Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse

by Peggy Webb

  Elvis growls, and I cock my ear toward the direction my cousin disappeared, but I don’t hear a single thing. Old houses are like that. So well insulated a murderer could sneak up behind you and you wouldn’t even hear him or her coming. Fortunately for my peace of mind, Nelda Lou’s gun is lying beside the sofa. If I have to, I can get to it before she does.

  Elvis growls again, and I head in his direction, squat, and put my hand on his head.

  “What’s the matter, boy?”

  At this level I suddenly I spot the edge of a tattered-looking album through a crack in the half-shut drawer on the front of a marble-topped table. I pull it out, open the cover, and there is my uncle, sitting in his fishing boat with his old straw hat pulled down over his eyes. The next photo shows him sitting on the front porch swing at Mama’s farm, both of them sipping from glasses. In another, Uncle Charlie is striding into Eternal Rest.

  I flip through page after page of these photos, most of them grainy, all of them obviously unposed and probably shot with a telephoto lens.

  Elvis rumbles deep in his throat, and I shove the album back into place just in the nick of time. The Shrimp Queen returns with a cup of egg nog. Lovie follows along behind her, carrying a cup and looking guilty. As well she should. She didn’t even warn me. If it weren’t for Elvis, I would have been caught red-handed.

  “Here ya’ll go.” Nelda Lou presses a cup into my hands and taps hers against it. “To a successful Little Miss Tupelo Toddler Christmas pageant. Bottoms up.”

  I picture myself dead on the floor in this musty room in a tacky sequined gown that doesn’t even flatter my complexion. The best I can hope for is that at the very least, Lovie made sure this egg nog came straight from the carton and the Shrimp Queen didn’t lace it with something lethal.

  I take the tiniest sip possible, though I think that’s all it takes to kill you with poison. Instantly, heat rushes into my face. Any minute now I’m going to fall dead on the floor. And not even Elvis can help me.

  I notice him sidling toward Nelda Lou with a leg-lifting gleam in his eyes.

  “Well! That about does it!” Surprised to find that I’m still upright and talking in exclamation points, I grab Lovie’s arm and drag her toward the door. “Thanks for your help, Nelda Lou. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Oh, ya’ll do. Beauty pageants are my specialty!”

  We hotfoot it toward the door. Any minute our hostess could lift that shotgun and blow us to Kingdom Come. When we make it to the front porch, I grab my dog and practically toss him onto the seat of my Dodge.

  Still, Nelda Lou’s standing in her doorway with one hand behind her back. Is she holding the shotgun? She could blow out my tires.

  “Act natural, Callie.”

  “I’m trying.”

  Instead of gunning the engine, I make myself back sedately out of her driveway. Nelda is still watching. Lovie gives her a toothy beauty queen smile and even the beauty queen wave. I fear sleuthing has stolen her brain cells.

  “I hope you’re still pretending, Lovie.”

  She says a word that flattens the natural body in my hair. The sequined comb slides out and thumps Elvis on the head, and he takes umbrage by chomping it into bits.

  My feathers just fall. I don’t want to be doing any of this. I want to be home thinking about going down to Mama’s farm to get a Christmas tree.

  Finally, out of sight of the Shrimp Queen and her fishy goings-on, I shoot through the brick entrance to Highland Circle and straight into the radar of a waiting cop.

  “Well, well. What are you two beauty queens up to tonight besides exceeding the speed limit?”

  “Look, officer . . .”

  Oh, shoot. Lovie’s trying to sweet-talk my way out of a ticket. All I want is to get out of Highland Circle and out of these ridiculous sequins.

  He’s unimpressed by her spiel or her cleavage, and I end up handing over my license. While he calls it in, my sequins start to itch, and I’m certain I’m getting a rash.

  Six years and an ulcer later, at the very least, he’s back leaning in my window, handing over my license. “Miss Callie Valentine Jones. So you say you’ve been to a Christmas party in the neighborhood?”

  I didn’t, but Lovie did, and it sounds like as good a lie as any.

  “Yes, officer.”

  “Who was at this party?”

  “Nelda Lou Perkins’ friends, of course.”

  “Did you happen to run into Nathan Briggs?”

  “We didn’t actually stay long enough to mingle.”

