Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (19 page)

“I know how to drive.”

“When you’re upset, you speed.”

“Good grief.”

I slam the door and drive off while Jack’s still standing in my front yard, probably thinking up more bad advice. Giving my dogs reassuring pats, I head north on Highway 371 toward Mantachie. As soon as I’m satisfied that Elvis and Hoyt are still doing okay, I whip out my cell phone and call Lovie.

“How was the Civitan breakfast?”

“A roaring success. Everybody there bought a copy of my cookbook.”

“See. I told you they’d love it.” Quickly I brief my cousin on Elvis’ cookie caper. “And poor Hoyt. Whatever Elvis does, he tags along. I’m on the way to see Champ now.”

“This means you won’t be breaking and entering this morning.”

“Unfortunately, no. And neither will you.”

“Why not?”

“You need backup.”

“Caine won’t be there. I’m the one who picks the locks, anyhow. I can do this without you.”

“Don’t even think about it. I don’t want you alone in the house of an ex-con. We need to come up with another plan.”

“I could be a Welcome Wagon lady and take him a basket of cookies.”

“He’s been in Tupelo too long. We need a different plan.”

“If he consulted the horoscope and wore fingernail polish, we could offer him a free manicure with Darlene.”

“I think you’re on to something, Lovie.”

“A manicure? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No. A free haircut.”

“He’s going to be suspicious. How’d he win it?”

“How about this? He’s one of four winners in a Christmas extravaganza giveaway at Hair.Net. We did a random pick from the telephone directory.”

“I hope he’s not bald.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, and I think he was wearing some kind of baseball cap.”

“Atlanta Braves?”

“Holy cow, Lovie. I can’t remember that far back. What difference does it make?”

“I can’t see an ex-con coming to a beauty shop for a free haircut. Offer him a massage, too.”

“You’re right. Darlene also does massages.”

“People talk on the table.”

“I’ll rent a massage table and set it up in that empty back room I’m planning on turning into a south of Mooreville spa. But how are we going to get Darlene to ask the right questions without letting her in on what we’re doing?”

“
I’ll
do the massage.”

“You don’t know anything about massage, Lovie.”

“I’ve had my hands on more male bodies than any masseuse in Lee County. If I can’t fake it, nobody can.”

“All right. But I don’t plan to leave you in the room with him alone. And I plan to be packing heat.”

“Then you’d better practice, Annie Oakley.”

“Oh, hush up. I’ve gotta go, Lovie. I’m at Champ’s.”

He’s waiting for me in front of his clinic. I’m so happy to see him I almost burst into tears. I pride myself on being an independent woman, but when things go wrong it is very reassuring to know there’s a good man waiting to give you a helping hand.

Champ helps me unload my two pets, and I follow him into the clinic. Poor Elvis gives me this hangdog look that has guilt written all over it.

“I’m not mad at you, boy. Just get well. We’ll talk about forbidden cookies later.”

He understands every word I say. And anybody who tries to tell me any different will be cut off my Christmas card list.

Elvis’ Opinion # 12 on Pills, Pushups, and Pillows

T
hanks to my clever plan, my human mom ditched her silly plan to break and enter into the house of a dangerous man. Soft touch that she is, she’s not even miffed that I broke the cookie jar, ate all the cookies, and conned that foolish cocker spaniel into getting belly deep into big trouble.

When you’re planning something illegal, it’s always best to have a fall guy. If worse had come to worst, I could always blame Hoyt for instigating the great cookie heist.

As it turns out, both of us are now back at home on our pillows. Mine’s bigger and made of silk, a clear indication that I’m top dog around the Valentine/Jones household. And of course, mine is right next to Callie’s bed. Hoyt’s was, too, but I shoved it over in the corner where it belongs. One snarl from me, and he didn’t even try to drag it back. If you’re going to be the boss, act like it, I say.

Callie has already made her phone call to Abel Caine, but so far he hasn’t called back. Meanwhile, I’ve spit out all the horse pills Champ gave me; my belly is back to normal, but I’m still milking my convalescence for all it’s worth. Listen, eating too much chocolate for the cause is not as easy as it sounds. I’m still not interested in being Santa Paws. I’m can’t even get my hackles up about that bushy-tailed William acting like Casanova and trying to steal my personal French poodle. The way I see it, it’s Ann Margret’s loss.

