by Peggy Webb
Armed with official-looking notebooks and a half-baked plan, we sashay up the front walk and ring Opal Stokes’ doorbell. We hear a loud crash that sounds like something heavy being dropped on the floor. Then a wavery voice calls, “Just a minute.”
The minute stretches nearly to Christmas before we hear footsteps. Opal opens the door, smiling, but she has the look of a woman who is up to something. Her bun is askew, her green cotton duster is buttoned wrong, and she’s missing her glasses. Still, she watches us with eyes as lively as a jaybird’s.
Lovie punches me and I step on her toes. This little old woman looks like nobody’s fool. If we’re not careful, she’ll be onto us.
“Census takers! May we come in?” Lovie is as cheerful as a party balloon. If she gets any perkier, she’s going to levitate.
Opal makes no move to open the door. “I thought the census was last spring.”
“It was! We’re just tying up a few loose ends.”
“Well, I don’t like to think of myself as a loose end.” Opal still has not invited us inside.
A police cruiser drives by, too slow for my peace of mind. What if somebody who saw us at crosstown reported two suspicious-looking women, one wearing a man’s mustache? Futhermore, I wonder how I’m going to remind Lovie that she is not in cheerleader costume but the garb of a senior citizen.
“Act old,” I say under my breath, then cover my snarl with a cough.
“Bless you.” Lovie pats me on the back as the cruiser disappears around the corner. “Mrs. Stokes, I know census takers are about as popular as a striped polecat, but it’s been a long day, Edgar’s allergies are acting up, and my feet are killing me. If you’ll just let us in, I promise to be quick.”
“Well, in that case. But make it snappy.” She swings open the door with all the good cheer of a woman preparing for a hernia operation. Her grumpy attitude is a vast change from the sweet-tempered little lady who gave out cookies at the mall and called Elvis a “cutey pie.”
Lovie and I exchange looks as we follow Opal into a den straight out of the sixties: café curtains at the windows, early American plaid sofa and chairs with maple end tables, and a twenty-one-inch TV in a console. The only decorations are a pottery vase filled with faded plastic daisies and two pictures on the wall, one Joan of Arc and the other Eleanor Roosevelt. Crusading women. What does that say about Opal Stokes?
Lovie whips a notebook out of a green oversize tote. “This is the long form, but we’ll start with the routine stuff. How many live here?”
“One. I’ve been a widow for sixteen years, and if the government doesn’t know that by now they ought to quit asking.”
“Well, I couldn’t agree more, Mrs. Stokes. Do you own your home?”
“You bet your britches I own it. Taught school for thirty years and paid for it myself. Not that that’s anybody’s business. Including the government. The next thing you know, they’ll be asking details about my gall bladder operation.”
Opal glares at Lovie and me as if we have personally deprived her of her gall bladder. She focuses her stare on me.
“You don’t look old enough to shave? How old are you, young man?”
I go into another coughing fit, and Lovie slaps me on the back.
“He’s twenty-one. Poor Edgar. When his allergies are like this, he can hardly talk.”
“I guess not.” Opal sits there staring at me. Apparently nobody ever told her about Southern manners.
“I wonder if he can go into the kitchen and get a glass of water?” Opal glares at Lovie as if she’s lost her mind, but my cousin is unflappable. “That way I can finish up this census and we’ll be out of your hair.”
“Praise the lord!” Opal raises her arms and waves her hands, feisty as all get-out. I’ll bet she was a pistol when she was younger. “The kitchen’s down the hall and through the last door on your left. Glasses are in the cabinet left of the sink. Don’t break anything.”
I hurry out, grateful I won’t have to endure Opal’s scrutiny any longer. Since I don’t know how well insulated this house is and what Opal can hear, I go into the kitchen, grab a glass, and turn on the tap water. While it’s running, I rummage through her other cabinets. Coffee, tea, flour, cornmeal mix, sugar, Ex-Lax. Laxatives?
What other surprises does Opal have in her kitchen? Remembering the body Lovie and I found in Bubbles Malone’s chest freezer, I peek into Opal’s upright. No bodies, thank goodness. Just two frozen chickens, and they look like they died from natural causes.
