by Webb, Peggy
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Elvis’ Opinion #8 on the Memphis Woman, Graceland, and Really Bad Detective Work
Staying in a closed up truck, even if it is Callie’s kick-ass Dodge, is no way to spend a day in Memphis. I’d imagined myself strolling down Beale Street, maybe striking up a duet with some of the musicians like I used to back in the day of sequined jumpsuits and hit records. Still, I can tell you more about Vern from one little jaunt around the parking lot, than Callie and Lovie can find out all afternoon.
She is definitely Jim Boy’s Memphis woman. His scent is all over the place, and my famous nose never lies.
Here’s another little tidbit I picked up on my sniff-around. If Vern thinks she was Jim Boy’s only woman on the side, she’s fooling herself. He left behind enough clues to satisfy even a clever, sophisticated scent hound like yours truly. Don’t talk to me about bloodhounds. When it comes to sniffing out trouble, bassets have them beat by a mile.
Here come Callie and Lovie, at last. I’m hoping my human mom gets lost again going home so I can take another sentimental journey. Not that Graceland’s the same with all that security and all those tourists tromping by the jungle room, trying to recapture some of the magic of the King. Listen, in my heyday, that jungle room was filled with friends and music and laughter, something the world could use a little more of today.
Callie scoots behind the wheel, and Lovie takes up her half of the passenger seat and most of mine, too.
“Vern’s guilty,” Lovie says.
“Just because she hates Trixie and made several visits to Mooreville doesn’t mean she killed Jim Boy.”
“You didn’t see what I saw.”
“Lovie, I hate it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Go all dramatic like Mama. Just spit it out.”
Lovie says a word that raises the hackles on my back before she launches into her case to finger Vern for murder.
“First of all, there were enough condoms in the bathroom medicine cabinet to outfit a small army.”
“That could point to anybody, Lovie.”
“How about this, smarty pants?” Lovie holds up little plastic sandwich bag that contains a cufflink with the initials JBS.
“I can’t see that and drive. What is it?”
“A cuff link with Jim Boy’s initials.”
“Maybe he dropped it when he went to the bathroom.”
“I didn’t find it in the bathroom. It was in Vern’s little backroom down the hall.”
“There you go again, Lovie. What little backroom?”
“The one with the Arabian Nights curtains hung around a bed with red satin sheets.”
“Holy cow!”
“That’s not even the best part. Do you know what Vern had on the bedside table?”
“Good grief, Lovie!”
My human mom is so upset, she accidentally takes the road home. I crane my short but handsome neck as we whiz right past the turnoff to Graceland.
“A vase of red roses,” Lovie says. “The real thing!”
“Like the one she put in Jim Boy’s casket.”
“Bingo, Cal. I think we’ve got ourselves a killer.” Lovie passes the plastic bag to my human mom. “Here, you take this to Jack.”
“Did you touch it?”
“How do you think I survived being kidnapped in the jungle and mistaken for a fertility goddess? I have a brain, Cal.”
“Well, did you, Lovie?”
Lovie says another word that flattens my handsome basset ears.
“For your information, I picked the cuff link up with a pair of tweezers I found in the Vern’s medicine cabinet. Satisfied?”
“You don’t have to get so huffy.”
“Hunger makes me testy.”
“Holy cow, Lovie! How can you be hungry? We just had lunch!”
“That was two hours ago. Maybe you’re willing to martyr yourself for the cause, but I have no intention of dying from starvation.”
Lovie digs into her bag of home cooked goodies, and before you can say pass the PupPeroni, I’m chowing down on cheese straws with two really bad amateur detectives who are so confident they’ve found the Memphis woman and Jim Boy’s killer, they move on to something more exciting: namely, planning Callie’s Chistmas open house.
Chapter Thirteen
Confessions, Missing Clues and the Girl who Can’t Say No
Elvis and Hoyt are downstairs asleep by the Christmas tree; Lovie’s at her house getting her catering team ready and loading up enough goodies for two hundred (I hope), and I’m in my upstairs bedroom trying to decide whether to wear the slinky black party dress that makes me look sophisticated or the red dress that looks great with my red Prada heels.
