Elvis and the Blue Suede Bones

by Peggy Webb

“You can go on home now, Bobby. The reading was just fabulous and we’ve found out what we need to know to catch a criminal.”

  “But I’m not so sure I saw a killer in my vision.”

  “Of course, you did, Bobby!” Fayrene presses some money into his hand. “You go on and buy yourself an erotic supper and pat yourself on the back that you’ve helped comprehend a criminal.”

  “But…”

  “Better hurry, Bobby,” Ruby Nell says. “Darlene’s a beautiful woman, and if you don’t keep her busy, some other man will.”

  Bobby gets this goofy grin on his face and lopes out filled with sweet inspiration. As soon as he’s out the door, Fayrene cuts loose.

  “Lord help us, if my daughter decides to go down the aisle with another man, it’s liable to send Jarvetis into another heart castration.”

  “But we like Bobby. I don’t see the problem.”

  “The problem is, until Darlene learns to hold onto a man she needs to concentrate on her work at Callie’s beauty saloon and fixing up her cute little house with a hand crocheted African or two and some Canadians planted in her front flower bed.”

  “Flitter. Don’t you know she’s going to do just what she pleases whether you like it or not?” Ruby Nell scoots the Prohibiton punch out of Fayrene’s reach. “We’ve got things to do and we’ve got to both be sober.”

  I’d say it’s already too late for that, but when has my opinion ever deterred these two? Or anybody else’s opinion, for that matter. Suffice it to say, they head to Callie’s then get garbed up for sleuthing. You don’t even want to know. If you thought their Tinker Bell and Peter Pan costumes on the Gulf Coast were outrageous, you ought to see them in these getups. I’m almost embarrassed to climb into Ruby Nell’s pink car.

  But listen, it’s no fun to be lonely. With Callie and Lovie nowhere in sight, my only option is sitting home with that stupid cocker spaniel. So it’s heigh ho, heigh ho, off to Martha Jo Matthews’ house we go.

  “What are we going to do when we get there, Ruby Nell? We can’t just prance in and comprehend her.”

  “I’m not that far ahead in the plan. We’ll just figure something out when we get there.”

  This can’t be good. I’ve got a feeling we might be heading straight to heartbreak hotel.

  Chapter 8

  Mischief, Mayhem and Mud

  I’m barreling along back country roads in a night so black and threatening I can’t even see Lovie over there in the passenger seat until a streak of lightning splits the sky. She’s hunkered over the bag of snacks, eating candy like there’s no tomorrow. And there probably wouldn’t be if Jack could see me now. He’d have me in protective custody ‘til little Jackie Nell is six years old.

  “I thought those were for surveillance, Lovie.”

  “Chocolate calms my nerves.”

  “Then you’d better pass me a king sized Hershey bar.”

  I’m in such a nervous wad, little Jackie Nell is thrashing around like birth is imminent. Who knew when Lovie and I made our brilliant plan to question the victim’s mother, a tornado was brewing?

  Well, I guess the weatherman knew, and I would have, too, if I’d listened to the six o’clock news. But the news is generally so depressing I don’t watch it much anymore. I don’t want little Jackie Nell to come into this world already scared to death about life.

  The winds pick up and the way their buffeting my Dodge Ram, I expect to be airborne any minute. Another jagged flash tears open the sky, and I see Lovie eyeing the chocolate cream pie wrapped in foil on the seat between us.

  “Don’t you dare. Need I remind you, we brought that as Fannie Lawson’s condolence pie?”

  “I don’t think they let you take pie through the Pearly Gates.”

  “We are not going through the Pearly Gates. Not tonight, anyhow. See!”

  Just ahead, Fannie’s trailer is lit up like Christmas. I park in what looks like a good spot, but the minute I step out of my truck I’m ankle deep in mud. Suddenly, buckets of rain pour from the sky, blankets of it, a whole tsunami of it. And every last drop on top of Lovie and me.

  I cup my mouth and shout, “Lovie, can you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe we ought to go home and come back another time.”

  “You think?” She slogs through the mud to my side of the truck, clutching Fannie Lawson’s chocolate cream pie.

