by Webb, Peggy
Easing into the kitchen, I return Jack’s call.
“Hey, Cal,” he says, and I melt all the way down to my Pretty in Pink toenail polish.
“Hey, right back, tall, dark and sexy. How’s the bachelor party?”
“I’m thinking of running away with the girl in the cake.”
“Mama would never speak to you again.”
We share a good laugh over that. Mama thinks Jack walks on water. I think she’d forgive him anything, even standing me up at the altar. Which he would never do, of course. If there’s one thing I know about him, it’s his loyalty.
“I’m going to drop by the house tonight. So you can see Elvis.”
“Jack Jones, don’t you dare. If you’ll care to remember, it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.”
“That’s a bunch of bull, Cal.”
“I don’t care. I’m already spooked, and I don’t need anything else to worry about.”
There’s this screaming silence so big you can drive a Peterbilt rig through it. Jack sees disaster around every corner. He’s a Company man, the best operative they have, according to Uncle Charlie. Translated, that means he’s the most dangerous, the one who gets sent on all the missions where he might end up in a body bag and I’ll end up a widow.
But if I think about all that, I’ll go crazy and maybe even get cold feet, and then I’ll end up in my little cottage with two dogs and seven cats and my biological clock ticking away while my eggs shrivel.
“What’s got you spooked, Cal?”
“Nothing.” I’m not about to tell him about Bobby’s prediction. He’d collar Bobby and dare him to ever say another word that would scare me. “Wedding jitters.”
“Every reason for me to come over tonight and keep you company.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven, and not a minute before. Good night, Jack.”
“Sweet dreams, Cal. See you tomorrow.”
I sashay back to the living room and find it empty of everybody except Darlene.
“Where’s Lovie?”
“I think she’s outside. She said something about watching the stars.”
She would. And leave all the dirty work to me. I retrieve my other boot, drop my cell phone back into my purse then start gathering up the wedding gifts. Darlene pitches in to help, which ought to make the work go faster, but doesn’t. Mainly because she ends up holding every frilly thing up to herself, twisting this way and that to see what she looks like in the mirror over Lovie’s mantle.
I know what she’s thinking. Darlene Johnson Lawford Grant has had two husbands already, and she’s hoping to add number three. And speaking of number three, Bobby Huckabee appears at Lovie’s door, his mismatched eyes clearly visible through the screen. His psychic blue eye is glowing in a way that gives me the shivers.
If he says anything else about danger from a dark eyed stranger, I’m going to scream.
Darlene launches herself at him and his face turns red, but he has this huge grin that makes me want to cheer. Bobby is beyond shy. He’s so backward in a social setting he hardly ever speaks a complete sentence. Even now, with Darlene acting like he’s the best thing since sliced bread, he looks uncomfortable in his own skin.
“How did Jack seem at the bachelor party, Bobby?” I ask him.
“Good.”
Oh, shoot. I want details. Is Jack showing the least bit of nerves? Is he happy about marrying me again? Though to tell the honest truth, we’re already married. I never could bring myself to sign divorce papers, and neither could he. Still, when a girl pledges her this-time-forever vows, she wants to know her groom is not having second thoughts.
“Did he say anything about the wedding?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Not even one little mention of me?”
“If he did, I didn’t hear it.”
That amounts to the Gettysburg Address for Bobby, so I content myself by hugging him and Darlene and saying I’ll see them at the wedding. When they’re out the door, I breathe a sigh of relief. If Bobby had seen anything else with his psychic eye, he’d have said so. Even Darlene would have warned me. She’s reads horoscopes, and if your stars are lined up wrong, she’ll tell you.
Mama and Fayrene are such great believers in the mysterious they hold regular sessions to reach the afterlife in the séance room at the back of Gas, Grits and Guts. Me? I’m a sucker for mystic rituals, but I draw the line at talking to the dead. Though I fix their hair at Uncle Charlie’s funeral home, I don’t expect the deceased to sit up and thank me for it. If one ever did, I’d probably start speaking in tongues.
