by Peggy Webb
“All right, Mama. Whatever you say.”
It so much easier to agree with her. Plus, I’m such a great colorist there’s absolutely no danger of chemically damaging her hair and all of it falling out.
I push open the stall door and almost bang into Fayrene. What on earth is she doing? Standing there to see if I tell secrets to myself while I use the toilet?
“Did the stick turn blue?” she says.
“What stick?”
“The pregnant stick.”
Good grief. “I don’t have one, Fayrene.”
“Ruby Nell said you check nearly every time you go to the bathroom.”
Mama’s grinning like a ‘possum. If I didn’t want to add to the body count, I’d strangle her. Still, I’m not about to be a really bad daughter and embarrass my mama in front of her best friend. I move over the sinks to wash my hands, hoping to discourage both of them.
Major mistake.
Fayrene sidles up so close I can see the line where her makeup ends and her neck starts. I make a mental note to gently suggest a beauty makeover for her when we get back to Mooreville. Darlene can help me persuade her.
“Callie, I know what hard work it is, getting pregnant.”
I don’t want to even imagine it.
“Well, I wouldn’t call it that, Fayrene.” I wash my hands for a very long time, but she is not deterred.
“The only way I could get pregnant with Darlene was to hide Jarvetis’ condominiums.”
I might just have a nervous breakdown in the middle of Mary Mahoney’s bathroom. Instead, I look in the mirror and give myself a silent little pep talk. Don’t you dare tell her that you and Jack haven’t used birth control in nearly a year. It’s none of her business.
“Thanks, Fayrene.” I turn to smile at her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
We leave the bathroom together, and Jack grins when we sees the three of us, arm in arm. Look on the bright side - which I always do. Wait ‘til I tell him about the condominiums.
If I ever get him alone. His cell phone beeps and his face gets this closed-up Black Panther look that means nothing but trouble.
“What’s up, Jack?” Uncle Charlie says, which just goes to show how much he trusts everybody at this table. In our own bumbling way, we’ve helped solve more crimes than I care to think about. I could almost close up Hair.net and go into the private detective business.
“The Biloxi PD was going to take Tootie down to the station for more questioning, Charlie, but they can’t find her.”
“Did she check out of the hotel?” Uncle Charlie says.
“No.”
“I saw her this afternoon on the Mezzanine.” My face flushes when I recall what all happened on the Mezzanine. I cover my guilty blush by describing Tootie and Cole in great detail.
“Then she can’t have gone far.” Uncle Charlie signals for the check and Jack gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before vanishing.
That’s the best way I know to put it. He’s so stealthy you can see him one minute, and the next he’s gone. And no matter how hard you try to recall, you can’t even say which direction he went.
Nor do you know how he went. Mama’s car is still in the parking lot, and I know for a fact that both his silver Jag and his Harley Screamin’ Eagle are back home in the garage. I’m guessing Britt or Holmes picked him up. Or maybe both of them.
Or it could have been some mysterious Company agent I don’t even know. It might even be a woman. A sexy blonde with legs from here to Canada. And a hankering for my husband.
As if she’s read my mind, Lovie gives me a nudge. “What’s wrong?”
I just shake my head. I’m not about to get into my wild imagination with Big Ears listening. In case you don’t already know, that’s Mama, on the front seat with Uncle Charlie, while Fayrene is squeezed into the back with Lovie and me.
Elvis’ Opinion # 12
Elvis’ Opinion # 12 on Suspects, Secrets and Leftovers
I smell them coming. Naturally. And it’s not just the familiar scent of my human mom, plus Lovie and Charlie. It’s the divine aroma of leftovers. There’ll be plenty of hot buttered rolls tonight, baby. And a hunk of steak that would make any dog say the lady loves me.
I barely have time to chow down before Callie hooks on my leash, which gives Charlie a worried mind. “Take Lovie with you,” he says, “and don’t take any chances.”
Lovie lets her good behavior slip with a rowdy word or two, but Charlie pretends not to notice.
