Elvis and The Dearly Departed

by Peggy Webb

  Okay, so maybe I was planning to sneak a piss on Janice’s purse, but that doesn’t mean I think she’s the killer. Kevin and Mellie are the ones to keep an eye on. He’s too composed for somebody going through these extraordinary circumstances.

  As for Mellie—underneath her ugly clothes beats the heart of a floozie. I know one when I see one. Trust me.

  If you ask me—which nobody does—I’d march those two out of the chapel and have Lovie sit on them till they confess.

  And speaking of Lovie—here she comes with a hunk of cake, generously laced with spirits. My kind of woman.

  “Our little secret,” she says. Like I’d tell Callie when she gets back from the bathroom. Like I’d deliberately finish ruining her day.

  There are a lot of things I could tell Callie, but I won’t. She already has too much on her plate.

  For one thing, I’d give her the goods on Rocky Malone. Now, I know he’s been chasing around in a Ford F-150 scaring the pants off everybody, but they didn’t see what I saw. When Ruby Nell started playing “Whispering Hope,” he was standing back there blubbering like a baby. Had this big old white handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket to blow his nose.

  A man that tenderhearted didn’t knock off Bubbles Malone and toss her in with the frozen fish. I don’t know what his role is in all this drama, but as soon as I can make my escape, I’m planning to find out.

  And if I don’t, my human daddy will.

  Don’t think I don’t know why Jack’s not here. Listen, while we were sitting under the stars in Ruby Nell’s backyard (unbeknownst to Callie, of course), he told me his plans.

  Believe me, he’s not missing this chance to watch over Callie so he can whistle Dixie.

  Chapter 19

  Accusations, Threats, and Honey-Baked Ham

  By the time I get back from the bathroom, Dr. Laton’s eulogy is almost finished. Over the kitchen’s intercom, Lovie and I hear Mama blasting forth on the organ—“Marching to Glory,” her hymn of choice to send the deceased rolling down the aisle and through the Pearly Gates.

  In this case, I have my serious doubts.

  “Quick, Callie.” Lovie shoves the sherried fruit at me. “Let’s get this food on the table so we can get out of here.”

  Translated, before the police and Rocky Malone find us.

  As usual, she’s way ahead of me. By the time I get my dish into the reception room (which Uncle Charlie, at Mama’s suggestion, decorated to look like the living room in Graceland, minus the shag carpet), Lovie’s whizzing back toward the kitchen for the punch. I hope she’s adding more vodka. If everybody gets sloshed, maybe they won’t notice two desperados sneaking out the back door.

  Turning toward the kitchen, I’m getting ready to call after Lovie to doctor up the sweet tea, too, when somebody grabs me from behind and clamps a big hand over my mouth.

  “Behave and I won’t hurt you.”

  I pop out in goose bumps the size of Arkansas. I know that voice. It’s the same one that ordered me to pull over on Cliff Gookin Boulevard. It’s Rocky Malone, who wants to kill me.

  Not without a fight, you don’t. I stomp down with my Jimmy Choos hard enough to ram the spiked heel into his foot. Rocky Malone does not even flinch. I think I’m going to throw up. I’m being dragged off by a mountain, and nobody knows.

  Not even Elvis. Where’s my dog? It’s not like him to sit around in the kitchen while I’m being kidnapped.

  I bite down on my kidnapper’s hand, but I might as well be a fly biting a water buffalo. He just tightens his grip and stalks toward the front door.

  As we pass the chapel we hear the drone of conversation, a sign Dr. Laton’s been properly eulogized and mourners will soon be spilling out.

  Reversing direction, Rocky drags me down the stairs.

  Hysteria takes over. I’m fixing to end up on the embalming table. And I can guarantee Rocky Malone does not intend to apply pancake makeup. Most likely, he’ll apply the gun I feel sticking in my ribs. I’m going to be Tupelo’s latest dearly departed. And I won’t even be around to fix my face and hair.

  I wish I’d paid more attention when Jack was telling me what to do if somebody ever grabbed me from behind. We were newlyweds, and I thought he was kidding.

