Elvis and the Buried Brides (A Southern Cousins Mystery, plus bonus short story)

by Webb, Peggy

  Suddenly I hear a cell phone ringing and nearly jump out of my skin. “Hello,” one of the awful Bronson brothers says, and then there’s a long silence while he listens to something he obviously doesn’t like. “I took care of it,” he says, sounding more than a little miffed. “I told you I’d take care of it. We’ve got the goods.”

  I can’t tell if he’s talking about me or some other mission impossible. I strain to hear what else he says. Knowledge is power. That’s my motto. Particularly in my current situation, but apparently the phone conversation is over, because the next thing I know, this terrible man is tugging at my leg and shouting.

  “Time to get out, princess!”

  Then both of them grab hold of my legs and pull. As if I didn’t already have enough bruises. I bump along the ridges in my truck bed, wondering what will happen to my cousin. If they dump her into a hole and cover her up, they might as well write up their last will and testament. When I get out of this mess, I’ll get them. If Jack and Uncle Charlie don’t beat me to it.

  I suck up my grief and decide not to make a fuss as they haul me out of the truck and tell me to stand still. Then they proceed to carry on a conversation as if I’m not even there.

  Listen, they don’t know the wrath of a woman who has just lost her best friend. If they did, they wouldn’t be so chatty.

  “Is the other one dead?”

  “Can’t tell.”

  “Well, get in the truck, fool, and check her pulse.”

  “Who you calling a fool? You do it, yourself.”

  “I’m not the one hit her over the head with that stick.”

  “How’d I know she’d keel over? She looked stout as a bull.”

  “Well, obviously she ain’t.”

  “What if I get up there and she ain’t dead?”

  The beleaguered Bronson brother says a word that would rival Lovie’s worst. “Look like I have to do all the dirty work myself.”

  “I didn’t count on a killing.”

  “Neither did I, nitwit.”

  There are sounds of movement, probably the brother who seems to be in charge crawling into the bed of my truck. I’ve lost all truck of time, but it seems to take him forever. Suddenly, I hear a blood-curdling scream, followed by scrambling sounds, a thud and another yelp.

  “What’s happening, Ralph?”

  “Shut up, you pea brain! You think that other one ain’t got ears?”

  “Did that undead one try to get you?”

  “She ain’t undead. She’s as alive as me and you.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Her foot moved, you fool!”

  This is the best news I’ve ever heard, including the first time Jack proposed. And the second one, too.

  “What are we going to do, Ra… I mean, brother?”

  Ralph says another word that would pickle pigs’ lips.

  “We’ll put her in there with the other one.”

  I shudder to think where there will be. I hear that mournful owl and a lot of skittering sounds night creatures make when they’re going about their business in dark woods. The only good thing I can say about this night is that Lovie is alive.

  “That’s not in the plan.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, you bird brain! How’d I know the broad would be in the back of the truck? Just grab hold of her legs and shut up.”

  They grunt and carry on, muttering to each other and themselves, stuff like, “How much do you reckon she weighs?” and “This broad was built to last, and she’s stacked, too.” Statements that would make Lovie sit up and box their ears if she could.

  Those two are collecting enough bad karma to send them roasting in the fires of hell.

  After they’re gone, I’m left standing in this scary place wondering if that slithering sound I hear is a cottonmouth moccasin heading my way. I try to breathe. My cousin is alive, but I don’t know if that’s just barely or if she’s likely to come roaring back, seeking a revenge that will make the Bronson brothers wish they’d never laid eyes on the Valentine girls.

  Well, technically, I’m a Jones now, and meant to be forever. But when I don’t show up at the altar, and Jack has to go chasing all over the countryside looking for me, will he decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth and just drive off into the great unknown on his Harley Screaming Eagle with the heated seats? I’ll be left alone in my little cottage with my motley menagerie and my dying eggs. Children will be just a broken dream.

  Over time, the dream will fade, but I’ll still be a broken women, one who can’t even find the strength to fulfill my other dream of adding a spa to Hair.Net and making it Mooreville’s answer to the Riviera.

