by Peggy Webb
I sincerely hope I’m right. Actually, it’s not a catfight between Lovie and Wayne’s ex that worries me. It’s the horses.
This is only the second jazz funeral we’ve had at Eternal Rest. The main feature of a jazz funeral, of course, is the cortege to the cemetery. The last time we had used nice, friendly horses from Mama’s farm to pull the hearse. This time, though, the family wanted all-white horses.
Miraculously, Uncle Charlie and Bobby found six white horses, but they came from a two-bit circus camped over in Pontotoc County for a Christmas performance. Apparently, they agreed to one last show before they made their way to winter quarters in Florida.
Although we’re only five blocks from the cemetery, we’re dealing with a lot of unfamiliar elements. Too many cops, two jazz trumpets, two rivals (one already showing the effects of too much punch), and too many strange horses.
On the way up the stairs, I pray to the Heavenly Father, the Holy Mother, and Mother Earth. Just to be on the safe side, I add a little plea to Oprah.
Elvis’ Opinion # 13 Funerals, Faulty Planning, and Farts
Nobody asked my opinion about this funeral. If they had I’d have told them the way dogs do it is much more dignified. No fuss, no eulogies, no public displays. Just go off into the woods, lie down on a soft bed of fragrant pine needles, close your eyes, and say sayonara, which means till we meet again. And if it doesn’t, it ought to.
Dogs know we’ll be coming back around again. If we get lucky we might make it back as a famous singer, and if we don’t, we could come back as a cat. Still, there’s always next time.
But I will have to say in defense of my Valentine family that they know how to put on a funeral. Ruby Nell’s making that organ walk and talk with her jazzy spirituals. Backed by Charlie’s superb trumpet and Bobby’s shaky one, this funeral sounds like it might be taking place in the heart of New Orleans.
Which is where Charlie spent many of his early years. His shady past, I call it. Let me tell you, he picked up a few skills besides trumpet playing, and not all of them you’d want to whistle along to. Strip away his fine suit, his Southern manners, and his community spirit, and he’s not the kind of man you’d want to cross.
The easy part of the funeral is winding down. That would be the indoors part where I get to sit on the pew between my human mom and my human dad with two rows of policemen in the back watching over the proceedings. Looking for a killer.
The Santa killer is here, all right. It didn’t take me three minutes to pick up that scent. It’s the same one I picked up in the robing room at the mall. The killer stalked my human mom and was probably the one stalking Lovie, though I wasn’t here when that happened.
If they’d turn me loose, I’d have the Santa killer collared before the first stupid white horse lets out a fart. And it’s sure to happen. You mark my words. When you’re dealing with big dumb animals, you can expect to get your shoes dirty.
Now if Charlie had found some nice big Saint Bernards to pull the hearse, or even some of those lanky Great Danes, he wouldn’t have a minute’s trouble. But like I said, nobody asked me.
They’re saying the final prayer now, and the pallbearers are putting poor old Wayne up behind a bunch of crazy circus horses. The mourners file out and take their places in a motley parade somewhere south of the business end of the horses, and we clomp off toward the cemetery.
Wayne’s ex starts bawling like a newborn calf. If looks could kill, the one Lovie shoots her way would fell her on the spot. The next thing I know, Lovie has pulled out a handkerchief and is trying to out-bawl the Queen of Mourn.
All over the neighborhood, dogs take up the howl. If I weren’t so busy taking care of Callie and trying to keep order on the street and keeping my nose to the ground for the scent of a killer, I’d march my iconic self across a few fences and teach those lesser dogs a lesson. They’ve got such a poor grasp of funeral protocol, this is either their first time around or they’ve been reincarnated from cats.
“Do something,” Ruby tells Charlie, and he puts his trumpet to his lips to drown out the dogs with a rip-roaring rendition of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
I guess circus horses are used to this kind of ruckus, because for two blocks they lead this jazz funeral as smoothly as I led my former recording sessions.
Looks like I’m going to have to eat my words.