  “Who would want to grab me from behind? Besides you?” is what I told him, which ordinarily would have led to something fun and maybe even kinky. But he was dead serious.

  What did he say? When it comes to beauty, my mind’s a steel strap, but when it comes to everything else, it’s a garage sale waiting to happen.

  Rocky hits the bottom stair, rounds the corner, and heads straight for the embalming table. That’s when I remember Jack’s advice.

  Inching my arms backward, I reach down, grab a handful of Rocky’s pride and joy, and twist. He yells loud enough to alert the dead. Unfortunately, Durell Thompson, waiting in the holding room for Uncle Charlie’s magic, is not fixing to pop into life and race to my rescue.

  And nobody else is, either. This room is soundproof.

  It’s all up to me. While Rocky’s doubled over moaning over his privates, I lunge toward the back door. But just as I get a good grip on the doorknob, he pounces.

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Shut up. I’ll do the talking.” He clamps his hands over my mouth again and pins me against the wall. “I want to know exactly what you and your friend did in Las Vegas.”

  I’m shaking my head no, but he’s not buying it. Any minute now he’s going to lose patience with me and snap my neck like a twig.

  “You killed her, didn’t you?”

  Still shaking my I say, “Ummpft,” which is the best I can do with hands the size of Virginia hams clamped over my mouth. I struggle, trying to lift my knee into his crotch, but I’m flattened between him and the wall. Any minute now I expect to hear my ribs crack.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of red. We are not alone.

  “Let her go or I’ll carve you like a honey-baked ham.”

  I am shaking with relief. Lovie’s standing behind Rocky with the point of a lethal carving knife in his back. And he believes she’ll use it. I can tell by the flash of fear in his eyes.

  Still, he doesn’t turn me loose.

  “Hold on, now. I was just asking her a few questions.”

  “Oh yeah?” Lovie prods and he squeals but keeps me in a viselike grip. “Like you were doing when you ran her off the road.”

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt her.”

  “Tell that to the devil. That’s where you’ll be headed after I finish with you.”

  Holy cow. I’ve watched Lovie cry over a squashed cricket, and even I believe she’s planning to carve him like a roast.

  “Turn Callie loose, or I’ll cut you. I swear.”

  “Do what the lady says, Malone, or you’ll answer to me.”

  How Jack entered the room without a single one of us knowing boggles my mind. Or what’s left of it. Rocky releases me, and my breath comes back in such a rush I think I’m going to faint. Only curiosity and a determination not to embarrass myself in front of Jack hold me upright.

  Elvis skids through the doorway, looking self-satisfied and disgruntled at the same time. If I weren’t in my current predicament, I’d laugh. He surveys the situation, then trots over and licks my legs.

  Meanwhile Jack is trussing Rocky like one of those yearling calves I’ve seen at rodeos. Lord only knows where he got the rope. Knowing him, it probably dropped from the sky.

  “Are you all right, Callie?” he asks.

  “I’d be better if I knew why this man keeps coming after me.”

  “Rocky is Bubble Malone’s son.”

  Lovie, her carving knife at half-mast, says a word I’ve never heard. I believe she’s taken up cussing in foreign languages.

  I’d say a word, too, if I knew any. A big chunk of the puzzle falls into place. I don’t know how Lovie and I could have missed it.

  We stand back with our arms around each
other while Jack straddles a straight-backed chair and points his gun at Rocky. I know a Colt .45 and this is not it. My almost-ex is carrying a weapon big enough to blow the perpetrator clear to California. In the first place, what’s he doing with such a gun? And in the second, how could I have been married to a man it turns out I don’t even know?

  Jack waves his cannon at Rocky. “Start talking.”

  “When I heard these two women were inquiring about Mother, I followed them to her house. I just wanted to scare them into confessing.”

  “I can confess to a lot of things,” Lovie says, “but murder’s not one of them.”

  “That makes no sense. Why would Lovie and I want to kill Bubbles?”

  “I figured one of you had a beef against her since you’re in the same profession.”

  “Pardon?” I ask, and Rocky says, “Show business.”

  He’s quite handsome when he smiles, something you can’t tell about a man when he’s trying to run you off the road. He’s smiling at Lovie now, practically flirting.