  I can almost feel Lovie saying, “Snap out of it, Cal.” I guess this is what happens to kidnapped women. We get so depressed, our brain cells take a bad turn.

  I can almost feel Lovie punching me in the ribs, saying, “Get a move on.”

  Only it’s not Lovie. It’s the horrible Bronson brothers, back to take me wherever they stashed Lovie. I hope.

  What if they keep us separate, like prisoners of war? What if we can’t see each or talk to each other except by Morse code. I don’t even know Morse code.

  This kind of dire thinking keeps me occupied until I’m plopped down again and the brothers set in to arguing. The tragedy is, I’ve been around them so much I can identify them by their voices.

  “That other one nearly broke my back. I ain’t toting this one down.”

  “Well, how you propose we get her down there, idiot?”

  Down there? Holy cow! They’re going to put me underground. I have a vision of the dark cellar I found when Lovie and I were chasing the Christmas killer. I nearly wet my pants.

  “I ain’t toting her. That’s all I know.”

  Ralph says a string of words even sailors don’t know, all the while heading my way. Suddenly I feel him sawing at the ropes on my hands.

  “If she gets loose this time, I’m saying it’s your fault.”

  “Go ahead and argue all you want, Ralph. All I know is I ain’t going to carry another broad down that rickety ladder.”

  This sounds even worse. I rub my wrists where the ropes have burned while Ralph cuts away the ropes on my ankles. Then he pokes something sharp into my back. A knife? A pointed stick?

  “I’m going to guide you to the ladder and then you start climbing down. Got it?” I nod, and Ralph spins me around and starts walking me backward. “Now you squat down and I’ll help you grab hold of the top rung. Try anything smart, and I slit your throat.”

  I do as he says and try to remember whether either of them has a knife. Of course, I didn’t see much when they nabbed me, just a blur of darkness. They’re probably wearing ski masks.

  He fastens my hands around an iron rail and I grab on.

  “Now ease yourself down till you get a foot hold and start climbing.”

  Everything smells musty and old and creepy. This is no basement I’m descending into. It’s the pits of hell.

  It’s cold down here, reminding me that I was kidnapped without my coat, and that some winters in Mississippi the temp can drop below thirty. Not for long stretches, of course, but long enough for me to freeze to death in this hole.

  Ralph yells, “You’re at the bottom now. You can take off your blindfold and your gag.”

  His voice sounds hollow, like it’s coming down the walls of a deep well. Or a primitive storm shelter filled with black widow spiders and poisonous snakes.

  “Wait a minute! What about….”

  A loud clang interrupts my questions. I don’t know how long I stand at the bottom of the ladder, paralyzed, before I realize that I can now remove my blindfold and my gag.

  I take the blindfold off first…and meet with total blackness. I’m buried alive.

  My hands shake as I rip the tape off my mouth and start to scream.

  There’s a loud clanging from above, like somebody’s ugly shoe is stomping on the metal seal to my grave.

&n
bsp; “Scream all you want, princess. Ain’t nobody to hear but me and Ralph.”

  “Idiot!”

  “Quit calling me that.” There’s another clanging from above. “Ain’t no use trying to escape. You hear me down there?”

  I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply if my hair was on fire and he had the only bucket of water.

  “You can’t get out. And if you do, we’ll make you sorry you were ever born. Is that clear?”

  I’m the Sphinx. Silence is not much of a weapon, but it’s the only one I have right now.

  “Clear as a bell!” Lovie yells somewhere in the dark beside me and I nearly jump out of my skin. “Where’s the bathroom?” she screeches.

  “What does this look like? The Hilton?”

  They give the metal seal another good stomping, and then there’s complete silence. I grope in the dark till I find my cousin, and we latch onto each other.

  “Holy cow, Lovie. I thought you were dead.”

  “I’m alive and kicking.”

  “Do you need a doctor?”

  “What I need is a baseball bat, some arsenic and an opportunity.”

  After a lengthy diatribe peppered with words that would cause warts, she asks, “What happened?”

  “We’ve been kidnapped by the Bronson brothers.”

  “Yeah, I know. Ralph and Swifty.”

