by Peggy Webb
“Ha!” Mama comes up behind me and I jump three feet. “Why are you so jittery?”
“I’m not jittery. You scared me to death. You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I never sneak.” Mama stares at my pile of candy. “You’ve got enough pralines to feed a third world country. All that sugar’s liable to give you a miscarriage.”
“Holy cow, Mama! These are for Jack.”
“That’s different then.”
Mama thinks he walks on water. What I don’t tell her is that I’m thinking of the sugary pecan confection as a bribe. If Lovie and I get into so much trouble tonight we have to call Uncle Charlie to send in somebody from the Company to cover up our mess, I can always get back on my husband’s good side with an overdose of sugar.
On the other hand, the safest course of action for me would be no action at all. I briefly consider letting Lovie go without me tonight, but I don’t like to think of her all by herself if something goes wrong.
So far, the only problem I can foresee is that Elvis will have to spend the night with Mama…and that big black devil cat.
Chapter 7
Elvis’ Opinion on Intrigue, Murder and Talking Cats
Lovie and Callie are going sleuthing and I’m not too happy to be stuck at the Delaney sisters’ house with that stupid cat. If he’s so smart and can really talk to Grace, why hasn’t he said anything that a brilliant dog like yours truly can understand?
So far, all he speaks is cat. If he thinks I’m impressed with all his meowing and hissing, he’s only a prayer away from the loony bin. He’s so offensive I’m going to have to beg Ruby Nell for extra PupPeroni to help me make it through the night.
She and Grace are slaughtering Fayrene and Pearl in a bridge game, and I’m keeping watch at her feet to ward off the cat. I can’t stand the smell of feline, and I certainly don’t intend to let Houdini get close enough to rub his odious scent all over my human grandmother.
Speaking of the devil, Houdini stalks off the window seat and leaps onto the buffet behind Grace’s chair. What’s he up to now?
“Your bid, Grace,” Pearl says.
“Oh, my stars and garters.” Grace acts like she’s befuddled half the time but I can see straight through her act. In her heyday, that lady walked in some big boots. I don’t know what they were, but I can smell the intrigue coming off her a mile away. She dithers some more over her cards.
Finally she says, “Why Houdini, you’re exactly right,” and proceeds to win a grand slam.
That cat didn’t move, let alone speak. Pearl just acts like it’s an everyday thing for her sister to go around talking to cats. It’s no big deal to Fayrene and Ruby Nell, either. They hold séances in the back room at Gas, Grits and Guts where they talk to the dead.
The phone rings and Pearl heads that way, which gives me time to turn my back on Ruby Nell and show some teeth to the cat. He just sits there staring at me and switching his tail. He can act haughty as much as he pleases, as long he doesn’t cross into my territory. I’m probably going to leave a dribble on the bedroom doorway tonight when Ruby Nell’s not looking, just so he gets the message.
“It was Janie, down at the hospital.” Pearl slides back into her kitchen chair and explains they’ve been friends since high school. Janie is now one of their best customers as well as their eyes and ears at the hospital. She works in the cafeteria, sees everybody who’s anybody, and hears everything worth knowing.
“What’s her news, Pearl?”
“Martin Sanders was poisoned.”
“Oh, my stars and garters!” Grace puts her hands over her heart. “I knew it.”
“What kind of poison?” Ruby Nell wants to know.
“It wasn’t any of the usual suspects. Janie says they’re running some more tests on the contents of his stomach, but they don’t know yet.”
“I do.” We all swivel toward Grace, everybody except that dumb cat. “The poison would require about an hour to take effect, so it must have been in the onion soup.”
“When he got up to introduce Rocky he was flushed and dizzy and breathing rapidly.” Pearl takes the floor while Grace nods her approval. “He probably also had nausea, pain and a rapid heart rate. You’re a genius, Grace. It was the death lily, Death Camus.”
“Exactly! Any part of it is lethal, but they used the bulb because nobody in the kitchen would know at a quick glance that it was the death lily instead of pearl onions.”
