Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (25 page)

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nelda Lou Perkins also steaming toward my uncle. In full beauty queen mode, she’s wearing a gold lamé dress with matching shoes. The heels are so high, she’s tilted forward. I expect her to topple at any minute. If the shoes don’t do it, the makeup will. She’s loaded it on so thick it looks heavy enough to slide right to the floor—and her with it.

For once, I don’t even mean that in a nice way. Anybody who gives Uncle Charlie a hard time does not deserve my good wishes.

Unfortunately, before I can reach them I get stuck in a wad of people between the canned peas and the potato chips. Still, Nelda Lou is so loud I could hear her if I were out in the parking lot.

“Charlie! You look
so handsome!
” She slides her arm through his, and though I can tell he’d like to shake her off, he’s too much of a gentleman. “I’ve got something you have
got to see
!”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, Nelda Lou.” He smiles to take the sting out of his rejection. Uncle Charlie goes out of his way to be nice to everybody, whether they deserve it or not. “Jarvetis and Fayrene have asked me to help them host. I can’t leave my guests.”

“They can do without you for
one little minute.”

She starts trying to drag him through the front door, and short of embarrassing her in front of a crowd, what can he do? Still stuck in canned goods, I yell, “Has anybody seen Elvis?”

Amid general laughter, one wag says, “Yeah, but you’re looking in the wrong grocery store.” A reference to the famous
I saw Elvis at the Piggly Wiggly
comment.

I’m beginning to think none of my cohorts in crime heard me when I see one heading my way. Unfortunately, it’s Mama.

Considering her animosity toward Nelda Lou, I consider not even motioning toward Uncle Charlie. But somebody has already tried to kill him once, and the former Miss Sweet Potato is a suspect. At least, in the Valentine book.

I nod toward the door. Mama glances in that direction, goes all squinch-eyed and evil-looking, then barrels after Uncle Charlie and Nelda Lou. Still stuck in the clump of people who have now inched down to the green beans, I try to extricate myself. To no avail.

I have to get outside before Mama kills Miss Sweet Potato.

Where is Jack when I need him? Head and shoulders taller than everybody else, he’s easy to spot in a crowd. But a quick glance confirms he’s nowhere in sight. Does he know something about the Santa killer that I don’t?

Suddenly an unholy screech followed by a string of words only Lovie could use comes from the back of the store. Abandoning all social graces, I elbow my way out of canned goods and race in my cousin’s direction.

Darlene’s cat appears out of nowhere and streaks past me, yowling as if the hounds of hell are after him. But it’s not the hell hounds: it’s Elvis in a total snit and the mayor’s wife in a squashed-looking, marshmallow-pink suit and a mood to kill.

I’ve never seen Junie Mae move that fast. Furthermore, she’s screaming, “Come back here, you little scamp.” I don’t know whether she’s bent on doing bodily harm to my dog or Darlene’s cat. Or both.

I spin around to go after Elvis. Lovie can take care of herself. I hope.

My abrupt change in direction catapults me straight into the arms of my almost-ex. And I don’t want to think about how good it feels to be in his solid presence.

“I’ve got Elvis and the cat under control, Cal. Go see what’s up with Lovie.”

“What about Uncle Charlie? He’s outside with Mama and Miss Sweet Potato.”

Chuckling, he puts his hands on my shoulders and points me in the direction of the séance room. “Charlie and Ruby Nell can handle that. Scoot.”

As I charge toward my cousin, I’d be grateful I no longer hear screeching if I weren’t now hearing what sounds like the battle of Armageddon.

Though Jack would never send me off toward danger, I grab the nearest weapon—a jar of Prego spaghetti sauce.

Holding my weapon aloft, I skid to a stop underneath Santa’s sleigh. I’m sorry to report that Ruldolph and the reindeer have been knocked askew and are now dangling from the ceiling and into Lovie’s bowl of Prohibition Punch.

Standing in front of the punch and clutching a bottle of Kaopectate, Lovie is squared off against none other than the cookie lady/Santa thief. In the perimeter, a crowd starts to gather.

“That’s mine,” Opal Stokes screams at Lovie. “Give it to me.”

“I’m going to give it to you, all right, you hag from hell. If you take another step in the direction of my punch, I’ll sit on you and personally pour the whole bottle down your throat.”

“Lovie, let’s remain calm. I’m sure Mrs. Stokes is open to reason.”

