by Peggy Webb
My abrupt change in direction catapults me straight into the arms of my almost-ex. And I don’t want to think about how good it feels to be in his solid presence.
“I’ve got Elvis and the cat under control, Cal. Go see what’s up with Lovie.”
“What about Uncle Charlie? He’s outside with Mama and Miss Sweet Potato.”
Chuckling, he puts his hands on my shoulders and points me in the direction of the séance room. “Charlie and Ruby Nell can handle that. Scoot.”
As I charge toward my cousin, I’d be grateful I no longer hear screeching if I weren’t now hearing what sounds like the battle of Armageddon.
Though Jack would never send me off toward danger, I grab the nearest weapon—a jar of Prego spaghetti sauce.
Holding my weapon aloft, I skid to a stop underneath Santa’s sleigh. I’m sorry to report that Ruldolph and the reindeer have been knocked askew and are now dangling from the ceiling and into Lovie’s bowl of Prohibition Punch.
Standing in front of the punch and clutching a bottle of Kaopectate, Lovie is squared off against none other than the cookie lady/Santa thief. In the perimeter, a crowd starts to gather.
“That’s mine,” Opal Stokes screams at Lovie. “Give it to me.”
“I’m going to give it to you, all right, you hag from hell. If you take another step in the direction of my punch, I’ll sit on you and personally pour the whole bottle down your throat.”
“Lovie, let’s remain calm. I’m sure Mrs. Stokes is open to reason.”
Seizing the opportunity, Opal lunges for freedom. But she doesn’t count on me and my Prego. I tap her upside the head with the spaghetti sauce. Not hard, though. I love justice as much as the next hair stylist, but I draw the line at clocking a senior citizen . . . even if she does steal Santas and put a laxative in the Christmas goodies.
And I certainly don’t intend to get tomato sauce all over my Christian Louboutin boots. Besides, I have an audience.
“Way to go, Cal. That’ll teach her to tamper with my Prohibition Punch.” Lovie grabs the culprit on one side and I grab her on the other. Then she turns her considerable charm on our growing audience. “It’s all over, folks. The punch and cookies are safe. Enjoy!”
With Opal sagging between us, we hustle her into the darkened séance room. I can’t get her out of sight fast enough. Fortunately, I see Uncle Charlie heading our way to smooth-talk the crowd.
I kick the door shut behind us, then lean weak-kneed against it. Opal still has not made one little peep.
“What if I killed her?”
“Good riddance.”
“I’m serious, Lovie.”
“So am I.” She shoulders Opal’s weight. “I’ve got her. Turn on the light. Let’s see what’s going on with this mean old heifer.”
I flick the light switch. In the sudden wash of brightness, Opal looks as white as Santa’s beard. And on the other side of the room, Darlene and Bobby look like two people who have been caught making out.
“Don’t tell Mama,” Darlene says, confirming what I already suspected. There’s more going on with my manicurist and Uncle Charlie’s assistant than sharing horoscopes.
Bobby clears his throat and tugs at his Christmas tie, bright red with sequined snowflakes, probably a gift from Darlene. I’ve never seen him wear anything that would call attention to himself.
“Darlene’s been giving me some moral support.”
“One euphemism is as good as the other.” Lovie winks at Bobby and Darlene—who winks back. Meanwhile, Opal still droops like a blowup Santa that has sprung a leak.
“It looks like Opal won’t be talking for a while, Lovie.”
“Is there a closet in here?”
“Holy cow! We can’t just stuff her in the closet.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“For one thing, she may need medical attention.”
Lovie says a word that makes Bobby blush. “You keep forgetting everything she’s done, Cal. I think she’s capable of murder.”
Darlene’s eyes go wide. In spite of Fayrene being up to her asparagus green zippers in murder, her daughter has been clueless about our sleuthing shenanigans. Until now, of course.
“Don’t tell Jack,” I say.
“Tell me what?”
I jump as if a bomb has detonated under my designer boots. Jack has sneaked in behind me and he feels like a mountain, one brewing up a snowstorm if not an avalanche. Furthermore, he scalds the back of my neck with the hottest kiss this side of X-rated movies.
