SCM01 - Elvis and The Dearly Departed

by Webb, Peggy

  “Yeah, but that’s Mama.”

  “I wonder if it has any bearing on this case.”

  “Mama exaggerates.”

  “Not always. We know he was probably doing Bubbles. There might be something else. Ask her what she knows.”

  “Okay. Did you find out anything else from Kevin?”

  “He said he and his sister Mellie are planning a trip abroad.”

  “Those two could have been in cahoots. Don’t you dare see him again, Lovie. If we don’t crack this case soon, you and I are liable to end up fried. And I’m not talking deep fat.”

  I strap on my holster and drive back to my beauty parlor packing cold steel. I have a family to live for. A dog. Future children.

  They won’t get me without a fight.

  Ordinarily I’d go straight to Mama’s and pick up Elvis, but I’m already late for my first hair appointment (Leonora Moffett, of all people), so I call and tell her to bring him to Everlasting Monuments. This could be anywhere between eleven and three. Mama’s not known for keeping regular hours.

  Fortunately I don’t have to worry that Leonora will have to stand around in the parking lot sweating to death. All my clients know where I keep the spare key, so if I’m late, they just go in and help themselves to some of Lovie’s Prohibition punch. I keep it in the refrigerator at all times. You never know when there’ll be an emergency or a celebration. And if events don’t coincide with your thirst, you can just invent one.

  I pull the Dodge Ram into Hair.Net’s empty parking lot. For some strange reason, Leonora’s late. In case that reason is Jack, I fortify myself with Lovie’s punch.

  Mama says Leonora’s nothing but a man-eating trollop, which would call for another glass of punch if I weren’t the kind of woman who prides herself on knowing her limits.

  Except maybe with shoes. And stray cats. And stray dogs. And Jack.

  Shoot, this could get depressing if I’d let it.

  Fortunately, a loud fracas jolts me out of my disturbing contemplative mood. Unfortunately, it’s coming from Mama’s monument company.

  I set my glass on the unused manicure table and race toward the front door, but about that time Leonora bustles in and plops herself in the chair. I’m so busy looking out the window at Jack spinning into Mama’s place on his Harley, I almost miss the hickey on Leonora’s neck.

  I don’t even want to know. Instead I start brushing her out.

  “Ouch!” she says.

  “Sorry. Tangles.”

  While I brush, I’m torn between inquiring about her day (discreetly, of course) or trying to figure out what’s going on at Mama’s.

  Mama wins. There’s another vehicle parked off toward the back that I didn’t see at first glance. A green pickup. Could it be the robber Fayrene told me about?

  Leonora’s prattling on about her beauty routine. Right in the middle of her recital about mud packs, Uncle Charlie peels into Mama’s parking lot and races into the building.

  This looks serious. I’m about to excuse myself and tear after him, when who should come out of Mama’s office but Buck Witherspoon—with Jack and Uncle Charlie pressed against him like bookends.

  Buck does a bunch of loud talking. Unfortunately I can’t hear what he’s saying over Leonora’s diatribe on beauty. As if I’m not Mooreville’s resident expert.

  Uncle Charlie is telling Buck something in that quiet, earnest way of his. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, even when he caught Lovie and me in full-blown teenage rebellion behind the barn trying out cigarettes.

  But I’ve also never seen that expression. He looks downright dangerous.

  Buck Witherspoon climbs into his truck and heads out with Jack following on his Harley. Then Uncle Charlie goes back into Mama’s office and hangs the CLOSED sign in the window.

  I can’t finish Leonora’s hair fast enough. As soon as she’s gone, I race to Everlasting Monuments and bang on the door. By the time it opens, I’ve envisioned Uncle Charlie passing smelling salts beneath her nose while Mama lies on her Naughahyde couch, robbed and traumatized.

  Mama, herself, swings open the door, and what do I see but a margarita in one hand and a cigarette in the other? To top it off, ’forties swing music blares from the stereo and my dog is dancing around imitating Bugsy Segal entertaining a gun moll.