Seizing the opportunity, Opal lunges for freedom. But she doesn’t count on me and my Prego. I tap her upside the head with the spaghetti sauce. Not hard, though. I love justice as much as the next hair stylist, but I draw the line at clocking a senior citizen . . . even if she does steal Santas and put a laxative in the Christmas goodies.

And I certainly don’t intend to get tomato sauce all over my Christian Louboutin boots. Besides, I have an audience.

“Way to go, Cal. That’ll teach her to tamper with my Prohibition Punch.” Lovie grabs the culprit on one side and I grab her on the other. Then she turns her considerable charm on our growing audience. “It’s all over, folks. The punch and cookies are safe. Enjoy!”

With Opal sagging between us, we hustle her into the darkened séance room. I can’t get her out of sight fast enough. Fortunately, I see Uncle Charlie heading our way to smooth-talk the crowd.

I kick the door shut behind us, then lean weak-kneed against it. Opal still has not made one little peep.

“What if I killed her?”

“Good riddance.”

“I’m serious, Lovie.”

“So am I.” She shoulders Opal’s weight. “I’ve got her. Turn on the light. Let’s see what’s going on with this mean old heifer.”

I flick the light switch. In the sudden wash of brightness, Opal looks as white as Santa’s beard. And on the other side of the room, Darlene and Bobby look like two people who have been caught making out.

“Don’t tell Mama,” Darlene says, confirming what I already suspected. There’s more going on with my manicurist and Uncle Charlie’s assistant than sharing horoscopes.

Bobby clears his throat and tugs at his Christmas tie, bright red with sequined snowflakes, probably a gift from Darlene. I’ve never seen him wear anything that would call attention to himself.

“Darlene’s been giving me some moral support.”

“One euphemism is as good as the other.” Lovie winks at Bobby and Darlene—who winks back. Meanwhile, Opal still droops like a blowup Santa that has sprung a leak.

“It looks like Opal won’t be talking for a while, Lovie.”

“Is there a closet in here?”

“Holy cow! We can’t just stuff her in the closet.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“For one thing, she may need medical attention.”

Lovie says a word that makes Bobby blush. “You keep forgetting everything she’s done, Cal. I think she’s capable of murder.”

Darlene’s eyes go wide. In spite of Fayrene being up to her asparagus green zippers in murder, her daughter has been clueless about our sleuthing shenanigans. Until now, of course.

“Don’t tell Jack,” I say.

“Tell me what?”

I jump as if a bomb has detonated under my designer boots. Jack has sneaked in behind me and he feels like a mountain, one brewing up a snowstorm if not an avalanche. Furthermore, he scalds the back of my neck with the hottest kiss this side of X-rated movies.

I melt into my boots, but fortunately Lovie retains her starch.

“Jack, Opal Stokes is the Audubon Christmas thief and the one who served up laxative-laced cookies at the mall. She went after my punch and Callie beaned her with the Prego.”

“Did you, now?” He winks at me, then whips a little vial out of his pocket and holds it under Opal’s nose, and she sputters to life. “She’s not the Santa killer.”

When Jack throws her over his shoulder as if she weighs no more than a snowflake, Opal barely squeaks in protest. “I’ll take care of this. Fayrene’s about to announce the séance.”

“What about Elvis and the cat?”

“Safely stowed, Cal.” He leans down and kisses me as if we have bassinets in our future. “You stay put.”

I couldn’t move if fifteen wild elephants were stampeding my way. Which is not a bad description for the crowd that pours into the séance room shortly after Jack disappears out the back door and Fayrene blares over the loudspeaker up front, “Everybody step right this way. The séance is about to
convince.”

I’m convinced, all right. I’ll never get over Jack Jones, no matter how many divorce lawyers I hire.

Elvis’ Opinion # 17 on Sweet Revenge, Getting Busted, and Doing Time

I
’ve been busted. But it was worth it to see the look on that stupid cat’s face when he thought I was going to rearrange his tacky fur coat. Sweet revenge for trying to steal my cream pie. That asinine feline was actually relieved when Jack collared him and locked him back in his cage.

Being confined to the cab of Callie’s truck for the duration of the party is not so bad, considering what happened to my arch enemy. Jack hustled that stupid cat to Jarvetis, who took the whole kit and caboodle back home. The odious Mal is now doing hard time.

