Elvis and the Bridegroom Stiffs (A Southern Cousins Mystery)

by Webb, Peggy

  After I’d finish talking, Mama says, “Why do you think I took up Wednesday night bingo? Gambling’s easier than men.”

  I don’t know if it’s the late hour or the Jack Daniels talking, but that’s the first time Mama has ever called her favorite pastime by its real name.

  “Amen, Mama. This calls for another cup of hot tea.”

  “Forget the tea. Let’s just get the Jack Daniels.”

  “You sit still. I’ll get it, Mama.”

  I head toward the kitchen and she calls after me, “Everything is going to be all right.”

  I don’t know why this old platitude makes me feel better.

  o0o

  It’s nearly eleven when I get back home the next morning, and I have a headache bigger than Elvis’ ego. The first thing I see is the silver jag in my parking space. I’m not in the mood for Jack, and I’m too hung over to yell at him.

  He’s waiting for me on the front porch, looking delicious, might I add? For reasons too numerous to name, that makes me so mad I could spit.

  “You look like something the cat dragged in,” Jack says.

  “Those are mighty big words, coming from a man who is hogging my parking space. What are you doing here, anyhow?”

  “Visiting my dog.”

  “Well, you can just unvisit. I have more important things to do than deal with you.”

  “Don’t you even want to know if I found out who locked you in last night?”

  “Unless you’re omniscient, you haven’t found out this fast. The last time I looked, you weren’t God.”

  “No, but I’m close.”

  If anybody else was standing on my porch talking sacrilege I’d be spitting mad. But this is Jack, and as much as it pains me to admit, he’s in a whole category by himself. Right now, though, I don’t even want to think what category that is.

  He makes a move in my direction, and I swear it looks like he has kissing and making up on his mind.

  “Jack Jones, if you take another step, I swear to you I won’t be responsible for what I’ll do.”

  My threat comes off sounding more like the weakening of a woman under siege who just wants to hide in the comfort of Jack’s arms. Which is not far from the truth.

  To top it off, he’s looking at me now with that old love-me-tender look I never could resist.

  “Jack, please. Just let me dress for the funeral.”

  “All right, Cal. But we’re not finished.”

  You can take that all kinds of ways, and you’d be correct with every one of them. He climbs into his Jag and I march into my house and up the stairs where I throw myself onto the bed. My plan is to wallow in pity as while longer, but wouldn’t you know Jack slept in my bed? The scent of his aftershave is on my pillow and I’m getting other ideas.

  I pop up and strip my sheets. I don’t care how long this takes. If I’m late to the funeral, the rest of the Valentines will carry on. If there’s one thing you can say about my family, it’s that we have death covered, no matter what angle you’re looking for.

  I get the sheets washing, and then put on a blush colored wool suit and a pair of Kate Spade pumps I’ve been dying to show off since I ordered them from Neiman’s on an after-Thanksgiving sale.

  On the way to Eternal Rest, my truck decides to die. Smoke puffs up from under the hood, and I ease off the street and into the parking lot of Kroger’s grocery store. It would be so easy to call Lovie, who is only a few blocks away and could pick me up in a New York minute. Of course, Uncle Charlie would come, too, but I’m not about to call him away from the funeral home right in the middle of the big event.

  In spite of my light colored suit that will show every spot, I pop the hood, then got out to see if I can diagnose the problem.

  A smart woman living alone (that would be me) knows a thing or two about what goes on under the hood of a car. After I kicked Jack out I took a course in powder puff mechanics. The teacher, a portly earnest mechanic named Hal, told his students, “When you change oil, you don’t have to buy that erotic kind….unless you have a Ferrari or one of them erotic cars.”

  In spite of his tentative grasp on the English language, he taught me enough to demystify my truck.

  “I hope I’m you’re not short on erotic oil,” I tell my faithful Dodge. “I’m about a quart low, myself.”

  “I can fix that.”

  I turn around to see Billy Jessup standing there with a six pack of Mountain Dew and a grin as big as Kansas.

