boots.

“These boots are wet,” he says.

“So is my costume. I guess they haven’t fixed the leak yet.”

With construction workers all over the mall, you’d think fixing one small leak wouldn’t be a problem. I don’t have time to dwell on it because I have to get dressed and hurry to Santa’s Court. As my jingle bell skirt falls into place, I think about how close Jack is to ringing my chimes.

I don’t have time to think about that, either. Elvis is poking his nose into every corner of the dressing room, and the hairs on the back of my neck are starting to rise. Not a good sign. If you want to know the truth, I probably have more psychic ability than Bobby, even though both my eyes are the same color.

“What’s up, boy?” When Elvis looks up at me and whines, I’d swear he is humming “Fools Rush In.” I squat down to give him a reassuring pat. “We’d better hurry, boy. The kids will be getting restless.”

The sign on Santa’s Court says it opens precisely at ten-thirty. Since the only fanfare was on opening day, and the mall manager is nowhere in sight, it’s up to me to make sure we start on time.

Still, I can’t forget my premonition. Glancing around, I try to see if anything is amiss. In spite of Rudolph’s untimely end, there’s a huge crowd of children already screaming in ear-splitting decibels. The Christmas cookie lady is back, and when she sees me, she gives a big smile and waves. I wave back, then check to see if Wayne is in his place on the throne.

He gives me a thumbs-up sign. Once again I’m startled at how realistic he looks, as if he’s been the mall’s regular Santa for years.

Everything looks normal. Even Elvis is behaving. Always a good sign.

“Ready?” I ask. When Wayne nods, I turn the C
LOSED
sign to read S
ANTA’S
C
OURT
I
S
N
OW
O
PEN
, then unsnap the velvet rope guarding the entrance. Within seconds I’m mobbed by little kids all vying to be first to spill their secret wishes to Santa.

Selecting a cute, curly-haired cherub in a ruffled, red-velvet dress, I take her by the hand and lead her through the entrance.

“What are you going to tell Santa, honey?”

“I don’t want no baby bruvver for Thrithmath.”

“Well, honey, just think what fun you’ll have when your brother is old enough to play with you.”

“No! Thend him back.”

As I guide the reluctant big sister onto the red carpet, Santa’s throne lights up like a Christmas tree. This can’t be happening again.

I jerk the little girl into my arms and stumble backward as Santa Claus topples from his throne. He’s not moving, not a twitch. I can’t get over there to help him because I’m too busy having my hearing permanently damaged by a screaming toddler who hates baby brothers and now is going to hate Christmas.

But I don’t have to take his pulse to know: Wayne was dead when he hit the floor.

All bedlam breaks loose. Lovie races over, screeching Wayne’s name, the mother snatches her little girl from me, and Santa’s Court starts filling with paramedics and police. Holding onto Lovie, I watch as Wayne’s sheet-draped body is carried out on a gurney.

“I can’t believe this.” Lovie looks shell-shocked.

Neither can I. First, Steve Boone and now Wayne. With one Santa Claus and the favorite reindeer both dead, nobody in his right mind will be calling the first death an unfortunate accident.

A detective who looks younger than my favorite tennis shoes—Carter, his badge says—approaches me and says, “Ma’am? I’d like to ask you some questions.”

Holy cow. Since I was the one closest when Rudolph and Santa died, I’m up to my neck again in murder.

“Did you see anything suspicious?”

“No.” In this crowd, what would constitute suspicious?

“Did Steve Boone or Wayne Hunter act agitated before entering the court?”

“I couldn’t tell about Steve. He was late arriving. But Wayne was in a jovial mood.”

“Did the alleged victims have contact with anyone before they came into Santa’s Court?”

“I don’t know about Steve, but Wayne and I were at the dressing room together right before we entered Santa’s Court.”

“Do you have a beef against either of them?”

“Me?”
Holy cow! All I wanted was to help give the orphans a good Christmas. It looks like I’ve ended up on the hot seat for murder.

The only good thing I can say is this line of questioning shakes my cousin out of her love-lost stupor. She storms over in her steel-toed cowboy boots and snatches me away from Detective Carter like I’m a newborn and he’s the bubonic plague.

“That’s enough. Can’t you see she’s traumatized? There’s been a death in the family.”

“Excuse me, ma’am? Now, who are you?”

