by Peggy Webb
“Everybody wants to know the future.”
At the rate people are getting knocked off, looks like some of them won’t even have a future.
“Just don’t make any iron-clad promises. Okay, Darlene?”
When we get to the parking lot, Lovie and I stop to plan.
“We can’t go home,” I say. “Jack’s there.” Meaning he would try to keep me from wading up to my neck into police business. He’ll find out soon enough, but at least I’ll have a head start.
“My house. And we’d better tell Aunt Ruby Nell and Fayrene.”
“Why? The last time they were involved in a murder investigation, I had to wear war paint, dance half-naked under the moon, and kill a chicken.”
“If somebody is really out to kill all the Santas, Daddy needs to know. He could still be in danger.”
She’s right, of course. Telling Lovie I’ll meet her at her cottage, I sprint toward my pickup holding Elvis’ leash with one hand and punching in Mama’s speed-dial number with the other. No need to call Fayrene. Mama never does anything without letting her know.
After I explain what happened to Wayne and tell her that Lovie and I are going to put our heads together, I say, “Stay in the hospital with Uncle Charlie so I’ll know you’re safe.”
“Flitter.”
“Mama, what does that mean? Flitter’s not even a word.”
I might as well save my breath. Mama has already hung up. No telling what’s she’s fixing to do. I don’t even want to know.
Elvis and I get to Robins Street just as Lovie is pulling into her driveway. For once I don’t tell Elvis to wait in the truck. I’m in no hurry to head out after a killer, and besides, I feel safer with my dog at my side.
When we get inside, Lovie already has the coffee on. She emerges from the kitchen with a platter of doughnuts, three kinds of cookies, a bag of potato chips, three Snickers bars for her, and a Hershey bar with almonds for me. She knows it’s my favorite.
“Good grief, Lovie. It looks like you’ve prepared for a siege.”
“Never go into battle on an empty stomach.”
“I don’t plan to go into battle. Just do enough sleuthing to find out a few things and keep my family safe.”
“We can tend to our own little red wagons, thank you very much.” Mama sweeps into the living room with Fayrene right behind her. I’m so upset I didn’t even hear her drive up.
“I told you to stay at the hospital, Mama.”
“Since when do I take orders from my daughter?”
“Never.”
“Precisely.” Mama flops down beside me on Lovie’s blue velvet sofa and proceeds to grab my Hershey bar. I wouldn’t tell her it was meant for me if you hog-tied me and threatened to cut my hair with a hacksaw. That’s how stubborn I am when I’m upset. I admit. It’s a flaw. But not fatal, and not one of many.
While Mama and Fayrene snack and commiserate with Lovie over the loss of Wayne, I pull myself together. With Uncle Charlie in the hospital, I’m the only one left to head up the Valentine family. Mama’s too flighty, Lovie’s too hotheaded, and Jack’s got a shattered leg.
Why did I even include Jack? I guess it’s because he’s half in the family and half out, and it’s all up to me whether he goes or stays. Maybe I ought to be the one asking Darlene to predict my future by the stars.
I go into the kitchen and pour coffee for everybody. No need to ask who wants cream and sugar. The good thing about friends and family is that everybody knows how you like your coffee.
I set the tray on the coffee table then return to my seat beside Mama. She winks at me and I wink back. Two stubborn peas in a pod, looks like.
“Who do you think this killer is after?” Mama asks.
“That’s anybody’s guess,” I say. “He could be out to get the mall’s regular Santa. Or maybe he was after Lovie’s fiancé.”
“If he was out to get Charlie, he’ll get him over my dead body.” Mama looks fierce.
“Everybody loves Daddy.”
Lovie’s right. Up to a point. I know things about Uncle Charlie’s past that nobody in this room does. But I’m sworn to secrecy. One word about his involvement—and Jack’s—with the Company, and there’s no telling who would die.
“Rudolph and Santa were killed by electricity passing through the throne. And Rudolph died only because he had reached out to grab Uncle Charlie’s hand when the power was turned on.” I hate to think how close I was standing. “I think Santa’s the target.”
“Yeah, but which one?” Lovie has a Snickers bar in each hand. Who can blame her? It’s not every day you lose a fake fiancé.
