by Webb, Peggy
“What’s this doing here?” Lovie picks it up and hefts it a few times.
“Everybody here is loony tunes,” Billy says.
I’d forgotten about him until he lowers his sunglasses and glares at me.
“You can forget about me taking you bowling tonight, Callie. Your taste in men stinks.” He slams out the front door.
“You’re going out with that child!” Mama says. “I’ll never live this down.”
Lovie says a word that permanently curls my new client’s hair. I put down the curling iron, get the Prohibition punch out of the refrigerator and pass it around. It’s better than any explanation I can think of.
o0o
“The day from hell,” I say that evening.
I’m curled up on Lovie’s sofa eating the last of a huge helping of chicken pot pie with real buttered biscuit crust. Elvis is curled up beside me with his head in my lap.
“I thought it was fun,” Lovie says.
“That’s because you weren’t in the spotlight in every scene.”
I’ve already told her about the visits from Jewel and Alice Ann. I’ve also told her about my plans to drive to Memphis the next morning.
“‘That kid is cute. If he were two years older I’d go bowling with him, myself. Maybe that would make Rocky sit up and take notice.”
“Rocky’s been sitting up taking notice ever since you met him, Lovie. All he needs is time.”
“That’s what Jack told me.”
“For once, I’d say you ought to listen to him.” I dig around for the last little bite of pot pie. “By the way, where’s Rocky tonight.”
“Shopping for Christmas surprises.”
“Maybe he’s getting you an engagement ring, Lovie.”
“Ha,” she says, whatever that means. I’m too tired to pursue the subject. “I made a double chocolate layer cake. You want a piece?”
“Yes. A big one.”
“Everything’s better big.”
Lovie trots off to the kitchen, and comes back with a huge helpings of cake topped with vanilla ice cream.
“Lovie, what do you make of Alice Ann’s confession?”
“I don’t think she killed Jim Boy. But I’m not so sure about Leonora. Evidence keeps pointing her way.”
“Yes, but it’s all anecdotal. I don’t have any hard and fast facts. There’s nothing except that rhinestone pin, and it could belong to anybody.”
“Maybe we’ll get a good lead tomorrow.”
“We?”
“You don’t think I’d let you go up to Memphis all by yourself do you, Cal?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Piffle. I’m no body guard. I just don’t want to miss all the fun.”
Being friends with Lovie has never felt so good.
Elvis’ Opinion # 7 on Wild Goose Chases, Love and Marriage
Nothing beats coming home in the evening with a bellyful of Lovie’s chicken pot pie. Unless, of course, we were coming home to find Jack Jones by the fire. Listen, if these stubborn Valentine women would listen to me, they’d be cozied up with their sweeties and I’d be living the good life, worrying about nothing except burying my steak bone where that silly spaniel can’t find it.
The first thing Callie does when we get home is check for messages. She’s already checked her iPhone a dozen times on the way home. I know what she’s doing. As much as she protests, she’s still hoping Jack Jones will walk back through the door and knock her socks off. And maybe a few other pieces of clothing, as well.
There are two new messages on Callie’s answering machine, both of them Ruby Nell.
“I still think if you’d told that young man no in the first place, he wouldn’t be hanging around your shop.” That’s Ruby Nell for you. Short and pointed.
The second one is much the same, “If you’d start locking your door like I told you, you wouldn’t have so many comings and goings that have nothing to do with business.”
“Well, thanks a lot, Mama.”
I sidle over and urge Callie toward the kitchen. She gets the message and heads straight to the treat jar.
“I really shouldn’t keep giving you PupPeroni, Elvis. What I ought to do is put you on a diet.” She sighs, and I do a little shake, rattle and roll to remind her why she went to the kitchen in the first place.
She hands me a treat then pulls out a pot and starts making hot chocolate. I notice she’s using cinnamon and red pepper, Jack’s recipe for Mayan hot chocolate, which means she’s thinking of my human dad. I take that as a very good sign. Jack loves Callie, and Callie loves Jack. The only problem is that every time they get back together, murder comes along to rip them apart.
