Elvis and The Dearly Departed

by Peggy Webb

  “Holy cow. Did you notice how fast Mellie developed a headache and showed us the door when I mentioned our trip?”

  “You would, too, if Bubbles Malone had stolen your daddy’s money.”

  “Which leave us right back where we started. All the Latons had motive and opportunity. Probably means, too, since we don’t know the murder weapon.”

  “Next time we find a corpse in the freezer, you should look and find out, Callie.”

  “After this is over, the only corpses I plan to see up close and personal are the well-behaved deceased at Uncle Charlie’s funeral home.”

  Lovie and I return to the farm to change clothes and redo our hair. I’d go without mascara before I’d let my customers see me in these tacky shoes.

  She heads back to Tupelo and I call Mama’s cell phone to locate my dog.

  “We’re at Fayrene’s store,” she says.

  I’m not even going to ask. Last year Fayrene converted a stockroom at the back of her store by adding green curtains and a 1950s dinette set with a pink Formica top and pink vinyl seat cushions. She calls it a break room, but I have my doubts. For one thing, she keeps quarters in the middle of her table in a Mason jar. For another, after Mama’s trips across the road for a “cuppa java” with Fayrene, her purse rattles.

  After perking myself up with fluffy hair and a pair of hot-pink Taryn Rose sling-backs, I head to Gas, Grits, and Guts to get my dog.

  This is not as easy as it sounds. Today’s Friday, flea market day. Vendors vie for space on the small lot with dealers selling antiques and junk out of the tailgates of their pickups. I squeeze my Dodge Ram into a spot behind the boiled peanut stand, and the first person I see is Janice. She and her brood are crowded around Dick Newsome, aka the knife man.

  I don’t want her to know I see her fondling a hunting knife with a blade mean enough to gut a fattening hog. I’m getting ready to duck my head and race inside when I spot Elvis lifting his leg on the knife man’s tires.

  Forget anonymity. This is my dog we’re talking about. As I skirt eastward to the rescue, who should I run into but Mama? She puts her fingers to her lips and motions to me.

  Hunkering down beside her on the other side of the pickup, I ask, “What are you doing?”

  “Spying on Janice.”

  “Good grief, Mama.”

  “Keep your voice down. I’m incognito.”

  She’s wearing a red straw hat big enough to shade both of us, Jackie O sunglasses with rhinestones, and a neon-yellow caftan you can see to the county line. People are already staring. Pretty soon, they’ll be lining up for autographs.

  “Come on, Mama. Let’s go.”

  We sprint toward my Dodge Ram, then head to Hair.Net, where Mama proceeds to help herself to my Inferno Red nail polish while Elvis puts his nose to the floor and checks the place for intruders (or maybe dropped potato chips). I go into my office to check messages. There are four asking for appointments and one from Janice canceling hers. Thank goodness. If I ever got her in my chair I’d probably pull her hair out. For general aggravation, if nothing else.

  The last message is from Lovie’s latest heartthrob saying he’d like to check Elvis in a follow-up appointment.

  “Who was that?” Mama’s standing in the door making no bones about eavesdropping on stuff that is none of her business. When I tell her about the new vet, she says, “Have you seen Jack?”

  Mama’s so predictable.

  “Not today.”

  “Well, you ought to make a point. Considering the dangerous riffraff he’s handling for us, you could soon be a widow. Black’s not your color.”

  I’m not fixing to get tangled up in another of Mama’s windy dissertations about holding your man.

  “Did you learn anything new about Janice, Mama?”

  “It seems Bevvie’s not the only family member who kills for sport. Janice hunts with a bow and arrow. So does her husband. For all we know, they could be Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “But they were in Mooreville when Bubbles was killed.”

  “Not necessarily. You know that little side trip I took? To Memphis? Well, it turns out Janice made a flying trip to the West Coast and took the red-eye back.”

  “Why?”

  “Supposedly to check on a sick friend. But I don’t trust anybody who’s had that much plastic surgery.”

  “What does that have to do with anything, Mama?”

  “If you’re fool enough to have your face lifted off, you’re fool enough to do anything.”

  I tend to agree. Give me what God and Estee Lauder intended.

