by Peggy Webb
For another, Elvis is sitting under the table hoping somebody will drop a crumb. I can always say I’m here to get my dog. Not that I’m planning to make him leave.
Listen, this is his funeral home, too. It’s partially due to Elvis that we’re the must go to place when somebody dies. Around here people are fond of saying you can’t get to heaven without going through Eternal Rest and consorting with the King.
I lean in to cut a big piece of cake and overhear Kevin saying, “I don’t think Daddy looked just right.”
I glance around the room hoping Uncle Charlie’s not in hearing range. It’s not his fault the corpse had freezer burn.
“Who cares what the two-timing old fossil looked like?” Janice says.
Her husband places a hand on her arm. “Now, dear. Don’t make a public scene.”
“Me? I’m not the one getting drunk.” Janice twists toward her sister. “And over what, Mellie? An old coot who ruined your life?”
“Leave Mellie alone.” Kevin’s face is so menacing I take a step backward.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jack charging my way. While I’m motioning him to stay on his side of the room, I hear a low rumble coming from under the table. Elvis with his hackles up is a force to reckon with.
“Elvis, quiet.”
“Who let that dog in here with the food?” Janice screams.
Elvis makes a beeline for Janice’s snakeskin shoes that I wouldn’t have. I’m tempted to let him whiz away, but my better side comes to the front and I nab him in the nick of time.
“Did you see that, Bradford? I’m fed up.” Janice whirls on me. “You Valentines can just go to…to Mooreville.”
That does it. I’ve put up with her exploding suitcases and bad attitude, but I will not tolerate any more of her slurs about my hometown. She may consider it the backside of nowhere, but to the Valentines, Mooreville is God’s crown jewel.
“You needn’t take that pejorative tone.”
Lovie bursts out of the kitchen and steamrolls toward Janice, brandishing a barbecue fork.
“Step aside, Callie. I’m fixing to lacerate her liver.”
Mama and Uncle Charlie intercept Lovie and escort her to his office before somebody calls Channel 9 and the Valentines end up on the six o’clock news. Meanwhile Bradford leads Janice away. To California, I hope. Permanently.
Then I remember that she’s a suspect. I’m tearing after her when Mellie screams, “I might as well die! We might as well all die!”
Everybody in the room freezes.
Is Bevvie lurking around with her lethal weapons? If she is, who will she kill first?
I’m trying to decide whether to look for Bevvie or calm the crowd, particularly the mayor’s wife, who looks borderline hysterical, when Mellie falls, face forward, into the punch bowl.
Trying to look in control while Jack pulls her out of the Prohibition punch, I come up with an announcement I hope the crowd believes.
“Everything’s all right. She’s just overcome with grief. We’ll take care of her. ”
Conversation resumes while Jack and I hustle her into Uncle Charlie’s office.
Mama runs into the bathroom for a towel while Jack dumps Mellie into Uncle Charlie’s La-Z-Boy recliner. She sits there clutching her purse and shaking.
Lovie’s still hanging on to her barbecue fork, just in case, and I’m barely hanging onto my brandied cake.
Grabbing the towel, I try to sponge off the punch, but Mellie’s thrashing and kicking so hard I’m in danger of being mortally wounded. Just when I’m about to get her under control, Lovie starts jumping up and down, squealing.
“Holy cow, Lovie. What’s wrong?”
“Out the window. Quick.”
Everybody rushes toward the window—except Mellie, who seems determined to cry the Mississippi River. By the time I elbow my way through, Jack and Uncle Charlie are sprinting out the door.
“She’s going to kill us all,” Mama says.
She is Bevvie Laton, wearing camouflage. And she’s bending over the open trunk of her car no doubt planning to take out a weapon and blow us all to kingdom come.
While I’m riveted on the parking lot, Mellie clambers out of the La-Z-Boy and heads for the exit.
“Quick, Lovie.” She gets there first, and blocks the door while I wrestle Mellie back to the recliner.
From her lookout by the window, Mama yells, “Bevvie’s taking something out of the trunk….”
“No, no.” Mellie swats at my hands and I motion Lovie to hold her.
