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

by Peggy Webb

  When I spot the drink machine, I nearly pass out with gratitude. I don’t drink sugar-filled, carbonated beverages, but it’s going to look funny if somebody sees me just standing here. I dig around for change and then punch the button for a Mellow Yellow.

  At least the name is nice. There’re still voices coming from the staff room. I might as well rip off the pop top and take a sip.

  “Since when have you started drinking soda?”

  Jack Jones! I have died and gone to heaven. Or maybe in the other direction, considering the look on my husband’s face.

  “How’d you get here?”

  “I followed you.”

  “You scared me to death. What are you doing, sneaking around like that? It’s not good for my eggs to be frightened like that.”

  Suddenly his face is all soft and dreamy and his mouth is turned up in that endearing smile.

  “I know what’s good for your eggs.” He reaches for me, and I manage to get my arms around him without spilling a drop of soda. It’s harder not to spill when he starts kissing me, and even harder when he presses me up against the wall without ever breaking contact.

  Finally we come up for air.

  “Jack, somebody’s liable to see. There are people in the staff room.”

  “Not anymore. What I want to know is why you’re here?”

  “I guess you wouldn’t believe I got thirsty?”

  “Try again.”

  “Or that I wanted to explore?”

  He tries for his most forbidding Black Panther look, but his mouth keeps curling up at the corners.

  “Charlie told me about the rescue, Cal.” He takes the tool box and the shopping bag of disguises out of my hands. “If you’re going to keep getting into trouble, I’ve got to get you a bigger gun and a permit to carry.”

  “The last time I used a gun, I shot the heels off my Prada shoes.”

  “When we get home, how about I teach you how to use it?”

  “When we get home, I’ve got other plans for you, Jack Jones. And they don’t involve a gun.”

  “I won’t argue with that.” He loops his arm around my shoulders and leads me to the staff room where he hangs up the uniforms and the caps and places the tool box back in its rightful place.

  Then he takes the soda out of my hands, and we’re kissing again. In earnest this time. He murmurs something about locking the door and I mumble something about being Lovie’s sous chef and he finally pulls away because, after all, murder is afoot.

  “You be careful, Cal. They’ve got Diamond and his men in custody, but this crime is a tangled mess. Tootie is a suspect, but she denies having anything to do with either murder.”

  “What about her .38 with the silencer?”

  “She claims she never had one.”

  “She most certainly did. Lovie and I both saw it.”

  “It’s not in her possession now.” He squeezes me close again. “Don’t go running off again, Cal. There’s more than one killer on the loose.”

  “Don’t I know it? And whoever it is, they’re trying to pin it on Lovie.”

  “Cal, if there’s trouble, promise you’ll call me.”

  I’m not about to discuss all the times there’s trouble when Jack’s at the other side of the world and it’s all up to Lovie and me to fix things. The best way to avoid being a lonely hearts statistic is in knowing when to talk and knowing when to keep your mouth shut. This marriage is for keeps, and I’m determined to keep it that way.

  “Cross my heart,” I tell Jack, and I don’t even have my fingers crossed behind my back. I’ve had it up to my well-groomed eyebrows with murder and mayhem. All I want is to go home and style hair and make a home for Jack and Elvis and a bunch of future little Jones babies.

  “All right, then. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Is that a promise, Jack Jones?”

  “Cross my heart,” he says.

  We leave the staff room together, but when we get to the first floor lobby, Jack goes one way and I go the other. As I hurry toward the cooking hall, I call Mama. Thank goodness, she answers.

  “Mama, the chicken cook-off starts in one hour. Do you and Fayrene want to come or had you rather stay in the room and rest?”

  “Flitter. I can rest when I’m in my grave. We’ll be there with bells on.”

  “Good. Come on down so you can take Elvis to the spectator section. And be careful.”

  “What on earth can happen between the fifth and the first floors?”

  “I don’t even want to think about it, Mama. Just text me when you head down.”

  I push through the doors and hurry toward Lovie’s station. She’s already got my apron laid out, and I thank my lucky stars that it blends so well with my cute yellow capris, especially since I didn’t have time to color coordinate. I tuck my hair into the snood, and while I start chopping onions, I quietly give her Jack’s update.

