Elvis and the Rock-A-Hula Baby Capers

by Webb, Peggy

  “Pranks!” This from Harley Boo’s mother, Laura. “I don’t see anything prankish about stealing and nearly losing your son!”

  “All that screaming scared Tommy and he ran. That’s all.” Betty Sue seems more certain of this than I am. I glance at Lovie, but it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking under her Dimples disguise. “As I was saying, if you’re trying to get our attention, you have. And if you have the missing items, just fess up and no harm done.”

  Everybody glances nervously at each other, the way people will do in a crowded glass elevator, trying to be discreet but not quite succeeding.

  “All right then.” Betty Sue runs her hands through her hair. “I’m going to dismiss for the day, but I swear if things keep going missing around here, I’m going to suspend baby boot camp!”

  “This calls for some Prohibition Punch,” Mama tells me, and I halfway expect her to pull a bottle and paper cups out from under her caftan and start dispensing liquor.

  “Great idea, Ruby Nell.” Fayrene links arms with Mama. “The séance room?”

  “Perfect. Cal, you and…Dimples, follow us.”

  I am happy to leave the scene of the crime. The only good thing I can say about the day so far is that it has been so chaotic, I’ve had no time to worry about Jack and little Jackie Nell.

  *

  By the time Lovie and I load up all the baby toys and head toward Mooreville, Mama and Fayrene have already left for Gas, Grits and Guts.

  “Did you learn anything today, Lovie?”

  “Plenty, but I’m not telling it till we get to Mooreville. No use repeating myself.”

  She’s right. Mama and Fayrene will want to know, too. Besides, I need a respite from crime. My stomach’s tied in knots, and I don’t know who to worry about first, Mama or Jack and Elvis and my latex baby.

  Lovie peels off her baby bump and her wig then whips her sweaty hair into a pony tail and wipes off most of her makeup. When we pull into Fayrene and Jarvetis’ convenience store, she looks like her old self.

  Jarvetis is behind the cash register. The minute he see us, he waves and points toward the back room. There are some days when I appreciate a man of few words, and today is one of those. Lovie and I trot past the toilet paper and the ice cream cooler, and then push open the door to the back. I’m not the least bit surprised to see Mama and Fayrene already half-way through a Mason jar of Prohibition Punch.

  Lovie immediately fills her Mason jar to the brim but I opt for a cup of orange juice. There’s a small chance that I’m pregnant and don’t yet know it, and I’m not about to jeopardize the health of my unborn child.

  Mama eyes the juice, but I send her a look that says, don’t say a thing. Thank goodness, she doesn’t.

  “Lovie found out some things today,” I announce and Mama leans forward like she’s hard of hearing and her life hangs on every word. Still, to give her credit, she was scared about that black Cadillac, whether or not its driver tried to kill her.

  “I had a nice long chat with the ice cream lady,” she says.

  “Her name is Amanda Green,” I add.

  “I don’t know why, but that name’s familiar to me,” Fayrene says, and Mama tells her, “Don’t think too hard, Fayrene. It’ll come to you eventually.”

  “Anyhow, Amanda told me there’s something sneaky about that clown.”

  “Who is he?” I ask.

  “He claims his name is Carl Branson, but the ice cream lady thinks it’s an alias.”

  “Wait minute! Didn’t Carl Branson murder that movie star and all those people out in California?” Fayrene says. “I read that he’s out on patrol.”

  “That was Charles Manson, Fayrene,” Mama says. “He’s not on parole and not likely to be. And even if he was, he’d be an old man. That clown can’t be more than thirty-five.”

  “Forty, according to the ice cream lady.” Lovie takes a long sip of her punch. “And he appears to have plenty of enemies, including the hot dog lady.”

  “How does Amanda know?” I’d pit my observation skills against anybody except Jack. “I don’t see how an old lady who sells ice cream can tell all that by looking.”

  “I asked her the same thing,” Lovie says. “She said he’s been her neighbor on Church Street for six months, and she’s never seen a single person come to visit.”

  “What’s she doing?” Fayrene asks. “Spying on him through her stethoscope?”

