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

by Peggy Webb

  “Follow Lovie and me, not too close, but always keep us in sight. And no talking until we’re back in the car.”

  “What if somebody stops us to ask a question about their plumbing?”

  “Mama, I don’t care if Billy Graham rises from his grave to ask about your eternal soul. Just keep on walking.”

  “You needn’t get so huffy about it. It was just a question.”

  “Okay, Mama, enough of that. Let’s get going before they come down here and find us.”

  I lead the way because Lovie has no sense of direction. If anybody catches us down in the boiler room, we’ll be sitting ducks. Mama and Fayrene might be okay with those uniforms. But nobody would expect to see a 190-pound bombshell in hot pink shorts and low-cut tank top plus a tall, slender woman wearing yellow Capri pants with matching spaghetti strap top. Especially a woman with a basset hound on the leash.

  I lengthen my stride and thank goodness, everybody keeps up, including Elvis.

  Poor little guy. He’s been through so much, it’s a wonder his tail and ears are not drooping. I consider it a testament to good doggie parenting that he’s his usual jovial little self.

  When we reach the stairs, I can finally breathe. Lovie high fives me, and we keep on climbing. The bright lights and noise of the casino are a welcome relief. Lovie and I blend into the crowd up here, especially since we’re carrying Mama’s and Fayrene’s purses. We’ve already established two electricians prowling around, so nobody pays the least bit of attention to Fayrene and Mama.

  I can’t believe this rescue plan is going so smoothly. Jack is going to be proud of me.

  “You can’t have that dog in here!”

  I stop in my tracks, dumbstruck by the booming male voice. Holy cow! What now?

  Thank goodness the speaker is not Diamond or the two thugs who kidnapped Mama. Still, he’s as big as refrigerator and just as intimidating. All tattooed muscle and tight jeans and smug attitude. A thug of a different stripe.

  And we’re all bunched up here like four guilty women. Lovie roars out of the pack, leading with her cleavage.

  “Do you know who this is?”

  Mr. Big Shot Thug does a double take. Finally he recovers from Lovie shock.

  “Am I supposed to know?”

  Fayrene and Mama are huddling so close we look like we’re glued together. I give Mama the evil eye, and thank goodness, she catches on. Grabbing Fayrene, she trots toward the nearest roulette wheel where they pretend to be inspecting the electrical outlet behind it.

  “Everybody in the world knows her,” Lovie tells the thug. “But if I say her name, we’ll create a riot. She hates that kind of stuff! And when she’s not happy, nobody’s happy.”

  “I’m just following rules. And they say no dogs.”

  “Rules were made for her to break. Besides, you look like a man who can take heat.” Lovie’s got her bottom lip stuck out in a bright pout of fire engine red and her eyes are full of false promises. I’ve seen it a million times. It’s a pose no man can resist.

  Mr. Big Shot Thug is no exception. He winks at her. “You got that right, doll. Go on then.”

  “Thank you.” Holy cow, Lovie’s purring.

  “Look me up the next time you come to the Crusty Sea Dog.”

  “You can count on it.”

  I trot off with Lovie and Elvis. But where are Mama and Fayrene? I risk a glance over my shoulder, and spot Mama in conversation with a woman wearing false eyelashes and a black wig that adds ten years to her age.

  “Holy cow!” I give Lovie a tug. “We’re going to have to rescue Mama again.”

  “Act like a celebrity, Cal. That thug’s by the slot machines still watching us.”

  I put on a brilliant smile and a man with a bad toupee waves at me. I wave back, and even blow him a kiss. Big mistake. He heads this way. If I were Lovie I’d say a word. Thank goodness, his wife jerks him back and gives him a piece of her mind.

  Meanwhile, Fayrene is carrying on with a middle aged woman in ugly Bermuda shorts about going into wisteria and calling the highway control.

  If we ever get out of here I’ll probably find a new gray hair trying to sabotage my sleek brown bob. Thank goodness, Lovie takes charge.

  “Carl, Homer…If you don’t get that leak fixed in her bathroom there’s going to be the devil to pay! This way. Pronto!”

