by Peggy Webb
Elvis and the Pink Cadillac Corpse
A Southern Cousins Mystery
Peggy Webb
Contents
What Readers Say about Peggy Webb
Elvis’ Opinion #1
1. Chapter 1
Elvis Opinion #2
2. Chapter 2
Elvis’ Opinion # 3
Chapter 3
Elvis’ Opinion #4
Elvis’ Opinion # 5
Chapter 4
Elvis’ Opinion #6
Chapter 5
Elvis’ Opinion #7
Chapter 6
Elvis’ Opinion # 8
Chapter 7
Elvis’ Opinion # 9
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Elvis’ Opinion # 10
Chapter 10
Elvis’ Opinion #11
Chapter 11
Elvis’ Opinion # 12
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Elvis’ Opinion # 13
Read More
Letter from the Author
About Peggy Webb
Favorite Recipes from Lovie’s Kitchen
Trey Webb’s Nassau Grits
Lovie’s Prohibition Punch
Garnish
Elvis and the Pink Cadillac Corpse, Copyright © 2017 by Peggy Webb
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All rights reserved.
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Original Cover Art, Copyright © 2017 by Peggy Webb
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Cover Design, Vicki Hinze, 2017
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Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States by Westmoreland House, Mooreville, Mississippi.
What Readers Say about Peggy Webb
The most delightful book I’ve ever read.
- Joy, Brewton, AL
This (Elvis and the Dearly Departed) is just about the funniest, most riveting story I’ve read since the last Anne George. Keep up the good work and write some more along the same lines. What a talent!
- Sharon, Kingston, GA
One of the best books I’ve read in a long time!
-Chris, Palmer, Alaska
I laughed my head off at Elvis and the gang.
- Tara, Birmingham, AL
This is so good I couldn’t put it down. - Alice, MS
I was unable to put it down. Your characters are so real I just want to walk into the story and share a hug with the girls and some life advice from Victoria. - Tonya, Nova Scotia, Canada
I loved your book! Mama is a hoot! My favorite line is ‘There is a quiet place inside us where angels are whispering, and they’re saying, See?’ - Christine from Suffolk, VA
I ADORE the book. Peggy Webb tugged all my heart strings, then when I least expected it, had me howling with laughter! This gal can flat out write! - Charlotte, South Carolina
What an amazing book! I can’t wait for the next one. - Nikki, Amory, MS
I have never written a fan letter in my life, but please add me to your list of fans. Your book moved me to both laughter and tears….Pat Conroy is one of my favorite writers. He strings words together that sparkles like perfectly cut diamonds in the sun. Your writing created a double-strand necklace in my world. I eagerly await any and everything you write. - Joyce, Ontario, Canada
The book is so good I want to jump in the pages with the characters - Sue, Tupelo, MS
My family and I love the book. We’re new, devoted Peggy Webb fans. – Rebecca, Ontario, Canada
The best book I’ve read in the past year. - Sandi
The book is great! - Maxine, Birmingham, AL
It is definitely a memorable reading experience. - Mary
I loved the book. You write the best stories! - Kim, VA
Elvis’ Opinion #1
Elvis’ Opinion #1 on Pink Cadillacs, Two-timing French Poodles and Road Trips
That two-timing French poodle, Ann Margret, has dropped a litter that causes suspicious minds to believe she had more romantic encounters at Mooreville’s Truck Stop than with yours truly – the most famous basset hound in all of Mississippi. My best buddy Trey (who is also the smartest hound dog to ever hang out at Gas, Grits and Guts, Mooreville’s one and only convenience store) says he saw Ann Margret cavorting with that sawed-off little upstart of a Lhasa Apso who belongs to the crazy manicurist at my human mom’s beauty shop, Hair.Net. Darlene won’t paint your fingernails until she reads your horoscope to see whether you’re having a pink day or the stars call for something more dramatic, like pumpkin orange and neon green.
I don’t need a horoscope to tell me that two of that faithless French poodle’s puppies don’t have a single drop of noble basset blood. Well, Ann Margret’s loss is the world’s gain. Did she happen to forget all the songs I turned into gold and platinum in my other life as the world’s greatest two-legged singer in a sequined jump suit?
And what about my silver canine detective badge?
I’m talking about current events, here, not past lives. Ever since I got up to my handsome neck protecting my human parents (Jack and Callie Valentine Jones) from kidnapping and murder at the baby boot camp this past summer, and my human daddy’s boss, 666, gave me the badge, Mooreville’s bevy of canine beauties have been stepping all over my blue suede shoes and begging love me tender.
