Elvis and the Pink Cadillac Corpse (A Southern Cousins Mystery, Plus Bonus Recipes)

by Peggy Webb

  “Just like you did last night?’

  Cole sets his lips in a thin line while Tootie scuttles off and disappears into the direction of the ladies’ room. I wonder how Doris found out. Probably from listening at the keyhole. But I can’t say much about that considering where I was.

  Cole drags his mother to the back of his station then bends down to have a low-voiced conversation I can’t hear. From the look on their faces, it’s a heated one. Doris storms off and he looks as if he’s been saved from execution.

  The crowd disperses and we head into Lovie’s cooking station to have our own private conversation. But we have caught the interest of two officers from the Biloxi Police Department, who are studying us as if we just went to the top of their suspect list. For what, I don’t know.

  “I have a bad feeling about this, Lovie. We’ve got watchers.” I nod in the direction of the cops. And that’s when I see two more men watching with more than passing curiosity. Something’s familiar about them, but I can’t place the faces.

  “I do, too.” She grabs her carving knife and gives it a thorough scrubbing. “There’s no reason for Doris to steal my carving knife and then reveal she has it. And I know Cole didn’t do it. He’s not that kind of person.”

  “Something’s afoot here, and I think it all ties in with George and Tootie.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She raced off to the bathroom the minute Doris spilled the beans about her and the elephant.”

  “Come on.” Lovie grabs my arm and drags me off. “Let’s find out what that heifer is up to.”

  “Doris?’

  “No. Tootie.”

  We have thirty minutes before the judges are seated and doors to the cooking hall open for the public to come pouring in. If we can get five minutes alone with Tootie in the public restroom, that’s all we need. I’ve learned more secrets and solved more problems for strangers I meet in public ladies’ rooms than I can even count. It’s what women do.

  Lovie barrels through the bathroom door with me right behind her. I almost bash into the baby changing station, which is down. There’s a red tote sitting on it that’s big enough to hold half of everything in Fort Knox. Obviously Tootie’s. She’s leaning over the sink, crying and loosing her breakfast at the same time. And she’s alone.

  “It’s okay, Tootie.” I wet some paper towels and swab her face.

  “I’m so embarrassed, I could die.” Tootie takes another wet towel from me and wipes her mouth.

  “Nobody pays attention to what that nosy old gossip says,” Lovie tells her. “Doris Shackley has savaged my reputation for years, and I’m still standing.”

  “Thanks. That makes me feel better.”

  Tootie’s still white as Ivory soap, her hair is a big mess, and she looks like she might fall over any minute. Whether it’s from gossip or last night’s activities with the elephant, I can’t say. She could use a little touching up, and I’m just the beauty expert who can do it. Unfortunately, I left my purse back at Lovie’s cooking station. It contains everything I need for these little emergencies, including a styling brush and a can of Hold and Shine hairspray.

  “You’ll feel even better after I spiffy you up a bit, Tootie. Do you have a brush?”

  Tootie looks like I’ve just asked for her firstborn. “I…I’m fine.” She swipes a hand over her hair, which only adds to the illusion that she fell down a rabbit hole backward.

  “Callie’s the best beauty expert in the state, has her own beauty salon and a clientele who would kill for her.”

  Suddenly Tootie swoons against the sink, and looses all interest in becoming best buddies with Lovie and me. Lovie give me this look, which could mean just about anything, but is more than likely a signal that Tootie’s acting like she’s guilty of more than rolling around in the sack with Cole Shackley while her husband is missing.

  I go straight for the kill.

  “What’s the latest news about George?”

  “George is…” Tootie stops herself before she spills the beans, and there’s a gleam in her eye that is definitely not grief.

  “He’s a two-timing snake, that’s what he is,” Lovie says, trying to get a reaction.

  It’s not long coming. Tootie flushes bright red, and the way her eyes glitter, I’d hate to meet her in the dark. That is, unless she’s otherwise occupied and I’m in hiding. I still blush to remember.

