Elvis and the Blue Suede Bones

by Peggy Webb

  “So does this.” Lovie shows us the cover of her magazine, which just so happens to be an issue of View from the Deep South, Becca Whitwell’s magazine.

  “That poor dead girl,” Mama says, and Fayrene pats her hand.

  “She’s up there singing with the heavenly chore, Ruby Nell.”

  “How do you know she can sing?”

  “Knowing things is in my NBA. I got it from my grandma.”

  Lovie kicks me under the table and I kick her back, our secret language for don’t you dare laugh out loud and hurt Fayrene’s feelings.

  “What’d you find in there, Lovie?” I ask, mainly because I’m dying to know but also to get Fayrene out of the alphabet.

  “Becca did a story on Glenda Monts Cleveland that not even her publicist could spin into something flattering. Just listen to this: This homegrown author who started her career to such acclaim seems to have lost the edge that catapulted her to the top of the New York Times bestseller list more than twenty years ago.”

  “That’s not so bad,” Mama says.

  “How about this? When she left Manhattan and moved back home to Mississippi, she forgot to bring her talent. To say her latest novel, Murder at the Met, doesn’t measure up is an understatement.”

  “Holy cow, Lovie! Glenda had motive for murdering both Evelyn and Becca.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “That’s mighty flimsy,” Mama says. “You’ll need more than that.”

  “Ruby Nell’s right,” Fayrene says. “So far, all we’ve got is a bunch of incinerations.”

  Lovie and Mama speak up at the same time. “What are we going to do about it, Callie?”

  They sound like a Greek chorus, one I’ve heard a million times. I don’t know why they think I can solve any problem. Maybe it’s because I always try.

  “We’re doing nothing else tonight, I can guarantee you.”

  “Since we’re already here, don’t you think we ought to nose around Glenda’s place?”

  Holy cow! With Mama, nosing around entails gaudy costumes and ridiculous mishaps, to say the very least.

  “Definitely not! We’re going back to Mooreville and get a good night’s sleep. And I’m driving.”

  “Who says?”

  “I do, Mama. Unless you’re hankering to get arrested for taking out the rest of the flora in Oxford.”

  “Flitter.”

  That’s Mama’s last word. Thank goodness.

  The drive home is peaceful, and I’m thinking it’s about high time. Jack will be home before I know it, and if I’m to catch a killer before my husband catches me in the middle of murder and starts putting those awful iron bars at the window, I need my rest.

  *

  The screech bolts me from bed and Elvis from his pink pillow. I grab my robe, slide into my shoes and jerk the lamp cord out of its socket. Fully armed and halfway alert, I peer out of my bedroom and search the hall for any signs of life. All the doors are shut, which either means Mama and Fayrene and Lovie are still sleeping or they’ve been murdered in their beds.

  Elvis is standing at my side with all his hackles up. Not a good sign.

  “What do you think, boy?”

  I hear that banshee call again…and it’s coming from my front porch. Furthermore, it’s coming from Mama.

  I race down the stairs with Elvis hard on my heels and burst through the front door with my weapon raised. There’s a scurrying sound on my left and I whirl around, swinging. The lamp makes a high arc, and then…

  “Holy cow, Mama! I nearly bashed your brains in.”

  “I nearly did the same thing to you.” She puts down a lantern with a solar panel that ought to be sitting in the middle of my front porch table for two.

  “What on earth are you doing out here at dark-thirty, screaming?”

  “Somebody tried to kill me.”

  “Who?”

  “How should I know? They didn’t just walk up behind me and introduce themselves. They just grabbed hold and started trying to choke the life out of me.”

  “Good grief, Mama. They can’t be far. Which way did they go?’

  “That way.” She points to the left and I take off down the street with my nightgown flapping and Elvis streaking along behind. I use that word very lightly. My portly dog is a long way behind. Still, he’s got a Nose with a capital N.

  “Find the trail, boy.”

  I’ve come all the way to Fayrene and Jarvetis’s house at the end of the street, but there’s not a sign of life. Whoever tried to strangle Mama is a really fast runner or has disappeared into the shrubbery of a neighbor’s yard.