I melt into my boots, but fortunately Lovie retains her starch.
“Jack, Opal Stokes is the Audubon Christmas thief and the one who served up laxative-laced cookies at the mall. She went after my punch and Callie beaned her with the Prego.”
“Did you, now?” He winks at me, then whips a little vial out of his pocket and holds it under Opal’s nose, and she sputters to life. “She’s not the Santa killer.”
When Jack throws her over his shoulder as if she weighs no more than a snowflake, Opal barely squeaks in protest. “I’ll take care of this. Fayrene’s about to announce the séance.”
“What about Elvis and the cat?”
“Safely stowed, Cal.” He leans down and kisses me as if we have bassinets in our future. “You stay put.”
I couldn’t move if fifteen wild elephants were stampeding my way. Which is not a bad description for the crowd that pours into the séance room shortly after Jack disappears out the back door and Fayrene blares over the loudspeaker up front, “Everybody step right this way. The séance is about to convince.”
I’m convinced, all right. I’ll never get over Jack Jones, no matter how many divorce lawyers I hire.
Elvis’ Opinion # 17 on Sweet Revenge, Getting Busted, and Doing Time
I’ve been busted. But it was worth it to see the look on that stupid cat’s face when he thought I was going to rearrange his tacky fur coat. Sweet revenge for trying to steal my cream pie. That asinine feline was actually relieved when Jack collared him and locked him back in his cage.
Being confined to the cab of Callie’s truck for the duration of the party is not so bad, considering what happened to my arch enemy. Jack hustled that stupid cat to Jarvetis, who took the whole kit and caboodle back home. The odious Mal is now doing hard time.
Take it from a dog who knows. Jarvetis is a redbone hound dog man. His favorite hound dog, and my best friend, Trey reports there’s no love lost between his human daddy and Darlene’s evil-eyed cat. I’ll bet Jarvetis didn’t even give Mal any catnip to ease the pain of prison.
Unlike my human daddy, who apologized profusely for putting me in Callie’s truck and eased my pain considerably with a big hunk chunk of ham and biscuits from Lovie’s refreshment table.
“It won’t be for long, Elvis. I promise. Just behave yourself for a little while, don’t try any tricks, and we’ll all go home together. I promise.”
Now there’s a promise you can hang your hat on. Forget “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.” All I want is my family back together . . . and the biggest pile of gifts under the Christmas tree.
Listen, I’m no Solomon, but whoever said less is more ought to have to spend one night under a bridge in thirty-degree weather. Or try to stretch one bowl of rice over six mouths. Or bathe in a river full of crocodiles.
As I scarf down my ham and biscuits, I’m as thankful as the next dog that I’m warm and dry and safe from sharp-toothed predators. After I root out the crumbs that dropped and lick the remainder off my muzzle, I ensconce my fabulous but grateful backside on the jogging coat Callie sometimes leaves in her truck and watch the crowd as they continue to stream into Gas, Grits, and Guts. There goes Nathan Briggs, the mall’s original Santa, and a good-looking dark-haired woman I’m betting to be his wife, Wendy.
Don’t think I don’t know this guest list from top to bottom. If Jack would let me out of the truck, I’d not only behave myself, I’d have the killer collared before Bobby could
bend over his crystal ball and say, “Abracadabra” or whatever incantation he uses to raise the dead.
Hold the fort. Look who’s hiding behind the gas tanks.
In the shadows, Nelda Lou Perkins lights up a cigarette. Her anger is so palpable it might as well be Pup-Peroni.
Ruby Nell’s instincts are good. It will do to keep an eye on Miss Sweet Potato.
But what’s this I smell? Corky Kelly, the mall’s former elf, the one my human mom and I saw the first day of Santa’s Court. He doesn’t see me, but I could pick up his scent in the middle of the tundra. My hackles stand straight up as he slides through the front door of Gas, Grits, and Guts.
And who’s this creeping up from the woods behind the store? It’s hard to see his face behind all that camouflage paint, but I smell that scent every time Callie and I jog past his house. It’s Albert Gordon, the Santa bonfire man. And he’s loaded to the hilt with weapons.
