by Webb, Peggy
“Yes.”
“Did Jim Boy Sloan have a key to your shop?”
“Of course not. I run a tight ship around here.” He cocks up one eyebrow which normally I consider sexy, but let me tell you, when there’s been a murder and you’re shaping up to be the prime suspect, sex takes a powder.
“Does he come here every day at a certain time?”
“Jack, you just crossed the line.” I hop out of my chair stomping mad. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, you can just get the idea right out of your head.”
“What idea is that?”
“That I’m carrying on with the groom behind the bride-to-be’s back. I’m a woman of high principles.”
“Now Cal, don’t get your panties in a wad. I didn’t say that.”
“And for your information, I don’t wear panties. I wear thongs.”
Well, that gets his goat, let me tell you. He acts like he’s searching for a pad and pencil, but I see the way his eyes gleam. He knows good and well what kind of underwear I prefer. Lord knows, he’s ripped it off plenty of times.
“Do you happen to know if he had any reason to be here?
“I most certainly do.”
He scribbles notes, not paying me any more mind than if I’d been standing there in a habit and wimple. Forget femme fatale: I’m good and mad. I know exactly what Jim Boy Sloan was doing in my shop, but I’m going to make Jack Jones dig it out of me.
“Well? Are you going to tell me?”
“I don’t know. What my clients do or have done to them in Hair.Net falls under the category of confidential.”
He makes this exasperating sound like somebody dealing with a teenager gone wild, but I am beyond caring. I believe in treating people with respect, and what I’m getting from Jack Jones is the third degree.
“Jim Boy was one of your customers?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Callie, for God’s sake! This is a murder investigation.”
“I know that. If you care to remember, I’m the one who called you. I just don’t know about revealing information I swore on my dairy to keep secret.”
He ruffles up his black mane which I’m dying to get my hands on. With the right snips and shaping from somebody who knows their way around a pair of scissors (that would be me), he’d look just like a younger version of George Clooney. I’m not holding my breath, though. I don’t know of but one man around Mooreville who would be caught dead coming to my beauty shop.
As a matter of fact, he was caught dead, no pun intended.
“We can do this the hard way or we can do it the easy way.”
“You sound just like a cop on TV.”
“Come on, Cal. Murder is serious business. If you don’t answer my questions, you know Sheriff Trice will have no choice but to take you down to the station.”
“Being cuffed to him might be kinky.”
Jack says a word that would make even Lovie cringe, and I come to my senses. I’m not about to paint myself as the prime murder suspect just so I can get Jack Jones’ goat.
“All right, then, but I hope you’ll make sure Sheriff Trice doesn’t tell it outside his office, because I’ve built my reputation on knowing how to keep my customers’ secrets.”
“Callie, I’m losing patience here.”
“All right, all right. I’m coming to it. My specialty is dye jobs. I can color hair so nobody can guess it’s not the hair you were born with. Not even the bride-to-be knows Jim Boy’s got enough gray hair to stuff a La-Z-Boy recliner.”
“So that’s why he was here today on his wedding day?”
“He didn’t want to chance any gray showing up on his two-week honeymoon cruise. A man thirty years older than his bride has to take a few precautions.”
“How did he get in?”
“I left the door unlocked for him. I do that for all my early bird customers.”
All of a sudden Jailhouse Rock nearly blasts me out of my seat and I look out the window to see Leonora Moffett’s pink thunderbird convertible screech to a halt in front of my shop with three of my customers in the back seat and Leonora herself at the wheel wearing Mary Kay lipstick in dusty rose, which is a personal favorite of mine. Plus, she has this red silk scarf that doesn’t match covering her unmoussed hair. She won the convertible last year by selling more Mary Kay cosmetics than anybody in the South, and she likes to drive with the top down, even in December, and her radio turned as loud as it will go so everybody will notice her.
In spite of the emergency vehicles parked out front which ought to give anybody pause, Leonora bails out of the car then leans way over to get her shoulder bag so everybody within viewing distance can check out her legs. I’ll have to say they look good, thanks to my tanning bed.