How much longer can I stay in the back of Opal’s house without her charging in to make sure I’m not breaking glasses and stealing her silver? I check out both doors leading from the kitchen. One is to the panty, the other to her basement.
A quick scan shows nothing unusual in the pantry, so I tiptoe down the basement stairs, descending into what appears to be a black hole. I hope I don’t fall and break my neck. Anything could be lurking in the dark, including spiders. If one lands on me, I’ll scream. Then, as they say in the old film noir classics Lovie and I are partial to watching, the jig will be up.
If I’m going to keep landing in the middle of murder, I’ve got to arm myself with a flashlight. Forget the gun. I have one, but so far all I’ve been able to kill is a perfectly good pair of Jimmy Choos.
At the bottom of the stairs I find a cord hanging from a bare bulb. Holding my breath, I give it a yank. The basement lights up, revealing all Opal’s secrets.
A scream bubbles up in my throat, and I cover my mouth, hoping nobody heard me. Santa is here, ten of him to be precise, along with Frosty, six Rudolphs, eight tiny reindeer times three, enough elves to keep Santa’s workshop going for the next twenty years, four Christmas sleighs, Mrs. Claus, and so many strings of lights that if they were all burning you could see Audubon from Mars.
But these Christmas decorations aren’t waiting their turn on the neighborhood rooftops and front yards. They are beheaded, dismembered, burned, gouged, and scratched.
Opal Stoke’s basement is a torture chamber for Audubon’s stolen Christmas decorations.
I yank the light cord and hurry up the dark stairs before I meet the same fate. Two days later, at least, I gain the kitchen and lean over the sink wondering if I’m going to be sick or be killed.
“What’s taking so long in here?”
Good grief! Opal has appeared in the door and is glaring at me. Lovie is right behind her, looking frantic and making slashing motions across her throat.
Purse-lipped and gimlet-eyed, Opal looks around her kitchen. My hands are shaking when I turn off the water tap.
“If you’re searching for the family silver, you’re out of luck, mister. That sorry husband of mine lost it in a poker game.”
“What a shame.” Lovie can make a quicker recovery than anybody I know. I’m still hanging onto the edge of the sink expecting Opal to frisk me for stolen property.
“If the old jackass hadn’t died, I’d probably have killed him.”
“Would you look at the time?” Lovie feigns great interest in her watch. “We have to be going.”
She starts dragging me out of the kitchen. But Opal, the Santa Slayer, grabs my arm.
“Not so fast.”
Is she going to pull a gun? Call the cops? Push us down the basement stairs for some Christmas torture?
For once I wish I’d come armed. Lovie didn’t even bring her baseball bat.
My cousin looks like she’s getting ready to haul off and sock Opal when the former sweet little old lady lets go of me and storms toward the pantry. She jerks open the door and vanishes inside.
“Two against one,” Lovie whispers. “We can take her.”
“Hush up and run. You’re going to get us killed.”
But being paralyzed with terror is not conducive to a fast getaway. Just as we’re getting our numb limbs to obey, Opal bursts back through the door, holding a mop. “You’re not fixing to leave here!”
Holy cow! She means business. As she surges forw
ard wielding her weapon, we both freeze. I can feel Lovie’s intent from a mile away. She’s getting ready to kick an old woman.
“Don’t you have any manners?” Opal yells, then thrusts the mop into my hand. “Clean up that water you spilled.”
I don’t know whether to giggle or run. Lovie punches me in the ribs, and I start mopping. Lovie’s hand is over her mouth, and her shoulders are shaking. If she bursts out laughing, I’m liable to bop her over the head with the mop.
“You missed a spot.” Opal points and I set to work. Agent 007 would disown me. Some spy I turned out to be. I give Lovie a look that says, Do something.
She jerks the mop out of my hand, slaps my back, and yells, “Good job, Edgar.” Then she hands the mop to Opal and tugs me toward the door. “Hurry along now or we’ll never meet our day’s quota.”
We hustle toward the front door with the Santa Slayer hot on our trail, yelling, “Wait a minute.” I wouldn’t wait if Brad Pitt was standing behind me buck naked. “You forgot your notebook.”