  “But we saw Tootie’s .38,” she whispers.

  “I know, but that’s our word against hers. Besides, seeing Tootie with a .38 doesn’t make her a killer any more than seeing you with your knife.”

  She says a sentence that would sear chicken, and then she becomes all business.

  “Forget all that,” she says, then raises her voice so Melinda can hear. “Let’s win this thing, Callie!”

  “Not with that dog, you don’t.” Melinda frowns in our direction.

  I grab Lovie’s arm before she can wade in and get us both kicked out.

  “He’s not just any dog, Melinda,” I tell her. “He’s Elvis.”

  “I don’t care if he’s J. Edgar Hoover. He’s against the rules and I’m going to report you.”

  Suddenly Fayrene and Mama swoop down upon us. I was never so glad to see anybody - with the notable exception of Jack Jones in the staff room.

  Mama scoops up Elvis while Fayrene leans on Melinda’s cooking counter.

  “That basket hound just saved our lives. Nobody’s going to report him. As a matter of fact, we ought to be giving him a standing ovulation.”

  That shuts Melinda up fast enough. Mama winks at me and then she and Fayrene trot off with Elvis and take a front row seat in the spectators’ section as close to the judges as they can get. I’m so grateful I forgot to ask why she didn’t text me that she was on her way.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Lovie and I work hard to get everything prepped. When all the food is lined up in the order she’ll use it, she glances over at Cole’s station.

  “I wonder where he is.”

  “His mama is dead. What can you expect, Lovie?”

  “He’s a serious competitor. Most of us are. We cook, no matter what.”

  “Maybe he’s coming, but I doubt it. I saw him and Tootie a while ago on the Mezzanine. She looked upset, and who can blame her? She’s the prime suspect in her husband’s murder, plus she and Cole are probably up to their ears making funeral arrangements.”

  “Have the bodies been released?”

  “Jack didn’t say.”

  Our conversation is cut short by Jet Caulder, striding toward the podium and leaning into the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve been plagued by misfortunes, but in the spirit of Martha Stewart and Paula Deen, we’re going to rise above it all and keep cooking! Let the chicken competition begin!”

  For the next hour, I try to tune out everything except Lovie, who issues commands with the authority of a five-star general. It’s hard, though, with the judges milling around the hall, occasionally stopping in front of our station for a close-up look at Lovie’s cooking techniques.

  Jack just walked into the hall, which further distracts me and earns a poke in the ribs from Lovie. Even worse, he’s heading this way, and I’ve got goose bumps the size of hen eggs.

  When he gets close enough, he winks at me then strolls into Cole Shackley’s cooking station, still empty of the chef who would surely be giving Lovie a run for her money. My heart-throb husband is joined by two detectives from the Bil
oxi Police Department. They don’t stay long, but still, I’m so rattled I nearly knick my finger.

  I can just imagine what Lovie would say about that, blood all over her cooking surface.

  “For Pete’s sake, Cal. Buck up,” she says, and I do.

  Fueled by nervous energy, a desire to help Lovie win, and the delicious smells that are now wafting all over the convention hall, I pour myself into being my cousin’s sous chef. The result is a platter full of chicken that makes the judges smile when they taste it.

  All the judges, that is, except Jet Caulder. Lovie tenses, but she can’t say anything because they’re now within earshot over at Melinda’s station. They sample her chicken dish and then nod their heads with satisfaction, every last one of them.

  I just got a bad feeling about this, and not only about the cooking competition. Something evil is brushing against my nerves, but I can’t put my finger on the source.

  Lovie and I sweat it out until the judges have tasted every chicken dish in the hall. Then they go into a huddle at the judge’s table.

  Mama’s trying her best to eavesdrop, leaning so far toward Sol Kennedy she’s about to topple out of her chair. Fayrene rolls her program into a funnel and cups it over her right ear, imitating Mama’s leaning act.

  Holy cow! There’s never a dull moment with those two.