“What the heck are they doing here?” Jack says.
“That’s the maid of honor and the bridesmaids coming to get their hair done.”
“They can’t come in here. This is a crime scene.”
“You can’t expect them to go to a wedding with their hair looking like that!”
“Callie, there’s not going to be a wedding.” A fact made dramatically clear when the coroner passes by with the groom strapped to a gurney.
Jack hurries outside and says something to the women gathered outside Leonora’s pink convertible. Three bridesmaids scream while the maid of honor faints.
I grab my Christmas sweater, red with little silver bells attached, and follow Jack outside where he’s trying to calm the bridesmaids down. But what good is a man in the face of four hysterical women?
Right off, I can tell it’s all left up to me.
“Wait here,” I tell them, as if they have any choice. Then I hurry back inside, swap my high heels for clogs, grab a wet washcloth for Leonora, plus some paper cups and a pitcher of Prohibition punch I keep in my refrigerator for celebrations and disasters, whichever happens to be the case.
A yard full of police cars plus a murdered client clearly qualifies as a bona fide disaster, which I am perfectly capable of dealing with. But not without a little fortification.
Before I go back outside to take charge, I slug down a big glass of the Valentine family’s famous cure.
Chapter Two
Petit Fours, Prohibition Punch, and the Kiss of Death
The bridesmaids are standing around the pink convertible wailing, so I pass out paper cups then hand them the cure.
“Don’t skimp,” I tell them. “I’ll tend to Leonora.”
Which is easier said than done. After I bring her around by swabbing her face with the cold cloth, I say, “Come on now, let’s get off this ground.”
She wraps herself around me and began talking out of her head without giving me the least bit of help getting up. I have to do it all by myself, and believe me, she’s heavier than she looks.
“It could’ve been paradise…oh, that sweet angel,” she mumbles, and I tell her, “Hush now,” while the three distraught bridesmaids sniff and slurp.
Jack squats down beside me. “What’s she saying?”
“Who knows? She’s talking in religious symbols.”
“Sheriff Trice can’t conduct an investigation with all these hysterical women on the scene. We’ve got to get them out of here.”
“We?”
“You’re the only cool head in the bunch. Can you get them all home?”
“You’re not scared I’ll take them off to the ‘tater hills and bash their brains in with my curling iron?”
“Cute, Callie” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t mean it in a nice way. “Just get these women out of here. I’ll deal with you later.”
When he stands up he looks like he belongs on the set of High Noon. It’s easy to forgive a man who looks like a young Gary Cooper, only better.
My Dodge Ram with the kick-ass engine is parked in front of my shop. But there’s no way all of us will fit in unless the bridesmaids ride in the back, and I’m not about to drive down Highway 371 with three tipsy
women likely fall to out and kill themselves. We already have one body on our hands.
Besides, Leonora’s pink convertible is just sitting there calling my name.
I fish the keys out of her purse and say, “Hop in, everybody,” but one of the bridesmaids takes exception.
“You can’t drive Leonora’s car. She’ll have a duck fit.”
That’s Alice Ann Street for you. She likes to boss people around. Every time you go into Mooreville Video which she runs for her daddy, she tries to tell you which movie you ought to rent. Though to be generous about it, she probably acts that way as a compensatory measure. She’s long on brains and short on looks. Thanks to the miracles I work at Hair.Net, Alice Ann’s called attractive, which is the kiss of death if you’re looking for a boyfriend. Her only redeeming feature is that she knows more about what’s going on than anybody in Mooreville except my cousin Lovie and Fayrene over at Gas, Grits and Guts – and she’s always willing to tell it.
“I’m the only one here in a condition to drive, Alice Ann. Help me get Leonora in the car.”