  Mama heads back to Everlasting Monuments while Trixie Moffett (evil Leonora’s good cousin) arrives for highlights and advice on her disappointing love life. I’d be disappointed, too, if I had to depend on Roy Jessup at Mooreville Feed and Seed for my sexual excitement. I recommend high-heel shoes and Jungle Gardenia perfume, then end up giving her the hot-pink Taryn Rose sling-backs right off my feet.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon doing hair in my bare feet, which is normal for me. After the last customer leaves, Mama calls in a triumphant dither to report that somebody drove all the way from Red Bay, Alabama, to buy a monument engraved If I send postcards from the other side, you’ll know.

  Uncle Charlie also calls to say the last remains of Durell Thompson have been delivered to Eternal Rest but the funeral’s delayed pending the arrival of family from Wisconsin.

  “I’m glad. I don’t do my best work when I’m nervous.”

  “Take a break, dear heart. There’s no need for you and Lovie to attend Dr. Laton’s public viewing tonight. You’ve been through enough. Relax and enjoy the evening.”

  With the California Latons at the funeral home, I put on my favorite blue summer lounging pajamas and ostrich-trimmed blue satin mules, then settle on my sofa for a leisurely evening watching movies with Elvis.

  Viva Las Vegas is playing. In spite of Elvis’ preference in movies, I’m not fixing to ruin my night with reminders. I’m flipping through channels looking for something else when I hear Bubbles’ name on the six o’clock news.

  Flipping back, I see a female reporter standing in front of the cottage on Cactus Lane, interviewing a skinny fiftyish woman wearing a blue top with a scarf that makes her neck look too short.

  “In a bizarre twist to the case, LaBelle Clemmons’ Pomeranian brought a nasty surprise to her door.”

  Oh my Lord. I grab my cell.

  “Lovie, quick. Turn on Channel nine.”

  “Why?”

  “Just listen.”

  The reporter holds the microphone in front of LaBelle.

  “What did you do when your little dog brought the finger to your door?”

  “Woke up my husband screaming.”

  “The Pomeranian’s grizzly gift has been identified as the left pinky finger that once belonged to Bubbles Malone.”

  “Lovie, are you there?”

  “I didn’t know he chewed it off. Did you?”

  “No. I was too busy trying to get her to bend.”

  “I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “I never met anybody who did. Look on the bright side, Lovie. We didn’t kill her.”

  “Yeah, but we’re the ones who got her body parts chewed off. That’s probably a crime.”

  “Pinkie theft? Appendage abduction?”

  “You have lost your tiny mind.”

  She’s probably right. I’m also about to lose my supper. Running into my hall bath, I sit on the cold tile floor hugging the toilet and heaving. Nothing comes up but the certainty that my evening is ruined.

  I just hope my life’s not.

  Chapter 18

  Cops, Clues, and Blue Christmas

  Funeral day is always a big occasion for the Valentine family. We all dress up, even Elvis, who loves to wear his rhinestone-studded collar with the bow tie. Pink. His signature color. I’m wearing pink, too, and my sassiest Jimmy Choo open-toed pumps.

  The Valentine family does not believe
in dressing in black. Black’s for mourning and there’s nothing somber and mournful about funeral services at Eternal Rest. Celebration. That’s what it’s all about. Celebration of a life lived to the fullest. We hope. Though there are some—like poor old Gertrude—who never set foot out of Mooreville and never did anything more exciting than pick every one of her prize roses for her sister’s wedding.

  When Elvis and I arrive, Lovie’s in the kitchen stirring the brandied fruit (wearing red), Uncle Charlie’s out front mingling with the guests, and Mama’s upstairs practicing her solo. Snatches of “Whispering Hope” waft down the stairs. Every now and then she hits a note that’s not in her range.

  “Remind me to tell Mama to take that hymn out of her repertoire,” I tell Lovie.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you. The last time you gave Aunt Ruby Nell advice, she dropped a hundred and fifty dollars at the wheel of fortune.”

  “Good point. Anything I can do to help in here?”

  “No. Go out front and rescue Daddy.”

