by Webb, Peggy
“Mama, did you call him?”
“Now, why would I do that?” As if she doesn’t meddle in my life on a regular basis. “He came by of his own free will, thank you very much.”
Sometimes Mama sounds the way Elvis looks, as sassy as a jaybird in a berry patch.
“Let me talk to him, please.”
“Good.”
“Mama, it’s not what you think.”
After Jack gets on the phone I try to talk some sense into him about letting me have full custody of Elvis.
“After all, you gave him to me. That makes him mine. You can visit whenever you like.” That sounds like an invitation, like I want Jack Jones popping in and out of my life whenever he takes a notion. “As long as you call first.”
His answer is a curt no. Next I try talking to him about freedom and how we both need to get on with our lives. I might as well be talking to a cypress knee.
As a result of this conversation I’m not my usual perky self when I walk into Hair.Net. When the office phone rings and I snarl out, “Hello,” Elvis tucks his tail and hides under my desk.
“Callie Valentine?” I don’t who this voice belongs to, but I wish I did. This is sexy George Clooney and reassuring Tom Brokaw all rolled up with the glory of the archangel Michael. This voice sounds like something I’d like to wrap around myself and cuddle up in.
“Yes, this is she,” I say, formerly a telephone witch transformed into something that would melt in your mouth.
“I’m Luke Champion.” Goodness gracious. Champ. No wonder Lovie’s swapped chocolate for sweat. “I’m calling to check on Elvis.”
“He’s doing great.” I don’t tell him that he’s pouting.
“Good. Let me know if you have any problems.” He gives me his number, and after we hang up I wish I’d thought to ask if I need to bring Elvis in for a checkup. Just in case. Which just goes to show the length a woman with shriveling eggs will go to when she hears a voice with daddy potential.
Of course I would never do anything to interfere with Lovie’s plans. She saw him first.
After six haircuts, two perms, and an unsolicited visit from Jack on my lunch break that ended up with me backed against the sink with my dress over my head, I’m more than ready to work off my frustrations at the fitness center. Listen, if it weren’t for my certainty that Jack would never let me go and I’m not so sure I trust his wanderlust genes, I’d ditch the birth control pills and just go about this baby business all by myself.
Thank goodness I never forget to take them because my mind’s made of steel (well, most of the time), even if my willpower’s not.
Fayrene and Mama have plans tonight, which I sincerely hope do not include poker chips, so I drop Elvis off to keep Uncle Charlie company. Poor old Gertrude’s wake is tonight, and Elvis has a way of cheering up the bereaved. In fact, we pride ourselves on being the only funeral home in Tupelo that offers the comfort of a famous dog.
Over a cup of coffee, Uncle Charlie reports that Dr. Laton is still in his chain-bound coffin and no new gifts have been placed on his chest.
As I head back to my car, I notice the red Ford F-150 lurking in the parking lot, half hidden by a magnolia tree. Racing back inside, I discreetly pull Uncle Charlie aside.
“The intruder’s back.”
“Wait right here.”
“What are you going to do? Call the police?”
“Take care of this.”
He heads toward the back door, but I’m not about to stand by while he gets himself killed. One body in the freezer is enough. Besides, I’m the one with the gun.
I ease out the door and spot Uncle Charlie hiding behind a Buick sedan a few feet from the red pickup. Unholstering my gun, I crouch low and move toward the Buick. Vigilante justice in high heels.
A stray pebble waylays me, and I go down. Hard. My gun discharges and blows a hole in the sky. Suddenly Uncle Charlie’s on the run and the Ford F-150 barrels toward me, the beams on his roll bar lighting me up like a Macy’s Day Parade Christmas tree. I’m fixing to be flattened like a frog. The only good thing I can say is that I’m already at the funeral home.
Staring at my own face in the cold metal bumper while my life flashes before me, I try to think sacred thoughts, but all that comes to mind is the credit card bill I owe at Lucky’s Shoes.
Suddenly Uncle Charlie leaps in front of the Ford and scoops me out of the way.
“Are you all right, dear heart?”