We stuff Leonora in the passenger side of the front seat. Then the three bridesmaids refill their cups and off we go with the top down, me with the only decent head of hair in the bunch, and every bit of it whipping around my face like Audrey Hepburn in that movie – I forget which one – where she rides on the motorcycle behind Cary Grant.
Heads turn, I can tell you. Mooreville’s never seen such a car full of pulchritude. In spite of their unstyled hair, the bride’s cousins from Atlanta (Charlene and Clarice) are lookers, and Leonora’s renowned for her beauty. They have five beauty titles among them including Mississippi’s Sweet Potato Queen (Leonora) and runner up to Miss Georgia (Clarice). And I’m no slouch myself.
As we whiz past the Wildwood Baptist Church and parsonage, I wave at Brother Jack Payne (that’s what we call our preachers down here in the Magnolia State) in his yard cutting late-blooming roses. He’s been here six years, and although he occasionally makes us squirm with a hell fire and damnation sermon, everybody loves him.
I make a split second decision when I see him, but instead of squealing on the brakes the way some folks would, I drive on past the parsonage and turn around in the driveway of the Mooreville Methodist Church. It’s within spitting distance of the Baptists. One upmanship, it’s called. Although the Methodists built a bigger church, I’ll have to say we outdo them on music, thanks to our choir – where I happen to be a featured soloist. Hair cutting is not the only talent I have.
“Why are we stopping here?” Alice Ann asks when I pull into the parsonage’s driveway. Bossy, just like I said.
“Somebody needs to tell the preacher the wedding’s off. I might as well take care of it myself.”
Brother Payne puts down the clippers he’s using and meets us at the car with his hair a mess. If it hadn’t been for the nature of our news, I would have offered to trim it for free. He’s overdue, and has been for two weeks, especially in the back, which I can see plainly from the choir loft. I can’t abide a bad haircut, especially on a public figure.
“Good morning, Callie...ladies.” He takes in the semi-drunk state of my passengers without comment, and I know he won’t tell it, either. He may have ugly hair, but he’s got a good heart. “What brings you here this fine day?”
“Bad news, I’m afraid. When I went to work this morning I found the groom dead in my beauty shop.”
“Oh, dear. Heart attack?”
“Don’t know yet.” I don’t mention the possibility of murder, and most certainly not the weapon. No use adding fuel to the fire of gossip that is sure to sweep Mooreville within the hour. “There won’t be a wedding today.”
“Poor Trixie. Does she know yet?”
“The sheriff’s probably on his way over to the Moffett’s house right now.”
“I’d better hurry, then. She’ll need all the comfort she can get.”
I wave goodbye then set off to Leonora’s where her mother Jewel meets me in the front yard.
“I heard what happened.”
Like I said, news travels fast in Mooreville.
After we get Leonora into the house, Jewel tells me she’ll take me back to the beauty shop, then take everybody else home. Although I’m no quitter, I agree. I’m tired of dealing with hysterical bridesmaids.
Besides, I have lots to tell Lovie. But first I’ve got to go home and check on Elvis.
o0o
It’s a pure relief to get back to my little white cottage in the heart of downtown Mooreville. I’ve been living here ever since I bought Hair.Net in spite of the fact that Mama wanted me to live with her after Jack and I split up.
“No use staying in that house all by yourself and making house payments when you can live with me for free,” she said. “And besides, what will I do out here on this farm all by myself if I suddenly keel over with a heart attack?”
“Good grief, Mama, I’m five minutes away. Besides, I’m no dead beat.”
“I know. But who will take care of you now that you’ve let Jack get away?”
Mama thinks Jack Jones walks on water, and she never misses an opportunity to advance his case.
She and I are polar opposites. She shows no restraint whatsoever, and I try to discipline myself… except with music and sex and the color pink. Mostly pink and music because other opportunities haven’t presented themselves since I split up with Jack.
But don’t think I’m the kind of girl who ever gives up hope!
Mama won’t let a subject alone, though, and she didn’t shut up about me living with her until Lovie, who is Uncle Charlie’s daughter, promised she’d take good care of me.