If she gets loose in her condition, there’s no telling what she’ll do. I don’t know whether to slap her (I’ve seen that done on television to cure hysteria) or fix her hair. It’s the ugliest mess I’ve ever seen.
“It’s a…” Mama says. “Oh my Lord…”
Mellie screams and scrambles up again. Grabbing her coattail as she sails toward the door, I feel like I’m in the middle of a three-ring circus. Lovie bars the door again while I drag Mellie back to the chair. She puts her head in her hands and moans.
“What’s Bevvie taking out of the trunk, Aunt Ruby Nell?”
“It looks like…a camera.”
Mellie jerks upright, looking ready to bolt again, and I pat her arm.
“Everything’s going to be all right.”
“No, it’s not,” Mellie says. “I should have told Kevin.”
“Told him what?”
“Jack’s got Bevvie,” Mama yells.
“All those years, I should have told Kevin.”
“Told him what?” I ask again, but Mellie has stopped talking while Mama won’t shut up.
“It’s a bomb!”
Mama hits the floor, I dive under Uncle Charlie’s desk, and Lovie knocks a wingback chair over trying to find cover. Waiting for an explosion to rock the building, I imagine Jack being blown up. Elvis will be devastated and I’ll be a widow. A grieving widow, if you want to know the truth.
And poor Uncle Charlie…I don’t know if we’ll have the heart to carry on at Eternal Rest after he’s blown to bits by Bevvie Laton.
Mellie’s still sitting in her chair, as calm as you please. Does she know something we don’t know?
“Mama, I don’t think it was a bomb. There’d have been an explosion by now.” I start crawling from under the desk, and she motions me back.
“Stay down, Callie. We’re all going to be killed.”
“Kevin is Daddy’s natural son,” Mellie says, and Mama is the first one off the floor.
“Well, I knew it.” She looks out the window and resumes her blow-by-blow account.
“Charlie’s got the bomb. He and Jack are…Wait a minute. Bevvie’s loose. She’s getting away…Oh my God.”
Mama sinks into a chair.
“What, Mama? What is it?” I race to the window in time to see Bevvie’s car roaring out of the parking lot with Uncle Charlie and Jack in hot pursuit.
I don’t know whether to clap or faint. They’re chasing a cold-blooded killer who is armed with enough weapons to blow Lee County off the map.
“We need something to settle our nerves.” Lovie heads for the coffeepot and pours us all cups that are more Bailey’s Irish Cream than coffee. Ever the perfect hostess, she passes around linen napkins from the credenza and then we sit there drinking.
In my concern over Uncle Charlie and Jack, I had almost forgotten Mellie. All of a sudden she says, “Mother swore me to secrecy. She told me it would tear up the family if I said anything about Kevin.”
“It’s okay.” I pat her hand, not really caring who fathered Kevin Laton. Still, I feel sorry for Mellie. She’s going through a bad time. Plus, it must be awful to be that timid and have a bad haircut, too. “Nobody’s here but us girls. You can talk.”
“Did they think I wouldn’t know? After what they did to me? Did they think I wouldn’t find out?”
The Miss Marple in me goes on full alert. I smell motive. And so does Lovie. What if Bevvie’s not the killer? What if the ki
ller’s sitting right here in our midst?
Lovie and I exchange a look that says don’t scare her off, keep her talking.
“It must have been awful,” I say, not having the faintest idea what it is.
“You just don’t know.”
“Know what?”
Mellie wads her napkin and squashes it into her cup. A large coffee stain blossoms on the linen like cancer. I think Lovie’s going to have a stroke.
Then Mellie smiles at us as if we’re ladies from Boguefala Baptist enjoying a Sunday social.
“I should have left Daddy wrapped in plastic and dumped him in a ditch.”
Elvis’ Opinion #11 on Hot Pursuit, Heroes, and Politics
Well, bless’a my soul. What’s that commotion in Charlie’s office?
I leave a sizable chunk of brandied cake the mayor’s wife dropped on the floor and mosey in that direction. If there’s a problem, I need to know about it. As much as I hate to miss what the mayor’s saying about garbage pickup and dog pounds, with Charlie gone, I’m in charge.