  “Holy cow, Billy. Where did you come from?”

  “The grocery store. I was headed fishing when I saw you up here bent over your truck.” He leans back to survey the territory. “Nice a…”

  “Assuming you want to live to see nineteen, you’d better keep that kind of commentary to yourself.”

  “I’m not scared of my uncle.”

  “I’m not talking about your uncle.”

  After he finishes laughing, he looks under my hood and clucks his tongue a couple of time. When he emerges, he has a streak of grease on his cheek that enhances his devil-may-care good looks. Too bad he’s just a kid.

  “Oil gasket blew,” he says. “You don’t need to drive it till you get a new one.”

  “I’m just going a few blocks. To Eternal Rest Funeral Home.”

  “You’re liable to catch fire with all that oil on your hot manifold.”

  I start to tell him, “I haven’t had a hot manifold in so long, a fire would be a welcome change.” Fortunately I keep my ribald comment to myself. No sense stirring his teenaged hormones up any more than they already are.

  “Well, shoot. I guess I’ll have to call Uncle Charlie to come and get me.”

  “I’ll give you a lift then I’ll put on a new gasket. After the funeral your truck will be sitting right here in the Kroger lot, ready to go.”

  “I hate to ruin your fishing trip.”

  “I’d rather take a spin with a foxy chick anytime.”

  We cause quit a stir when we arrive and I climb down from Billy’s truck. By night, the story will be on the tongues of everybody in Mooreville, and it won’t even resemble the truth.

  Naturally Jack’s the first one to barrel through the front door. I can tell by the set of his mouth he’s going to light into us.

  “Don’t you say a word, Jack Jones.”

  For once, he doesn’t, and I march into the funeral home to catch a killer.

  But first I check out the break room to see if my arch enemy is there. There’s no sign of the almost-boyfriend stealer, Lovie Valentine. With one complication removed, I can check out the mourners in peace. But first I need the fortification of a good, strong cup of coffee.

  “Callie? Callie, is that you?”

  It’s Jewel Moffett with every hair in place, wearing her new perfume and a black dress that shows how well she’s kept her figure for a woman her age. If beauty-shop gossip is right, and it most usually is, she’s forty-five.

  “I saw you down here at the coffee pot and I had to come back and say thank you for being such a good friend to Leonora last night.”

  “No problem.”

  “She told me the two of you had a little chat, and that you were very sympathetic about….” Jewel dropped her voice to a whisper. “…the condition she’s in.”

  “It’s an unfortunate complication.”

  Jewel puts her hand on her chest in the age-old gesture of mothers whose daughters are breaking their hearts.

  “Poor child. She’s so distraught. I suppose she told you everything.”

  I’m anxious to get away and start checking out suspects, but I would never be rude to one of my customers. I lean in close and pat Jewel’s hand.

  “Don’t worry. The secret is safe with me. I have no intention of maligning the dead.”

  “I knew I could count on you, Callie.”

  Jewel walks with me to the viewing room, and I’m beginning to think I’ll be stuck with her for the entire funeral, but she spots Leonora and walks off, thank goodness.<
br />
  I turn my attention to a woman standing beside the second Mrs. Sloan, a blond wearing too much makeup and an old-fashioned shag haircut that makes her face look pinched. She looks about fifty, just right to be the older woman from Memphis. And she has a killer body, just the type Jim Boy liked. Suddenly she leans over the casket and puts something inside. I’m dying to know what.

  As I head her way I see Leonora shake off her mother’s arm and join Roy Jessup and Trixie on the sofa. With three suspects lined up in row, I temporarily abandon the latest suspect so I can focus on the little drama taking place on the sofa.

  I can tell by her reddened nose that Trixie has been crying heavily. Thanks to the waterproof mascara and all-day lipstick I’d steered her toward, her makeup is still in place. On the other hand, Leonora looks even more distraught than she had the night before.

  Trixie takes a look at her cousin, then spills across Roy Jessup, who is caught in the middle. As the cousins hold onto each other, Roy looks like he wishes he was anyplace except the funeral parlor.