  “Oh, good. You’ve got our entry ticket to…”

  Winds gusting at least ninety miles an hour snatch my words…and the cream pie, too. Lovie says words that are going to get her barred permanently from the Pearly Gates, and I’m too busy hanging onto the side of the truck so I won’t get blown away to worry about Jackie Nell learning bad habits before she’s even born.

  The pie twirls around my truck then toward the treetops like an animated confection from Walt Disney. I watch, fascinated, until it starts looping back.

  “Duck!”

  I take my own advice, but it’s too late for Lovie. Chocolate cream rains over her hair and down her face then slides slowly into her cleavage. I can’t tell whether she’s laughing or crying, but I’m too busy trying to keep my own footing to worry about it. It’s a battle I lose, but I’m happy to report that I don’t lose my dignity. If you want to know what a lady says when she lands bottom first into eight inches of mud, it’s oh, shoot, there go my Bernardo sandals.

  And I just got them on sale after lusting after them for two months.

  Another storm blast upends Lovie, who lands in the mud right beside me. She lets out a string of words, but might I add, she’s not talking about Bernardo sandals.

  “Back into the truck,” I yell.

  I don’t know whether she heard me or whether she’s got the same bright idea, but both of us start scrambling for the dry interior of the Dodge. At least six years later, we’re safe inside, panting and dripping water and mud and chocolate all over my truck.

  In hindsight, I can see several mistakes I made before embarking on this ill-fated mission.

  “Goodness gracious,” I say, and that’s my last word on tonight’s misadventure.

  “This is not the way I wanted to eat my chocolate pie.” Lovie glares at me with that funny-looking, chocolate-covered face, and I burst into giggles. “I may have to kill you, Callie Valentine Jones.”

  She manages to hold onto her wrath for two more seconds and then we’re both doubled over laughing our heads off. Anybody seeing us would think we’ve taken leave of our senses. And maybe we have.

  The storm rages, making driving hazardous if not fatal, and we’ve utterly failed in our mission.

  “Might as well head home, Cal, and see what we can find out about Shooter on the internet.”

  Why didn’t I think of that in the first place? I blame pregnancy. Who knew it would cause the brain to malfunction?

  “If we can get a connection.” I crank the truck and put it in reverse. Alas, we just sit there with our wheels spinning. Even worse, each revolution digs us deeper into the mud.

  “If you keep on doing that, Cal, we’re going to be up to the axle.”

  “I know that. Who do you take me for? Mama?”

  “I do believe pregnancy has warped your sparkling personality.”

  “Well, you try it and see what it does to you.”

  “I can’t even get Rocky Malone to find my holy grail. How do you think I’m going to get pregnant? Immaculate conception?”

  Holy cow! Pregnancy has not only turned me snappish; it has made Lovie sacrilegious. I immediately vow to become a better person. If only I can get out of this mud hole and home safely. I cross my fingers that this kind of desperate bargain won’t count against me when I get to the Pearly Gates. I also cross my fingers that I don’t arrive there tonight. I even vow to stop spending so much money on shoes if I can just get home in one piece.

  Suddenly Lovie flings open her door and the wind wrenches it out of her hand.

  “What are you doing?” I shout. “I didn’t
mean what I said.”

  My cousin says some words that are so awful the wind won’t even carry them off. “This is not about you. I’m going to lay some branches under the wheels so you can get some traction.”

  I feel like a toad sitting high and dry while Lovie is out in a monsoon. But after all I have to think of little Jackie Nell. Falls can’t be good for her, and I don’t want to risk it again.

  An eternity later, Lovie’s back in the truck. I’m happy to report the storm washed all the chocolate off her face. If it weren’t for that glob in the middle of her cleavage, you’d never know she got hit with a pie.

  “Now try it, Cal.”

  I put it in reverse and the truck gives a hopeful lurch backward. Just when I’m picturing myself creeping home through the storm, we settle back into our mud hole without moving an inch.

  “It’s no use, Lovie. We’re good and stuck and nobody’s going to come out in this storm.”

  “At least we’ve got plenty of food.” She digs into the snack sack and comes out with two bags of barbecue potato chips. Both of us commence eating as if we’re marooned on an island and haven’t had a meal for three days.

