by Peggy Webb
I throw another stick on the fire, not because it needs more kindling but because I need to stay busy so I don’t have time to think about my recent crime spree.
“Besides,” I add, “I don’t believe in coincidence. Whoever killed Bubbles found Daddy Laton in the freezer when he stowed the body, then decided to put him back in the casket. I can’t see Buck caring what happened to Dr. Laton’s corpse. The logical murder suspect is one of the family.”
“Janice seems too flighty to carry out cold-blooded murder. And as mad as she was over the will, I can’t see her dragging her daddy all the way across the desert to lovingly restore him to the casket. Besides, wouldn’t Aunt Ruby Nell have noticed if Janice went missing from your house?”
“What about Kevin? He didn’t get completely cut out of the Laton fortune, but Bubbles took the bulk of it.”
“Maybe. But judging by my undercover work, I’d say he’s more interested in loving than killing.”
If I get started on Lovie’s undercover work, I won’t stop. You can’t reform somebody who’s not interested in changing. I learned that from trying to steer Mama away from mahjong and into macramé. But I still keep trying with Lovie. And hoping.
“I don’t think you can rule Kevin out,” I tell her. “And then there’s Mellie. What do you think about her?”
“She’s too prissy and timid. I’m betting on Bevvie. She’s still at large with her arsenal of weapons.”
“Yeah, but how would she know where to put her daddy’s body?”
“Maybe one of her sisters has been in touch with her without telling us.”
“I still think Kevin is the logical choice. He didn’t react at the reading of the will. Ordinary people aren’t that poker-faced. What do you know about him, anyway? Besides the obvious.”
“He’s some kind of executive at the hospital.”
“Doing what?”
“How do I know? It’s not like he’s part of Tupelo’s old guard. He’s only been here three years. Remember?”
Lovie met him at a hospital benefit she was catering. He was the handsome new guy in town, which made him the man most likely to find Lovie’s favor. She’d already cycled through most of the local bachelors, some of them more than once.
“See, that’s what I’m talking about. You only know what Kevin told you. There’s no telling what he does at the hospital. And where did he move from, anyhow?”
“I guess I could try talking to him. It might be an interesting change of pace.”
“I don’t think you ought to see him again, Lovie. He could be a killer.”
“He’s a killer, all right.”
“I’m serious. You could be putting your life in danger.”
“This is creepy, Callie.”
“You’re right. Besides, we don’t have to worry about it. Bubbles is back in the freezer, Dr. Laton is in Eternal Rest, and Elvis is home.”
“What about these big wads of wrinkled-up plastic?”
“Oh, shoot.”
The only thing to do is borrow a bucket from Mama’s back breezeway, dump water from the lake on the fire, then throw the incriminating charred remains into the lake and hope they sink to the bottom.
And don’t kill the catfish.
By the time we’ve finished, Lovie and I look like Tar Baby and have mosquito bites the size of Texas.
“I’m not cut out for a life of crime,” she says.
It’s not a life of crime I have on my mind right now. It’s how I’m going to get the soot off my Cole Haan shoes and how I’m going to get Elvis back without ending up in Jack’s bed.
I know, I know. With rampaging problems like global war, hunger, and murder, I’m a shallow person for thinking of shoes and sex. But you have to start somewhere. If you can’t keep everything in your own backyard in order, how can you expect to fix the disorder of the world?
While we’re watching the last of the tar balls sink to the bottom, Lovie says, “Poor old Bubbles. It doesn’t seem right taking her funeral pall and leaving her in the freezer with peas in her lap.”
“It’s a tarp, Lovie. Besides, what else could we do?”
“Maybe we ought to sing her a song.”
“Now?”
“Well, yeah. It can’t hurt. Maybe she’ll forgive us. She might even put in a good word with Saint Peter.”
“We didn’t kill her, Lovie.”
“I know that. Still, it was our fault the Pomeranian chewed on her.”
