SCM01 - Elvis and The Dearly Departed

by Webb, Peggy

  It sounds like the battle of Armageddon. Lovie and I drop the body and give chase. Furniture waylays us right and left and the elusive animals outwit us at every turn.

  “Lovie, let’s herd the dog toward the door.”

  Using techniques we learned on the farm, I hold the door open while she finally flushes the Pomeranian outside.

  “Poor old cat.” I crawl under the kitchen table to retrieve the shivering Persian and take her back to her babies. “We ought to take the cat and kittens with us, Lovie.”

  “And get charged for catnapping?”

  “They’ll starve.”

  “We’re not taking the cats, Callie. Let’s get Bubbles back in the freezer before she turns to Jell-O.”

  As we stuff Bubbles back into the freezer I notice she’s worse for wear. There are teeth marks on her wrist and she’s all bent out of shape from trying to stuff her into the Igloo Ice Chest.

  “I’m sorry, Bubbles.”

  “She can’t hear you, Callie.”

  I like to think she can. If you can’t love and be loved in this universe, then what’s the point? I like to think the love surrounding the dearly departed lives on in some form. Maybe a star.

  But now is not the time to get into it with Lovie.

  “Cover her up and shut the lid while I feed the cats.”

  “The lid won’t shut, Callie. Her arms are poking up. And there’s blood.”

  We never counted on rigor mortis, and certainly not murder. Apologizing once more, I squash Bubbles down in the middle, then rearrange the pork loins and chicken potpies so they fit in her lap. By myself. Delayed reaction has set in, and Lovie is in the corner threatening to lose her steak.

  Suddenly I start to hyperventilate. Grabbing a pack of frozen peas, I dump the contents on top of the potpies and deep-breathe into the plastic bag.

  Then it hits me. Lovie, the almost pro, wore gloves to break and enter, but my fingerprints are everywhere. We didn’t count on stealing the wrong body.

  I grab a dish towel from a stack on the nearby dryer and start wiping.

  “Are you going crazy? Now is not the time to tidy up.”

  “I’m wiping my fingerprints.”

  “We’ll never get them all off the tarp, Callie. Besides, I’m not touching it again.”

  “We’ll just have to take it with us.”

  That means I have to do everything all over again. Solo. Which proves impossible with my eyes shut.

  Calling on every known deity in the universe and a few I make up on the spot, I open my eyes, pry the tarp loose, and rearrange poor Bubbles with the spilled peas in her lap. Deprived of protection, she stares at me like a harpooned whale.

  Somebody tugs my arm, and I jump to the moon. Thank goodness, it’s only Lovie. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Not till I feed the cats.”

  After I dump cat chow in the dish, we try to beat the dawn back to the van. By the time we get there, we’re both in need of resuscitation.

  Lovie slumps behind the wheel and I collapse in the passenger side.

  “Lord,” she says, and I say, “Amen.”

  Lovie’s not above taking names in vain, but I can tell the difference. This is shorthand praying. We need all the help we can get. If we’re going to get across the state line without being apprehended, it’s going to take some divine intervention.

  As we hotfoot it out of the neighborhood, every five minutes Lovie asks, “Do you see anybody following us?”

  Each time I tell her no, even when I spot a police car with red lights flashing. Fortunately the criminals on the lam are not us. He passes with sirens blaring and pulls over the car that whizzed by us a few blocks back.

  “Why didn’t you warn me, Callie?”

  “What would you have done?”

  “Put on lipstick.”

  This is the kind of laughter that kept me going when Jack swapped marriage for his Harley Screamin’ Eagle.

  “Break out the food,” Lovie adds. “I’m starving.”

  Now I appreciate her foresight in packing. Add plenty of laughter and kindness plus a dab of financial security, and you could create world peace with Hershey’s chocolate and Diet Pepsi. Lovie ought to be president.

  It takes three chocolate bars to calm my nerves.

  “Lovie, we have to find Dr. Laton and get him back.”

  “Are you out of your mind? As soon as Bubbles’ body is discovered, who do you think the cops are going to come looking for?”

