Elvis and the Bridegroom Stiffs (A Southern Cousins Mystery)
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Elvis and the Bridegroom Stiffs
Book 6
(A Southern Cousins Mystery)
Peggy Webb
Copyright 2013 by Peggy Webb
Original Cover Art Copyright 2013 by Cecilia Griffith
Cover Design Copyright 2013 by Vicki Hinze
All rights reserved
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction.
Note from the Author
Elvis is back! His brand new cover look features original art, exclusive to this series, done by my sweet, talented granddaughter, Cecilia Griffith.
Get Jack Loves Callie Tender now! It’s a prequel and series companion guide, plus bonus recipes from Lovie’s Luscious Eats. Elvis and the Deadly Love Letters (A Southern Cousins short story) is coming soon! In February it will be part of a special multi-author anthology, My Evil Valentine, with my good friends Debra Webb, Vicki Hinze, Kathy Carmichael, Regan Black, Rita Herron and V.R. Marks.
Peggy
Elvis’ Opinion #1 on Weddings, Dead Bodies and Beagle Babes
There hasn’t been a dead body around here since Corky Kelly knocked off Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer and tried to snuff out Santa Claus. What all this peace in the valley means is that a famous doggie sleuth like yours truly has plenty of time to make sure my human mom (that would Callie Valentine Jones, owner of the best little beauty shop in Mooreville) does not have a change of heart when my human daddy pops the question.
It’s now or never. Yesterday they had a big argument over her involvement in the Blue Christmas caper, and she sent him packing. Again! Now yours truly is alternating between living in luxury at Callie’s house and wallowing in my human dad’s dirty gym socks at the Magnolia Arms. Even when Jack puts my guitar shaped silk pillow by his bed, there’s no hope for his apartment. It’s enough to make a dog of my fine tastes hit the long, lonely highway.
I’ve got to work fast to get Jack and Callie back together and back to the altar. For keeps, this time.
And speaking of weddings, everybody in Mooreville is up in arms over how Trixie Moffett dumped poor old Roy Jessup at the feed and seed store in favor of a slick dude who arouses suspicious minds. If you want to hear the real story, mosey on over to Gas, Grits and Guts. Fayrene always knows the latest gossip. She’s got so many folks heading to her convenience store to hear news hot off wagging tongues, she’s had a big run on pickled pigs lips.
Ruby Nell, Callie’s mama, called this morning to say she was heading that way, but it’s not gossip she’s after; it’s a little game of cards and some Prohibition punch with Fayrene in the séance room. When Ruby Nell’s not meddling in Callie’s love life, she’s with Fayrene looking for trouble.
Another Valentine looking for trouble is Callie’s cousin, Lovie. Ever since she made up with Rocky Malone in that showdown in the séance room over at Gas, Grits and Guts, she’s been trying to get him to discover her National Treasure. He may look like God’s gift to every woman – a younger version of Harrison Ford on a dig without the white hat and the whip – but he’s the last of a dying breed, a gentleman who had rather woo and wed than woo and bed.
As for yours truly, I’m through staying in Heartbreak Hotel over that two-timing French poodle, Ann Margret. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to convince Callie’s silly spaniel there’s a steak buried on the other side of the fence. He’ll work his fool self silly digging a hole. And then I’m out of here, and it’s love machine time, baby! I hear there’s a hot new beagle babe hanging around Mooreville Truck Stop, and she’s not playing hard to get.
Don’t tell Callie. I don’t like to worry my human mom. She’s got enough on her mind keeping Ruby Nell out of trouble and fixing hairdos for everybody who will be at Trixie Moffett’s wedding. That includes everybody who is anybody in Mooreville.
Look for me when you see me coming.
Chapter One
A Bad Die Job, a Bridegroom Stiff and Pink Lipstick
Elvis is in a snit, but I can’t help it. I’ll be so busy dispensing wedding hairstyles today, not to mention Prohibition punch, I just don’t have time to pamper my dog’s big ego. I’m in such a fizz, I don’t even take the time to put on cute shoes. Instead, I opt for comfortable clogs before I race out the door.