  Jet Caulder strides back to the podium and takes the microphone. “Will Melinda Taft and Lovie Valentine come to the podium?”

  “Everything I’ve got is crossed for you, Lovie,” I whisper as she heads toward the winner’s stage. Lovie won the roast beef cook-off. If she takes the chicken cook-off trophy, too, she’s bound to be crowned grand champion after tomorrow’s bake-off. Lovie excels at desserts. No way will she score low enough to knock her entirely out of the running.

  “Second place ribbon goes to….Lovie Valentine!”

  Holy cow! That heifer Melinda Taft has won the chicken cook-off. Jet makes the announcement and she stands up there preening with her trophy and trying to lord it over Lovie. All I can say about that is, enjoy your time in the sun, heifer. The only reason you won today is because Lovie’s still upset about being accused of murder and then having to go on a rescue mission to the Crusty Sea Dog. Tomorrow, Lovie’s taking you down!

  I glance at the audience to see how Mama and Fayrene are taking Lovie’s defeat. They’re slumped in their chairs like they’ve just aged twenty years. After what they’ve been through, it’s no wonder.

  My phone beeps and I see a text from Jack.

  Charlie and I will meet you at the front desk at 7. Dinner at Mary Mahoney’s. Wear those sexy shoes.

  My husband’s talking about my sling back Christian Louboutin’s. Thank goodness, I brought them. You never know when Jack is going to show up and opportunity is going to knock.

  I shuck my apron and snood then race over to Mama. “Let’s get you out of here so you can rest up before dinner.”

  “Flitter, I don’t need to rest up for room service.”

  When I tell her and Fayrene about our dinner date, they perk right up.

  “Speak for yourself, Ruby Nell, but I’m about to fall dead on my feet. I feel like the leaning tower of Pizza.”

  “I’ll see you to the elevators and then I’ve got to help Lovie with her clean-up.” I grab their arms then hustle off with Mama and the leaning tower of Pizza.

  Mary Mahoney’s is an iconic seafood restaurant in Biloxi that survived Hurricane Katrina. You can still see the watermark way up above the first floor. Though many of the trees and plants didn’t survive, there are still some grand old live oak trees in the patio and a number of enormous ferns that make this place look as if it might have come straight from a movie set for Gone with the Wind.

  It’s wonderful to walk in wearing a blue silk fitted dress and designer shoes on the arm of the most handsome man in the world. Jack’s had his arm around me ever since we met in the lobby, and right now, I feel like the luckiest woman alive.

  We’re escorted to a table for six in a private corner of the patio. Jack’s instructions, I’m sure. He always sits with his back to the wall so he can see what’s coming.

  Uncle Charlie orders a feast of fried shrimp, stuffed crab, lobster tails and shrimp etouffee. There’s even a t-bone steak as big as a saddle. Uncle Charlie always thinks of Elvis, back at the hotel being the good little guy he is.

  For a while the talk swirls around food, particularly Lovie and the cooking competition.

  “You’re going to win tomorrow, Lovie,” I tell her. “I’ve never tasted anything better than your Luscious Dream Dessert.” A yummy concoction featuring lots of butter and sugar and plenty of Southern pecans plus real cream and fresh peaches.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure, Cal. If Melinda wins again tomorrow, she’ll take grand prize.”

  “Flitter,” Mama says. “If she does I’m going to pull off all my clothes, rent a horse and do a Lady Godiva act down the beach strip.”

  “Heaven help us, Ruby Nell. You’ll have every edible man in Biloxi chasing you.” Fayrene butters two clover-leaf rolls and hands one to Mama. “Lovie, if you lose to Melinda I’ll be just devastating. But then, I always get over it. Que Sarah, Sarah, I always say.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that heifer anymore.” Lovie turns to Uncle Charlie. “Daddy, tell us what’s going on with the murder cases.”

  “Snake Eyes Nelson and Jim Diamond Phillips clammed up and lawyered up, but Tulip LeGrange sang like a bird.”

  “Charlie,” Mama asks, “did they kill my favorite beach cottage house guest?”

