Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse

by Peggy Webb

  I won’t even dignify her remark with an answer. For one thing, Jack does not have fever. And for another, he’s my almost-ex, as she well knows. So does Champ. No need to keep harping on it.

  Fayrene puts her hand on Jack’s forehead. “Don’t worry, hon. If poor Jack catches ammonia while you’re gone, we’ll call an avalanche.”

  Champ, who is still not used to Fayrenese, looks slightly shell-shocked, while Jack grins like a possum eating peaches.

  “I’ll be all right, Cal,” Jack says. “Have fun.” Just when I’m thinking he’s trying to shed all the danger he wears like a second skin and turn noble, he blows that hope right out of the water. “The massage you promised can wait till you get back.”

  “In your dreams, Jack.”

  I’m grateful to step into the cool night air.

  Southerners never know what to expect in December. Anything is possible, from a heat wave to an ice storm. Thankfully, we’re having one of those lovely cold Christmas seasons where you want to spend as much time as you can in front of the hearth with a cup of hot chocolate in your hand and Elvis at your feet. My dog. Though the real thing would be nice.

  The party is in Mantachie, an easy fifteen-minute ride north through rural countryside on Highway 371. White frame houses dot the landscape, and all of them are built on lots so big nobody can look out the window and see his neighbor. The scenery also includes a barn or two, a few soybean fields, and several pastures, some featuring cows. This is one reason I love northeast Mississippi. It’s so quiet and peaceful you can easily believe the nightly horror stories coming from the TV news channels don’t apply to you.

  If you close your eyes and count to twenty, you can drive right through Mantachie and miss the whole town. Same as Mooreville. Though I’ll have to admit Mantachie has it one up on us by being incorporated. They have a Dollar General store, a mayor, and city ordinances against firing a shotgun in your back yard, even if you’re trying to kill a rattlesnake.

  Champ’s veterinary clinic is located here. With Elvis and my rescues—Hoyt, the spaniel Elvis views as his competition, and the Seven Dwarfs, otherwise known as cats—I’m his best customer.

  Our hostess is also one of Champ’s customers, Glenda McAfee, Mantachie’s mayor. Her two-story antebellum home is decorated with five Christmas trees, garlands galore, at least fifty pots of poinsettias, and enough lights to guide small aircraft safely home. She matches her house—large, decked out in bright red satin, and flashing enough diamonds to light up a runway.

  If she weren’t my hostess, I’d offer a little fashion advice. Women of a certain size should not wear red form-fitting sheaths. And when it comes to accessorizing, if you look like you’re wearing all your loot from a recent jewelry store robbery, you’ve overdone it.

  Since I’m a guest, I content myself with slipping one of my tasteful business cards out of my black satin purse and leaving it on her hall table beside the cranberry potpourri. Discreetly, of course.

  While Champ goes off to the refreshment table, I recognize the mayor’s background music as Elvis’ Christmas Peace album. “Santa Bring My Baby Back (to Me)” makes me wonder what Jack is doing. Then I feel guilty because, while I’m thinking of another man, Champ has come back from fetching two cups of eggnog. He’s kind, handsome, successful, and loves kids and animals—perfect father material. I ought to be ecstatic.

  Instead, when he slides his arm around my waist, I feel like an imposter.

  “The mayor’s gardens are as splendid as her house.” Champ leans down so I can hear him over the party crowd. “I’d like to show you around.”

  A golden-haired, good-looking man in the moonlight would be almost impossible to resist. Champ’s been hinting of an engagement since I returned from Mexico, and I’m sure he’s looking for every edge, especially since his major competition ended up right back in my house.

  Suddenly my cell phone rings. I’m sorry to report, I snatch it from my purse like it’s the only life raft on a sinking ship. I plug a finger in one ear and hold the phone up to the other.

  “Hello?” Uncle Charlie, I mouth to Champ, then disappear into the quiet of the mayor’s front porch.

  “By now I’m sure Ruby Nell has told you her version of the Christmas charity event at Barnes Crossing Mall?”

  “In frightening detail, Uncle Charlie. Are you really giving away a free jazz funeral?”