I always try to be in the know about garbage pickup. They leave a trail of goodies you wouldn’t believe. Last month I found a perfectly good ham bone. All it needed was brushing off the coffee grounds.
And listen, I could tell you a few things about the dog pound. That place needs to be torched and something along the lines of a Doggie Hilton erected. Maybe I ought to run for mayor.
Now, there’s a thought. But not for today because here comes Mellie Laton running wide open…and Lovie chasing her with a barbecue fork. Not far behind is Callie.
“Elvis, stop her.”
Here’s my chance to be a hero. I put it in high gear and station my fat butt right in front of the double glass doors. I even raise my hackles and show some teeth. Let Mellie Laton get past that if she can.
She tries to make an end run around me, but I streak into her path. Maybe streak is stretching it a bit. Let’s just say I trot as fast as my stuffed belly will allow.
Mellie comes to a screeching halt, and I’m fixing to grab hold of her knobby ankles when she leaps right over me. Let me tell you, that woman is flying. It would take Superman to hold her.
Back in my heyday when D.J. Fontana was drumming the hell out of that percussion and the Sweet Inspirations were backing me up, I could have caught Mellie Laton in the wink of an eye. But being in this short dog suit hampers me. Not that I’m complaining. I could have come back a cow.
Callie shouts, “She’s going for her car.”
Lovie races toward the kitchen and comes back with her purse. Then she and Callie whiz past me and fly after Mellie while Ruby Nell puffs down the hall, her hair awry and a smudge on the front of her sequined top.
She never gets mussed. Something serious is up.
Ruby Nell stops in front of the ladies’ room and reaches into her purse. It wouldn’t surprise me if she pulls out a derringer. That woman is ready for anything.
But no, it’s just a cell phone.
“Charlie, come quick. Mellie Laton’s fixing to kill us all.”
Chapter 21
Showdown, Tell-All, and Fishing
Mellie’s already racing from the parking lot in a brown Toyota as plain as her shoes. Lovie and I jump into her van to follow.
“You think she killed Bubbles?” Lovie is sweating profusely as she closes in on the Toyota, and I’m so hot even my hair feels limp.
“Yes. While she was holed up in her room, she was in Las Vegas committing murder.”
“She doesn’t look strong enough to lift the dead bodies.”
“Bevvie probably helped her.” Then I remember seeing Mellie in the weight room, working out. Is it possible she did it by herself? “Quick, Lovie. She’s getting away.”
Mellie runs a red light and Lovie barrels after her while irate drivers screech on their brakes and honk their horns. In movies they use stunt drivers for wild chases like this.
Where are the cops when you need them?
“She’s going to get us killed,” Lovie says.
“Or kill us.” I’m not looking forward to confronting a cold-blooded murderer. But it’s either that or end up on the police hot seat as the prime suspect.
“Bubbles was Kevin’s mother,” Lovie says.
“You don’t know that.”
“It makes sense.”
“If that’s true, Rocky and Kevin are half brothers.”
“No wonder I was so attracted to him.”
“We don’t have time for your libido. Quick. She’s turning into Ballard Park.”
Mellie squeals to a halt, lurches out of her sturdy brown car, and takes off toward the lake. We take off after her, armed to the teeth with Lovie’s barbecue fork.
Startled ducks squawk and scatter in every direction. A mean old Muscovy takes exception to our invasion and sets out after us, wings flapping and vicious beak snapping.
Is that a gun in Mellie’s hand?
“Lovie, duck!” We hit the ground. Any minute shots are going to whiz over our heads.
“Goose shit.”
“What?”
“I’ve landed in it.” Lovie looks at me as if I’m personally responsible for the hygiene of geese.
“Maybe I made a little mistake about the gun.”
“A little mistake. Help me up from here. I’m going to kill somebody.”
I hope she means Mellie, but I’m not so sure. I give Lovie a hand, then outrun her for the first time in my life. Even in my Jimmy Choos. It’s amazing how a ripe smell can inspire a person. Not to mention a mad Muscovy. He’s bearing down on us, and I don’t think he wants to be petted.