  “All the more reason to stay and do some snooping. When we find Leonard Laton, we’ll find the killer and exonerate ourselves.”

  “Who made you Sherlock Holmes?”

  “The body’s fresh—”

  “Are you trying to make me throw up?”

  “—which means the real killer could still be around here.”

  “Yeah, Callie, with an ax or a sawed-off shotgun or whatever he used to knock off Bubbles. I say we get out of Vegas before we land in more hot water than I can get us out of.”

  “I don’t even want to know how you propose to do that.”

  “Why do you think I always carry a black thong in my purse?”

  “I said I didn’t want to know.” And I darned sure hope Lovie’s kidding. Though, after seeing her in action at Hot Tips, I’m scared to ask.

  Up ahead there’s a motel that looks like it caters to criminals and couples seeking love on the sly—no outside lights except the neon sign with the L and the A shorted out. The Blue Goon, it says, which seems prophetic to two neophyte criminals on the run.

  “Quick, Lovie. Pull in here.”

  “Why?”

  “This looks like a place you can pay cash with no questions asked.”

  “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this.” She wheels into the parking lot and finds a space at the back. “So, what’s your plan?”

  “I don’t have one.” She says a word that makes me instantly apologize to God. “But I will tomorrow.”

  I tuck my hair under a baseball cap, wipe my mouth for any traces of lipstick, and untuck my shirt hoping to pass for a man. This is one of the few times I’m glad I was born underendowed. If I’ve judged correctly, nobody will care that I’m sporting a lovely French tip manicure.

  “Have you got your acting chops on, Lovie?”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re just another couple looking for an all-night romp.”

  “You are sick and must be destroyed.”

  Lovie links arms with me anyway.

  Using Uncle Charlie’s cash, I check us in as Dan and Gracie Jones. No questions asked. Thank goodness.

  Our room is at the head of a set of stairs that creak under our combined weight. At this rate we don’t have to worry about jail; we’re going to end up toast on the cracked pavement. Shoving Lovie’s head off my shoulder, I stave off death by leaping two steps ahead.

  “Just for that, see if you score tonight.”

  “Shut up, Gracie, before I kill you.”

  Our room is lit with a bare bulb and looks like it was recently vacated by rats. I lock the door behind us and shove a chair against it.

  “I don’t think we have to worry about a plan, Callie.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to die in our sleep.”

  “Before I’m snuffed out, I want to be rubbed with Bengay.” I ramble in Lovie’s overnight bag for the tube. “I had no idea a corpse could be so heavy.”

  “If you mention that word again I’m going to throttle you. Go to sleep, Callie.”

  “Fat chance.” I pull off my pants and crawl into the lumpy bed anyway.

  Lovie’s screech jolts me awake. I roll to the opposite side of the bed and grab the first weapon I find. Armed with a stiletto heel and expecting to stare into the face of death, I snap on the light. There’s nobody in the room except me, still in the shirt I wore body snatching, and Lovie in an oversized T-shirt that says Improve the Neighborhood, Invite Me to Dinner.

&nbs
p; “Where is he?”

  “It’s a bug.”

  “Holy cow, Lovie. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  “It’s a big bug.”

  “I don’t even want to talk about it.”

  In spite of the dubious cleanliness and the possibility of cockroaches lurking underneath, I’d like to crawl back under the sheets. We’ve had only four hours of sleep, and while I can still function like a halfway normal woman, my cousin has been known to spread terror when she’s sleep-deprived.

  “We’d better get moving, Lovie.” Women on the lam can’t afford to dally.

  The only other time I’ve seen her move that fast is Christmas morning. She’s the only adult in the universe who still races to see what’s in her stocking. Sometimes I think she never stopped believing in Santa—confirmation of my own belief that deep down Lovie is searching for magic.

  After Dan and Gracie check out, we head to the nearest McDonald’s drive-in window. Over Egg McMuffins I tell her my half-baked plan.

  “I think we ought to find out what Bubbles’ neighbors know.”

  “Bad idea.”

  “Why? If we can get a lead, we might find the doctor.”