  “Holy cow, Mama.” It’s all I can say. Obviously, sympathy is not in order here. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “It’s part of my secret life.” She laughs like it’s a big joke, but I have a sinking feeling she’s not kidding. “Come on in and join the party.”

  “I thought you’d been robbed.”

  “It’ll be a cold day in the tropics before I’ll be anybody’s victim. Ask Charlie.”

  “Your mother’s a courageous woman.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “A little disagreement, dear heart. It’s all taken care of.”

  “What was Buck Witherspoon doing here?”

  “You’ll have to ask your mother.”

  “I’ll never tell,” Mama says, and I know it’s useless to pry.

  She proceeds to mix herself another drink and act like nothing’s happened, which ought to make me feel better, but does just the opposite. If I hadn’t already perked myself up with cute shoes and Lovie’s Prohibition punch, I’d be ready for a straitjacket.

  Plus, Uncle Charlie’s gauging every move Mama makes. Like she’s a piece of breakable china. Or a time bomb about to explode.

  Finally he says, “Callie, I think it would be a good idea for you to spend the night with your mother.”

  It’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. Delayed remorse over my foray into forbidden fornication has set in, and staying with Mama is one sure way to keep Jack from breaking and entering.

  As nonchalant as Mama’s acting, I expect her to protest that she doesn’t need a caretaker, but she says, “If we’re going to have a pajama party, let’s invite Lovie.”

  Uncle Charlie kisses both of us. “You girls have fun tonight.”

  He grabs his hat and is at the door when Mama says, “Wait. Come, eat with us.”

  “I need to make sure Leonard’s corpse stays put.”

  “Charlie, even God took one day to rest.”

  Finally he grins and says, “Okay.” When he walks out there’s a jauntiness about him that I haven’t seen since this Laton business started.

  Sometimes I’m so proud of Mama I could give her a crown.

  After dinner, most of which Lovie cooked, Mama plays Broadway show tunes on the piano while she and Lovie and I sing. The way Uncle Charlie cheers, you’d think we were performing in Carnegie Hall. You’d think we weren’t up to our necks in wandering corpses, frozen stiffs, death threats, and murder.

  Elvis is looking peeved that he’s not the center of the show, so I request “Hardheaded Woman,” one of the King’s big hits.

  “My theme song.” Mama begins belting it out while my dog perks up and howls along.

  Listen, I know your typical American family does not spend their evenings singing with a dog, especially while mayhem reigns, but if I wanted to be typical I’d run away and put myself up for adoption with a family of bankers.

  Later that evening while we’re undressing for bed, Lovie spies my gun.

  “When did you become a pistol-packing mama?”

  “When Jack strapped on the leg holster.”

  Sometimes Lovie can look at you like she has inside information from God. I get the shivers standing there under her intense scrutiny. “What? What?”

  “Callie, are you sure this divorce is the right thing?”

  How can you ever be sure of anything? How can you know before the fact what consequences your actions will bring?

  Can two hurting people knit together the torn fabric of a marriage and emerge with a whole cloth that is somehow stronger and better? If I knew the answer to that, I’d be President of Somewhere Important. I’d live on a mountaintop and people would make pilgrimages
to hear me speak.

  “I don’t know, Lovie.”

  One of the many reasons I adore her is that she doesn’t press. Instead, she pulls on a nightshirt that says Do I Look Like I Care? which is the exact opposite of the truth.

  “We forgot to ask Aunt Ruby Nell about Dr. Laton.”

  “I didn’t forget. I didn’t want to ruin the evening.” I also didn’t forget about the newspaper articles burning a hole in my purse. I just wanted one evening of normal.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Evenings like this make you feel innocent, don’t they?” Lovie crawls into the bottom bunk. “Night, Callie.”

  The Valentine farm has always wielded that sort of magic.

  Too full to speak, I climb the ladder and lie down in the top bunk. I’ve always felt safe up here—and powerful, capable of great things, poised for flight. I guess that’s why I never got rid of the bunk beds even when my legs grew so long they touched the end of the footboard.

  Plus, Mama’s house is small and the stacked beds save space.

