Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse (7 page)

“I notice you’re not flashing a ring.”

“Yeah, but I flashed everything else.”

“I’m not even going to respond to that.”

“Okay.” Lovie lies down and turns her back to me. “ ’Night, Cal.”

“Furthermore, I’m going to keep my list of Santas to myself.”

“I’ll live through it.”

“Let’s hope so.”

I make my voice as dark as possible. I make it so gloomy I sound like Bobby. I might as well go ahead and tell Lovie that Santa is in
danger from a dark-eyed stranger
, Bobby’s favorite prediction.

Which has come true more times than I care to think about.

Elvis’ Opinion #4 on Wish Lists, Wayne’s Act, and Christmas Cookies

L
isten, if you think I spent the evening playing with the silly stray cats Callie rescued and calls the Seven Dwarfs, you’ve put too much whiskey in your eggnog. The only one I can halfway stand is Happy, and that’s because she has sense enough to let a basset hound snooze in the sun in peace. The rest of the stupid cats think bouncing on the basset is a game. Let me tell you, I know how to send them running. And I’m not talking about a polite warning growl. I’m talking big bad dog here. Snarls and an impressive show of teeth followed by a howling rendition that tells cats “There’s No Tomorrow.”

But only when Callie and Jack are not looking. Though he tries to hide it, he’s as tenderhearted as she is. I don’t want my human parents to think their favorite dog has a dark side.

Anyhow, I managed to get by with a show of temper without getting busted, and by the time Callie returned from her so-called date, I had my belly full of dog chow, plus a side helping of scraps from Jack’s hamburger, and was snoozing innocently on my guitar-shaped silk pillow.

Before you get to thinking the dog’s life is cushy, just remember that I once played a gold-plated piano (a gift from Priscilla), could buy all the steak I wanted, and had the world at my feet. Now I’m lucky if I can get the Valentines to fetch and carry for me. Still, “Que Sera Sera.” I could have come back as a potbellied pig.

The next morning I wake up to the smells of coffee and bacon and eggs, plus buttermilk biscuits. Today is going to be a good day.

But what’s this I hear? Jack and Callie arguing in the kitchen.

“I’d rather leave Elvis here, Jack. Why don’t you want to keep him?”

“You’re twisting my words, Cal. I love Elvis.”

“Then let him stay home today.”

“Since you insist on going to mall and I can’t be there to protect you, Elvis is going with you.”

“For your information, I don’t need protecting.”

She does, though, and today that’s up to me. Lovie left early so she could go to the hospital to see Charlie, then hurry to the mall and give her fiancé last-minute instructions on being Santa Claus. Fiancé, my left hind paw. Lovie will no more marry her latest hot fling than I would walk “Five Hundred Miles” to hear some of these upstarts who call themselves entertainers. With their grungy hair and torn blue jeans, they look like railroad tramps. Listen, I could tell them a thing or two about the importance of sequined jumpsuits with capes that make you look like Captain Marvel come to save your soul. Image. That’s the thing. Of course, you have to have the pipes, and I’m glad to report I still do.

“Maybe you can handle everything,” Jack says. “But you’re not going to win this argument. You’re taking Elvis.”

A little intervention is in order here. Grabbing my four-legged Santa suit in my mouth, I hustle down the stairs, then sashay my ample butt into the kitchen, looking cute. If I didn’t have a mouthful of red cloth, I’d treat my human parents to a snazzy rendition of “Here Comes Santa Claus.”

At the sight of me, my human mom melts, and before you can say “Pass the buttered biscuits,” I’m on the way to the mall as Santa Paws.

Though I’d love to give the kids a thrill with another Christmas concert, today my job is bodyguard. Starting with Lovie’s so-called fiancé.

This Wayne character has more charisma than I’d counted on. He calls my human mom “Miss Callie,” which fluffs up her feathers and improves her opinion of him. “Don’t Ask Me Why.” He’s already in his Santa suit when we get to the dressing room, and believe me, I priss my scintillating self in there with my human mom. I don’t care if Lovie’s current Mr. Wonderful did say he’d wait for Callie outside the door.

While Callie’s getting into her elf costume, I put my famous nose to the ground. There are more fresh scents in here than those of Charlie, Callie, and Wayne. Trust me. The strange odors I’m picking up are more naughty than nice, and I don’t think those people were in here “For the Good Times.”