  “I’ve got to go.” Tootie pushes past Lovie and jerks at her tote bag. It snags on the edge of the belt buckle meant to hold down babies with dirty diapers, and everything spills out – lipstick, comb, compact, billfold, checkbook, pack of tissues, a box of breath mints, the kind of mascara I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing (it breaks your lashes), and a .38. With a silencer.

  Holy cow! I dive into a stall and Lovie dives in right behind me. Tootie says a bunch of words I’ll bet Lovie doesn’t even know. Any minute now, I expect a hail of bullets in my direction. I just hope the door holds.

  Tootie keeps on turning the air blue and there’s so much scrabbling around on the floor it sounds like six people out there. Meantime, Lovie has crushed my left foot and dug her elbow so far into my back I’m likely to have a permanent dent. At least six years later, Tootie slams out of the bathroom, and I try to untangle myself from Lovie.

  “Why didn’t you get your own stall?”

  “Look at this way, Cal. I’m all that stood between you and certain death by bullet.”

  “You don’t think she would have shot us?”

  “Depends on what you think she did. And what she thinks we know.”

  “Good grief, Lovie. A .38 is big enough to do some damage. And what was she doing with a silencer?”

  “To kill a philandering husband?”

  “It’s logical. And she certainly had motive.”

  “Yes, but so did a dozen other women who thought they were George’s one and only. Who knows how many women he promised he’d leave Tootie for?”

  “And then there are all those chefs who might harbor a grudge against the judge whose score cost them a trophy.”

  “That’s stretching it, Cal. Chefs are generally a mild-mannered lot. Plus, nobody even knows where George is. For all we know he could be in Las Vegas whooping it up with some buxom blond in the casino.” Lovie links arms with me. “Enough of this. I’ve got to work my magic on a chicken.”

  She races off in the direction of the industrial-sized refrigerators, and I tag along behind punching in a text message to Mama. Are you sure you’re too sick to join us? The chicken cookoff starts in fifteen minutes. That ought to be plenty of time for you to get here, even if Fayrene is too sick to come.

  Lovie’s using one of her original recipes she calls Chicken Lover’s Delight, a dish that is so delicious it will make you forget your husband is at the far side of nowhere and your mama is up to her ears in trouble. Otherwise, why won’t she answer my text? I try to call, but that goes unanswered, too.

  Tucking my phone back into my pocket, I hustle to catch up with Lovie. The back halls are filled with chefs racing between the refrigerators and the cooking stations in the room around the corner.

  “Cal, you grab the mushrooms and head back to my station to start chopping. Don’t forget the onions. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Famous last words.

  Lovie jerks open the refrigerator door and out rolls Doris Shackley, dressed in Lovie’s white table cloth and oozing blood from the knife wound in her chest. Which, by the way, still contains Lovie’s carving knife.

  Lovie destroys her chances of a hereafter with her language, and Melinda, who is at the refrigerator next to hers, starts screaming so loud you can hear her all the way to the barrier islands. Her husband Jeff rushes over to comfort her and unfortunately, she goes from hysterical to helpful.

  “I know that knife!”

  A cop no older than my favorite tennis shoes rushes over, yelling, “Stand back. Everybody stand back. And don’t touch anything,”

  Meli
nda plucks his sleeve for attention. “That knife belongs to Lovie Valentine.”

  Holy cow! We just landed neck deep in trouble.

  The cop starts calling in codes. But before I can be grateful that Mama’s not in the middle of this, a detective with gray hair and a bad overbite cuffs Lovie. When he leads her off I race along behind. I’m not about to let her go through this alone.

  The detective turns to glare at me. “Just Lovie Valentine.”

  “But she couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Doris’ murder! She was with me the whole time. And the knife was in her cooking station when we left for the bathroom!”

  “Miss, you need to calm down.” He motions to a burly cop who would make three of me. “Jim, take that one into the magnolia room and find out what she knows.”

  I can see from Lovie’s face that she’s holding back her comments. If she hadn’t, she’d be heading straight to jail.

  “Cal, as soon as you can, call Daddy.”