  In the midst of this display of gluttony, I remember my duties and pull out my phone to call Mama. Naturally, she’s not there, which ratchets up my worry-meter about ten notches. I hate it when I can’t reach her and have to leave a message.

  “Mama, are you back home with Elvis? Lovie and I are a little delayed. You need to give me a call and let me know you’re okay.” I turn to Lovie. “She didn’t answer.”

  “Reckon where she is?”

  “No telling.” I punch her number again and leave a second message. “Wherever you are, stay put. This storm is awful and I don’t want you out in it.”

  I put my phone back into my purse then reach into the potato chip bag only to find it’s already empty. Lovie rips into two bags of Frito Lay corn chips and hands one to me.

  “I hope I’m not getting Jackie Nell addicted to junk food.”

  “Live it up, Cal. These are your last days of freedom.”

  “What on earth do you mean by that?”

  “We’ve figured a way around Jack, but I don’t how we’re going to manage these escapades when little Lovie is born.”

  Holy cow!

  We munch through the rest of the Fritos in silence then share the last goodie in the sack, a bag of cheddar cheese popcorn. I’m just licking the salt off my fingers when my cell phone rings. The name that pops up on the screen sends chills through me. And not in a good way.

  “Good grief, Lovie. It’s Sheriff Trice!” I punch the button and give him a meek hello.

  “Callie, I’m sorry to call you in this weather, but we’ve got a little problem down here at the station.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “We got a call about a break-in at Martha Jo Matthews’ house.” Already I don’t like the sound of this. “When we got there, we found Batman and Robin stuck in a tree.”

  “Batman and Robin?”

  “Yeah, Cal. Ruby Nell and Fayrene.”

  “Holy cow! Is Elvis there, too?”

  “Yes. Cute little dog. I talked Martha Jo out of pressing charges, but I need you to come down to the station and sign some papers that you’ll be responsible for keeping Ruby Nell out of the middle of my murder case.”

  I’m not about to tell Sheriff Trice I can’t sign anything until he’s pulled me right out of the middle of the mud and his murder case, to boot.

  “I’ll do that, Sheriff. But why don’t we let Batman and Robin stew a while until this storm is over? It might teach them a lesson.”

  “You bet, Cal. Be careful now.”

  I end the call and Lovie says, “What’s the sheriff doing calling you about Batman and Robin?”

  “Brace yourself, Lovie.”

  By the time I finish telling her about Mama and Fayrene she’s laughing so hard she can hardly catch her breath.

  “I can’t believe Mama would pull a stunt like this. And her fixing to be a grandmother.”

  “What about us? How are we going to get out of this mud hole?”

  “There’s only one person for a job like this.”

  “Billy Jessup,” she says, but I’m too busy calling him to pay her any attention. If you’re in deep trouble and you want to be rescued by somebody who can keep his mouth shut, the eighteen-year-old daredevil who inherited his uncle’s feed and seed store in the heart of Mooreville is the man for the job.

  Chapter 9

  Elvis’ Opinion on Misdemeanors, Reckless Behavior and Batman and Robin

  I could have predicted disaster when Ruby Nell came out in that mask and hood with the bat ears and Fayrene got herself all decked in green knee-high boots and a cape. But I never expected to be sitting behind bars with Batman and Robin singing “Jailhouse Rock.”

  My rendition is not quite as good as the original, seeing as how I don’t have my backup band, but it’s good enough to bring Sheriff Trice trotting down the hall to reach through the bars and scratch behind my ears. He’s even got a treat in his pocket.

  It’s just an old no-name brand dog biscuit, but not every day can be like Christmas. Especially when you’re out with Ruby Nell and Fayrene. The last time Callie left me in their care, I had to share a beach cottage with a corpse.

  “When can we get out of here?” Ruby Nell asks the sheriff.

  “I’ve called your daughter.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She’ll be along directly.”

  That twinkle in the sheriff’s eye says he’s not about to reveal details to the woman who is going all over Lee County obstructing justice. He’s going to make her pay her pound of flesh.