  The Latons have arrived, along with a hundred other guests including Mayor Robert Earl Getty and his wife, Junie Mae, wearing a hairdo that looks like it came over on the Mayflower. I ease over and put some of my Hair.Net cards on the hall table close to her. Just in case.

  Leonard Laton was a prominent citizen, and Uncle Charlie did him proud. A quick glance at the casket shows the chains removed and the late doctor looking almost as good as he did before his cross-country travels in a tarpaulin.

  There are other familiar faces in the crowd—the Moffetts, Roy Jessup from Mooreville Feed and Seed, the entire board of Lee County supervisors, Fayrene and Jarvetis, who is making a rare public appearance. He’s usually off hunting with his bird dogs. The joke around Mooreville is that Fayrene’s husband is as imaginary as her illnesses.

  The big surprise among the mourners is not who’s here, but who’s not. Jack Jones is nowhere to be seen. Not that I’m looking. Still, I haven’t seen him since he backed me up against my beauty parlor sink. It’s not like him to miss a chance to mess with me.

  I’d be worried if I didn’t have bigger things on my mind. Like how to catch a killer. On TV the detectives always skulk around to see who shows up at the funeral and who is acting funny.

  Of course, we have the wrong corpse, but still, I believe there’s a strong connection between Dr. Laton and Bubbles Malone. I intend to find out what it is, even if it kills me.

  Janice is making no pretense of mourning. She’s in a wingback chair as far away from everybody as she can get, filing her nails. If that’s not contempt, I don’t know what is. In my book that’s not far removed from hatred. I’m giving her a large black mark and moving her up two notches on my list of suspects.

  Mellie seems to be falling apart. She’s standing by the casket bawling, and from her rumpled look I’d say she put something in her tea this morning besides lemon. Poor thing. No wonder. If I had sisters like Janice and Bevvie, I’d take up strong spirits, and maybe even gambling. We won’t mention sex.

  Kevin and Bevvie are in the doorway greeting guests. He’d look perfectly normal if you didn’t notice the twitch in his left eye. Not as damning as Janice’s behavior, but still a tip-off. Something’s bothering the usually self-composed Laton son.

  There’s nothing new to add to Bevvie. She’s the same jut-jawed, belligerent woman I saw at the fitness center. Even in a demure navy blue suit she looks every inch capable of killing big game that doesn’t feature horns, hooves, and a furry coat. Bevvie tops my suspect list, and I’m not planning to let her out of my sight.

  Making sure Elvis is safe (he’s over by a floral arrangement of gladiolas charming the mayor’s wife), I ease my way toward Bevvie. My progress is slowed by people vying for my attention. Fayrene stops me to ask if Mama’s here yet, and Leonora stops me to inquire about Jack. As if his whereabouts are any of her business.

  Before I can get within hearing range of murder suspect number one, the front door swings open and in swarm the police. Standing there like somebody has tacked me to the floor, I count five of Tupelo’s finest followed by a burly man wearing the logo of the Las Vegas Police Department. He looks like he spits lightning and pees thunderbolts. He looks like he would throw Lovie and me into the jail, then go off and retire to Tahiti while we rot.

  I can’t get out of there fast enough. Trying to looker shorter so I’ll blend with the crowd, I hustle toward the kitchen. Let me tell you, it’s hard to run with your knees bent. Furthermore, it’s impossible to look short when you’re five eight and wearing Jimmy Choos with four-inch heels. I’ll be lucky if I don’t fall and break every bone in my body.

  By the grace of every deity in the universe, I gain the kitchen with everything intact. Except my breath and my sanity.

  Lovie drops her stirring spoon. “Good Lord, Callie. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s…I’m…ohhh.”

  Mama grabs a cloth, sloshes it in dishwater, and swabs my face. There goes my fifteen-minute personal beauty routine down the drain.

  “I’m calling Charlie,” she says.

  “Wait.” I push the wet dishcloth out of my face, blink at the mascara running into my eyes, and try to focus. Grabbing Lovie’s fresh broccoli, I dump it from a gallon plastic bag and deep-breathe my way back to partial sanity.

  “The police are here. From Las Vegas.”

  “Oh my Lord,” Mama says, while Lovie says a word she didn’t learn in Sunday school.

