by Peggy Webb
The women spend the next thirty minutes fetching ice from the machine. Guess who catches them in her headlights?
“Yoohoo!” Doris bails out of her car and waves. “Where’re y’all going with so much ice?”
“Dancing makes me thirsty,” Ruby Nell says.
“I didn’t even see you on the dance floor.” Doris still has her headlights trained on Ruby Nell and Fayrene, lighting them up like up like they’re on a Broadway stage.
“Who made you the Gestafia?” Fayrene turns her back on Doris and marches back into the house.
“Well, I never!”
“Don’t worry about it, Doris. She’s just tired. Good night.”
“You could invite me over for a drink.”
Ruby Nell heads toward the door as if she didn’t hear.
“How’s Jarvetis?” Doris yells after her.
Ruby Nell pretends she didn’t hear that, either, but the minute she gets inside she races into the colorful cadaver’s bedroom and checks to see that there is not a crack showing in the curtains.
“That woman’s going to be trouble.”
“You may just have to give her an ultomato, Ruby Nell.”
“Don’t think I won’t.” Ruby Nell’s so busy packing the body with ice she doesn’t hear the stealthy footsteps outside the window.
I get my hackles up and growl to show the intruders I’m their worst nightmare.
“Ruby Nell, what’s got into that basket hound?”
The footsteps have stopped, but I can smell trouble. I give a sharp bark and try to prance between Ruby Nell and the window, but my prince pants hamper my usual slick moves.
“Somebody’s out there, Fayrene.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Grab a weapon and come on.”
“What about him?” Fayrene points to the corpse.
“He’ll have to fend for himself.”
Ruby Nell streaks by and grabs the first thing she can get her hands on. Let me tell you, Tinkerbell with a fire poker is not somebody you’d want to mess with. I could say the same thing for Peter Pan and that big cast iron skillet she nabbed from the kitchenette.
“Quiet now.” Ruby Nell eases open the front door and the three of us creep outside and peer around the corner of the house.
Well, bless’a my soul. If it’s not the pirates they’d clocked at the dance. There’re huddled outside the bedroom window trying to see inside where the recently dead is resting on ice.
“It’s him,” the tall pirate says. “I know it is.”
“What’s he doing here with these crazy broads?”
Big mistake, buddy! Ruby Nell and Fayrene charge forward with raised weapons.
“Who are you calling a crazy broad?” Callie’s mama aims her poker like a javelin and misses by a mile, but Fayrene wades into the fray, swinging her skillet. The whack of metal against bone rings through the night.
“Wash your mouth out, you crack shot, or somebody’s going to be saying your urology.”
“Run!”
The two pirates race off into the dark, leaving everybody happy except our next door neighbor. Doris’ screen pops open and she yells, “What’s all this racket? I’m trying to sleep.”
“Go back to bed, Doris,” Ruby Nell calls to her. “It was just me, fighting a nightmare.”
“Most people do that inside the house.”
Fayrene trots into the light, her skillet in full view. “You’d be out here, too, if the sperm of Satan was after you. Go back to the house, yourself, Doris.”
“Well, I never! The nerve of some people!” Our nosey neighbor slams back into her cottage while this fine four-legged prince leads Tinkerbell and Peter Pan to safety.
“Good boy, Elvis.” Ruby Nell takes off my prince suit, which is fine by me. I do my little shake, rattle and roll dance, and she opens the door to let me back out, which would have been great if she hadn’t said, “Go potty.”
What kind of world-famous icon has to go potty? If I didn’t know my own stellar characters and high standing in the Valentine family, I’d take offense. As it is, I sniff around till I find the perfect spot for taking care of business. Afterward, I go into full canine detective mode, ears alert and nose to the ground.
What’s this I smell? It’s a sneaky pirate scent, and I follow it all the way down the block to the big black Cadillac. The windows are dark, but this dog with a nose can tell you that the two pirates who tried to discover the identity of our cadaver are sitting inside their car discussing things that raise the hair on my fabulous head.