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally. We just had a quick cup of Christmas egg nog with Miss Nela Lou Perkins.”

  Thank goodness neither of us had more than a sip, because this officer is definitely looking for signs of intoxication. And maybe more. Maybe he’s looking for the Santa killer and thinks Nathan Briggs is the next target.

  Sweat rolls from under my falling-down French twist while he scribbles on his pad. Finally he rips off a speeding ticket and hands it to me.

  There goes a chunk of my Christmas gift budget. The only good thing I can say about this evening is that I’m not dead from poisoned egg nog.

  As I creep off, a former Talladega Speedway driver turned snail, I tell Lovie about the hidden pictures of Uncle Charlie.

  “The Shrimp Queen’s been stalking Daddy?”

  “Yes, but has she also been killing?”

  Elvis’ Opinion #11 on Gluttony, Noble Sacrifice, and Bad Plans

  Once again, I saved the day. If it hadn’t been for me back there in that ostentatious house with the silly, uncomfortable furniture, my human mom would be facing the business end of Nelda Lou’s gun, trying to explain why she was snooping in the Shrimp Queen’s private property.

  Furthermore, if they’d let me handle the cop, we’d be cruising along now seventy-five dollars richer and a whole lot more cheerful. Let me tell you, in my heyday as a gorgeous, blue-eyed icon in a tight jumpsuit, I’ve charmed many a cop out of speeding tickets with a humble attitude and an offer of a private tour of Graceland.

  I can still do humble. I don’t like it, but I can still do it.

  Be that as it may, we’re creeping five miles below the speed limit along the dark streets of Tupelo now while Lovie and my human mom rehash the evening. Both agree that Nelda Lou is firmly on the suspect list, but they’re still leaning toward breaking and entering into Abel Caine’s house.

  “When God Calls Me Home,” is what I say. No canine protector worth his Pup-Peroni is going to let his human mom enter the den of an ex-con. Not while he draws a breath.

  I put my handsome head over on Callie’s lap while I ponder the best way to keep her out of harm. Of course, I could tell Jack. We dogs have our ways. And my human dad is quick to read my signals. But he won’t be out of his cast for a while, which means yours truly must once again come to the rescue.

  While I’m cogitating, Callie and Lovie are discussing Lovie’s ever-present man trouble.

  “I can’t believe Wayne was actually dating me and his ex-wife at the same time. Do you think that old Perkins heifer was telling the truth?”

  “Even if she was, you have nothing to worry about, Lovie. While you were in the kitchen, I saw plenty of pictures. The ex-wife doesn’t hold a candle to you. Her hair is tacky.”

  Callie crawls past the Bancorp South Coliseum and turns the truck east toward Mooreville.

  “Anyhow, Lovie, what does it matter? He’s gone.”

  “Do you think she’ll come to his funeral?”

  “Probably. But don’t worry about it. It’ll be on your turf. You can put a little extra vodka in the Prohibition Punch for the reception, and she won’t even know you’re there.”

  “Amen,” is what I say. That’s the way my family kicks butt. With brains and a whole lot of attitude. And I’ll have to say, I’m the one responsible for the latter. Listen, when you’re living with an iconic dog you learn a thing or two.

  Callie finally arrives back at Hair.
Net, where we all go inside to change our clothes. For me, this a simple matter of letting Callie remove the red Christmas bow from my collar. I thought about keeping it on since this is the season and all, but I decided a dog of my stature doesn’t have to resort to ostentation to be noticed. My striking figure and noble nose are enough to do the trick.

  “Good job, Elvis.” She pats my head and rewards me with a large Milk Bone. I trot off and lie down on my silk pillow for some much-deserved rest while she and Lovie ditch sequins and return to normal garb.

  Lovie doesn’t even wash off her pancake makeup, but my human mom removes every trace of her evening of skullduggery. Jack can spot evidence of guilt a mile away.

  As Lovie leaves, she calls out, “See you in the morning at ten. My house.”

  Theirs is a bad plan and it’s not happening. Not on my watch. Listen, I’m a dog with a brilliant mind and an even more amazing plan. In the morning while Callie and Jack are still sleeping, I’m going to sneak into the kitchen and eat every one of the Christmas cookies. You may call it gluttony, but I call it a noble sacrifice.

