by Peggy Webb
“Her poor mother is going to be devastated,” I say. “Does she know, yet?”
“I’m certain she does. Sheriff Trice is good about making those kinds of visits right away.”
“Your mama hated Evelyn Lawson,” Bitsy pipes up. “That’s not going to look good for Ruby Nell.” She looks so pleased with the news I feel the urge to grab every hair I’ve pulled through the coloring cap and jerk it out by the roots. Normally, I’m a mild-mannered person. I do believe pregnancy has turned me into the criminal sort.
“Why do you think my mama hated Evelyn Lawson? I never heard her name mentioned.” Until bones were found in Mama’s flower garden and I had the hair-brained scheme to poke around in her past.
“In high school she did her level best to steal your daddy from Ruby Nell. Even went around trying to ruin Ruby Nell’s reputation with a pack of lies.”
I don’t even want to know.
“No matter who the victim is, I’m sure Mama had nothing to do with it. Let’s get you to the sinks.”
I try to urge Bitsy up, but she won’t budge.
“Junie Mae,” she says, “I do think you might be wrong about the victim’s identity. I have it on good authority that Evelyn Lawson ran away with Shooter Maxey on her nineteenth birthday.”
“If this Shooter was on the Cancer-Leo cusp then that would fit,” Darlene says. “He’s addictive, exciting and dauntless.” Her cheeks get rosy when she thinks she’s discovered a link between the daily Horoscopes and crime. I guess she takes after Fayrene, though I’m happy to say she missed her mama’s talent for turning the English language into a comedy routine.
“That’s Shooter, all right.” Bitsy nods so hard her cap slips. If I weren’t such a beauty expert, it would have slipped over her eyebrows, and what few hairs she has left would now be bleached blond. “He was the star of the high school basketball team. All the girls wanted to be noticed by him, but he set his cap for Evelyn from the get go.”
Finally, I manage to hustle Bitsy to the relative privacy of the sinks by reminding her she wants her streaks to be golden blond, not white as Ivory soap. If Evelyn Lawson is the victim, and everything I’ve heard about her rivalry with Mama is true, then the key to exonerating her might be Shooter Maxey. When there’s a murder, the law looks first at the people closest to the victim.
I settle Bitsy over the sink and ask, “Do you know where Shooter is now?”
“He could be in Timbuktu for all I know. Nobody’s heard from Steven Maxey in years. Not even his parents.”
“Why is that?”
“In spite of his athletic ability, he was always in a scrape of some sort, getting into fights, running away and what not. He got arrested so many times for brawling, his parents always said good riddance when he left.”
“Are his parents still living?” I’m thinking that Lovie and I can do a bit of discreet sleuthing while Mama and Fayrene are staying safe at my house.
“Deader than two door nails. He didn’t even show up for the funeral.”
Two disappearances, linked by a common history, are certainly more than coincidence. Maybe he didn’t show up because he didn’t want to get arrested for murder.
“Do you know of anybody who might know Shooter’s whereabouts?”
“He hung around Evelyn and her mama a lot. You might ask Fannie Lawson. She knows more men than the law allows.”
And not in a good way. Hair.Net gossip has it that she’s entertained half the men in Lee County at her trailer on Tombigbee State Park Road. I don’t relish the idea of exposing Little Jackie Nell to that kind of influence. Who knows what gets imprinted on a fetus during pregnancy?
My phone dings and I excuse myself to check my messages. With Jack out of town and Mama under suspicion of murder, there’s no telling what kind of news I’ll discover.
The text is from Mama, typing in all caps the way she always does when she’s upset.
THAT HEIFER EVELYN IS DEAD AND I’M FIXING TO GET FALSELY ACCUSED. DON’T LOOK FOR ME WHEN YOU GET HOME. FAYRENE AND I HAVE TO FIND THE KILLER SO I WON’T ROT IN A JAIL CELL. P.S. I TOOK ELVIS FOR PROTECTION.
Holy cow! I punch Mama’s number on speed dial but naturally she doesn’t answer. That’s the way Mama is when she’s up to no good.
When I get back to the sinks, Bitsy says, “Is everything all right, Callie? You’re white as a ghost.”