  “I hope not,” Lovie says, and I kick her under the table.

  “Somebody the ice cream lady didn’t see could have visited him in middle of night,” Mama says, “but at least we know where he lives. This means somebody has got to pay him a visit and snoop through his stuff.”

  “That somebody is not going to be you, Mama.”

  “Ha!” she says, and I don’t even want to know what she means.

  “If you’ll care to remember, Mama, you’re already a target,” I remind her. “Do you want to walk straight in on a killer and let him finish you off?” Underhanded, I know. But you have to be quick on your feet to get around Mama.

  “Callie’s right, Ruby Nell.” Fayrene tops off both their Mason jars with Prohibition Punch, then winks at her. “Are you coming down with magnesia?”

  “Oh…oh.” Mama reaches over to pat my hand. “You and Lovie go right ahead. Fayrene and I will be right here. Knitting.”

  “Knitting? Are you kidding me, Mama?”

  “Crocheting,” Fayrene corrects Mama, then turns to me. “I’m going to teach her how to crochet an African.”

  “Besides,” Mama says. “You and Lovie are young. If you get into trouble you can run fast.”

  It wasn’t until hours later that Mama’s words turned out to be prophecy.

  Elvis’ Opinion #4 on Treats, Lies and Resurrection

  Thanks to the box of Milk Bone Jack bought, our twelve-hour shopping marathon was not a total bust. If I weren’t such a sensitive dog, I’d burst out singing I Got Lucky, which was one of my hits back when I was making girls faint and tossing sweat-stained scarves. Instead, I hunker down beside the camp fire Jack has built and munch on my Milk Bone. Out of respect for the totally morose, I even try to keep my lip smacking to a minimum.

  “Callie’s going to kill me, old buddy.” I cast a baleful eye at the source of all our problems. Ugly Baby is lying flat on her lumpy back with all her silly appendages uplifted to the moon except the one Jack stuck back with Gorilla glue. It’s just stuck out there pointing west and stiff as a poker.

  We hauled Ugly Face through every store on every mall in Huntsville and the surrounding area. We even ventured through the fancy downtown department stores and puttered all over the unique stores in Five Points trying to replace this ugly latex albatross. We might as well have been shopping in that mansion over the hilltop. There was not a single doll that even came close to being a match.

  Listen, Ugly Face might be Callie’s dream come true, but she’s certainly not Jack’s good luck charm. In fact, if we keep going in this direction – from bad to worse – she’s liable to be the end of Jack’s marriage. Lying never did win any points in the game of matrimony.

  “Where did they find these things for baby boot camp? Mars?”

  I’d burst into Cryin’ Time, but I don’t think Jack’s in any mood for dog humor. At the rate he’s going downhill, I’m going to suggest we return home and take what we’ve got coming. Which won’t be much. Trust me on that. Callie’s one of the sweetest women in this world, and even when she’s mad, it doesn’t last long. All I have to do is a little shake, rattle and roll dance to put her in a good mood. And all Jack has to do is… You can figure out the rest for yourself.

  Listen, I’m a dog of great discretion. If you asked me about private family matters, I’d have to kill you.

  Though it’s a hot night and that fire’s making matters worse, Jack throws on another log.

  “Nothing like a good campfire and some roasted hot dogs. Right, pal?”

  If he’s talking half the pack
for me and half for him, then he’s my man. While Jack’s rummaging in the cooler, I inch back and watch the sparks fly. A little breeze kicks up, right out of nowhere, and a hot coal flies right toward Ugly Baby.

  Well, bless’a my soul. Her hair catches fire.

  I sit there and watch it burn, just for entertainment, then feeling a bit guilty, I let out a howl that catapults Jack from the cooler to Ugly Baby in less time than it takes me to scarf down another Milk Bone. When it’s all over but the shouting, he holds Hideous Baby at arms length and tries to smooth down the three singed hairs she’s got left on her melted head.

  “I’d lay odd they don’t make doll wigs. What do you think, pal?”