  Thanks to these developments, we now have to meander around as if we’re heading back to my suite. We end up circling the casino three times, mostly because Lovie’s leading the way and she has a horrible sense of direction.

  This is my vision of what eternal damnation must look like – everybody mindlessly pulling the handles on slot machines in the midst of raucous noise and a fog of cigarette smoke. If we don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to lose my lady-like reputation.

  Even worse, if I don’t spot an exit door soon, we’re going to be in deep trouble again. Mama’s scratching her mustache and it now sits perpendicular under her nose. We’re getting some funny looks.

  I punch Lovie. “Flank Mama.”

  With her sandwiched between us, we finally come upon a side door leading to the parking lot. The four of us burst through and race toward Mama’s car. I was never so glad to see a pink Cadillac in my entire life. Lovie leaps behind the wheel while I hustle Mama and Fayrene and Elvis into the back seat. I’ve already got my cell phone in my hand when I slide into the passenger side.

  “Drive, Lovie!”

  She burns rubbers leaving the casino, and I speed dial Uncle Charlie.

  “Get somebody to the Crusty Sea Dog to arrest Jim “Diamond” Powell, Tulip LeGrange and Snake Eyes Nelson. They broke George Ransom’s neck.”

  “You’re sure, dear heart?”

  That’s Uncle Charlie for you. Sweet as pie. Never gives you the third degree.

  “Lovie and I overheard them talking. I’ll testify to that.” No sense in trying to cover-up why and how we heard. Thanks to Mama and Fayrene cavorting with a cadaver, there’ve been too many cover-ups already. “We were on the Crusty Sea Dog to rescue Mama and Fayrene.”

  “Are all of you safe?”

  “Yes. We’re heading back to the hotel now. All of us.”

  “Tell Charlie to knock a knot on their heads for me,” Mama yells, and he chuckles.

  “I heard that. Sounds like Ruby Nell remains undaunted.”

  “They’re fine, considering Tulip and Snake Eyes locked them in the hold of the riverboat.”

  “When you get back, all of you stay together in your room, Cal. The people who shot and knifed George are still on the loose.”

  I ring off without asking about clues and leads. Uncle Charlie and Jack won’t tell you a thing until they’re good and ready. Besides, they’ve got to catch three thugs on a boat before they discover their kidnap victims are missing.

  We make a quick stop by Mama’s beach cottage so she and Fayrene can get out of the borrowed coveralls and Lovie can pick up her van.

  Mama won’t leave till I fix her hair, and true to my word, I have it looking great in less than ten minutes. She wants to drive her car back to the hotel, but I’m not about to let that happen. She and Fayrene are furious about their ruined shopping trip. Mama’s just as likely to drive back to the beach shops so she can buy souvenirs as she is to follow anybody’s instructions, including Uncle Charlie’s.

  After some wrangling and finagling I get her and Fayrene and Elvis back into the car then follow Lovie’s catering van to the hotel.

  “I’ve got to see what’s going on with the cooking competition,” Lovie says. “I’ll meet you back at the room.”

  “I don’t like to see you going off by yourself, Lovie. Wait till we get Mama and Fayrene upstairs and I’ll come back down with you.”

  “The mood I’m in, if anybody looks crosswise at me, he’s liable to get his block knocked off.”

  “Okay, then. Take Elvis.”

  “I can take my own bite out of crime, Cal.”

  “I know
you can, but at least he’ll warn you.”

  Thank goodness, Lovie grabs his leash then gives him a wink and smile, and off they go. I take off in the direction of the elevators with Mama and Fayrene, searching for any sign of Jack. I don’t see him, but I do see all the judges and a sizable number of chefs crowded into the bar off the lobby.

  The three of us don’t encounter anybody going up to my room. And is it any wonder? The way people are dropping dead of murder all over the convention hall, everybody’s sticking close to their rooms or clumped together in the bar. Safety in numbers.

  The minute we get to my room, Mama flops onto the bed.

  “I could use some prohibition punch.”

  “We’ll order room service, Mama. A nice meal and a big glass of iced tea will perk you right up.”

  “The only thing that will perk me up is for Charlie to catch those thugs and for you to give me the keys to my very own car so I can go back to that shop and find my necklace.”