  I stop to search in every direction while Elvis puts his nose to the ground. Is that a trench coat disappearing behind Jarvetis’ dog pen? Suddenly, his full-blood redbone hound dog, Trey, sets up a howl.

  “Bingo!”

  I race in that direction with Elvis loping along behind. Make that, limping. Good grief! What has happened to my dog?

  I come to a halt by the dog pen. Trey has his hackles up and is now growling, a low rumbling sound that would send shivers if you didn’t know he’s a sweetheart under all that fuss and bother. I search desperately for a sign of a would-be strangler, but there’s nothing to see.

  Except Jarvetis, standing in his back door in his Fruit of the Looms aiming at me with a double-barreled shot gun.

  “It’s me! Callie!”

  He lowers his weapon and rubs his hands through hair that was already mussed. “’Morning, Callie. What can I do for you?”

  That’s just like Fayrene’s laid-back husband to think I’d come calling at oh-help o’clock in my bathrobe. And to greet me in his boxer shorts.

  “Mama thought somebody tried to kill her and I was chasing him. Or her.”

  “Is Ruby Nell all right? You need me to come down there with my gun?”

  Oh, this is just what I need. Somebody else crowding into my house that already feels like Grand Central Station. Even if that somebody is as nice as pie and has only my best interests at heart.

  “No, everything’s fine. We’re all fine down there, Jarvetis.”

  “Good. Tell my wife I said hi.”

  With that, he disappears back into his house. Holy cow! I hope Jack and I aren’t that nonchalant when we get old. Standing right there with the dew ruining a perfectly good pair of Vann’s tennis shoes, I swear that when Jack gets home I’m going to try to understand his point of view about everything. Except the wrought iron rails.

  I bend over to inspect Elvis’ paws. He’s picked up a thorn in the front left paw and I reassure him while I pluck it out. The great thing about Elvis is that he seems to understand everything I say.

  “Good job, Elvis!” I give him a hug, and we head back home at a leisurely pace. It’s cool and quiet this time of morning, with only one light showing. Harley Moffett is in his kitchen, probably enjoying his coffee in peace before Mabel gets up.

  I’m reluctant to disturb him. Still, there’s a killer on the loose and I’m not about to let Mama become his next victim.

  I knock on Harley’s back door, and thank goodness he’s wearing clothes when he answers it.

  “Callie! This is a genuine pleasure.” He holds the door open. “Come inside. I’ve got fresh coffee.”

  “Thanks, Harley. Coffee sounds great.”

  It’s a relief to sit in a quiet kitchen that doesn’t feature stacks of wrought iron bars and a bunch of worried relatives. Harley brings me a cup smelling of dark roast Columbian coffee, and I enjoy a few sips in peace before bringing murder into the conversation.

  “What are you doing up so early, Harley?”

  I approach the subject gently. If Harley didn’t see or hear anything, I don’t want to ruin his day.

  “I heard screaming over at your house. Is everybody all right over there?”

  “We are. Did you see anything?”

  “Yep. Saw a man in a trench coat running east.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  �
��No. He had his baseball cap pulled down sort’a low, but it was a man all right. Too broad in the shoulder to be a woman. Not like last time. I said it was a woman over there, and that’s what it was.”

  Do we have two killers on the loose or do the threatening notes and attempt on Mama have nothing to do with the murders of Evelyn and Becca? Good grief! The idea of trying to find a blackmailer in addition to a killer makes me want to go home, climb back into bed and pull the covers over my head.

  “Thank you, Harley. Somebody’s been messing around over at my house, and I can’t seem to figure out who it is or what they want.”

  “I’d of come running this morning, but by the time I got my britches on whoever was on your porch was already so far down the road there wasn’t any way I could catch him. Even if I had apprehended the sucker, I don’t know what I’d have done. I don’t own a gun and I’m too old to make much of a dent with my fists.”

  “That’s okay, Harley. You’ve been very helpful. And thanks for the coffee.” I rinse my cup at the sink and put it in the dish drainer.