Lovie backtracks, scoops it off the sofa, and we hotfoot it toward the truck. I barrel inside, expecting to be greeted by a cold, wet nose and a big, slurping doggie kiss.
Wouldn’t you know? Elvis is missing.
Elvis’ Opinion #6 on Rescues, Obedience, and the Art of the Con
I don’t know why Callie bothers to lock the truck doors. The minute she and Lovie are out of hearing range I smash my paw down on the unlock button, and I’m almost out of here.
All I have to do now is wait for one of my fans to come along and spring me. If a fan doesn’t show up, anybody in a Christmas mood will do. Listen, the day a handsome basset in a four-legged Santa suit can’t con his way out of a Dodge Ram pickup truck is the day I turn in my blue suede shoes. All it takes is one look into my melting brown basset eyes, a crooked grin, and a little spin from my days as a world-famous singer in a gold jumpsuit, and I’m on the way to see what’s cooking at 423 Mockingbird Lane.
“T-R-O-U-B-L-E”, that’s what my senses are telling me. Don’t think I didn’t know it was Opal Stokes’ cookies that sent me on an emergency mission to the mall’s grassy outdoor potty paradise. There’s no such thing as coincidence. Any dog worth his Pup-Peroni knows that.
Wait! What’s this I see “Tip Toeing Through the Tulips?” A teenager with an iPod sprouting from her ears and a foxy beagle on a leash. That little beagle cutie would have me singing “Rock-a-Hula Baby” if I weren’t still enamored of a certain pheromone-loaded French poodle.
The beagle yelps when she sees me. Naturally. In addition to being the King, I’m the sexiest dog alive. The teenager pulls the plugs out of her ears, and I go straight into my act. When she claps and says, “How cute,” I put my front paws on the door and whine—the pièce de resistance of the doggie con.
“Poor thing,” the teenager says. “Did somebody forget about you?” I do my best mournful howl, and she opens the truck door.
I bound out like I’m headed to the “Promised Land.” Being the gentlemanly dog I am, I pause long enough to take a little bow in their direction, then streak toward the back yard like there’s a heated dog house and a big dish of Kibbles ’n Bits in my immediate future.
Once I’m out of sight, I put my famous nose to the ground. Listen, I’m the only one in the Valentine family who picked up the scents in the costume changing room, and I intend to see if one of them belongs to Opal Stokes.
What’s this I smell? Rabbits in Audubon? Squirrels I expected, but not the Easter bunny. These critters must be getting smarter. They must have found out that it’s illegal to shoot a gun in the city limits. No wonder they’re migrating from Ruby Nell’s farm south on 371 to a neighborhood with Jesus on the roof.
All sorts of smells assault my noble nose. I’m just getting ready to sort through them when my human mom calls, “Elvis! Where are you?”
Drat. Busted. If she didn’t sound so panicked I’d ignore her for a while. I’m onto something big here.
But when she calls my name again, she sounds like some lonely soul singing “It Won’t Seem Like Christmas (Without You).” When it comes to a choice between being a star detective and comforting my human mom, Callie wins every time.
I ditch my detection and show my handsome self around the side of the house. Before I get back on her good side with a little turn of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” she scoops me up, runs to the truck, and peels out like we’re being chased by an ill-tempered Doberman pinscher.
She doesn’t even scold me.
I’m not long finding out why.
“Holy cow, Lovie. I thought that mean old woman was going to kill us.”
“And you said she was sweet. I never did fall for that cute little old cookie lady act.”
“She keeps Ex-Lax in her cabinet. It appears she put more than sugar in her cookies.”
“I knew it.”
“And you’ll never guess what I found in her basement.” Callie starts recounting a scene of Christmas mutilation that makes me glad she caught me before I finished my snooping. Listen, I may be a premiere dog detective who goes the second mile, but I draw the line at sacrifice.
“It figures,” Lovie says. “Anybody who would put a laxative in Christmas cookies would steal and torture the neighbors’ Christmas decorations.”
“But all that still doesn’t make her a killer.”
“Why not? Some people get the Christmas spirit. Opal gets Christmas rage.”