  Until Uncle Charlie retired and became director of the best funeral home in northeast Mississippi, he was one of the Company’s top operatives. Might I add, that’s the way I met Jack.

  Be that as it may, we’re in serious trouble. Dozens of people heard Lovie’s arguments with Doris Shackley. The cops won’t have far to look for motive.

  And I’ll bet there’s not a single fingerprint on that knife except Lovie’s. But how did it get from her cooking station and into the body of her arch nemesis? For that matter, how did it get from her cooking station to Cole Shackley’s in the first place? And when?

  I have plenty of time to mull over those problems. Let me tell you, being marched off like a criminal in front of an audience is no picnic. Fortunately, I’ve learned a few things from Jack and Uncle Charlie - how not to fall apart under pressure, for one thing.

  Just as I spot the doors of the magnolia room, the loud speaker crackles and blares to life.

  The chicken cook off has been postponed indefinitely. This entire building is a crime scene. Nobody is to leave the building until further notice. I repeat. This is a crime scene. Nobody is to leave the building until I give the all clear signal.

  The cop opens the door for me, and I slide through to whatever fate awaits me.

  Elvis’ Opinion #7

  Elvis’ Opinion #7 on Bad Plans, Big Surprise and Cryin’ Time

  The beach is getting crowded, a little complication Ruby Nell and Fayrene didn’t consider when they decided to let our cadaver have coffee on the back porch. They’ve long ago switched from coffee to prohibition punch. I notice they didn’t waste a glass on “Jarvetis.”

  “Ruby Nell, reckon Callie swallowed that lie about us being sick?”

  “I think so. I haven’t heard from her for a while. She probably thinks I’m resting.”

  “How often does she call to check on you?”

  “Every living minute. I don’t even know when she and Jack have time to work on making me a grandbaby.”

  Fayrene gets up to refresh their glasses and bumps into our back-porch zombie. He tilts sideways and stays there, like he’s on the deck of the sinking Titanic.

  “What are we going to do with him, now, Ruby Nell?”

  “Let me think.”

  “You’d better make it quick. His makeup is melting and he’s turning purple all over. And I see some femme fatals heading this way.”

  “I think he needs a nap,” Ruby says, then races into the cottage and comes back with a beach towel she throws over the recently deceased. But when she tries to take the book from his hands, he won’t turn loose.

  “Flitter.”

  “Looks like he wants to finish the last chapter, Ruby Nell.”

  “Don’t be such a smart-mouth, Fayrene. Help me get this book.”

  The two women tussle with our stiff for a while then finally Ruby Nell braces her foot in his crotch and tugs the novel free. The corpse goes flying backward and lands with his chair on top of him.

  “Heaven help us all, Ruby Nell. You just gave him a reptile dysfunction!”

  That’s the least of our worries. “Jarvetis” is on the floor with the beach towel over his head, but he’s not flat. Both legs are angled up like he’s still in the saddle of an imaginary horse, and one hand is lifted like he’s asking permission for something. Probably to be left in peace.

  “Hey, Jarvetis!” The cheerful yell is coming from a twenty-something hottie in a blue string bikini. Worse, she’s standing right outside the screen door, and she’s got two friends with her, one who belongs in a Playboy centerfold and the other who should never go near an itsy, bitsy teeny weenie yellow polka dot bikini. Not my song, but who’s to know in a situation like this.

  “We thought you might like to play beach volley ball, Jarvetis.” Miss Blue Bikini of the perky voice was among the crowd yesterday when the cadaver washed up and “Jarvetis” joined our group of happy little vacationers. “We want to play doubles and we need a fourth.”

  “Flitter,” Ruby Nell says. “Jarvetis can’t play volley ball. Can’t you see we’re in the middle of our morning floor exercises?”

  Fayrene picks up the cue and executes a set of jumping jacks all over the porch, including in the corner of yours truly. She almost severs my tail, and I can’t help but long for the green, green grass of home. So far, this beach vacation stinks.

  “What fun!” Miss Perky in her blue bikini says. “Mind if we join you?”