“I didn’t know the two of you were psychic.”
“We’re not, Ruby Nell.” Pearl leans back in her chair, looking self-satisfied. “But you’d be surprised at what we’ve learned mixing our potions.”
“The next thing we need is a list of Martin Sanders’ enemas.”
The Delaney sisters don’t even blink an eye at Fayrene’s slaughter of the English language. I guess they got used to it on the gambling cruise.
Everybody is talking at once now. It takes a canine sleuth extraordinaire to understand that Grace considers the wife the prime suspect.
“I don’t agree,” Pearl says. “Martin has had several mistresses, and Jeanine has hung onto him through thick and thin. I can’t see why she’d get excited over a six-month fling with Cassandra Olsen.”
“Cassandra was different from the others,” Grace says. “He was more serious about her. Remember him coming into our shop when the affair started.”
“I’d forgotten that. He bought Love Potion Rocket Blast Off. And he got Cassandra a seat on the museum’s board of directors. You’re right, Grace. Jeanine might see her as a real threat. And she’ll certainly be richer as a widow than a divorcee.”
“Maybe the poison wasn’t meant for Martin.” All attention turns to Ruby Nell. “Rocky was supposed to be sitting in the chair at the head of the table.”
“My stars and garters! The waiter who brought the soup wouldn’t have known either one of them, not unless he was in on the plot. What if the death lily was meant for the archeologist?”
“Rocky’s life may still be in danger!” Ruby Nell jumps up from the table and pours herself another cup of coffee. This is her way. She’s always bracing herself for something. Usually it’s with a glass of Prohibition Punch. Barring that, coffee will do. I know her like a book. “Anybody want some while I’m up?” They all nod no, and she slides back into her chair. “Nobody is going to snuff out my niece’s boyfriend and get by with it. Not while I live and breathe.”
She whips out her cell phone and calls to warn Rocky. With my radar ears I hear both ends of this conversation.
“You’re very sweet to warn me.” Rocky knows better than to dismiss any of Ruby Nell’s notions, no matter how far-fetched. He has plans to be part of the Valentine family, and he’s not about to get on the bad side of the reigning matriarch.
“Who are your enemies?”
“I’m not aware of any. I spend most of my time in remote parts of the world sifting through rubble. I’m so far off the grid very few people outside the world of archeology know me. And I certainly can’t think of anyone who would want me dead.”
“You’d better put your thinking cap on before you end up like poor old Martin Sanders. Everybody’s got enemies.”
No sooner does Ruby Nell hang up than her cell phone rings. It’s Charlie, calling to say the theft of Rocky’s artifacts is all over the news.
“Are you okay, dear heart?”
“Of course, I’m okay, Charlie. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you’re usually up to your pretty neck in whatever intrigue is swirling around you.”
“You seem to be forgetting one thing. I can take care of myself. ”
“I know you can, Ruby Nell. Just promise me you won’t get involved with this.”
“Ha! Would any woman with a grain of sense get involved in a criminal investigation that might get her killed so she’d never see her grandchild? I think not! You worry too much, Charlie.”
With that, she hangs up and starts issuing orders like
a feisty woman born to rule. The next thing I know, four senior citizens are hovered around Pearl’s computer searching Rocky’s sparse social media for an enemy posing as a friend.
Chapter 8
Mother-to-be Sleuthing and Other Ridiculous Notions
Both beds in our hotel room are scattered with outrageous wigs, ridiculous clothing and various absurd prosthetics. Lovie and I always don disguises when we go sleuthing. We’ve been everything from male reporters to hotel maids to Las Vegas showgirls. But now I’m flummoxed.
“Lovie, no disguise in the world is going to hide my pregnancy.”
“That’s the whole point, Cal. When I finish with you, people will be applauding.”
“What people? You never did say where we’re going.”
“A club on Bourbon called Victor/Victoria.”
“Like the movie?”
“Exactly. I’m going to be the dangerous motor-cycle dude type. And you’re going to be a man disguised as a pregnant woman.”