  His rich, booming laughter always makes me feel better. “It was a compromise. Bobby wanted to announce the opening of a new drive-thru window at Eternal Rest.”

  I can picture it. The newly deceased propped up on satin pillows in front of a picture window, and the grieving viewing him from their car while munching McDonald’s hamburgers and talking about how natural he looks. For a dollar you could get a takeout pack of disposable tissues.

  “That sounds like Bobby.”

  A few weeks ago when we returned from Mexico, we were greeted by a huge WELCOME HOME sign Uncle Charlie’s assistant had put on the lawn of the funeral home. Relatives of the deceased nearly passed out.

  “Naturally, I want to help,” I tell my uncle. “I can do a few free makeovers then raffle off a couple of haircuts and a manicure, or something.”

  “I knew I could count on you, dear heart. Can Darlene man the Hair.Net booth? I need you in another capacity.”

  “Sure. Free manicures would probably go over better, anyway. What do you want me to do?”

  “Santa’s down with the flu, and his elf has quit. I’m filling in for Santa, and I want you to be my elf.”

  “I’ll be glad to, but don’t you think five nine is a little tall for an elf?”

  “It’s the spirit that counts.”

  Uncle Charlie and I work out final details, and after we say goodbye, I sit on the mayor’s front porch swing in the dark. By myself. A blessed relief.

  All I wanted when I woke up this morning was a normal day. Eat breakfast with Elvis, read the paper with my second cup of coffee, take a nice bath, enjoy making my clients beautiful at Hair.Net, then have a relaxing dinner with my menagerie of rescues.

  Already I’ve had enough drama to start my own private theater.

  What next? Lovie as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?

  Elvis Opinion #2 on Christmas Cheer, Sabotage, and the Art of the Con

  You’d think a dog with my good looks and tender heart would be above sabotaging the best human mom any basset hound ever had. But when you’re trying to save a marriage, all bets are off. I station my portly self at the front door waiting for Callie to come back from her date.

  Champ’s Ford Mustang convertible says it all. Listen, he’s a nice man and can give a rabies shot so easy even a discerning dog finds no room for complaint. But what woman in her right mind would swap a man who drives a silver Jag and a Harley Screaming Eagle to boot (that would be my human daddy) for a man in a car that won’t hold a candle?

  The minute my mismatched radar ears pick up the sound of Champ’s engine, I howl a few bars of “He Touched Me.” Jack comes racing down the stairs like the crutch is a third leg. You might not think a gospel song could get a man moving so fast, but Jack knows his lyrics. It’s the idea of another man touching my human mom that has his butt in gear.

  We station ourselves on the front porch swing in the dark, and about the time Champ gets within scoring distance of Callie, my human daddy says, “Thank goodness, you’re home, Cal. My leg is killing me.”

  I never saw a man unpucker as fast as Champ. He releases Callie and offers to help Jack inside.

  I can smell remorse a mile away, and there’s not a whiff coming from Jack. Me, either, for that matter. Listen, a man and his dog have to do what they have to do.

  Callie’s not too happy with either of us, though. Jack gets bundled back into the guest-room bed with nothing but a cup of hot tea to keep him warm. And for a minute, I think I’m going to have to share my guitar-shaped pillow with that silly stray cocker spaniel Callie went and named after one of my backups. (Ho
yt, in case one of my adoring fans wonders.)

  But she gets on the phone with Lovie so they can hash over the day’s events the way they always do, and I see my human mom visibly relax. Lovie has that effect. Her sense of humor is as big as her heart. If Lovie can’t make you laugh and forget your troubles, nobody can.

  Still, I go to bed plotting how I’ll make up with Callie so she’ll let me put on my little four-legged red Santa suit and go to the mall for the charity event. Listen, what better way to ring in the Christmas season than yours truly giving a Christmas concert in Santa’s Court? Forget my 1958 comeback concert where I wore black leather. This could turn out to be the comeback concert of the century.

  When I had two legs and a head full of slicked-back hair, I turned every Christmas song I recorded into gold. There’s no way I’m getting left out of this performance. And I’ll pee on the leg of anybody who tries to stop me.

  Especially since Darlene’s upstart Lhasa apso has been courting Ann Margret behind my back and my former French poodle sweetie has been giving me the cold shoulder. No dog of my intelligence and talent is going to take rejection lying down, no matter how comfortable the silk pillow.

