by Webb, Peggy
Then we roar into Birmingham and head toward the posh section of Mountain Brook. Clinging to hillside just above the zoo is an apartment building that looks like it houses movie stars and celebrity politicians. In fact, it’s the high-end, high-tech, high-security headquarters of the Company. I’ve heard Jack and Charlie talk about it so much, I could find it blindfolded.
Jack parks his Harley in an underground parking garage that takes an Act of Congress to gain access. There’s another Harley Screaming Eagle already there, and right beside it is a 1981 gold Delorean DMC-12.
“Looks like 666 is here.”
This will be my first opportunity to meet the Company’s boss. I can already tell you one thing without even seeing him. He’s a daredevil with a love for fast wheels.
There are other vehicles in the garage, too, most of them ordinary-looking, but I’m not fooled. I’ve heard Charlie talk about the engines in the Company cars. There’s enough horse power in this garage to make James Bond’s and Batman’s cars look like snails.
Jack unhooks my helmet and I scramble down. My fondest wish is that he’ll leave Ugly Baby in the parking garage and somebody will snatch her.
He dashes them by nabbing her by the leg, tucking her under his arm and striding into the elevator. I hustle to keep up. Some dogs – like Holyt – don’t use what little brains they have and would get left behind in the garage. But I’m Jack’s right-hand dog. How do you think he got such a stellar reputation? My noble nose has been the secret to cracking more than one case. And did I mention my radar ears? Of course, one is longer than the other. Who cares? They still give me a noble appearance that would outshine any Westminster champion if I cared to enter the show. Which I do not. My work is far more important. I’m the dog who gets things done.
We get out on the second floor and head down a hallway that looks like it belongs in Buckingham palace, gilt mirrors and plush burgundy carpet. Only a discerning eye such as mine would spot the security cameras that can pick up every inch of this hallway.
We go down to number 225. Jack presses his eye against a sensor, and the door swings open.
“Home away from home, old buddy.”
Now this is what I’m talking about! No fuss and frills. Just dark wood and deep cushions and a stainless steel kitchen that looks sterile enough to do surgery on the floor. There’s a little table for two tucked into the kitchen corner. This is such a perfect man cave, I’m not even going to let Ugly Baby spoil the effect.
Besides, Jack has already dumped her onto the hall table where I sincerely hope she stays. I follow him down a short hallway to a room big enough for a king-sized bed, two leather recliners and a walk-in closet. He tosses his duffle bag onto the floor then reaches over to scratch behind my ears.
“Let’s see what’s cooking, Elvis.”
T-bone steak, I hope. Milk Bone will take a dog only so far, and I’m long past that point.
Back in the kitchen, Jack surveys the contents of the refrigerator, the cupboards and the ice box. Bless’a my soul. There’s enough man-food in here to sustain Hannibal’s army across the Alps.
Suddenly, I hear a deep voice, and the wall above the table comes alive. I’m so shocked my ears fly straight out. There’s no telling when I’ll ever get them down again.
“Hello, Black Panther,” the image on the wall says. “I see you’re here.”
“Just got in, 666.”
The Company’s boss is a woman. And not just any woman. Listen, this one makes Lovie look like a swizzle stick. At first glance, I think she’s naked, all Amazonian rippling ebony muscle. On second glance, I see she’s wearing a tank top the exact color of her skin. She’s also wearing purple eye shadow and sporting a matching purple streak in her dread-locked hair.
Suddenly she screeches, “Dumb dog, dumb dog, dumb dog,” and I glance behind me to see if Hoyt stowed away in Jack’s backpack. Meanwhile, my human daddy has burst into laughter, and so has 666. I’m left to figure out that the speaker is the craziest looking parrot I’ve ever seen. That nasty multi-colored bird is now sitting on top of 666’s head. I wish that ignorant bird would flip, flop and fly straight to you know where.
“Linda, shush,” 666 tells the parrot and she immediately ruffles her feathers so she looks like she’s just gained ten pounds. “Is that the famous Elvis with you?”