Suddenly shots ring out. Or so everybody seems to believe. Mourners scream, and Jack pulls Callie and Lovie to the pavement. Then he and the cops take off in the direction of the shots.
The horses rear up on their hind legs, the hearse tilts, and the deceased shoots out the back door. Bless’a my soul. There goes Wayne rolling down the street in a runaway casket. Who knows? Maybe he didn’t like jazz as much as Lovie thought.
Mourners leap out of the way, and Lovie says a word that’s going to get her on the prayer list of every church in town, while Charlie tries to rein in the horses.
“I’ve got him,” Bobby yells.
With his lanky legs pumping double time and his psychic eye jumping, Eternal Rest’s assistant undertaker single-handedly collars the late mall Santa Claus. Who’d have thought it?
Ruby Nell leads the applause. Then as Charlie and Bobby load Wayne back into the hearse, Lovie says, “That Wayne! What will he do next? He was always a show-off.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd, Wayne’s ex gives Lovie the evil eye, and yours truly helps herd everybody back in line so the procession can continue. Callie helps, of course, but I’m the one in charge.
One of the things I do is prance around Wayne’s family (not his silly ex-wife, but his only brother and his ancient mother). Looking adorable and cuddly, I frolic around them long enough to satisfy myself they’re not going to sue Charlie. If I have to, I’ll be the first one to remind the family that this jazz funeral was free.
Meanwhile, my human mom keeps searching the crowd for signs of my human daddy. She might as well settle down and enjoy the rest of the show. Jack won’t be back till he’s collared the one who fired the so-called shots.
With Charlie and Bobby on either side of the horses doing a trumpet duet of Dixieland jazz and making sure there are no further incidents, we finally arrive at the cemetery. Mostly in one piece, though I imagine Wayne’s attempted getaway has him “All Shook Up.”
As the crowd gathers around the open grave, Fayrene can be heard all over the block telling Ruby Nell, “The infirma-ment is my favorite part.”
Let the malapropisms roll is what I say. Anything to keep Callie’s mind off the fact that Jack and most of the cops are still missing and the crowd’s collective mind off the fact that there’s a murderer loose in the graveyard.
The scent is coming from the direction of a massive monument featuring an angel comforting Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. If Callie would let me off this leash I’d corner the Santa killer, and everybody could go back to shopping and baking Christmas cookies and bickering over whose turn it is to feed the in-laws.
Well, bless’a my soul. Here comes Jack. Callie perks up like she’s been trapped in a dark room and he knows the whereabouts of the only light.
He takes her elbow, then leans down to whisper, “Kids with firecrackers.”
I could have told them that in the first place. Discharged guns don’t smell a thing like firecrackers. But nobody bothered to ask me.
If I’d come back as Marie Antoinette, I’d say, Let them eat cake.
Now I say, Ignorance is not bliss. But it takes a dog of my intelligence to figure that out.
Chapter 16
Bogus Massage, Free Cuts, and Suspecting Caine
After yesterday’s fiasco at the jazz funeral, I let myself in early at Hair.Net. I like to have time to relax and center myself before my clients start arriving.
I love the small rituals of morning. First, I make coffee in the break room just the way I like it, dark with a touch of New Orleans French Market–style chicory, plenty of cream added, no sugar. While the cof
fee is brewing I select a stack of Christmas CDs to set the mood.
I love to collect coffee mugs, so the next part of my ritual is selecting exactly the right one for the day. Today’s mug features a Native American sacred white buffalo and the advice to listen to my inner voice.
I pride myself on doing that, but it’s always good to have a reminder. I settle behind my desk with my special mug of coffee and the newspaper while Elvis settles onto his pillow nearby.
An item in the police report section leaps out at me: Police foiled an attempted burglary at Nathan Briggs’ home at 613 Highland Circle. Nothing was reported stolen. The culprit fled and was not apprehended.
Was the so-called burglary a cover for a killer after the mall’s original Santa? Is Uncle Charlie still in danger?
I’m getting ready to call him when the phone on my desk rings.
“Abel Caine,” a deep voice says. “May I speak with Miss Jones?”
