by Peggy Webb
“I think I will if Cal doesn’t mind.”
“Of course not.” I tamp down on my enthusiasm. It won’t do to let Lovie see how excited I am that she’s finally dropping her tough girl attitude and letting her real feelings show. “Besides, I need to stop by the funeral home to make sure Bobby doesn’t need help getting ready for Steve Boone’s wake tonight.”
“He called to say he has everything under control, but I’d feel better if you’d check, dear heart.”
I hug Lovie and Uncle Charlie, tell them to call if they need anything, then hurry through the parking lot. I spot my truck, but no Elvis. If he’s gone missing again I’m going to scream. I barrel toward the Dodge Ram, resisting the urge to scream, “Elvis!” I’ve had enough drama today without everybody in the parking lot thinking I’ve gone stark raving crazy.
Yelling that famous name in Tupelo can cause a stampede. Half the folks here think somebody else is buried at Graceland while the King leads a simple life in the hills, venturing out only once in a blue moon. Some even declare to have spotted him at the Piggly Wiggly.
I say a little prayer, then jerk open my truck door. Elvis stands up, stretches, yawns, then gives me a slobbery dog kiss. I know this is not George Clooney—or for that matter, Jack Jones—but I was never so glad to see anybody in my life.
“Elvis! You obeyed!”
He twirls around and takes a bow. I swear, he looks like somebody on center stage, which in a way he is. I’ve spoiled him into thinking everything in my life is all about him.
Still, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with animals and people you love? I give Elvis one last cuddle, then hop into my truck and turn the keys in the ignition.
But suddenly everything that has happened in the last few days crashes around me. I can’t go another step. Leaning my head on the steering wheel, I just breathe.
Elvis nuzzles my arm, but I still don’t move. When he whines, I say, “This has been a long day, boy. And it’s not over yet.”
Satisfied, he flops onto the passenger side, while I take another deep breath before heading to Eternal Rest. It’s a wonderful old Victorian house on Jefferson Street in the heart of downtown Tupelo. When Uncle Charlie converted it into a funeral home, he used a Graceland theme minus the shag carpet. Mama’s influence, no doubt. Still, the bereaved take a great deal of comfort in knowing Uncle Charlie sends their loved ones off in grand style.
Thankfully, the parking lot is empty because nobody has died this week except Santa and his reindeer.
Holy cow, I sound like Mama. I must finally be coming undone.
After doing another deep-breathing exercise, I let myself in the front door, then take Elvis off his leash. This is a second home to him. He has the run of the place unless there’s a funeral or a viewing in progress. Of course, there have been a few times when Elvis escaped our vigilance and showed up in the chapel to howl “Amazing Grace” along with Mama. She does the music for all Uncle Charlie’s funerals, though she’s usually not howling.
Today I don’t have to worry, though. Eternal Rest is empty except for Steve Boone, who is lying in state in the blue parlor on my left. I don’t have to check to know that he looks good. When I make up the dead they look like they could pose for the cover of Harper’s Bazaar.
Leaving Elvis to wander toward the kitchen, probably looking for crumbs, I head toward Bobby’s office. It’s downstairs, near the embalming room and across the hall from the room I use to work my makeup magic on the deceased.
Bobby’s door is ajar, so I don’t knock. Instantly, I regret that decision. Bobby’s standing with his back to the door and his arm around the waist of a curvaceous blond. Will wonders never cease? Both of them are bent over his desk with their heads together, mumbling something.
I’m sorry to report that I lean forward, straining to hear, but only for a split second. My better nature reasserts itself, and I creep backward and pull the door almost shut. Then, calling on acting skills learned when I was a cabbage in Mr. McGregor’s garden in a second-grade play, I keep a straight face and give the door a sharp rap.
There are footsteps inside, and Bobby comes to the door. He’s followed by none other than my manicurist.
“My goodness,” I say. “Darlene!” I know, I know. Not very cabbage-like of me, but it has been a long day and my savoir faire is slipping.
