by Peggy Webb
“And we definitely are not taking Mama and Fayrene.”
Mama breezes back inside. “I heard that.”
“Good, Mama. There will be no more hanky panky or tree climbing for you. I want you and Fayrene to stay home where you’ll be safe until the killer is caught.”
“Flitter.”
Chapter 15
Elvis’ Opinion on Books, Broads and Fame
Not only are Ruby Nell and Fayrene on the way to Oxford for the book signing, but Ruby Nell is driving.
It took about two minutes of soft-hearted negotiation (Callie) and practiced manipulation (Ruby Nell) to ensure that Mooreville’s feistiest seniors will be front and center at Joyce’s bookstore while their old high school buddy signs copies of her latest suspense novel, Murder at the Met.
“And we’re taking my pink Cadillac, too,” Ruby Nell has said. “I’m not about to have Glenda thinking the Valentines are not rich and successful.”
“We’re not, Mama.”
“Well, we don’t have to advertise it.”
Ruby Nell is a woman after my own heart. She’s wearing enough jewels to light up the runway at Tupelo Airport, and yours truly, is all decked out in a pink bowtie and tuxedo. Of course, this tuxedo has four legs instead of two, but that’s all right, mama. I still have what it takes to make women swoon. I’m planning to work my magic on Joyce Baxter, owner of Joyce’s bookstore.
Ruby Nell says it’s not prestigious like Marvin Cook’s Oxford’s Extraordinary Books, Inc., which sits south of the statue on the square. There’s a big CLOSED sign in the bookstore window in spite of the fact that every other store on the square is lit up and teeming with customers. That’s the way of a college town. The minute kids get free of classes they want to be on the go.
I can’t wait for my own little Short Bald Person to grow up and take me to college. I never did get to go in my life as a famous singer, but now I can look forward to being right in the midst of the excitement. Who knows? I might even earn a degree. They give them to seeing-eye dogs. Why not this intellectual canine?
We leave the square and find Joyce’s Books in a quieter, less-traveled part of the town. The upside is that Ruby Nell can park without endangering pedestrians and parking meters. As it is, she mows down a gardenia blush in full bloom and parks sideways, taking up enough space for three cars.
“Mama, you need to straighten up a little bit.”
“Flitter. I don’t want somebody to put a dent in my Cadillac.”
A Cadillac that is now sports enough crushed gardenias on the front fender to make a funeral pall.
We are among the early arrivals, and I prance inside like a dog born for fame. Joyce, herself, meets us, and I’ll have to say in that getup she’d be right at home on the stage in Las Vegas. Her sweater shows everything she’s got and she’s waving a fan that probably cost two peacocks their tail feathers.
“I apologize for this heat,” she says. “The air conditioning went on the blink and it was too late to get anybody out to fix it.”
Callie puts her right at ease, which is my human mom’s way, and then she asks if it’s all right for me to come inside for the party.
“Of course! He looks so cute in that tuxedo!” I’m about to lick her ankles when she adds, “Can he do tricks?”
The only trick I’m about to do is peeing on her silly sequined high heels. Callie catches the gleam in my eye and brings me to heel with the leash. Which I do not need. Listen, yours truly has more manners than some people I know. And a whole lot more talent.
I puff out my chest and am getting ready to let loose on a divine chorus of “Baby, What Do You Want Me to Do,” when I feel that not-so-subtle tug on my leash again. Listen, I’ve got the best nose here. I don’t know how Callie thinks I’m going to sniff out a killer if she insists I have to act like a dog all evening. At the rate we’re going, they’re liable to feed me stale dog biscuits instead of champagne and petit fours.
Still, I’m not one to fume and miss all the fun. I amuse myself by watching the entrance of Oxford’s most famous novelist and her trained-to-heel husband. Glenda Monts Cleveland is wearing a red linen designer suit with Christian Louboutin heels, and her nose job and face lift are so cleverly done it takes a famous performer like me to spot it.
As the crowd gathers, they press close to Glenda, and I can see her smile begin to wobble around the edges, a sign she’s not comfortable with her fans. I could teach her a thing or two about fans. I loved mine and they knew it. We had this great give and take that over the years made them feel like old friends. For me, doing a live concert was like performing for fun with my family.