  Let’s bury her now because there’s no way you can resurrect that melted mass of rubber. That’s what I think. She’s too ugly to bury in the back yard. Something like that back there six feet under would give me nightmares. Besides, stupid Hoyt would likely dig her up and tote her to Callie.

  Jack’s cell phone saves him from falling into the pit of total despair. It’s Charlie, and he’s not sounding too happy. And when the Valentine patriarch is not happy, nobody’s happy.

  “Nothing on that black Cadillac, yet, Jack.”

  “But you think there might be something to Ruby Nell’s story?”

  “Definitely. She’s flighty, but she’s sharper than most women I know. She’d recognize the difference between losing her balance and a car aiming to harm her. And besides, I have enemies who’d be glad to take my family out, one by one, starting with my sister-in-law.”

  The way my human daddy’s face clouds over and his aura turns dark, I know Jack’s thinking about his enemies, too. And how they’d like nothing better than to exact revenge on his family.

  “Anybody you can think of, off the bat, Charlie?”

  “George Cate is out on parole.”

  I can see the wheels turning in Jack’s mind. It doesn’t take him long to come up with the information he needs.

  “The baby snatching ring.”

  “That’s the one, Jack. My last case.”

  “If I remember correctly, you never caught the kingpin. Cate took the fall without rolling over on anybody, including the boss.”

  “That’s right. And he’s here in Tupelo.”

  “That’s too close for comfort.”

  “Closer than you’d ever imagine. He’s going by the alias Carl Branson, and he’s working at baby boot camp, disguised as a clown.”

  Hideous Baby slides out of Jack’s hands, already forgotten as he starts putting out our camp fire.

  “I’m heading home, Charlie. It’ll take two hours. Maybe two and a half. Keep Callie safe till I get back.”

  “Wait a minute, Jack. If this is revenge against me, it won’t end until that old case is reopened and wrapped up. I need you to get down to Birmingham and talk to 666. See what you can do. I’ll make sure all the girls are safe.”

  It’s a tribute to Charlie’s integrity and his deadly skills that Jack agrees. Besides, 666 is his boss, too, and Birmingham is the Company’s headquarters, well disguised as a high-end, high-security apartment building. Still, even before he ends his call to Charlie and places another one, I know he’s not about to sit back and do nothing where Callie’s concerned.

  “Come on, Callie. Pick up,” he says, but her phone just rings and rings.

  Chapter 5

  Spying, Killing and Dying to Laugh

  For our evening fact-gathering expedition, I’ve changed into jeans and a nice white tee shirt plus a comfortable pair of Adidas. No sense calling attention to myself.

  We’re at Lovie’s house now where I’m waiting on the sofa for her to change. I told her to put on something discreet and unmemorable.

  I glance at my watch. It’s only six o’clock, but I want to get in and out of Carl Branson’s house before dark.

  There was never any question about breaking and entering. Nobody knows the clown’s schedule, except the ice cream lady, and her information in that regard was too vague to count on. Lovie and I are not about to get caught snooping by a male suspect. Instead, we’re going in our ordinary clothes, carrying clipboards with faux political surveys. With more people running for President than Elvis has fleas, this ploy makes good sense.

  I’m not very good at convincing people of anything, but I’m counting on Lovie’s considerable charms to gain us entrance. We’ll wing it from there.

  Probably she’ll sit on the sofa and dazzle the clown while I snoop under the pretext of going to the bathroom.

  I stand up, head to her bedroom and shout through the door. “Are you about done in there, Lovie?”

  “I’m looking for my baseball bat.”

  “You’re not going to need a weapon. We’re just doing a political survey.”

  “Politics riles more tempers than infidelity, Cal. I’d feel better if I could find it.” Suddenly Lovie opens her door, and I nearly pass out.

  “Holy cow, Lovie! What is that?”

  She’s dressed in black jeans so tight I don’t know how she got them zipped and a scoop-neck blue sweater that leaves no doubt she’s a hundred percent woman and every last percent of her is real.

  “It’s my subtle slut outfit, passing for prissy but willing to compromise.”

