Elvis and the Blue Suede Bones

by Peggy Webb

  “Look!” Mama grabs my arm and points to the threatening notes laid out on the table side by side with the mailing address from Coach Matthews. “The handwriting matches! We’ve got our killer!”

  I bend over to get a closer look. “There’s a similarity between the capital letters, but the small case letters aren’t even close.”

  “People’s handwriting changes over the years. I say Sammy Matthews wrote those threatening notes.”

  “Maybe he did, Mama. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the killer.”

  “What about his notes from Evelyn, Miss Priss?”

  “Maybe he’s a pack rat. Some folks keep everything. You ought to hear the things my clients at Hair.net keep.”

  “There’s danger from a dark-eyed stranger,” Bobby says. “I feel it everywhere.”

  “What you feel is the chill. You could freeze meat in here.” I march off to turn up the thermostat. Every time Mama comes to stay with me, she gets in the hall and tampers with it. I don’t know if she’s having hot flashes or if she’s just plain ornery.

  By the time I get back to the kitchen, Mama is heating up a casserole for dinner, macaroni and cheese, not my favorite. And pregnancy has made me picky.

  “I thought we were having chicken spaghetti tonight.”

  “We’re not, but the coach is.” Mama glances at Fayrene and they both burst into giggles.

  “Mama, what on earth did you do?”

  “Getting a little payback, that’s all.”

  “Payback for what?”

  “For Sammy Matthews being an old goat, that’s what.”

  “Ruby Nell knew he’d chase us so we put a little Kaopectate in his casserole so he’d have a good reason to run. And just to make sure he got his tentacles all in wad, I took his hemorrhoid ointment out of the box and put in his Ben Gay Icy Hot.”

  “Good grief. Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”

  “Yes, I’ve decided to play ‘Crazy’ at Becca Jean Whitwell’s funeral tomorrow.”

  “Mama, you are not!”

  “No, I’m doing my usual ‘In the Garden.’ I just wanted to get your mind off murder, that’s all. Can’t have my girl and my grandbaby all worried.”

  See, this is the reason my mama is so special. This is the reason I can eat my supper with a smile then climb into the tub for a long soak and laugh with Jack when he calls. I cradle the cell phone to my ear and listen to the sound of his voice and all is right with my world. He has this deep reassuring way of speaking that makes me relax and feel loved. I could fall asleep in the tub, just listening to it.

  Thankfully, I make it to bed before I drift off.

  Chapter 13

  Elvis’ Opinion on Funerals, Too Many Suspects and Bad Music

  I’ve got my ears cocked for trouble. Yesterday was too hard on my human mom. Between fixing up the dead over at Charlie’s funeral home and rescuing Ruby Nell and Fayrene – again! – from the clutches of Sammy Matthews, she had a restless night’s sleep.

  With my human daddy out of town, it’s all up to me to be her good luck charm.

  There’s a sound on the front porch that sends me scampering off my guitar-shaped pillow and down the stairs. If Ruby Nell’s stalker is delivering another nasty note that sets her to screaming and waking up the entire household, I’m fixing to leap through a window and send them off for some crying time.

  By the time I’ve reached the bottom stair, my fabulous nose has picked up a scent. It’s not trouble on the front porch delivering bad new, but the postman, who smells like black coffee and doughnuts. It’s no wonder they make a tasty snack for every dog in the neighborhood. Every dog, that is, except yours truly. I’m too dignified to take a bite out of a U.S. government employee. Trust me, working for that bunch of nincompoops in Washington, D.C., they need all the breaks they can get.

  I hear the unmistakable swish of Ruby Nell’s caftan – she always gets up early on funeral day. She joins me in the living room then squats down to scratch behind my ears. Listen, she may act like a loony tune every now and then, but she’s got a heart of gold. She’s going to make a wonderful grandmother to my own special Little Bald Person.

  “Let’s see what’s in the mail, Elvis.”

  A flyer from Morgan’s Furniture Company, it turns out, and a square envelope that Ruby Nell rips right open, never mind that it came to Callie’s box and is probably addressed to her. One of the downfalls of coming back as a dog is that I can’t read. But I’m not about to let that distract me from my purpose. I can do everything else that matters, most of it better than when I was as world-wide icon. Listen, I’d like to see the former famous me peeing on fence posts, sniffing out trouble a mile off and hearing both ends of a telephone conversation.

