by Peggy Webb
Elvis’ Opinion # 10 on Normal, Taking Care of Business, and Plans That Don’t Include Yours Truly
Bright and early Monday morning, my human mom and I arrive to start the week off right by making Mooreville’s glitterati beautiful. Jack wasn’t too happy with her when she sashayed home this morning after spending the night at Lovie’s without so much as a “Love Letter in the Sand” (a Pat Boone song I could have done justice to). Still, he’s a man on a mission—i.e., getting out of “Heartbreak Hotel.” He knows when to express his opinions and when to keep them to himself.
He was just glad I’d be along to take care of Callie today. Forget what the uninformed think about me. Jack knows I can take care of business better than the next dog. He even got a lightning-bolt charm to put on my dog collar just to prove it.
So now here I am having a little afternoon siesta with one eye open, taking care of business.
If you want to find out everything worth knowing, spend the day in Callie’s beauty shop. Everybody who is anybody (including the Tupelo mayor’s wife, Junie Mae) comes to Hair.Net. While Callie’s shampooing Junie Mae, I’m ensconced on another of the pink satin, guitar-shaped pillows my human mom keeps in the shop especially for my relaxation and cogitation. (Listen, contrary to a few snarky reporters, I can use ten-dollar words as well as the next singer. Better than most. When I was holed up in a hotel room hiding from fans who wanted to rip my clothes off—don’t you wish!—I read the Encylopedia Britannica and Webster’s Collegiate, too. I’m nobody’s “Fool.”)
The TV weatherman’s wife, Wanda, is under the dryer, letting her permanent wave set. Darlene’s in the manicurist chair, consulting the horoscope before she paints Lovie’s nails. And little David is under the sinks with his Tonka truck, making sounds like a Peterbilt rig. Fortunately for everybody concerned, Darlene left that two-timing Lhasa apso William with Fayrene today. Ever since he’s been making eyes at my former French sweetie, I’ve been laying for him.
But if you think everything is normal here at the best little beauty shop in town, then I “Really Don’t Want to Know” what you think about anything else.
Lovie’s not here to get her nails done. She likes to do them herself. She’s here so she and Callie can finalize details on Ruby Nell’s sleuthing plan. Don’t think I came by this information because “I Got Lucky” either. I’m a dog with radar ears. And if that doesn’t work, I stoop to any low to get the goods, including eavesdropping. That’s what I did when Lovie arrived out-of-breath from catering a Christmas luncheon at All Saints Episcopal in Tupelo and the two of them hurried off to Callie’s office.
I just ambled my good-looking self over to the door, lay down like I was the “Keeper of the Key,” and dared anybody to cross my portly body. And bless’a my soul, did I get an earful. It seems the two cousins are going sleuthing tonight, all dolled up as former beauty queens. Not that they consider Nelda Lou Perkins a serious suspect. They’re only going to placate Ruby Nell, who came up with the plan. Callie won’t be packing heat, but she will be including yours truly.
Listen, I’m not a dog to take rejection lightly. Any more of this business about “leaving Elvis behind” and I’ll be packing up my Pup-Peroni and howling “I’m Movin’ On.” There are plenty of good homes that would welcome a famous singer with a heart as gold as his records—even if I am wearing a basset hound suit.
For now, though, I wait for this evening’s adventure and listen to Wanda holding forth on Albert Gordon’s bonfire.
“That old toot nearly burned my house down.”
“Law,” the mayor’s wife says, “I almost cried when I saw those burning Santas on TV.”
“Most of them were just singed, Junie Mae. Butch went over there after the fire was put out and brought ours back. He’s home now scrubbing Santa Claus with Ajax.”
“Does anybody know why Albert did it?” Darlene asks. “The TV news didn’t say.”
Lovie shoots Callie a look, and my human mom winks.
“All I know is he had an accomplice.” Wanda’s holding the floor. It’s obvious she considers herself an expert since she was next door to Mooreville’s biggest drama since Ruby Nell hung the nude Modigliani over her dining room table. “You ought to see my hedge where they escaped. If whoever it was sets foot on my property again, he’d better watch out. Sadie can identify him by scent.”