“But does she get mad enough to kill? And if she does, how would a former school teacher know how to turn Santa’s throne into an electric chair?”
“Just because I’m a caterer doesn’t mean I can’t re-wire a lamp.”
“You’re right, Lovie. Did you make a connection between Opal and either one of the victims?”
“Wayne was one of her students.”
“You’re kidding me! But why would she want to kill your fiancé?”
“I don’t have a clue. Why would she put Ex-Lax in cookies and hand them out at Santa’s Court?”
“If she hates Christmas so much she chops off the heads of plastic Santas, she’s bound to hate little children, too.”
“The thing I can’t figure out, Cal, is how Opal would know Wayne was Santa? Only you and Jack and I knew.”
“Plus, when he got dressed, he looked like every other mall Santa.” Cal strips off Charlie’s hat and shakes her hair out of the pins. “Did you say anything about Wayne to Cleveland?”
“No. I only let him know we had a Santa substitute and he didn’t have to worry.”
“I still can’t picture Cleveland as the killer. Did Opal know Uncle Charlie or Nathan Briggs?”
“I was just getting ready to ask her that when she jumped up and raced toward the kitchen like her coattail was on fire.”
“A few seconds earlier, and she’d have caught me in her basement. Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Next time I’ll light a cigarette and yell, Fire.”
“You don’t smoke.”
“That’s not the point. We need to work out a signal. I don’t intend to die at the business end of a mop.”
“Good grief, Lovie. You weren’t the one she was after. Besides, there’s not going to be a next time. We need to turn this investigation over to professionals.”
“Who? The cops? The way they were questioning you in Santa’s Court, you’re at the top of their suspect list, Cal. I can just see how they’ll react to information you’ve gleaned snooping in Opal Stokes’ basement.”
“You have a point.”
This admission makes my human mom slump. I edge over and lay my head in her lap. Listen, if there’s anybody in the world who can keep Callie from having a “Blue Christmas,” it’s yours truly.
Of course, Lovie always does her part, too. Usually with a six-pack of Hershey bars and a barrel full of sass. Currently she’s jerking off her granny wig and perking up.
“Let’s change clothes at my house, then drive by the hospital, Cal. We
need to tell Daddy about Wayne before he hears it on the six o’clock news.”
“That’s a good idea. But don’t tell Uncle Charlie he was your fiancé.”
“Why not?”
“That would only upset him. He likes to think he can take care of everybody in the family.”
“Poor Wayne. He probably never would have made it into the family, anyhow.”
My human mom is wise enough to keep quiet. I know what’s on her mind. The same thing that’s on mine. Wayne was simply another of Lovie’s diversions. Deep down she’s still hoping Rocky Malone will leave Mexico and start digging for real treasure.
Lovie gives me a treat at her house—bacon-flavored Milk Bones. She knows when a loyal dog deserves a reward. When Callie finally parks her truck in front of the hospital and says, “Wait in the truck, and I mean it, Elvis,” I don’t argue.
Listen, I may be the best canine detective in the world, but I’m not a lick of good if I miss my sleep. And it’s past my nap time.
I watch until Callie is safely inside the hospital, then I give that suspicious guard who’s looking my way a snarl and curl up on the warm spot Callie left behind. Even a famous dog has to have his rest.
Chapter 8
Gentle Murder, Graceland Send-offs, and Fatal Attractions
Uncle Charlie’s color is better, but he still looks fragile. On the way up to his room, Lovie asked if I’d be the one to tell him about Wayne.
“You can do it so much more gently than I can, Cal.”
“Sure,” I told her, but I don’t know how you can be gentle when you’re breaking the news about murder.
I flounder my way through, but Uncle Charlie takes the latest Christmas murder in stride. Lovie is the one who takes things badly. I’m not used to seeing my unflappable cousin cry.
She lets Uncle Charlie hug her, and even leans on his shoulder a while, which is unusual for her. Lovie has always believed her daddy is disappointed that she’s not a boy. She tries so hard to act like she doesn’t care, she’s finally convinced herself it’s true. “Why don’t you stay here with me tonight, dear heart?” he says to Lovie. “The death of a friend is hard. You could use the company and I could, too.”