  “If we go back there, somebody might recognize my van. And they can spot this red hair a mile away.”

  Lovie has a mane of natural curls that refuses to be tamed…and most certainly won’t fit under a cap. She keeps it long because she says it’s sexier.

  I disagree. Take me, for instance. My sophisticated bob certainly rings Jack’s chimes. But do you think Lovie will listen to a hair expert?

  “I saw a costume shop across from Hot Tips. Wild Things and More.”

  “Callie, if you think I’m going in a gorilla suit, you’ve lost your mind.”

  “I was thinking of something more sophisticated. You in a black Cleopatra wig and me in a mustache. I don’t think we should go back into Bubbles’ neighborhood as two women.”

  “Then what? Dan and Gracie wouldn’t have any business snooping around Cactus Street. I don’t like this. Let’s call Daddy and tell him the body has vanished again, then head home before we get hauled off to jail.”

  “Let me think.”

  As much as I would like to go home, get my dog, and curl up some place where I can forget about Bubbles and Dr. Laton taking turns in the freezer, I don’t want to leave without trying to fix this mess.

  I’m not one to walk away from problems. Except with my almost-ex, and technically Jack did the walking. Still, I wonder if I gave up too soon on my marriage.

  I wanted to be like Uncle Charlie, who remains faithful to Aunt Minrose to this day, and Mama, who never even looked at another man after Daddy died. She could have had her choice of suitors but she turned them all away. Michael’s the only one for me, she’d say, and I took for granted that all widows were like that.

  Now, of course, I know better. Her love was so fierce that she’d rather have memories than another man. That’s the way I loved Jack. Still do, I guess. And yet we’ve come to this terrible impasse that neither of us can bridge. Except with passion, and that just seems to have a life of its own.

  “Callie?”

  “Hand me another Egg McMuffin.”

  “I’m eating it.”

  “We got two apiece, Lovie.” She pinches off a bite the size of a quarter and hands it to me. Pride is not my problem. I eat it. “You can be a reporter doing a story on the former showgirl and I’ll be your male assistant. That way I won’t have to talk.”

  “I wouldn’t let us in the house, especially not without credentials.”

  “If you hadn’t eaten my last Egg McMuffin, I could think.”

  Lovie pinches off another piece, and I nibble while I try to figure this out. If I’d known we would be forced to turn into Holmes and Watson, I’d have watched more detective shows on television instead of salivating over the Lone Ranger in a mask.

  One thing is certain: we can’t rent a car. That requires a driver’s license. After trying to steal a corpse and messing up a crime scene, we don’t want anybody in this town keeping records that can track us straight to Tupelo, Mississippi.

  Chapter 8

  Disguises, Discoveries, and Cat and Mouse Games

  It’s nearly lunchtime when we pull into the park near Bubbles’ house. In the back of Lovie’s van, I put on my mustache and clip my fingernails down to the nub while she dons a long black Cleopatra wig, Jackie O sunglasses, and a plain navy skirt with white blouse we bought at Wal-Mart.

  On second thought, we decided it would be smartest to buy our disguises. When you’re on the lam, you never know when you’ll need to leave in a hurry.

  Armed with notebook, pencils, and the latest copy of Entertainment Today magazine, we lock the van and head back to the scene of the crime. Fortunately, nobody is playing in the park. It’s too hot.

  Wearing my hair under the baseball cap and long sleeves to cover the feminine curves of my arms, I’m sweating like a sinner on the front seat of Boguefala Baptist Church.

  The neighborhood looks relatively quiet—a few kids playing on the swing set two doors south of Bubbles’ house, a tall skinny man with a cane walking a cocker spaniel, and a black Buick backing out of the driveway at the end of the street.

  “Where to first, Callie?”

  “Calvin. You might as well get used to it.” I swing my head in both directions looking for the cops or a bright red Ford pickup. The street is empty. “Let’s start next door to the crime.”

  “Shit. The Pomeranian.”