  She added a skylight after Daddy died. I think it was because she knew I believed he had become a star. Now I pick him out in the sky and make a wish, partially for myself but mostly for Lovie.

  “Whatever happens, let us keep the magic.”

  Elvis’ Opinion # 8 on Secrets, Striptease, and Cigarettes

  This is the way it ought to be—me curled up on a rug with my belly full of leftover meat loaf while Callie and Lovie dream the innocent dreams of youth. Ruby Nell gave me the extra treat while Callie wasn’t looking. Now, there’s a woman who knows how to treat me nice.

  If it hadn’t been for me, Buck Witherspoon might have had his claws in her again, and she knows it. She even got Bunny for me to sleep with. Now, I like a rabbit as well as the next hound dog, even if it is stuffed. But if Ruby Nell had really wanted to show her appreciation she’d have opened the back door so I could trot down the street and spend some quality time with my little Frenchie.

  What’d I say? I’m just a hunk a’ burnin’ love. But Ruby Nell’s only human.

  Actually, she’s more human than most. That woman’s full of juicy secrets.

  When Buck Witherspoon slithered into Everlasting Monuments this afternoon looking like a snake oil salesman peddling a fresh batch, I plopped myself at Ruby Nell’s feet and dared him to cross the line. Every quivering muscle in my body said, I’m so bad.

  Not that Ruby Nell needed my help.

  She grabbed a shotgun from the closet and said, “If you take one more step you’re going to find your ugly self full of buckshot.”

  About that time Jack burst through the door with Charlie not far behind. And that’s when things really got interesting.

  “I’m fixing to spill the beans,” Buck said.

  Charlie had him by the throat and backed up against the wall so fast it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the Valentine godfather’s been in his share of barroom brawls.

  Jack was standing there like a well-oiled killing machine, and of course, so was I. But I have sense enough to back off when another man’s pride is involved, so I reined in my macho instincts and let Charlie be the hero.

  The upshot of the fracas was that Jack escorted Buck to the sheriff’s office where he’ll be charged with a list of crimes in Lee County as long as my leg, including breaking and entering and harassment. After that he’ll be extradited across state lines and handed over to the Alabama authorities, where he’s wanted for grand theft, auto.

  Of course, the juicy part of the story is what he was doing at Ruby Nell’s.

  Seems she’s got a checkered past. It turns out she didn’t take up gambling after Callie’s daddy died: she took it up long before she met him. On the sly, of course. Back in her day, girls didn’t smoke and gamble. And if they did, they earned reputations that made them outcasts of society.

  Charlie knew about Ruby Nell’s unladylike habits, but his brother was blinded by love. And so was Ruby Nell. After she met Michael Valentine, she was so smitten that she even tried to reform, but it didn’t take.

  I could have told her that. Reformation and strong wills don’t gee haw. If I could have turned over a new leaf, I’d still be eating biscuits and sorghum molasses at the Delta Room in Chenault’s up in Memphis.

  Charlie has a way with cards, himself, so he took Ruby Nell under his wing and tried to keep her out of trouble. Then Buck Witherspoon entered the picture. Buck set sights on Ruby Nell the first time he ever saw her.

  She and Charlie were at a card game up in Tishomingo County. He told Ruby Nell not to ever go without him, which was a waste of breath.

  The next Saturday night she sneaked off without Charlie, and found herself on a losing streak playing five card stud. She was up to her pretty ears in debt.

  She didn’t have the cash to pay Buck and he said that was all right, she could work off the debt dating him. Well, she knew if she did that, her goose was cooked. There was no way word wouldn’t get back to Michael Valentine, who was, by then, her fiancé.

  So she made a devil’s bargain. In exchange for forgiving the debt, Buck had Ruby Nell perform a private striptease. Nowadays, we’d call it a little lap dance.

  Buck took her in the back room where she did a Gypsy Rose Lee imitation and stripped down to the bare essentials. Charlie thinks that meant her underwear, but knowing Buck—and Ruby Nell—I’d bet a good T-bone steak he’s wrong. To get what she wants, it wouldn’t faze Ruby Nell Valentine to show everything she’s got (and she’s got plenty).

