Elvis and the Pink Cadillac Corpse (A Southern Cousins Mystery, Plus Bonus Recipes)

by Peggy Webb

  “Seems I’m good at criminal activity.”

  Just as she bends over with her hairpin, the door swings open, and there’s Fayrene, still in her green bathrobe, looking close to death. I have to take back every ugly thought I had about her and Mama not being sick. Her robe is soaked, her hair hasn’t been combed, and she doesn’t have a speck of color on her cheeks. She goes even paler at the sight of us.

  “Holy cow, Fayrene. You need to see a doctor.”

  “I don’t think he can cure what I’ve got.”

  I glance around the cottage and don’t see a sign of Mama. Elvis is on the back porch, looking at me through the glass door and wagging his tail. I cross over to let him in.

  “Is Mama in bed?”

  “No, she’s on the beach playing volley ball.”

  “Good grief! She’s too old to be cavorting like that in the hot sun.”

  “You can’t tell Ruby Nell anything.” Fayrene flops on the sofa as if her legs will no longer hold her.

  “Well, I can.” I march to the back porch and hurry down the steps. Mama’s out there, as big as day, jumping at the ball like a teenager. “Mama!” I yell, racing her way. “Stop that. You’re going to give yourself heatstroke.”

  “Flitter.” She whacks the volley ball and it sails right over the head of her young opponents to score. But I can see she’s fatigued, and thank goodness she realizes it, too.

  “Girls, I hate to leave the game, but I’ve got to go and talk to my daughter. She’s always got some emergency going.”

  It’s exactly the opposite, but I’m too polite to embarrass my own mama in front of a few girls with bad hairdos. I pull three cards out of my purse and hand them out to soften the blow of Mama leaving the game.

  “I’ll be here a few days. Just give me a call if you if you have time for a beauty makeover.”

  Not that I expect to have much free time considering the mess we’re in with Doris Shackley using Lovie’s table cloth for a shroud. I trot back to the cottage with Mama, and am pleased to note that she’s not even huffing and puffing.

  “Mama, what are you doing out here playing volley ball while Fayrene’s sick?”

  “She’s sick?”

  Is Mama losing her mind?

  “You sent me a text that she was, and I’ll have to say, she looks like she feels awful.”

  “That’s why I sent you the text.”

  “Mama, you just contradicted yourself.”

  “Flitter.” She flings open the screen door to the back porch. “Let’s sit out here and cool off a while. You look like you could use it.”

  “No, Mama. Lovie’s inside waiting for us, and Uncle Charlie’s coming.”

  “Charlie? Why is he coming?”

  “I’d rather wait till we’re inside so Lovie can tell everybody at once.”

  Major mistake! The minute I open the door, I’m in bedlam. Fayrene is plastered over the bathroom door yelling, “The toilet’s out of order,” and Lovie’s hopping up and down saying, “What do you expect me to do? Use the ocean for a toilet?”

  “The jig’s up, Fayrene.” Mama marches to the refrigerator and starts pouring prohibition punch. “Charlie’s coming. And I can’t say I’m unhappy to have some reinforcements.”

  “Reinforcements for what, Mama? I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Soon, you’re going to like it even less. Show her, Fayrene.”

  The bathroom door swings open and there’s a corpse in the bathtub, as big as you please, up to his neck in ice. His arms and legs are stuck at odd angles, his pancake makeup is melted all over his mottled face, and his aviator sunglasses are slanted at a rakish angle.

  “Holy cow!”

  Lovie says a word that will never be in spell check and then marches into the bathroom, straight to the toilet.

  “Wrong gender, Callie. That’s George Ransom.”

  “What on earth are you doing?” She’s left the door wide open.

  “Taking care of nature. George is in no condition to mind.”

  I think I must be losing my mind. I hurry to the screened in porch where Mama is sipping punch like she doesn’t have a care in the world, like her unexpected guest is just a bit eccentric and will join as soon as he finishes his nap in the bathtub.

  “Mama, what on earth are you doing with a corpse? They’ve been looking everywhere for him.”

  “Somebody killed him with Lovie’s carving knife and planted him in the trunk of my pink convertible.”

  “And you just decided to…what? Give him a bath?”