“Those bones in Mama’s garden have me jittery, that’s all.”
“You need to take care of yourself and not get upset. You don’t want that precious unborn baby to be born a nervous wreck, do you?”
Now I feel guilty. Lower than a toad. A bad mom even before my baby is born.
“I know. I know. Just please call me if you remember anything else or hear something about this murder. I won’t rest easy until all this is over.”
“I sure will, hon. And when you get ready for baby furniture, you know where to come. Anybody who can keep me looking like a movie star deserves a nice discount.”
I thank her properly then hustle through the rest of my appointments with only half my mind on hair styles. By the time I get home I’m a nervous wreck, and I imagine poor little Jackie Nell rolling around in a turmoil. Instinctively I put my hand over my womb.
“It’s going to be all right, little one. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
Thank goodness, Lovie’s van is already parked at my house. It’s always reassuring to know I can discuss the day’s events with my cousins face to face. I park my Dodge Ram with the kick-butt Hemi engine and the minute I bail out of my truck, my house lights up like the baseball diamond at Wrigley Field. Lovie is on the front porch, and judging from the way she’s waving you’d think she was planning to embark on a year-long trek through the dangerous jungles of darkest Africa.
Mama’s ridiculous text comes to mind, and I hit the ground running.
“Lovie! What’s wrong? Where’s Mama?”
“What do you want to know first?”
“Good grief. The mood I’m in, I’m liable to snatch you baldheaded if you’d don’t start talking.”
I sprint up the steps, and am happy to report that I’m not even winded. I still get up early for my morning runs, something I’ve been urging Lovie to try. I might as well be zinging an elephant with a pea shooter. She hates exercise of any kind. As for me, I have no intention of letting pregnancy turn me into a couch potato. Or any other kind of potato, for that matter.
“Aunt Ruby Nell and Fayrene are not here.”
“Where are they?”
“Don’t know. All I have is this text saying DON’T WAIT SUPPER ON US. Knowing them, they’re probably in disguise somewhere trying to find a killer.”
“Good grief.”
“That’s the least of our worries, Cal. Look.” She shoves a note at me, written on lined paper in a shaky hand. “This was shoved under the front door when I got here.”
Ruby Nell, your beauty will fade till there’s nothing left but evil. Turn yourself in. I know you did it.
“Have you called Sheriff Trice?”
“No, and I don’t think you should either.”
“It ties into the murder case. He might be able to lift prints.”
Lovie says a word that breaks the sound barrier. “Yes. Yours and mine.”
“Holy cow!” Anybody would have picked up a note on the floor, innocent as can be. How was Lovie to know it might be a clue in the murder case?
“Besides that, the note points the finger straight at Aunt Ruby Nell. We don’t need to add to the growing body of evidence against her.”
“You’re right.” Standing there on my front porch I make a decision that would have Jack on the next plane from wherever the Company sent him, a decision I’ve made many times in the past, a decision that has always landed me in more trouble than I care to think about.
Grabbing Lovie’s arm, I tug her into the house. Whoever sneaked up and stuck a nasty note under my door might still be out there watching us. I walk around
the living room closing all the curtains for good measure then I turn the lights down low. Next I make a sweep to check that the room’s not bugged. Listen, you can’t be married to a Company man without learning a thing or two, especially if you have plenty of brains. I don’t like to brag, but the good Lord gave me more than my share, and I intend to put them to good use.
When I’m satisfied, I pick up the phone and call my neighbors across the street. When Mabel and Harley Moffet retired, they appointed themselves the unofficial police of the neighborhood. Nothing escapes their notice, especially the stuff you wished they wouldn’t see. And then tell.
Marbel answers on the first ring and I can hear her hyper-active little Shih Tzu barking in the background. I explain my dilemma.
“I certainly did see somebody on your porch, Callie. Not that I was looking.”
“Of course not, Mabel. Still, I’m so grateful for good neighbors like you and Harley who watch out for me. With Jack gone so much it’s a great comfort.”
“Well, I’m big hearted that way, even I do say so myself.”
“Did you get a good look at who was here?”