I could fall in love if I wanted to, but this famous dog has more important things to do – namely, head to the Mississippi Gulf Coast in the pink Cadillac Ruby Nell Valentine (Callie’s mom) won for her creative send-offs of the newly dead. A grave marker from Ruby Nell’s Everlasting Monuments is more than a piece of granite to mark the final resting place. It’s a life’s story summarized in a few words and carved in stone. Most recently she sent Clark Witherspoon, a trombonist, off with this: Clark tooted through his life and is glory bound, still tooting.
Of course, Ruby Nell won the Cadillac. And it’s a convertible, too. Would the most flamboyant woman in Lee County have anything else? This pink Cadillac is my kind of car. I used to give them out by the dozens when I had two legs instead of four and was living like a rock ‘n’ roll king deserves up in Graceland.
The caddy is now parked under a magnolia tree in front of Callie’s white cottage in beautiful downtown Mooreville, population 652 and counting. The females in my human family are scurrying around loading so much stuff into the trunk you’d think we were going on a month-long safari. Noble dog that I am, I’d be helping load if I had digits. Instead, I’ve commandeered the back seat where I watch that silly cocker spaniel rescue of Callie’s racing around the car, marking hubcaps like he’s staking off his territory. I have news for him, he might as well be crying in the chapel. I’m the only canine who’ll be sitting in a pink convertible letting my ears blow all the way to Biloxi. I’m the big boss dog.
Naturally, wherever Ruby Nell goes her BFF Fayrene does, too. She has a habit of stuffing her size 16 self into size 14s then cutting the label out and telling everybody
they are 12s. She’s about to bust out of her cedar green shorts and tank top.
“Ruby Nell,” she says, “is the basket hound going, too?”
I forgive Fayrene the basket hound remark. She’s in charge of the pickled pigs’ lips, a little tidbit I can’t help falling in love with over at Gas, Grits and Guts.
“Fayrene, you know good and well we can’t go without Elvis,” Ruby Nell tells her. “He’s our watchdog.”
If ever two women needed a dog of my caliber to keep them out of trouble, it’s these two. They’re in the of habit of gambling, holding séances in the back of Gas, Grits and Guts and even getting into the fray with weapons when the occasion calls for it, if you can call a commode plunger a weapon. But that’s all right, Mama. They’re also steadfast, loyal and true. And since my human daddy Jack is not going to be around to keep them from stepping out of line and getting arrested, it’s all up to me.
Jack, the Company’s most dangerous agent, is headed to parts unknown for a job that spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E for the bad guys, and I’m the one left behind to protect the whole Valentine clan.
There’s nothing this glorious dog likes better than a road trip with my human mom and Mooreville’s two most colorful characters. Plus cousin Lovie, of course. None of us would be going to the Gulf Coast except for her. Mississippi’s biggest cooking competition is this weekend, and the state’s best caterer is sure to win. Listen, if Lovie were a dog, I could fall in love. That woman knows the way to a canine’s heart. Fried chicken gizzards with biscuits and gravy. Need I say more?
Lovie’s revving up the engine of her big catering van that has Lovie’s Luscious Eats painted on the side. Callie’s on her cell phone giving last minute instructions to her manicurist, who is in charge of Hair.Net while she’s gone (heaven help Mooreville’s glitterati), and Ruby Nell is behind the wheel of the brand new Cadillac, tooting the horn.
Callie waves a hand to shush her, but Ruby Nell keeps on tooting.
“Just a minute, Mama.”
“Darlene knows what to do,” Ruby Nell says. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Show is right. She’s ditched her usual rainbow colored caftan for a pair of fire engine red pedal pushers and a neon pink tee shirt you can see all the way to the Alabama state line. She’s got a lipstick red scarf tied around her head, Marilyn-Monroe style, and is wearing enough bling to send signals to outer space. I sit back and hum a few bars of O, Happy Day while she pushes every button on the dashboard till she finds the one that lets the top down.
Lawdy Miss Clawdy, that gets Callie off the phone faster than I can scarf down Pup-Peroni. She leans into the car and says, “Mama, I’m not sure driving with the top down is the safest thing.”
“Flitter.”
Callie tries to hide her worry, but this faithful canine sees it as plain as a bridge over troubled water. That’s my job. To sniff out my human mom’s emotional terrain and give her all the love and comfort humans are often too busy to provide. I prance across the back seat and put my handsome head on her hand.
“That’s not even a word, Mama.”
“You tend to your little red wagon and let me tend to mine.” Ruby Nell waves her bejeweled hand and grinds the gears. Then we roar off with enough horsepower under the hood to win a NASCAR race at the Talladega Speedway.
“Be careful. We’ll be right behind you,” Callie calls after us, but I’m the only one who hears. This is due to the radar hearing in my mismatched ears, which has gotten the Valentine family out of more trouble than I care to think about. Between Callie and cousin Lovie’s half-baked sleuthing plans and Ruby Nell and Fayrene’s penchant for nosey escapades gone awry, this famous basset hound has become Mooreville’s answer to 007.