“I did a little sleuthing earlier,” I say, “and found out that Nathan Briggs has been the mall’s only Santa since it opened.”
“What about Charlie?”
“As far as I know, Uncle Charlie and Wayne are the only substitutes Nathan has had. That narrows our search to the people who had a history with the Santas.”
Since Mama is halfway through my Hershey bar, I have to content myself with a second helping of cookies. I’m not usually this hungry. But there’s something about the combination of Christmas and murder that makes me crave chocolate and sugar.
“The dead Santa or the two live ones?” Fayrene has a point.
“All three,” I say. “Mayor Getty was in the court when Uncle Charlie got hit with voltage.”
“Flitter, Robert Earl adores Charlie. Besides, he’s elected mayor by a landslide every time he runs. That many people can’t be wrong about him.”
“What about Cleveland White?” Lovie asks. “He threw the switch.”
“He’s a deacon at Calvary Baptist Church,” Fayrene says. “That obliterates him.”
I hope she means eliminates, but this time I’m not too sure.
Lovie says a word that would boil water. “I’ve had more than one deacon after my Holy Grail.”
“Hush up, Lovie. At least pretend to be mourning for your fiancé.” This is the kind of conversation that calls for caffeine. I pour myself a second cup. “Besides, Cleveland turned on the power to the throne. Nobody would be foolish enough to murder Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Santa so openly.”
“I don’t think the killer’s Cleveland,” Fayrene says. “I’m not picking him up on my ESPN.”
Ever since Fayrene met Bobby, she’s claimed to have psychic powers via ESPN.
Lovie nearly chokes on her coffee. I give her a discreet kick under the coffee table, then search my purse for paper and pen.
“I’m going to put Robert Earl and Cleveland on the list anyhow. Lovie, grab the phone book and look up the addresses.”
She jerks the phone book out of a drawer in the end table, and out flies a thimble, two spools of purple thread, a dog-eared copy of Gone with the Wind, and an adult toy I’m not even going to name.
Without the least blush, Lovie shoves her questionable belongings back and says, “I’m not disguising myself as a maid.”
“Good grief. Nobody said anything about disguises.”
“I did.” Lovie tells me the addresses of the mayor and the mall manager. “Who’s next?”
“Corky Kelly. Former elf. He was there the day Steve was killed. Does anybody know him?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Mama says, and Lovie shakes her head no.
When Fayrene pops out of her chair, she can barely contain her glee. She loves center stage. “He’s been to Gas, Grits, and Guts a few times. There’s no scantification for Corky to be a suspect. I’ve heard several people prefer to him as ‘good old Corky.’ ”
Lovie’s now holding her hand over her mouth. I can just hear what she’ll say later about the malapropisms for justification and refer.
“Besides,” Fayrene adds, “They say he’s the perfect neighbor, always lending a hand.”
“That doesn’t rule him out, Fayrene. Lots of serial killers are called the perfect neighbor.” Mama has a point.
“Maybe Opal Stokes tried to kill the Santas with h
er cookies,” Lovie says. “When that didn’t work she had to finish the job with a jolt of electricity.”
“That’s far-fetched, but I’ll put her on the list. I can’t imagine her being involved in murder.”
“Guess where she lives?”
“Holy cow, Lovie. I’m in no mood for guessing games.”
“Four twenty-three Mockingbird Lane. In Audubon. And you know what happens there every Christmas?”
“The unanimous Christmas thief!” Fayrene is all but prancing. She’s talking anonymous, of course. Every year Audubon reports more thefts of Christmas decorations than any other residential section of Tupelo.
“Surely that sweet little lady is not a Christmas thief,” I say.
“What about the shenanigans of those sweet little old ladies in the Elvis Presley fan club?” Lovie enjoys gloating when she’s right. “Maybe Opal hates Christmas so much she’s graduated from theft of plastic Santas to murder.”
“You’re convicting her without evidence, Lovie. Just because she made cute Christmas cookies.” Still, my cousin may be onto something.
“Get that look out of your eye, Cal. I’m not about to break and enter.”