“It is.”
“Come on up, and bring him, too.”
The kitchen wall fades to normal, and I follow Jack out of the apartment and into the elevator where he punches the button to the top floor. It opens up straight into a living room that looks like it was furnished by an eighteenth century French queen. There’s a loud jungle roar just as we enter the room, and for a split second I imagine 666 has got a lion stashed somewhere.
Then I remember that we are close to the zoo, and we’re likely to hear these jungle sound-effects all night long.
The parrot is nowhere to be found, and neither is 666. Jack stands beside the elevator while I stand guard. Listen, I may not be packing heat but I’m wearing my Clint Eastwood sneer. And I’m just waiting for Linda the sarcastic parrot to make my day.
“She’ll be here soon, old boy. She likes to make an entrance.”
I don’t twitch a muscle. That’s why I’m such a detective extraordinaire. We stand that way close to five minutes, and then the boss sweeps in. She’s six feet if she’s an inch, and that’s not counting her four-inch red high heels. She’s even move impressive in person than she was on the kitchen wall.
She has come from a room that’s filled with computers and high tech gadgets and a stash of weapons that would be the envy of Rambo. Listen, I’m a dog with a fondness for big screen thrillers, and when I say weapons, I’m not talking about Saturday night specials. Let me tell you, you don’t want to get on the bad side of 666.
“There you are!” Her smile lights up a face that just went from interesting to stunning. If she were a dog, I’m marry her on the spot. “Make yourself comfortable, and tell me what’s cooking.”
Jack sits down and I station myself at his feet and cock my noble head so I won’t miss a thing.
Chapter 6
The Art of Deception and the Con
It’s day three since Lovie and I stumbled onto the clown’s body, and out of respect for him, baby boot camp temporarily shut down. I’ve had my cousin, Mama and Fayrene staying with me the whole time. When you think about it, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Jack’s still out of town, and we’re all still trying to stay safe and act normal. If there is such a thing in this family. Mama and Lovie are always over the top in everything, the way they dress and talk and most importantly, the way they act. And Fayrene is so colorful you’d never accuse her of being anywhere close to ordinary.
Uncle Charlie and I are the only ones in our family who would pass for normal.
I jerk on jogging clothes, and hurry to the kitchen. Then I make myself a cup of coffee in the Keurig and check my email on my iPhone. There’s one from Betty Sue and one from my three o’clock customer asking me to reschedule her hair appointment. I’m in the midst of answering her when my cell phone rings. It’s Uncle Charlie.
“Hello, dear heart,” he says, and I instantly feel loved and protected. Uncle Charlie is one of the good guys, and if I couldn’t have my own daddy all these years, I’m so grateful I have him. “Is everybody safe?”
“We are,” I tell him, and for once I don’t have to cross my fingers behind my back.
“Good. Do you know when baby boot camp will resume?”
“Today, actually. None of us really knew the clown; he was just there. Betty Sue’s sent an email this morning saying it’s time to move forward. She wants the group to talk about sending flowers to his funeral.”
“That would be a nice gesture. The police will be releasing the body at the end of the week and it’s coming here.” He’s talking about his funeral home, Eternal Rest, where I make the deceased look as if they can sit up and start a conversation.
&n
bsp; “Closed casket, I guess.”
“No. The police think an open casket is likelier to draw out the suspects.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“Considering the circumstances, I thought I’d get somebody else to do the cosmetic work.”
“I can handle it, Uncle Charlie.”
“You’re sure about that, dear heart?”
“Positive. Besides, with Jack still gone, I need to keep busy.”
“Are all the girls still with you?”
“They are. It’s like being at summer camp.”
“You girls have fun but be good. Don’t go poking around asking questions at baby boot camp. We still don’t know who killed the clown, and I don’t want you in the middle of a murder investigation.”
“Absolutely not.”
I cross my fingers behind my back so the lie won’t count, then pocket my cell phone and sip my coffee.