  My digestive tract is not what it used to be. Three years ago I could eat a bowl of dog chow, paw open a bag of Pup-Peroni and eat the whole thing, then go out in the back yard and dig up an old sandwich that stupid cocker spaniel Hoyt hadn’t found, and I’d never even fart. Now, I can count on of a bunch of forbidden fat and sugar giving me a big bellyache. And with my acting skills, I can make it look worse than it is.

  By the time I finish my performance, my human mom will be so concerned about me, breaking into the home of a shady character like Abel Caine won’t even be on her radar.

  Callie locks the beauty shop, and we climb back into her Dodge Ram for the short drive home. She sighs when she sees the house all lit up, and I can tell you, chapter and verse, what she’s thinking. Before you start believing I have a psychic eye like Bobby, let me put your mind at ease. Dogs know these things about our humans. We can read body language and interpret nonverbal sounds and smell things like dishonesty, evil intent, and a body turning on itself with disease. We can even read auras. Or, as Fayrene would so famously say, auroras.

  My human mom was hoping Jack would be in bed and she wouldn’t have to explain where she’d been all evening.

  “Come on, boy.”

  She lifts me from the truck and stops to admire the little wire reindeer glowing with tiny blue lights on her front lawn. Finally, she heaves a big sigh, then climbs the porch steps. The minute she opens the front door I smell cedar.

  Callie comes to a complete halt, and I can feel her whole attitude change. Sitting in the corner of the living room, lit only by the glow of lamps, is a six-foot cedar tree, its branches bare, it roots balled in burlap just the way Callie likes.

  “Oh.” She just stands there, taking in the scent of Christmas.

  Jack strolls into the room, his hands in his pockets, acting casual when yours truly can plainly see he’s uncertain.

  “Do you like it, Cal?”

  “I love it.” She walks around the tree, still hanging onto me like I’m the most important dog in the world. Which I am. “I can’t believe it. How did you do it, Jack?”

  “Jarvetis took me down to Ruby Nell’s farm and dug it up for me. I can replant it after Christmas.”

  Jack doesn’t do throwaway lines. He’s checking to see how Callie reacts to the fact that he’s planning to be around even after his cast comes off.

  “Thank you, Jack,” is what she finally says, then she puts me down and unhooks my leash.

  My human mom and dad just stand there looking at each other. I’d do an impromptu performance of “Are You Lonesome Tonight,” but it’s a bit too obvious. Subtle dog that I am, I lick Callie on her ankle, a small reminder that every living thing needs a little TLC.

  She takes the hint and strolls toward my human daddy, then kisses him lightly on the cheek.

  It’s not “Baby, Let’s Play House,” but for Jack it’s enough. I can see his face as he watches her climb the stairs, and let me tell you, things are looking up around the Valentine/Jones household. If this works out as well as I think it will, I’m liable to hang out my shingle: MARRIAGE COUNSELOR EXTRAORDINAIRE, ELVIS IS IN.

  Chapter 14

  Cookie Caper, Chocolate Trouble, and Raising Caine

  I wake up in a tangled wad with my covers twisted around my waist and the nagging feeling that something is wrong. The pillow on the other side of the bed is empty, so at least that is okay. Last night, as much as I was tempted to scoot across the hall and make up with Jack, I shored up my resolve and refused to let a naked Christmas tree in my living room be the deciding factor on taking back a man who has made it clear he’ll never be a father.

  Turning on the lamp, I grab my pink plush robe and head to the bathroom. It’s not until I’m finished my bath that I start to wonder why Elvis is missing. He loves to lounge on the bathroom rug while I soak in a hot tub. I think he views all that steam as a sort of doggie spa.

  With Jack in the house, though, his absence is not unusual. Elvis probably padded across the hall and is curled up in bed with him. I run a comb through my damp hair, jump into a pair of navy sweats with Frosty the Snowman on the front of the shirt, then go barefoot across the hall and tap on Jack’s door.

  “Jack? Are you awake?”

  “Come in, Cal.”

  He emerges from the guest bath, naked from the waist up. I have to take several deep breaths before I can remember what I came to say.

  “Is Elvis here?”

  “I thought he was with you.”