  The little dog sets up a ruckus the minute he sees us. Jumping around on his hind legs, he looks like he’s trying to leap over the picket fence. The only good thing I can say is that he can’t talk. The way he’s acting, he’d definitely finger us.

  “Sasha. Hush that racket.”

  A petite white-haired lady in pearls and Reeboks is standing on the front stoop shouting at the dog. I punch Lovie, and she trots over, leading with her winning smile and her big personality.

  “Good morning. I’m Stephanie Wade from Entertainment Today.” She hands the woman the magazine opened to a feature on Brad Pitt with the byline, Stephanie Wade, in large letters. “We’re here to do a story on your neighbor, the famous former showgirl, and we wonder if we could ask you a few questions.”

  “Who did you say you are?”

  “Stephanie Wade. And this is my assistant, Calvin…Calvin Turnipseed.”

  “I mind my own business.”

  “It will only take a few minutes.”

  “I don’t let strangers in, especially when my daughter’s not home.”

  The elderly woman clumps inside and slams the door.

  “Any more bright ideas, Calvin?”

  “Turnipseed? What were you thinking?”

  “That the Pomeranian was going to come over the fence and take a bite out of my ass. Let’s go home.”

  “Not yet. Let’s try across the street.”

  Lovie’s not too happy about the prospect, but she goes along anyway. Thank goodness. My heart’s not in this sleuthing business, either, but one of us has to show some grit or we’ll never get Dr. Laton back.

  We have better luck across the street. A woman the size of a Sherman tank with her hair dyed a dreadful orange I wouldn’t even know how to duplicate shows us into a living room straight out of Tara. Gone with the Wind posters and memorabilia cover every wall and surface.

  When she asks if we want something to drink, I feel like I ought to say, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Instead I wait for Lovie to say, “That would be nice.”

  Our hostess leaves the room and Lovie elbows me. “Don’t cross your legs like that.”

  “Why?”

  “You look like a woman.”

  I slouch down in my chair and try to look like a rodeo cowboy. At least as macho as one named Turnipseed can look. Which is the name Lovie gave this woman, too.

  Returning with a tray holding tall glasses of something that’s too dark t
o be water and too light to be tea, the woman who introduced herself as Marsha Simmons sets the tray on the coffee table and starts passing glasses.

  “My own secret concoction. Exotic juices with a touch of spirits.”

  More than a touch, I’d say, which would account for Marsha’s jovial mood.

  “So, you know Bubbles well?” Lovie asks.

  “I know every little move she makes.”

  That could be due to friendship, but I’m guessing it’s due to the telescope at the window pointed across the street.

  “Marsha, what’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Bubbles?”

  “Glamour. She sets the standard. Perfect makeup. Every little hair in place. Fabulous jewelry. She has a diamond necklace worth half a million. It once belonged to a queen. I forget who.”

  Holy cow. Could robbery be the motive for her murder?

  “Great.” Lovie turns to me. “Calvin, are you taking notes?” Laughing, she tells Marsha, “He’s new. I don’t know if he’s going to work out.”

  Just wait and see if I let her take charge of the Egg McMuffins again.

  “Tell me about her friends. Who does she see?”

  “She talks about Divine and Bitsy Boobs a lot…they’re showgirls, don’t you know…but I never see them over there. She knows just about everybody. She even knew Frank Sinatra. And she practically worshipped Elvis Presley.”

  My dog would be in heaven, and frankly, I’m a bit proud myself. I’d like to quote Old Blue Eyes on Elvis—” I’m just a singer but Elvis was the embodiment of the whole American culture”—but my voice would never pass for male.

  “People of her stature sometimes become reclusive. Has she seen anyone lately?” Lovie’s a natural at this. But then, she’s good at everything she sets her mind to.

  “As a matter of fact, two women were over there yesterday.”

  I bear down so hard the tip of my pencil breaks. Lovie covers by proclaiming loudly that the drink is absolutely delicious.

  “Did you know them, Marsha?”

  “No, but they were probably stars of some kind.” Marsha describes us with such accuracy she had to be looking through her telescope. “The tall one was too skinny for my taste, but that seems to be the rage.”