by Peggy Webb
“But I didn’t call to boss you around, dear heart. We’ve got a corpse over here that needs your expert attention.”
“Who is it, Uncle Charlie? Anybody I know?”
“Yes. You remember that lifestyle journalist over in Oxford who came to Mooreville to interview you for View from the Deep South when you first opened Hair.Net?”
“I do. Becca Jean Whitwell, a charming person!” Early forties, long blond hair, a bright smile, divorced mother of two.
“She was found dead in her office last week.”
“Oh no! How did it happen?”
“Possibly she interrupted a petty thief. Her cash drawer was empty and the back of her head was bashed in.”
“That the same thing that happened to Evelyn Lawson. Could there be a connection?”
“I don’t think so. For one thing, there are thirty years between crimes. Anyhow, you don’t need to be involved in any way, dear heart except to work your magic on Becca. Her body has been released and the family wanted me to handle arrangements.”
Uncle Charlie continues to talk about how the family wanted the funeral in Tupelo because this is Becca’s hometown, but I’m too horrified to stand. As I sink onto the sofa, Lovie races into the kitchen and comes back with a wet towel which she proceeds to rub all over my face. Then she grabs the phone out of my hand.
“Daddy, I don’t think Callie’s able to fix up a corpse. She’s white as a sheet just hearing about it.”
“Yes, I am,” I shout loud enough for him to hear. “Lovie, if you don’t hand me that phone I won’t be responsible for what I do.”
She dances out of my way, phone and all. “She’ll do it, Daddy, but we’re coming with her just in case.” She nods then ends the connection and pockets my phone. “He said that’s a good idea.”
“I think so, too.” Mama shoves the note into her pocket. “Fayrene and I will get dressed and then we’ll be ready to go.”
There’s no use arguing with her. Besides, Mama always plays the organ for all Uncle Charlie’s funerals, so she’d be going at some point, anyhow, to consult him on the music. Ditto, Lovie, because she caters the funeral receptions. And naturally, where Mama goes, Fayrene always follows.
Elvis sidles up and turns my heart inside out with that adorable doggie smile. “Fetch your bowtie. You might as well go, too.”
He trots off, and if I were the swearing kind, I’d swear he’s the smartest dog on the planet. If I were a betting woman – like Mama, heaven help us all – I’d bet you ten dollars Elvis will trot back down the stairs carrying his pink bow tie in his mouth.
Sure enough, Elvis finds his bowtie, and I gussy him up before we set off toward Tupelo. We go in Lovie’s catering van because my pickup won’t hold everybody and nobody wants to ride with Mama. She drives too fast, especially since she won that pink Cadillac convertible. Furthermore, she drives with the top down, even when it’s drizzling, so she can wave and call greetings to everybody in Mooreville as if she’s some exotic beauty queen. Still, she’s one of a kind, and on some days, I hope Jackie Nell is born to be just like her. That kind of spunk is priceless.
Elvis does a little twirling dance when we pass by the Birthplace. Sometimes I swear that dog really is the King sent to Mooreville in a basset hound suit. Mama laughs and pulls a PupPeroni treat out of her handbag.
“Don’t encourage him, Mama.”
“Flitter. I’d like to know why not? Furthermore, I plan to spoil my grandbaby the same way.”
When we pass Tupelo Hardware where Elvis got his first guitar, the doggie dance/treat routine repeats itself. What can I say? Both of them are incorrigible, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Uncle Charlie is waiting for us outside Eternal Rest. Every time I see him, I’m struck by how handsome he is at sixty-three. His white hair is still full and he keeps himself in incredible shape – that Company training, I suppose. He’s so charming and soft spoken, people looking at him would never know the dangerous career he once had. The tell-tale horse-shoe shaped scar on his right forearm is the only visible signs I see of his deep undercover days. A knife fight in the Sudan, he said, but that’s all he would tell me.
He makes a beeline for Mama and gives her this sweet hug that lately has appeared more personal than usual. Sometimes I wonder if his interest in her is more than that of a brother-in-law trying to taking care of Michael Valentine’s family.