“Not unless you’ve got a miracle up your sleeve.”
Lovie says a word that makes little Jackie Nell kick the tar out of me. “You’re a beauty expert, Cal. Put a beard shadow under your makeup then walk with a swagger and talk like you’ve got a mouthful of gravel.”
“Like this.” I waddle across the room with my back arched and little Jackie Nell preceding me like she’s being carried on a silver platter.
“Yes. Except you’re too pretty.” She plucks a faux wart off the bed and sticks it on the side of my nose. “Perfect.”
“I look like the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“That’s the whole point.” She grabs a black man’s wig and a mustache. “Call me Hunter and I’ll call you Roxanne.”
“Deal.”
When I’m finished making myself look like a man dressing as a woman, I figure I should change my name to the bride of Frankenstein.
“Great.” Lovie grabs my arm and we sneak down the stairs and out the back door so that crazy parrot won’t panic and sound an alarm.
If you want to go incognito, the French Quarter at night is the place to do it. The place is teeming with people of dubious looks and unknown gender, gyrating through the streets to the blues beat pulsing from the bars and nightclubs that punctuate the narrow streets.
Lovie and I duck underneath a discreet black awning and are let into the club by a gorgeous man in red livery. Or it could be a woman. Who knows?
“Cool, darling,” the doorman purrs when I walk by. “Who would have thought of that?”
Lovie elbows me and gives me this I told you so look. But I’m too busy gaping to pay her any attention. The club is a revelation. The small stage at the back features a pianist in tuxedo and a petite Judy Garland look-alike belting out “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” in a decidedly male voice. Amazonian women in sequined gowns vie for space on the crowded dance floor with motorcycle dudes, riverboat gamblers and even a few trapeze artists.
“Holy cow, Lovie.” She pokes me, and I lower my voice two registers. “What now, Hunter?”
“Come on, Roxanne.” She whirls me onto the dance floor then grabs me so close I’d smother if it weren’t for my baby bump holding us apart. “We’ve got to keep dancing ‘til we spot Austin.”
“Is he catering this event, or what?”
“Or what.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“No, I’m not. Look for a platinum blonde. He loves to channel Marilyn Monroe.”
I turn speechless and motionless at the same time. Lovie steps all over my feet and the two of us crash into a waiter bringing out a big platter of barbecued ribs. A rack of ribs flies into the air and for an awful moment I think it’s going to land in the wig of a very large man posing as the flame-haired Rita Hayworth.
Just before wet sauce barbecue meets synthetic hair, Lovie snatches the rack of ribs from midair and tosses it back onto the platter. Years of tossing food from skillet to platter has given her perfect eye-hand coordination.
When the waiter mumbles his thanks, she says, “You’re welcome,” and we’re dancing again without missing more than four beats. Still, it takes me a while to process Austin Meadows’ secret life.
Oh, well, I like to buy designer shoes. Between my shoe shopping and the loans I give Mama for her gambling habit, I’ve loaded my credit card more times than I like to think about. And then hid the bill from Jack. Everybody has secrets.
I glance around for a platinum blonde, but the only one I see is about four inches shorter than Austin, and like me, is showing a hint of beard under his makeup.
“How’d you find out, Lovie?”
“I get around.”
I don’t even want to know. Some secrets are best kept for the purpose of my sanity. “I hope he shows up soon.”
“Why? Are you tired?”
“No, but if you keep spinning me around like that I’m going to lose my supper all over your motorcycle jacket.”
She says a word and drags me off the dance floor toward a table for two. The good thing is that it’s jammed in the back so we have a great view of everybody who comes through the front door. The bad part is that it’s near swinging doors that lead to the kitchen. The smells wafting out make my mouth water.
“Maybe we ought to order a shrimp Po Boy.”
Lovie signals the waiter and places the sandwich order, adding a beer for herself and a glass of water with lemon for me. I love this about her—that she just falls right into a moment without questioning my judgment or my sanity.