In other developments here in the heart of beautiful downtown Mooreville, the police have questioned Callie again about the Santa murders, Wayne’s body was released and she’s already fixed him up, and she’s been down on the farm shooting holes in trees. Naturally, I was the one she took with her.

Let me tell you, Callie doing target practice is not a pretty picture. She narrowly missed a milk cow or two, and if that .38 bullet had come two inches closer to Ruby Nell’s old bull, my human mom and I would be singing “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” and a few other body parts I’d rather not live without.

Suffice it to say, we got back into her Dodge Ram in the nick of time and hightailed it out of the pasture with that old bull ripping and snorting behind us. He even got close enough to put a dent in her back bumper.

When Jack said, “How’d you get that dent,” she said, “Beats me,” and that was that.

Her secret’s safe with me. I’m not a dog to tattle. I don’t even indulge in gossip unless it’s the juicy kind.

Well, bless’a my soul. Who’s this coming through the front door but Jack’s personal physician? That just goes to show Jack’s status. Doctors don’t make house calls anymore unless you’re the King (that would be me) or a man of great importance (that would be my human daddy).

“Are you ready to get that cast off?” the doc says, and my tenderhearted human mom tears up. She won’t let Jack know, though. That’s how stubborn she is.

And he won’t let her see how grateful he is to finally get rid of the plaster that’s been holding him back. That’s how much pride he has.

My work’s cut out for me. Getting these two back together is going to be harder than a peace settlement in the Middle East.

With the plaster off, Jack’s doc pronounces him “good as new.”

That means he could be moving back to his apartment any time, a little fact Jack and Callie are careful not to discuss.

After the doc leaves, he picks up his crutches and say, “I guess I won’t be needing these anymore,” and she says, “Not anytime soon, I hope.”

And then he says, “Why don’t I grill steaks for supper?” and she says, “That sounds great.”

He wanders out to the grill, and she wanders upstairs to pull a box of Christmas ornaments out of her closet. I trail along behind Callie, of course. A dog knows which human parent needs him the most. I can smell her regret and uncertainty a mile away.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet holding a Radko ornament Jack gave her on their first Christmas together, a quarter moon in a midnight-blue field of stars. He got it at the Christmas Store down in Tampa where they’d spent an idyllic week together.

I lean my handsome head in her lap and tell her
It’s okay to cry.
Don’t tell me good human moms can’t read their favorite dog’s thoughts.

She cuddles me close and says, “Elvis, I wish I knew what to do.”

Dogs have instincts about these things, but humans have washed out, drowned out, preached out, and legislated out their natural instincts. They twist and turn with every one of life’s storms. They get lost, start over, pray, agonize, discuss, debate, and rationalize till it’s a wonder a single one of them ever finds his way to peace and happiness.

If I could have one wish granted this Christmas, it would be that human beings would become more like dogs. We always listen to our instincts, are happy with leftovers, and almost never pee on anybody’s shoes.

Chapter 15

Cops, Jazz Funerals, and Dashing Through the Pearly Gates

A
bel Caine hasn’t called yet to take me up on my offer of a free haircut and massage, but that’s probably for the best. Right now, I’m up to my ears in giving my customers new Christmas hairstyles and making preparations for Wayne’s jazz funeral.

Lovie is ecstatic that he’ll get the jazz funeral, Uncle Charlie is feeling fit and back in charge, and Mama’s raring to show her musical chops with a roaring rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Though I can’t say I think Wayne was any saint, especially since I found out he was dating my cousin and his ex-wife at the same time.

Still, the Valentines never shirk when it comes to sending the dearly departed through the Pearly Gates. Or in the other direction, as the case may be.

I finish putting Elvis’ pink bowtie on his dog collar, his regular getup for funerals, and am in the midst of pulling on the black Stuart Weitzman boots I prefer for winter funerals when Lovie calls.

“Where are you?”

“Still at home.”

She says a word that would discolor teeth. “Wayne’s ex is acting like she’s lost the love of her life, that crazy old Opal Stokes is wearing her sweet little cookie lady face, and somebody’s stalking me. I’m fixing to arm myself.”