“Oh, hi, Callie.” All smiles, Darlene opens the door wider, while I stand there speechless and Bobby looks on, red-faced. “Come on in. Bobby and I were just looking at today’s horoscope.”
He tugs his tie and expels a long breath. Poor Bobby. Listen, if he and Darlene are trying to get something going, I’m glad. He’s so shy he can barely string two words together unless he’s around Mama and Fayrene. They think he’s a true psychic and consult him all the time. He’s practically garrulous around them.
“What’s the prediction?” I stroll into the office and sit in an overstuffed beige chair in front of a bookcase bulging with books. I’m so tired I might just fall asleep.
“Clear sailing ahead,” she says. “Good thing, don’t you think, considering the two Christmas corpses in Santa’s Court? What do you see, Bobby?”
“I don’t know. My psychic eye is acting up.”
Poor Bobby. Usually he says, “There’s danger from a dark-eyed stranger.” Today I’d be inclined to agree with him. I’ve had Opal Stokes’ little beady brown eyes on me enough to feel the danger.
Darlene pats his arm. “Don’t worry. Before you can say Pass the eggnog, you’ll be getting psychic signals right and left.” She grins at me. “Sometimes you have to stretch your imagination a little to line up what the stars say with what Bobby gets firsthand, but he’s always right.”
I half expect him to shuffle his feet and say, Ah, shucks. When he says, “Thank you, ’Lene,” I nearly pass out from surprise. Considering that he calls Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune his best friend, his progression to a nickname for Darlene shocks me as much as if Lovie had left off using all the words she didn’t learn in Sunday School.
“I’ve gotta run.” Darlene grabs her purse and blows us a kiss. But I don’t miss that she’s sending it more in Bobby’s direction than mine. “Mama and Daddy have David at Gas, Grits, and Guts, and Mama’s going to have a conniption fit if I’m late.”
“Thanks for your help at the charity event, Darlene. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“It was fun. But I’m glad it’s over. Wow! Two murders in three days. Thank goodness the bazaar’s not open Sunday.”
“Take Monday off, too, if you want. It’s always a slow day at Hair.Net.”
“And miss all the fun? No thanks. I’ll see you there.”
She whizzes out the door with Bobby watching until she disappears.
“Well,” he says, then plops behind his desk like a man who has suddenly discovered his legs are made of straw.
“She’s very nice, Bobby. I’m happy that you two are developing a friendship.”
“Yes.”
I wait for him to say more, but when nothing is forthcoming, I rub my hands together as if I’m trying to wash away events of today. “Do I need to help you do anything to get ready for Steve’s viewing?”
“I’m all set.”
“How about the jazz funeral?”
“His family declined.”
“Not everybody appreciates a creative undertaker. Mama’s going to be busy taking care of Uncle Charlie, and Lovie and I have our hands full, so call the substitute organist and caterer.”
My phone rings, startling me almost out of my skin. “Before I forget, Bobby, call me if you have any trouble.” I press my cell phone to my ear. “Hello.”
“Callie, when are you going to get home to see about Jack?” It’s Mama.
“What are you doing at my house, Mama?”
“Since when is it a crime to check on my son-in-law?”
“Ex.”
“Flitter.”
“You didn’t tell him what I’m u
p to, did you?”
“What do you think I am? Senile? Get yourself home, Carolina. I need to leave so I can stay with Charlie.”
“I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Besides, Jack can take care of himself, and Lovie’s staying with Uncle Charlie tonight.”
“I’m not leaving till you get here. Furthermore, you’re bringing Jack to Sunday dinner after church. He looks like he’s starving to death.”
“Good grief, Mama, I’m not even going to dignify that with a comment. ’Bye now.” I shove my phone back in my purse and stand up.
“Be careful, Callie,” Bobby says.
“It’s been a bad day. If you tell me there’s danger from a dark-eyed stranger, I’m going to scream.”
Bobby actually grins. “My psychic powers are on the blink, but I know there’s a murderer loose.”
Coming from him, that’s the equivalent of a State of the Union address.
“I’ll be careful, Bobby. Thanks.”