“If your cousin’s going to look after you, I guess you’ll be all right,” is what Mama said, which was like saying the snake is going to keep sin out of the Garden of Eden.
I just kept my mouth shut and let Mama hang onto her comforting fiction.
Not that Lovie’s a snake, by any stretch of the imagination. She’s my very best friend and a fabulous caterer. She excels at lemon cream pies, soufflés that don’t fall and listening to any problem you’re willing to tell. The reason she’s not the one you’d ask to chaperone your daughter is that she, too, knows no restraint. But unlike Mama, whose taste runs to gambling without regard to her means, Lovie’s taste runs to cooking and eating, gossip and fun, not necessarily in that order and every bit of it in excess.
I park in my driveway and hurry toward the front porch. I love my little house. It has these beautiful old brick floors on the wraparound front porch and hardwood all over the house. The ceilings are high, and I’ve put ceiling fans everywhere.
I go inside to find Elvis. He’s not on his pink guitar shaped pillow dozing, nor is he in the kitchen chowing down from his doggie feeder.
“Elvis!” When he doesn’t come running to lick my ankles, I start to worry. Jack and Lovie tell me I worry too much, but somebody in the family has to do it.
I go into the back yard, expecting to see Elvis sitting in the gazebo letting the breeze blow his ears back.
“Holy cow!” There’s a hole dug under the fence and not a sign of my darling little basset hound. Well, most of the time he’s darling, except when he drags out that ratty old Elvis wig and acts like he’s the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Then there’s no use whatsoever trying to tell him what to do.
I whip out my cell phone and call Jack.
“Jack, did you come by here and get Elvis?”
“Why?” This irritates me no end. Why does he answer a question with another one?
“I thought you might be taking him for a ride on the Harley.”
“Are you telling me, my dog is missing?”
“Elvis is my dog, if you’ll care to remember. And here you are making me feel worse when I already feel like a negligent doggie mom.”
“Don’t worry, Cal. I think I know where he might be. I’ll take care of everything.”
See. That’s what I love about Jack Jones. When
his voice gets all soft and sexy and he assures me he’ll take care of everything, I feel like somebody has crowned me Queen of Everything. Of course, that’s the title Mama and Lovie claim, which reminds me that I want to talk to my cousin.
Knowing Elvis is in good hands with Jack, I add extra dog chow to the feeder, and then climb into my Dodge Ram and head to Tupelo.
I park in front of Lovie’s pink cottage on Robins Street and bail out. I smell her good cooking even out on the sidewalk.
When Lovie cooks, she always makes extras for whoever shows up, even if they stop by without calling.
I knock on her door, and she yells, “Coming.”
“What are you doing away from the beauty shop this time of day?” is the way she greets me. “I thought you were doing the bridesmaids’ hair.”
Her own red hair (cleverly colored by yours truly) is stuck to her head in damp ringlets from the hot stove, and she’s wearing bright turquoise leggings and a low-cut top with her apron. Not many women her size would expose that much flesh, but Lovie gets by with it because she has such a sparkling personality you hardly ever notice the overflow.
“You might as well stop icing the petit fours, Lovie. There’s not going to be a wedding reception.”
“What do you mean, no reception? I’ve got a hundred pounds of shrimp iced down!”
“You might want to sit down,” I tell her, but she keeps standing in the doorway fanning herself with her apron. “I found Jim Boy dead in my beauty shop. Murdered.”
Lovie backs into her living room and goes down like the Titanic. I sit in her red velvet wing chair because I think the couch might be close to collapse, she’s gone down so hard.
It takes her about two seconds to recover, which is one of the many remarkable things about her.
“Well…that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why not?” My generous heart notwithstanding, I like to be as well informed as the next woman.
“Because Mabel threatened to cut off her prospective son-in-laws balls if he didn’t stop tomcatting around.”
“When did you find this out?”
“Last week. When we were consulting about what kind of filling she wanted in the quiche.”