“Santa’s fiancé.” Lovie starts shivering and bawling so loud you can hear her all the way to the Alabama state line. If I didn’t know her so well, I’d think she was in deep mourning. But this is not Lovie being heartbroken: this is my cousin reprising her role as the Wicked Stepmother in her fifth-grade production of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

Detective Carter looks like he’d rather be anywhere except in the faux North Pole with an unlikely elf and a grieving almost Mrs. Claus. He tells me not to leave town, then pats Lovie on the arm and wanders off like somebody lost in a snowstorm.

Meanwhile, the cops are busy putting up yellow tape, and the manager is hanging a sign that says S
ANTA’S
C
OURT IS CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
. If anything can snatch dreams of sugar plums right out of the heads of little kids, crime tape ought to do it. For once in my life, I’m glad I’m not a mother.

How do you explain to a three-year-old that you lied about the man in the red suit? That in spite of Santa dying right before their eyes, he will still clamber down their chimneys to bring gifts you’ll be paying for over the next six months? Even worse, how do you tell them that somebody out there hates Santa Claus?

Lovie is quiet as she watches Santa’s Court become the crime scene. I link arms with her.

“This is awful, Lovie. Somebody out there hates Christmas and that cop thinks it’s me.”

She says a word that would raise blood blisters. “If the killer thinks I’m going to sit back after he’s snatched a perfectly good fiancé before I could get to the altar, he’s got another think coming.”

She roars through the mall like a summer tornado. And I’m grateful to sail along in her tailwinds. Listen, this is Lovie we’re talking about. I’d much rather see my cousin in revenge mode than falling to pieces over a man she never loved in the first place.

Trust me. I know.

Chapter 6

Yellow Tape, Santa Haters, and Cancelled Christmas

A
s we storm through the mall, Christmas charity booths are being abandoned faster than Elvis can steal a ham bone. Bobby has already left the Eternal Rest booth and Fayrene is packing up the Gas, Grits, and Guts paraphernalia. Mama, who is still staying in the hospital with Uncle Charlie, never even opened Fa La La La Farewell today.

I feel sorry for poor Cleveland White. He’s racing from one vendor to the next, mopping his face with a large white handkerchief and trying to talk them out of abandoning the mall’s biggest Christmas event, no doubt.

Whipping out my cell, I call Darlene to give her an update. Since the Hair.Net booth was not located in viewing distance of Santa’s Court, she had no idea what was happening. And neither did her customers.

“People are still lined up here three deep,” she says.

“Good. Keep the booth open as long as we’ve got a crowd. I knew they’d love your nail art.”

“ ’Natch. But it’s the star predictions that’s drawing them in.”

“Don’t tell me you’re reading horoscopes.”

“Everybody wants to know the future.”

At the rate people are getting knocked off, looks like some of them won’t even have a future.

“Just don’t make any iron-clad promises. Okay, Darlene?”

When we get to the parking lot, Lovie and I stop to plan.

“We can’t go home,” I say. “Jack’s there.” Meaning he would try to keep me from wading up to my neck into police business. He’ll find out soon enough, but at least I’ll have a head start.

“My house. And we’d better tell Aunt Ruby Nell and Fayrene.”

“Why? The last time they were involved in a murder investigation, I had to wear war paint, dance half-naked under the moon, and kill a chicken.”

“If somebody is really out to kill all the Santas, Daddy needs to know. He could still be in danger.”

She’s right, of course. Telling Lovie I’ll meet her at her cottage, I sprint toward my pickup holding Elvis’ leash with one hand and punching in Mama’s speed-dial number with the other. No need to call Fayrene. Mama never does anything without letting her know.

After I explain what happened to Wayne and tell her that Lovie and I are going to put our heads together, I say, “Stay in the hospital with Uncle Charlie so I’ll know you’re safe.”

“Flitter.”

“Mama, what does that mean? Flitter’s not even a word.”

I might as well save my breath. Mama has already hung up. No telling what’s she’s fixing to do. I don’t even want to know.

Elvis and I get to Robins Street just as Lovie is pulling into her driveway. For once I don’t tell Elvis to wait in the truck. I’m in no hurry to head out after a killer, and besides, I feel safer with my dog at my side.

When we get inside, Lovie already has the coffee on. She emerges from the kitchen with a platter of doughnuts, three kinds of cookies, a bag of potato chips, three Snickers bars for her, and a Hershey bar with almonds for me. She knows it’s my favorite.

“Good grief, Lovie. It looks like you’ve prepared for a siege.”

“Never go into battle on an empty stomach.”

“I don’t plan to go into battle. Just do enough sleuthing to find out a few things and keep my family safe.”

“We can tend to our own little red wagons, thank you very much.” Mama sweeps into the living room with Fayrene right behind her. I’m so upset I didn’t even hear her drive up.