The food arrives and I’m halfway through my Po Boy when Marilyn Monroe walks through the door, complete with white backless chiffon dress. This disguise is so good that I halfway expect to see the dress billow about as if Austin Meadows is standing over a subway grate while cameras roll for The Seven Year Itch. The only thing that ruins the effect is that Austin has arm muscles that show his love for lifting weights at the gym.
I nod in that direction and Lovie follows my gaze. “Now what?”
“I get her on the dance floor while you act as my backup.”
“What…” Lovie’s off before I can ask her what in the world that means? How can I possibly back her up if she’s out on the dance floor and I’m sitting here big as a barrel without a single weapon to my name? I have a gun and Jack taught me how to use it. Well, sort of. I shot the heels off my favorite Prada shoes, but I don’t think that’s the kind of experience that would count for much if trouble breaks out in Victor/Victoria. Besides, I left the gun at home. I’m not about to risk flying bullets in my condition.
Lovie is approaching Austin now, and both of them are pouring on the charm. This is easy to see. I have a knack for romance and have been known to do a little matchmaking on the side at Hair.Net. Of course, one of them ended in murder, but I won’t think about that now.
Lovie’s leading Austin onto the dance floor while Judy belts out “The Man that Got Away.” Let’s hope that’s not true. My clever cousin makes some fancy maneuvers and suddenly she’s dancing cheek to cheek with Marilyn Monroe within eavesdropping distance of my table.
So far the conversation is nothing worth listening to, but suddenly I’m struck by a brilliant idea. I set my purse on the table, and under the guise of whipping out compact and lipstick to make major face repairs, I turn on my iPhone video. I powder my face and paint my lips and fiddle with my hair while the video films the lining of my purse and records an inane conversation between Austin and Lovie. Where are you from and What do you do? Both of them are lying. She just said she’s a lawyer from Georgia and he claimed to be a concert pianist from LA. The only LA he’s from is Louisiana. And the only thing I’ve heard him play on the piano is a very bad rendition of “Chopsticks” at the after-event party when Lovie was crowned Soufflé Queen.
“So, how did you do it?” There’s a sudden edge to Lovie’s questions, and I lift my iPhone out of my purse. Under the guise of texting, I train the camera toward them.
“Do what?”
“Steal the Treasures of Tulum.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Did you load the artifacts into your truck while your staff was serving the dinner, or did you wait until after the gala?” He’s standing like a deer caught in the headlights while the crowd swirls around them, oblivious. “Or maybe you arrived early and stole them before anybody else got there.”
“Who are you?’
“I’m the redhead you copied for the blowup doll you left in the mummy case.” He says a string of words that would almost rival Lovie at her worst. “I knew you wanted the soufflé crown, but I didn’t think you’d sink this low for revenge, Austin.”
“For your information, I think you’re smug and arrogant and a mediocre chef who gets by on looks and personality. So yes, Lovie, I dislike everything about you, including your ridiculous low-cut blouses.”
“That’s not what you said a while ago, Marilyn.”
He lets loose another volley of un-Marilyn like words, and then he spots me. “Are you filming me?”
He stalks my way, and Lovie blocks him. “If you touch one hair on her head, you’re toast, mister.”
“I would never lay hand on a woman, pregnant or otherwise.” Marilyn wilts into a chair at the table and wipes his sweaty face with a napkin. His beauty mole vanishes and so does his red pout.
Lovie nabs another chair and pulls up to the table. “Have a drink. I kept the bar open for you.”
“Road House, Richard Widmark and Ida Lupino.” Marilyn has lost all pretense of breathy Hollywood glamour and resorted to his normal Austin Meadows’ voice. “I enjoy film noir, too.”
“Don’t tell me I have anything in common with you.”
“More than you’d imagine, Lovie.” He motions to me. “Turn off the video. You’re not going to need it.”
I turn it off without a qualm. Marilyn Monroe is not the enemy. I’d bet my best Kate Spade boots on it.
“I knew Rocky Malone was coming to New Orleans even before it was announced. And I lobbied hard to get the catering job. Even cut my prices ridiculously low.”