Wexford stands glued to her side, looking more like a body guard than an adoring husband. Suspicious minds sense something amiss here.
“Hey, y’all! Joyce yells. “Sorry about this heat. Wet your whistle and mingle! The writer is here, and I know y’all want to talk to her before we get started.”
Callie’s headed in the direction of the author when Lovie grabs her arm. “Quick, this way.”
We push through the growing crowd and end up in front of a display of Glenda Monts Cleveland’s books.
“What’s so urgent about this, Lovie? I have no intention of browsing through Glenda’s back list.”
“Do you notice anything funny about those titles?”
They’re colorful, I can say that, but even this famous dog can’t read. My human mom, however, is another story.
“Holy cow!” She nabs two of the books.
“Exactly!” Lovie says, then starts prancing off.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“You’ll see.”
Callie fights her way through fans that would have already turned rabid if they knew this was me, hiding in a dog suit. We have to wait in such a long line at the cash register I feel the beginnings of hunger pain. Listen, I can smell the food on the refreshment table, but I can already tell this is the kind of party that won’t let dogs get in line when they start serving the cake. I’ll have to get under the table and hope for crumbs. Such is life.
I cool my heels while Callie stuffs her books into a bag then searches for Ruby Nell. She spots her in the reading nook and we head that way. Callie takes a comfortable chair beside her mama and Fayrene and a really skinny woman with mouse-colored hair sticking out at odd angles from her head.
Ruby Nell winks at her daughter then leans in the direction of Mouse Hair. “What’s that you’re reading?”
“Glenda’s new book.”
“Is it any good?” Ruby Nell says, and Callie’s face gets a pinched look. Her mama is about as subtle as a Sherman tank.
“It’s not a good as Murder among the Magnolias and Crying Time in the Chrysanthemums, but I love everything she writes.” Mouse Hair closes the book and reaches to shake the hand of her new captive audience. “Hi, I’m Lola Marcy, Glenda’s biggest fan and her next door neighbor.”
“Then maybe you know how come she’s not up at Oxford’s Extraordinary Books like last time.”
“Mama, that’s none of your business.”
“Flitter, Callie. You tend to your little red wagon and I’ll tend to mine.” Ruby Nell treats Lola to a smile worthy of billboards. “I went to school with Glenda. Knew her like a book, way back when. I’m just trying to catch up, that’s all.”
“I don’t blame you. She’s that famous.” Lola shifts her book from her lap to a side table and leans closer to Ruby Nell. “Don’t tell anybody I said this, but Marvin Cook over at Oxford’s Extraordinary Books panned Glenda’s latest suspense. Said he didn’t have signings for anything except critically acclaimed books.”
“I went to school with her, too,” Fayrene chimes in. “If my pornographic memory serves, she really hates criticism.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Lola glances around the crowd like she’s searching for some amazing grace. “Don’t say I told you, but I’m the only one in the neighborhood who likes her and her husband.”
“You don’t s
ay? I wonder why.” Ruby Nell pulls out her compact and powders her nose. Her casual attitude is so real I’d believe it if I didn’t know Callie’s mama always has an ulterior motive.
“Glenda and Wexford keep to themselves. The other neighbors call them snobbish, but I say that’s just the price of fame. Poor Glenda can’t even go to Piggly Wiggly without her false eyelashes for fear somebody will recognize her and take her picture.”
“Eudora Welty was a reckless, too,” Fayrene says.
“Well, exactly!” Lola nods her head so hard her hair slides over her eyebrows. Well, bless’a my soul. I didn’t know she was wearing a wig. She gives a little self-conscious laugh and straightens it up. “Excuse the show, folks. I’m covering up a bad hair cut.”
Quicker than I can con Callie out of PupPeroni, my human mom whips a business card out of her purse and passes it to Lola.
“Call me sometime. I can fix that.”
“My daughter can, too,” Ruby Nell chimes in. “She’s famous for her hair styles. More famous than Glenda, I’d say.”
