Elvis and the Bridegroom Stiffs (A Southern Cousins Mystery)

by Webb, Peggy

  It’s true what Lovie said about Jim Boy’s tomcatting ways. Everybody in town knows it, except Trixie. Or maybe she knows and doesn’t care on account of all that money he has. Or had.

  Be that as it may, Mabel is no cold blooded killer.

  “I may never forgive you for withholding interesting gossip from me, Lovie.”

  “I’ll bet you will when I tell you my news…over a plate of bacon quiche and a glass of Prohibition punch?”

  “Why not?” Stress always makes me hungry, and Lovie’s always willing to share. My customers are amazed that I eat so much and still manage to maintain a size six. “Metabolism,” is what I tell them, “It’s all about metabolism and exercise.”

  I follow Lovie into her state-of-the-art kitchen. It has green tile counter tops and the walls are this lush shade of rosy red. And you ought to see her bedroom walls. Purple. With decorator touches of sparkles everywhere. Mama says Lovie’s house looks like a bordello, but I say, “Whatever floats your boat.”

  I perch on a bar stool.

  “What news, Lovie?”

  “You know that cute bartender I was dating before Rocky and I made up? Tom Abbott?” Lovie heaps two plates and pours two glasses of cure.

  “I was with you when you met him. Remember?”

  We’d been at Woody’s - this upscale restaurant in Tupelo that happens to have a very popular bar - Lovie hugging a glass of beer and me singing karaoke.

  “You ought to let Tom fix you up with a friend, Cal. That would make Jack Jones sit up and take notice.”

  “A bartender?”

  “Are you being a snob?”

  “No, I’m just not in the mood for games. It was my scissors that killed Jim Boy.”

  Lovie says a word that curdles my quiche. “You’re not a suspect, are you?”

  “I should hope not. If the sheriff doesn’t have better sense than that, he ought to turn in his badge. Can I have some more quiche, and some petit fours, too? I’m starving.”

  “Might as well. I’ve got enough for two hundred.”

  “You know, Lovie, with Jim Boy leaving a trail of broken-hearted women a mile wide, his killer could be any woman in Mooreville.”

  “Or man, either, for that matter. I heard he wasn’t picky about marital status.”

  “True. Never underestimate the vengeance of a cuckold.”

  “Only you would use that word. Better watch it, Callie. Somebody besides me will find out about your dirty little secret.”

  “What dirty little secret?”

  “That big IQ you take such pains to hide.”

  “Shoot, I like pink fingernail polish as well as the next girl.”

  “Why don’t you try letting your big brain loose, see what happens?”

  Before I have time to defend my position, Lovie’s telephone rings. Thanks to Lovie’s speaker phone, I can hear Jack’s big booming voice all the way across the kitchen.

  “Lovie, is Callie there?”

  “Yes, she is,” my cousin tells him, just as smooth as one of her lemon cream pies. “What can I do for you?”

  “Tell her to get down to the sheriff’s office. Trice needs to ask her a few more questions. He might even have to fingerprint her.”

  Lovie has to sit down again, and I catch the hanging copper pots to keep them from rattling

  “Holy cow! I heard that, Jack.”

  “Don’t worry, Cal,” he says. “I’ll be there.”

  “I thought you were out looking for my dog.”

  “First things first. Elvis is not on the way to jail.”

  “Sheriff Trice will put me in jail over my dead body.”

  I hang up Lovie’s phone before Jack can get in another word.

  She reaches for a slice of quiche and eats half of it in one bite.

  “If they put you in jail, Cal, you can count on me to get you out.”

  “I hope nobody has to post bail.”

  “Who said anything about bail? I was talking about picking the lock.”

  o0o

  The minute I walk through the front door of the sheriff’s office, Jack leans close and says, “Cal, have you been drinking?

  Every deputy in the room turns in my direction.

  “I guess I have, Jack,” I tell him in my loudest stage voice. “You probably ought to take me to bed.”

  He catches my arm, marches me into a tacky office that could use a good dusting, then watches while the sheriff inks my fingers. Some men have no sense of humor.

