by Peggy Webb
“I can’t believe Albert Gordon would do such a thing,” Mama says.
“You know him?” I don’t know why I’m surprised. Mama has more secrets than the CIA.
“Not personally. But he was in Special Forces with Charlie in ’Nam.”
“I don’t know why you’re sticking up for him, Ruby Nell,” Fayrene says. “He stands at the store counting his change out loud like I’m some kind of pretty thief. And he wouldn’t put a penny in the March of Dimes jar if the devil was after him with a pitchfork. Bobby says his aurora is black as sin.”
Aura, I’m hoping, but I guess he could have somebody named Aurora stashed somewhere. I’ll do anything to find out short of being a pretty thief.
“I’m not sticking up for him,” Mama says. “All I’m saying is I’m surprised.”
“I’m not. You can bet your bottom britches I’d be at that barbecue, but I’ve got bigger fish to eat.” Trust Fayrene to get her metaphors wrong.
“Like what?” Mama wants to know.
“Darlene’s trying to steal Bobby Huckabee.”
Lovie’s eyebrows go up. I haven’t had a chance to tell her, and she’s wondering if I already know, and if so, why I haven’t shared the news with her. I can read her like a book.
“They’d make a cute couple, Fayrene.” Mama loves romance and takes every chance to promote it.
“Hush up, Ruby Nell. I’m not about to lose my psychic over my daughter’s foolish needs to be admired by the opposite sex.”
“Well, I never thought about it that way.”
“Lucky for you, you don’t have to think, Ruby Nell. You’ve got me and my futile mind.”
If Lovie chokes on her roast beef, I’ll have to do the Heimlich. I push my plate aside, and Mama pipes up with, “Where do you think you’re going, Carolina? I haven’t even served dessert.”
“I’m going with Lovie to get Uncle Charlie.” Turning to Jack, I smile. “Stay and visit with Mama as long as you like. I’m sure she’ll drive you home.”
“Cal . . .” He shoots me this dark look that says he’s not a bit fooled. If he’ll care to remember, I’ve been taking care of myself ever since he walked out the door—and a long time before that, to boot.
“Take care of Elvis while you’re at it, Jack. They won’t let him in the hospital.”
Lovie grabs two pieces of pecan pie to go, air kisses in Mama’s direction, then hotfoots it out the door. Jack sends I’ll deal with you later looks in my direction, while Elvis lowers his head to his paws and moans. He ought to be on stage. He’s acting as if I’m leaving on an African safari, never to be seen again.
Let’s just hope the never to be seen again part doesn’t come true.
When I get to Mama’s front yard, Lovie is waiting beside her van.
“Are you ready to pick locks?” I ask.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” We look at each other and say, “Albert Gordon,” at the same time.
I tick off the reasons we’re going to break and enter. “He has a history with Uncle Charlie, he hates Christmas, and he’s got all kinds of scary training. Motive and means, wouldn’t you say?”
“Let’s go.” Lovie unwraps a piece of pie and stuffs it into her mouth. “We’ll get Daddy out of the hospital first, then we’ll break the law.”
“Why don’t I get Uncle Charlie while you snoop around Albert’s? I’ll join you there.”
“Daddy will wonder where I am, and besides, I don’t want to be at Albert’s alone.”
“The sheriff’s probably chased him to Kingdom Come by now.”
“Or maybe not.” Lovie starts unwrapping the other piece of pie. “Do I look like a woman who wants to get killed all by herself?”
“No, you look like somebody who ate your pie and mine, too.”
“You should have spoken up sooner.”
When I spot Mama at the window, spying, I say to Lovie, “To the hospital, and hurry.” Then I hop into my Dodge and try not to peel out. Act normal, I tell myself, though I’m not sure I even know what normal is anymore.
Elvis’ Opinion #7 on Bad Music, Good Rump Roast, and Left Behind
If you think I’m the kind of dog who sits home every Sunday while the humans go to church, you’re full of “Kentucky Rain”—or Kentucky straight bourbon. I ride along in Callie’s truck wearing a pink bowtie clipped to my collar like the gentlemanly basset hound I am.