“Don’t do anything rash, Lovie. I’ll be headed to the funeral home in five minutes. Tops.”

“If you’re not here soon, I won’t be responsible for what I do.”

“Stay in the kitchen till I get there, Lovie. Nothing’s going to happen with Uncle Charlie around. Have a cup of Prohibition Punch.”

“I already tried that. It’s not working.”

Jack suddenly appears in the doorway, looking far too handsome and too much like he belongs in this house. He’s made such fast progress with his therapy, you’d never know he was recently in a cast.

“Cal, which tie looks best with this shirt?”

“Do I hear Jack?”

“Yes,” I tell Lovie, and to Jack, I say, “Wear the navy one.” He winks, then heads back across the hall.

“I can see why you’re late.”

“You can see nothing of the sort, Lovie.”

“Then why is he still there?”

“It’s Christmas.” She giggles, and I get defensive. “It would be just plain tacky to send him back to that ugly apartment to spend the holidays by himself. Besides, with the Santa killer still out there, I need Jack here to help out.”

Lovie says a word that would melt the North Pole.

“Don’t start with me, Lovie. I’ve said all I’m going to say on the subject of Jack.”

“It’s not Jack. It’s that heifer.” I don’t even have to ask to know she’s talking about Wayne’s ex. “She looks like a strumpet. If she gets anywhere near me, I’m liable to skewer her and serve her up as kabobs.”

“Holy cow, Lovie. Hide.”

“Where?”

“I don’t care. Anywhere. Just don’t go near her till I get there.”

I yell for Jack, brief him on the dangerous love triangle and the possible stalking. Then the three of us—Jack, Elvis, and me—race off to Eternal Rest in his silver Jag.

We arrive in less time than it takes me to put up a French twist. The parking lot is filled with squad cars.

“Stay close.” Jack grabs my hand, I hang onto Elvis’ leash, and we weave our way through a bevy of cops both outside and inside the funeral home. Naturally, they’re out in force. The killer often shows up at the victim’s funeral. For what purpose, I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I just want him caught so I can decorate my tree and finish my Christmas shopping in peace.

We make our way to the first parlor, where, thanks to my skills, Wayne is laid out looking as if he might sit up any minute and ask for a piece of pecan pie.

I scan the crowd for Lovie, but she’s nowhere in sight, thank goodness. Nelda Lou is up front near the casket, and though she’s in a black pantsuit that suggests deep mourning, she’s not looking a bit happier to see her former son-in-law dead than she did when she talked about him alive. I make a mental note to keep an eye on her.

So do the cops, it seems. Two of them are standing in the corner near a potted peace lily. One has his eyes peeled on Nelda Lou; the other has a bead on the mall’s manager, Cleveland White.

Uncle Charlie is also near the casket, resplendent in a crisp black pinstriped suit and looking fully recovered, I’m happy to say. He’s talking to none other than Nathan Briggs, the mall’s original Santa.

Fayrene is also near the front, wearing Christmas-tree green from head to toe, but Mama is nowhere in sight. That doesn’t concern me, though. When she’s in charge of the music, she always heads to the chapel early to make sure everything is in order.

My phone vibrates, and Lovie’s name pops up on the ID. I lean over to whisper to Jack, “I’ve got to find Lovie.”

“Stay sharp.”

“Don’t worry about me. You just make sure Uncle Charlie is safe.”

Ordinarily he’d have insisted on coming with me, and I’d have put up a huge fuss. It has been like this ever since his cast came off, though. We’re more considerate of each other. And neither of us has broached the subject of when Jack’s leaving.

Mindful that the eyes of the Tupelo Police Department are also on me as a possible suspect, I stroll casually out of the viewing room and into the hall. It’s packed. Some of the people I know, but most I don’t. Who’d have thought Wayne had so many friends?

Or maybe they’re enemies.

In my eagerness to avoid cops, I almost run over Opal Stokes. She’s left her tough, Santa-slaying persona behind and is back to looking like the sweet little old lady you’d never dream would enter Santa’s Court and dispense cookies laced with Ex-Lax.

She gives me a big smile and leans down to pet Elvis. His hackles come up, and I scoop him off the floor.

“He’s having a bad day,” I say, then hurry off before she recognizes me as the “boy” she ordered to clean up her kitchen floor.