“I’m fine.” I stand up, shaky, lopsided, and alive, and then I spot the victim—one of my Prada shoes. Even my hot glue gun won’t fix it. I try not to mourn. There are greater things at stake here than fashion. “I’m sorry, Uncle Charlie. I blew it.” Stealth and high heels don’t mix.
People pour out of the funeral home, asking what happened. Uncle Charlie pockets my gun so fast I barely see his hands move.
“Somebody shot off firecrackers,” he tells the crowd. “Everything’s under control.”
After the gawkers disperse, we head up the back stairs to Uncle Charlie’s apartment. We have no qualms about leaving Elvis in charge downstairs. I’ve never seen an audience my dog couldn’t charm.
“Sit down and relax, dear heart. I’ll call Dr. Jones.”
“No. I’m fine. Really. I’m just so sorry I messed things up. You almost had him.”
“I got his tag number.”
This is the first break we’ve had in the moveable corpse case. I can’t wait to tell Lovie. Uncle Charlie insists I take his car and leave in disguise in case the man in the Ford F-150 is watching.
Fifteen minutes later I slip out of the funeral home dressed in a pair of ballerina flats Lovie left behind and Uncle Charlie’s overalls with my hair tucked under his felt fedora. I nab my gym bag from the Dodge Ram, then drive with my eyes peeled on the rearview mirror. Under the distorting glare of streetlights, every approaching vehicle looks like a Ford truck. Bloodred.
Lovie’s waiting for me. In a bikini swimsuit. Neon orange with big glow-in-the-dark Hawaiian flowers. I’m glad she decided to meet me in the dressing room instead of the parking lot.
“Good grief, Callie. Are those my shoes? What’s going on?”
Four women in designer exercise togs who ought to be spending some of their money on good haircuts stare at us, all ears. I shake my head at Lovie, then open my gym bag and pull out my jogging shoes.
“Are you going to ride the stationary bicycle in that outfit?” I ask.
“Silly you. Who said anything about riding a bicycle? I thought we’d sweat the easy way. In the sauna.”
Sitting down will be a relief, even if it is the dreaded sauna. Ducking behind the curtains into a tiny dressing area, I start shucking my clothes. I never darken the sauna doors unless Lovie’s along for company. If I’m going to sweat I want it to have some lofty purpose—like tending roses or tending the libido. Listen, if God hadn’t meant for people to enjoy sex, he’d have given Adam and Eve something to wear besides fig leaves.
Five minutes later we’re sprawled on benches—Lovie in her swimsuit and me in a towel—while sweat the size of golf balls rolls off us. The only bright side I can see is that Lovie and I have been so bad this is good practice if we end up in perdition.
We have the sauna all to ourselves, so I tell her about the latest fracas with the Ford.
“Did your shots bring the cops?”
“No, thank goodness. If they had I’d be under arrest right now. Don’t forget, we’re the most likely suspects in Bubbles’ murder.”
Suddenly the door bursts open and I’m face-to-face with Bevvie Laton. She looks just like her picture—blond, brawny, and dangerous—and she dwarfs her sister, Mellie, who stands beside her like a pet mouse.
Lovie and I exchange a look that says, I wonder if they heard. We gravitate toward each other, safety in a united front.
“Do you mind if we join you?” Mellie asks, but Bevvie pushes her way inside before we can say anything. “Bevvie, this is Callie and Lovie. Vale
ntine. You know. Of the funeral home family.”
Mellie looks like she’s going faint. I feel sorry for her.
“Sit down, Mellie.” Bevvie towers in the doorway and glares at us. “What were you saying about Bubbles Malone?” No wonder she can kill Bambi’s daddy without mercy. If I were that brassy I’d melt myself down and open a hardware store. “She stole every penny of Daddy’s money. That gold digger deserves to die.”
Lord have mercy. Did she say deserves or deserved? How long has she been eavesdropping and what else did she hear? More to the point, what’s she hiding under that big towel besides a killer body? A knife?
“I think we’ve been in here our limit, Lovie.”
I stand up, but Bevvie grabs my arm and jerks me back down.
“Sit. I’m not finished with you.”
Lovie lurches like she’s fixing to launch herself at Bevvie, wrestle her to the floor, and sit on her. I grab a handful of Hawaiian flowers and hold on. There’s been enough bloodshed.