I give him a little hug simply because he looks like he needs it. And to tell the truth, I do, too.
Then I round up Elvis and head to Mooreville to face the music. Translated, that means face Mama and Jack at the same time; they’re a powerful duo when they’re in cahoots with each other.
As it turns out, Mama’s red Mustang convertible (what else?) is not in my driveway, and I don’t even feel like an ungrateful daughter when I say, “Hallelujah.” Elvis thumps his tail as if to say, “Amen.”
My dog bounds out the door to greet Jack, who is waiting for me on the front porch swing. Or was he waiting for Elvis? I hang back while Jack greets him as if my basset is a soldier arriving home after a three-year tour of duty in a dangerous third-world country. My conscience pricks me, and not for the first time.
But I refuse to think about divorce at Christmas. Especially since my lawn is newly covered with wire reindeer moving their spindly legs and flashing their tiny blue lights.
“Jack, who put the reindeer out?”
“I did. Ruby Nell helped.”
Now I do feel like an ungrateful daughter. “Why did Mama leave?”
“I told her to go on home, Cal. She needed the rest.” I ascend the steps and Jack drapes his arm not-so-casually across my shoulders. “It looks like you do, too. How does hot chocolate sound?”
“Hot chocolate, a long hot soak in the tub, and then an evening in front of the fire watching a holiday movie classic, preferably something with Jimmy Stewart.”
Jack grins at me and we say, “It’s a Wonderful Life” at the same time.
For once I’m glad Jack is in my house. I’m glad I don’t have a date. I’m glad I don’t have company.
In the gathering dusk, we walk inside, arm in arm, while the Christmas reindeer on my lawn sparkle like tiny blue stars.
Chapter 9
Up on the Rooftop, Mooreville Mayhem, and Santa Barbecue
I’m happy to report that I wake up alone in my bed (which means Jack behaved last night and so did I), that the Sunday morning news reports nobody connected to Christmas got maimed or burned or electrocuted during the night, and that my little herd of wire reindeer is still grazing on my front lawn.
Furthermore, Jack is in the kitchen on his crutch making ham and eggs, and he’s wearing his Sunday best.
“What’s this? Eggs Benedict and a necktie? Am I in the wrong house?” I pour myself a cup of coffee and add real cream.
“If I’m going to church, I’m don’t want to embarrass Ruby Nell.”
“You’re going to church?”
“Call me one of the C and E crowd.” That’s the Christmas and Easter crowd, but I never thought Jack would even be part of that. “Besides, Ruby Nell invited me to Sunday dinner. If I remember, that’s not to be missed.”
Mama’s matchmaking, of course. And Jack seems only too happy to play along. Or is he serious? Still, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to let a bit of Christmas spirit sweep me into making another mistake with Jack.
After a breakfast that feels like old times, we climb into my truck, and I drive down Highway 371 south to the white-frame Wildwood Baptist Church across from Mama’s farm. This takes less than five minutes. Mooreville is convenient that way. If I drew a circle around my house and drove ten minutes in any direction, I could see everybody I know in this community.
The church was built by my Granddaddy Valentine, and most of the stained-glass windows are in memory of my relatives. When Jack and I sit on an oak pew sharing a hymnal, it’s almost like being at a family reunion. Up front, Mama pounds out “Joy to the World” on an antique mahogany upright with ball-and-claw feet. It wouldn’t be Christmas without Mama at the church piano and the congregation of Mooreville’s finest singing carols off key.
After services, Lovie joins us at Mama’s, where she reports that Uncle Charlie is being discharged from the hospital this afternoon.
“I’m glad he’s almost out of Nurse Ratched’s clutches,” Mama says, and then she serves the roast beef.
We sit around her table in the dining room, which features the scandal of Mooreville—a giant poster of one of Modigliani’s elongated, naked women. Mama got it at the Metropolitan Museum of Art six years ago when Lovie and I took her to New York.
To say Mama’s flamboyant is to say Elvis could sing—a mighty understatement.