Lovie has a point. The first time she ended up watching a geriatric Grandma and the Big Bad Wolf, and the last time she ended up mooning half of Memphis.
“We’re not breaking and entering this time. We’re going in the front door.”
“Fayrene and I will ensure your success with a Christmas Mayan ceremony with feathers,” Mama says.
Remembering how their ceremonies turned out in Mexico, I yell, “No!”
“You don’t have to be so touchy, Carolina. We’re just trying to help.”
“I know, Mama. But I think your best bet is to go back to the hospital so you and Uncle Charlie can look after each other.” Nobody’s going to get to Uncle Charlie through the hospital security, but I don’t tell Mama that. She likes to feel needed. “I just wanted you to be aware of what’s going on, that’s all.”
“Flitter, you just don’t want my help, Carolina.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. If you and Fayrene insist on a ceremony, go right ahead. Just please don’t do it in Audubon.”
Fayrene is already on the phone calling Bobby to meet them at the séance room and to bring some hubbubs. I don’t even want to know.
Elvis’ Opinion #5 on Cherubs, Super Basset, and Radar Ears
Fayrene’s hubbubs are cherubs. It takes a dog of my dazzling intelligence to know. It also takes a basset of great diplomacy and patience to sit on Lovie’s Oriental rug yawning while my human mom and Ruby Nell discuss my fate.
Ruby Nell offers to take me back to Callie’s house, but my human mom is afraid Ruby Nell will spill the beans about her proposed nefarious activities with Jack. The last thing she wants is Jack storming around on his crutch trying to keep her safe. Callie prides herself on being independent.
And she is. Most of the time. What she doesn’t know is that I’m the reason she feels secure at night when Jack’s not around; I’m a major attraction at Hair.Net (and therefore partially the cause of her booming business), and I’m the one she consults when she’s making decisions.
I loll around biding my time till my human mom finally announces, “Elvis will go with Lovie and me. He’ll be fine in the truck.”
To show you what a great actor I am—contrary to what some of those lightweight movies the Colonel made me do would indicate—I don’t jump up and howl a swivel-hipped rendition of “Got My Mojo Working,” then snarl, “And, baby, I’m not waiting in the truck.”
Listen, Lovie may be able to fool the cookie lady with her disguise as a buck-toothed, gray-haired census taker. And Callie can pretend to be a man in a drooping black mustache and one of Charlie’s old tweed coats that Lovie had hanging around in the closet. But it’s yours truly who will save the day.
If I could swap this four-legged red suit for a red cape, I’d show you Super Dog at his finest. Forget leaping over tall buildings in a single bound. With my talents for detection combined with my formidable fame, I’m a dog to be reckoned with.
And I can guarantee, the reckoning won’t take place on the cold front seat of Callie’s pickup truck.
Look out, Mockingbird Lane. Here comes the King.
Chapter 7
Frosty the Stolen Snowman, Mrs. Claus, and the unHoly Cow
Since Lovie’s van has LOVIE’S LUSCIOUS EATS printed on the side, we’re barreling across town toward Mockingbird Lane in my truck. The radio is blaring “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth,” and in the distance I hear the train whistle.
It happens every time I go through crosstown (the intersection of Main and Gloster, the two major streets in Tupelo). No matter what time of day, I get caught in traffic backed up for blocks by the GM&O. One of the beauties of Tupelo is that it’s a small, charming town. The downside is that like most small Southern towns founded a hundred and forty years ago, it was built around railroad tracks. Nobody ever said, “Gee, we’ve got trains going right through the center of town. Reckon we ought to do something before we get too big for our britches?”
My cousin reaches over and turns up the heater.
“Good grief, Lovie. It feels like August in here.”
“Stress makes me cold.”
“I know. But I’m sweating like I’ve run the Boston Marathon.” Uncle Charlie’s too-big hat slides down my forehead. “Grab my hat before I run into the train and kill us all.” She plucks it off, and my hair comes loose from my French twist to curl around my cheek. “I don’t know why I had to be the man.”
“Because I have too much hair to hide under a hat. Besides, a thirty-eight double D would never pass. Even under Daddy’s coat.”
“You have a point.”
“Two, in fact.”