  Chapter 2

  Santa’s Court, Jingle Bell Nail Art, and the Tall Elf

  Ever since Jack interrupted my romantic moment on the front porch with Champ, Elvis has been greeting me first thing in the morning with his tail wagging and my pink, plush-lined bedroom slippers in his mouth. Call me sentimental, but I think it’s the sweetest thing that my dog wants to make sure my feet are warm. I think he’s trying to apologize for his bad behavior on the front porch the other night. Elvis actually growled and got his hackles up before I could figure out whether I was really into Champ’s kiss or just hoping to be.

  If you treat a basset right, he’ll reward you by dying for you, if necessary. Of course, nobody around here is going to die if I have a say in it. This is Christmas. I’m just saying I don’t feel a bit silly when I get Elvis’ little four-pawed Santa suit out of the closet.

  “You’re taking Elvis to the mall?”

  Naturally Jack puts in his two cents. And naturally, he’s in my bedroom watching my every move, six feet of handsome and every inch tempting.

  “Yes. The kids will love him.”

  “They’ll love you, too.”

  “A tall, skinny elf? Are you kidding?” Still, Jack’s comment pleases me. More than it ought to, really. If he doesn’t hurry up and get well and leave this house, I don’t know what I’m going to do about my runaway inconvenient attraction.

  Jack’s black-eyed stare lets me know he’s not kidding. I have to distract myself with the business of making sure his meds are all lined up on the bedside table and his cell phone within easy reach. Things he’s perfectly capable of doing for himself. Still, kindness is my motto. This world would be a better place if more people spread it around. Especially at Christmas.

  Finally Elvis and I head to the door, and Jack calls after us, “Be careful.”

  Of what, I wonder, but I don’t stop to engage in further conversation. The less time I spend around my ex, the better for my peace of mind. In that light, it’s a good thing Uncle Charlie booked all the Valentines for this event.

  The Barnes Crossing Mall is a sprawling complex of stores that started out in the middle of a pasture on the northwest side of Tupelo. Anchored by Sears on one end and Belk’s on the other, it features a food court in the middle and a movie theater tacked to the east side. Shortly after the mall was built, Walmart erected a store across the street, and then shops, service stations, restaurants, drugstores, a medical clinic, and a grocery store sprang up faster than Elvis can con Jack out of forbidden treats. (Don’t think I don’t know. I just pretend not to. Why spoil their fun?)

  Elvis and I arrive well before the mall opens, park in the east lot near the double glass doors near the center court, and go in the entrance reserved for participants in the charity event. The mall is not officially open for another forty minutes and is empty except for volunteers. Mama and Fayrene aren’t here yet, but I’m happy to see that my new manicurist is already in the Hair.Net booth.

  Darlene Johnson Lawford Grant is wearing her usual boots and jeans, a green sweater decorated with silver sequined snowmen, and the diamonds she kept from both her ex-husbands. With perfect makeup and nails, her hair a long silken sweep of blond, she will attract a large crowd. I give her the thumbs up, and Darlene gives me the victory sign.

  Though at first I had my doubts about hiring her, especially after I found out she won’t paint your nails till she consults your horoscope, I’ve come to applaud my choice. My clients love her, and they enjoy getting their nails professionally done without having to drive to Tupelo.

  At the rate Darlene is helping fill my coffers, I’ll soon be able to add a tanning bed to Hair.Net. My hope is to turn my beauty shop into a south of Mooreville Riviera. Now as I head toward the dressing room to find out what kind of elf costume awaits, Elvis jerks the leash out of my hand and bolts.

  “Elvis, come back here,” I yell, but obviously his mismatched ears have suddenly lost the ability to detect sound. It’s not long before I see why.

  “Elvis! You old chow hound.” Lovie has arrived, all hundred ninety pounds of her engulfed in sequins and jingle bells and the mingled scents of sugar and cinnamon. Food will get my dog every time.

  I jog over to my cousin and best friend in the universe and give her a hug.

  “Got your electric girdle?” I ask, and she deadpans, “Always.” We slap hands and chant, “God bless, Fayrene.”