What Uncle Charlie doesn’t know is that being good is beginning to wear on our nerves. Mama’s not speaking to anybody till she’s had two cups of coffee, Lovie is in a snit, and Fayrene is using so many malapropisms nobody can understand what she’s saying.
Finally, I let myself quietly out the front door so I won’t wake everybody. After a few stretches on the front porch, I set off on my usual route through the neighborhood. This is one of the times I miss Elvis and Jack the most. Both of them jog with me when they’re here. It’s not that I don’t feel safe without them; I just enjoy the company.
It’s early, just after six, and the only neighbor out is Butch Jenkins, the TV weatherman. He’s still in his robe, fetching his morning paper, and I give a little wave. He lingers by the end of his driveway and flags me down.
I slow to a trot, and it’s only then that I get the eerie feeling that somebody is secretly watching me. I whirl around and glance back, but the street is empty except for the poodle named Ann Margret. I guess she’s looking for Elvis.
“I thought I’d better let you know it’s going to rain tomorrow morning,” Butch says. “In case you don’t watch the weather tonight.”
“Thanks, Butch.”
“Just so you could rethink your morning run.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.” Jack swears that Butch has a crush on me, but I’m not about to let that change the way I act around him. He’s a nice middle-aged neighbor, and that’s the way I’m going to treat him. “By the way, have you seen anybody else jogging this morning?”
“Two men wearing black.”
The only two men in black I’ve come in contact with recently were Uncle Charlie’s murder clean-up team.
“Anybody you know?” I’m trying to be casual about this. If I’m not being watched by Uncle Charlie’s team, it could be that I’ve got a murderer or a thief on my tail. Take your pick.
“Never saw them before.”
“What do they look like?”
“One of them was about five-eight, brown hair and eyes, just ordinary. I didn’t pay much attention. But the other was this huge black guy with a bald head. Muscled up. Looked like he could bench press five hundred pounds.”
I didn’t see their heads that night Lovie and I found the clown. I only saw their eyes. One of them might have been African American, but I couldn’t swear to it. Still, I’ll have to remember that Butch has a keen eye for observation. It might come in handy.
“They’re probably visiting one of the neighbors.” I hope Butch doesn’t guess that I have more than a passing interest in the joggers.
“I doubt that. I know the habits and acquaintances of pretty much everybody around here, and these two don’t fit in.”
“How’s that?”
“I saw the butt of a gun sticking out of the waistband of that big mean-looking guy. I think you ought not to be running by yourself with those two in the neighborhood.”
I could be wrong about these men being Uncle Charlie’s clean-up team. I imagine myself going around the corner and being ambushed by whoever killed the clown, and then Mama would never get to be a grandmother.
“Thanks, Butch. I think I’ll take your advice.”
The way he beams, I figure Jack may be onto something about Butch Jenkin’s crush.
By the time I get home, Lovie is in the kitchen cooking the kind of country breakfast you want to linger over for two hours.
“Where are Mama and Fayrene?”
“Fayrene said they were going to do their medication exercises.”
“Holy cow.”
“I know. You might want to steer clear.”
“Mama and Fayrene are the least of our worries.” I tell her about my conversation with Uncle Charlie and the two guys who were shadowing me.
“You think Daddy put a tail on you?”
“It’s possible. But it could also be Carl Branson’s killers.”
She says a string of words that would burn biscuits. Fortunately, I can see through the glass front of the oven that they are just beginning to turn a golden brown.
Then, being Lovie, she gets her head in the game and we come up with a workable plan. But she draws the line at telling Mama and Fayrene.
“You take that heat, Cal. I’m too busy cooking.”
Halfway up the stairs I hear their chants, and I race to the second floor and peer into the guest bedroom. Major mistake. They have on those awful body suits, and are sitting cross-legged on the floor with their eyes closed while they make these ohming sounds. It’s enough to make me wonder about my own mother’s premature senility. Then I reassure myself it’s just Mama, being colorful.
I give a little knock, and they both turn toward me. “I’m going to baby boot camp alone today. That’s the way Uncle Charlie wants it.” My fingers are crossed again, and Mama just glares at me. “Mama, did you hear me?”