  “He had his coffee first.” Fayrene sinks onto a chair beside Mama.

  “Good grief!”

  I make a beeline for the prohibition punch then flop onto a chaise lounge while Elvis trots over to lean against my legs. I’m no stranger to death and even murder. Goodness knows, I’ve fixed up enough of the dead over at Uncle Charlie’s funeral home that I’ve learned to treat the recently deceased as if they’re old friends, just stopping by for a hairdo before they enter the Pearly Gates. Or the hinges of hell, whichever way they’re going.

  And Lovie and I have solved more than one murder case, with a little help from Uncle Charlie and Jack, of course. Still, my mama has never decided to spend her vacation with a cadaver. That takes some getting used to.

  “I heard all that.” Lovie marches onto the porch and helps herself to plenty of punch and three pieces of the chocolate fudge she brought. She never goes anywhere without food. “Looks like I’m turning into a regular serial killer.”

  “Jack the Zipper.” Fayrene tops off her glass.. “Or maybe Lizzie Burden.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” Lovie proceeds to relay news from the convention center, and every bit of it bad. Then she solicits the story of why Mama and Fayrene are hobnobbing with a murder victim.

  “Did you say he was shot?” I can hardly believe my ears. “Who would want to stab George and shoot him, too?”

  “Several people come to mind,” Lovie says. “If I were married to George, I’d probably use every weapon I had to make sure he was good and dead.”

  “I think George had more than one killer, Lovie,” I tell her.

  “Since I was so clearly implicated – in both murders, as a matter of fact – the killer has to be somebody who hates me.”

  “Who hates you, dear heart?” Uncle Charlie is standing in the doorway, still in his flight suit. It’s not surprising that nobody heard him coming. Company men are like that. Stealth is their middle name.

  Everybody starts talking at once, spilling their guts, Lovie would say, which makes all kinds of sense to me. Uncle Charlie is unflappable and steadfast, no matter what kind of problems you dump onto his broad shoulders. That he’s still fit and lean at his age is a testament to his firm belief in eating right and exercise. That he is so kind is a testament to his generous heart and gentle soul.

  “Daddy!” Lovie races over to hug him and she holds on longer than she usually does. Though she’s independent to the bone and so strong-willed she borders on stubborn, there are times when she’s only too glad to let Uncle Charlie fix things.

  He’s the best fixer I know. Besides Jack. Or maybe, in addition to Jack.

  “One person at a time,” Uncle Charlie says. “Callie, what’s this all about?”

  I’d told him over the phone about Lovie being suspected for murdering Doris Shackley. Now I fill him in or Mama’s and Fayrene’s shenanigans, ending with the newly iced in their bathtub.

  “I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you all go to the beach?”

  Uncle Charlie is right. It’s going to look suspicious if we’ve come all the way to the Gulf Coast and never even enjoy the beach.

  We go back inside to grab sunhats and sunscreen, beach chairs and, of course, our prohibition punch. I lead the way to the beach with Elvis sticking close to my heels and the rest of the gang lagging behind. Thanks to my smart little dog, I turn back to the cottage just in time to see two men get out of a large white van and sl
ide through the front door. The fixers, if I’m not mistaken, Britt and Holmes, Uncle Charlie’s go-to guys from the Company. It makes sense that he’d call them in, especially after I said murder and Lovie in the same sentence.

  I unfold my chair and sink into it hoping to enjoy the first sunshine I’ve laid eyes on since I got to the Gulf Coast. The sea gulls are flying low and in the distance a school of dolphins cavort in the waves.

  “Look, there’s a school of…”

  “If I ever get my hands on the person who tried to pin murder on me, I’m going to slap the living daylights out of them.” Lovie glares at me as if I know something I’m not telling.

  “Don’t look at me. All I wanted to do was point out the dolphins.”

  “It’s a wonder you haven’t had Cadillac arrest, Lovie.” Fayrene fans herself with her hat and swigs punch like there’s no tomorrow. Who knows? At the rate we’re going, maybe there’s not. “With the cops incinerating that you’re the killer, we need to put together a list of suspects.”

  Lovie reaches into a beach bag so big she could get Elvis and his whole new litter of puppies in there. “That’s just what I’m thinking.”