I’d set up a howl if I thought it would do anything except get me shot. But Jack doesn’t need any warnings. Now that his cast is off and his rival is out of the picture (don’t think Jack doesn’t know that Callie broke up with Champ), my human daddy can handle anything Gordon throws at him.
Well, bless’a my soul. What’s this I hear? Sounds like backup, to me. Barreling in this direction in his big, bad truck (I heard the engine many a time coming to the little cottage on Robins Street) is none other than Rocky Malone. It doesn’t take a betting dog to know he’s coming to crash the party.
I’d give up one of the bones buried in my back yard just to see the look on Lovie’s face when her ex-boyfriend walks through the door.
Fortunately, I don’t have to. Nobody’s going to open this truck door, and my human daddy is on the job. So I settle back on the coat that holds my favorite scent, eau de Callie, and wait for the fireworks that are sure to come.
Chapter 20
Raising the Dead, Jilted Lovers, and Whodunnit
“Everybody, right this way. There’s always room for one more.” Mama sounds like the barker at a side show, which is probably a good description for this so-called séance. Though Bobby is a good man and a capable undertaker, I don’t hold out much hope of his resurrecting the dead.
The Baptists are proving me wrong by pouring into the séance room. Are they here to talk to the dead or to take names for their prayer list? After our public scene over the Prohibition Punch, Lovie and I will be at the top of the list.
On the heels of the locals comes Cleveland White, the mall’s manager. As he files past with Mayor Getty and Junie Mae, Lovie pokes me in the ribs.
“Psst. Over there.”
I look in the direction of her nod and see Corky Kelly in a jovial mood as he chats with Nathan Briggs and a woman who must be his wife. For one thing, Nathan has his arm around her waist. Nathan’s an average-looking man with hair that could use a good trim and a belly that’s beginning to sag. Who’d have thought his wife would be a knockout?
Coming in behind them are Mabel Moffett and her daughter Trixie, all gussied up in red taffeta ruffles and blush that clashes. After her recent jilt from Mooreville’s fertilizer man, she looks like a woman on the prowl.
“If Trixie thinks she’s going to get her claws into Jack, she’s got another think coming.”
I know whispering in public is a tacky thing to do, but I don’t think announcing you’re looking for a killer is socially correct, either.
“Grrr,” Lovie says. “Go get her, tiger.”
“Smarty pants.”
“Yeah, well. If the britches fit . . . I’m not talking about Trixie. Albert Gordon is here.”
Fayrene is already at the light switch, turning the dimmer, but I study the crowd again. Just before the lights get too low to recognize anybody’s face, I spot Albert Gordon skulking around the perimeter in full camouflage.
“He’s got a gun, Lovie,” I whisper. The room is now jam-packed, and even if I yelled, “Has anybody seen Elvis?” it’s now too dark for any of my conspirators to see what I’m talking about.
I grab Lovie’s arm and head in Albert’s direction.
“What are we going to do if we catch him?” she whispers.
“Improvise.”
“I left my Moon Goddess outfit in the jungle.”
I’m glad to see Lovie’s sense of humor is intact. Especially considering that at any minute, we could become Christmas corpses number three and four.
Latecomers are still crowding into the séance room, trying to find a space to stand. As my cousin and I push toward Albert, nobody pays us any attention.
Is Albert after Uncle Charlie? Or Nathan? Or both?
We’re close enough now to smell the grease of Albert’s camouflage paint.
“Have you still got the Prego, Cal?”
“Yes, but I don’t think I can take Albert down with a whack from a plastic bottle.”
Lovie jerks it out of my hands, holds it like a gun, then steps behind Albert, and pokes the plastic cap hard into his back.
“Freeze, sucker,” she snarls in his ear. “I’ve got a gun, and I’m itching to use it. Make my day.”
Holy cow. Who does she think she is? Clint Eastwood? Any minute now I expect Albert to turn around and blow my cousin to Kingdom Come.
Over my dead body.
I step beside Lovie, jerk a bobby pin out of my French twist, and ram it against the side of his throat.
“If you don’t think I’ll slit your throat with this stiletto, think again, buster.”
“Are you broads crazy? I can take both of you out with my bare hands.”