I start singing in a shaky soprano, and Lovie joins in with a lusty alto. I’ll have to say we sound pretty good. Of course, we’ve had years of practice. Mama and Aunt Minrose started us singing duets at Wildwood Chapel when we were kids.
My voice gets stronger as I go along, and I feel like a better person. If there ever was a song that can redeem you—no matter what—it’s “Amazing Grace.”
Chapter 10
Fleas, Fitness, and Mayhem
After we leave the lake, Lovie drops me off at my house to get my truck and I head straight to Jack’s, never mind the condition I’m in. The only way I can get settled back into my routine is to retrieve my dog.
Elvis sets up a ruckus the minute I pull into the driveway. Jack’s lights are still on and I can see my dog jumping up and down at the second-story window.
I park the Dodge Ram under the only tree on this desolate-looking, cracked-pavement lot—a scraggly little pine turning brown at the top. Pine beetles, would be my guess. If they keep on chewing, before you know it Jack won’t have a single tree and I can add deprived my ex of simple pleasures to the list of guilt I carry around like Janice Laton Mims’ Prada purse.
Jack loves nature. He could sit in my rose garden for hours and not say a word, just sit in our white wicker rocking chair smiling. Last summer when it got so hot and dry it felt like Mississippi had turned into the Sahara, he was the one who watered the roses.
“Let them go, Jack. Maybe next summer will be better and I’ll plant more.”
He kept on watering. Maybe he knew something I didn’t. Maybe he intuitively knew that, for us, there would be no next summer.
Jack left me right before last year’s Christmas holidays. Just thinking of that awful Christmas makes me swap my guilt for righteous indignation. Living in a tacky yellow brick apartment building on the wrong side of Tupelo serves him right.
Magnolia Manor, it’s called, which brings to mind mint juleps served on a gracious patio with a view of tennis courts and English gardens. Obviously the person who named it was delusional. The only view is the pitiful pine and the rundown putt-putt golf course next door.
I priss right up and punch the buzzer like I mean business.
“Jack, it’s me.”
He wastes no time buzzing me up.
“My God, Callie. You look like you’re back from the dead.”
He doesn’t know how close he is to being right.
“Don’t mind me. I just came for my dog.”
Elvis skids into the hall and starts licking my feet and legs. I squat down and scratch his ears, then hide my face in the soft fur on top of his head. Mostly because I love my dog, but partly because I don’t want Jack to see me crying.
Listen, I’m only human. Sometimes all this gets too much. Why can’t life be simple? Why can’t it just meander along without husbands and dogs and corpses disappearing on you?
When I’ve pulled myself together, I stand up and say, “Go get your toys, Elvis. Let’s go home.”
Jack grabs my arm and hauls me inside. “Sit. I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”
“It’s ninety degrees outside.”
Naturally he pays me no mind, just stalks into the kitchen and starts banging around in cabinets. It’s like having God take charge. All I can do is sit there and contemplate my sins. Which are myriad. If they keep adding up, I’ll have to hire a secretary to keep track.
All this stress makes my head hurt, and I’m not even the kind of woman who has headaches. Next thing you know I’ll be developi
ng Fayrene’s fireballs in the useless and losing interest in shoes.
The seductive smell of chocolate wafts from the kitchen, and I lean back and close my eyes. This feels so good I might not move till after Dr. Laton’s funeral or for the next two years, whichever comes first.
Holy cow! It’s the crack of daylight and I’m in Jack’s bed, naked as a boiled egg. Even worse, I can’t remember a thing after I smelled that chocolate.
Jack’s not on the other side of the bed, which means he could be lurking anywhere. I ease out and tiptoe around searching for my clothes. If I hurry I can be dressed and maybe sneak out of the apartment with my dog.
Dognapping again. I wonder if Jack can use that against me in court.
I can’t even find my T-shirt and shorts, much less my underwear. When the lights blare on, I’m on all fours feeling around under the bed, naked. I pop up and crack my head on the bedrail. If I were Lovie I’d say a word that starts with D. Maybe even F.
“You’re up.”