Listen, if I could talk, this case would be solved and we could quit going on all these wild goose chases. As it is, I have to let these humans muddle through and just keep standing by in case they need me to take a bite out of somebody’s leg.
“I’m glad Lovie’s going to Memphis with me tomorrow, Elvis. She’ll come in handy if we have to pick a lock.”
If Callie thinks she’s going to Memphis without me, she’s whistling “Dixie.” I never miss a chance to see all my old haunts, especially Graceland.
Besides that, if whoever tried to kill Callie strikes again, I’m the dog to handle it. I may be stuck in a dog suit but I’ve still got my brain, thank you very much.
Callie brings her hot chocolate to the table then leans down to scratch my ears.
“It’ll be just like Lovie to take her baseball bat,” she says.
I hope she does. Callie still believes in the goodness of human heart, in spite of Sonnet No. 121: All men are bad, and in their badness reign. She thinks Shakespeare was having an off day.
Listen, I’m a dog of letters; I can quote the old bard better than most humans, and I happen to think Shakespeare was smart for a human.
Smarter than my human dad at the moment, I’m sorry to say. If I could just talk Jack into giving Callie a collection of love sonnets for Christmas instead of that toaster oven he was looking at on QVC, I’d have my human parents back at the altar and back where they belong.
But whoever listens to a dog’s advice about love and marriage? I could put Dr. Phil out of business. Listen, I could have my own TV show. I might even get Oprah to co-host.
Chapter Twelve
Road Trip, Passion Pink and Bad Attitudes
It’s raining hard Saturday morning, but that doesn’t stop Lovie and me. She’s packed a gargantuan breakfast of country fried ham and cheese biscuits along with a huge thermos of her famous cinnamon coffee. In addition she’s packed three slices of German chocolate cake, a dozen chocolate chip cookies and a pound of fudge.
“Snacks for the road, and plenty for Elvis, too,” she says.
Don’t ask me why I’m taking my dog. Because he’s cute. Because it’s Christmas. Because Elvis makes me feel better. Take your pick.
“Holy cow, Lovie, Memphis is only an hour and half away.”
“If we get stranded you’ll thank me.”
I don’t point out to her that if we get stranded we’ll be within spitting distance of one of the many small towns between Tupelo and Memphis. Lovie knows this. The fact is, she likes to eat and traveling makes her hungry.
Why should I complain? I like chocolate as well as the next girl. As Lovie always says, substitute for sex, and that’s the last time I’m going to think about Jack Jones. At least for today.
We stop in New Albany for a bathroom break and eat our breakfast in the truck while rain slashes against the windows. I love the sound of rain on a roof, especially when I’m dry and sipping Lovie’s cinnamon coffee.
By the time we get to Holly Springs, Lovie has already started in on the fudge. Using my formidable will power I resist until we’re in Olive Branch, and then I break down and eat two pieces.
“Stress is going to make me fat,” I say.
“Nah, it burns calories. Besides, you’re going to need your strength to deal with this Vern crea
ture.”
“She didn’t seem so terrible at the funeral home.”
“Pshaw! I saw her biceps. She’s got more muscles than Arnold Schwartzenegger. And besides, she could be a killer.”
Although Lovie is exaggerating, I’m in no hurry to encounter a woman who probably works out with weights every day and looks like she could bench press Texas.
“All right. While we’re working up our courage, we’ll check on my chairs.”
I ordered these cute heart-shaped passion pink chairs for the waiting area of Hair.Net, and I’m dying to see them. But getting to Interiors with Flair proves once again that a big IQ is no guarantee that you have a sense of direction. In my defense I’ll have to say that at 650,000 people, Memphis is about nineteen times bigger than Tupelo. Plus, the streets are laid out more in a maze than any sort of grid. At least, not one I can figure out. But I’m not about to get a GPS and have some little snooty voice saying, “Recalculating,” every time I take a wrong turn. I’m also not about to admit my little directional problem to Lovie. I’m nearly always the one driving, and she panics when she thinks I don’t know where I’m going.