  Lovie jerks up the sherry and sloshes it into the fruit, Mama dumps brandy over the cake, and I add vodka to the punch. Then Mama pours us all a cup.

  “What are we going to do?”

  Lovie’s asking me, the way she always does, and I’m fresh out of answers. In fact, I’m fresh out of everything—breath, steam, bravery. Especially bravery.

  Right now all I want to do is grab Elvis, run home, and hide under the bed for the next six years.

  Uncle Charlie comes in, takes one look at us, and says, “I see you already know.”

  Mama hands him some punch.

  “We won’t let this little incident disturb us, dear hearts. Leonard’s services are going to follow in the tradition of fine Valentine funerals since the establishment of Eternal Rest.”

  Uncle Charlie lifts his punch and we all click cups. “Laissez le bon temps rouler.”

  “What about the cops?” Trust Mama to get to the heart of things.

  “The police are very respectful of the dead. They won’t do anything until after the services.” He puts his arm around Mama. “Ruby Nell, the music will set the tone. Are you ready?”

  “I’m always ready, Charlie.”

  Uncle Charlie and Mama leave to enter the chapel through a side door. Usually I go and sit in the audience out of respect for Uncle Charlie and the dead. Today I decide to sit this one out.

  “Listen. Aunt Ruby Nell switched to the organ.”

  The somber strains of “Whispering Hope” waft toward the kitchen, where Lovie and I are into our second cup of punch.

  “That’s strange. Mama always plays the baby grand when she’s going to sing.”

  “I guess she’s rattled.”

  Rattled is an understatement. Mama’s usually solid second soprano voice wobbles as she starts the first verse. She thrives on praise and prides herself on a thirty-year record of solid public performance at Eternal Rest.

  “Come on, Mama. You can do it.”

  I know she can’t hear me, but I believe heart connections make mind-to-mind communication possible. Her voice grows stronger as she moves into the second verse. Singing the song of forgiveness are the words, which I hope everybody who’s trying to kill me or put me in jail takes to heart.

  Mama’s sailing right along, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Then all of a sudden she segues and starts belting out “Blue Christmas.”

  Holy cow. What’s going on?

  I race down the hall toward the side door of the chapel to get Mama’s attention. And that’s when I see
him—Rocky Malone, standing at the back of the chapel big as a Whirlpool refrigerator.

  Could things get any worse?

  I’m waving at Mama from the side door trying not to attract any attention but hers when I spot my dog. Elvis has managed to perch himself near the front with the Laton family, whom he hates. He’s probably just waiting for his chance to pee on Janice’s Prada purse.

  Suddenly he opens his mouth and howls.

  I think I will die on the spot.

  Elvis’ Opinion #10 on Funerals, Floozies, and Pupperoni

  I didn’t even get to finish my solo.

  There I was, on the front seat minding my own business, when Ruby Nell gave me a musical cue. Now, I’ve never missed a cue in my life, and I wasn’t about to start at this late date. Besides, it was one of my Christmas hits.

  If you ask me, everybody would be better off if they’d ditch those funeral dirges and throw in some rockabilly and a bit of Christmas cheer.

  I was howling along enjoying the sound of my own voice and the audience reaction, when Callie snatched me up and sailed into the kitchen.

  Now here I am with a canceled show.

  “Quiet, Elvis!”

  She never raises her voice unless she’s about to crack under pressure. As much as I hate seeing my human mom upset, I hate missing a performance even more.

  What can I say? Artistes have big egos.

  I give Callie this hangdog look, which sends her scurrying to the cabinet for a Pupperoni treat. I like Pupperoni as well as the next dog, but a little cake would have been more up my alley.

  “I’m sorry, Elvis.” She pats my head and I reward her by wagging my tail and licking her hand. “Things are crazy around here right now.”

  Like I don’t know. What does she think I was doing with those hateful Latons? Singing Nat King Cole?

  I was keeping my eyes peeled on the suspects, that’s what. Planning on soaring to new worldwide iconic status by apprehending the criminal. A first in dog history if you don’t count the canine patrol. And I certainly don’t. How many of them have ever played to sellout crowds in Las Vegas?