I sashay my little Santa self behind the curtain to warn Callie. “I Got a Feelin’ in My Body” that doesn’t have a doggone thing to do with Christmas cheer.

“Not now, boy.” She leans down to scratch behind my ears and adjust my little Santa cap. “We’ll get a treat after the first break.”

Usually my human mom is more in tune with my moods. I chalk it up to stress.

When we exit the dressing room, the mall manager is standing outside with Wayne. He sees my human mom and says, “Don’t worry about a thing. The power to the throne is off. There will be no incidents today.”

I wouldn’t call murder an incident. But let me tell you, it’s not happening on my watch today. I strain as far out as I can get on the leash and run ahead, sniffing for trouble.

Well, bless’a my soul. What’s this I smell? Cookies.

A sweet-looking gray-haired lady is holding a basket full of cookies sprinkled with colored sugar and shaped to look like Santa, Frosty the Snowman, and Ruldoph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. She bends over and says, “My, my. Aren’t you the cutest thing!”

I lick her legs. If I had one my famous silk scarves, I’d drape it around her wrinkled little neck. She smells like baby powder and old age. A comforting combination.

“This is Elvis.” I hear pride when Callie introduces me. Always a good sign.

“Well, I’m Opal Stokes. Can I give this cutie pie a cookie?”

My human mom is quick to say yes. Thank goodness, Christmas cheer rules the day.

Miss Opal passes out cookies to the children while Wayne does his act as Santa. And a fine act it is. Take it from one who knows. Like Charlie, you can’t tell this man from the real North Pole version. Maybe I’ll have to rethink my opinion about his future as part of the Valentine family.

Suddenly I feel the call of nature. Doing my little whirling dervish dance that tells Callie “Take me outside now,” I get her attention. As we race toward the exit, I see at least fifteen mothers racing toward the toilets with little kids in tow. Looks like their urgency for the bathroom has suddenly become bigger than their urgency to tell Santa their wish list. Their squinched-up faces tell me they’re in the same situation I am. Emergency.

But as Charlie, who is fond of quoting Shakespeare, would say, “All’s well that ends well.”

Lovie’s booth is packed all day, Darlene has painted more jingle bell nail art than my friend Trey (Jarvetis’ best redbone hound dog) has fleas, Bobby finally has two people show up to talk about the free jazz funeral, and nobody in Santa’s Court gets shot at, knifed, or fried on Santa’s throne.

After we leave the mall, we head to the hospital to see Charlie, where I have to cool my paws in the truck again. It’s worth the disgrace of being treated like an ordinary dog to see Callie’s smile when she gets back in the truck. Ruby Nell is with her.

It turns out Charlie is feeling much better. We take Ruby Nell back to the farm, a beautiful spread south of Mooreville where I love to chase rabbits while my ears blow in the wind.

“Mama, you should stay home and rest tonight.”

“All I need is a change of clothes and my car. I’m not fixing to loll around on my royal you know what and leave Charlie in the hands of Nurse Ratched.”

“But Uncle Charlie said for you to stay on the farm.”

Callie might as well save her breath. Ruby Nell will never “Surrender.” In fact, she says, “Flitter,” and that’s her last word on the subject.

When we finally get home, I belly flop on the cool kitchen tiles and listen to Callie and Lovie tell Jack about the day. He gets a big kick out of the tale of the great toilet rush. His booming laugh is better than a used T-bone with a little meat clinging to it. It makes me want to out-Crosby old Bing himself with a mellow turn of “White Christmas.”

“All those toilet emergencies sound suspicious to me.” This from Lovie, who not only laughs first at a good joke but is usually the one telling it. “I think that crazy old lady was serving tainted cookies.”

“Holy cow, Lovie. Opal Stokes is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. She adored Elvis.” Liking dogs is a sign of good character. My human mom knows this.

“You thought that about Beulah Jane Ball, too, and she was going around the Elvis Festival knocking off Elvises.”

“Could there be a tad of professional jealousy talking?”

“Professional jealousy, my foot.” Only Lovie didn’t say “foot.” She used a word that would curdle eggnog. If Charlie were here, he’d say, “Now, now dear hearts.”

Fortunately, my human daddy is getting ready to step into the Valentine godfather’s big shoes. I can smell his intent a mile away.