“Good grief, Lovie.” I don’t remind her why we’re in disguise. It’s good to see that she can joke around in spite of practically being Santa’s widow. “When we get to Opal’s, I’ll look around while you talk.”
Lovie shines at small talk. And she’s nearly as good at fiction as Mama.
“I’m going to ask her what she put in those cookies.”
“Don’t you dare. We weren’t supposed to have seen her at the mall. Remember?”
“I’m lucky to remember my own name. Poor Wayne.”
“I’m sorry, Lovie. When he gets to Eternal Rest, I’ll make him look natural.” That’s always the family’s request, unless the deceased has made prior arrangements and wants to sleigh up to Glory Land looking like George Clooney.
“It’s too bad he didn’t die before Rudolph.”
“Lovie!”
“He would have won the jazz funeral. Wayne loved music.”
Sitting between us, Elvis takes that as a cue to start howling. I’ll swear it sounds like a doggie version of “Silent Night.”
The last car on the train finally passes by, and I take a shortcut past the middle school to Audubon. Suddenly I’m in bumper-to-bumper traffic. With school out for the holidays and every teenager who can drive on the roads—plus harried moms and dads searching for the latest toy little Jimmy saw on TV—there’s no chance Lovie and I can sneak into this neighborhood undetected.
But looking on the bright side—and I always do—how can anybody remember us in this crowd?
I make a right turn through the brick-columned entrance to Audubon and nearly run into a van full of seniors. With their gray heads sticking out every window of a van with METHODIST SENIOR SERVICES painted on the side, they’re gawking at a beige, seventies-style ranch house where Santa and his reindeer have landed on a roof entirely covered in lights.
And so has Jesus. His arms are outstretched, pointing the way to the front lawn, where Joseph and Mary preside over an assortment of animals. The faux Holy Mother and Joseph are probably trying to herd their menagerie away from the North Pole scene on the other side of the lawn so they won’t freeze to death in the mountain of fake
snow. After all, the elves and Mrs. Claus are wearing mufflers.
“Holy cow!”
“And holy pig, to boot,” Lovie says. Sure enough, there’s a pig in lights among the assorted holy herd. “Didn’t I tell you this place was a paradise for the Christmas thief?”
“Yeah, Lovie, but that doesn’t mean we can connect the dots between theft and murder.” I ease my truck around the van, while Elvis stands on his hind legs to watch out the back window. He probably can’t believe his eyes, either.
“Hey, slow down.”
I inch to a crawl past a two-story Georgian brick house so Lovie can get a better look at the blue lights strung around every window, tree, and bush. Trying to climb the west wall is a gigantic, hairy bigfoot.
“What next, King Kong?” We’re acting like tourists instead of sleuths. At the rate we’re going, we’ll never get to Opal’s house. I pick up the speed, then turn left onto Mockingbird Lane. “Lovie, keep your eyes peeled for four twenty-three.”
It turns out there’s no need for her vigilance. Opal’s house sits among the lights and nativities and North Poles like a toad. It’s a squat brown brick house with a line of meatball-shaped shrubs along the front and a porch that doesn’t even have a swing. No lights, no fake snow, no Christmas tree in the window. Not even a Christmas candle burning.
“I’m about to change my mind about that sweet little old lady.”
“There’s no telling what she put in the cookies.”
“Get off her cookies, Lovie. We’ve got other fish to fry.” I twist my hair up and secure it with pins, make sure it all fits under Uncle Charlie’s hat, then adjust my mustache in the rearview mirror. “How do I look?”
“I wouldn’t give you my phone number.”
“I don’t want to look like every woman’s heartthrob. I just don’t want to look like a twenties gangster.”
“Then ditch the mustache.”
“Gladly. It itches, anyhow.” I peel it off and stow it in the glove compartment, then give Elvis one of the rawhide treats Lovie always has in her kitchen. “That should keep you busy while we’re gone, boy.”
Next I caution him to stay in the truck. Listen, don’t tell me dogs can’t understand what you say. Elvis is more attuned to nuance than some people I know. I’m too polite to name names, but still, years in my beauty shop have given me a hands-on education in human nature.