Be that as it may, there’s a body waiting for my touch inside the funeral home, and I’m jittery. I don’t have any problem dispensing beauty to the ordinary dearly departeds who die of natural causes and just want to look nice when they head on to their reward. It’s the murder victims who spook me. Especially now that I’m pregnant. You never know if the killer is going to be lurking in the background just to make sure their victim is really dead.
Lovie grabs my hand. She’s seen all this with a glance, which is exactly what good friends do.
“There’s only one way to work with chumps. Our way with no holds barred,” she says, quoting Eduardo Ciannelli in the movie, Marked Woman. My spirits lift right up. We both love nothing better than sitting in the middle of the bed – mine or hers, it doesn’t matter – eating popcorn and watching film noir.
“Thanks, Lovie. I needed that.”
“Buck up. I’ll be there with you the whole time.”
It’s this kind of loyalty that makes me want to fly to wherever Rocky is doing his latest archeological dig and tell him it’s time to get his head out of the ruins and pay some attention to Lovie before he loses her.
We follow Uncle Charlie inside where he ensconces Mama and Fayrene in his office with a cup of coffee. “I’ll be right back and we’ll take about music for the service,” he says, and then escorts me downstairs, sans Elvis. My dog doesn’t like to be with me when I make up the dead. Who knows, it may be that he picks up some kind of other-worldly information that spooks him. Dogs have many talents humans don’t, for instance, knowing whether it’s friend or enemy at the front door without seeing him first.
Bobby Huckabee’s office is just across from my makeup room, and he looks up from his laptop to waves as we go by. Ever since I caught him in there kissing Darlene, he’s been diligent about leaving his door open. I don’t know why, but I suspect it’s because he’s such a nervous sort, he wants to prove to everybody in the Valentine family he has nothing to hide.
Becca Jean Whitwell is waiting for us inside my room, where the glow from the sconces on my pink walls provides a soothing effect.
“Do you want me to stay a while, dear heart?”
“I’m fine, Uncle Charlie. Go on and keep Mama company. Maybe some of your serenity will help her settle down.”
“She’s just lively, that’s all.”’
After he leaves Lovie settles among the gold and hot pink throw pillows on my velvet sofa while I head to my makeup table to select exactly the right shades for Becca. If there’s on thing I believe it, it’s sending off the newly departed looking their very best. I say a little silent prayer for her then set to work.
“Do you think Daddy’s getting sweet on Aunt Ruby Nell?”
“Great minds, Lovie. I was just thinking that might be a possibility.”
She nods, probably wondering why her daddy would swap his peaceful life for the tumult that surrounds Mama. Thank goodness, she doesn’t pursue the subject. I have enough on my plate without worrying about something that might or might not happen.
“Lovie, Becca and Evelyn died in the same manner, and I’ve got this gut feeling their murders are somehow connected.”
“Always trust your gut, Cal. And my stellar research.” She pulls her Kindle out of her purse. “What’s the name of that magazine she works for?”
“View from the Deep South, and she owns it. Well, owned it. What are you doing?”
“Just checking to see who she has featured lately.”
“Me, for one. Which gives Mama a connection to her. Not a good thing.”
�
��Hmmm.”
“Anybody interesting?”
“Martha Jo Matthews and her flower shop.”
“Good grief! That gives her a connection to both murders!”
“Here’s another interesting article.” Lovie starts reading, “Football coach Sammy Matthews is honored with a reception at the Tupelo Country Club upon his retirement from Mooreville High School.”
“Both Matthews just keep popping up. We might be on to something, Lovie. Anything else of interest?”
“A bunch of weddings, some book reviews and a few open houses. Looks like her most recent feature covers the opening of Oxford’s Extraordinary Books, Inc., Marvin Cook, owner.”
“Strange name for a bookstore. It implies he’s superior to the other booksellers in Oxford. Did Becca say anything negative about it?”
“She questioned how he came up with such an unusual name, but I don’t take that as negative.”
“I think our best bet is still the Matthews.”
“They had motive for Evelyn, but what’s their motive for killing Becca?”
“Check the full articles on them, see if Becca said something they might have considered insulting or harmful.”