“I noticed him in particular because it’s hot as the hinges of hell and he was wearing a trench coat and a hat pulled over his face.”
In the background, Harley yells, “It was a woman.”
“Hush up, Harley, It was not.”
“Was, too. No man’s got a waist that small, Mabel.”
Their exchange goes on quite a while, loud and lively but without rancor. Mabel and Harley’s arguments have put them on the top of Mooreville’s gossip vine for years.
I wait for them to pause for breath and then leap in. “Did you happen to recognize this person, Mabel?” I’m careful not to assign a gender. Nobody wants to get into the middle of Mabel and Harley’s verbal battles.
“There was something about the way he moved that put me in mind of somebody, but with Harley prattling on in my ear, I can’t for the life of me think who it was. The old coot.”
I thank Mabel and tell her goodbye, but I’m not sure she hears. Harley has turned up the volume and their argument seems geared up to last all night.
I give Lovie the lowdown on my conversation with Mabel then tell her to put on some dark clothes.
“Is this going to be a baseball bat kind of night, Cal?”
“I hope not. But you never can tell,” I say, but Lovie barrels straight toward the kitchen. “Wait. Your clothes are upstairs.”
“If you think I’m doing surveillance without chocolate, you’re crazy, Cal.”
I almost say holy cow, but come to think of it, chocolate is always a good idea.
Chapter 7
Elvis’ Opinion on the Great Beyond, Psychic Eyes and Pickled Pigs’ Lips
If you’re going to consult the dead, then the backroom at Gas, Grits and Guts is the place for it. It features a crystal ball that Ruby Nell says once belonged to a Salem Witch. I have my serious doubts. This suspicious mind wants to know how on earth a crystal ball got all the way from Salem, Massachusetts to the Junk and Stuff store in Richmond, two miles south of Ruby Nell’s farm. Still, it adds to the ambience, as does that gypsy shawl with roses Fayrene draped over the table.
The only light in the room comes from the candles Fayrene lit after we arrived. Of course, the most important item in this room is the pitcher of Prohibition Punch sitting beside the crystal ball and handy for refills. She and Ruby Nell have already refilled their Mason jars twice, and if they reach for that pitcher again I’m might have to do an intervention. The only two people in this room who aren’t drinking are Bobby Huckabee and me. Listen, I’m on guard duty here, and I take that seriously.
Ruby Nell claps and says, “Everybody join hands so we can form a sacred circle.”
I’d stick my paw up there but this is one sacred circle they can have without me. I don’t really believe Bobby can commune with the hereafter, but I’m not taking any chances. The last time I was in the hereafter, I was the most famous singer on the face of the earth. And look what happened. I got sent back in a dog suit. Not that I’m complaining. Far from it. You name a more magnificent creature than the Basset Hound and I’ll nominate you for a Nobel Peace Prize. They just don’t make a finer dog.
No, I’m not about to tamper with the Great Beyond. Next time I might get sent back as a breed as stupid as Hoyt. Or even worse, a cat.
Fayrene starts chanting, “Peas, carrots, butter beans, cucumbers,” and who’s to say a grocery list is not as good as any other abracadabra.
Bobby goes limp and says, “I see danger from a dark-eyed stranger.”
I’ve heard that a million times from Bobby, and so has Ruby Nell. Still that doesn’t keep her from perking up.
“Is that the killer?” Ruby Nell says.
“Yes.” Bobby sounds like he’s trapped in the bottom of the well, and I suddenly don’t like the whole tone of this so-called séance.
I scoot my handsome self to the far corner so I can keep my eye on everybody. If Bobby gets too wild with his predictions, I’m liable to go over there and take a bite out of crime.
“Who is it, Bobby?” Fayrene says. “Can you see?”
“I can’t see clearly.”
“Male or female?” Ruby Nell breaks the sacred circle to pour herself another Mason jar of Prohibition Punch.
“I can’t see the face.”
“Forget the face.” Fayrene tops off her Mason jar and take a slug. “Just take a look at the body parts. Is it a Jack the Zipper or a Lizzie Burden?” Bobby makes some humming sounds then goes into a swoon. “Lord, Ruby Nell. I’m going to have to give artificial perspiration.”