  “Hmmm,” Ruby Nell stares at the embossed card. “We’ve been invited to Glenda’s book signing over in Oxford.”

  We? I may be mostly a big hunk o’ love, but I’d bet you ten to one Ruby Nell’s name is not on that invitation.

  She makes no pretense of stuffing it back into the envelope before she tosses it onto the hall table. Then she trots into the kitchen and starts cooking breakfast. I sidle up looking cute and she tosses me two slices of bacon, extra crispy, just the way I like it. And just in time for Callie to walk in on the deed.

  “Mama, I’ve got Elvis on a diet.”

  Caught, red-handed. I gobble down the greasy treat to get rid of the evidence, but Ruby Nell says, “Flitter,” and shows not the least bit of remorse.

  Thankfully, Fayrene enters the kitchen, all decked out in a pants suit the color of collard greens, and the three of them get knee-deep in conversation about the funeral.

  “Everybody keep your eyes open.” Callie pours herself a big glass of juice then stuffs bacon between the sides of a fluffy biscuit, fresh from the oven. “The killer usually shows up at the funeral.”

  “I doubt the coach will make it, not after that casserole we gave him.” Ruby Nell sets out the jelly then piles her plate high with buttered biscuits. A woman after my own heart.

  “We don’t know if he’s the killer, Mama. We’ve got to keep digging, and you’ll have a great vantage point from the organ.”

  The organ at Eternal Rest Funeral home is behind a white lattice so the bereaved can hear the music without getting distracted by the sight of Ruby Nell in one of her wild caftans, weaving this way and that at the organ bench. She never does anything halfway, especially music. I wish I’d known her in my other life. She might have taught me a thing or two about shake, rattle and roll.

  “Lovie will have the kitchen covered, and I’ll be free to wander around.” Callie turns to Fayrene. “Why don’t you stake out the back of the chapel?”

  “Great. I know how to blend in with the highway control.”

  Cops will be crawling all over Eternal Rest, but I sincerely doubt we’ll see the highway patrol. Unless Ruby Nell gets caught speeding in that pink Cadillac.

  I race off to get my pink bowtie while Callie’s still laying surveillance plans. She’s forgetting that the only person here who can sniff out the killer is me.

  Sure enough, Callie fixes my bow tie then asks me whether I want to ride with her or Ruby Nell. I opt for the broad with the bacon, and this two-vehicle convoy sets out for Charlie’s Eternal Rest, the best funeral home this side of the Mississippi.

  Right away, I spot the prime suspect. Ruby Nell was wrong about Sammy Matthews not coming, but I notice he’s sticking close by the bathroom door. I nose around him a while, but there’s nothing that sets off alarms about the coach except the lingering scent of bad dogs.

  His sister sidles up to him, smelling of deceit and glaring knives at Ruby Nell.

  “That witch tried to ruin the funeral for me,” she tells her brother. “Again.”

  “She’s not bad, sis.”

  “Bad? She’s an outright monster. She knows everybody who comes to buy from her blasted Eternal Monuments is vulnerable to suggestion. The nerve of her, telling Be
cca’s family they could get a better deal at Jody’s than at Matthews Flowers. She knows good and well they’re my kin folks.”

  This is news to yours truly, and I can guarantee that if this stellar canine detective didn’t know the newly murdered was kin to the Matthews, neither did Ruby Nell. I saunter over to see if I can smell lies on Martha Jo. She’s a prime suspect for Evelyn and who’s to say she didn’t have a family feud going with Becca? Maybe she’s stewing over the sharp criticisms Becca had for her brother in View From the Deep South or there could be some deeper, darker family rift.

  “Distant kin, Sis. And Ruby Nell might not have known it. She hasn’t got a mean streak in her body.”

  Bless’a my soul. Looks like the coach still has his heart set on some of Ruby Nell’s fried chicken. And after that performance she put on at his house, there’s no telling what else he’s hoping for.

  “Ruby Nell’s just plain tacky.”

  “In spite of what you think, not everybody knows the Matthews family tree.” Sammy glances toward the floral arrangements spilling out of the viewing room and into the hallway. “Looks like you got plenty of business, anyway.”

  “Yes. Thanks to my stellar reputation and some high-priced advertising.”