She scrolls through the online magazine a while then says, “I don’t see anything negative about Martha Jo Matthews, but listen to this, Coach Matthews ruled his team with an iron fist, but are the days of the iron-fist approach to high school athletic over?”
“Hardly a motive for murder. Anything else?”
“Oh, what have we here?”
“Good grief, Lovie! What?”
“It’s quotes from people who either played for the coach or knew him. Listen to this, Sure, he won more games than any coach in the history of Mooreville football, but I wouldn’t let my daughter serve on the cheerleading squad while he was there.”
“Holy cow!”
“And this, You can say all you want to about his winning record, but teachers ought to set a good example.”
“Meaning he didn’t,” I say, and Lovie raises her eyebrows. “Beauty shop gossip, which is the next best thing to law and gospel.”
There’s a sharp knock at the door, and Lovie and I jump as if the recently dead has risen off the table and slapped us silly.
“Who is it?” I call.
“It’s me. Bobby.”
I call for him to come on in, but he just stands in the doorway as if he’s afraid of being attacked by wolves. I keep hoping his courtship with Darlene with help him overcome his shyness, but so far, no luck.
“It’s good to see you, Bobby. Come on in and have a seat.”
He eyes the table and says, “No thanks. I’ll just be a minute.” I don’t how somebody who claims his blue eyes allows him to commune with the dead can be afraid of them. “I just wanted to tell you I’m driving Ruby Nell and Fayrene home, if that’s all right with you?”
“Of course. Frankly, I’ll be glad to see them safe back at the house. What about Elvis?”
“He wants to go, too.”
“Did he tell you this,” Lovie deadpans, “or did you pick it up with your psychic radar?”
“Well, I…ummm.”
“Lovie’s just kidding. Thanks, Bobby.” He hurries off, still confused looking, and I wait until I hear his footsteps upstairs. “You know what this means, Lovie?”
“Sammy Matthews?”
“You got it. As soon as I finish here. The coach had motive for both murders and opportunity for the first. And poor Becca alone in that office would have been easy pickings for anyone.”
“We’d better scoot by my house for my come-on blouse.”
“Good grief, Lovie, we’ll do no such thing! We’re just going in for a neighborly visit, and you can poke around a bit while I chat.”
“Sounds good to me. As long as we stop at Baskin Robbins first. I’ve got a hankering for a banana split.”
“I’m the one who’s supposed to do that.”
“Sympathy cravings, Cal.”
Chapter 11
Elvis’ Opinion on Vamps, Big Plans and Potions
Bobby Huckabee’s 1965 powder Chevy Nova takes me back to the good old days when I was King of Rock ‘n’ Roll. He’s driving like he’s ninety instead of twenty-nine which gives me the opportunity to stand on the back seat and allow my fans to admire me as we drive past Tupelo Hardware. It looks like there’s another bus load of tourists coming to pay homage to the King. They still come from all parts of the world. I’m trying to learn to how howl in French so I can communicate. Of course, seeing me is usually enough to satisfy them. When they spot my handsome self in the back window, they point and wave and shout greetings, no doubt something along the lines of how amazing and talented I am.
I notice that Ruby Nell is waving at them, too. She’s got on a King’s ransom in jewels and is wearing a neon blue caftan. They probably think she’s the queen of some country with a name nobody can pronounce.
As my fans fade in the distance, I howl a little “Love me Tender” and everybody in the car claps except Bobby. He’s cautious that way, both hands on the wheel, eyes peeled straight ahead. It takes us longer than usual to get home, but that’s all right, Mama. Fayrene and Ruby Nell race upstairs with the alacrity of teenagers, chattering all the way about the PLAN, while I gently nudge Bobby toward the dog treat jar in the kitchen. All it takes is one verse of “Don’t Be Cruel” for him to catch on that this famous dog always needs a snack after a performance. He maneuvers his way around the wrought iron then hands me three PupPeroni sticks, and I chow down while he paces the floor muttering to himself.
“What will Charlie do? I could lose my job. What about Callie? She won’t like it one little bit, will she, boy?”
He leans down to rub my head, so maybe he’s been talking to me all this while. I can’t answer because my mouth’s full. Fortunately, I don’t have to. He turns on the burner under the teapot then starts searching the cabinets for a cup.