  “I caught your performance at Hot Tips. Impressive.” Good grief, Lovie’s preening. “I guess performing’s part-time for you, since you live here.”

  “Au contraire. I perform every chance I get.”

  Jack prods Rocky with his gun. “Stick to the subject, Malone. The cops are on your mother’s case. Why are you in Mississippi terrorizing Lovie and my wife?”

  “Estranged wife.” If you don’t count cohabitation. And I certainly do not.

  Jack winks at me. If he hadn’t just rescued me, I’d hit him with a can of Freeze and Shine.

  “I just wanted to turn them over to the police so they could be extradited and stand trial. I wouldn’t hurt anybody. I guess I was unhinged by grief. Poor Mother. When I found her like that…”

  He chokes up, then pulls out a rumpled handkerchief to wipe his eyes. I don’t think hardened criminals do this, but I’m not in a forgiving mood. Thanks to him I have bruises on my arm and two new gray hairs, to say the least.

  Plus, I’m indebted to Jack—again—and he’s sitting over there acting like my bodyguard from God.

  “We didn’t kill Bubbles,” I tell Rocky. “We just wanted to get Dr. Laton back.”

  “How’d he get in your mother’s freezer in the first place?” Lovie’s attitude has softened. She was always a sucker for a sob story.

  “I stole the body. It wasn’t the doctor who wanted his ashes scattered in the Valley of Fire. It was Mother.”

  “Why?” I ask. Obviously he didn’t kill Bubbles, but maybe he can tell us something that will lead to the one who did.

  “It’s personal.”

  “Keep talking.” Jack pulls back the safety on his gun.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  I wait to see if Jack’s going to jump in and take over, but apparently he’s planning to sit on the sidelines and let somebody else take charge. A refreshing change.

  I don’t know beans about questioning criminals and perps and suspects—or whatever Rocky is—but I’m planning to give it my best shot. It’s either that or end up on the police hot seat with a murder rap.

  “Just what was your mother’s relationship with Dr. Laton?”

  “They had an affair. Even after Mother married, she and the doctor kept in touch.”

  “The doctor’s your father?”

  “No. My dad is Flash Malone.”

  “I’m confused,” Lovie finally chimes in. “If you stole Dr. Laton’s body, why did you put it back?”

  “I didn’t put it back. I only carried out Mother’s wishes.”

  Bubbles told us Leonard Laton wanted to be buried in the Valley of Fire. It makes sense she’d ask her son to steal the body instead of doing it herself. He’s big enough to steal an elephant and single-handedly tote it across the desert.

  “Did you put the pasties in the casket?” I ask.

  “Yes. Mother wanted them there.”

  “You did it again, after Uncle Charlie took the first ones out?”

  “Yes, it’s not right for a man to go to his final resting place without a memento of the woman he loved.”

  “How romantic.” Good grief. Lovie’s getting moon-eyed, and I’ll have to say, I can see why. Now that Rocky’s let his guard down, he’s nothing but a big teddy bear.

  “Was Bubbles dating your father when she had an affair with Dr. Laton?” My question is a shot in the dark. Besides, there’s still the riddle of who put Dr. Laton back.

  “My father would never have killed my mother. Besides, he’s dead.”

  Well, shoot. There goes that theory. Solving crime is more complicated than making Leonora Moffett look like a natural blonde. How come Lovie’s not chiming in?

  “Would anybody else you know have reason to kill her?”

  “Mother told me that at one time the doctor’s wife threatened her.”

  Great. Another dead suspect.

  “Did his children know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  If I recall, Dr. Laton had only two at the time. Janice and Mellie. But even if they knew, would one or both of them kill her simply because she was their father’s lover?

  While I’m tyring to figure out what Dr. Laton’s affair might have had to do with Bubbles’ murder, I glance at Lovie. No wonder she’s not trying to solve the crime. She’s too busy crossing her legs and hiking her skirt. When I get her alone, I’m going to tell her come hither doesn’t work when you’re holding a six-inch blade.

  I poke her with my elbow. Hard. The next thing you know she’ll be inviting Rocky Malone to her house for condolence cake and a little undercover work.