I notice he’s not trying. I’m still congratulating myself on how tough Lovie and I are when Uncle Charlie and Jack materialize right in front of Albert.
“Don’t even think about it,” Jack tells him, then he and Uncle Charlie hustle Albert out without even a scuffle.
“I think I’m going to wet my pants,” Lovie says as they slip out through the back door.
“Not on my designer boots.”
“Shut up.”
My cousin and I collapse against each other in relief. Now that the killer has been caught, we can enjoy the rest of the show.
“Ladies and gentlemen . . .” It’s easy to see why everybody says Fayrene once considered going into show business. She has a voice that can carry all the way to the Alabama state line.
“Close your eyes,” she says. “Let yourself slip into Bolivia.”
A few out-of-towners titter, while the Mooreville crowd remains respectful. Fayrene is their beloved Mrs. Malaprop. They know oblivion when they hear it.
Suddenly the crystal ball in the center of the room lights up. In the eerie glow, Bobby looks almost majestic.
“I present to you . . . psychic extra-ordinarily . . . Bobby Huckabee! ”
As he raises his hands, a hush falls over the crowd. Something hangs over this séance room that puts little shivers along the back of my neck. Lovie squeezes my hand, a signal that she feels it, too.
“Spirits of the universe . . .” Bobby begins to chant in a fluid, ethereal voice that doesn’t sound like the shy young man who rarely strings two sentences together. “Speak to us. Speak to us now.”
The silence feels like a wool cloak. It’s too warm in here, and I’m starting to sweat.
“We implore the dead,” he says, “any old dead.”
I make a mental note to remind him to polish his patter.
Bobby clears his throat. Where are his psychic powers when he needs them most?
“Any old dead will do.” He begins to falter, then I see a hand descend onto his shoulder. Fingernails glowing with silver Christmas stars. Darlene.
“Particularly the newly Christmas dead.” Bobby has regained momentum, and his voice sweeps over us like Moses commanding the Red Sea to part. “Talk to us, Ruldoph the Red-Nosed Reindeer! Speak to us, Santa!”
“Win-dy.” As the hoarse whisper hangs in the overheated room, I’m wondering why the dead would send a weather report. But, frank
ly, I could use a little breeze.
“Windy,” the whisper says again, “Briggs.”
Holy cow. That’s no crazed spirit talking about the weather. That’s a possible killer talking about Wendy Briggs.
I punch Lovie, and we both start creeping in the general direction of the voice.
“Speak!” Bobby’s shouting like a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher at a tent revival. Apparently, success has gone to his head.
“Wendy, you married the wrong man,” the disembodied voice says. “Leave Nathan Briggs before it’s too late.”
Somebody bolts toward the door—probably Nathan with his wife, Wendy—followed by fifty other people who suddenly realize they are not hearing the voice of the dead. It’s bedlam in the dark.
In the noisy stampede, I’m torn away from my cousin. Groping for her hand, I make contact with flesh.
“Lovie?”
“Guess again.” Arms trap me from behind, and suddenly I’m a hostage of the Santa killer. As all the puzzle pieces fall into place, I don’t know whether to scream or wet my pants. Fortunately, my social graces rise to the surface, along with the last grain of bravery I have.
“You don’t have to do this, Corky.”
“You’re too smart for your own good, Miss Jones.” As he wrestles me toward the door, who’s to notice in the rest of the chaos?
“Why did you kill Steve and Wayne?”
“Nathan was not supposed to be home with the flu.”
“And you didn’t know who was behind the beard?”
“Bingo, Miss Jones. Or should I say Mrs.?”
I see my future as being six feet under while Jack walks this life in eternal regret that he left me for a Harley Screaming Eagle.
Still, if I can keep Corky talking till we get outside where the lights are on, somebody will see us and stop him. I hope.
“But why Nathan?”
“He stole her,” Corky screams. “My cousin and best man stole my fiancé at the altar, then rubbed salt in my wounds for fifteen years. Always complaining that I was a bad elf.”
We burst from the shadows of the séance room into the Christmas lights and disco ball trophy brightness of Gas, Grits, and Guts. Mama yells, “He killed Santa and Rudolph. And now he’s got my daughter!”