  She storms off, leaving behind the scent of discontent, and the coach dashes into the bathroom, heeding the call of a near-lethal casserole. From the way he’s moving, it looks like Ben Gay Icy Hot is also coming into play.

  I meander down the hall, stopping long enough for the funeral guest to admire my attire and reach down to shake my paw. Listen, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that humans love this trick. All I have to do is sit on my handsome butt and lift my paw, which buys me enough time to sniff out the situation and see whether I’m in the territory of friend or enemy.

  With the dude coming through the front door, I can’t tell. He’s sporting a handlebar mustache and enough aftershave to overpower the sprays of roses spilling from the viewing room. Suddenly, Ruby Nell makes a beeline for him. It doesn’t take a Scotland Yard detective to know something’s afoot.

  I amble my handsome self along like I have good rockin’ tonight on my mind instead of eavesdropping.

  “Marvin!”

  Marvin who, I’m wondering? But Ruby Nell just swoops in and blocks his way to the viewing room.

  “Ruby Nell. What a pleasure to see you again.”

  “You might not think so when I finish with you.”

  Marvin’s laugh is fake. I can spot mendacity a mile off. Listen, I know my Tennessee Williams as well as the next person. Though I’ll have to say he could have improved his play by changing the title to Dog on a Hot Tin Roof.

  “Do I need to call for reinforcements, Ruby Nell?”

  “Might not be a bad idea. I could slap you silly for not hosting my friend’s latest book signing.”

  “I didn’t know you and Glenda were close.”

  “I don’t see why not. Celebrities always stick together.” Marvin acts like he’s rubbing his chin, but I can see he’s trying to keep Ruby Nell from seeing his wicked smile. “I’m famous for my tombstone sayings, you know.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t.” Marvin glances around like he’s looking for a way to escape. Suddenly his says, “You’ll have to excuse me,” and dashes back outside.

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

  Marvin’s trying to skirt around the famous Glenda Monts Cleveland and her hen-pecked husband, but she reaches out to grab him. He looks like he’s wishing for a little less conversation, but Glenda’s got him cornered. From the looks of things, their exchange is heated. Her knuckles have turned white on the handles of her enormous purse and the unfortunate Marvin with the ugly facial hair has turned beet red.

  I set off at a fast trot, dashing between the sea of legs and leaving behind a wake of admiration…plus a few high-pitched screams from the women who took umbrage that I might be trying to get a glimpse of their underwear. Listen, a dog on a mission can’t stand on niceties. I’ll make up for it later by dispensing a few soothing licks to their ankles.

  I arrive at a door I have no hope of opening, but this sleuthing canine knows how to bide his time. Bobby Huckabee rushes past and swings open the door, and I seize my chance to dart through.

  The threesome has moved away from the door to the relative privacy of the oaks bordering the parking lot. I slow down, sniffing at bushes to throw them off scent. I don’t want to blow my cover, which is cute, harmless dog who wouldn’t hurt a flea. Well, maybe I’d smack a few of those dastardly critters, but humans tend to like the expression, and I’ll play along.

  “You think you’re so high and mighty.” Glenda’ voice is full of sharp edges, and she’s aimed them at Marvin of the ugly mustache.

  “I could say the same thing for you,” he replies.

  Wexford looks uncomfortable with the whole situation. If he pulls at his tie any harder, there’re not going to be anything left but a few scarlet silk shreds. Who on earth wears scarlet to a funeral? I’d like to get him down in the alley and find out. Besides, his wrong tie, I’m getting other vibes from Wexford, and not a single one of them is good.

  He’s all ruffled up like a strutting peacock. The way Glenda tucks her hand into his and beams at him, she’s thinking this male display is all for her.

  “There’s no need to get personal, Cook,” Wexford says. “Especially with a lady.”

  Marvin Cook snorts and Glenda’s face turns the color of her husband’s abused tie. “Let’s get out of here, darling,” she says. “I can’t endure the scent of lies.”

  She storms off with Wexford in tow, but Cook hollers after her, “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen, Glenda.”

  I’m not the least bit torn between following Glenda and Wexford or lingering behind to find out more about the mysterious Mr. Cook. I already know all I need to about the writer and her husband, and none of it I’d want to tell.

