by Peggy Webb
Well, bless’a my soul. Now you can see why Ruby Nell Valentine wins every tombstone slogan contest she enters. That woman has a way with words.
“Hear, hear, Ruby Nell. That deserves a standing ovulation!”
Listen, this conversation is more fun than most of the Las Vegas shows put on by my rivals when I was bringing down the house and throwing silk scarves at my adoring public. Thank you, thank you very much. Still, I draw my kissable basset lips back in a big grin when I spot the beach. Chasing silly sea gulls and digging holes in the sand. Not to mention chowing down on the fried chicken Ruby Nell’s got stashed in the trunk. Now, that’s my kind of day.
Ruby Nell roars across the parking lot and sails right off the end of the concrete. The big Caddy shimmies a bit, then gets its beach legs and spews up sand as we come to a bone-jarring stop right before we plunge into the water.
Fayrene’s knuckles are white on the dashboard. “You nearly sent me into wisteria, Ruby Nell.”
“Buck up! We’re on vacation.”
The way Ruby Nell says it, it sounds like we’re out toting guns and robbing banks. Or at the very least, getting tipsy on prohibition punch on her front porch.
Ruby Nell does a backup maneuver so we won’t float off on the next incoming tide, and I mean maneuver. She grinds so many gears trying to find reverse I could howl something that would go platinum, using the sounds for a backup band.
Finally we all bail out of the car, and Ruby Nell prances around to open the trunk as if we hadn’t all just narrowly escaped becoming fish bait. There’s liable to be a blue moon of Kentucky before she gets it open. I could have told her there was a little button up front that would just pop it right up, but she stands there in the hot boiling sun trying to get the key turned right to fit in the little keyhole.
Fayrene is fanning herself with her lettuce green sunhat, and I’m about to give chase to that seagull with the goofy face when the trunk finally swings open.
Out pops an arm.
Fayrene screams and Ruby Nell covers her face with her hands.
It’s all up to this noble and fearless dog to save the day. I hoist my portly but handsome self up on my hind legs and peer into the interior of the trunk. There’s a man with his head in the potato salad and his feet in the fried chicken, and he’s not singing “I’ll Fly Away.” He’s lying there deader than a doornail in a length of canvas that probably popped open in our wild ride across the sand. And I’m talking really dead. He’s got two bullet wounds and one knife wound – and his neck is snapped clean in two.
What we’ve got here is not a picnic on the beach. It’s murder a la carte.
Chapter 2
Cooking, Carving and Mayhem
The roast beef cookout starts in five minutes, and I don’t see hide nor hair of Mama and Fayrene in the audience. Of course, Elvis is with them. No matter that I consider him almost human, that’s a minority opinion here at the Biloxi Resort and Convention Center. Dogs are not allowed in the cooking booths when food is being prepared, even if they are partial to pink bowties and black wigs and can stand on their hind legs and howl “Dixie.” I swear Elvis can do this. Jack will back me up, and so will Mama and Lovie.
“Here, Cal.” Lovie thrusts a pink chef’s apron into my hands. Bright red lettering on the front says Lovie’s Luscious Eats. “Gear up and stop worrying about Aunt Ruby Nell. She’s probably still at the beach having fun.”
“That’s what’s worrying me. With Mama, fun could be anything from an impromptu gambling jaunt to flirting with Biloxi’s only serial killer.”
Lovie says a word that fries split ends and makes me instantly give up searching the bleachers for Mama and her cohort in crime. I don the apron that matches my yellow jumpsuit printed with pink and red flowers. Thank goodness, we had time to go upstairs to our room for a quick shower and change for the first cook-off. My hair is held back in a classic pink snood that meets the standards of a hair net, and I’m wearing a pair of pink Ferragamo sandals. If you’re going to deal in beauty, you need to be a walking advertisement for your own product. It’s one of the many standards I strive to uphold.
When the speaker blares, “Cooking competition starts in five minutes!” I nearly jump out of my designer shoes.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about, Callie.” Lovie winks at me. “Just look at my competition. Do you see anybody out there I can’t beat with one hand tied behind my back?”