She checks her watch. “It’s after lunch.”
“Rain and traffic slowed us down.”
“You got lost.”
“I did not.”
“I saw the way you drove with little squinted up eyes. You always squint when you’re lost.”
“It’s my vision. I’ve got to get it checked. And besides, you got to see Graceland, didn’t you?”
“Twice. It made me want a fried peanut butter sandwich.”
“You always want a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. I just drove by twice so Elvis could see the mansion.”
Lovie says a word that fogs the windows.
She’s reaching for another piece of fudge about the time I spot Interiors with Flair. I shoot into the parking lot.
“That can wait, Lovie. Let’s check out my chairs.”
They are every bit as adorable as I’d hoped they’d be. If it weren’t raining I’d load them in the back of my truck and carry them home with me. As it is, I have to haul off and pay shipping.
By the time I’ve finished my business even I’m getting hungry. We have lunch at the famous, historic Peabody Hotel. I consider it sacrilege to visit Memphis without going to the Peabody. For one thing, I get a kick out of the fact that the parade-of-ducks tradition was born out of a prank. The manager of the hotel in the 30’s got a little high on whiskey and placed his live hunting decoys in the fountain to liven up the crowd. His three little English ducks were such a hit that all these years later years later a crowd still gathers to watch mallards parade over a red carpet to the Italian marble fountain in the lobby.
The last time we were here, we were up to our necks in the Memphis Mambo murders and Elvis was up to his ears in the fountain. This time, I wisely left him in the truck while we went inside for lunch. He wasn’t too happy about it, but Lovie bribed him with ham and biscuit.
After lunch Lovie wants to shop at the Oak Court Mall.
“They might have something sexy enough to make Rocky sit up and take notice of my National Treasure.”
“Not the National Treasure again, Lovie.”
“You just tend to your driving, and let me tend to my love life.”
“All right, smarty pants. But we’re not shopping till after I talk to Vern Luckett.”
I head smartly in the direction of Vern’s fitness studio.
Fifteen minutes and lots of sighing later, Lovie says, “You’re lost again, aren’t you?
“Holy cow, Lovie, can’t I take the scenic route?”
I’m lost again, of course, but believe me, I’m being careful not to squint. Not that Lovie would notice. She’s too busy polishing off the German chocolate cake.
“Dessert,” she says when she sees me looking.
“You had dessert at the Peabody.”
“A little dab of crème brulee is a taste. This is dessert.”
“Fine, but help me look. I’m trying to find a sign that says Forever Fit.”
“I never notice fitness centers. I’m allergic to exercise.”
“We’re not going there to exercise, Lovie.”
“Thank goodness.”
Finally I spot the sign on my right – white with red lettering, hard to miss. The parking lot is nearly full, a sign that Vern Luckett knows as much about running a business as I do. I like to see another woman succeed, and in spite of the fact that I feel time running out for me to solve the murder, I hope she turns out to be somebody nice instead of somebody who would drive all the way to Mooreville just to kill Jim Boy with my haircutting scissors.
“Lovie, did it ever occur to you that if Vern killed Jim Boy she probably would have done it somewhere up here instead of in my beauty shop?”
“Makes sense to me. Unless, of course, that was the only way she could get to him.”
“Yes, but how would she know about his early morning hair appointment?”
“Don’t ask me. Ask her. That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I can’t just blurt it out. I’ll have to be subtle. Quick, Lovie. Think of something.”
“You’re the genius. I just make good chocolate stuff.”
My palms begin to sweat as I think about going into Forever Fit with the nothing except a weak excuse (offering condolences) and a weak stomach.
Be that as it may, I focus on the problem while I take Elvis out on his leash for a little relief run around the parking lot. He balks at getting back in the truck, and Lovie bribes him with another ham and biscuit.