“She hasn’t had her coffee yet,” Fayrene says. “I’ll make sure she knows.”
“Great. Thank you, Fayrene.”
“It won’t be easy. She’s as bullheaded as Julius Seizure.”
“Hmmm,” is all I can think of to say. Then I add, “We’re still moving forward with our plan. Lovie is going to be here with you, and I’m going to let her know if our ploy with the beauty makeover works.”
“Take your gun,” Fayrene says.
“Why?”
“I think I’m going psychic. My ESPN just told me that you’ll be in danger today.”
“Flitter,” Mama says, and Fayrene pops off the floor with the spryness of somebody half her age. Then she reaches to tug Mama up.
“Let’s go get you some coffee and breakfast, Ruby Nell. I don’t know about you, but I’m ravishing.”
I hurry across the hall and make it to my bedroom where I clap my hands over my mouth to stifle the giggles. But the sight of my gun on the bedside table sobers me right up. Uncle Charlie says the killer is still on the loose, and what if Fayrene’s right?
I decide to wear a dress so I can strap my gun on under my skirts. Not that I’m a good shot. And not that I’d be graceful pulling it out. And not that I’d even have the nerve to use it. Still, I’m in a baby-making mood, and nobody had better mess with me. Being an almost-mother changes everything.
*
I’m not halfway to baby boot camp before I notice someone tailing me. I slow down to a crawl and so does the car behind me. It’s too far back to see the make and model, or even to tell how many people are in it. All I can tell from this distance is the color – powder blue.
You don’t see many cars that color. And I know of only one person who has one. It’s Bobby Huckabee, and I can’t imagine him hot on the trail of anybody except Darlene or Vanna White, the hostess of Wheel of Fortune. Bobby religiously watches the show, and considers Vanna one of his close friends.
Maybe my mind is playing tricks. After being tailed on the jog through my neighborhood, I’m jittery. I glance in my rear-view mirror and decide I was mistaken about the car. Whoever the driver is, he just happens to be on the same road and going the same direction as I am.
“I’m not going to look back,” I tell myself, and then I don’t. If Uncle Charlie has the clean-up team following me, they would certainly be more professional than to drive a car that’s a stand-out powder blue. They would also not get caught, not if they are Company men.
I make the turnoff to Elvis Presley lake, and notice only one other car in the lot. Apparently, it belongs to the hot-dog lady, who is already in her kiosk. This may sound like an excellent stroke of luck, but it’s exactly the way I’d planned it. I want time with the hot dog lady before anybody else arrives.
I reach down to make sure my gun is in place, then I try to get out of my truck without shooting my own leg. Just as my foot hits pavement, a flash catches my eye. I whirl around and see the sun glinting off a pair of binoculars. Somebody is tailing me. And that somebody is not acquainted with the subtle art of surveillance.
The 1965 antique powder blue Chevy Nova 4-door sedan is parked in plain sight across the street. And if the driver thinks he’s hidden behind that hydrangea bush, he’d better think again. That bright red shirt stands out like a flag. Not to mention that mop of unruly hair. My one-man surveillance is being conducted by none other than Bobby Huckabee. If he gets any closer with those binoculars, I’ll be able to see his mismatched eyes. One is green but the psychic eye is blue.
I have to restrain myself from going into a fit of silly giggles. Who in the world would send Bobby to spy on me?
There is only one answer: Uncle Charlie. And he’s too clever to think Bobby would pull off this job without getting caught. Which means, Uncle Charlie wants me to know I’m being watched. That doesn’t make any sense unless you take it a step further. Uncle Charlie wants whoever I’m with to also know I’m being watched. Is he trying to flush a killer from the bush?
I consider waving at Bobby then decide to let him think he’s doing a most excellent job of surveillance. Bobby is painfully shy. It doesn’t take much to shatter his self-confidence. I’m not going to be responsible for that. In fact, just the opposite. I want him to stop relying on TV for his social life and realize he has real friends.