Lovie’s trying to take my mind off my missing mama, but that’s okay. It’s fun to see the faces of people we’ve encountered over the years. Cole Shackley occupies the cooking station next to us on the right. Lovie beat him four years in a row in the Mid-South Bake-off. He’s tall, gangly and hatchet-faced, which he got directly from his mother Doris, who always comes to every competition. She’s on the front row of bleachers, right in the center, where nobody can miss her.
Both mother and son are staring in Lovie’s direction. Somebody needs to tell Doris Shackley that the scowl only emphasizes her make-up and hair-coloring mistakes. If your complexion is sallow, you should never wear yellow eye shadow and dye your hair the color of mustard. From a distance you can hardly tell where her face ends and her hair begins. No use wasting a business card on her, though. She hates my cousin too much to trust me with a pair of scissors.
The cooking station on the left is occupied by Melinda Taft, a really pretty little blond chef from Oxford. If anybody’s going to give Lovie a run for her money, it’s Melinda. They’ve swapped the roast beef cook-off title a couple of times, but I’ll have to say Melinda is a sore loser. Nothing makes an attractive little Southern belle lose her charm faster than pitching a temper tantrum over losing.
Melinda did that last year when Lovie came to her turf and walked home with the trophy. She thought nobody saw her, but I was in the bathroom stall when she stormed in and had her hissy fit.
Melinda’s all smiles now, most of them in the direction of the judge’s table, though she could be smiling at her very handsome husband, Jeff, a strength trainer, who is sitting right behind the judges. When Melinda sees me looking, she waves like we’re best friends, and I wave right back, big as you please. Might I add that manners top my list of how a lady ought to act?
Lovie consults her watch. “Two minutes to go. Lay out the platter and the carving set, Cal.”
The platter is right where I unpacked it, special to both Lovie and me because it belonged to our Grandmother Valentine. It’s a Blue Willow pattern, handed down through four generations of the Valentine family. Since Lovie’s the only real cook in the family, it makes sense that she’s the one with this treasure.
I remove the bubble wrap and set the platter on the serving counter at Lovie’s cooking station.
“My lucky platter.” She touches the edge of the china then stands there smiling like she’s already won while I duck back to her cooking supply shelf for the carving set. It was Mama’s gift to Lovie this past Christmas, and need I add that you can spot it a mile. It’s made of Birmingham steel and features handles made of real ebony with Lovie’s initials inlaid in gold.
I close my hand over the fork but where is the knife? I personally unpacked the carving set and if I were the swearing kind, I’d swear I put them side by side in what I call the utensil section of Lovie’s supply shelf.
“Cal, what’s taking so long down there?”
“Just a minute.”
I scan the utensils again then search among the pots and pans, thinking I might have misplaced it in all the chaos.
Lovie looks at her watch. “We don’t have a minute, Cal. This show is fixing to get on the road.”
I pop up holding the serving fork. “This is all I found.”
Lovie’s face turns bright red and she says a whole string of words that could get her arrested.
Cole glances in our direction. “Anything wrong?”
“We’re fine over here.” Lovie would say that if her pants were on fire, but how can she carve a roast without a k
nife?
“I’ve done the unforgivable,” I tell him. “I’ve misplaced her carving knife.”
Melinda perks up over on her side of the cooking station. “Allow me.” She’s all smiles as she walks over to hand us a perfectly decent carving knife.
Lovie’s dumfounded, and miffed, to boot, but I can’t tell if her anger is directed at me or Melinda. Still, she delivers a “thank you” that sounds gracious instead of grudging.
“Don’t mention it,” Melinda says. “I always keep a spare.” She winks at me. “A great cook is always prepared, you know.”
Well. If she’d left off that last past, we’d all be okay, but Lovie jumps in front of her faster than fleas would jump on Elvis if I weren’t such a stellar doggie mom.
Leaning within an inch of Melinda’s face, Lovie says, “A great cook never has to sleep with the judges.”
