Elvis and the Rock-A-Hula Baby Capers

by Webb, Peggy

  Considering that I’m facing the awful truth of the bad things that can happen to flesh and blood people, it’s no wonder that Jackie Nell topples off her pedestal and becomes just a latex doll from baby boot camp.

  My hand is shaking when I drop my cell phone back into my pocket.

  “What did Jack say?”

  “To stay away from the clown.”

  Lovie says a string of words you could plant and grow thorns. Her cell phone shatters her diatribe.

  “Daddy?” Uncle Charlie says something I can’t hear and Lovie tears up. “It’s too late for that. He’s dead….Here at his house.” She gives Uncle Charlie the address. “Somebody killed him with my baseball bat…Okay.” She pockets her phone. “Daddy said don’t move, don’t touch a thing. He’s coming right over.”

  “We’ve really stepped into it this time, Lovie.”

  “Daddy will fix it.”

  If anybody can keep us out of jail, it would be Uncle Charlie. Or Jack. All of a sudden, I wish I’d never heard of baby boot camp and meddling and trying to be a detective when I’m just a hairstylist with a knack for adventure. I wish I were home, tucked in a corner of my sofa reading my book of baby names.

  Still, both of us take Uncle Charlie at his word. Lovie flips the light switch and we reach for each other’s hands then stand over that body in the dark as if somebody had planted us there. We don’t have long to wait.

  Uncle Charlie slides through the back door, silent as a shadow, and right behind him are two men, dressed in black from head to toe, nothing showing except the whites of their eyes. That’s how professional do this, I’m thinking. I didn’t hear thing, not the sound of an approaching vehicle nor the sound of footsteps. It’s as if Uncle Charlie and his team materialized out of thin air.

  “Both of you go home,” Uncle Charlie says. “Stay together at night. In the daylight, go about your normal routine. And don’t tell a soul what happened here tonight.”

  I noticed he didn’t mention our names, and I’m sure Lovie does, too. Taking our cue from him, we slip silently out the back door and don’t speak until we are in my truck and headed home.

  “Do you think we found the baby boot camp thief, Callie?”

  “Who would want to kill the clown over a baby blanket, a pacifier and a pink elephant?”

  “It’s obvious why they used my baseball bat. Somebody’s trying to frame me for murder.”

  “Jack and Uncle Charlie know more than they’re telling.”

  “You bet your boots. And I’m not about to sit around and wait for the other shoe to drop.”

  “It pains me to say this, but as much as I love Jack, I’m not about to sit back and twiddle my thumbs, either.” I turn left at the last light in east Tupelo and then head down Veteran’s Boulevard toward the Highway 78 exit that will take me home. “I think we were off track with Sally. Carl is the one who’s at the center of whatever is going on. He must have been a really bad guy to come to Jack’s attention.”

  “Don’t forget that Daddy warned me about him, too.”

  “I’ve always thought there was more to this baby boot camp problem than the theft of cheap objects. Did you notice that picture on the windowsill?”

  “The hot dog lady with the victim, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. The one with the bad perm.”

  “Wait a minute, Calllie… You’re not thinking what I think you are?”

  “What harm could it be? I’ll just hand out a few courtesy cards at baby boot camp and then go about my ordinary business in my very own beauty shop, just like Uncle Charlie said.”

  “Meanwhile, Aunt Ruby Nell and Fayrene are supplying Prohibition Punch and loosening tongue, and I’m providing the piece de resistance.”

  “And that would be…”

  “My famous chocolate cherry cake with whipped cream on the side and real Bing cherries on the top.”

  “Beauty shop gossip never got anybody killed. Right, Lovie?”

  “Except Jim Boy Sloan. With your haircutting scissors.”

  “Well, besides him.”

  “It sounds like a plan to me, Cal.”

  “Good. We’ll wait a day or two and let this murder die down.”

  “I have to cater a wedding tomorrow, anyhow.”

  “Anybody I know?’

  “No. The bride’s from New York. She’s a distant niece of the mayor, and the groom is from Pennsylvania.”

  “Why is she coming here to get married?”