I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t feel good to have Jack beside me sharing one of Mama’s Sunday dinners. I’m just going to say that I refuse to dwell on it.
Fortunately, I don’t have to. The sudden racket at the door is not a tornado trying to tear the house down: it’s Fayrene, bursting with bad news. She bustles in wearing a sweat suit the exact shade of a dollar bill. She’s partial to clothing the color of money.
“While I was sitting in my living room listening to the Sunday morning broadcast of the Sermon on the Mound, Jarvetis discovered our rooftop Santa was missing. They even took the one at Gas, Grits, and Guts.”
“Did you call the sheriff?” I ask.
“Lord, no. I left Jarvetis opening up the store and came straight to Ruby Nell.” Silly me. I don’t know why I even asked. “I’m about to have a heart prostration attack.”
Fayrene pulls out a chair and plops down beside Lovie while Mama fetches a glass of iced tea and a plate. Lovie passes the potatoes, Elvis smacks his lips over a roll Fayrene accidentally drops under the table, and Jack whips out his cell phone. As he leaves the room, he starts talking to no telling who. With his connections, it’s probably somebody who has formed a Mooreville Mafia.
Sunday dinner at Mama’s has turned into a three-ring circus, which happens with more frequency than I care to think about. I’m losing my appetite, but I can’t say the same for Lovie. She’s digging in as if this is the only side of beef in Mississippi and she’s at the Last Supper.
But I try to look on the bright side. At least Mama’s former dance partner showed his true colors during what we now call the Memphis mambo murders, and Thomas Whitenton is no longer invited to the Valentine family dinners. That’s one less thing to worry about.
Jack strolls back in, pocketing his cell phone. “Allegedly, the thief is Albert Gordon. He made a sweep of the neighborhood, snatching Santas.”
“How do you know?” Mama’s back in her seat, holding court at the head of the table.
For once, Jack ignores her. I’m the only person in this room besides him who knows why. On this issue, my almost-ex and I are on the same team. It won’t do for Mama to know about his dangerous connections with the Company.
“I thought he was just a quiet old retired military man who recently moved to our neighborhood,” I say. “He’s never acted like he would hurt a flea.”
“People are not always what they seem, Cal.”
“You can say that again, Jack.” But, of course, he doesn’t. I thought I’d married an international businessman and look what I got. Somebody who goes into deep cover all over the world getting shot at.
Mama gives me the evil eye, but I
ignore her. Thank goodness, Lovie gives me the look, which means she’s going to rescue me.
“How was Albert identified as the thief?” she asks Jack. I owe her.
“While everybody in Mooreville was in church, he was in full camouflage stealing Santas. Roy Jessup spotted him.”
The owner of Mooreville Feed and Seed. If I recall there was a huge inflatable Santa by the front door.
“It’s a wonder Roy didn’t stop him,” I say. I cut Roy’s hair, and he’s not known for being wimpy.
“They had a tussle, but Gordon got away.”
I’ve had about enough of dealing with people who hate Christmas decorations.
“If he took my blue reindeer, I’m going to let Elvis take a poop on his lawn.”
“Apparently he only took the man in the red suit.” Jack winks at me. “Roy told the sheriff Gordon’s threatening to have a Santa barbecue.”
“When?” Fayrene asks, as if this is the Fourth of July and that crazy old man is planning a neighborhood picnic.
“It’s not going to happen, Fayrene. The sheriff’s out looking for him now. He was last seen heading toward the Itawamba County line.” Jack turns to me. “Don’t even think about sticking your cute nose into this.”
Major mistake. Even Mama knows better than to tell me what to do. I kick Lovie under the table and she kicks me back, our secret signal that we’ll do whatever we please, no matter who says no.
“Who, me?” I say.
“Yes, you. If Albert Gordon is lighting Santa’s fire, it’s a matter for the law.”
Lovie rolls her eyes at me, but I can’t roll mine back because Jack is watching me. Then she winks, meaning she has a plan, which always includes me. Hating Christmas is enough to put Albert Gordon on the murder suspect list, and I intend to check him out. What Jack doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