“Of course. I have business to attend to.” I rise and give him the once-over as if I’m Venus surveying her conquest from a personal seashell.
I’m not about to cave in and ask him the whereabouts of my clothes, and I’m certainly not going to ask him what happened in this bed.
It would be just my luck to have caught some weird form of temporary amnesia from the chemicals exuded by that burning tarp. Maybe even temporary insanity.
“Since you’re up, I’ll make breakfast.”
“Jack Jones, if you think I’m going to follow you to the kitchen like a bassett hound puppy, you’ve got another think coming.” I jerk the sheet off and wrap myself up, sarong-style. “Elvis and I are leaving.”
“Don’t you even want to talk about last night?”
Shoot. If I’m going to keep falling off the wagon with my almost-ex, the least I want is to remember the fun.
“I hate to disappoint you, Jack, but it was forgettable.”
He laughs so hard I want to slap him. Instead I tag after him trailing the bedsheet. His apartment is a mess. Socks wadded up and tossed everywhere, T-shirts draped over the backs of chairs, Chinese takeout boxes piled on the coffee table.
Plus, a wrinkled sheet and a pillow with a slept-on dent on the sofa.
The sight makes me want to cry. Even worse, I want to straighten up, spritz with Fabreze, add paintings to the walls, bake a pan of gingerbread so the apartment smells of cinnamon and home.
Lovie calls me the earth mother type, and I guess she’s right. Otherwise I’d be scheming how to get Jack’s silver Jag in the divorce settlement instead of trying to figure out how to clean his apartment without sending off the wrong signals.
He takes my clothes out of the dryer, never mind that his own dirty jeans are piled knee-high.
“If you’re leaving, put these on. I need my sheet.” With that, he undoes the knot and strips me bare. “Such a waste.”
I could say a thing or two about who left and why, but I don’t. All I want is my dog and my underwear.
I turn my back to put on my clothes, but not before I see Jack’s grin. “Where’s Elvis?”
“Asleep in my bathroom.”
Jack dangles the key over my shoulder, then keeps standing behind me so close I can smell Irish Spring. I used to stand in the shower and rub the soap on his back.
Okay. Now I’m weak at the knees. If I look at him, I’m likely to end up spread across his table like raspberry jam on bread.
“He’s not safe with you as long as that French poodle is in a courting mood. Besides, he misses riding on my Harley, and his back-alley girlfriend gave him a case of fleas.”
“I’ll take him to the vet.”
“No. I’ll take him to the vet.”
Jack turns me around by the shoulders and looks at me like I’m a hot jelly roll and he can’t wait to dig in. If I don’t get out of here fast I’ll end up parked in Lovie’s green kitchen eating chocolate and confessing wicked misdeeds. Again.
Jerking myself free, I stalk out. When I get in the Dodge Ram and notice that Jack washed the soot and grim off me and even put pink calamine lotion on my mosquito bites, I almost go back inside and do his laundry.
Of course, that’s not all I’d do. I peel out and head home.
Janice Laton Mims is sitting on my front porch swing with my autographed copy of Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café, wearing my blue piqué robe and drinking from my favorite coffee mug with writing on the side that says the power of the spirit is even more amazing than the wonders of nature (my personal philosophy).
If I’d known Mama was going to let them take over my house, I’d have left Uncle Charlie in charge.
Janice gets up and puts her hands on her hips like I’m the maid.
“I was wondering where you were. We’re out of ground coffee. I had to drink instant.”
I pretend she never said such a tacky thing to me. “Good morning. How are you?”
“Disinherited. Ready to kill my sisters. Does that sum it up?”
“Oh, is Bevvie back?”
“I don’t know the whereabouts of either one of them, and I don’t care. All I want is out of this godforsaken place.”
She flounces back into my house as if I’ve personally deprived her of California. Besides, I take umbrage at her slurs on Mooreville. True, nobody would call it cosmopolitan, but it has its virtues. I can’t think what they are right now, but after I’ve worked off some steam at the gym I’m likely to sit down and make a list and present it to Miss High and Mighty Janice.