“Darlene!” Lovie speaks so loud everybody jumps. “I want ruby red on my nails.”
“Your horoscope says ‘Curb your impetuous nature. Caution advised.’ So I’m going with the shell pink.”
Wanda opens her mouth to keep her story going, but Lovie is too quick for her.
“I don’t give a lump of coal what my horoscope says, Darlene. I’m going with red.”
The mayor’s wife, all decked out in a dress the color of Pepto-Bismol, adds her two cents, “I’d go with the shell pink, dear. It matches everything.”
“It’s not Christmassy,” Wanda says. “Go red, Lovie.”
Around the beauty shop, everybody’s business is discussed and voted on by whoever happens to be here. It’s a small democracy where the majority usually rules unless Ruby Nell is here. Then we get a queen without the parliament.
“Red,” Lovie tells Darlene, who has the good sense to stop arguing. I can tell from the way she pinches her nose before she grabs the nail polish that she doesn’t like it. She and Bobby will probably have a long discussion this evening about people who don’t take advice from the stars and the dead.
And don’t think I don’t know about their date. He called at lunchtime while she was having a pimento and cheese sandwich in the break room, and I heard both ends of the conversation. To keep on Fayrene’s good side, those two are having to tread “Gently.” Not that Fayrene’s even close to losing her psychic. Listen, Darlene’s been twice burned at the altar, and Bobby’s not the marrying kind.
I guess I’m not either or I’d have made an honest dog out of Ann Margret before the puppies were born. “Que Sera Sera.”
Here comes David, dripping ice cream down his elbows. Excuse me while I get in a lick or two before I leave with Callie and Lovie for some detective legwork.
Chapter 13
Faded Beauty, Bogus Pageants, and the Shrimp Queen
As soon as my clients leave Hair.Net and Darlene sets off with her darling little boy, I set to work on transforming Lovie into the former Kudzu Queen.
Not that there ever was such a title, but there ought to be. When the U.S. Department of Agriculture imported a bunch of Japanese kudzu in the misguided attempt to halt erosion, the foreign vine became a Frankenstein’s monster that not only blanketed northeast Mississippi’s pines and deciduous trees but also took over telephone poles, fences, and abandoned barns and houses. If I stood still long enough, kudzu would grow right over me and then just keep on going.
“Higher.” Lovie’s talking about her hair. She’s got more than any two women I know, every bit of it curly and the lush golden red you can’t get from a bottle, I don’t care how good your coloring skills are.
I’m doing an upswept style that she says no beauty queen worth her crown would be without.
“If I take it any higher, you won’t be able to walk under light fixtures.”
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes. I want to look authentic.”
If anybody looks like a former beauty queen, it’s Lovie. She’s got the stature, the high color, and the big personality to carry it off. On the other hand, I’m skin and bones with sleek hair that’s not going to pouf no matter what I do. I’d do well to pass myself off as a former Little Miss Mosquito. A title Lovie has already nixed.
I anchor Lovie’s hair with one last bobby pin, and she starts slathering on as much makeup as I use to fix up the dead.
“Don’t you think that’s a tad too much?”
“TV washes you out.”
“You’re not going to be on TV.”
“Yes, but Nelda Lou won’t know that. I want to look the part.”
“Did you come up with a name for me?”
“Not yet. Just zip me into this dress, and let’s get this show on the road.”
It takes three attempts, but I finally zip Lovie into a green-sequined evening gown so small that if she takes a deep breath she’ll split its seams. I slide into a red-sequined pageant gown I borrowed from Darlene under the pretext I might need it for a Christmas party with Champ. I pride myself on honesty, but when a little white lie is the only thing that will do, I can rise to the occasion as well as the next woman.
Seized by inspiration, I tie a big red Christmas bow onto Elvis’ dog collar and snap on his red leash.
“What’re you doing, Cal?”
“The last time we went snooping he got out of the truck. I’m not taking that chance again. I’ve decided to be the former Queen of Animal Rescue and he can be my mascot. Besides, Elvis will protect us.”
When Lovie looks skeptical, Elvis bares his teeth and growls. I swear, my dog knows everything I say. I guess it comes from me talking to him all the time, which is what a good dog mom is supposed to do. Furthermore, I’ll be hanging a Christmas stocking for him and getting him presents.