Though December in Mississippi is generally mild, there’s a cold snap today. I turn on the heater in my big Dodge truck and let it warm up while I hurry back inside to leave instructions with Elvis. Don’t laugh. He understands every word I say.
“Elvis, stay out of trouble while I’m gone. Have fun playing with Hoyt, and for goodness sake, be nice to him. He’s just a little spaniel.”
He marches to the closet and gets his doggie Santa hat, but I’m not about to be conned by Elvis today. I’m in charge of beauty, and I take my responsibility seriously, unlike some folks I know, who shall remain unmentioned. Let’s just say that in spite of the way he put the star on my tree, I wouldn’t let Jack Jones back in my heart if you threatened to rip the heels off every one of my Prada shoes.
I hop into the truck and sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” all the way to Hair.Net. I’m still singing when I turn on the Christmas tree lights and head back to the wash and rinse sinks.
The song turns into a scream, and the holiday suddenly takes a nasty turn.
There is Jim Boy Sloan dead on my beauty parlor floor with my best hair cutting scissors buried up to the handles in the side of his neck.
I’ll never be able to get them sharp again. Plus, from the looks of things they’re buried clear to the bone. The points might even be bent, for all I know. All in all, I’ll have to say this is a bad die job.
Besides that, the corpse has hauled off and bled all over one of my brand new hair cutting capes. Pink plastic with little raised hot pink roses that look like real embroidery. I drove clear to Memphis to get them. They cost an arm and a leg, too, but still as the owner of the best beauty shop in Mooreville, Mississippi (well, the only one, if you want to know the truth), I have to keep up appearances. Never let it be said that Callie Valentine Jones runs a shoddy shop.
Some people might not call me so lucky, still living in Mooreville, population 652 and counting, which is the exact same place I was born, but I can’t see how that matters one whit when you’re as successful as I am. The beauty shops in Tupelo can’t hold a candle to mine. I have picture perfect décor and even a new spa, all color coordinated.
My shop is in this great little house next to the post office and across the street from Fayrene’s convenience store which sells doughnuts and hot coffee, plus pickled pigs lips if you’re in the mood for indigestion. You can even get your fortune told there, thanks to the séance room her husband Jarvetis finally added after she threatened to sell his best bird dog. Believe me, everybody in Mooreville took sides over that little fracas. Some said Fayrene had no business doing poor Jarvetis that way, but others (mostly my customers) celebrated by lifting a glass of Prohibition punch to blackmail.
I came to work at this little shop right out of beauty school where I graduated at the top of my class - and I have the certificate to prove it! The beauty shop was called Curl Up and Dye then, and painted this ugly brindle color, inside and out. It had a tacky cat clock with a tail that wagged the time stuck up on the wall and nothing else except posters of hairdos from the sixties and seventies, beehives and bouffants that take about two tons of hair spray.
I still have a few customers who wear their hair like that, but not many, especially since I took over the shop. I myself wear a sassy movie star bob. Many of my customers try to copy my look. Though I’ll
cut hair that way I can’t always guarantee results like I can with the Buffy the Vampire style, because it takes good thick dark hair like mine to make the bob do right. All in all, I’ll have to say that I’ve single handedly brought sophistication to Mooreville.
When the former owner of the shop, Khaki Smith, up and married a no-good rodeo circuit rider from Little Rock, Arkansas, who everybody knew from the get go was riding more than the bucking broncos, I jumped at the chance to buy her out.
The first thing I did was rename the shop Hair.Net.
Mama asked me, “What kind of name is that?” and I told her, “It’s a clever name, if I do say so myself, especially since I’m fixing to put up a website with the same name all over the internet.”
