by Peggy Webb
“Tell him the devil cat was after Elvis.” I notice she slows down.
“I like cats, but I got the strangest vibes from that one.”
“That’s indigestion, Cal.”
“I know I shouldn’t have eaten two helpings of the peach cobbler. Just wait ‘til you get pregnant, Lovie.”
“In what universe is that supposed to happen?”
Lovie always resorts to joking and snarky comments when the truth is hard to face. But I know she’d love to have kids. And her biological clock is ticking as loudly as mine was before I convinced Jack it was all his idea to start a family.
“It will happen, Lovie. Call Rocky.”
“I think you have to get pregnant in person.”
I swat her arm. “Call him. We’ve got to have permission from the top dog to take Elvis to a sit-down dinner.”
“I don’t think Rocky’s the top dog.”
“Well, he ought to be.”
Lovie makes the call then gives me a thumbs-up signal. “He said, of course Elvis is welcome.”
My dog does a happy dance on the back seat.
“What am I going to do with the two of you?”
“I don’t know about you and Elvis, but as soon as we get checked in to our hotel I’m going to the Charmed Cat.”
“Insomnia, Lovie, or what?”
“Or what. And wipe that smile off your face. I’ve been trying to get Rocky to discover my National Treasure for so long my tattoo is fading.” In a moment of sheer madness she had the words National Treasure tattooed across both her hips on Beale Street during the Memphis Mambo capers. “If I don’t succeed in New Orleans, I’m throwing in the towel.”
Chapter 3
Elvis’ Opinion on Love Potions and Living High on the Hog
First of all, let me say that Lovie never throws in the towel. Second, I have to say the parking garage provided by our hotel is so old and creepy I expect any minute to be set upon by the ghost of the French Pirate Jean Lafitte.
Bring it on! I’ve still got a lot o’ livin’ to do, and I don’t plan to go down in flames in a parking garage. I show my teeth and hackles to inform everybody, including ghosts, that the King is in town and they’d better not mess around with me. I take a karate stance to let them know I mean business.
“Elvis, are you going to stand there looking cute or are you coming?”
Well, bless’a my soul. This is embarrassing. At least my human mom called me cute. Handsome would have better. But now that I’m wearing a dog collar instead of a sequined cape, I’ll take what I can get.
Our hotel is just up the street from Jackson Square and lives up to its name, Annie’s Hideaway. It’s hidden behind spreading magnolia trees and a lush jungle of oleander and gardenia, and it features a courtyard complete with water fountain, exotic ferns and an equally exotic and brilliant parrot the owner calls Homer. I say ‘brilliant’ because the minute he spots me he says, “Hey, good looking.”
Folks not in the know might say he is talking about Callie or Lovie, but he’s looking straight at me, one smart critter to another. He knows a brown eyed handsome dog when he sees one. I give him a little shake, rattle and roll, and Homer gets the picture. This famous dog is going to take New Orleans by storm.
We have a room on the second floor and the first thing Callie does is place my guitar shaped pillow right by her bed. Then she unpacks her clothes before Lovie can hog all the space in the dresser drawers and the closet.
“Space hog,” Lovie says, but she’s good natured about it. Listen, cousin Lovie’s stuff will spill over into Callie’s space anyhow. And besides, if all goes according to her plans, she’ll be spending most of her time in Rocky Malone’s room.
Next we’re off to the Charmed Cat. On my way out, I treat the parrot to a swivel of the hip. He calls out, “Nice doggie,” which is his way of saying, “The King has arrived.”
I smell malevolent feline two blocks from the Charmed Cat. Sure enough, Houdini is perched on a shelf so high he looks like a gargoyle glaring down at the customers. Nobody seems to mind except yours truly. I give the upstart a look that says if he dares to mess with me or my family I’m going to put him into such a fever he’ll be reaching out to Jesus.
Then I trot off to reconnoiter. Ruby Nell and Fayrene have made themselves right at home in the Charmed Cat. They’re in a curtained-off room having tea with Grace and explaining how to elevate it with a little booze. I’d think they were nice and safe if I didn’t know their habit of cooking up trouble. Ruby Nell sees my furrowed brow and shoos me away. She hates being spied on.