There’s a big commotion at the door. Everybody turns to see two uniforms from Oxford’s PD coming through, and right behind them is Martha Jo Matthews, prancing in with a look on her face doesn’t say, “I want to get a signed book from my favorite author.” More like, don’t step on my blue suede shoes.
I seize the distraction to slip my leash and skulk away between a sea of swirling legs and a cloud of overpowering perfume. This fabulous canine detective has a suspect to tail.
Martha Jo doesn’t go to drink champagne and chat with the author. She stations herself close to the crowd still coming through the door. It’s just a matter of time before she taps the shoulder of a petite, sweet-faced gray haired lady, whose glasses slide down her nose when she looks up, startled.
“Do I know you?” Sweet Face has a voice that quavers.
“No, but I wanted to warn you. This book of Glenda’s is filled with filth.”
“Oh, my. You don’t say!” She scuttles out the door then turns to wave at Martha Jo, who is already repeating the same tale to a distinguished looking older gentleman wearing a bad toupee. He retreats to his car, as do the next three readers who hear the bad news.
Well, bless’a my soul! My human mom needs to hear this. Vengeful women can also be murdering women. The Valentines learned this the hard way during Tupelo’s Elvis Festival, or what I refer to as the grateful dead caper.
I leave Martha Jo to her sabotaging ways then set out to get Callie’s attention without having to wade through that moving sea of women. The problem with yours truly trying to get my human mom’s attention when I’m surrounded by my adoring public is a set of short Bassett hound legs and golden pipes turned to howls and barks. Barking in this crowd might cause a riot, particularly if I barked a platinum version of “It’s Over.” But this smart dog knows just what to do.
I make a beeline for the kiddie-sized table I’d spotted earlier, wedged between the magazine rack and the display of Glenda’s books. Piece of cake! I can hop onto the chair and then catapult onto the table.
I sashay myself in that direction and make a flying leap. Listen, I might as well climb every mountain. When I hit the kid-sized chair, it flips upward and crashes onto a pair of pink high heels. The owner says a word Lovie would be proud of, but I’m too busy trying to sink my claws into the kid-sized table to repeat what she says. The table is rockin’ and rollin’ but I’m so busy trying to keep my balance, I can’t swivel my hips and treat the gathering audience to my famous lop-sided smile.
They do, however, get a glimpse of my much-sought-after backside. My doggie tuxedo pants have split their seams. I might as well do a strip tease in Joyce’s Books for my admiring fans. I’m just warming up for the show when Glenda yells, “That dog has ruined by book party.”
Her husband roars, “I’ll handle this problem, hon,” and somebody else yells, “Who let the dog in?” That just goes to show you can’t please everybody. There’s always going to be a few sourpusses in the audience to spoil the show.
Wexford plows my way, reeking of sweat and bad intentions. Here’s a man who doesn’t fool around. He’s closing in fast, and from the look on his face, he’s planning to end this noble Basset hound incarnation and send me back to heaven for a rerun. Probably with a note to send me back to earth as a cat.
“Elvis! There you are.” Lovie swoops in and jerks me up before Wexford can make my worst nightmares come true. “Your agent’s looking for you.”
“That dog has an agent?” This, from Lola of the Mouse Wig.
“Of course,” Lovie says. “All those titles. Westminster, you know.”
You’ll have to hand it to Lovie. She lies as well as she cooks. If I didn’t have these mismatched ears, I’d have as many Best in Show ribbons from Westminster as I have gold and platinum records hanging on the walls in Graceland.
Listen, I’ve still got what it takes. Behind our retreating backs is as much chaos as I used to stir up when I’d throw my sweaty scarves into a teenaged audience.
Just as we gain the door, a champagne glass crash-lands against the wall beyond our heads. Lovie says a word I’d add to my vocabulary if I could speak something besides dog.
She swoops out and we burst into the parking lot where the air hits us like a wet blanket. Just another humid night in the Deep South. Lovie settles me into the back seat of Ruby Nell’s flashy convertible, then climbs in and pulls her baseball bat from under the front seat.
“Just let that warlock come looking for you,” she says. “He’ll have a headache from now till next Sunday.”