  I grab my purse out of the closet and reach inside.

  “Is this what you’re looking for, Mama?”

  “For Pete’s sake! Why didn’t you tell me you found it?”

  “There was so much going on, I forgot.” I fasten it around her neck, and she puts both hands over the split-apart heart as if it’s the dearest thing in the world to her. And I guess it is. Besides me. “You were very clever to leave it behind, Mama. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have guessed so quickly that you’d been kidnapped.”

  “Flitter.” She waves a dismissive hand, but I can tell she’s pleased.

  Without even consulting anybody, I call room service and order enough food for a small third world country. Normally, I’d feel guilty about that, but not today. After everything we’ve been through, we deserve the comfort of high-calorie food filled with grease and sugar. Lovie’s specialty.

  After the food arrives and the hotel staff has gone, Fayrene digs around in her enormous green bag and pulls out a Mason jar filled with prohibition punch. I find extra cups in the bathroom and get Mama and Fayrene settled down with food and their beverage of choice.

  I can already see the tension leaving Mama’s face. When she and Fayrene start talking about what they call their adventures with George, I take a sip of tea and nab a roll.

  “I’ve got to return the disguises and tool box. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Flitter.”

  “Mama, I mean that. Promise me you won’t leave this room.”

  “I won’t leave this room…unless it catches on fire.” Mama giggles and I find myself smiling for the first time today.

  We’re all safe and Jack’s on the job with Uncle Charlie and all is right with the world.

  I dump the uniforms into a shopping bag, grab the tool box then race off to return our disguises. But not before I make sure I have Mama’s car keys.

  Elvis’ Opinion #11

  Elvis’ Opinion #11 on Cooking, Tootie and Accusations

  The cooking hall is abuzz with activity. Everybody’s talking about the murders, of course, but the most exciting part for the chefs is that the competition is back on. The chicken cook-off is tonight and the big dessert finale will be tomorrow.

  Seeing that the rest of her competition is already at the stations preparing, Lovie says a few words that are music to my ears and we race off to play catch up. Listen, in my other life, I was the center of a bunch of country boys everybody called the Memphis Mafia. Though I personally spoke with refinement, they had a more colorful vocabulary. And there wasn’t a coward among the bunch. Lovie reminds me of them. She’d die for the people she loves, and topping that list is my human mom.

  “Come on, Elvis. I’ve got to shake a leg.”

  Melinda sees us coming and gets this smirk Lovie’s liable to wipe off her face.

  “I wondered when you’d show up? What took you so long?”

  “You tend to your business and I’ll tend to mine.”

  “I figured you were under arrest.”

  “I don’t think the cops arrest people for being gorgeous and talented.”

  Now, that’s what I’m talking about. If I had digits, I’d give Lovie a high five. Instead, I content myself with a little shake, rattle and roll victory dance.

  Lovie turns her back on Melinda and swings into action. The first thing she does is call my human mom. “Cal, you’ve got to get down to the cooking hall. The chicken competition is on again, and I need my sous chef.”

  That’s the extent of the conversation, which means the call went to voice mail. Otherwise the two of them would be on the phone for thirty minutes, at the very least. Lovie leans down to confer with yours truly.

  “Elvis, I’m going to be moving fast, so just lie low, okay. I don’t want to step on your tail and I sure don’t want anybody else to trip over you. We’ve had enough trouble for today.”

  This is what I love about my human family. They don’t insult me with one word commands like sit and stay and the worst one of all, beg. She heads off to the refrigerator and Melinda calls after her, “They moved your stuff since your refrigerator is a crime scene.”

  Lovie refuses to take the taunt, and I’m left to wonder why Melinda looks like it’s crying time. I guess some suspicious minds would just lie low and forget the whole thing, but I’m a canine with a detective badge. I ease my substantial but handsome self off the floor and sashay discreetly around the cooking hall to see what I can find out.

  My noble nose and steel-trap mind pick up clues everywhere, starting with Cole Shackley. What’s his station doing empty? He’s a strong competitor, and I doubt he’ll miss the chicken cook-off, in spite of Doris having the bad judgment to get herself killed. I seize the day and nose around. There’s a smell all over Cole’s booth, and it’s not fried chicken. It’s trouble with a capital T.