  We’re laughing with her, not at her. Thank goodness, the Valentines were brought up to know the difference.

  “Do you need me to help you unload?” I spot Lovie’s van parked just outside the glass double doors to the mall’s east entrance near my Dodge Ram.

  “Are you kidding? With this come-hither figure, I’ll soon have more male muscle than I can shake my National Treasure at.”

  She’s talking about her tattoo—NATIONAL TREASURE, one word on each hip. In a weak moment I don’t even want to recall, we both got tattoos on Beale Street. I refuse to talk about mine. Suffice it to say, I’m not shaking it at anybody. Especially Jack.

  “You’d better give the National Treasure a rest, Lovie. Santa’s Court is rated PG.”

  “Maybe just a forbidden shake every now and then. Gotta keep in practice.” She dumps an oversize red-sequined tote bag into her booth. “I’m a little nervous, Cal.”

  If you didn’t know Lovie the way I do, you’d scoff at the idea. But underneath all that bravado lurks a vulnerable woman who has a hard time believing she’s good enough. My secret theory is that’s the real reason she broke up with Rocky Malone.

  “Ah, Lovie.” I hug her again. “Don’t you know? You’re the best cook in the South. People are going to snatch up your cookbook so fast your head will swim. Especially with part of the proceeds going to charity.”

  A copy of her first cookbook peeks out of the top of her bag—Lovie’s Luscious Holiday Treats.

  “Maybe I should have left Luscious out of the title.”

  “You want people to make an instant connection with your catering business. People love your cooking.”

  “That they do, dear heart.” Uncle Charlie strolls up, leans over to pet Elvis, then hugs us before he surveys the mall’s center court. “I don’t see Ruby Nell and Fayrene.”

  “You know Mama. She probably had to change clothes six times before she was satisfied. It’s a wonder she didn’t call me this morning to change her hair color.”

  Mama changes hair color more often than I change my air freshener. Currently her hair is still raven from her attempt at being a senorita in the Mayan jungle.

  “We’d better get in costume, then.” Uncle Charlie says.

  I leave my dog in the booth with Lovie, which is a polite way of saying a herd of stampeding elephants couldn’t have dragged him away from her sugared doughnuts.

 
“Watch him for me till I get back. And no sweet treats. He’s on a diet.”

  Elvis and Lovie both give me innocent looks, but I’m not the least bit fooled. The minute my back is turned she’ll be feeding him, and he’ll be eating like he didn’t have a full bowl of dog chow this morning plus the stick of Pup-Peroni Jack sneaked to him.

  I can’t be too hard on Elvis and Jack, though. Holidays are made for breaking rules. But I swear, as soon as the holidays are over I’m really going to clean up their act. Mine, too, but right now I can’t think about how to get Jack off my mind.

  Uncle Charlie and I have arrived in the dressing room, and I have to use all my energy trying to figure out how I’m going to get nearly six feet of me into a little green costume made for someone who’s five feet tall.

  Holding up the costume, I’m appalled at the amount of leg it will leave bare.

  “Who was the elf before me? A Wizard of Oz munchkin?”

  Uncle Charlie emerges from behind one of the three curtained-off cubicles. “I don’t know his name. All I know is that he was here for years.”

  Uncle Charlie already has his red pants on over his khakis and is busy stuffing the waistband with pillows. It’s going to take several. He’s as fit and trim as any sixty-three-year-old gentleman you’ll ever meet. Which figures when you consider that he was once a Company man, like Jack.

  “He wore a skirt?”

  “I’d imagine he wore pants. That’s probably a costume used by the elf before him.”

  In the Dark Ages, I’m guessing. In addition to having a too-short skirt with jingle bells on the bottom, my costume has a moth hole in the seat of the green underpants. I’ll have to remember not to bend over.

  I step behind another curtain and into the costume, then proceed to tug at the skirt. Fortunately, the fabric is slightly damp and stretches to add about an inch to the bottom, enough so I won’t give mothers heart attacks and young kids an unexpected education. I glance at my watch to see if I have time to run to the fabric store in the mall and get six-inch-wide ribbon for the skirt, but it’s too late. I’ll just have to make do.