  “Tulip said they thought George Ransom was already dead when they found him. He had two non-lethal bullet wounds but the knife wound looked fatal. Still, they snapped his neck to make sure they finished him off.”

  “Then they saw him on the beach and thought they’d failed.” Mama laughs so hard tears roll down her cheeks, while Uncle Charlie smiles indulgently. In his eyes, she can do no wrong, and sometimes I think she takes advantage of that. Still, I’m glad he’s here. Surely he can keep her out of trouble till this cooking competition is over.

  “George must have been neck deep in gambling debt,” I say.

  “He was.” Uncle Charlie waves away the waiter who is approaching with more tea.

  “Why did they put him in my car, Charlie?”

  “Luck of the draw, Ruby Nell. Your car trunk was open and Tulip said it was a quick and easy way to get rid of the body.”

  “Tulip sure picked the wrong car! Didn’t he, Fayrene?” Mama leans over to high-five her best friend.

  “Daddy, what I want to know is - who’s trying to frame me for murder? Certainly not Snake Eyes and Tulip. They don’t even know me.”

  “We don’t know the answer to that yet, dear heart.”

  “Maybe we’ve been going about this all wrong,” I say. “Instead of trying to figure out who’d want to kill George and Doris, maybe we ought to talk about who’d want to frame Lovie.”

  “That’s a great idea, Cal.” The Jack of old would have warned me not to interfere with the law. But the new Jack acts as proud as if I’ve discovered a cure for cancer. See, that just goes to show how well a marriage can work when two people are committed to it. “Can you name anybody, Lovie?”

  “Take your pick, Jack.” Lovie begins ticking off suspects on her fingers. “Tootie thinks I was trying to steal her husband. Though Cole acts like he wouldn’t say boo to anybody, his nosey mother hated me. Maybe, secretly, he does, too. Then there’s every chef in the convention hall with a grudge against me for beating their socks off at cooking competitions. It could be anybody.”

  “This is exactly why I plan to stay at the cottage tonight with Ruby Nell and Fayrene.” Uncle Charlie smiles at me. “Dear heart, I hate to deprive you of Jack, but he’ll be chasing leads all night. I want you and Lovie at the cottage so I can keep an eye on you.”

  My big plans for an evening with Jack just flew out the window. I glance at him, and he sque
ezes my hand then leans over to whisper, “Rain check, Cal.” My smile lets him know he’s welcome to a rain check and anything else he wants as long as he’s my man.

  “For Pete’s sake, Daddy! Cal and I don’t need a baby sitter. I’ve got my baseball bat.”

  The last thing I want to do is spend the night in Mama’s cottage, probably in the bed that recently held a cadaver. And watching Mama smoke too much. And listening to make sure she and Fayrene are not sneaking out to do no telling what. And listening to Uncle Charlie snore.

  Call me a bad daughter.

  “Elvis is a terrific watch dog. And we’ll have the doors bolted. We’ll be fine, Uncle Charlie.”

  Thank goodness, he doesn’t insist. Also, thank goodness, neither does Jack.

  The last of the dinner is not nearly as exciting as the first when I still thought I’d be snuggled up to Jack Jones tonight, enjoying project baby. Still, he’s especially attentive. His dark eyes are filled with promise and his hands know just how far to wander up my skirt to make me feel all warm and fuzzy and yet still stay within the bounds of decency. Under cover of the long white linen table cloth, naturally. Discreet is Jack’s middle name. Mine, too.

  Still, I see Mama watching us with that knowing look. When I head to the powder room, she and Fayrene trot right after me.

  I give Mama this look and she makes her face all innocent. “I’m just keeping you company.”

  Good grief. Why is it women can never go to a public toilet alone? I duck into a stall and leave them primping in front of the mirrors. Mama’s like this.

  “Callie,” she calls.

  “Can’t it wait, Mama?”

  “Why should it? I just noticed a gray hair showing. The minute we get home, I want you to cover it.”

  “Holy cow. You don’t have any gray showing. I just colored you.”

  “Since when do I have to wait, Miss Priss? If I recall, my very own daughter owns her very own beauty shop, and I want to go Rita Hayworth red.”