She won’t let me go into the church, though, which is fine by me. If you think that caterwauling coming from the choir sounds bad in the truck, imagine what it would be like up close and personal.
While I wait, I have my methods of entertainment. Sometimes I look out the window and see how many rabbits I can count in the woods behind the church. Sometimes I think up ways to get the attention of the cows grazing in the pasture on my right. Have you ever seen a panicky cow run? Now there’s some Sunday morning fun. Usually all I have to do is get up on my hind legs, do a little vocalizing, and watch the bovine “Bossa Nova Baby.”
In case you haven’t already guessed, my vocalizing consists of howling a verse or two from one of my solid-gold hits. Today it’s “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Callie always leaves the windows cracked so I can get fresh air, and it’s easy for a dog of my talent to project to the back of the coliseum. Or in this case, the back side of the pasture.
Sometimes it projects into the church, too, but Callie’s too tenderhearted to chastise me. She knows a dog has to have his fun.
By the time the Baptists come out, usually sweating from a weekly dose of hellfire-and-damnation fervor, I’m curled up on the front seat taking a little nap. A dog has to rest up for his Sunday dinner, especially when Ruby Nell is doing the cooking.
We get more than we’d planned for at Ruby Nell’s this Sunday, and I’m not talking about food. Fayrene spoils the “Wonderful World of Christmas” with reports of Santa stealing, and the air is so thick between Callie and Jack you could ride it like the “Night Train to Georgia” (not my song, but, hey, I’m a generous dog).
To top it all off, Lovie’s aura says she’s up to something, and when she’s out for trouble, it always involves my human mom. Adding insult to injury, Jack’s so upset about being in a cast and having to sit around while Callie’s up to her pretty neck in murder he slips me only one bite of roast beef. It’s not big enough to satisfy a silly cat, let alone a hound of my discerning culinary tastes.
As if all that weren’t enough, Callie leaves without me, and all I can say about that is she’d better hide the Prada boots she got at the after-Thanksgiving sale. I’m a dog to be reckoned with, and I’m in a pissing mood.
Chapter 10
White Lies, Baseball Bats, and Big Trouble
By the time Lovie and I get Uncle Charlie out of the hospital and settled into his apartment above Eternal Rest, it’s nearly dusk. Winter afternoons seem to fly by, and dark always comes before I’m ready for it.
He looks very good, almost normal. Though I’m certain Jack has already told him what’s up with the Santa killer, I don’t mention Albert Gordon.
And I certainly don’t mention our plans. He’d be just like Jack, anxious to keep us out of police business and therefore out of danger.
Uncle Charlie and Jack are not only as close as father and son, but my uncle trained Jack for the Company. Charlie Valentine may be everybody’s favorite silver-haired undertaker and look like he wouldn’t hurt a flea, but he’s led a dangerous and checkered past.
Of course, I’m the only one in the family who knows about Uncle Charlie’s dark side besides Jack. And he’s technically not even a member of the family.
Thinking about family secrets and a Christmas killer on the loose makes me long for a big cup of eggnog and a vacation, which is not likely to happen anytime soon. The holiday season is one of my busiest at Hair.Net.
“I hate leaving you here by yourself, Uncle Charlie. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“If the killer is after me, he’s liable
to find more trouble than he bargained for.” He winks at me.
“For Pete’s sake, Daddy, you sound like John Wayne doing Rooster Cogburn. Maybe I ought to see if Bobby will stay with you.”
I wish I could tell Lovie what Jack told me: Uncle Charlie was the Company’s best marksman and can shoot a dime out of the air. I really hate keeping secrets, especially from Lovie.
“Don’t worry, dear heart. If trouble comes looking for me, the cops are only six blocks away.”
Mollified, she kisses him on the cheek and we head out the door. In the parking lot of Eternal Rest, she says, “My house.”
“Why?”
“Cat burglars don’t wear red sequins.”
I see her point. Shine a light on me and my Christmas sweater could be seen clear to the Pontotoc County line. And Lovie’s wearing jingle bells. When she moves, her sweater decorations sound like Santa swooping past with his eight tiny reindeer.