  She pulls out a pad and pencil then turns to me, which is not surprising. We’ve been depending on each other since we were little kids. Lovie grew up without a mother and I grew up without a daddy – God rest their souls. What Mama and Uncle Charlie didn’t have time to teach us, we figured it out – together. Always together.

  “All right. Put Tootie Ransom at the top of the list, Lovie.”

  “Why?” Mama wants to know.

  “We saw her with a .38, Aunt Ruby Nell, and then we found a list of George’s lovers among her lingerie. That gives her means and motive,” Lovie says.

  “And with all that bedlam going on at the convention center the day he vanished,” I add, “Tootie had plenty of opportunity. Plus, she thinks Lovie was one of George’s paramours. That could be why she tried to frame her.”

  “But could she tote the body all the way to my Cadillac by herself?”

  “You’ve got a point, Mama.”

  “Whoever killed him used the elephant of surprise.” Fayrene tops off her glass and Mama’s, too. When she offers me some more of the liquored up punch, I decline.

  “No thanks, Fayrene. I don’t want to pickle my eggs before I ever get a chance to use them.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean for you to drink yourself into Bolivia, but if you don’t need it, I sure do.” Fayrene pours a bit more into her glass. “I called Darlene after I got George What’s His Name in the tub, and she said I was under a bad aurora.”

  “Let’s get back to my list.” Lovie taps her pen on the edge of her pad, a little habit she has when she’s nervous. “It’s easy to see why Tootie would kill her husband, but why would she murder Doris Shackley?”

  “With George missing, maybe she did it to ensure you took the fall,” Mama says.

  “I don’t know, Mama. Tootie’s messing around with Cole Shackley. I don’t think she’d kill his mother.”

  “Cal, that’s the best reason I know to kill the heifer,” Lovie says. “Who’d want Doris Shackley for a mother-in-law?”

  “Or a neighbor, either,” Mama says. “She’s the nosiest woman I’ve ever met.”

  “I don’t think being nosey is enough to get you killed, Mama.”

  “Callie Valentine Jones, if you’re implying I’m nosey, you can forget it. It’s my duty to find out if my daughter is happy.”

  I’m not going to touch that with a ten foot pole. If I do, I’ll say something like does that include constant questions about what Jack and I are doing in the bedroom to further project baby. I’m not about to hurt Mama’s feelings over something like that. Jack thinks her nosey questions are funny, and I’m trying to learn to laugh at them, myself.

  “Lovie, remember it was Melinda who identified your knife as the murder weapon for Doris. Put her on the suspect list.”

  “She’s always been jealous of my cooking, but I don’t think she’d murder people just to get me out of the competition.”

  “Remember, she was on Tootie’s list of her husband’s lovers,” I tell my cousin. “Maybe she was jealous of you on account of George.”

  “Why that poor girl wouldn’t a fly!” Fayrene says. “She was so upset that first day, Ruby Nell and I had to do a healing ritual in the bathroom. She’s just a little damsel in the dress.”

  “What healing ritual, Mama?” Naturally, she ignores me. Be that as it may, we’ve got two murders to solve. “You don’t know her like I do, Fayrene. You haven’t seen what a hissy fit she can pitch.” I turn to my cousin. “Put her on there, Lovie. And add her husband, Jeff.”

  “I’m way ahead of you on that one. He could have killed George out of jealousy. And he certainly has the muscle to carry the body to Aunt Ruby Nell’s car.”

  “Add Cole Shackley,” I say. “He might have knocked off George for Tootie.”

  “That iffy, Cal. But I can certainly see why he’d kill that interfering heifer of a mama.”

  “What about the two idiots in the black car?” Mama says.

  Has my dear little mama who drives me crazy with such regularity finally lost her last marble?

  “What idiots, Mama? What black car?’

  “They’ve been following us ever since we got here,” she says, and Fayrene chimes in with, “Ruby Nell got the poker after them, and I clocked them good with the skillet.”

  “Holy cow! When did you do that? Why on earth didn’t you tell me all this, Mama?’

  “Because I don’t see the connection between them and the murders, and because you’d be upset, just like you are now, Miss Priss. I don’t want to jeopardize my future grandchildren. You can’t conceive if your eggs are in turmoil.”

  “I can’t conceive anyway, Mama. Jack’s out of town.”