“He’s alive,” one of the pirates says.
“No, he ain’t. How could he be?”
“You saw him plain as day walking up the beach with those two silly broads. I tell you, he’s still kicking.”
The big Cadillac engine roars to life but not before my radar ears pick up their last comment.
“Diamond ain’t gonna like it.”
Bless’a my soul. The only Diamond I know is Jim “Diamond” Powell, head of a mob family that works the Gulf Coast. He’s got his finger in every gambling establishment along the shoreline. The last time I encountered him, I was riding sidecar on Jack’s motorcycle, and Diamond was hot footing it down Mexico way.
I don’t even attempt to follow the pirate’s car. These short basset legs are useless for tailing a car. Now if I’d been sent back as a greyhound that would be another story. Still, not everybody has the honor of coming back as a noble hound.
I throw back my head and howl at the stars, just on general principals, and then I trot my handsome self back to the cottage door and bark. Ruby Nell lets me and I lie down on my pink guitar-shaped satin pillow, satisfied that I’ve done my usual stellar job of protecting the Valentines and company. Jack would be proud of me. He’ll probably give me a handsome reward when he hears about it.
I lay my famous head down and dream about t-bone steaks.
If you think breakfast on the screened-in porch is fun, think again. Not even the pod of dolphins cavorting in the waves beyond the beach can make this al fresco meal turn out a bit better.
For the first time in this dog’s life, I’ve lost my appetite. Meanwhile, the two who hatched up this scheme are sitting on the other side of the porch, Ruby Nell in a hot pink caftan sprinkled with yellow roses, and Fayrene in a chenille robe the color of lettuce, drinking coffee and acting like this is any ordinary day on the Gulf Coast.
“Yoo Hoo!”
It’s Beauty without her ball gown, her yellow hair all done up in pink foam rollers, rushing toward us like her tacky orange duster is on fire. Somebody ought to give her a few lessons in color coordination. Doris stops just short of the porch and does a double take. “Oh, hey, Jarvetis. It’s nice to see you enjoying the sun.”
Nice is not the word I’d use to describe “Jarvetis.” He’s wearing aviator sunglasses and enough pancake makeup to cover his purple face. And I don’t even want to think how Ruby Nell and Fayrene got him into those neon Bermuda shorts and that lit-up Hawaiian shirt. Judging by the sounds coming from the spare bedroom this morning, I’d say, the hard way.
All in all, though, he looks natural sitting there in a wicker wing chair with a coffee cup on the table beside him and an open book clutched between his stiff fingers. Still, if he returns Doris’ greeting, I’m lighting out of here. By the time I get to Phoenix, this will all be nothing but a bad dream.
“We missed you at the dance last night, Jarvetis!” Doris shouts. “Of course, I was the bell of the ball. But your wife is nobody’s slouch. Her Peter Pan outfit was a close second to my Beauty. And, oh the food was amazing. But what can you expect with all those outstanding chefs?”
Doris finally has to stop and catch her breath, but it’s only the lull before the storm.
“I’ll have to say this for you, Jarvetis. You sure are a good listener. I think I’ll join you for coffee.”
Ruby Nell bolts to block the screen door. “He’s got laryngitis. You’d better not come any closer.”
/> “Laryngitis is not catching.” Doris keeps on coming.
“Jarvetis threw up all night. I think he’s got some kind of awful virus.”
“Then, what’s he doing outside?” She tries to peer around Ruby Nell, who shifts to block her new line of vision.
“He thought a little fresh air and sunshine might do him good.” Callie’s mama turns to give Fayrene a look, and she rises to the occasion.
“Jarvetis, honey,” she croons to the cadaver. “Let me get you some fresh coffee.”
She grabs his cup and swishes back inside. Doris is still standing out there on the beach like the poison ivy league while Ruby Nell holds her own in front of the door. I’d hate to get on the bad side of either one of these women.
“There’s a virus going around, but I had it last week,” Doris says, then stands there a minute, undecided, before she barrels toward the porch steps. “I’ll just visit a minute.”