Fortunately, we’re heading to a resort where the only thing half-baked is likely to be Fayrene on the beach without her suntan oil. I saw it lying under the magnolia tree back there at Callie’s where it rolled out of her beach bag.
Chapter 1
Bad Drivers, Bad Haircuts and Bad Ideas
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The scenery is whizzing by much too fast. I’m getting ready to tell Lovie to slow down when my cell phone rings. I jump like somebody having a heart attack then scramble around to find it. Before we left home, I distinctly remember putting it on the front seat of Lovie’s van within easy reach in case of emergencies, most of them involving Mama. With her barreling along in that convertible, you never know what’s going to happen. For all I know, Fayrene has leaned too far out of the car and been carried off to Kansas on Mama’s tail winds.
“Lovie, did you move my phone?”
“Look under the Twinkies, Cal.”
I paw through a mile-high pile of Twinkies and two boxes of Hershey bars. “You’ve got enough junk here to last through a famine.”
“Driving whips up my appetite.”
“Everything whips up your appetite.”
“Eat more, worry less. That’s my motto.”
I find my phone in the middle of Lovie’s motto, but it has already stopped ringing. The screen says I missed my manicurist. She has distinct instructions not to call unless there’s an emergency. I can’t call her back fast enough.
“Darlene, what’s wrong? Is the shop on fire?”
“No, it’s Alice Ann Street.” She’s one of my best customers and the owner of Mooreville Video next door to Hair. Net. She’s wailing so loud in the background I’ll bet they hear her all the way across Highway 371 at Gas, Grits and Guts.
“Holy cow! Is she dying?”
“Practically. She decided to trim her bangs and picked up the pinking sheers instead of the scissors. They’re zigzagging all over the place.”
Alice Ann does this all the time. She thinks she’s saving money by trimming her own hair, but she always makes a mess. And I’m nearly always there to fix it.
“There’s nothing I can do about it this time, Darlene.”
“I told her that, but she wants to know if you’ll turn around and come back. She said it would just take you a few minutes to fix it.”
“Good grief! We’re already four hours from home. Tell her I’ll put her at the top of my list next week. Then give her some prohibition punch.”
“I think it’s going to take more than one glass.”
“Use that glass Mama brought back from the Mardi Gras. And add some extra bourbon.”
“Will do. Don’t worry. Have a blast. I’ve got everything covered.”
I slip my phone in my pocket so I can find it next time then rip into a six-pack of Hershey’s while Lovie gives me that I told you so look.
“Aunt Ruby Nell’s Mardi Gras glass holds at least a quart. Who needs that much liquored up punch?”
“Me.” The speedometer is inching up faster than I can say yes every time Jack Jones crooks his little finger. “Slow down, Lovie! Are you trying to get us planted six feet under? Good grief, Mama will have to write a tombstone that says they flew to Heaven in Lovie’s catering van and took plenty of Lucious Eats with them.”
Lovie says a word that’s not in anybody’s vocabulary. “I’m just trying to keep up with Aunt Ruby Nell. I’ve got it under control.”
I’m afraid to look. Wouldn’t you know Mama’s driving that crazy pink Cadillac like the road to Biloxi is a highway to Heaven? I can’t call her. She can’t talk and drive at the same time. I’ve seen her try. She’s all over the road, and once ended up driving through a pasture fence and almost plowing into her neighbor’s bovine. The cow took such a fright she ran into the lake and got herself mired up to her belly. It took six men and a tractor to get her out.
To make matter worse, my basset hound is leaning his head so far out of Mama’s convertible I’m about to have a stroke. I don’t even want to think what that would do to my as-yet-unfertilized eggs. A subject I’m not even going to discuss, much less dwell over.
“Lovie, honk the horn so she’ll pull over.”
“Why?”
“Senior citizens should NOT be doing 80 m
iles per hour. I’m fixing to jerk her from behind the wheel and drive it, myself. Whose idea was it for her to drive that new car all the way to Biloxi, anyhow?”
“Yours.”
“Well, I take it back. If Mama’s tailwinds don’t blow Elvis out of the back seat, he’s going to fall anyway and kill himself.”
“You worry too much, Callie.”
“Somebody has to. We’re moving so fast we’re about to break the sound barrier.”
“If we do that at this speed we’ll make headlines around the world.” Lovie’s not taking me the least bit seriously. “But you’ve got to promise me one thing, Cal.”
“What?”
“Fix my hair before the TV cameras start rolling.”
“Good grief, Lovie. I’m serious. Honk at Mama.” Lovie starts chuckling and keeps on roaring down the road. At this rate, we’re going to break all records getting to the Gulf Coast. “I ought to pinch you. Look at Elvis! His ears are spinning like propellers. How will I tell Jack if I lose our dog on this trip and me not even yet pregnant with a replacement?”