  “Good grief. I’m just glad nobody will see us but the clown. And I hope he’s not a blabbermouth and tells Jack.”

  “Has the clown ever talked with any adult at baby boot camp?” I shake my head, no. “You worry too much, Cal.”

  “No, I don’t. I just have a bad feeling.”

  “Too much acid in the orange juice. You should have stuck to Prohibition Punch.”

  “Let’s just go and get this over with, Lovie.”

  We take my Dodge Ram and I park it around the corner and a block down from Carl Branson’s house. If things go south, I don’t want his next door neighbors describing my vehicle.

  He lives in a really small cottage on Church Street just north of the elementary school. It misses being rundown by somebody’s attempt at gentrification – a trellis over the front porch with a climbing pink clematis in bloom.

  Lovie rings the bell and I try to act like I’m not doing something I shouldn’t. Jack would die if he knew I was here.

  “Ring the bell again, Lovie.”

  She gives the doorbell a savage push then follows that with knocking that’s loud enough to wake the dead. There’s not a sound coming from inside. I stand on tiptoe and peer through the frosted glass at the top of his door, but all I see is a dingy hallway with a pair of tennis shoes overturned on the floor.

  “What do you see, Cal?”

  “I don’t believe anybody’s home.”

  “Good.” She grabs my hand and hauls me through a pitiful parched petunia bed and around to the back of the house.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “When opportunity knocks, I seize it.”

  “The only thing I heard knocking was you.” The back yard is more unkempt than the front. An old bicycle is rusting against a scrawny pine, and a child’s plastic wading pool is filled with water turning green and growing things I don’t even want to think about. “Let’s get out of here, Lovie.”

  “Don’t be silly. Carl’s obviously not here. Now’s the perfect time to find out who he really is and what he knows.” She marches straight to the back door, gives a little tug and it swings open. “See. We don’t even have to pick any locks.”

  Just to set the record straight, Lovie is the one who picks locks, a little skill she learned from a boyfriend I’m happy to say is former.

  “Come on, Cal.”

  What can I do? This is my best friend we’re talking about. I tiptoe along behind her. The kitchen is utterly dark. I stand there with my hand on Lovie’s shoulder, blinking. Though there’s still a streak of fading light showing through the back door, there’s some kind of black-out shade over the small window above the sink.

  “I don’t like this, Lovie. Let’s just leave
.”

  “Wait a minute. There’s bound to be a light switch.” She blunders forward in the dark then says a word that curls my eyelashes. “What the devil?”

  She flicks a switch and light floods the kitchen. And there, on the floor, is Carl Branson. Dead as a speared fish.

  Only he hasn’t been speared. He’s been bashed in the head – with Lovie’s baseball bat.

  It lies a few feet away from the body, her initials burned into the wood as plain as day. And her bloody tracks are all over the kitchen floor.

  She makes a gagging sound, and I say, “Don’t you dare!”

  “Okay, okay.” She gulps some air. “I’m all right.”

  “Don’t scream, either.”

  We stand there staring at that body expecting I don’t what. That he’ll rise up off the floor and say just kidding? That the cops will come rushing through the back door and handcuff both of us?

  My phone rings, and both of us scream. Then we put our hands over our mouths and search the kitchen as if goblins are hiding in every corner. That’s when I spot it – a photograph of the clown and the hot dog lady, just a tiny snapshot in a cheap frame on top of the windowsill.

  My phone rings again and I look at the screen.

  “It’s Jack. I can’t talk to him now.”

  It rings again, and Lovie says, “He won’t give up, Cal. You’d better answer it.”

  I turn my back on the body then try to recapture some perkiness before I say, “Hello.”

  “Cal, listen. Stay away from that clown at baby boot camp.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you now. Just trust me on this, Cal. I don’t want you saying one word to him.”

  That’s highly unlikely, considering the clown is lying with one ear bashed in and the other pressed into in a pool of blood.

  “Okay, Jack.”

  “Good girl. Love you, Cal.”

  “You, too.”

  Jack hangs up without asking where I am or who I’m with or acting suspicious because I’m not desperate for the latest word on Jackie Nell.