“Lovie, I’ve got a doozie of a solution. I’m planning to expand Hair.Net, put in a shop here in Memphis, and since Vern’s the only business woman I know up here and I was in the area anyway, I came to her for advice. Do you see any holes in that?”
“It works for me. Let’s get inside before my chocolate melts.”
Lovie grabs the chocolate fudge, and we dash through the rain to outfox a suspected killer.
o0o
Vern comes toward us with the confident strides of a woman who’s always in charge. Cased in Lycra shorts and halter, the body that had been merely spectacular at the funeral home is mind-boggling. She’s ditched the wig, and the only way to describe her hair is crew cut. Though I would personally never cut a female client’s hair in such a blatantly male style, on Vern it looks just right.
“Callie…Lovie. What a surprise.”
Not a pleasant one, either, judging from her tone of voice. Be that as it may, I’m not about to let a woman with a crew cut intimidate me. I go into my spiel about needing business advice, and I’ll have to say that I’m so smooth I nearly convince myself.
“Why don’t we go into my office where it’s more comfortable…unless you want to wait in the break room.” She looks at Lovie, who barrels along behind me with a look that says a herd of rampaging elephants couldn’t keep her away.
“No, thanks. I don’t want to miss a thing.” I poke her in the ribs and she adds, “I might decide to expand my catering service.”
Vern’s office is huge, and far more feminine than I would have imagined --white roses (real, not fake) in a crystal vase on her desk, a brass day bed draped with a fringed purple shawl, huge purple throw pillows pilled in a cozy corner where the bookshelf groans with titles such as Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men and Hemingway’s Farewell to Arms.
Lovie and I exchange looks that say who would have thought it? Meanwhile, Vern launches into a boring lecture about advertising.
“It’s the secret to success,” she finally says.
It’s not the secret I’m after, but I don’t know how to launch into the subject of Jim Boy without being obvious. Lovie, however, has no such problem.
“I suppose you were in a state of shock when you found out about Jim Boy Sloan.”
“Yes,” Vern says. “Who would have believed he was going to marry that bubble head?”
; Lovie shoots me a can you believe this look. Here we are asking about Jim Boy’s shocking murder, and Vern is talking about his wedding! Besides that, she’s fairly dripping venom.
“Once you know Trixie, she’s a very nice girl,” I say in defense of my client.
“If you call clinging to Jim Boy like poison ivy, nice, then I suppose she is.”
You could cut Vern’s distaste for the bride with a knife, or a pair of my haircutting scissors.
“Callie’s right about Trixie,” Lovie says. “It’s a shame Jim Boy got knocked off and you didn’t get to know the bride better.”
“Oh, I knew her all right. Who do you think drove down to Mississippi with Sylvia when Jim Boy up and decided to marry a country girl from Mooreville? Somebody had to give her moral support and help her check out the little floozie. And if you ask me, that cousin of hers is even worse.”
“Leonora?” I wonder if Vern has any inkling that Leonora is expecting Jim Boy’s baby?
“Yes, that little witch. I’d like to lay eyes on her again just to show her how far the Moffets are out-classed by the Sloans and their friends.”
“You’ve got your golden opportunity,” Lovie says, and pokes me in the ribs so hard I’m certain she bruised at least two.
“Vern, since you’ve been so nice to offer all this business advice, I’d love for you to come to Hair.Net for a little Christmas Open House. I want to show off my new pink chairs.”
“Bring Sylvia,” Lovie says, and I wish I’d thought of that.
“I might just do that. Sylvia needs a little perking up. She hasn’t been a part of Jim Boy’s family for long, but she thought the world of him.” Vern reaches for a tissue to dab at her eyes. “I did, too. Now that he’s gone, there’s a new star in heaven.”
Lovie excuses herself to go to the bathroom, while I chat with Vern about the new star in heaven. This is right up my alley. Who’s to say our loved ones don’t just zip right up on there so they can dazzle us with starlight along with memories?
Lovie’s gone long enough to make me sweat everywhere except in my Prada heels. Thank goodness, I’m not the kind of girl who has to put odor eaters in her designer shoes.