  “Their jobs are bringing them here. And they’re using the rose garden at City Hall.”

  I think about roses and how I’d wanted to be surrounded by them at my renewal of vows with Jack. And then I think about how lucky I am that he rescued me in the deep woods and it didn’t really matter whether I had scratches on my arms and tape marks on my face. It was still an amazing wedding. And Lovie made a beautiful bridesmaid, bruises and all.

  “You can borrow one of my gowns tonight, Lovie. The guest bedroom has clean sheets.”

  “Are you kidding me? Daddy said stay together. Which side of the bed do you want?”

  *

  When we get home, Lovie makes soup.

  “Soothing for the soul,” she says, and I have to agree. This is her famous lemon chicken soup. It makes me feel as if I’m six years old again and Mama is really happy all the time because my daddy is still living. She worshipped the ground Michael Valentine walked on, and I did, too. Uncle Charlie has tried to step in and fill his brother’s shoes, and he’s done a wonderful job, but still… It’s times like this, when I’m planning to bring a baby into the world, that I wish my daddy were here to enjoy being a grandfather.

  Mama calls in the middle of our soup and wants to know what we found out at Carl Branson’s house.

  “I can’t talk about it, Mama.”

  “Well, I’d like to know why not? Fayrene and I are helping with this investigation, too, you know.”

  “Uncle Charlie’s orders, Mama.”

  “Charlie? What’s he got to do with it?”

  “All I can say is watch the ten o’clock news. And if you don’t see something that allows you to put two and two together, watch the morning news tomorrow.”

  “Ha!”

  “What do you even mean by that, Mama?”

  “It means I know more than you give me credit for.”

  I doubt that. But this is Mama, we’re talking about. She and Fayrene can be sneakier than Elvis when he slips through the loose board in the backyard fence and thinks I’ll never know.

  “Humor me, Mama. Uncle Charlie wants us to go about our normal business, and I’m just asking you to lie low for a while.”

  “Flitter.”

  “Flitter, what, Mama?”

  “There’s Charlie buzzing in. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I sit back down with my soup and Lovie wants to know what Mama said. I fill her in, and then announce that I need a long, hot bath.

  “I’ll stand watch for you, and then you can stand watch for me,” Lovie says, and I know exactly why. Murder changes everything. I can’t get the sight of all that blood out of my head and I can’t get over the feeling that any minute somebody is going to come crashing through my door with a deadly weapon. And then I’ll never get to find out whether I would’ve had a baby boy or a baby girl.

  Lovie grabs the biggest butcher knife I own.

  “Holy cow! I don’t think you need that. Just your cell phone in case you need to dial 911.”

  “You take care of your watch and I’ll take care of mine.”

  “All right. But be careful, Lovie. I don’t want Mama coming through the door and you mistaking her for a killer.”

  “Go on upstairs and draw your bath, Cal. A good soak will help you relax.”

  She’s right. Thirty minutes later I’m up to my neck in bubbles – and have been for some while – and the only thing on my mind is whether I’ll need to trade the Dodge Ram for a family-friendly SUV after I get pregnant. My bubbles start melting, and
I’m reaching for some more gardenia bubble bath – Jack’s favorite fragrance – when a scream shoots me out of the tub.

  In my haste, I nearly slip on the soap. I barely make it out of the tub without cracking my skull. Grabbing my terry cloth robe, I creep into the bedroom to find the .38 revolver Jack got for me. Nevermind that I can’t hit the side of the barn. The only thing I hear downstairs is the TV. Still, I’m not about to be caught empty-handed while an intruder rampages through my house doing no telling what.

  I stick my head around the doorframe and listen, but there’s not a sound drifting up the staircase except the overly cheerful voice of a TV game show host. The only thing I know to do is head on down as quietly as possibly and try to get the jump on whoever is in my house besides Lovie. A vision of the dead clown floats through my mind, but I won’t let myself think about death by baseball bat. I grip my gun with both hands and proceed down the stairs.

  There’s a squeak on the third step from the bottom that sounds like a cannon shot. I freeze and wait for hooligans to leap out at me. Nothing. I make the last two steps and then stand at the bottom and survey the empty living room. Where’s Lovie?