I follow my cousin to her pink cottage, where we discuss our plans while we ditch church garb and put on some of her black sweatpants and tee shirts. Since she outweighs me by a ton and I’m a gazillion inches taller, all I can say is, “Thank goodness for elastic waistbands.”
“Eat chocolate,” she says. “That’s why I have so much fun and you’re always worried about something.”
“I’m not worried. Just cautious.”
“Let me put your mind at ease.”
She pulls her baseball bat from underneath her bed and swings it. If a Santa thief had been standing in her path, he’d be missing body parts. Might I add, she played first base in high school, and she was known for knocking the ball out of the park.
“I feel safer already.”
“Smart ass,” she says, then detours by the kitchen and comes back armed with a bulging brown paper bag.
“Goodness gracious, Lovie. What’s all that?”
“Every stakeout has food.”
“We’re not going on stakeout. This is a simple break and enter.”
“You’d starve to death without me.”
She sashays out the door, and I’m right behind her wearing baggy, high-water pants that I hope don’t fall off. It’s full dark now with the threat of rain. Not a star can be seen among the dense cloud cover, and not even a sliver of moon.
“It’s a good night for skullduggery,” Lovie calls through the dark.
“Let’s rumble.”
We sound like characters in one of the black-and-white film noir classics Lovie and I enjoy. Giggling, I crank up my truck and head out for an evening of breaking the law.
According to plan, Lovie and I enter my neighborhood from the east side so we won’t pass by my house. Jack and Elvis can pick out the sound of my Hemi engine from two blocks away. He’d put two and two together before I could say “shoe sale.” Crutches or no, he’d be after me before I could get past Albert Gordon’s gate.
Also as discussed, we turn off our headlights on the approach to TV weatherman Butch Jenkins’ house and park in the shadow of three giant oaks in his yard. Being careful not to slam my car door, I mince my way across the pitch-black yard to Lovie and run smack into her.
Only it’s not Lovie, it’s a holly bush with enough prickles to almost make me say one of Lovie’s colorful words.
“Where are you?” I whisper.
“Over here.”
“Are you laughing?”
“Yes.”
“I may have to kill you.”
“Get in line.” Lovie switches on a miniature penlight, and I follow the tiny beam toward a hedge that separates the Jenkins’ yard from Albert’s. “You first.”
Believe me, Lovie’s not being polite. This intimidating, prickly-feeling hedge looks like it could swallow small dogs and skinny hairdressers. Still, I brave on through. At what cost to my hair and Lovie’s clothes I don’t even want to ponder.
“When I get home I’m going to look like I’ve been to war.”
“If you get home, Cal.”
Lovie sounds as dark as Bobby. Furthermore, she’s on the other side of the hedge.
“Come on through, Lovie. It’s not so bad.”
“Maybe not for you. Try being a bale of cotton.”
“Good grief. Reach for my hand.” I stretch my arm past thorns the size of redwoods and grab hold of her. Digging in my heels, I tug. Lovie pops through the hedge in one piece, but I can’t say the same for her clothes. Judging by the ripping sounds, I’d say she now has a hole in her pants as big as the Grand Canyon. I don’t even want to know where.
Instead, I scuttle across a backyard where I have no business while she stomps along behind me saying words that would ignite bonfires.
If Albert hears her, our goose is cooked. Or is that our geese? Holy cow. I think I’m going crazy.
Suddenly a big hulk looms out of the darkness. “Psst, Lovie. Up ahead.” I grab her arm and she switches off her light and her mouth at the same time. We both come to a dead halt, dead not being a prophetic word, I hope. If there was ever a time to practice being a cabbage, now is it. I stand so still I can practically hear the sweat inching down my face.
“You should have brought a weapon,” Lovie whispers.
“Too late now.”
If that very large man turns in our direction, we can forget about finding out who wants Santa dead. We’ll be boogieing on up to Glory Land full of bullet holes. Or worse.
“Distract him, Callie.” In the dark, I feel Lovie inching away.
“Wait. What are you doing?”
“I’m going to get behind him and knock his brains out.”
“He’s dangerous. I say we stay put.”
“And wait for him to get the jump on us? Distract, Callie.”