  “You sure you won’t stay, Callie? I hear Mabel a stirring. She’ll be down directly, and she makes the best biscuits in Lee County.”

  Lovie and Mama would both argue with that, but I don’t. I thank Harley again then cross the street to my little cottage. Thank goodness, Mama’s not on the porch with a makeshift weapon. I might have a few moments to myself so I can relax and call Jack.

  Holy cow! Famous last words. The sheriff’s car is pulling up in my driveway. And me in my robe with my hair uncombed and every last one of my nerves frazzled. Pregnancy has undone me. Or maybe the culprit is Mama.

  Even worse, it’s still dark enough that Jack’s floodlights come on and trap the sheriff in the glare like he’s a major thief bent on stealing my silver and no telling what all. He has to put on his sunglasses to keep from being blinded. Good grief! I’m going to get arrested for harassing the head of the Lee County Sheriff’s Department.

  Chapter 17

  Elvis’ Opinion on Dead Ends, Grasping at Straws and Pink Cadillac Killers

  I’m not eager to swap wits with Sheriff Trice. He wouldn’t show up at Callie’s house at the crack of dawn unless Ruby Nell’s called him about her near-death from a front porch killer. Or unless he’s bringing bad news.

  The way Callie’s lagging along, I’m sure she thinks he’s a one-man firing squad, and her mama is right in his crosshairs.

  He spots us and pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head. I’ll have to hand it to him. He’s got a showman’s instincts. Only a man who knows what he’s worth and is not too proud to flaunt it wears sunglasses this time of day, even if Jack’s recent home improvement did light him up like the King onstage in Las Vegas.

  As we draw even with our front yard, Callie tightens her belt and straightens her shoulders. Listen, even in her bathrobe, my human mom is an impressive sight, five feet nine inches of long-legged gorgeousness.

  The sheriff takes notice. He’s no slouch himself, and a bachelor besides. Since Jack is not here to stake out his territory, I do it for him. I saunter up and pee on the sheriff’s hubcaps. He sends a scowl my way, but I’ve got news for him. He’s lucky I didn’t pee on those snakeskin cowboy boots he’s so fond of wearing.

  “What brings you here, sheriff?”

  “Unless you want the neighbors across the street to know, I’d rather deliver the news inside.”

  Well, bless’a my soul. Harley and Mabel are making no bones about standing on the front porch for the sole purpose of eavesdropping. They’ve got their hands cupped behind their ears, and if Mabel leans any farther in this direction she’s going to catapult into her prize roses. Besides all that, their silly Shih Tzu is on the front porch barking like he’s treed a cougar. I’ve got news for him. He’d be lucky to tree a stupid cat.

  Callie foils them by opening the front door so we can all duck inside. There’s not a sound and not a soul in sight. It might look like everybody’s left, but yours truly has a nose that can smell whale poop on water a mile away. Ruby Nell and Fayrene are hiding upstairs but Lovie’s heading this way. She’s the easiest one in the family to sniff out, just a big hunk o’ love mixed with butter and sugar.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Callie says.

  “A cup o’ Joe would be great. Make mine strong and black. A man’s brew.”

  I have it on good authority – the grapevine at Hair.Net – that Sheriff Trice takes cream and sugar in his coffee. He’s just showing off for Callie. If he’s not careful, he’s going to cross a line and have to deal with me. Before you can say, “Pass the PupPeroni,” I’ll send him off to Heartbreak Hotel.

  He follows Callie into the kitchen then sits at the table like he’s gone blind and didn’t even notice all that wrought iron. My human mom hands him a cup, but she doesn’t pour one for herself and doesn’t sit at the table. I’d give her a high five if I could jump that high. Callie knows the advantage of a tall, beautiful woman towering over a man.

  “This is good coffee, better than the Mooreville Truck Stop. Jack’s a lucky man.”

  Callie crosses her arms over her chest, a sure sign she’s not putting up with any malarkey.

  “I have to leave for the beauty shop soon, so if you’d get to the point I’d appreciate it.”

  “I need to take Ruby Nell down to the station for a few questions.”