  “Flitter.”

  Lovie says a whole paragraph that’s written large somewhere on a public bathroom wall.

  “My sentiments, exactly, Lovie,” I tell her. “Put Sol Kennedy on there.”

  “Sol? That’s stretching things too far, Cal.” Lovie gives me this look but I notice she adds him name, anyway.

  “I know he acts like a perfect gentleman, and he usually scores you high, Lovie, but I noticed every time a new announcement came over the loudspeaker, Sol was the one who jumped up and left the room.”

  “I don’t believe he’d try to implicate me in murder.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe he had a private beef with George and your knife just came in handy.”

  “What about Doris? Sol had no reason to kill her.” Lovie says.

  “I haven’t figured out his motive for that, but give me time, and I’ll come up with something. There’s such a thing as hidden motive, you know.”

  “I don’t know about y’all, but I’m starving to death.” Fayrene rolls the sleeve of her bathrobe and checks the time. “My rolodex watch says it way past lunch. Ruby Nell, why don’t we see what we can fix?”

  “I’m not eating in that kitchen while George is still there. I’d just as soon starve.” Lovie reaches into her beach bag and pulls out an entire pie. Lemon ice box. One of my favorites.

  “That’s my kind of starving, Lovie. And I’ll bet you brought forks.” I reach into her bag, and sure enough, she’s got a whole artillery of plastic cutlery. I nab four forks and pass them around, and we all dig in.

  We’ve polished off half the pie when Uncle Charlie shows up.

  “Well, dear hearts, that’s all taken care of.”

  “Daddy, grab a fork and dig in.”

  He sits cross legged on the sand and forks a bite of Lovie’s to-die-for pie. It’s my smart little dog, Elvis, who alerts me to what’s going on the cottage. Britt and Holmes are stealing out, carrying a body bag.

  Uncle Charlie sees me watching, and pats my hand. “Everything’s going to be all right, dear heart.”

  “Charlie, quit pussy footing around and tell us the scoop.” Mama a
lways could make him laugh.

  “You and Fayrene can rest easy, Ruby Nell. There’s not a shred of your DNA left on George Ransom, and you won’t ever have to see him again.”

  Mama pulls that tacky forties cigarette holder out of her beach bag and lights up, which means she thinks Uncle Charlie is not telling her the whole truth, but Fayrene perks right up.

  “Thank you, Charlie. If I had to deal with that corpse one more minute, I was going into wisteria. I’m so happy I’m liable to hold a prayer Virgil.”

  “You go right ahead, Fayrene,” Mama tells her. “Say a prayer for me, too, but I’m still waiting to see if Charlie’s going to tell the rest of the story.”

  “The less you know, the better off you are, Ruby Nell.”

  “Flitter, Charlie. Don’t try to coddle me. I’m no senile old woman.”

  He roars with laughter. The great thing about Uncle Charlie is that he gets a kick out of everything his family does, no matter how ridiculous we act.

  ‘You’re certainly not that, and I guess I owe you the truth, considering that you’ve been babysitting the corpse.” Uncle Charlie hands Lovie his fork and fold his arms over his chest. “George was shot with a .38. In the groin.”

  “I knew it,” Lovie says. “Tootie killed him. We saw her .38.”

  “He also took a hit with a .22, but the bullet missed his heart and would not have been a kill shot. The knife wound, however, was dead center. In addition, his neck was broken.”

  “Holy cow! Somebody really wanted that man dead! What did he do to deserve all that, Uncle Charlie?”

  “That’s what I plan to find out.”

  “With a little help from me.” Oh, holy cow and thank goodness! It’s Jack Jones, approaching us on the beach from our blind side, his eyes locked on mine, his smile promising me the moon with all the stars thrown in for good measure.

  I can’t get to him fast enough. He sweeps me off my feet and kisses me like there’s no tomorrow, and I don’t care who’s looking.

  Elvis’ Opinion # 8

  Elvis’ Opinion # 8 on Matrimony, Crime and Top Dog

  My human mom and dad exchange the longest kiss in the history of romance, and right in the middle of the public beach, too, but that’s all right, Mama. If folks want to know how matrimony works, all they have to do is take a page out of Callie and Jack’s playbook.