  I sidle closer to my target, christening a few hubcaps along the way to make it look casual. Somebody beats me to Cook, a fortyish woman wearing too much makeup and not enough clothes, especially for a funeral.

  “Marvin!” She links one arm through his then pulls out a cigarette which he proceeds to light before lighting up one of his own. I hope they stay outside. Charlie Valentine won’t allow smoking in his funeral home. And if they’d lit up in front of the door, he’d have put a stop to that, too. His motto is that mourners are going through enough without having to inhale second-hand smoke, too.

  “How’s the competition doing, Joyce?”

  The colorful Joyce throws back her head when she laughs. “Listen, Marvin, my bookstore can’t claim a fancy name like yours, but little old humble Joyce’s Books did land a signing with Glenda Cleveland.”

  “You can have her. Her writing is on par with a ninth grade essay.”

  “Aren’t you being a little harsh? She’s a New York Times bestselling author. People flock to buy her books. It’ll be a banner day for me.”

  “I could use a banner day, but at what cost? She’s a royal pain.”

  “Oh, come now, Marvin. Play nice and I’ll let you sit beside me at the funeral. Poor Becca.”

  “Yes,” he says. “Her death was a shock. She could be maddening but she was a good woman.”

  When they pass by, I catch the scent of lies. You can always tell. They smell like vinegar with an underlying hint of ashes.

  These two have just landed on my list of suspects.

  My ears pick up the first chords of funeral music, Ruby Nell bearing down on “Jesus is Calling,” never mind that she’s got her foot on the wrong bass pedal. I think she forgot she was in the key of C. Fortunately this is just the warm-up music. I still have time to race into the chapel and set Ruby Nell straight before the body is brought into the chapel and the funeral starts.

  I race my ample but handsome self to the front doors and dash through with Joyce and Marvin. They veer toward the viewing room, but it�
�s not Jesus I hear calling my name; it’s Lovie’s fried chicken with buttermilk biscuits and gravy.

  She grins when I saunter into the funeral home kitchen. Charlie equipped it with all the latest gadgets because his daughter is the best cook in the South and deserves it.

  “Elvis! What took you so long?”

  I twirl around humming a few bars of “Double Trouble,” and she sets a place of biscuits and gravy on the floor.

  “Don’t tell Cal.”

  Who does she think I am? A twenty-four hour television news channel? This dog knows how to keep classified information a secret.

  I’m just getting started on my biscuits when Bobby Huckabee arrives, all out of breath.

  “Lovie, quick. Somebody’s got to get in there and stop her.”

  “Get in where and stop what?”

  “Glenda Cleveland is in the viewing room moving Martha Jo Matthews’ arrangements to the back and putting her husband’s arrangements up front.”

  Lovie spouts a censored version of the Gettysburg Address then dashes off to the viewing room with me hard on her heels.

  Chapter 14

  Flowers, Disasters and the Great Funeral Fight

  The cops are out in force at Becca Whitwell’s funeral, alert for trouble and searching the crowd to see if the killer has come to gloat over his success. You’d think I could relax and let them handle it, but my motto is always be prepared. Uncle Charlie counts on me to keep things running smoothly at Eternal Rest, and I’m not about to let him down.

  As usual, I’m standing a discreet distance from the dearly departed, poised to intervene before any minor incident can become a disaster. Uncle Charlie’s doing the same thing out front and Bobby serves as the roving trouble spotter. I know. I know. A funeral ought to be a sacred occasion, but you’d be surprised at how many times these things get out of hand. Somebody’s already read the will and is feeling left out or somebody has a running feud with another family member and decides to air it all in public.

  There’s a huge turnout for Becca’s funeral. Though she lived over in Oxford, she grew up in Tupelo and her parents plus most of her relative still live here. So far, the only trouble I see is a Who’s Who of suspects. Sammy Matthews is standing by the door close to the bathroom and his sister Martha Jo is hunkered in her chair as if she’s trying to disappear. I would be, too, if I my hair and makeup blended in with my dress. If she were my client, I’d steer her away from formless gray outfits that do nothing but wash out her complexion and make her hair look like a she’s wearing a dead rat on her head. And I mean that in the best of ways. When it comes to beauty I only have a woman’s best interests at heart, whether she’s my client or a turncoat who brags too much about using an uptown salon.