“Wear the red one, Cal. I always loved you in red.”
“Jack! How in the world did you get in?”
“I still have my key. Remember?”
How could I forget? He put the star on my tree and in my eyes, to boot, and I forgot that he’s the same man who bought a Harley instead of a baby crib. Now, I’m standing here in my underwear, thanking my lucky stars that it’s the cute black lace set I got at Victoria’s secret instead of the serviceable white cotton I wore to Memphis because nylon makes me sweat.
Call me vain. Call me silly. You can even call me in love. I don’t care. What I do care about is trying to catch a killer before I try to figure out what I’m going to do about Jack Jones.
And speaking of the sexy, he’s stalking me like I’m a pot of cream and he’s a hungry cat.
He puts his hands on my bare shoulders and I can’t step out of his grasp, even if I want to. Which I do not. In the interest of catching a killer and getting to my very own party on time, I keep this big confession to myself.
“Why are you here?” As if I have to ask. With Jack, there’s always an ulterior motive.
“If I had time, I’d show you.” Jack hands send shivers along my arms, and I am once more reminded of what we threw away. He pats me on the bottom then stalks over to the red dress and tosses it in my direction. “Put this on.”
“Why?”
“I don’t need the distraction.”
To tell the truth, I don’t need to be nearly naked if this man is within a country mile of me. I hustle myself into the dress, and don’t even bother to pretend I don’t want to wear it because he did the choosing. Being the only suspect Jim Boy’s murder is going to be the death of me.
As I zip myself up, he says, “Lovie said you had some evidence from Memphis.”
“Holy cow!” I hustle over to my dresser and pull out the plastic bag with Jim Boy’s cuff link. “I’ve been so busy, I forgot.”
He grabs the evidence bag, and he’s none too happy, I can tell you.
“Cal, I want you and Lovie to stay out of this case.”
“If you’ll care to recall, I’m the one who cracked the Corky Kelly case.”
“I wouldn’t say you cracked it, Cal. More like, it came crashing down around you, and I picked up the pieces.”
“Fine, then. You go off with Sheriff Trice and do whatever men do while Lovie and I trap the killer at my party.”
“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight tonight, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“I’m never sad, Jack. Just a little blue every now and then.”
“Don’t try to change the subject, Cal. I’ll be at your Christmas open house and I’m packing heat.”
“I’ll say.”
That brings a grin out of him. It even softens him to the point that he walks over and gives me a genuine hug, one so gentle and heartfelt I tear up and almost mess up my mascara.
He tips my face toward his. “Tears, Cal? For me?”
“In your dreams, Jack Jones.”
I huff to the other side of the room and busy myself spritzing on perfume. But not his favorite, let me tell you. I leave that Jungle Gardenia sitting on the dresser and deliberately spray myself with a spicy scent Jack doesn’t like.
That does
n’t stop him from kissing me so thoroughly my toes curl under. He knows it, too. When he releases me, he’s smiling like a man who just made the cover of Fortune 500.
“Stay out of trouble tonight, Cal. I want you in one piece after all this is over.”
I’m not even gong to think about what that might mean. Instead, I pretend I don’t get this little heart-sick feeling when he walks out the door. It’s always been like that with Jack. Every time he leaves, I wonder if I’ll ever see him alive again. I put that thought behind me, too, and then I gather up my purse and head downstairs.
Lo and behold, Elvis is waiting at the front door with his little Santa cap in his mouth. He looks so cute I don’t have the heart to tell him he can’t go. Besides, all my customers are used to seeing him at Hair.Net. They’d probably think it strange if I showed up without him. Still, I don’t let Elvis know what a soft touch I am.
“All right. You can go. But don’t you steal the shish kebobs, and don’t try to con Lovie out of the rump roast, you hear me now?”
He does this little happy dance that makes his ears twirl, and then we load up in my truck and head to the party.