Next I prance over and station myself on guard at the glass counter filled with love potions. Callie is reading off the labels, and it’s nearly as entertaining as when I was onstage at Vegas.
“Listen, Lovie. Romance under the Magnolias, Moonlight and Embraces, Always Get Your Man. Oh, here’s one called Can’t Stop Loving You.”
I don’t think Lovie needs a magic potion to get Rocky Malone’s attention. She’d get her happy ending if she’d quit trying to pretend she’s got a cheatin’ heart and settle down long enough to take my advice. I sidle up to her and do my best to tell her that she’s Rocky’s reason for living.
Ignoring me and my human mom, too, Lovie leans over the counter toward Pearl. “What’s the strongest thing you’ve got?”
“This.” Pearl holds up a tiny vial of golden liquid with a ruby red jewel on the stopper. “Love Potion Rocket Blast Off. But it comes with a warning.”
“What’s that?” Lovie has never heeded a warning in her life.
“Use only one drop. Two can be dangerous.”
“I’ll take it.”
I wished she’d asked what kind of danger. Inquiring minds want to know. And I’m going to make it my mission to find out.
“Elvis, look what I’ve found.”
I’m distracted from my mission by my human mom, who is holding up the shiniest faux diamond dog collar I’ve ever seen. It has more bling than I wore when I was wearing sequined jump suits and so many diamonds on my fingers they barely needed to put spotlights on me in Vegas.
Callie snaps the collar on and then pats me on the head. “You’re going to be the handsomest gentleman at the gala tonight.”
I guess pregnancy has stolen some of her brain cells. I’m always the handsomest gentleman in the room, with or without a diamond dog collar.
Callie parts the curtain to the tea room and says, “Mama, we’re going back to the hotel to rest before the gala. Are you and Fayrene going to meet us there?”
“We’ll go directly to the museum with Grace and Pearl.” Ruby Nell waves her off. “Go on now. Take a good nap. We’ll see you later.”
I smell the worry coming off Callie in waves. In a show of canine devotion and comfort, I lick her hand. When we get to the hotel I settle right down on my pillow beside my human mom. Jack is counting on me to take good care of her, and I’m not about to shirk my duties.
The minute Callie wakes up from her nap, I’m off my pillow and raring to go. Lovie is at the window squinting at the bottle of love potion and saying words even I won’t repeat.
“What’s wrong, Lovie?”
“There are no directions on this bottle.”
“Pearl said one drop.”
“Yes, but when? Do I use it beforehand or wait ‘til Rocky’s already at the doorway to paradise?”
“How should I know? I got Jack without a love potion.”
“Smarty pants.” Lovie removes the stopper and upends the bottle against her cleavage.
“Good grief, Lovie!” Callie grabs the bottle and inspects it. “You used at least half of it.”
“No, I used a drop. A big one.”
“Holy cow, let’s just hope this stuff doesn’t work.”
The three of us get all gussied up then head toward the new Beaufort Center on the riverfront near Jax Brewery. Lovie’s got her half-empty bottle of love potion tucked into a beaded evening bag. Callie is resplendent in a pink sequined maternity to
p with cream colored satin pants and yours truly is what every woman lives for in my sparkly dog collar.
“It’s a beautiful night for walking,” Lovie says.
I wonder what she’d say if she knew what I know. Every male dog between Annie’s Hideway and Jax Brewery is trailing along behind us…and they just keep on coming. By the time we get to the art center and museum, we’ll look like a Barnum & Bailey circus parade.
“I wish Mama and Fayrene had come with us. I just have this awful feeling.”
“It’s a simple party at a museum, Cal. What could possibly go wrong?”
If those dogs close in, that will be what you call famous last words.
Chapter 4
Lovesick Dogs, Chicken Risotto and Death Warmed Over
I’m walking along, minding my own business and admiring the architecture of the museum when Lovie says a string of words that turn the air blue.