With my wedding veil still on my head so I won’t forget it, I stack the last of my wedding gifts then march to Lovie’s bedroom in case she’s in there packing clothes for her overnight stay with me. Wouldn’t you know the room is empty? I find her red tote bag in the closet and toss in a voluminous nightshirt that proclaims Keep America beautiful; stay in bed. Then I throw in toothbrush and makeup kit. Thank goodness, her maid of honor dress is already at my house. It would be just like Lovie to wad it into a tote bag then wonder why it was wrinkled.
Don’t get me wrong. She’s a genius with food – well, and men, too - but her talent doesn’t run to organization.
A sound on the front porch makes me jump.
“Lovie? Is that you?” There’s no answer but I stand there frozen, expecting the worst. “Wedding jitters,” I tell myself.
I grab Lovie’s tote bag and dump it on the sofa with my stuff, and then I head to Lovie’s back yard. If she’s star gazing, that’s the best place. She’s probably on her deck sprawled in her hammock sipping Prohibition punch and losing all track of time.
I push through the back door and discover the deck empty. Not just empty but creepy feeling, as if something bad is lurking behind every bush.
“Lovie, are you out here?”
My voice echoes in the darkness, and the hairs along the back of my arm stand on end.
I’m not usually the skittish type, so I give myself a pep talk. She probably went with Rocky to take Mama and Fayrene home and just forgot to tell me. Or maybe she left a note on the kitchen counter, which is always the place Lovie leaves notes. She says writing is stressful and she has to be close to comfort food. Of course, she just likes to be close to food, period.
I search all over the kitchen and then grab my phone to check my text messages just to be sure. Nothing. I consider calling Rocky but there’s no use alarming him when I haven’t even checked the front porch. I’m beginning to get miffed at her. You’d think tonight of all night’s she’d put me before star gazing. Or whatever in the world she’s doing.
I stow my phone back in my bag so I won’t put it down somewhere and forget it. I’m careful that way. And then I shove through the front door and barrel onto the porch.
“Lovie, I swear if I wake up with bags under my eyes tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”
The front porch is as empty as the back deck.
“Lovie, if you don’t show you face in five minutes, I’m heading home without you.”
The hand comes over my mouth from behind and my arms are jerked behind my back and tied with a length of rope. I kick backward, hoping to hit major body parts, but suddenly find my mouth taped shut and my body lifted in the air. Then the body thieves carry me off like a sack of potatoes.
“Settle down, wild cat, and nobody gets hurt.”
It’s a male voice. One I don’t know. And believe me, between fixing up the living at my beauty shop and fixing up the dead at Eternal Rest, I know just about everybody who is anybody.
I kick and thrash to no avail. It’s so dark I can only see shadows, but I see enough to know there are two of them, one holding my torso while the other blindfolds me and binds me legs. But not before I get in one last kick.
“She’s a fighter.” This is a different male voice, gritty sounding, like he’s smoked one too many cancer sticks.
“I told you, we should have used c
hloroform.”
“Shut up and get back in there to take care of things.”
What things? I try to calm myself down enough to figure out what’s going on, but all I hear are footsteps and the door slamming. In less than five minutes, the second man is back.
“Did you do it?”
“Just like I was told.”
“Then help me get her in the truck.”
The truck? I’m dumped onto the seat and then I hear the sound of my own Dodge Ram revving to life. I’d know the sound of that Hemi engine anywhere.
Holy cow! I’m being kidnapped in my own pickup truck! And on the eve of my wedding, to boot! I could scratch somebody’s eyes out. You don’t work as hard as Jack and I have to make the peace just to have it all spoiled by a couple of two-bit crooks looking for easy money.
But are they? Jack’s not rolling in dough and heaven knows Mama’s not rich. So why am I being driven off into the night?
I test the ropes but they are so tight I have no hope of getting free, so I settle down to figure this out. My kidnappers may have the advantage of size and surprise, but I have the advantage of IQ. It’s near genius, even if I do say so myself.