“Please, Bevvie. Don’t start anything else. It’s already bad enough.” Mellie plucks her sister’s arm, but Bevvie brushes her off.
“Now that I’m back, I want you to know there will be no more delays and no more shenanigans. Don’t think I don’t know about the red pasties. One more stunt like that, and I’ll trounce your family in the courts so thoroughly you’ll wish you were in the middle of a level-five hurricane.”
Mellie bursts into tears and races out of the sauna.
“Now what?” Bevvie takes off after her.
“Thank goodness, that’s over.” I stand up and my wet, heavy towel slides to the floor. “Let’s get out of here before I faint from this heat.”
Lovie has already beat me to the door, and is pulling to no avail. “It’s locked!” She pounds it with her fists while her swimsuit does the hula.
The heat feels as if it has been turned up twenty degrees. I wonder how long it will take us to dehydrate. Or will we broil to death first?
I pound on the door with Lovie, yelling for help.
“Nobody can hear us, Callie. We’re going to die in here.”
“Not without a fight.” I try to sound confident instead of like a terrified woman who wishes she didn’t have so many sins to repent before she dies. Scooping my towel off the floor, I wrap it around my right foot and leg.
“Have you gone mad? What are you doing?”
“Stand back, Lovie. I’m going to kick the door in.”
I take a karate stance and lunge—right through the suddenly open door and into Fayrene. She screams as we crazy-dance across the room and plow into the opposite wall.
Before I launched myself, she was standing innocently outside the door in a swimsuit that was in style during the ’fifties when Esther Williams did movies featuring underwater ballet.
“Are you okay, Fayrene?”
“I will be if that blow to my head doesn’t give me demetrius.”
I must already have dementia. Otherwise, I’d have remembered to push the door from the inside, not pull.
“Do you want me to call a doctor?”
“Lord, no. I’m just going to go home and pour myself a big glass of sweet tea and stretch out on my new sexual sofa.”
Translation, sectional. Unless Lane Furniture has something new I ought to know about.
“Is Mama with you?”
“She’s at the funeral home. We went to the library for the lecture on flower arranging from that new florist in town, but his dysentery went on so long we got up and left. Is that a hickey on your neck?”
“Bug bite.” I cover it with my hand. Drat Jack Jones’ hide.
After we’ve assured ourselves that Fayrene is not injured, we escort her to her car and agree to meet at Uncle Charlie’s. It’s time for another family powwow.
Chapter 16
Rocky Times, Rock Bottom, and Rocky Malone
Lovie and I drive back to the funeral home bumper to bumper. If somebody’s out to kill us, they’ll have to take us both down at the same time.
On the way, I call to brief Uncle Charlie. By the time we arrive, he has steaming mugs of green chai tea and Mama has blankets, which she proceeds to bundle around us as if it’s not still ninety degrees outside.
Funny thing is, cuddling inside a fuzzy blanket while Elvis snuggles beside me and the ten o’clock news plays in the background makes nearly getting killed twice in one evening seem like a bad dream. Judging by the way Lovie’s hanging on to hers, I’d say she feels the same way.
Furthermore, Mama says, “You and Lovie are staying with me tonight, and don’t argue.”
That I’m willing to endure an evening of unsolicited marriage counseling and bad advice without protest proves I’ve hit rock bottom. Never mind the magical charm of the farm.
Reaching for my purse, I pull out copies of the newspaper pictures and hand them to Uncle Charlie.
“See what you make of these. You can see Bubbles Malone at Janice’s party. Kevin knew her, too, but lied about it. Bevvie’s already been suspected of murder. So far, the only Laton who didn’t have a connection to Bubbles is Mellie.”
“They all had motives for murdering Bubbles,” Lovie says. “But ordinary people don’t kill just because they get cut out of an inheritance. The killer had to be somebody who would benefit in some way from her death or somebody who hated her so much just seeing her dead was reward enough.”
“Mama, what do you think? You said Dr. Laton was a playboy. Could he have done anything that would make one of his children want to kill Bubbles Malone?”