I’m so startled I almost drop the phone. One, that he’s finally calling. Two, that he sounds like a Southern gentleman instead of an ex-con.
“Speaking.”
Abel wants to come in for his free haircut and massage. Today, if possible.
I don’t have time to consult Lovie. Racking my brain to think of her catering schedule, I tell him, “Two o’clock.”
If my cousin can’t be here to do the massage, I’ll do it myself. After all, Darlene will be here to oversee my shop full of clients. Among them will be Mama, coming in to get her hair dyed red for Christmas. She changes hair color more often than some people change socks.
Thank goodness, her appointment is not until four. Abel Caine will be long gone by then.
If necessary, I can ask Jack to spend an hour or two at Hair.Net. He and Uncle Charlie are the only two people who can keep Mama in line. Besides, he’d be handy if Abel has more on his mind than a few freebies.
Lately, I’ve been seeing how Jack is handy for many things—running a hot tub, making Mayan chocolate, bringing in the Christmas tree. But I’m not going to dwell on that.
I’m also not going to dwell on the fact that he’s accessible because he’s still at my house. I’ll think about that someday when catching a killer has not just shot to the top of my to-do list.
As soon as I hang up after my chat with Abel, I call Lovie with the latest development. She lets forth a string of words that would measure way up there on the Richter scale.
“It can’t be that bad, Lovie.”
“I was going to be cooking casseroles for tonight’s city-wide preachers’ dinner.”
“That’s okay. I can handle this.”
“Forget it, Lone Ranger. All I need to keep a bunch of preachers happy is a long-winded blessing and plenty of fried chicken. I’ll be there.”
I’m relieved. No matter what kind of trouble Lovie and I get into, we’re always in it together.
The bell over my shop door tinkles, and I go up front to greet my first client, Roy Jessup from Mooreville Feed and Seed, who says he’s looking to change his style.
He’s either out to impress his fiancé or he’s broken up with her and is out to impress somebody new. But since he’s closemouthed and I don’t pry, it will remain his secret. Unless one of Mooreville’s gossips arrives to ferret the truth out of him.
My shop bell tinkles again, and in walks Mama.
“I thought I’d come early.”
If Roy weren’t sitting in my chair, I’d point out that seven hours before her appointment is not Mama being early. It’s Mama being nosey. She can sniff out my plans faster than I can make them, especially if they’re something I don’t want her to know. She ought to be a basset hound.
Still, there’s something reassuring about the thought of Mama swooping around in her gold caftan while an ex-con is loose in my shop. Especially if Abel Caine has murder on his mind.
“Just make yourself at home, Mama.” As if she needs an invitation.
She gets a stack of magazines, ensconces herself on my hot-pink loveseat as though it’s her personal throne, then proceeds to grill Roy about his love life.
He turns out to be full of surprises. It turns out he’s “split the sheet with Trixie Moffett,” his words, and is “catting around,” a direct quote. Who would have thought Mooreville’s mild-mannered feed and seed guy was such a Romeo?
Around noon, black thunderclouds turn the shop gloomy, so I go around switching on all the lights. In spite of the impending storm, everybody who comes in for my beautifying touch is full of Christmas spirit and the latest gossip. By the time Lovie arrives, I’ve almost forgotten our appointment with a suspect.
“What are you doing here, Lovie?” Trust Mama.
“Same as you, Aunt Ruby Nell. Looking for trouble.”
I give Lovie a high five behind Mama’s back. It might be my last victory for a long time. Abel Caine has just walked through the door. Though I haven’t seen him since Katrina, I’d know that arrogant swagger and pock-marked face anywhere.
Abel Caine looks like disaster walking. His nose has a hump in the middle, probably where it was broken, and sits slightly off-center. His eyes are small and too close-set, and he has a haircut so ugly it would make less-talented hair stylists cringe.
Both Elvis and Darlene’s little Lhasa Apso William get their hackles up. If I were a dog, I’d have mine up, too.