Holy cow! There’s a teacup Chihuahua attached to her left leg, a Jack Russell terrier hanging onto her right, a big black Lab closing in and a line of assorted lovesick dogs halfway down the block and heading her way. Now I know what Pearl meant when she said it was dangerous to use more than one drop of Love Potion Rocket Blast Off.
“Lovie, run!”
We set off at a fast trot, even Elvis. Thank goodness my dog has better sense than to get into a stand-off with a bunch of canine Romeos from one of America’s top ten cities of romance. With my longer legs, I make it through the door before my cousin and Elvis. They plow through right behind me, Elvis with his ears flying like windmills and Lovie holding her hand over her heart.
“That was a narrow escape,” she says.
“Not quite. You’ve still got the teacup Chihuahua.”
She says a word that curls my naturally straight brown bob then tries to extricate him, but it takes both of us to convince him that he’s no match for Lovie. We shove the Chihuahua back through the door, then high-five each other.
Our relief is short lived. Every man in the lobby has turned toward the door and is eyeing Lovie as if she’s the main course on the menu.
“Run,” I say.
”Where?”
I frantically search the lobby and spot the sign. “Ladies’ room,” I yell and we sprint in that direction. Thank goodness the overly excited men are attached to women who are hanging onto them for dear life.
We scramble through the door then lean against it in case any of the aspiring lovers, both two-legged and four-legged, have found a battering ram and are trying to get inside.
I think Elvis is standing guard outside the door, but in the heat of the moment, I can’t be sure.
“What are we going to do, Cal?”
“Wash that stuff off!”
Lovie turns the water on full blast and I grab a handful of paper towels. She whips off her top and starts scrubbing.
“I can still smell the potion, Lovie.”
“What else can I do? Hole up in the bathroom and wait for the spell to wear off?”
“Just stick close to me ‘til we spot Rocky. Then attach yourself to him and don’t leave his side all evening.” Nobody is going to mess with Rocky Malone. Though he’s a teddy bear at heart, he’s the size of a refrigerator and knows how to strike terror in the hearts of men who are up to no good.
“Come on, Lovie.” I link arms. “Head high. Smile. This is Rocky’s evening to shine and nothing is going to spoil it.”
We exit the ladies’ room, and sure enough Elvis is waiting outside, standing guard. I heap on the praise then the three of us head to the ballroom in search of Rocky. Our entrance attracts the attention of several men, but thank goodness we don’t pick up a string of lovesick would-be Romeos.
Everybody in the Grand Ballroom of the Beaufort Center is elegant in evening gowns and tuxedos. And there stands Mama wearing a purple caftan with a matching feather boa and enough feathers on her necklace and earrings that somebody is liable to mistake her for a peacock and cart her off to the zoo.
Fayrene is in her usual green, but she, too, is sporting so many feathers she looks like an escaped cockatiel. Might I add that both of them are sipping champagne like there’s no tomorrow. It just takes half a glass to get Mama knee-walking drunk.
I punch Lovie in the ribs and nod in the direction of the Valentine family’s most colorful member. “That looks like a disaster in the making.”
“Relax and let them have fun.” Lovie’s boyfriend is striding toward the two feathered guests with a huge smile on his face. “Rocky adores them. And he understands perfectly well that they are likely to find a corner somewhere and do a voodoo dance to ward off any evil spirits he might have brought to New Orleans along with the Treasures of Tulum.”
“Good grief.” I nab a glass of champagne from the tray of a waiter passing by. Silently apologizing to Jackie Nell, I take a swig. Surely a sip or two won’t hurt.
The Delaney sisters look like nineteenth century royalty in their old lace and pearls with rhinestone tiaras perched on their upswept gray hair. They stroll over with a dapper man approximately half Rocky’s size in tow.
“Callie, Lovie, I’d like you to meet Martin Sanders, president of the museum’s board of directors.”
When he gives us a deep bow and kisses our hands, I notice a big bald spot on the top of his head. The freckles there make him look both vulnerable and approachable.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” he says, which is an outright relief. Maybe Lovie washed the spell off, after all. “Any friend of the Delaney sisters is a friend of mine.”
Martin’s pronounced lisp does nothing to take away his sincerity. And his wide smile lights up eyes that are dark as black walnuts. I’d like him immediately except that Elvis has his hackles up.