I do my shiny hair in a quick French twist, add a rhinestone comb, and we’re off for an evening of sleuthing. I hope it comes out better than our last time.
Nelda Lou lives in Highland Circle, one of Tupelo’s oldest neighborhoods. Located just one block east of the busy Gloster Street, a generic north/south four-lane lined with fast-food restaurants, motels, drugstores, and service stations, the prestigious Highland Circle is tucked behind brick columns and insulated from traffic noise by ancient trees surrounding upscale houses on huge lots.
As I cruise through the neighborhood looking for Nelda Lou’s house, I notice that most of the houses are dark except for huge Christmas trees alight in their front windows. Most people are shopping or going to countless Christmas parties and church pageants. Down here in the Bible Belt, you can count on seeing some version of the reenactment of Joseph and Mary following the Star of Bethlehem at least fifteen times during the holidays.
We’re in luck, though. Nelda Lou’s red-brick Georgian house is ablaze with lights, and there’s an ancient Volvo in the driveway.
“Here we go, Lovie. Act like a queen.”
“Don’t I always?”
“Not if Mama gets there first.”
Snapping on Elvis’ leash, I get my dog out of the truck, tell him to behave, smooth down my dress, and try to channel my inner queen. This is hard. I don’t think I have one. Two queens in the family are more than enough. I think of myself more as a trusted adviser. I’m just grateful not to be dressed as a man.
“Tonight I get to talk, Lovie.”
“Does that mean I get to lose my life in dark basements and discover dead bodies in freezers? Whoopee, Callie.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you. We’ll just play it by ear. I don’t think Nelda Lou has a single thing to hide.”
I just hope those are not famous last words.
Lovie prisses up the sidewalk ahead of me. As I follow along behind, I try on a beauty queen strut. Elvis makes a noise that I swear sounds like a doggie guffaw.
I’m about to punch the doorbell when Lovie’s cell phone rings. She says a quick hello, followed by a brief pause and, “Save yourself some trouble, Rocky. I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the only man on earth.” Much to my dismay, she hangs up without another word.
“Is he coming here?”
“Not if he’s got half a brain.”
“What would it hurt to talk to him face to face? Besides, it’s Christmas, Lovie.”
“What does Christmas have to do with my Holy Grail?”
I’m about to answer her when the front door bursts open. The woman backlit by twinkling Christmas tree lights looks like an Amazon. Besides that, she’s toting a double-barreled shot gun, and it’s aimed straight at body parts I’d rather not lose.
Lovie and I both jump back, and Elvis gets his hackles up.
“What’s all this racket out here?” If this is Nelda Lou, her voice hasn’t lost a bit of its strength since her beauty queen days. I can picture her belting out a musical number you could hear clear to the Alabama state line.
I punch Lovie, and she leaps to the rescue. “Hello! I’m Darling Stevens, former Kudzu Queen, and this is my friend, Dimple Culpepper, former Miss Mississippi Canine Rescue with her sweet little ole mascot, Rudy.”
“I never heard of that contest.” The gun is still pointed at us.
“It’s not well known,” I say, and Lovie steps on my toes.
“It’s quite elite and politically correct,” Lovie adds, “which I’m sure a woman with your beauty queen record can certainly appreciate. You are Nelda Lou Perkins, aren’t you?”
“I am.” The former Miss Sweet Potato unbends a bit and lowers her gun, but she’s still blocking the door. “What are ya’ll doing out here without your coats?”
“I left my fur in the truck,” Lovie says. “It’s a bit ostentatious for calling on neighbors, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t believe in wearing dead animals.”
A woman after my own heart. Before Lovie makes another gaff, I step into the breach.
“Actually, we’re chairing the newly formed Little Miss Tupelo Toddler Christmas pageant, and we need some expert advice.”
“Why didn’t ya’ll say so in the first place?” She steps out of the way and motions us inside. Considering the gun, I’m thinking we shouldn’t even go in. Still, Lovie barrels ahead, and I can’t let her go without me. I tag along behind, keeping a tight hold on Elvis’ leash. His hackles are still up and he’s eyeing Nelda Lou’s skinny, slacks-clad legs with the same look he gets right before he pees on my favorite shoes.