I’d get down in the floorboard and lick her feet, but I’m too busy doing my happy dance. Reinforcements just burst out of the bookstore – Callie, marching along in high dudgeon, followed by Ruby Nell and Fayrene, looking like they’re having the time of their lives.
“What a show!” Ruby Nell scoots behind the wheel. “We ought to put it on the road.”
“We just did, Mama.” Callie climbs into the back seat on my other side and proceeds to rub my ears.
“Everybody in?” Ruby Nell yells, and before anybody can say yay or nay, she roars backward and takes out the other half of the gardenia bush. Then we race off, wreathed in flowers as if we’ve just won the Kentucky Derby. I stand up so I can let my ears blow and wave a paw at the growing crowd of admirers gathering along the sides of the street.
Chapter 16
Flimsy Evidence, Murderous Blueprints and Sneak Attacks
Mama’s car is conspicuous. We’re parked in front of City Grocery with both back and front fenders festooned with gardenias. I can’t worry about that now. I’ve got more than enough on my mind, not the least of which is the paper bag filled with incriminating evidence from Joyce’s.
And hunger.
Everybody in the car claims to be starving. Crime will do that to you. Might I add that our shenanigans at Joyce’s bookstore are skirting a thin line between sleuthing and downright breaking the law. Assault, for one. I’m hoping the woman who caught the airborne chair with the top of her foot doesn’t sue me. Disturbing the peace. Oh, my. Elvis’ dance on the table top and the resulting chaos rank right up there with the battle of shoppers at a seventy-five percent off shoe sale.
And I don’t know what all else. Fortunately, the waiter comes to escort our motley party to the balcony upstairs so we can have some privacy. I was the only one who had enough leftover sense to ask for it. The waiter was happy to oblige, especially since I had Elvis on the leash and had already lied to him about my Bassett hound being a therapy dog.
I know. I know. But I couldn’t leave Elvis in the car with the top down. He’s so adorable and friendly somebody would surely walk off with him. And I most certainly couldn’t shut him up in a hot car with the top up when temperatures are still in the eighties.
Before we can catch a killer, there’s no telling what else I’ll lie about. Shoot, I might even take up fisticuffs. Pregnancy has turned me into a whole oth
er woman.
We slide into our chairs and then proceed to just sit there hoping the night air will cool our faces. But for all the good it does, we might as well be hoping to win the lottery.
“Let’s order,” Lovie says, “I could eat a whole roasted pig.”
Nobody here disagrees with her. In fact, we spend the next hour consuming food that is nearly as good as Lovie’s. Particularly the shrimp and grits. Lovie knows this chef, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she helped him develop this recipe. It’s that good.
After our plates are cleared and we’ve put in orders for dessert, I pull Glenda’s two books out of the bag.
“Take a look at those titles.”
Lovie is the only one who doesn’t stare at the books now sitting in the middle of the table. She’s got her head in a magazine. How on earth did she get that upstairs without me seeing it? I wonder if pregnancy is affecting my vision.
“Murder among the Magnolias and Crying Time in the Chrysanthemums,” Mama says, reading the titles. “You bought the ones Lola recommended!”
“No, Mama. Thanks to Lovie’s sharp eye, I bought the ones that might be a blueprint for burying a body in your flower garden.”
Mama spends a while digesting this bit of information, and who can blame her? It’s hard to reverse your thinking when you discover that one of the people you admire and respect might turn out to be your worst enemy.
When she finally says, “Hmmm,” instead of “Flitter,” I’m proud of her. She’s as sharp as any senior you ever saw. Of course, she’d have a hissy fit if she suspected I sometimes think of her as senior.
“Maybe Lola thought these books were Glenda’s best because she was writing from experience,” she adds.
“Exactly, Mama! But I’ll have to read them to find out.” Even though I read fast it will take a lot of time to read two books. With this investigation at a standstill and all eyes on Mama as the prime suspect, time might be running out.
“I’ll help you out by reading one of them.” Fayrene grabs Murder among the Magnolias and proceeds to run her hand across the covers as if she’s doing a divination. Any minute now I expect her to start chanting her grocery list. “My ESPN tells me we’re on the right track.”