“Martin is one of our best customers since he moved here. New Orleans is so lucky to have him.” Pearl pats his hand and I notice he’s wearing a wedding ring.
But where is Mrs. Sanders? The only woman nearby is a skinny bleached blond in a beaded hot pink dress, maybe ten years younger than Martin and clearly miffed as she stares in our direction. Elvis is still showing signs of agitation, but I don’t think it’s because the blond has a bad hairdo. Something is terribly amiss with Mr. Sanders and the blond.
Good grief. What is wrong with me? First I speculate on what a strange cat thinks about my dog and now I’m acting like Dear Abby with two people I don’t even know. I’ve either had too much champagne or I need to sit in a corner and let my raging hormones settle down.
“Will you excuse me?” Lovie shoots me a questioning look, but I give her a thumbs-up sign as I slip off to the bank of chairs lining the east wall of the ballroom.
Elvis settles at my feet, his usual comforting self, and I wonder if I imagined his hackles up when we met Martin Sanders. I set my half empty glass onto the tray of a passing waiter and lean back to enjoy the evening.
The Beaufort Center is spectacular, a combination of ultra-modern architecture paired with old world glamour. The chandeliers, velvet draperies and polished walnut floors might have come from the fictional mansion Tara in Gone with the Wind. Many of the guests, including the Delaney sisters, are wearing elaborate gowns that would be at home in days gone by. This is the kind of spectacular event you rarely see anymore. I’m glad I didn’t let my advanced pregnancy and my husband’s cautions keep me from coming to New Orleans.
A message comes in on my cell phone, and I’m not the least bit surprised to discover it’s from Jack. We’re like that, so connected that we can read each other’s mind.
How’s New Orleans?
Fabulous, Jack! I’m having a wonderful time and I feel great…
GREAT! Stay safe and stay out of trouble. XOXO
Stop worrying! There’s not going to be any trouble. XOXO
If one of us has to worry, it should be me. Jack is somewhere I don’t know getting shot at or maybe threatened with knives and poison and no telling what all. This is his final mission, thank goodness. He’s givi
ng up field work so Jackie Nell won’t have to worry about not having a daddy. After this trip, he’ll still be with the Company, but working stateside only, training other agents.
And then we can all return to normal.
“Cal.” Lovie slides into the seat beside mine. “Are you okay? Do you need to go back to the hotel and rest?”
“Good grief. I’m pregnant, not infirm. I just wanted to sit down to people watch.” I nod in the direction of the skinny blond. “Who’s that in the hot pink beads?”
“Cassandra Olsen. She owns an antique store on Royal Street. Why do you ask?”
“I thought she might be Martin Sanders’ wife.”
“His mistress.”
“What!”
“That’s what Grace told me.”
“Holy cow. I saw a wedding ring. Where’s his wife?”
“According to Grace, Jeannine Sanders stayed home with a sinking spell. She always has a sinking spell right before important events. Anything else you want to know, Sherlock?”
Oh, shoot. Lovie caught me red handed. Gossip is the lifeblood of Hair.Net. Of course, it’s second to the amazing hair styles I create for my clients, but still… I’m usually just a bystander. Obviously, pregnancy is turning me into Bitsy Morgan, a beauty shop regular, otherwise known as the root of Mooreville’s gossip grapevine.
Fortunately I’m saved further embarrassment when Martin Sanders announces that dinner is served. Everybody treks off to the museum’s huge dining room which holds a mahogany table long enough to seat twenty-four. All the special guests, who have been hobnobbing with the famous archeologist, mill around the table searching names on the place cards.
I spot ours close to Rocky. As the guest of honor, he’s seated at the head of the table. But Rocky insists the president of the board sit there.
“I’d swap seats, too, if a gorgeous redhead had come to see me.” Martin winks at Rocky then discreetly scoops up the place cards and pockets them.
He indicates the seat on his right for Rocky. Lovie and I sit beside Rocky, then Mama and Fayrene next to us while the mistress moves into the chair on Martin’s left with the Delaney sisters beside her.