  I follow the scent all the way out of the cooking area and down a labyrinth of hallways that lead to a darkened coat closet in the bowels of the convention center. Bless’a my soul, what’s this I hear? Cole Shackley and Tootie Ransom are holed up in there together - and they’re not whispering love me tender. They’re telling secrets.

  If they catch me out here listening, I won’t have to wonder when God is going to call me home. They’ll send me off on the night train, but it won’t be going to Georgia. It’ll be heading straight to the Pearly Gates.

  Suddenly they stop talking, and if I want to get out of this fix alive, it’s now or never. I scamper back down the hall, and when my radar ears pick up the door opening, I slow to a sassy trot and act like I’m just out and about, taking my daily constitutional.

  Bless’a my soul, Tootie and Cole head in the other direction. And fast. I got lucky.

  I can’t get back to the cooking hall fast enough. The judges are beginning to arrive, a bit the worse for wear, if you ask me. An afternoon at the bar is liable to skew some judgments. Still, I’m not the dog to cast aspersions. “Que Sera, Sera,” I say, even if it’s not my song.

  I mosey that way to see what I can find out. Smart dog that I am, I creep along under chairs and between the legs of a few unsuspecting chefs. There’s murder blowin’ in the wind, and I’m not about to create a scene that will draw attention to the owner of the murder weapon.

  Sol Kennedy is deep in conversation with Glenda Swift, and my fabulous radar ears pick up every word.

  “I didn’t expect to see Lovie Valentine back,” Glenda says.

  “Her cousin’s testimony cleared her.”

  “Good. She’s flamboyant and rubs some of the other chefs the wrong way, but I don’t think there’s a murderous bone in her body.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that about Tootie Ransom, either,” Sol says.

  “What about Tootie?”

  “Didn’t you hear? Now that they’ve found George dead, she’s a person of interest and can’t leave the convention center.”

  “Tootie wouldn’t hurt a fly! They always suspect the spouse.”

  “I don’t know tha
t much about her.”

  “She’s a lady.” Glenda rubs her arms. “I’ll just be glad when all this is over and we can go home. I don’t like the idea of carrying on with the competition while a murderer is on the loose. Whose idea was it, anyway?’’

  Sol nods in the direction of the head judge, Jet Caulder, who looks like a cross between the Godfather and a bulldog. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.

  The scent of trouble wafts my way, and I follow it to the door where a group of people are just entering the hall. There’s Raymond Stevens, the chef from Ocean Springs whose smothered crabs lost the Gulf Coast Cuisine contest to Lovie’s outrageous oysters. Then there’s a woman who looks suspiciously like Tootie, but turns out to be a bleached blond with less class. And tagging up the rear is Melinda’s muscle-bound husband, Jeff.

  She races over to embrace him, and they hurry off with their heads together. Unfortunately my basset legs won’t let me get close enough to hear. But the vibes coming off them are enough to get me all shook up.

  I spy Lovie hotfooting it back to her cooking station. If I don’t want to be in a mess of blues, I’d better get a move on. I trot my scintillating self over to the station and lie down on the floor just in the nick of time.

  Lovie comes in with an armload of good smelling food.

  “There you are. Right where I left you.” She puts her load down on the counter then butters two croissants and hands one to me. “Our little secret, Elvis.”

  I close my eyes and chow down on heaven. With Lovie, every day is like Christmas.

  Chapter 11

  Jack Jones, Jack Jones, Jack Jones

  When I arrive on the Mezzanine, I glance in all directions to make sure I’m not followed. Unfortunately, Tootie and Cole Shackley are coming up the escalator, but neither of them pays me the least bit of attention. She looks like she’s been crying, and he looks like he’s ready to hit somebody over the head with his cast iron skillet. No wonder she’s upset, with her husband now officially a murder victim and her, the prime suspect.

  After they leave, I hurry off toward the darkened hallway that leads to the staff room. That’s when my luck runs out. There are voices inside, and I’m left to duck around the corner and find some logical reason to be loitering in an area meant for staff only.