  “What do you mean? Directly?” The sheriff walks off whistling and acting like he’s suddenly gone deaf. “Sheriff? You come back here. I’m going to report you to Mooreville’s Crime Clean Up Committee.”

  “You tell him, Ruby Nell,” Fayrene says. “The citizens of Mooreville have a magnificent recession with us. When they hear about us being swept up with a crime broom, they’ll quit heaping acolytes on Sheriff Trice’s head.” She puts her nose to the bars and hollers after him. “That means you’ll lose voters!”

  Their commotion rouses a drunk in the cell next door and he staggers to the adjoining bars. “If Batman and Robin don’t pipe down in here, I’m going to sic Superman on you. See how you like that.”

  I do a quick survey of the remaining cells to see if a real Super Hero is lurking around, but unless he’s got on his cloak of invisibility, he’s not incarcerated with the notorious Batman and Robin.

  Fayrene shoots him a bird and Ruby Nell makes a slashing motion across her throat. He opens his mouth like a fish, and for a minute it looks like he’s going to start a free-for-all screaming match. It’s all up to this magnificent specimen of canine pulchritude to trot to the rescue. I shashay over and let loose with a few bars of “Don’t be Cruel,” and he staggers back to collapse in his bunk.

  Fortunately, the two women who turned me into a jailbird also pipe down. I curl up on the hard prison floor to munch on my inferior treat and try to figure out how I managed to let these two crazy humans in my care get themselves into such a pickle.

  Here’s how it started…

  We’re driving along trying to look handsome and sane (that would be me) in spite of the fact that Batman is at the wheel of her pink Cadillac convertible and Robin is riding shotgun. Our only saving grace is that Ruby Nell put the top up before we left Mooreville.

  The first drops of rain spat the windshield before we even get to Tupelo, but nobody listened to the six o’clock news and weather so we’re going along blissfully ignorant, thinking it’s nice to go traveling.

  Martha Jo Matthews lives on the east side of town in a secluded two-story house surrounded by trees on Feemster Lake Road, not far from east Main Street where she runs her flower shop. There are plenty of good places to hide the car so Ruby Nell parks under the s
hadow of a massive oak tree.

  “Flitter,” she says. “Martha Jo is up.”

  The only light in the house is coming from a front room downstairs, and judging by the flickering pattern of light coming from inside, she’s watching TV.

  “If we don’t make a promotion,” Fayrene says, “we can still go through her stuff.”

  “I don’t know how you figure that.”

  “Look over yonder.” Fayrene points toward the trees that surround the balcony. “I’m still limp enough to climb.”

  “If you think I can’t, you’d be mistaken.”

  They know good and well basset hounds can’t climb trees. Still, when they bail out of the car, I’m not about to be left behind. The three of us trot along in a sprinkle that quickly becomes a steady rain. Furthermore, the wind is picking up speed and lifting my ears. If it keeps this up, they’ll be whirling like airplane propellers. Even worse, Ruby Nell and Fayrene are thrashing through the undergrowth with all the finesse of two elephants.

  I see right now I’ve got to be the ace lookout and major trouble shooter.

  While Ruby Nell and Fayrene scoot up the tree (not a pretty sight from this vantage point, let me tell you), I backtrack and lift my handsome self on hind legs to peer through Martha Jo’s front window. She’s in a brown chenille robe none of my human family would be caught dead in, and she’s got her mouse-colored hair twisted up in pink foam curlers. In addition, she’s dripping cookie crumbs all over her clothes and adding to her milk mustache every time she lifts that glass to her lips. I wish Callie could see her. It might make her feel better that Martha Jo goes around bragging she gets her hair done in an uptown salon. Even my human mom would have a hard time working some beauty magic on this murder suspect.

  I leave her in her own tacky moment and hurry back to the trees just in time to see Ruby Nell and Fayrene disappearing over the top of the balcony. They must be part cat. I had no idea seniors could climb like that. Still, they’re courting danger sleuthing around upstairs while Martha Jo is wide awake below them, especially since they’re talking so loud I pick up every word. Listen, my radar ears are so good I can sit at Callie’s feet when she’s on the phone and hear what the person on the other end of the line is saying.