  “No. He’s usually right by my bed on his pillow.”

  “What about Hoyt?”

  “Come to think of it, he wasn’t on his pillow, either.”

  “Don’t worry, Cal. They’re probably in the kitchen chowing down. Or maybe they’ve already gone outside. It’s a beautiful morning.”

  Jack’s right. I have no reason to panic. Why wouldn’t Elvis and Hoyt use the doggie door? Elvis loves to sit on the gazebo in the sun and watch Hoyt trying to play with the cats.

  “I guess all that business in Santa’s Court has me on edge.”

  I head down the stairs to put on coffee and leave Jack in his room putting on a shirt. I hope. It would be just like him to come bare-chested into the kitchen and take my mind off coffee. Still, having him here is reassuring, but I’m not going to let myself get used to it. Soon he’ll be getting his cast off and leaving.

  After Lovie and I see what we can find at Abel Caine’s house today, maybe we’ll to go to Magnolia Manor and air out Jack’s apartment. It’s not anywhere you’d want to live in the first place. Old. Tacky. On a treeless lot. The least I can do is let in a fresh breeze.

  I round the corner of the kitchen and spot Elvis sprawled in the middle of the floor, napping.

  “I’m glad to see you, boy.” He sits up, but without his usual sass, and when I squat beside him, he actually moans. Then I spot his distended belly and start screaming Jack’s name.

  “Cal!” Jack’s crutches clatter on the stairs, and I figure the next thing that happens will be my ex breaking his neck.

  “I’m okay, Jack. It’s Elvis.”

  No sooner are the words out of my mouth than Jack is standing in the doorway with a lethal weapon drawn.

  “Holy cow, Jack! Put that thing down.”

  He ignores me. Stepping around the pile in the middle of the floor that just so happens to be me with Elvis in my lap, Jack stalks through the kitchen and around the corner to the utility room. In minutes he’s back with Hoyt limp in his arms.

  “Looks like these two got into the Christmas cookies, Cal.”

  Evidence is everywhere, a chair shoved up against the cabinet, the cookie jar overturned, crumbs scattered all over the floor. If I hadn’t been so upset about Elvis, I’d have seen that earlier.

  I jump up and grab the kitchen phone. “Champ? I’ve got two dogs who ate some chocolate chip cookies. What should I do?”


  “Bring them in, and don’t worry. They’ve probably done no harm except for a big bellyache.”

  The minute I hang up the phone, Jack says, “What happened to our regular vet?”

  “He’s old and not very cute.”

  I know this is not a nice thing to say, but I’m in no mood for nice. If Jack will care to remember, he’s been gone a long time. There is no our regular vet. There is no our anything.

  Besides, he knows good and well I’ve been taking my animals to Champ. And that lethal weapon in his hand is part of the reason. He’s the one who chose chasing criminal elements over life in Mooreville deciding which vet to use.

  “Are you going to stand there with a Glock in your hand or are you going to help me get my dogs to the truck?”

  He glances from me to the gun as if both of us have suddenly sprouted horns. Let him wonder how I know the name of his weapon.

  “You’re too upset to drive.” He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and starts punching in numbers.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling Lovie.”

  “Stop it. She’s catering a Christmas breakfast for the Civi-tans.” I march past my ex and scoop up Hoyt. “Just get out of my way, Jack. I can take care of myself and my dogs without your help, thank you very much.”

  Jack picks Elvis up and storms along behind me. He doesn’t say a single word till we get to the front porch.

  “It’s thirty-five degrees, Cal.”

  “When I want a weather report I’ll ask for one.”

  “You might consider putting one some shoes.”

  Well, shoot. I forgot that I’m barefoot. Totally ignoring him, I step onto the cold frost-covered grass. But I refuse to shiver.

  “Unless you’re partial to frostbite.” He’s chuckling. I ought to slap him.

  “For your information, if I get frostbite in the next three minutes I’ll go down in the Guinness World Records.”

  Besides, my concern is not my feet; it’s my dogs. Stashing Hoyt on the seat, I race past Jack, who is placing Elvis in the truck. In the house, I step into cute L.L.Bean wool clogs, grab a blanket, and race back to the truck. Jack is still there, leaning over my pets and reassuring them with such tenderness I almost weep.