“Wait, he’s coming around.” Ruby Nell leans over and shouts into Bobby’s face. “What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing!” Fayrene is practically snorting. “You’d better get your psychic eye checked, Bobby.”
Bobby puts his hand over his blue eye and gives a big sigh. I feel sorry for him, trying to deal with two women as opinionated as Fayrene and Ruby Nell. I sidle up and hum a few bars of “Have I Told You Lately that I Love You.” That used to send my fans into a screaming, writhing frenzy, especially when I threw in a little hip swivel. I’d throw one into today, but these Bassett hips don’t work quite as well. Besides, I’ve got a few twinges in my bones that tell me we’re fixing to get a downpour. Listen, my bones can predict the weather better than the TV weatherman who lives down the street from Callie.
Bobby reaches down to pat my head and I can feel my courage going up his arm and straight to his quivering chest.
“I didn’t see anything, but I did smell something.”
“What?” Ruby Nell wants to know.
“Perfume.”
“I knew it!” Ruby Nell says. “That heifer Evelyn is not the corpse. She’s the killer.”
“Now, wait a minute, Ruby Nell. How could a whole bunch of ineffectuals down at the crime lab get the identity of the victim wrong? Maybe we need to readjust our thinking caps.”
“I know what I know!” Ruby Nell’s got a stubborn steak as big as the Grand Canyon, which is not to say that’s a bad thing. If I hadn’t had that same stubborn streak I might never have risen from poverty to become the most adored singer in the world. I can still make that claim about the most adored dog. I just don’t have a platinum record to prove it.
Bobby rallies enough to say, “The perfume was Blue Waltz.”
“That one is older than dirt,” Ruby Nell says. “How did you know?”
“My grandmother used to wear it.”
“So did Martha Jo Matthews.” Fayrene sends Ruby Nell a triumphant look. “Do you remember her?”
“Do I remember! Martha Jo Matthews spent every waking minute trying to think up ways to steal Michael from me. She’s permanently engraved on my list of enemies. When my customers ask me where to get funeral flowers, you can bet your bottom dollar I don’t steer them the direction of that heifer.”
T
hat heifer, as Ruby Nell so colorfully calls the unfortunate Martha Jo Matthews is featured in their high school yearbook as Friendliest. She never did appear like the friendly sort to me, and I’m the dog who ought to know. The biggest florist in Tupelo is Matthews’ Flowers, Etc., which was founded by Martha Jo’s paternal grandfather. Though the Mooreville grapevine has it that everybody expected her brother to take over the family business, Sammy Matthews always had his eye on a football. He ended up being the coach at Mooreville High School. My best buddy Trey and I see him every time we sashay up to the Truck Stop looking for some action. Even though he’s retired now, Sammy still likes to come there for a few beers after Mooreville wins a game.
In spite of Ruby Nell’s opinion and the fact that she won’t send anybody from her monument place to pick out funeral arrangements there, Matthews’ Flowers turn up by the dozens every time there’s a funeral over at Charlie’s Eternal Rest. Furthermore, I’ve personally supervised the delivery of funeral arrangements from them and hobnobbed with everybody from the owner (now Martha Jo) to her brother Sammy (now a beer-bellied ex-coach without much to do except hang around and make up legendary football plays in which he’s the star). Listen, some dogs might stand around like they’ve got a pocketful of rainbows, but this iconic canine is the dog the Valentines are talking about when they say I can’t live without you.
“Forget funeral flowers, Ruby Nell,” Fayrene says. “If my pornographic memory serves, Martha Jo was working at her daddy’s florist when Michael had that flower garden planted for you.”
“By Matthews Flowers! Of course. That heifer wanted to frame me for murder so I’d go to prison and she could have Michael.”
“Well…” Bobby Huckabee runs his hand under his collar like he’s about to die of one of Fayrene’s heat prostate attacks. “Maybe we shouldn’t jump the gun, here. I might not be too sure that perfume was Blue Waltz.”
Ruby Nell and Fayrene are on the edge of reality, and they steamroller over Bobby as if they’ve heard a callin’ from the Lord. Ruby Nell waves a bejeweled hand at him.