  “Sorry, but Jarvetis would be too embarrassed, especially after his bender yesterday.” For good measure, Ruby Nell leans down, lifts the edge of the beach towel draped over the restless dead and shouts, “Don’t worry, Jarvetis. They’re not coming up here…What’s that?...Oh, all right. I might as well.”

  “What did he say, Ruby Nell?” Fayrene displays not the least hint of irony.

  “He said for me to go on and play volley ball with the girls. He thinks he’s coming down with something.”

  “No wonder. He was intercontinental all night.”

  “You’d better give him something for that.” Ruby Nell sends Fayrene a pointed look, and then she prances off to drag the three young women away from the crime scene.

  “Are you playing in that…dress?” Miss yellow polka dot bikini has a fog-horn voice to match the rest of her.

  “I am! It’s called a caftan, and it’s more versatile than you’d imagine.” With that, Ruby Nell lifts her flowing skirts, ties them between her legs and flounces off with the girls.

  Fayrene flops into her chair, worn out from her jumping jacks, while I watch until Ruby Nell is no more than a flash of bright color standing on the left side of the volley ball net at the water’s edge.

  “The dear old fool’s going to kill herself acting like a teenager. If Callie knew what her mama was doing, she’d be historical.”

  I beg to differ. The way Ruby Nell’s returning that ball, she’s going to give those young chicks a run for their money.

  “Elvis, I know you can hear a pin drop for two miles. I’ve got to get the stiff inside, and I don’t want to be putting on a pubic display.”

  Let’s hope not! I station my ample self in front of the door while Fayrene grabs the unfortunate dead by both feet. Then she proceeds to drag him into the house, beach towel and all. She looks like she’s hauling a plow. There’s a big thump as his head cracks against the doorsill, and I don’t even want to know what all she plans to do once they get inside.

  I stand guard, like the magnificent specimen of a hound dog I am. It’s cozy on the porch now with the insects screened out, the sun streaming through and the man with the purple face out of sight. My famous ears pick up a stream of distant shouts from the volley ball net, but there’s no one else on this end of the beach.

  I could fall asleep except for the bad plan that’s being carried out by Fayrene. I don’t know what she’s doing, and I don’t want to know. It’s enough that she’s chanting her grocery list, a sure sign that things aren’t going well.

  If she could see wh
at I see, she’d get out her grass skirts and start a ceremony. Lovie and Callie just drove up in the catering van, and that big black sedan that has been following us ever since we got to Biloxi pulled into a parking space across the street. But the two hoodlums don’t get out. They just train their binoculars this way for a while and then drive off.

  What’s a smart dog to do but howl, “Blues, Stay Away from Me,” a little heartbreak song Scotty Moore recorded at Sun Studios in 1954. If you’re lucky enough to get your hands on a copy, and if you really listen, you’ll hear my golden pipes in the background, off microphone.

  Chapter 6

  .38, .22 and Holy Cow

  I consider it a miracle that Lovie and I finally arrive at cottage three. Due mostly to the strong alibi I gave Lovie when I was sitting in that straight-backed chair in the magnolia room being questioned like a criminal. Since we were among the first questioned in Doris Shackley’s murder, we were told we could leave the convention center. But Lovie still has not been freed to leave town. Mainly because there were so many witnesses who reported her catfights with Doris. And because of her knife. Who knows if they’ll find any fingerprints on it besides Lovie’s. If I were murdering someone and trying to pin it on her, I’d wear gloves.

  The minute I get out of the van, I hear Elvis howling. It a mournful sound that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

  “I’ll be right there, Elvis.” I knock on the cottage door while Lovie tries to call Uncle Charlie for the umpteenth time.

  “Still no answer.”

  “That’s because he’s in the air, Lovie.” Uncle Charlie flies his own plane. When I called him, he said he’d be in the air within twenty minutes. “He said not to worry.”

  I knock on the door again, louder this time.

  “What could possibly be taking Mama so long?”

  “She said she was sick.”

  “I doubt it.” I pound again and wait another small eternity. “Lovie, looks like you’ll have to pick the lock.”