As Nelda Lou leads us into a musty-smelling room featuring Victorian furniture with faded rose satin cushions, she regales us with her history of pulchritude.
“I have the distinction of entering more beauty pageants than anybody in Mississippi. Fifty, total! I was Little Miss everything you can name. Then in 1955 I won two titles in a row. Miss Pascagoula and Miss Hospitality. It was my talent that did it. I imitated the Singing River!”
She gives us a coy smile, and I smile back. Not because I’m impressed that she was the Singing River, but because she has finally put down her gun.
With the threat of sudden death removed, I observe my surroundings. Marble-topped tables. Lamps with fringed shades. Books with leather binders and gold lettering. Expensive Oriental wool rugs. The former Miss Sweet Potato has done well for herself.
On the bookshelves behind her sofa, I spot a line of framed photos. One of them shows her under a charity ball banner posing in a red evening gown with a man in a tuxedo who looks exactly like the newspaper picture I saw of the mall’s regular Santa—Nathan Briggs. Another shows a younger, prettier version of Nelda Lou with her arm around none other than Lovie’s newly murdered fiancé.
Maybe Mama was right about Nelda Lou being a valid suspect.
“That’s a beautiful girl in the photo behind you,” I say. “Your daughter?”
“Yes. And her husband.”
“Husband?” Lovie spots her recently murdered fiance’s photo and turns pale. She may be outrageous, but she draws the line at husband-stealing.
“Well, I guess you’d call him former, but they were seeing each other again.”
Nelda Lou’s lips are pursed, and her body language is tight. If she’s like Mama, that’s a sure sign she didn’t like her former son-in-law. But did she kill him to keep him from coming back into the family?
Nelda Lou visibly pulls herself together and gives us a perky smile. “But I was telling ya’ll about my titles. Once upon a time I was Miss Shrimp Queen!”
The way she says it, I almost expect drum rolls. But I’m onto something here, and I’m not about to let the Shrimp Queen change the subject. Besides, Elvis still has his hackles up. A sign that he smells something
fishy.
“How wonderful!” I flash what I hope passes for a beauty queen smile. “Is that Nathan Briggs with you at the charity ball? You look fabulous!”
Holy cow. Talking in exclamation points is harder than I’d thought. I almost choke on the second one.
While Nelda Lou preens and postures, Lovie is still in shock that her so-called fiancé was also dating his ex-wife.
“I got that gown in New York.” The former queen of almost everything pronounces this Noo Yawk.
I’ve spotted something else on the credenza behind the sofa, and I discreetly kick Lovie. It takes two kicks before she comes out of her fog.
“Oh, my throat is parched,” she says. “I wonder if I could have a little sip of something?”
“Forgive my manners.” Nelda Lou says this as fo’give mah mannahs. “Can I get ya’ll a little cuppa somethin’ sweet?”
“Wonderful!” I punch Lovie, and she rises like a phoenix coming out of the ashes.
“Do you mind if I come along?” Lovie says. “I need to stretch my legs.”
“Surely. But don’t mind the house. This was the maid’s day off.”
Elvis curls his lips back as if to say, “It’s getting knee deep in here,” and when my hostess and my cousin are out of earshot, I tell him, “Amen.” Then I make a beeline for the bookshelves. Earlier I’d spotted two photo albums, and I’m itching to see what’s inside.
If the Shrimp Queen starts back, Lovie will send up a smoke signal. I hope.
I flip through the first album and find it’s nothing more than a baby book featuring Nelda Lou’s daughter, from naked infant to gap-toothed second grader to pimple-faced graduate with an unbecoming mortar board on a bad haircut.
Later this is what I’ll say to console Lovie: “What Wayne ever saw in that woman, I can’t imagine. You’d put her in the shade, Lovie.”
And she would. That’s the truth.
The second album is some sort of travelogue of Nelda Lou’s treks into exotic foreign places.
“Shoot.” I shove the albums back into place. Though we can connect Nelda Lou to all three Santas, we don’t have a shred of evidence that proves she had a motive for murder.