“Stop!” I yell at Mellie, and she yells back, “I didn’t mean it.”
Mean what? To kill Bubbles? To put the linen napkin in the coffee?
She’s cutting across the levee where the ground is smoother, and I gain on her.
“Wait, Mellie. I just want to talk.”
Without breaking stride she calls over her shoulder, “She stole Flash.”
“Who’s Flash?” I yell, but she just keeps on running.
I don’t think I can do this by myself. I don’t know why I didn’t call for help earlier. Confusion, I guess. Or maybe pride. Glancing over my shoulder, I yell, “Lovie, call the cops.”
But she’s too busy fending off the Muscovy with her barbecue fork.
“Shoo! Get back or you’ll be pressed duck.”
She means it, too. If that duck had any sense, he’d run for his life. Instead, he keeps flogging Lovie.
Meanwhile, Mellie rounds the lake on the east side and stops. With her shoulders sagging and her ugly hair sticking out every which way, she looks like she’s lost and can’t decide which way to go.
I plow ahead, closing in. Suddenly Mellie turns and plunges into the lake.
“Mellie, wait.”
She never looks back, just keeps swimming. Now what? Lovie’s on the other side of the lake, but I don’t know the situation with the duck and I don’t know if she’ll notice Mellie in the water. And what if Mellie turns and heads toward the north end? Or the levee?
My purse is at Eternal Rest, my cell phone’s in my purse, and I’m in a pickle. There’s nothing to do but go after her.
But I’m about not to ruin my Jimmy Choo shoes.
I’m taking them off when Mellie calls out, “I might as well die,” then disappears under the water.
I plunge in and start swimming. “It’s going to be all right. Come back up…Mellie?”
Racing to the spot where I think she is, I dive under and try to find her, but the water is murky and I can’t see a thing. I come back up for air, swim a few feet farther, then dive again.
I see an arm, a shoulder, a white face surrounded by tacky hair. Is it too late?
Grabbing her around the middle, I struggle to the surface. Mellie sputters, then starts clawing and kicking, and we both go back under.
If I don’t let her go I’m going to drown. But if I do, she’ll commit suicide rig
ht under my nose. With Herculean effort I drag her to the surface again, then hit her hard enough so she stops fighting.
“Do you need any help?” Lovie’s standing on the bank in her blouse and her slip, still holding the barbecue fork. The Muscovy is nowhere in sight. Either he had the good sense to run or he’s on the ground with his neck wrung, waiting for the stewpot.
“I’ve got her.” I struggle to the bank, panting. If Mellie takes off running again, I don’t have enough wind to run after her.
Thank goodness, she just sits on the ground with her head in her hands.
“Where’s your skirt?”
“In the garbage can. I’ll never get the goose shit out.” Lovie plops down beside me. “Good job, Sherlock. Did she confess?”
“I didn’t mean to kill her,” Mellie says.
I give Lovie this look, and she groans upward, then walks off. To call the cops, I hope.
“I just wanted to scare her and make her sorry she’s ruined the Laton family.”
“Did Bevvie help you?”
“No. I did it.” Mellie sits up and squares her shoulders. “Things got out of hand. She started scratching and clawing. I had to defend myself.”
“How did you kill her?”
“I grabbed the brass lamp and hit her. When she didn’t get up, I tried to hide her body, and that’s when I found Daddy in the freezer.”
Mellie picks up a big rock and stares at it as if she’s seeing a foreign object. “What could I do but bring him home? I wasn’t about to let that floozy have him, too.”
“Too? Who else did she take?”
“Flash Malone. My fiancé.”
No wonder I got goose bumps from the picture of Mellie’s escort at her senior prom. It was Flash Malone, Rocky’s father.
Mellie gets quiet, and I break out in sweat beads the size of South Carolina. It occurs to me I’m sitting there with a murderer. Any little thing might send Mellie into hysterics or flight or—heaven forbid—another killing rage that features the big rock in her hand.
In the distance I hear sirens. I hope Mellie doesn’t notice, and I hope the police are heading this way.