  He hates Jim Boy, so there are only two reasons for him to be at the funeral: he’s trying to get back on Trixie’s good side or he’s gloating.

  It’s also clear from the way Trixie and Leonora are hugging, that Trixie knows nothing of her cousin’s baby. With the powerful motive of jealously wiped out, she’s quickly slipping off the list of people who might have wanted Jim Boy dead.

  Of course, how do I know? Trying to wring a confession out of the guilty has turned into a risky business. Even though I’ve set a pretty good record in helping catch a killer, I don’t know a thing about criminal justice. And I certainly don’t want to die at the age of 30 (well, a little more, if I want my tombstone to be correct).

  I wish I was home curled up on my bed with a good book. As a matter of fact, I’m planning to do just that – ditch my amateur sleuthing efforts and go back to my life BJBSM (before Jim Boy Sloan’s murder). Before I can act on that thought, Jack appears out of nowhere and blocks my way to the door.

  “You look down, Callie. Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Last night you were in pretty bad shape.”

  “For your information, when I loll around naked in a man’s arms he has the good sense to refrain from negative comments about my shape.”

  “I’ll remember that next time.”

  “Two-timer,” I say, then walk off in a huff. How dare he make suggestive remarks with me while carrying on with my cousin. I can’t wait to tell Lovie.

  I’m out the door before I remember that I ‘m no longer speaking to Lovie and that I don’t even have a ride back to my truck. Fortunately my anger rekindles my desire to catch the killer, preferably before Jack Jones does. That’ll teach him to order me around.

  He grins when I pass back by. Darned his hide. I just straighten my shoulders and keep on going. I find Uncle Charlie, who is in the break room having a cup of coffee and a piece of Lovie’s angel food cake. Made with twelve eggs. I know because it was our Grandmother Valentine’s recipe. I could get bogged down in sentimentality if I let myself, but I press on, a woman with a mission.

  “Uncle Charlie, who is that woman with Jim Boy’s stepmother?”

  “She signed in as Vern Luckett.”

  “Is she from Memphis?”

  “I believe so. I heard somebody say she owns a fitness center on Poplar.” He sips his coffee while he studies me over the rim of his cup. I know that look. Uncle Charlie is gearing up to give me some advice. He doesn’t do that very often (for which I am eternally grateful), so when he does, I pay attention. “Are you and Lovie still on the outs?”

  “Yes, you could say that.” We haven’t spoken to each other in twenty-four hours, a record for us.

  “The best way to makeup is throw a party, ask her to cater. She never could resist a chance to roast a rump for two hundred.”

  “I’ll think about it, Uncle Charlie.” What I don’t say is that I’m not sure I’m ready to make up. “After the funeral can you take me to Kroger to pick up my truck? I had a little trouble on the way here.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I kiss him on the cheek, then go back into the viewing room to see what Vern Luckett put in the casket.

  Chapter Nine

  Roses, Suspects and Hot Fudge Bribery

  Jim Boy looks natural lying against white silk, just the way I’d fixed him with one notable exception: a red rose is tucked in his folded hands. Shakespeare’s sonnet number 35 pops into my mind:

  No more be griev’d at that which thou hast done:

  Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;

  Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,

  And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

  Vern Luckett might as well have left a calling card for murder. She’s no longer in the viewing room, but sitting on the sofa in the anteroom holding the hand of Sylvia Sims Sloan. Mr. Sloan is nowhere to be seen.

  I head their way.

  “Mrs. Sloan, in about five minutes we’ll be asking the family to come back inside for a few moments alone with the deceased.” Up close, I get a good look at the woman sitting next to her. Vern’s face could be a before shot of how not to apply makeup, and her hair is not real. If I get the chance, I’ll steer her in the direction of a good wig. “I hope you and Mr. Sloan are pleased with the way we’ve handled arrangements.”

  “Yes, thank you. You’ve taken care of things very nicely.” There are a few tear tracks on her face. I think she’s genuinely grieving Jim Boy.