“Stop right there!”
Ruby Nell slams through the screen door and stands on the top step with her arms crossed and her body language shouting, “Stop, Look and Listen.”
“Doris Shackley, I don’t know who you think made you queen, but on my turf I wear that crown.”
“Well, I never!”
“That’s right. You never should have tattled to my daughter about my business. I’d better not hear another word from Callie that starts off with Doris said. Do I make myself clear?”
“Well! Some people don’t know the meaning of hospitality.”
A door slams as Fayrene barrels back onto the porch, holding onto the glass coffee carafe. “We do hostility as well as the next person, Doris. I’d be careful if I were you. Some people are holding a pot of boiling coffee, and my aim is pretty good.”
Doris works her mouth like a fish before she finds her voice.
“It looks like some people with no civic duty and no manners are going to lollygag around the beach all day. But I, for one, am going to cheer on my son at the cooking competition.”
“Goodbye,” Ruby Nell says, and Fayrene adds, “Good riddance!”
Bless’a my soul. Doris trots next door to her cottage so fast, she blows up a wind. It looks like this crazy scheme is going to work.
Ruby Nell takes the pot from Fayrene and refills her cup then she pours one for “Jarvetis,” too.
“Ruby Nell, have you gone mental?”
“It’s for show. Doris is on her back porch looking this way through her binoculars.”
“That heifer!”
“Who knows what she’ll do next? We can’t leave the body here alone. She’s liable to come snooping.”
Ruby Nell jerks her cell phone out of her pocket and starts punching in buttons.
“What are you doing?”
“Hedging our bets.”
“What in tarnation does that mean, Ruby Nell?”
“I’m texting Callie that we’re down with a virus and won’t be at the convention center today.”
“I’ve got the consternation of a horse. I never get sick.”
“What Callie doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
Famous last words. When my human mom is left in the dark about something, her imagination goes wild. That’s when she needs this loyal dog most. If the temperature hadn’t already soared into the nineties and my legs weren’t so short, I’d walk back to the convention center.
What’s a famous dog to do but lie down in the sunshine and turn my back on the corpse having coffee on our porch?
Chapter 5
Guns, Knives and Fried Chicken
When our alarm goes off, Lovie and I bolt out of bed like we’ve been struck by lightning. I grab my aching head, and she says some words she found on a bathroom wall.
“I’m going to kill you, Callie. As soon as I feel like it.”
“I can outrun you, Lovie. Even in this shape.”
“It would be different if we’d been out all night having fun.” She plops back onto the bed, groaning.
“You didn’t have fun in Tootie’s closet?”
“Who knew Cole Shackley was such a Romeo? If I’d known that, just think of all the fun I could have had at these cooking competitions.”
Thank goodness, Lovie doesn’t mean that. I hope. I pad barefoot to the bathroom and climb into the shower then let the hot water steam all the kinks out. I’m getting too old to spend two hours with Lovie cramped into a space designed to hold three dresses and two pairs of shoes.
“You’ve got a text from Aunt Ruby Nell,” Lovie yells, and I jump like I’ve been stuck with a cattle prod.
“I’m not about to cut this shower short over a text from Mama,” I yell back.
“She says she and Fayrene have a virus.”
“What?”
“A virus.”
I leap out of the shower at risk of breaking my neck and grab a towel on my rush back into the bedroom. Thank goodness I’m slim and these towels are big, so I look like I’ve just emerged from a spa instead of left a perfectly good hot shower on account of Mama’s newest charade.
“Mama is NEVER sick. She hasn’t been sick in twenty years.”
“I know.”
“What in the world is she up to now?”
I grab my cell phone and scan her text. It’s like tying to read Morse code. Virus struck…down and out…no fried chicken…contagion danger…stay put…help Lovie. I pass the phone back to my cousin.
“What do you make of that?”
“Maybe Fayrene’s sick and Aunt Ruby Nell is staying there to tend to her. Plus, she knows this is chicken cook-off day.”