“Forget all that. We could hide out on one of those riverboats in Natchez while the police handle the homicide investigation.” Naturally, she means riverboat gambling. It’s not enough that I contribute heavily to the economy of Tunica; now Mama’s planning to range southward. I draw the line at financing the resurrection of the once-notorious Natchez Under the Hill.
“Don’t worry, dear heart. Jack’s on the case.”
“What does an international businessman know about catching a killer?” I’m more than flabbergasted; I’m curious.
“About as much as a hairdresser and a caterer, would be my guess,” Lovie says, and I applaud while she gets up to refill everybody’s cups. “Aunt Ruby Nell, you never did tell what you know about Dr. Laton.”
“Everybody knew Leonard couldn’t keep his pecker in his pants. His wife left him over it. Then she went back.”
“When?” I ask.
“Before they adopted Kevin. For a while there was a rumor Kevin was his love child, but it fizzled out so fast nothing ever came of it.”
“With Bubbles Malone?” I ask. “That would account for her bailing Kevin out of jail. But it would also make him less likely to be the killer. Or maybe, more likely. I think I’ve read there’s often a close connection between killer and victim.”
Uncle Charlie has been quiet up to this point. Now he defends his old friend.
“Leonard sowed a few wild oats when he was young, but the man I knew and fished with would have claimed Kevin as his natural child if that were true. He would have wanted his son to know.”
Lovie shushes us and goes over to turn up the volume on the TV.
“In the bizarre homicide case of the former strip dancer, Bubbles Malone, who was found dead in her chest freezer, Las Vegas police are following new leads that could result in an arrest.”
The camera pans to Detective Rusty Satterfield, whose only comment is that in order not to compromise the case, the Las Vegas PD is keeping all details under wraps.
Lovie turns pale and I don’t feel so hot, myself.
Uncle Charlie switches off the TV. “Let’s talk about opportunity. Who was in Las Vegas at the time of the murder?”
With visions of jailhouse bread and water dancing in my head, I’m too shook-up to speak, and so is Lovie.
“We know the man in the red Ford was there, and Bevvie was in the area, too.” Uncle Charlie turns to Mama. “Is it possible Janice could hav
e made the trip without you noticing she was gone?”
“No way. My mind’s a laser. I can sniff out people faster than Elvis. And I certainly never forget anything.” She gives me this look that says You went to Vegas without me and I’ll carry it to my grave.
“Wait a minute. There was that day Fayrene and I drove to Memphis shopping.”
“What about Mellie?” Uncle Charlie asks. “Does anybody know her whereabouts on the day of the murder?”
“I do. Well, sort of. When Lovie and I got back, Kevin said she’d been holed up in her house. Janice was mad because she wouldn’t take her calls. Plus, we saw her at Kevin’s.”
“Yeah,” Lovie says. “Talking about murder.”
“That takes us back to why?” I get up and stare at the picture of Mellie and the escort whose face still makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “The man in the red Ford is trying to kill us, but why would he kill Bubbles? What’s his connection?”
When the phone rings, Uncle Charlie goes into the hall to answer it, and Mama goes right after him, never mind that his private phone calls are none of her business.
“Do you think the Las Vegas police know we were there?” I ask Lovie.
“Half the city knows we were asking about her. Besides, Marsha saw us when we visited that afternoon.”
“Yeah, but she thinks we’re from Minnesota.”
Mama prisses back in and sits down. “It’s Jack.”
“What does he want?” I’m getting a little anxious that my almost-ex pops up every time I need him. And believe me, I would willingly fall off the redemption wagon for a few hours of forgetfulness. Is the universe trying to tell me something?
“That was Jack,” Uncle Charlie says, as if we don’t already know. “He ran the tag number on the red Ford. It belongs to Rocky Malone.”
My first question is, how on earth did Jack Jones do something that can’t be done? Your ordinary Tom, Dick, and Harriet can’t just march to a computer and Google confidential stuff like tag numbers. That’s for police and FBI and CIA and a bunch of other initials I never heard of. And don’t tell me I don’t know the man I’ve been sleeping with. My ex doesn’t have what it takes to ensure world peace. He couldn’t even ensure peace in his own home.