  Elvis’ Opinion #2 on Courting, Truck Stop Cuisine and Broken Hearts

  Wouldn’t you know that silly spaniel Hoyt follows me through the hole in Callie’s back fence. I try to tell him this little outing will separate the men from the boys, but he just wags his tail and tags along. Since I’m going to have his company whether I want it or not, I might as well make it a threesome.

  Following my expert lead, Hoyt cuts through the neighbor’s yard, huffing to keep up with the Top Dog. That’s yours truly. I decide to give him a break, and stop to mark a few trees. After Hoyt catches his breath, we’re off and running again, my mismatched ears flying out like helicopter blades.

  We approach Gas, Grits and Guts from the back, where I know Jarvetis’ best redbone hound dog will be taking a nap in the winter sun. Trey perks up when he sees me, and I set to work busting him out of the joint. Listen, I’m the King. There’s no end to my many talents. And don’t think I haven’t seen Lovie pick enough locks to learn the trick. It’s just a little harder without digits, that’s all.

  With Trey free, the three of us lope off in the direction of Mooreville’s Truck Stop. I get a whiff of something good in the air. At first I think it might be that legendary beagle babe, but it turns out to be leftovers. The three of us attack them like it’s been a week since our last meal, but I can tell you right now, this truck stop cuisine leaves something to be desired. Lovie could teach them a thing or two about cooking, and even my human daddy, Jack, could show them around a skillet full of scrambled eggs.

  We leave the garbage can, and that stupid spaniel flops down to take a nap while Trey and I stroll around the premises looking for ways to get into trouble. He’s got his heart set on chasing a rabbit rumored to frequent the truck stop, but I’m on the hunt for bigger things, namely a beagle I hear is stacked to the max and breaking hearts at every turn.

  Wait till she meets the King. I’ll have her singing “Love Me Tender” before she even tells me her name.

  She’s nowhere in sight, and even that saggy old collie who fancies herself a femme fatale is nowhere to be seen. Not only have I struck out, but I’m also busted.

  Jack’s big Harley coasts to a stop, and he sits there astraddle his big machine like he owns the world.

  “I thought I’d find you here.” He grabs my doggie helmet and hops off to fasten it on. “Any luck, old boy?”

  I could preach him a sermon about courting, but he won’t take my advice. I keep trying to tell him, he needs to make Callie yearn for him by acting like he’s got other fish to fry, but I reckon these humans are slow learners.

  “I see you brought your friends.”

  He scoops up Hoyt and Trey then puts them in the sidecar. There’s barely room for my ample self, but I’m not complaining. How many other dogs get to sport about Lee County in a specially made helmet with a man who is rumored to be the most dangerous undercover agent in The Company. I know this because of my radar ears. I can hear both ends of a telephone conversation from the next room. Of course, I heard that little tidbit in person. Charlie Valentine speaks his mind around me. He knows I’m a dog to be trusted. He was a Company man himself, and like Ruby Nell, he thinks Jack Jones walks on water.

  Now, if we can all convince Callie to come around to the same opinion, there’ll be another wedding in beautiful downtown Mooreville.

  Jack revs that big Harley, and we set out for home. I lift my paw and give a little salute in the direction of the Mooreville Truck Stop. I’ll be back, and one of these
days, that fine beagle babe will be waiting.

  Chapter Three

  Motives, Fertilizer and Udder Ointment

  By the time I get through talking to Sheriff Trice, Jack’s Harley is long gone. I climb into my truck, whip out my cell phone and call Lovie.

  “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re the prime suspect.”

  “Right now I’m the only suspect.”

  “What in the world are you going to do, Cal?”

  “I’m not going to sit still and let the sheriff lock me up for a crime somebody else committed. I’ve got to find out who did it.”

  “Not without me, you don’t.”

  “Well, get your fancy butt over here.”

  “I can’t right now. If I don’t do something with this shrimp, the whole neighborhood will be stinking by evening. Just don’t get yourself killed without me.”

  “Don’t you dare tell Mama about all this. Nor Uncle Charlie, either. Mama would have a conniption, and he’d worry.”

  “They’re bound to find out sooner or later.”

  “Better later than sooner. ‘Bye, Lovie. I gotta go.”

  “Where to?”