  Callie’s face goes white, and I think the sheriff has lost his marbles. No killer in his right mind would be caught dead in Ruby Nell’s flashy pink Cadillac. A car like that is for drawing attention, not for skulking around in the dark knocking people in the head.

  I’d tell him, but he doesn’t speak dog. Instead, I sashay my comforting self over to my human mom and lick her ankles. Let me tell you, this little trick revives her every time.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” she says.

  “Has she skipped town?”

  “No, she’s…” Callie hesitates just enough that anybody with half an eye can see she’s trying to come up with a lie.

  “She’s upstairs sicker than a dog. Pardon the pun, Elvis.” Lovie marches through the door armed with a small red robe and a big attitude. Listen, if you think “armed” is the wrong word you haven’t seen Lovie in a silk robe that’s too little. Everywhere you look, there’s something to see. “Why do you want to question Aunt Ruby Nell?”

  The sheriff has a hard time not staring. “It’s official business.”

  Lovie blurts out a few words that make his ears turn red. And when she pulls up a chair so close he has to move his legs to keep from encountering her Holy Grail, he develops an intense interest in his coffee cup.

  “I’ll tell you what.” Lovie walks her fingers across the table and taps him on the arm. “Aunt Ruby Nell has been with us every second since Callie got her out of your jail. If you’ll just tell us what you want to know, we can save you a whole lot of trouble.”

  “That’s right, Sheriff Trice.” Callie pulls up a chair on the other side of the table, and she’s no slouch when she wants to flirt. “As you are well aware, Mama’s not getting any younger.”

  “You couldn’t tell it by the way she climbed Martha Jo’s tree.”

  “That was a fluke,” Lovie says. “She’s old. And I’m sure you don’t want to be the one to harass a senior citizen and cause her to die.”

  “I see.” Sheriff Trice puts his tongue in his cheek to keep from laughing, and I know the game has gone to the intrepid cousins. “Well, when Ruby Nell gets up from her sick bed, you tell her Marvin Cook was last seen over at Eternal Rest Funeral home arguing with her.”

  “Mama wouldn’t hurt a flea. You know that, sheriff.”

  “She had the bones of a murder victim in her garden and now she’s a person of interest in Cook’s disappearance. You might not know your mama as well as you think you do.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first official to go chasing down rabbit holes while criminals get away,” Callie says while L
ovie jerks his coffee cup off the table. And it still half full.

  “Go catch the real killer, sheriff.” Lovie prances to the sink and pours the sheriff’s coffee down the drain with him watching her every move.

  I haven’t seen that much wiggling flesh since I performed in Las Vegas. Listen, if Rocky Malone doesn’t come home from his dig and pay some attention to this flaming red-head, he’s going to find Sheriff Trice marking his territory.

  “Let me show you to the door.” Callie shows him, all right. She takes his arm and practically drags him out of the kitchen. By the time he’s in the living room, he’s walking under his own steam. But I can guarantee he’ll think twice before messing with the Valentine cousins again.

  No sooner does the front door slam behind him than Ruby Nell materializes at the top of the stairs.

  “What did he want?” she hollers.

  “He wanted to take you in for a little talk.”

  “I knew he was up to no good.” Ruby Nell comes flying down the steps two at a time, spry as any woman half her age.

  “Good grief, Mama. You’re going to break your neck.”

  “Not bad, Aunt Ruby Nell.” Lovie’s shaking with laughter. “Especially for somebody on her death bed.”

  “Flitter. I was stuffed in the linen closet. Callie, you need to put some air freshener in there. It smells like old sheets.”

  “They are old, Mama. Some of them were wedding gifts.” Callie runs her hands through her hair. “Where’s Fayrene? I saw Jarvetis this morning and he said to tell her hello.”

  “She’s upstairs reading Murder among the Magnolias. Did you find that low-down scoundrel who tried to kill me?”

  Callie gives a full report of our morning run, including yours truly picking up a splinter, because nothing less than the whole nine yards will do where her mama is concerned.

  Finally she says, “Mama, what did the sheriff mean when he said I might not know you as well as I think I do?”

  “You’re not going to let it go, are you?”