Thank goodness, Lovie’s baseball bat is in the room. Also, fortunately my cousin keeps her voice low, and I think I’m the only one who heard, but there’s no wonder Melinda turns the color of corn starch. There was enough menace in Lovie’s tone to raise a few well-groomed hairs on my own head. I hurry from behind the station and drag Lovie back to her cooktop.
“You’ve got to calm down.”
She calls Melinda a string of names that would tarnish stainless steel, which, thank goodness, Melinda doesn’t seem to hear.
“You don’t know that, Lovie. She might be a victim of rumor, just like you.” My cousin then mutters a whole paragraph that would get her banned from polite society and I’m forced to plan B. “Oh my, just look at the time.”
She begins to settle down, thank goodness. My own watch as well as the big electric clock on the far wall says it’s actually one minute past the time when the roast beef cookout should start. I pour Lovie a glass of water, and she turns her back to Melinda and drinks it slowly.
“There, now. Better?”
“I’ll be fine, Cal…if I don’t cut out Melinda’s heart with her own carving knife.”
Cole suddenly looks as if he’s discovered the secret to the perfect divinity, and I nudge Lovie’s ribs.
“Shhh. Somebody might hear and not know you’re joking.”
I say this loud enough for Cole Shackley to hear then I move closer to Lovie and squeeze her hand. Might I add that not only is she my cousin but my life-long best friend, and I understand the healing power of touch. It’s almost a secret language between us – a hand on a shoulder, a quick squeeze to the arm, a simple hug – all the little ways we say to each other, I’m here. I won’t let you down. Everything is going to be okay.
The loud speaker blares again. “Will George Ransom please come to the judges’ table? George Ransom, report at once to the convention hall. George Ransom!”
“Lovie, I have a bad feeling about this.”
“He’s probably holed up in a dark corner with a new conquest and lost track of time.”
“That’s not nice.”
“Nice is boring.”
“I don’t know, Lovie. Something doesn’t feel right.” I scan the bleachers once more for Mama and Fayrene. Fortunately, I’m head and shoulders taller than most of the women here and plenty of the men, too. From my vantage point near the center of the cooking stations, it would be easy to make out Mama, who decks herself out like Christmas for every public appearance, and Fayrene, who is always dressed from head to toe in green.
They are nowhere to be seen, but I do spot somebody else I know – George Ransom’s wife, Tootie, elegant in her simple black dress and pearls with her platinum blond hair perfectly styled in a French twist. She’s smiling, which indicates she’s not at all concerned about her missing husband. He’s probably back in their room trying to decide which tie to wear. Or maybe he lay down for a nap and forgot to set the alarm clock.
I notice Sol Kennedy leaving the judge’s table and striding out of the convention hall. Going to check on George? Does he know his whereabouts?
The speaker blares once more. “Ladies and gentlemen, there will be a short break. The roast beef cook-off will start in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank goodness!” I collapse into the only chair at our station, a straight backed kitchen chair with a caned bottom, and whip out my cell phone. Wouldn’t you know? Mama doesn’t answer. I try three times before I give up and leave her a message.
“Mama, send me a text when you get this and let me know you’re okay. If you’re resting or having fun, don’t try to make it back here for the first cook-off. The schedule is already shot to pieces, and I don’t want you to wear yourself out just waiting around.”
Usually Mama will call me right back, no matter what’s going on, but I just sit there staring at a blank screen with my imagination going wild. This can’t be good for my unfertilized eggs.
Elvis’ Opinion # 3
Elvis’ Opinion # 3 on Cover-ups, Mix-ups and Mess-ups
The victim’s face is familiar. I’m still on my hind legs using my famous nose to sniff out the identity of the stolen cadaver in Ruby Nell’s car trunk when she rouses from her stupor and races over to view the remains.
Ruby Nell’s no stranger to death. Her brother-in-law, Charlie Valentine, runs Eternal Rest Funeral Home over in Tupelo and she plays the piano for all the funerals. That’s in addition to thinking up creative send-offs for the newly dead at her thriving monument business.
Fayrene recovers sufficiently to come up behind Ruby Nell and stand looking over her shoulder.