First off, there’s Lovie. The minute she discovers all my things on her couch, including my purse and cell phone, she’ll call Uncle Charlie. He and Jack will mount a search that will have these crooks behind bars before daylight. All I have to do is keep calm and carry on, like the Queen of England.
Still, I don’t feel like a queen. For one thing, this tape is going to leave red spots all over my face that even somebody with my beauty expertise will have a hard time getting rid of. Even worse, if these scumbags taped in wrinkles, there’s no way I can smooth them out before eleven o’clock in the morning. In my book, that’s a criminal offense.
I hope Jack shoots them. Better yet, I hope he gives me his gun so I can shoot them.
Elvis’ Opinion #2 on Wedding Singers, Tuxedos and Zen
Jack’s got a case of the wedding jitters, mainly because Callie is not answering her phone; but I know to how to handle humans under too much stress. Listen, I’m a dog who knows Zen. The art of being. The art of making no judgments whatsoever but taking everything as it comes. I sashay my handsome self over to my human dad and rub my big old basset head against his legs. For good measure I give his bare feet a good licking, never mind that they taste like his socks. Jack Jones might be the most handsome man on the block, but he could use a little Dr. Shoals foot powder.
He bends down to rub my head, a certain sign that I’ve done my job.
“What do you think, boy? You think Cal is having second thoughts?”
I hum a few bars of Get Me to the Church on Time, and though it’s not even my song, I’ll have to say I nail it. Mostly, I do this to remind Jack that if he doesn’t put that cell phone down and shake a leg, we’ll be late to his wedding. But partially, I show my singing stuff to remind him that I’m the one who ought to be up front at the nuptials crooning Love Me Tender.
Listen, they’ve got a wedding singer who sounds like she’s calling hogs. She’s a favorite over at Eternal Rest when the family of the deceased wants to have something else to cry about. But let me tell you, she’ll never have millions of screaming fans throwing their underwear at her.
Jack’s cell phone rings and he leaps to answer.
“Cal?”
But it’s not Callie; it’s Ruby Nell.
I’m a dog of many talents. Thanks to my radar ears, I can hear both ends of a phone conversation; I can even eavesdrop on a whispered conversation carried on in the next room, which makes me perfect for my job number two. Number one, of course, is taking care of my human parents. Number two is being the president and so far the sole member of Elvis and Company, Detectives at Large. I’ve tried to get Callie and Lovie to be part of my sleuthing organization, but they have yet to recognize that the success they’ve had as amateur sleuths – over Jack’s dead body, might I add – is due to yours truly.
Well, bless’a my soul, Ruby Nell’s up in arms because she can’t get in touch with Callie, either.
“I’ve been trying ever since nine o’clock this morning,” she says.
“Did you try calling Lovie?”
“She’s not answering either, but that’s not unusual. Lovie only answers her private phone when the mood strikes her. And that’s not very often.”
“Don’t panic. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”
“I’m about to go into a spell of Fayrene’s wisteria.”
“I’ll drive over to Cal’s house and see what I can find out.”
“You can’t do that, Jack! It’s bad luck for you to see Callie on your wedding day.”
Jack’s aura turns black and dangerous. I can read his thoughts better than Bobby Huckabee can read psychic visions. And let me tell you, what Jack’s thinking about honoring silly traditions is the same thing I’m thinking about my wedding tuxedo. Both of them ought to be consigned to the devil where they belong. Listen, they forgot to put a hole for my tail, and it’s now squashed in these pants so tight I’ll probably have a permanent kink. Besides, black is not my color, unless, of course, it’s black leather. Even the pink bowtie can’t redeem this four-legged suit. If it was up to me, I’d add a nice sequin design, the eagle, which I made famous on my white jumpsuit back when I had two legs and opposable digits. Cal would probably draw the line at sequined birds, never mind that it’s the national bird.
But at the very least, I’d add some gold lapels. Put some pizzazz in this wedding. Add some sass; that’s what I say.