  Uncle Charlie comes downstairs right in the middle of the fire Lovie’s trying to light to report he has explained our mission in Las Vegas to the cops, who have kindly consented to wait until after the interment to question Lovie and me.

  “Why do they want to question us?” I ask.

  “You were the last to see Bubbles alive. Don’t worry, dear heart. I’ll be with you.”

  I’m glad Uncle Charlie’s going with us. But the prospect of being questioned by the Las Vegas police in the interrogation room provided by the Tupelo Police Department has me wishing I was born helpless instead of smart. If I weren’t the capable kind, Uncle Charlie would never have sent me after the body. I could be home now drinking lemonade.

  Satisfied that Rocky Malone is nothing more than a misguided hunk grieving for his mother, Uncle Charlie, Lovie, and Elvis go back upstairs for the funeral reception. Jack unties Rocky, who follows. But not before my almost-ex tells him, “If you touch a hair on Callie’s head, you’ll answer to me.”

  I wait till they’re gone before I give Jack a piece of my mind.

  “If you’d been so concerned about my hair, you’d never have bought that Harley Screamin’ Eagle.”

  That’s not all I give him, but I’d as soon forget that part.

  I have news for everybody. I don’t plan to be interrogated. I’m going to march back upstairs and find the killer.

  As soon as I find my underwear.

  Chapter 20

  True Love, True Confessions, and Dirty Linen

  Upstairs I make a beeline for Mama, sitting in the reception room in a corner, of all things. Jack stations himself six feet away looking ready to throttle the next person who looks at me sideways, and thank goodness, Rocky Malone is nowhere to be seen. Come to think of it, neither is Lovie.

  When I sit down Mama says, “I’ve never been so mortified in my life,” and I slide my arm around her. “I might as well just give up and become a wallflower.”

  She’s wearing sequins. Neon green and hot pink.

  “Trust me, Mama. You’ll never be a wallflower. Besides, nobody noticed. You did such a brilliant segue, everybody probably believes Christmas songs at funerals are now all the rage.”

  “You think?”

  “Oh, I know, Mama.” She’s so relieved I feel better.

  “You’re right.” She stands up
and fluffs out her hair. “I might as well perk up and get Fayrene to ride over to Tunica.”

  Maybe I overdid the pep talk. “Are the Latons back from the interment?”

  “You didn’t hear Charlie’s announcement in the chapel? They didn’t have graveside.” Mama spies Jack, then gives me the once-over. “Your lipstick’s smeared.”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “Did I say a word? When have I ever said a thing that’s not strictly my business?”

  Mama believes her own fiction. Another time I might argue, but right now I have to play hostess…and find a killer.

  Lovie must have mental telepathy because she pops out of the kitchen and joins us. “Rocky’s definitely not the culprit, so who put Dr. Laton’s body back?”

  “If we can find out, we’ve got our killer. And I think we don’t have far to look.”

  The Laton offspring are hogging the table scarfing down Lovie’s liquor-laced delights. All of them, that is, except the youngest.

  I don’t like this. Bevvie and her arsenal of weapons bear close watching. If she’s off somewhere stalking, you can bet your britches it’s not white-tailed deer.

  “Where’s Bevvie?” I ask Lovie.

  “She was not here when I came back upstairs.”

  “I’ll work the crowd. See if you can find her.”

  The mayor and a contingent of hungry Democrats are hogging Lovie’s sherried pecan chicken and cheese soufflé, forcing the Republicans to make do with coffee and cake. Fortunately it’s laced with enough brandy that they’re not complaining.

  Kevin, Janice, and her husband, Bradford, have drawn a tight circle at the end of the table away from the mayor’s crowd, while Mellie is on the other side, elbow deep in the punch bowl. Judging by her flushed face and disheveled hair, she looks like she’s already had three cups too many.

  She and Janice act as if they’re getting ready to climb across the table and claw each other’s eyes out.

  I home in on Lovie’s brandied cake, making no bones about sidling up close enough to eavesdrop. I don’t need excuses. For one thing, I’ve learned from the expert (Mama at her flamboyant best) to charge forth with boldness no matter what.