  She thought the score was settled; then after she was married, Buck showed up and started hanging around her, threatening to tell what she did if she wouldn’t go out with him.

  That’s when Charlie stepped in and escorted Buck across the Alabama state line, all unbeknownst to Michael. I don’t know what Charlie told Buck, but he must have been powerfully persuasive, because Buck didn’t show his face on the farm again till this summer.

  In my opinion, Ruby Nell’s long-kept secret would no longer be a great scandal; it would just be another funny story to tell at cocktail parties.

  But I’m a modern dog.

  Charlie Valentine is from a different era, a gentleman who would challenge you to meet him at the dueling oaks in order to protect a woman’s virtue.

  Their secret’s safe with me. Haven’t I kept Jack’s all these years?

  Now, you may think I’m being disloyal to Callie, but trust me. If she knew everything about Jack and Ruby Nell, she’d only worry. She’s better off staying in the dark.

  And speaking of the dark, is that a sorry tomcat I hear yowling on Ruby Nell’s back fence? Looks like I’m fixing to have to leave my beauty sleep and teach that alley cat a lesson.

  I might not be able to get out the door, but I can create enough ruckus at the window to make him lose at least three of his nine lives. The last time I checked, I still had the vocals that turned every note out of my mouth to platinum and gold.

  Chapter 15

  Steam Heat, Rambo-ette, and Naked Truth

  Grover Grimsley calls my cell phone in the middle of breakfast at Mama’s. As much as I hate to leave country-fried ham and redeye gravy, I head into Tupelo with my gun and my canine bodyguard.

  I picked a lawyer who loves dogs, so we shashay right in. It takes us a while to get down the hall to Grover’s office because every person in the reception area has to pet Elvis and scratch behind his ears.

  After we’re seated, Grover gets right to the point.

  “We could move this along much faster if you two could come to terms on custody. If your case has to go to court, it could take months. Even years if Jack wants to stall it that long.”

  I see my future unfold as an endless legal tangle while unborn babies get tired of waiting in the wings and move on to more fertile wombs.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I say, though I don’t know of anything to change Jack’s mind short of a miracle. “By the way, has anyone located Bevvie?”

/>   “Not yet. There have been a few sightings—San Francisco, the Valley of Fire, the Grand Canyon. But she has a habit of disappearing.”

  Any one of those locations is near enough to Las Vegas that she could easily have killed Bubbles. Still, as closely as Uncle Charlie has watched the casket, wouldn’t he have noticed if Bevvie showed up to restore her daddy’s body? And even if Bevvie did it, that still leaves the mystery of the big man in the blood-colored truck.

  This whole affair is getting depressing. I wish I had a habit I could fall back on that didn’t cost money. Even collecting strays is costing me more than a closet full of Jimmy Choo shoes.

  When I leave Grover’s office, I’m greeted by a blast of hot, humid air as oppressing as his news. If I weren’t wearing sassy Prada sling-back heels I could let it get me down.

  I’d head straight to Lovie’s for sympathy and chocolate, but I have appointments waiting at Hair.Net, and she has a retirement luncheon at Bancorp South. She had plans to leave Mama’s right after breakfast to start cooking.

  I do the next best thing, which is call her. Listen, women know about trouble. We understand adversity. When something threatens one of us, the rest circle around with souls anchored and hearts fierce. Like female elephants. When one of their number falls, they even weep.

  See? Women also understand the beauty and healing of tears.

  When Lovie answers, I tell her everything, including that the elusive Bevvie is still at large. Miraculously, she proposes we meet this evening at the fitness center to sweat off our troubles.

  “I thought you’d suggest chocolate.”

  “I’m on a diet.”

  “Great. What brought that on?”

  “Champ.”

  I was hoping she’d say self-motivation, but after years of trying to get her to diet, I’m happy with what I can get.

  Next I call Mama to see if Buck Witherspoon has materialized in her pasture, bent on mischief.

  “He’s in jail,” she tells me. “Jack’s here, just in case.”