  “Who do you figure had the most motive to kill Jim Boy?”

  “Roy Jessup. He and Trixie were a hot item in Mooreville before Jim Boy came along.”

  “Of course. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ Or a man, either.”

  “Don’t do anything dangerous or kinky until I can be there. I don’t want to miss all the fun.”

  I make a promise, but I’ve got my fingers crossed so it won’t count.

  I head straight to Jessup’s Farm and Feed Store. It’s located by Moffett’s Used Car Lot on the south side of the intersection, directly across from my beauty shop. There’s only one intersection in Mooreville and that’s where highway 178 crosses highway 371. Though traffic has picked up considerably in the last year - mainly because my tanning bed made such a hit - we still don’t have a traffic light. Just a four-way stop which is like negotiating through hell (pardon my French) during the rush hour.

  We only have one rush hour here in Mooreville, and that’s early in the morning when everybody who doesn’t farm is trying to get to jobs in the nearby towns of Tupelo or Fulton. Of course, the flea market Fayrene has on the lawn of Gas, Grits and Guts every weekend creates a jam, but progress always has its price.

  Fortunately, it’s too late for the rush hour and the Saturday flea market crowd is beginning to thin out, so I whiz right to Farm and Feed where I find Roy debating the merits of blue tick hounds versus redbone with Fayrene’s husband Jarvetis. I think the topic odd considering the fact that murder had been committed under their noses only a few hours earlier.

  Roy nods and Jarvetis tips his Mississippi State Bulldog cap. Around here you’ve either a fan of State or Ole Miss (the University of Mississippi, for those of you who don’t know) and never the twain shall meet.

  “Just so you know,” Jarvetis tells me, “when I saw the sheriff’s car at your shop this morning, I wanted to come over and offer my assistance, but Fayrene said I ought to mind my own business.”

  “It’s the creed I live by,” Roy says. To my finely honed detective ears it sounds like he’s protesting too much.

  “Can we go into your office, Roy? I have something urgent to discuss with you.”

  Jarvetis picks up a forty pound sack of dog food. “I was just getting ready to leave. Fayrene’ll send the posse if I don’t get on back.”

  Roy leads me to the back storage room where he can do all manner of things to me, considering what I’m thinking he did to Jim Boy. Be that as it may, I plan to play it cool and interview him under the feminine guise of asking his advice. Anyhow, Jarvetis has seen Roy lead me back here, so if he kills me, he’d have to kill the witness. I don’t picture Roy as the mass murderer type…only a jilted man who might kill in the heat of passion.

  His so-called office is a large room, steamy in summer and drafty in winter, filled with sacks of everything from fertilizer to dog food. You can barely find his desk leaning against a wall covered with shelves and bins of nails, screws, lug bolts, washers, horse shoes, horse lineament, udder ointment, bug spray, rose food, rat traps and tools of every size and description.

  I am standing in a male paradise. Or female, if she happens to be the do-it-yourself, roughing-it type. I’m not sexist.

  Standing alone in that vast space with nobody but a murder suspect to keep me company and nothing but the acrid smells of fertilizer to comfort me, I’ll have to admit that I’m a little scared.

  But not enough to back down. I’m no quitter.

  “I’m thinking of getting a cat, Roy.”

  “A cat?”

  “For my beauty shop. A sort of mascot. I don’t know whether to go with a Persian or a Siamese. Or maybe just a plain old cat.”

  “Well, Callie.” Roy scratches his head. “Congratulations, I guess. But I don’t know what you need me for.”

  “You’re an expert on animals and what kind of food they eat, and all that, Roy. I don’t want to rush off and buy a Persian if you advise me a Siamese would be best.”

  There’s not a man in this world who doesn’t respond to flattery, even when it’s obvious a woman is using it as a ploy to get what she wants.

  Lovie is always telling me, “Men like to give you what you want. And that includes Jack Jones.”

  I can’t even think about my almost-ex right now. If I do I might cry. How we went from being on the brink of renewing our vows to exchanging verbal daggers is a mystery to me.