  “Swifty? Really?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to have great sex.” Lovie is back, as sassy and irreverent as ever. “How’d we get in this predicament?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “You’re the brains, Callie. I’m the one who was watching stars and having another little glass of Prohibition punch.”

  “A little glass?”

  “Maybe three or five. The point is, I went to sleep watching stars and woke up in hell.”

  “You can say that again.” I try to see what’s around me, but all I can make out is a faint shadow where Lovie is standing. A shadow with a veil.

  “Holy cow, Lovie!”

  She jumps about six feet into the air. “What?”

  “Your maid of honor veil is going to be filthy for the wedding.”

  Usually she’d let loose a barrage of colorful words, but now she folds me back into the gentle kind of embrace a dear friend gives you when you’re hurting so bad even your teeth ache.

  “That’s okay, Cal. When we get out of here, we’ll get new ones.”

  We? I pat my own head and discover my bridal veil hanging in tatters around my messed up hair. I’m glad nobody can see me. Even Lovie. I pride myself on being my own best advertisement for beauty.

  “How are we going to get out of here?”

  “We’ll think of something, Cal. We always do.”

  She turns me loose and I hear a rustling in the dark.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Me.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Looking for food.”

  “Well, good luck with that.”

  There’s another bit of movement and she suddenly says, “Aha! A Hershey bar.”

  Lovie never goes anywhere without food. Even her own kidnapping. I’m so happy I hug her.

  “Here.” She hands me a hunk of chocolate, the biggest half, I’m guessing, which just goes to show that under all that bravado, she’s a big softy.

  “Is this all you have, Lovie?”

  “That’s it, kiddo. If I’d known we were going to be guests of Dumb and Dumber, I’d have packed a Virginia ham.”

  “Maybe we ought to ration it.”

  “Ration yours, if you want to. If I don’t get fat and sugar into this bodacious body immediately, I won’t be responsible for what I do.”

  We stand shoulder to shoulder and eat our candy. Neither one of us says it might be the last food we’ll ever eat.

  Elvis’ Opinion #4 on Carousing, Kidnapping and Séances

  It’s a good thing Darlene took up giving manicures instead of driving a taxi. Let me tell you, I’ve faced thousands of screaming fans trying to tear my clothes off, but I’ve never been flattened against the seat by the force of gravity. I’d hate to guess how many Gs are in this car. More than Jack at his daredevil best on his Harley. And I’m the dog to know. I’ve got my own private seat on his motorcycle and a doggie helmet, to boot.

  “Darlene,” Fayrene says. “If you don’t slow down the cops are going to comprehend us.”

  Darlene winks at me. “Mama, nobody has comprehended you for years.”

  “Just what are you incinerating, young lady?”

  “Nothing, Mama. I’m so upset about Callie and Lovie, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  That’s the truth. She whizzes right through Mooreville’s four-way stop without stopping, then goes flying past Everlasting Monuments.

  “Stop!” Ruby Nell screeches and so do the brakes. I’m airborne. All that saves me from flying through the windshield is flapping my ears and back-peddling.

  “Lord, Ruby Nell!” Fayrene clutches her chest. “You nearly gave me a Cadillac arrest.”

  “Turn around, Darlene,” Ruby Nell says. “We might as well check the monument place first. Everybody knows I own it.”

  “That’s right,” Fayrene says. “The kidnappers might not know where you live.”

  “Of course, they would.”

  “Why?”

  “Fayrene Johnson! Are you forgetting my Fourth of July barbecues? Everybody who is anybody comes.”

  They carry on in this manner for a while. Which suits me fine. With nobody telling me to stay behind and guard the car, a favorite ploy of these humans, I make my getaway the minute Darlene parks.

  When my paws hit terra firma, I dance a little jig. Glad to be alive.

  Ruby Nell’s TV with the nineteen-inch screen is playing the movie classic, Now, Voyager with Bette Davis. Ruby Nell keeps it on all the time, saying it gives thieves pause if they think somebody is inside.

  I don’t waste any time putting my noble nose to the ground to sniff out who might have wanted to keep Jack and Callie from singing The Hawaiian Wedding Song.