  “Callie…that’s right isn’t it?” I nod, and Sylvia says, “This is my friend Vern, Lavern Luckett. She takes care of me.”

  “That’s what friends are for.” Good friends, that is.

  “I own a fitness center called Forever Fit,” Vern says. She’s smooth, perhaps too smooth. When she pulls out her business card, I decide she definitely has something to hide. She’s pulling the old purloined letter trick – hide the evidence in plain view, or in this case, disguise the guilt as eagerness to cooperate. “Come up and see us sometime.”

  From the direction of the chapel, the organ cranks up. Mama is in charge of the music, a duty she accepts with gusto. The only problem with Mama is that her fondness for Broadway overrides her sense of decorum. The way she’s ripping out “When the Saints Go Marching In,” you’d think you were at a dance hall instead of a funeral home. Still, everybody seems to like her lively style. If you want further proof, just check at the tombstones she sells at Everlasting Monuments. So and So boogied up to heaven, if he loves dancing, or So and So caught the last train to Glory and is now tooting his own horn, if he happened to play the trumpet.

  I wish I’d brought Elvis. Usually I do. He loves to wander around and get petted, and it seems to make the mourners feel better. But when the deceased has been murdered, you don’t want to present a laid-back attitude.

  Uncle Charlie is headed our way. When he sees me, he nods, and I help him usher the family back into the viewing room. While they say their last goodbyes to Jim Boy, I look at the faces of the assembled mourners. There’s nothing new to see, nothing suspicious, at least to my untrained but highly intelligent mind.

  By the time the funeral is over and Uncle Charlie drives me back to my truck, I’m ready for some peace and quiet. The note I find on the seat of my truck blows that dream out of the water.

  You can thank me for the new gasket by going bowling with me tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear tight jeans. Billy

  Good grief, would this kid never quit? Now I’ll have to see him again, just to tell him to cool it.

  It’s four o’clock by the time I get back home, and I’m in a snit. The last thing I need is Lovie knocking and calling at my door before I even got out of my shoes.

  “Callie, open up.” Maybe she’ll go away. I kick off my shoes and put them back in their box. Listen, when you pay an arm and leg for a pair of shoes, you want to take
care of them.

  “I know you’re in there. Your truck’s in the driveway. Come on, Callie. I want to talk to you.”

  For a minute I consider leaving her on the front porch, but knowing Lovie, she’ll just stand out there and air our grievances in public. We’re alike in that regard - stubborn. Where we veer off into sharp right angles is in principle – my high ones and her low.

  Standing in bare feet I jerk open the door.

  “All right, come on in. But I don’t have anything further to say on the subject of boyfriend snatching.”

  Lovie waves a pan of hot fudge brownies under my nose, and believe me, I’m tempted. But I’m not about to give in to such blatant bribery.

  “I’m not hungry.” It’s a huge lie. I haven’t eaten since breakfast this morning at Mama’s, and I’m starving.

  “Good. That’s more for me. If you don’t mind, I’ll just sit here and eat all these myself.”

  She’s a devious person, eating and licking her fingers and rolling her eyes. I could smack her.

  “Excuse me,” I say, and then head to my bedroom and take my own sweet time changing into a purple caftan that Mama gave me because she forgot and bought two just alike, then was too embarrassed to take one back and swap it. What she said was, “I can’t do that. They’ll think I’m getting senile.”

  “You look like Aunt Ruby,” Lovie says, when I finally join her. She doesn’t mean it as a compliment either. I can tell by the way she makes her eyes look beady and mean.

  “Thank you very much, Lovie. You can leave now.”

  “Not before I’ve had my say.”

  “You can talk all you want. I’m not listening.”

  “Look, Callie, I would never go after Jack. He’s yours.”

  “Be my guest, Lovie. As you can see, I don’t care.”

  She says a word that melts the chocolate icing on her brownies.

  “I just carried him an angel food cake, that’s all.”

  “You know how much he likes it.”

  “Yes, but my intentions were honorable. For once. Besides, all I wanted was his advice.”