From the looks of Jack’s face, though, we’re going to need more than gold lapels to perk up this day. He tells Ruby Nell to go on the church, and then he calls Charlie, who is given the task of checking on the bride-to-be and her missing-in-action maid of honor, who might or might not be sleeping off the bachelorette party. If I know Lovie, and I’m always the one in the know, the party was the kind that would take you all morning and two Bayer aspirin to recover from.
“Go on to the church, Jack,” Charlie tells him. “I’ll go by Callie’s and check on the girls.”
Jack breathes a little easier with Charlie Valentine on the job. Don’t let Charlie’s silver hair fool you. Once a Company man, he’s nearly as formidable as Jack.
“Let’s go get married, Elvis,” Jack says, and I’m happy to climb into the front seat of his silver jag. But let me tell you, I smell something rotten in Denmark, and it’s more than the dirty gym socks Jack left lying on the floor.
*
The Wildwood Baptist Church parking lot is already filling up, which doesn’t surprise me one bit. If Mooreville had a Prince and Princess, it would Jack and Callie. Everybody dotes on them and everybody’s been pulling for these second-time-around nuptials since that silly tiff they had over Jack going off to buy a baby crib and coming back with a Harley Screaming Eagle.
Front and center in the parking lot is Fayrene’s hearse. A bad omen if I ever saw one, even if it is painted neon green with hot pink lettering that says Gas, Grits and Guts. Where Fayrene is, there’s bound to be Ruby Nell.
Jack hustles me inside the church and back to the room where the bride is supposed to be getting fancied up for the wedding.
“Ruby Nell, it’s me. Is she in there?”
“Lord help us,” Fayrene yells. Then she flings open the door and drags Jack inside. “Callie’s missing, Lovie’s not here, and I’m fixing to have to give Ruby Nell artificial perspiration.”
Ruby Nell is looking out the window, bawling like a dying calf in a hailstorm. Jack hurries over, puts his arm her and starts telling her everything is going to be all right.
Speaking of dying calves, the wedding singer is in the next room warming up, if that’s what you want to call it. If I weren’t such a polite dog, I’d tell you exactly what to call it, but I’m a gentleman through and through. Never speak ill of the untalented. That’s my motto. Though if I had some earmuffs, I’d hand them out before t
he wedding.
From the sound of things, the church is filling up fast. Folks are coming early to get the best seats. If Mooreville had a newspaper, there’d be reporters everywhere. Still, what do we need with a newspaper when we have Fayrene. If you don’t hear it at Gas, Grits and Guts, it didn’t happen.
There’s a commotion at the door, and everybody turns expecting to see the bride and the maid of honor, full of excitement and excuses.
“Good lord, Darlene! “ Fayrene says as she opens the door to her daughter. “I thought you were the bride.”
Darlene glances around the room. “I knew something was amiss this morning when I read my horoscope. It said bad news comes in twos.”
Fayrene clutches her chest while her daughter walks over and hangs her bridesmaid dress on a wall hook.
“Darlene, you’ve just turned my aurora fifty shades of grey. I think I need to be on meditation.”
Darlene winks at me, which says loud and clear Mama’s needed medication for as long as I can remember. Listen, Fayrene’s aura might be fifty shades of grey but Darlene’s is bright red. The color of passion. Which would explain that beard burn she’s tried to cover with pancake makeup.
As much as Fayrene loves Bobby’s psychic eye, she’s not ready for her daughter to add Huckabee to her long list of married names.
Next door, the wedding singer has hit a new low with her high note. I do a stellar rendition of Let Me Be There, hoping somebody will get the hint and let me sing the wedding music, but nobody is paying me any attention.
“Ruby Nell,” Fayrene says, “You’ve got to pull yourself together. We might need to do a ritual.”
Those two went native when we went south of the border, and they’ve embraced rituals with chicken feathers ever since.
I hear Charlie’s voice in the sanctuary followed by murmuring, but everybody is too far away for me to make out the words. Then I hear Charlie heading this way. Everybody faces the door, expecting the tardy bride…everybody that is, except this dog in the know.
Charlie bursts in with the latest news.