Distraction comes, all right, but it’s not from me. Next door, the Jenkins’ little cocker spaniel makes enough ruckus to wake the dead.
Lovie says a word that would make them keel right back over.
Through the darkness Butch’s wife Wanda calls out, “Sadie, baby, what is it?”
Sadie baby is too close to the hedge for comfort. If she gets brave enough to scramble through, Lovie and I might as well prepare to spend Christmas in jail.
Grabbing hold of my cousin’s arm in case she decides to use this distraction for her foolhardy plan, I hold my breath.
“Is anybody there?” Wanda yells.
“Does she expect a thief to answer?”
“Hush, Lovie. She’ll hear us.”
“Not unless she has X-ray ears.”
Suddenly the Jenkins’ yard lights up like the White House Christmas tree. It’s Wanda’s floodlights, pouring across the hedge.
Tackling Lovie, I drop onto my stomach and see the incredible hulk in Albert’s yard in full, living color. It’s Santa, the jolly old man in red who appears on the rooftop at Gas, Grits, and Guts every Christmas. If I weren’t afraid Wanda was going to hear me and call Sheriff Trice, I’d laugh myself silly. Here we are, out to catch a murderer, and both of us are cowering at the feet of a plastic Santa.
“Wanda!” It’s Butch, calling to his wife. Let’s hope he’s not headed into his back yard. “What’s going on out there, pumpkin pie?”
“It’s just Sadie. Go back to watching True Blood, sweet pooky dookums.”
Lovie pinches me and I pinch her back. I can tell by her strangled sounds that she’s about to explode with laughter. Who would have thought? Mooreville’s mild-mannered TV weatherman and his equally shy wife have a hot thing going.
The back door slams—Butch and Wanda going back inside, I hope. I do a slow count to three, and just when I’m getting ready to rise, Wanda screams, “I said, who’s there?” Meanwhile her nosey cocker spaniel sniffs closer to the hedge and barks like she’s on the trail of bears.
The only good thing I can say about this situation is that I didn’t bring Elvis. He considers every dog in the neighborhood his competition and takes every opportunity to prove his superiority. Not that he’s a fighter, but he does like to lord it over the les
ser dogs.
From this perspective—shivering and cowering on the cold ground—I see that Fayrene’s Santa has company, a pile of Santas with firewood laid in a circle around them. Proof positive that Albert Gordon is planning a big bonfire.
“Lovie, look.”
“All we need are marshmallows.”
Bound for her to think about food at a time like this. A hundred-and-ninety-pound bombshell—and every inch of her generous-hearted—Lovie is going to have a hard time getting back up.
I’m in tiptop shape, but if Wanda doesn’t soon turn off the floodlights, even I will have a hard time rising off the ground. My left leg has a cramp, and my right’s not feeling too perky.
Mercifully I hear her little dog yip as she scoops her up. Her back door slams, her yard goes dark, and I wait for total silence.
Finally I nudge Lovie. “Come on. That was a close call. Let’s get this over with.”
“Thank God I didn’t bean Santa.”
“It could be worse. We could be in handcuffs.”
She grunts, and I roll to my knees, then spring up and sprint toward Albert’s covered back porch. The screen door is open, so I slide through and lean against the wall. Guess who isn’t leaning with me?
“Lovie?” No answer. Holy cow! I backtrack and nearly stumble over her. She’s still sprawled on the ground in pitch blackness.
“Get the backhoe.”
“Good grief, Lovie.” I grab her hand and tug. She rises like Lazarus from the dead, and we race toward the porch. If early events are any indication, this evening is not going to turn out well.
Lovie props her baseball bat against the wall, sticks a hairpin into Albert’s back-door lock and sets to work. My part in all this is playing lookout while I pray for protection from Mother Nature, Mother Theresa, and motherhood.
Lately, my cousin’s had more practice picking locks than I care to think about. We’re inside Albert’s house in record time. Fortunately, he has left lamps burning, so Lovie doesn’t have to use her penlight. Still, I grab her arm before she goes bulldozing through his kitchen.
“The curtains,” I say, then drop to all fours. They’re wide open. All Wanda and Butch have to do is look out their window to see us.