“And she knows good and well that I will not leave you without a sous chef. Mama’s about to drive me crazy.”
“Look on the bright side, Callie. The worst is over.”
“That’s true. No more costume parties, no more Tinkerbell.”
“And with a new judge in place and cops all over the place, what could go wrong?”
There’s a slithering sound that raises the hair on my arms. I glance up just in time to see a white note sliding underneath the door. I race over and jerk it open, but all I see is a hallway empty of everything except a serving cart and a maid entering a room down the hall. Breakfast in bed. Lovely thought. That’s what I’d being doing about now if Jack were my roommate.
I jerk my mind off my sexy husband and back to the note. The envelope is plain white and it bears one word, LOVIE, written in bold strokes in black ink.
When she rips into it, she says a word that curls my eyelashes. I read it aloud over her shoulder.
“If you know what’s good for you, get out of town while the getting’s good. No signature, naturally. And no clue of any kind on the paper.”
It’s the kind of computer paper you can get in any Walmart or office supply store. And I’m guessing if we checked it for fingerprints, it would only have mine and Lovie’s.
“It doesn’t resemble Tootie’s note, either, Cal. Different handwriting, if I recall.”
“It is. And different size. This paper is larger. Who wants you out of town, Lovie?”
“Probably every chef who thought they would win the roast beef competition.”
Lovie holds the notepaper up to the lamp to see if she can find a watermark or any other distinguishing feature.
“Nothing. If it weren’t for Tootie’s note and George’s disappearance, I’d say it was a prank. These cooking competitions always bring out a few crazies.”
“Still, it’s a threat, Lovie. Maybe we ought to call security.”
“I have a better idea.” She stuffs it into her bag that’s big enough to carry an entire year’s collection of Southern Living magazines with room left over for a chocolate cake. “Let’s forget the whole thing. Act like it never happened.”
“You know, that might just work. Let whoever sent you this note believe you never saw it.”
“Exactly, Cal. We’ll force them to make another move, and when they do, BAM!”
“Bam, what?” She just grin
s at me. “I don’t like the sound of that, Lovie.”
“You worry too much.”
“With good reason. With you, BAM could mean anything from lacing somebody’s birthday cake with laxatives to posing as a Las Vegas show girl.”
“I promise you I’m not going to do either one of those things.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Win this chicken cook off, Cal. What else?”
Our good spirits restored, we ride the elevator down to the first floor and have a leisurely breakfast in the Café Biloxi. Then we head into the cooking hall and straight into bedlam. Even worse, all of it is coming from the direction of Lovie’s cooking station.
We hurry that way but the crowd hampers our progress. By the time we arrive, all the spectators who should be in bleachers getting ready for the cooking show are crowded around Doris Shackely. I might have known she’d be at the center of things.
When we get closer I see it’s not Lovie’s booth causing all the commotion, but Cole’s. Doris is standing there waving a carving knife.
“That’s mine,” Lovie shouts. Sure enough, I see her initials on the handle, plain as day. “What are you doing with my carving knife?”
“The question is, what’s it doing over here in my son’s supplies?”
“It didn’t walk over there, Doris,” Lovie says. “You can bet your britches on that.”
“Are you saying I took it?”
“You’re the one holding it. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Who would believe the word of a tramp like you?”
Lovie tries to leap over three people to get to Doris. Thanks to my exercise routine that ensures well-toned muscles, I’m able to prevent her from taking Doris apart limb by limb.
We’ve draw a crowd worthy of an Elvis concert (the real singer, not my dog). I don’t know if I’ll ever live this down. Tootie is front and center among the onlookers, and no wonder, considering what all we heard while we were in her closet. Right behind her is Melinda, but she seems more interested in what her husband Jeff is saying than in Lovie’s and Doris’ shenanigans.
“For goodness’ sake!” Cole grabs the knife from his mother and brings it to Lovie, then slides back into his station. “You’ve got to stop this nonsense, Mother, and behave yourself.”