I nod to Lovie, who whisks the pets off and shuts them up in my office. The last thing I need is Elvis picking a fight with a man who looks like he could break a dog in half with one hand and rip out his liver with the other.
Thank goodness, Lovie stays in the back. It won’t do for Abel to become suspicious of her even before she starts masquerading as somebody who knows her way around a male body for reasons that we will not talk about.
“I’ll want my massage first,” he says.
Mama’s eyebrows shoot up, and I escort him toward the back before she can open her mouth. Thank goodness, Lovie has turned the lights down low, lit candles, lined up the scented oils, and is waiting beside the rented massage table.
I think we’d pass for the real deal.
“I’m going to leave you in the capable hands of my masseuse,” I tell him. “Afterward, I’ll see you in my chair for your free haircut. Just give a yell if you need anything.”
He says, “Okay,” but I’m talking more to Lovie than to Abel Caine.
I’m reluctant to leave her alone and even more reluctant to face the music with Mama.
“Since when do you have a masseuse?” she says the minute I get back up front.
“Didn’t I tell you, Mama? Before I decided what all I’m going to do with the back room, I’m experimenting with a rented massage table.”
“No, you did not.”
“Well, I thought I did.”
“Carolina, if you’re implying I’m senile, you can just get off that high horse right now.”
Darlene is all ears. And so is Wanda Jenkins, who obviously came in for her manicure while I was in the back with Lovie and Abel. Before Mama and I started our argument, Wanda was holding forth on Mooreville’s semi-famous TV weatherman as if her husband was God’s gift to meteorology.
Now she says, “Oh, I like the idea of a massage table, Callie. That way I won’t have to drive all the way over to Tupelo.”
“I know somebody who does body art.” Darlene is dead serious.
“I can’t picture any of my clients wanting a tattoo.”
“Who’s the masseuse?” Mama says.
If I’m not careful, she’s going to blow this undercover operation before it even gets started. I turn my back squarely toward Darlene, who is now consulting today’s horoscopes, and Wanda, who is bound to want something different no matter what the stars say.
“Mama.” I speak so loud Mama drops her magazine. I bend over and get it off the floor, and when I hand it to her, I wink.
She’s nobody’s dummy. She winks back and announces in a tone that queens would do well to imitate, “You need to com
e with me to the kitchen and make me a snack. That pimento sandwich I had for lunch is long gone.”
Mama’s up to something. She knows her way around my beauty shop kitchen as well as I do. When she’s here, she fixes whatever she wants to eat, anytime she wants it.
I follow her into the kitchen, put my fingers over my lips, and close the door. There’s no sense taking chances that private information will fall on the wrong ears.
“You and Lovie are barking up the wrong tree with that Caine character.”
“Why do you say that, Mama?”
“Because Nelda Lou Perkins is the killer.”
Mama could be right. Nelda’s secret photo album of Uncle Charlie, her dislike of her son-in-law, and her ease with a lethal weapon point strongly in that direction. Still, we have no hard evidence.
“Do you know something I don’t, Mama?”
“I know plenty you don’t, but you never bother to ask my advice. You’re bullheaded, just like Michael.”
Michael Valentine was my daddy and the love of my mother’s life. He died when I was just a little girl, and no man will ever hold a candle to him in my book or Mama’s. Of course, we don’t include Uncle Charlie in the comparison. He and Daddy were brothers, both beloved for their own reasons.
“Well, I’m asking now, Mama. What do you know about this case that I don’t?” I open the refrigerator door and find a pack of Twinkies, one for Mama and one for me. Lunch was rushed and all this stress is making me hungry.
“I heard everything Charlie told the cops.”
“When was this?”
“After he got out of the hospital. They came to his apartment to talk to him.”
“And you eavesdropped?”
“Naturally.”
“You go, Mama.” I give her a high five.
“Get this. Nelda Lou hated Ruldolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’s guts.”
“Steve Boone? Why?”
“It’s a long story with no substance, and it goes all the way back to when her husband had an account with Tupelo Hardware. She’s a grudge holder. Always has been, always will be. And get this, her husband was an electrical engineer.”