Take it from a dog who knows. Jarvetis is a redbone hound dog man. His favorite hound dog, and my best friend, Trey reports there’s no love lost between his human daddy and Darlene’s evil-eyed cat. I’ll bet Jarvetis didn’t even give Mal any catnip to ease the pain of prison.

Unlike my human daddy, who apologized profusely for putting me in Callie’s truck and eased my pain considerably with a big hunk chunk of ham and biscuits from Lovie’s refreshment table.

“It won’t be for long, Elvis. I promise. Just behave yourself for a little while, don’t try any tricks, and we’ll all go home together. I promise.”

Now there’s a promise you can hang your hat on. Forget “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.” All I want is my family back together . . . and the biggest pile of gifts under the Christmas tree.

Listen, I’m no Solomon, but whoever said
less is more
ought to have to spend one night under a bridge in thirty-degree weather. Or try to stretch one bowl of rice over six mouths. Or bathe in a river full of crocodiles.

As I scarf down my ham and biscuits, I’m as thankful as the next dog that I’m warm and dry and safe from sharp-toothed predators. After I root out the crumbs that dropped and lick the remainder off my muzzle, I ensconce my fabulous but grateful backside on the jogging coat Callie sometimes leaves in her truck and watch the crowd as they continue to stream into Gas, Grits, and Guts. There goes Nathan Briggs, the mall’s original Santa, and a good-looking dark-haired woman I’m betting to be his wife, Wendy.

Don’t think I don’t know this guest list from top to bottom. If Jack would let me out of the truck, I’d not only behave myself, I’d have the killer collared before Bobby could bend over his crystal ball and say, “Abracadabra” or whatever incantation he uses to raise the dead.

Hold the fort. Look who’s hiding behind the gas tanks.

In the shadows, Nelda Lou Perkins lights up a cigarette. Her anger is so palpable it might as well be Pup-Peroni.

Ruby Nell’s instincts are good. It will do to keep an eye on Miss Sweet Potato.

But what’s this I smell? Corky Kelly, the mall’s former elf, the one my human mom and I saw the first day of Santa’s Court. He doesn’t see me, but I could pick up his scent in the middle of the tundra. My hackles stand straight up as he slides through the front door of Gas, Grits, and Guts.

And who’s this creeping up from the woods behind the store? It’s hard to see his face behind all that camouflage paint, but I smell that scent every time Callie and I jog past his house. It’s Albert Gordon, the Santa bonfire man. And he’s loaded to the hilt with weapons.

I’d set up a howl if I thought it would do anything except get me shot. But Jack doesn’t need any warnings. Now that his cast is off and his rival is out of the picture (don’t think Jack doesn’t know that Callie broke up with Champ), my human daddy can handle anything Gordon throws at him.

Well, bless’a my soul. What’s this I hear? Sounds like backup, to me. Barreling in this direction in his big, bad truck (I heard the engine many a time coming to the little cottage on Robins Street) is none other than Rocky Malone. It doesn’t take a betting dog to know he’s coming to crash the party.

I’d give up one of the bones buried in my back yard just to see the look on Lovie’s face when her ex-boyfriend walks through the door.

Fortunately, I don’t have to. Nobody’s going to open this truck door, and my human daddy is on the job. So I settle back on the coat that holds my favorite scent, eau de Callie, and wait for the fireworks that are sure to come.

Chapter 20

Raising the Dead, Jilted Lovers, and Whodunnit

“E
verybody, right this way. There’s always room for one more.” Mama sounds like the barker at a side show, which is probably a good description for this so-called séance. Though Bobby is a good man and a capable undertaker, I don’t hold out much hope of his resurrecting the dead.

The Baptists are proving me wrong by pouring into the séance room. Are they here to talk to the dead or to take names for their prayer list? After our public scene over the Prohibition Punch, Lovie and I will be at the top of the list.

On the heels of the locals comes Cleveland White, the mall’s manager. As he files past with Mayor Getty and Junie Mae, Lovie pokes me in the ribs.

“Psst. Over there.”

I look in the direction of her nod and see Corky Kelly in a jovial mood as he chats with Nathan Briggs and a woman who must be his wife. For one thing, Nathan has his arm around her waist. Nathan’s an average-looking man with hair that could use a good trim and a belly that’s beginning to sag. Who’d have thought his wife would be a knockout?