  I don’t dare call out. I unlatch the safety on my gun and pray that my aim has improved since I shot the heels off my own Prada shoes.

  “Don’t shoot!” Mama appears from the direction of the kitchen.

  “Holy cow, Mama! I nearly shot you.”

  “You need to get down to the farm and practice in the pasture with that thing before you go toting it all over the house at night.”

  My hands shake as I put the safety back on and lower the gun. “Well, Mama, did you ever think about not scaring me to death with a scream when you come to my house?”

  “Flitter. Lovie had a knife, and I was just excited, that’s all.”

  I’m excited, too, but my shaking has subsided enough to notice what Mama’s wearing. Her outfit of choice is always a colorful caftan unless she’s going to a wedding, a funeral or a barbecue. I say colorful, but that’s only when she’s in a good mood. When Mama wants me to feel sorry for her, she puts on pale pastel colors that make her look like Night of the Living Dead. Which brings me to her current outfit – a shocking neon blue body suit and a bright red cape. To top is all off, she’s wearing knee-high red boots. Sew a big “S “on the front of her body suit and she’d look like Superman, only without the muscles.

  Did I mention that Mama is not the kind of woman everybody calls a sweet, little old lady. Oh, no. She’s the kind people see and ask what’s she up to?

  While I’m in the middle of trying to decide whether Mama’s being eccentric or has gone off her rocker, Lovie emerges from the kitchen with Fayrene, who is wearing a replica of Mama’s shocking costume, except hers is green.

  And she’s talking with every breath.

  “We were in the midst of a guided tour through Heaven and Harlem when Ruby Nell got a second call from Charlie, and Bobby’s spirit guides just took off like they’d been shot from cannibals.” Fayrene pauses to regroup, and I’m still trying to get a mental picture of being shot from cannibals when she starts talking again. “Lucky for you, they stuck around long enough to show us all those unanimous creepy looking babies, which led us straight to your house.”

  “Lucky you,” Lovie says, deadpan, and I elbow her in the ribs.

  “The only thing that will rid your house of evil spirits is a cleansing ceremony,” Mama says. “Fortunately for you, Fayrene and I are just the ones to do it.”

  If Mama pulls a dead chicken out from under that cape I’m doing a little cleansing ceremony, myself. I’m going to usher them right out the front door. In a nice way, of course. I’d never do anything to hurt their feelings.

  Thank goodness, all Mama has under that cape is a bundle of white sage plus the feather of a red-winged hawk she bought at the White Buffalo Pow Wow in Tupelo too many years ago to remember. Surprisingly enough, we’ve got this Buffalo Park in northeast Mississippi across from the furniture market. The owner wanted to help preserve that majestic animal, and purchased a herd which produced a true white buffalo. Not an albino, but one with dark eyes who was certified by more than one Native American shaman as the creature of myth, the Spirit Buffalo.

  When Fayrene pulls a Cherokee-made pottery dish from under her cape, I breathe a sigh of relief. I know this ceremony well, and have even done it a few times. But not while Jack’s in the house. He prefers that I let my drop of Native American blood run strictly red, white and blue.

  Mama puts a few twigs of white sage in the bowl while Fayrene sets it ablaze with a match. Then they both blow until there’s nothing left in the dish but smoking sage. A faintly sweet-smelling scent fills the room.

  “You and Lovie hold out your arms,” Mama says.

  “Why me, Aunt Ruby Nell? I’m not in the baby making business.”

  “Because you’re here in this house,” Fayrene tells Lovie. “This whole ceremony will be fatal if we don’t do it right.”

  “I hope not,” Lovie mutters, and I give her another nudge.

  While Fayrene holds the smoking sage close, Mama proceeds to fan the smoke over us with her hawk feather. What’s more, both of them start chanting words that I’ve never heard.

  “Mama, is that even a language?”

  “Hush up, Callie,” she says. “You’re going to ruin the spell.”

  Spell? Holy cow, I’m game for a time-tested Native American ceremony, no matter which tribe, but I’m not about to be caught up in the midst of one of Mama and Fayrene’s spells. Ever since I took them to Uncle Charlie’s undertaker convention in Mexico, they’ve been dabbling in things that give me premature wrinkles.