  Meanwhile, the women thunder past me like they’ve heard the last cattle call, which is a very good thing. Now, there’s nothing standing between me and the scents bombarding my nose from every direction. I follow the trails around the office and to the back where Ruby Nell’s added a porch just right for visiting with Fayrene over a glass of sweet tea with lemon. Or vodka. Depending on their mood.

  Those two scents are all over the place back here, but I don’t get even the smallest whiff of a stranger up to no good. And believe me, I can tell the difference.

  I backtrack and am following up on the many scents leading up to the front door when Ruby Nell nabs me. Before I can say, “Pass the PupPeroni,” she’s swept me up and got all my legs dangling in the air.

  “There you are! We thought we’d lost you.”

  I’ll never know how she could think that. You could drop me a thousand miles from here, and I’d find my way home. I’m that kind of dog, loyal and smart to the bone.

  Still, I don’t mind all the petting the women give me when Ruby Nell finally sets me back on my feet. We’re in her office, which is just about as colorful as the women herself, silk scarves in bright colors over the lampshades, red and orange and pink cushions on the chairs, water globes and papier-mâché clowns on her desk.

  “Did you find anything while I fetched Elvis?” she asks.

  “Not a thing, and I’ve combed the whole place,” Darlene says. “What we ought to do is consult Bobby. His psychic eye has been keen lately.”

  “A séance!” Fayrene says. “That’s what we need. See if you can get Bobby to do it, Darlene.”

  “Fayrene Johnson, if you’re suggesting my daughter and Lovie are dead, you can just get right off that track. I’d know if Callie was no longer in this world.”

  “My ESPN tells me they’re alive and kicking, Ruby Nell, but it won’t hurt to find out what the dead know.” Fayre
ne plops herself on a pink cushion and acts like a woman who plans to sit a while. “Furthermore, I think if somebody took the girls off to the boondogs, it wasn’t for ransom.”

  “For Pete’s sake! What about that jackpot I won over in Tunica? I bet plenty of folks would like to get their hands on five thousand dollars!”

  “Who knows about your jackpot besides Mama?” Darlene has a point, and Ruby Nell knows it.

  “The casino was full of people I didn’t know,” she says. “Any one of them could have seen all that money pouring out the machine and decided on a kidnapping.”

  “Well, that narrows it down, Ruby Nell. I still contain the kidnapping’s for revenge instead of money.”

  Fayrene’s been sharpening her claws on Jarvetis. Trey, his best hunting dog and my best friend, told me all about it last week when we sneaked up to the truck stop for a little gourmet snack out of the garbage can. We hit the jackpot, too. Black-eyed peas and cornbread. Trey ate so much we had to stop at several bushes on the way home.

  “Mama could be right, you know,” Darlene adds. “It seems significant to me that Callie was kidnapped right before her wedding. Do you know of anybody who wouldn’t want her to marry Jack?”

  They all look at each other and say at the same time, “Billy Jessup!”

  It’s a fact he’s had the hots for my human mom ever since he moved to Mooreville, but Billy’s more the type to swagger down the aisle and sweep the bride off her feet than to lurk around in the middle of the night to snatch her. And that fake note doesn’t sound like Billy’s doings either.

  Still, he’s been in Mooreville less than a year. People can fool you.

  “We need a suspect list.” Ruby Nell whips out her notepad. “I’m putting Billy Jessup at the top of the list. Anybody else got an idea?”

  “Thomas Whitenton!” Fayrene jumps up like she’s got a bubble saying eureka over her head. “Lately, he’s been lurking around Gas, Grits and Guts asking about you, Ruby Nell.”

  “In a good way or a nasty way?”

  “Like a man who’s been moping ever since you dejected him.”

  Fayrene could be onto something. Thomas and Ruby Nell were quite an item until the Memphis mambo murders where he showed his true colors and Callie’s mama sent him packing. You never know what a person with a broken heart is capable of. There are more hit songs about broken hearts than any other subject. I should know. In my other life as a beloved singer with the best pipes in the world, I crooned my share of love-lost songs that topped the music charts.