“Why don’t you two go into the den and turn on the six o’clock news while I make a big pot of my famous hot chocolate?”

“Should I be jealous of your cooking skills, Jack?” Lovie’s laughing when she says this, so I know there’s “Peace in the Valley” once more. Not that there was ever any danger of a real rift between Callie and Lovie. The cousins are a team, and lord help the man who tries to come between them.

“Lovie, you make me a big pot of your chicken and dumplings and I’ll share my Mayan chocolate recipe.”

“Done.”

Lovie and Callie link arms and head to the den, but I stay behind in the kitchen. Listen, this is the place that smells the most like Christmas—the cinnamon Jack puts in the hot chocolate, the fragrant pine and holly berries Callie arranged in earthenware jars, the bayberry candles in the center of the table. With all this cheer in the air, Jack is sure to sneak me a little treat.

Chapter 5

Bad News, Big Surprise, and Deck the Mall with Christmas Corpses

B
y the time the evening TV news anchor Cody Lacey comes on, Jack is in the den with a tray, holding a pot of steaming hot chocolate that smells like heaven, a rawhide bone for Elvis, and my pottery Christmas cups that feature a snow scene with cedar trees and red birds. The cups are from a set of holiday dishes Jack bought for me our first Christmas together. I thought it meant he was building a future with me. Turns out he only got them because he knows I love pretty dishes.

It also turns out I don’t have time to dwell on the cups because a more pressing matter is at hand.
Pressing
being the operative word. Jack squeezes in between Lovie and me, proceeding to take up his part of the couch and mine, too. Still, he feels solid and warm and safe, and after the events at the mall, I’m sorry to report that I don’t feel the least inclination to get up and move to another chair.

Besides, he made the chocolate, which is delicious, and I am not a petty, tacky person.

“This is really great, Jack,” Lovie says, and he thanks her, then winks at me. But I’m not going to let one dark-eyed wink make me forget his preference for a Harley Screaming Eagle over a baby cradle.

Fortunately, I don’t have long to dwell on the past because Cody is standing in center court at the mall talking about Uncle Charlie.

“Tupelo’s iconic funeral director, Charles Sebastian Valentine, nearly lost his life right here in Santa’s Court. He was filling in for Nathan Briggs, the mall’s regular Santa, when a jolt of electricity passed through his gloved hand and into Steve Boone, who was in costume as Santa’s favorite deer. Steve, a.k.a Rudolph, was declared dead on the scene.”

This news sounds like something you’d hear on one of those TV sitcoms.

Jack squeezes my hand. “I think you ought to turn in your elf suit, Cal.”

“Why now? What do you know that I don’t?”

“Nothing.”

Considering his dangerous history, I doubt that. Suspicions flaring, I turn my attention back to the TV. Onscreen, Cody is now interviewing Nathan Briggs.

“Cody,” he says, “I’m feeling one hundred percent better. And I can assure you that I will be back on Santa’s throne tomorrow.”

“See?” I tell Jack. “There’s nothing to worry about. Nathan will probably bring his own elf. My days in a jingle bell suit are over.”

“A pity.”

“Why? You just said you didn’t want me going back.”

“Yeah, but I always did love to ring your chimes.”

“Just because I shared your chocolate doesn’t mean I’m sharing anything else.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Cal.”

I hope he’s talking about the restrictions of his banged-up leg, but I don’t think so. The way Jack is looking at me, I think he means he’s not going anywhere else. Period. Ever.

I get the shivers, but not so he will notice. I don’t want that big muscled arm around my shoulders, making me believe in love and happily ever after with a dangerous man. Besides, he’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t want children. My fondest dream.

My cell phone rings, and the moment between my almost-ex and me is broken.

It’s Bobby Huckabee, saying he has Steve’s body at the funeral home ready for my finishing touch.

“I have to go to Eternal Rest.”

“The red-nosed reindeer?” Lovie says, and when I nod, she adds, “I’m going with you.”

“Stay here and relax, Lovie,” Jack says. “I’ll go.” I can’t say I’ll be sorry to have Jack around while I’m applying pancake to a man who may or may not have been murdered. Usually I’m very much at peace prettying up the recently deceased, but souls felled before their time don’t rest easy.

Jack swings his cast into my truck with the confidence of a man used to having perfect control over his body.

“Why are you going, Jack? I do this all the time by myself. The dead don’t scare me.”