Mama was all over it. She invented change. She changes hair color for every occasion, and believe me, with Ruby Nell Valentine, there’s always an occasion. Still Mama’s my best advertisement. The way she prances around in her swooping caftans and fabulous hairdos, thanks to yours truly, she catches everybody’s eye. And she’s quick to say, “My daughter at Hair.Net does my hair!”
Although I do still have those big old hooded hairdryers for customers like Mabel Moffett and the mayor’s wife, who like tight perms and Teflon hairdos, I believe in modernization.
The next thing I did after I became an entrepreneur was paint everything pink. Blush pink outside, precious pink inside with lots of passion pink accessories. (If you haven’t already guessed, pink is my trademark color.) It’s uplifting just to walk into Hair. Net. Everybody says so. I can hardly wait to get here every morning.
Which brings me to Jim Boy staring up at me dead as a doornail with my fingerprints all over the murder weapon. And it his wedding day!
All of a sudden it hits me that I have an honest to goodness corpse on my hands. Most people would fall to pieces, but I just get a mild case of delayed shakes on account of the violent nature of the death. I’ve been fixing up corpses at Uncle Charlie’s funeral home over in Tupelo since I first started beauty school. Folks say I can make the deceased look like they’re about to get up and take a Sunday stroll. In fact it’s my work over at Eternal Rest Funeral Home that got me started on my road to beauty parlor fame.
With poor Jim Boy staring up at me, I suck up my jitters and do what I always do when faced with death: I say little prayer for the soul of deceased. That’s all anybody can do, really. Except offer comfort and casseroles to those left behind. If there’s one thing working at Uncle Charlie’s funeral home has taught me, it’s this: life goes on.
“Goodbye, Jim Boy. Rest in peace.”
I slip my cell phone out of my pocket with the full intention of calling 911. Wouldn’t you know the first person I call is Jack Jones! My luck begins to turn when he answers the phone.
I guess you think this strange, considering I’m currently on the outs with my almost-ex. I got a big wake-up call when I nearly lost him in the jungle during the kidnapping caper. He recovered at my house, and when he hung the star on my Christmas tree it almost restored my faith in happily ever after. He’d probably still be there if he hadn’t acted like I ought to keep my nose out of trouble and leave murder to the boys. Still, when push comes to shove, Jack’s the man I want in my corner.
“Jack, this is Callie. Jim Boy Sloan’s in my shop.”
“What’s he doing over there?”
“Nothing. He’s got my scissors buried in his neck.”
There’s a loud racket that sounds like furniture crashing to the floor. “Are you telling me Jim Boy Sloan’s dead?”
“Looks like it. There’s blood all over my floor and one of my new pink capes is ruined.”
“Don’t touch a thing, you hear? Don’t tromp around the body, don’t straighten any furniture that’s out of place, don’t even pick up a magazine. And don’t let anybody in. I’ll be right over.”
“Shoot, I know better than to mess with a murder scene. I watch Murder, She Wrote. And if you’ll care to remember, Lovie and I have solved more than one murder mystery.”
He says a word worse than any Lovie could ever think up, and then he hangs up.
I plan on doing what he told me, I really do, but I’m not about to let him catch me with my lipstick gnawed off and my hair not spruced up. Being extra careful, I back away from Jim Boy to the front section of the shop which features my cutting and styling station.
I inspect the brush before I pick it up to see if anything is amiss, but it’s still in the same spot I always put it when I finish a day’s work. I fluff up my hair then paint my lips Pretty in Pink which brings out my eyes and the natural blush in my cheeks. Kicking off the clogs I wore to work, I step into a pair of backless high heels. I consider changing into that cute black dress I keep in the closet at the shop in case Jack shows up at the last minute, but I decide the dress might be a little over the top. Discretion’s my middle name.
I sit down in the swivel chair and view myself from all angles to see which one looks best. Then I settle down to think while I wait.