  Suddenly the TV blares out the news and all four of us freeze. The body of a male Caucasion was found bludgeoned earlier this evening in his home on Church Street.

  Feathers, spells and paralysis forgotten, we rush into the living room and huddle together on the sofa. Believe me, this is such a tight fit I can hardly draw what little breath I’ve got left.

  “Didn’t that clown live on Church Street?” Mama asks, and I say, “Shh.”

  The name of the victim is being withheld pending notification to the next of kin. Police say there was no sign of forced entry, and no weapon or fingerprints were found.

  I steal a glance at Lovie, and know she’s thinking the same thing. Thank goodness for the Valentine family’s own version of the Godfather.

  The camera pans to Tupelo’s police chief who says, At this point, we have no motive, no clues and no suspects.

  Who discovered the body? TV’s intrepid report wants to know.

  An anonymous tip was called in from the Birmingham area, the police chief says.

  I risk another glance at Lovie. She’s showing only mild surprise about the Birmingham tip. Uncle Charlie has ties all over the world, most of them going back to his days as a Company man. Still, if I didn’t know Jack was in Huntsville, I’d place money on a bet that he was the tipster.

  Furthermore, I expect that baseball bat is going straight to Uncle Charlie’s crematorium – but only after he’s dusted it for any prints besides Lovie’s. The police might not have any clues, but Uncle Charlie has plenty. He and Jack will solve this crime in less time than it takes the local law to process the paperwork.

  “So that’s why Charlie told me to be careful.” Mama jumps off the sofa and begins to pace. “Flitter, he knows me better than that. If I wanted to live a careful life, I’d check myself into an old folk’s home and throw away the key.”

  “Callie, you’ve got to come up with a plan,” Fayrene says, and Lovie winks at me.

  “I already have, but the first part of it is being careful for a few days.”

  We all burst into nervous laughter – or maybe it’s just hysteria in disguise.

  Elvis’ Opinion #5 on Road Trips, Danger and Trysts with Stray Dogs

  There are no accidents with a Company man. After Jack makes that tip about the dead clown from a pay phone
, I kick back with a little snack of Milk Bone and eavesdrop on his conversation with Charlie.

  “It’s done, Charlie. They’ll trace the pay phone and it will lead them straight to Birmingham.”

  “Good. That’s where I caught George Cate AKA Charles Branson, and I think it’s the headquarters for this baby snatching ring.”

  “Then all we’ve got to do it stir them up and let them start making mistakes.”

  Charlie laughs. “It won’t be long now.”

  “You’re right. I told Callie to stay out of it, and if I know my wife, she’ll do just the opposite.”

  “I told Lovie the same thing, and so will she.”

  “You’ve got the bugs and the surveillance teams in place?”

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Jack. I called 666 and asked for the best.”

  “Who’d the Company send?”

  “Britt and Holmes.”

  “I’d hate to meet either one of them in the dark.” Jack says this with utter conviction, and he’s the most lethal agent the Company has. Britt and Holmes must be extraordinary. “Especially Britt. He can shoot the wings off a fly.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “It won’t. I’ve also got Bobby Huckabee watching out for the girls.”

  Bobby is Charlie’s assistant at the funeral home, but I never would have pegged shy, nervous Bobby as the kind of guy Charlie would entrust his family to. Still, being a dog whose intelligence almost exceeds his charm, I can understand the usefulness of a surveillance man who blends in with the furniture.

  Jack and Charlie go into more details about the baby snatching case, but all of a sudden, I’m distracted by the cutest stray beagle you’d ever lay your eyes on. She needs a bath and a bunch of Pup-Peroni to get her figure back, but she’s got enough sass in her walk to make this sexy dog howl at the moon.

  I perk one ear, trying to judge if I have time to give her a quick thrill, but Jack’s already winding up his conversation.

  “Let’s go, boy,” he says, and I howl a shortened version of Down in the Alley hoping beagle baby will get the message. She cocks her head like she did, and I give her a final salute.