Naturally, Mama is already there. She swoops out of her Mustang convertible wearing a red caftan with so many sequins, she’d light up the airport runway. I wouldn’t be surprised if the jets passing over Mooreville toward Tupelo Airport make a mistake and land on the strip parking lot in front of Hair.Net.
Fayrene gets out right behind her, wearing a green pants with some kind of faux fur trim that looks like it needs a good haircut. Her hair is pulled back with rhinestone hairpins that bear a close resemblance to the one in the sheriff’s evidence bag.
“I came early so Fayrene and I can help,” Mama says. Translated, that means boss me around. Still, she’s Mama and I don’t know what I’d do without her. Fayrene, too, for that matter. She’s a Mooreville icon.
“Great, Mama. Just don’t get near the candles and set that caftan on fire.”
“Flitter. You ought to see the one I thought about wearing. By comparison, this one is subtle.”
If Mama is subtle, I’m a turnip.
“Fayrene,” I say, “is Jarvetis coming?”
“Somebody had to mind the store. Since only one of us could come, I thought it had best be me, since I’m the one who can perform VCR.”
“Let’s hope you won’t have to,” Mama says, and she doesn’t even crack a smile. I guess when you’re as close of the two of them, Fayrene starts sounding normal.
Lovie’s Lucious Eats van pulls up, and her staff gets out to set up folding tables in the front room of my beauty shop. Then we unload enough food to feed everybody in Lee County and half of Itawamba.
Lovie also brought pink table cloths covered with white stars that really set off my new pink chairs. They arrived from Memphis yesterday, and I’ll have to say they spruce things up quite a bit. Plus, the Christmas tree in the corner of the beauty shop over by Darlene’s manicure station is the perfect festive touch.
Somebody puts on a CD of Elvis Christmas songs. If Elvis had opposable digits, I’d say my dog did it, but probably it was Fayrene. She’s so crazy about Tupelo’s most famous son, she has a picture of him painted on velvet in her séance room.
Wouldn’t you know a car pulls up before we have all the petit fours laid out?
Lovie races to the window, and I yell, “Who is it?”
“You’re not going to believe this!”
“Holy cow, Lovie! Who is it?”
“It’s the maid of honor—with Trixie’s almost-groom!”
“We just buried him,” Fayrene says. “I’m going to have a Cadillac arrest.”
“Not Jim Boy,” Lovie says. “It’s Roy Jessup.”
Mama and I nearly knock each other over on our mad dash to the window. If there’s a new scandal brewing, Mama wants to be the first in the know. Naturally, I try to keep up with all the latest doings so I can be supportive when my clients discuss it at Hair.Net. I pride myself on running a shop that’s the hub of up-to-the-minute information.
Sure enough, Leonora is coming to the front door all cuddled up with Roy Jessup, who has his hair slicked back and is grinning like a ‘possum.
“What’s up with that?” Mama says.
Fayrene elbows her way to the window.
“All kinds of rumors have been floating around Gas, Grits and Guts about those two, but you know me. I’m no snatch. Still, I will tell you this: I heard Roy drank himself into Bolivia when Trixie dumped him.”
“Shh,” Mama says as they approach the door. “Act natural.”
She and Fayrene strike a pose that makes them look like they’ve been frozen in the act of stealing chickens.
Fortunately, Sheriff Trice pulls up and comes inside right on the tail of Leonora and Roy. Suddenly, my parking lot is sprouting cars, and everybody who is anybody troops through the front door of Hair.Net.
There’s that sweet Rocky Malone, who smiles as he makes a beeline for Lovie and me. Even the TV reporter, Cody Lacey, and his wife Patti are here, which just goes to show that my reputation in the world of beauty has spread far and wide.
Rocky leans down to kiss Lovie’s cheek, and though she’ll later profess that she wanted him to kiss her on the mouth in full view of everybody in Mooreville as well as half of Tupelo, I see how she lights up.
“What can I do to help, sweetheart?” he asks her.
“Mingle, listen to gossip, and repeat every word of it to me!” she says, and he roars with laughter, then heads off to strike up a conversation with Uncle Charlie.
“Doesn’t he know you’re not kidding?”