I grab my gym bag and punch Lovie’s number on the way out the door.
“Lovie, I’m on the way to the fitness center. Do you want to work out with me?”
“I’d as soon grow nose hair. Besides, I’m making cheese straws and cream puffs for the Ladies’ Social at Calvary Baptist.”
The fitness center sits on a hill on the south side of Tupelo’s sprawling medical complex—a deliberate ploy to make you think twice about getting off the stationary bicycle before you get your body revved up enough to fight off clogged arteries and other diabolical malfunctions.
The thing that sends me scurrying back to the dressing room in a near-trauma is not the looming prospect of terminal illness; it’s the sight of Mellie Laton puffing away in the weight room and Kevin Laton doing laps in the pool in the atrium. I’m so tired of Latons and their problems I’d give up cute shoes to be rid of them. Well, almost.
I grab my bag from the locker and don’t even take time to change out of gym clothes. Leaping into my Dodge Ram, I peel out of the parking lot and head for the nearest exit home.
It’s my house. If Janice is still on my swing, I’ll make her sit in the rocking chair.
Cliff Gookin Boulevard is clear of early-morning traffic. You can make record time getting around town if you don’t get stopped by one of the many trains that block Tupelo’s major arteries at obscene times, i.e., when you’re already late for a dental appointment on the other side of the track or you’re suffering chest pains and need to get to the hospital before you die.
I’m driving along minding my own business and thinking about work where the most upsetting thing I’ll encounter is a hair dryer on the blink, when out of the blue somebody rams my back bumper. And me, on the bridge! If I weren’t in this giant piece of kick-ass metal, I’d be flying over the railing to Glory Land.
When I get the wheel under control, I glance in the mirror and see a Ford F-150 four-by-four. Bloodred. A driver the size of an Iowa State linebacker, his baseball hat pulled low.
“Holy cow!”
It has to be the same man who was trailing us in Las Vegas. I don’t know of another truck around here that’s pure testosterone. Except mine, of course. I bear down on the gas pedal and shoot forward like a raging bull.
My escape is short-lived. The Ford plows into my rear end again. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I see the driver has his head hung out the window, gesturing toward the side of the r
oad.
“Pull over!”
I shoot him the bird and whip out my cell phone. If I live through the next two minutes, I’m calling 911.
Elvis’ Opinion # 6 on Back Roads, Bologna Sandwiches, and Firearms
You wouldn’t expect a man as worldly wise as Jack Jones to get all shook-up over a woman, but then you don’t know my human daddy. He may look and act like a tough guy, but let Callie show up and he’s just a big hunk a’ burnin’ love.
If he had listened to me this morning and picked her a nice bouquet of goldenrod instead of locking me up in the bathroom so I couldn’t go back home with Callie, he’d have had her washing his dirty socks by now.
Listen, love me tender has its place, but I have priorities just like the next dog. When you have to open windows to keep from being gassed by the smell, it’s time to take action.
The only action Jack takes is to hit the open road. Now, I’m not saying I don’t like to be all suited up in my doggie helmet with the lightning bolt across the front, strapped to my little seat and watching the trees whiz by. I’d be lying. In spite of the string of starry-eyed canines I’ve wooed with “I’m Yours” when all I meant was “It’s a Matter of Time,” I pride myself on truth.
I’m about to tell Jack a thing or two about women when he wheels into this ugly trailer park on the south side of Fulton and parks under the shade of a magnolia tree.
“Sit tight, Elvis.”
Bless’a my soul. The next thing you know Buck Witherspoon strolls out and gets in his green extended-cab Chevrolet. Jack tails him all the way across the Alabama state line. Things are getting interesting till Buck pulls into a fast food restaurant. We pull right in behind him and Jack orders two bologna sandwiches without consulting me.
I could be snooty and hold out for a hamburger, but I decide to cut him a little slack. Any man who mishandles his marriage the way Jack has deserves a little TLC.
We take our sandwiches back to the Screamin’ Eagle and Jack whips out his cell phone.