Now that Trixie Moffett’s put Christmas wedding fever in the air and her bridegroom has been snuffed out in the blink of an eye, I retract my resolution about not letting Jack Jones back into my heart. What if Jack got snuffed out like that? I need to make up my mind once and for all if I want to win him for keeps or let him stay in that tacky apartment at the Magnolia Arms. I’ll have to admit, he was handy around the house for things like putting the star on my tree and making hot chocolate and even cuddling. Okay, so sue me. I’ve been cozy with my almost-ex.
Naturally, everybody at the Hair.Net has an opinion. If there’s one thing I encourage in Mooreville besides beauty, it’s talk. Some folks might call it gossip, but I call it keeping up with your neighbors, which is the Southern way. I’m proud to say that when somebody dies, my customers are the first on the scene with casseroles.
My Tuesday tip and tan client tells me I ought to quit beating around the bush and just say yes to everything Jack offers.
That’s Jewel Moffett, Mabel Moffett’s sister-in-law, and by the way, aunt to the bride-to-be whose groom is getting stiff beside my wash and rinse sinks. Jewel tells everybody her hair is natural, and she gets by with it, too, because I do such a good job keeping her roots covered. Though I believe in women sticking together and the basic goodness of hearts, she doesn’t. (For Pete’s sake, my customers and I know what to tell and what to keep quiet!)
Jewel comes for the root job before anybody ever gets here. I just leave the door unlocked in case she arrives before I do.
My philosophy is that if anybody wants in they’ll come in no matter what, and I prefer that they not break down my passion pink door with the beveled glass fanlight to do it.
After I’ve done her hair, Jewel always goes to the tanning bed, a little extra I added to Hair.Net. It was a shrewd business move, even if I do say so myself. My customers use it year round. Why, to look at the women in Mooreville you’d think they live on the Riviera.
As for me, I depend on my natural assets, which I know more about enhancing than anybody in Mooreville. I’m not the best beauty operator in northeast Mississippi for nothing.
And speaking of assets, the man I’m dying to flaunt them for just got off his Harley in front my shop.
I spritz on a little Jungle Gardenia, icing on the cake so to speak, then put on my best Julia Roberts’ smile. (Everybody says I have lips like hers, and mine are one hundred per cent natural!)
I might as well have saved the perfume and the smile both, because the sheriff ‘s car pulls up right behind Jack, and Sheriff Trice himself steps out, followed by a bunch of deputies. He and Jack talk a while, then they all troop into Hair.Net.
Jack plants himself in front of me and blocks my view of everything else, which is fine by me. Mighty fine.
“Callie, where’s the body?”
Well, shoot. He didn’t even notice my cute high heels. I blame that on Sheriff Trice.
“In the back. I’ll show you.”
He goes toward the back with hardly a glance in my direction, and the sheriff’s bunch follows him. Maybe I should have rethought the black dress. They’re all gone so long I decide to freshen up my nail polish.
I’m just reaching for the bottle of Almost Pink, my favorite, when Jack strides back in wearing his Agent 007 look, you know that brooding, intense look that’s so sexy it nearly makes you forget you’ve just had a major crime committed right in your very own shop.
Jack then proceeds to inspect all the doors and windows while I try to act like I’m not sitting in my chair posing. You’re not going to believe this, but it’s hard to strike a nonchalant pose with all the commotion going on in the back of the shop, plus Tommy Joe Pickens, the new coroner, traipsing in the front door followed by two people with a gurney.
I should have been an actress.
Tommy Joe throws up his hand and I wave back. At least some folks haven’t lost their manners. And speaking of the ill-mannered, Jack is back.
“What time did you get here, Callie?”
He knows good and well what time I got here. I’m as reliable as London’s Big Ben.
“Six-thirty.”
“Is that your usual time?”
Jack knows my routine better than Mama does. I reckon he’s firing off these questions so Sheriff Trice won’t have to question me. That would Jack’s idea of chivalry.
“I don’t have a usual time. I just try to accommodate my customers.”
I thought my generosity might remind him, I’m not some stranger off the street, but his almost ex-wife, for Pete’s sake. But he just keeps on firing questions.
“Was the door unlocked when you arrived?”