“I like to preserve a little mystery.” She winks. “Except when it comes to the National Treasure.”
“Good grief, Lovie. Forget about your National Treasure. We’ve got to catch a killer.”
I search the crowd trying to read faces and body language, but all I see are smiling people and my dog. Elvis trots through the crowd like he owns it, and he probably does. There’s something endearing about my basset that makes everybody want to bend over and pet him.
Still, the real star of the show is Lovie’s rump roast. Folks are lined three deep to load their plates.
The shop bell tinkles once more, and Lovie punches me in the ribs.
“Look who just stepped through the door, Cal.”
As if I could miss Jack Jones. Every eye in my shop is on him, including mine. He’s head and shoulders taller than any man there, and so drop-dread handsome that Alice Ann Street and Jewel Moffett go into a swoon.
He’s making a beeline for me when Fayrene cuts him off and stations herself by me. He ends up over by the Christmas tree, while I’m left to wonder why he was heading my way.
“Callie,” Fayrene says, “I know you pride yourself on your gracious hostility, but don’t you say a word to encourage that man. Play hard to get.”
“Mama tells me just the opposite.”
“When it comes to Jack, Ruby Nell’s prejudiced. I’d be eerie of her advice.”
Lovie puts her hand over her mouth to hold back a guffaw, and I’m hanging onto composure so hard, I’m about to wet my pants.
Suddenly Leonora takes center stage.
“Everybody, listen up!” She claps her hands and everybody turns her way. “I have a big announcement to make.”
Fayrene punches me in the ribs. “I could tell you what it is, but I think she’s trying for the elephant of surprise.”
Whatever big surprise Leonora has in store is cut short as the shop bell tinkles once more. In walks Jim Boy’s Memphis woman along with his step-mother.
A little ripple goes through the crowd, and when it settles down, Leonora drops her bombshell.
“Roy Jessup and I are engaged!”
“It can’t be a minute too soon,” Lovie says. “She’s showing.”
“We’re getting married next week at Wildwood Baptist Church and everybody here is invited,” Leonora says.
I’m standin
g there flabbergasted when Trixie dashes past me with her hand over her mouth and her mama in hot pursuit. They push right through the door I’d closed so nobody could wander around the back of the shop.
Well, shoot, I didn’t even decorate the area with the wash and rinse sinks!
I shut the door behind them, and another murmur goes through the crowd. I look back to see Lenora displaying a ring that’s at least two carats bigger than the one Roy gave Trixie.
“The way Roy’s grinning,” Fayrene says, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he and Leonora were practicing tiramisu. That’s probably why she got pregnant.”
She prances off to join Mama and not a minute too soon. I’m about to split my sides. From the looks of things, so is Lovie.
“Looks like your party’s off to a roaring start, Cal.”
“I’d settle for a whimper.”
Furthermore, I don’t know which way to turn. Should I go to comfort Trixie, or should I try to control the crowd?
Half of them are gathering around to see Leonora’s ring, but I can see that not everybody is excited about this. Jewel, for one. She’s looking daggers at her daughter. Vern, the Memphis woman, has gone from staring to glaring, and even Alice Ann is looking a bit uncomfortable.
“Lovie, why would Leonora choose to make a spectacle of her engagement instead of going off for a quiet wedding in front of a Justice of the Peace? Half the people here look like they hate her guts.”
“The way this crowd is riled up, all we have to do is circulate, and find out.”
“Good idea.” I’m about to separate from Lovie when I spot Jack and Sheriff Trice over by the Christmas tree with Uncle Charlie.
“Look at that, Lovie.” I nod toward the threesome.
“When daddy gets in a huddle with the law, something’s up.”
“Get sleuthing,” I tell my cousin. “I’ll meet you in my office in twenty minutes.”
“Deal. Unless I get into a situation that calls for my baseball bat.”
“Let’s hope not.”
All I need is for this Christmas party to take a nasty turn. Lovie heads in Rocky’s direction, and I’m headed in the direction of Jack Jones when somebody grabs my sleeve.