“Reckon we can give him some artificial perspiration?”
“He’s been iced, Fayrene, and somebody wanted to point the finger at us.”
“Heaven help us, we’re going to be molested and charged with grand lark for stealing the body.”
“Nobody’s going to get arrested. Particularly not my niece.”
Bless’a my soul, there’s a knife still plunged into the stiff’s gut. Ruby Nell reaches in and jerks it right out. It’s got Lovie’s initials in gold on the handle, and now it’s got Ruby Nell’s fingerprints all over it.
“Grab a towel and wipe this clean, Fayrene.”
She hands the knife off, and Fayrene does exactly as she’s told. My plans for a beach vacation just bit the dust. Looks like I’ll be crooning the jailhouse rock. We’ve now added destroying fingerprint evidence to our growing list of crimes.
“What now, Ruby Nell?”
That’s what suspicious minds want to know. We’re standing here on a public beach with a murder victim in plain view and Fayrene still holding onto the murder weapon. Or at least, one of them.
“Put that knife back in the trunk and be careful not to leave any fingerprints. We’re going to have some lunch and think this through.”
“The potato salad might be okay, unless the victim used Brillo on his hair, but I’m not eating any fried chicken that’s been up close and personal with his feet.”
“Flitter, Fayrene. We can kiss this picnic goodbye. I’m heading to the hot dog stand down the beach while you wait here.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Somebody’s got to help Elvis guard the body.”
“Why me?”
“Because you know karate.”
“If my pornographic memory serves, Ruby Nell, you know tiramisu.”
“For Pete’s sake! I’ll be right back with the food. Just keep the trunk shut and don’t talk to anybody.”
Famous last words. Ruby Nell ought to know that wherever I go, I attract a crowd. It’s not just my famous swiveling hips and my golden pipes that draw a crowd. My soulful basset eyes and handsome face are like honey to a bunch of flies.
Fayrene barely has time to slam down the trunk lid before a dozen six-year-olds race our way, screaming, “Good doggie, good doggie.”
Can’t these sawed-off little people understand who they’re dealing with? When you’ve got a famous singer in your midst, you don’t pull his tail. I’m about to send them to the mansion over the hilltop when I spot a section of bloody canvas ha
nging out of the trunk.
I grab Fayrene’s hand and shake, rattle and roll.
“Stop that, Elvis! You’re slobbering all over me.”
Well, bless’a my soul. What’s a canine mastermind to do but aim a stream at her shoes? She jumps out of my way and I aim another shot that backs her up against the trunk to cover the bloody evidence. The miniature monsters are laughing now, and I’m desperately scanning the horizon for Ruby Nell. If she doesn’t hurry back with the hot dogs, I’m going to run out of steam and we’re all going to be calling Charlie Valentine to beg please release me.
Finally I see her heading our way. It takes her all of three seconds to assess the situation.
“Scram!” She flaps her hands at the sticky-faced little people. “My friend’s got flaming flu and that dog’s going to tear your heart out!”
The brats start blowin’ in the wind and Ruby Nell is laughing her head off. But not Fayrene.
“What the devil is flaming flu?”
“How should I know? It did the trick, didn’t it?” Ruby Nell passes around hot dogs and Cokes and I don’t even have to call her attention to the evidence hanging out of the trunk. She spots it and takes care of the problem. “Now, everybody get in the car. I’ve got a plan.”
You can count on me, Mama. It’s bound to be fun and crazy and quite possibly illegal.
Ruby Nell takes the wheel and leaves a trail across the beach that looks like a giant snake as she wrestles the car back onto the road.
I hate to be the one to break the news, but somebody is following us in a big black sedan with tinted windows. I howl a few bars of “Stop, Look and Listen” but Ruby Nell’s too busy listening to Fayrene, who is counting the laws we’ve already broken.
“You might as well add disposing of the body,” Ruby Nell tells her.
“We’re not taking him back?”
“Back where, Fayrene? To the cops? You want to explain how we’ve been hauling around a corpse for the last two hours?”