  I drag my mind back to Roy. While he holds forth on cats, I case the room, in a manner of speaking. In a brilliant burst of hindsight, I realize I should have waited for Lovie so she could snoop while I talk. I have to settle for glancing around the room. And sure enough, right there on his desk is the first incriminating piece of evidence: an eight by ten color photograph of Trixie sporting a cute feather cut (compliments of yours truly).

  Jilted lovers don’t keep pictures of the ex around unless there are powerful emotions simmering beneath the surface. I’ve only been jilted once (by that Elvis impersonator I met before Jack Jones came on the scene), and I was so mad at him I tore his picture into pieces and flushed it down the toilet. But not before I’d peed on it. Psychic separation. It’s good for the soul.

  “That’s a great picture of Trixie,” I say. Roy reaches over and turns it face down, which doesn’t daunt me in the least. “I hear you had bought her a beautiful engagement ring.”

  “That low life son of a gun. He wasn’t worthy to tie the laces on her shoes.”

  Jackpot. Only two minutes into my interrogation, and already I’d provoked the suspect to rage.

  “He never even gave you a chance to set the wedding date, did he?”

  I’m repeating gossip from Lovie, which means it’s pretty straight. It all happened around Thanksgiving. Jim Boy moved from Memphis (Lovie says he was run out of town) and started spreading his daddy’s money around like it was jam and Mooreville was the toast. He drove into Hank Moffett’s used car lot that day in his big red Cadillac looking for a used truck for the country place he’d just bought, and drove off with the Moffett’s daughter Trixie.

  Roy slams his fist onto the desk. “If anybody deserved killing it was that yellow-bellied snake.”

  “You think somebody killed him?” I make myself sound meek and frightened, and Roy falls for it.

  “Heck, Callie, I didn’t mean to scare you, but there’s yellow tape all around your beauty shop. That means it’s a crime scene.”

  Well, shoot. Just when I thought I was onto something. Still, I’m not one to go down in flaming defeat, so I stand there and make small talk about dating in general and Jim Boy in particular, hoping to unearth some evidence.

  All I get is, “You be careful, Callie. You never know what’s going to happen these days,” plus an offer to call a friend in Memphis who breeds Siamese c
ats.

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

  I step outside and straight into disaster. Lovie has arrived, and Roy Jessup’s bad seed nephew from Birmingham has her backed up against a stack of fertilizer. Lovie’s madder than fire.

  “Billy Jessup, if you don’t take your hands off my National Treasure, I’m going to knock you clear into next Sunday.”

  “Give it your best shot, Lovie.” He lifts his aviator sunglasses and winks at her.

  Since when did Billy Jessup get so good looking? The last time I saw him, he was a pimply-faced teenager with a scrawny butt. He’s still a teenager, if beauty shop gossip is right, and it usually is. Eighteen, I think, the legal age for all kinds of trouble, and the way Lovie is glaring at him, I’d say trouble is about half a minute away.

  “Billy!” I call his name is if he’s the man I’ve been looking for all my life. “What brings you to Mooreville?”

  He has the good grace to turn Lovie loose and greet me with a smile that’s sexy, bordering on devastating. Holy cow! No wonder he’s acting like he’s God’s gift to women.

  “I flunked out of my freshman semester at Auburn, and Mother sent me over here hoping Uncle Roy could straighten me out.”

  “You can start by keeping your hands to yourself,” Lovie says.

  “I like to give older women a thrill,” he says.

  Lovie says a word that fogs his sunglasses.

  “The next time you try that, mister, you’re going to lose prized body parts.” She grabs me my arm. “Get me out of here, Cal, before I commit murder with a sharp tongue.”

  We head straight to my house where I turn on the Christmas tree lights, make two cups of hot chocolate then sit on the sofa with Lovie and hash over everything Roy Jessup said.

  That’s how Jack Jones finds us. I shut up about murder the minute he walks through the door. I also shut my mind to the fact that he makes me want to pull him down to the rug and unwrap him like the best Christmas gift under the tree.

  “I found Elvis,” Jack says, and my dog sashays in, not the least bit contrite. “Hoyt was with him, too. Looks like the boys went courting.”

  “You sweet old cuddlebums!” I get on the floor and end up with a lapful of dogs. “You shouldn’t scare me like that.”