Well, blessa’ my soul. What have we here? Ruby Nell and Fayrene prance into the kitchen, dressed fit to kill.
Ruby Nell strikes a pose. “Well, what do you think?”
Bobby is speechless and I’m not about to tell her she looks fine for street walking, but anything else might be iffy. She busies herself doctoring up and heating up a casserole from the refrigerator, oblivious that she’s showing just about everything she’s got.
“I don’t know about all this,” Bobby says, and Fayrene minces toward him muttering something or other, but who can notice anything except her false eyelashes and her green leotard at least three sizes too small. When she puts a hand on his shoulder, he backs into the stove.
I dash to the rescue and leap behind him just in time to keep him from going up in flames. As it is, he nearly topples over.
“We don’t have time for tea.” Fayrene reaches behind him and turns off the burner. “If we’re going to catch a killer, we’ve got to put our heads together for a conglomeration.”
Listen, she can conglomerate or collaborate or any old thing she wants as long as my belly is full of PupPeroni. I go for my last stick but nothing can tune out the madness those three are cooking up. Bobby was right. Charlie and Callie won’t like this one little bit.
Finally we all pile into Ruby Nell’s pink Cadillac and thankfully she puts the top up.
“No sense giving away our plan right off the bat,” she says.
I couldn’t agree more. The grapevine is alive and well in Mooreville. Anybody seeing those two women would set the lines on fire talking about it. Before you could say, Elvis has left the building, Callie would be onto us.
In less than five minutes we’re driving up to retired Coach Sammy Matthews split-level house in the heart of beautiful downtown Mooreville.
“Bobby, park under the tree and try to remain unanimous.” Fayrene tugs at the top of her leotard before she pops right out. “This could take a while.”
“Honk if you spot trouble.” Ruby Nell applies another coat of fire engine red li
pstick. I hate to burst her bubble, but I’ve already spotted trouble. The coach’s pit bull is the meanest dog in Lee County, and if I’m not mistaken that Rottweiler rounding the corner is fixing to try to back him up.
Bring it on, boys. I’ve got my mojo working and I shall not be moved. Still, I’d feel better if I had Jarvetis’ redbone hound dog with me. Trey’s the best backup a dangerous but portly dog like me could ask for.
Ruby Nell and Fayrene bail out of the car and I’m right behind them. The enemies’ hackles come up and they stiffen for a charge. I hang back a bit, counting on the element of surprise.
Suddenly there’s a blur of movement, fur and muscles and bared teeth charging our way.
“Watch out, Ruby Nell!” Fayrene yells. “Here comes the enema!”
“Not today boys,” Ruby Nell yells, then aims a lethal cloud of pepper spray that sends the enemy yelping for cover.
The ruckus brings Coach Matthews to the door. “Drop!” he says, and the enemy forces sink to the ground like they’ve been torpedoed. He issued the command in such an authoritative voice, I nearly bit the dust myself. “Don’t pay them any mind, Ruby Nell.” He bounds down the steps to take her arm and acknowledge Fayrene with a nod. “Two beautiful ladies at one time! To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“It’s way past time we paid you a neighborly visit, Coach.” Ruby Nell’s twitching her hips like she’s got the seven year itch. The coach is paying such close attention he doesn’t even notice Fayrene batting her false eyelashes. If she bats them any harder, she’s going to stir up a Category Three hurricane.
“I nearly went into wisteria over Lulu’s eurology.” Fayrene hands the coach a casserole. “Just a little something for supper since Lulu’s not here to cook for you. She was a great cook and a paranoid of virtue. It’s too bad you had to take the hard road to end up Mooreville’s most edible bachelor.”
“Too bad.” Coach never misses a beat, but then he’s a regular at Gas, Grits and Guts. He’s already an expert at interpreting Fayrene’s particular dialect.
We all get escorted into the house, which looks more like a bachelor pad than the home of a man who lost his wife only six months ago. Beauty shop gossip has it that Lulu owned more bric-a-brac than any women in Mooreville, but there’s not a single bit in sight. It didn’t take Coach long to embrace the free life, which may or may not bode well for Ruby Nell and Fayrene.