“Don’t worry about thing, Uncle Charlie.” My human mom grabs Lovie’s baseball bat. “We’re taking this, and we’re going to stay on a well-lit path.”
Still, he rides the elevator with us down, and then stands by Ruby Nell’s snazzy car watching to make sure we’re not straying in to any dark corners. Listen, I know a thing or two about who dunnit and who didn’t do it. I’m not about to let my source of all-encompassing love and my best source of the forbidden treat end up as murder victims number three and four.
I spot two of the judges, Sol Kennedy and Glenda Swift, strolling around the grounds together. Either the light is too low for them to see us, or they’ve decided not to have any contact at all with one of the cooking contestants.
“What’s that all about?” Callie nudges Lovie and nods in their direction.
“Just act normal, Cal.”
“If you’ll care to remember, when have I ever acted any other way?”
I don’t see anybody else, but I get this creepy feeling that somebody is watching us from the shadows. All I can about that it, bring it on. Lovie will get you with her baseball bat.
Listen, I’m normally the kind of dog who will go to outrageous lengths to avoid confrontation. But I’ve had more than enough drama and trauma for one day. When I get home, I’m going to chase Callie’s stray cats off the gazebo and then I’m going to spend a whole day napping in the sunshine. Thank you, thank you very much.
We finally come to a big grassy area near the tennis court, and Callie unhooks my leash. She knows how to treat me nice. No self-respecting dog wants to be seen taking care of business.
I find the perfect bush, wide enough to hide my substantial but alluring figure, and yet with enough branches trimmed off so I can still keep my eye on Callie and Lovie.
All of a sudden, I smell trouble. My hackles go on full alert.
“Lovie, did you hear that?”
“I did.” Lovie takes a stance and swings her baseball bat. “Come on out, sucker. I’m waiting for you.”
Callie goes into a karate stance, but I have about as much faith in her ability to take somebody down as I do of dying and coming back as Blake Shelton. I bare my teeth and saunter out to take up a stand beside my human mom. Bring it on, baby. I’ve got my mojo working.
Melinda and Jeff Taft stroll into the light, arm in arm. She gives Callie and Lovie a disdainful look, then sniffs like she smells something bad. All I can say is, don’t go behind the bush or you’re liable to ruin your blue suede shoes.
Melinda puts her hands on her hips and snarls some more. It’s not an attractive look.
“Oh, for the love of Pete!” she says. “What do you two think you’re doing?”
“Taking my dog for a walk.” Callie gets out of her fighting stance. “What are you doing out here?”
“What does it look like? Some people like to take a stroll after dinner without having to worry about what they’ll step in.”
“Then I’d watch my step if I were you.” Callie hooks up my leash, links arms with Lovie and we sashay off. It’s an exit worthy of Queen Elizabeth.
As soon as we’re out of earshot, Lovie says, “That woman hates my guts.”
“And what’s she doing all lovey dovey with Jeff?”
“He’s her husband, Cal.”
“Yes, but the day we got here, Mama and Fayrene said she was all torn up in the bathroom because of her marital problems.”
“You’re saying she was torn up over something else!”<
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“Exactly, Lovie. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yes. But I’m not about to go breaking and entering tonight. I’ve got to get some sleep before tomorrow’s cook-off.”
“Who said anything about breaking and entering?”
We all try to keep up with Callie’s long legs. When we finally burst into our room, I’m panting like I’ve been chasing Ann Margret all over Mooreville’s Truck Stop. Lovie leans against the wall and declares she’s in need of resuscitation.
I flop onto the rug right in front of the door, but I’m not about to go to sleep. Callie just turned on her laptop and Lovie’s hanging over her shoulder. I’ve seen these two at work before. While Jack and Charlie are off running about with guns and bullets and dangerous attitudes, these two women are going to uncover suspects and secrets.
Lawdy, Miss Clawdy, I wouldn’t miss this for all the PupPeroni in Mississippi.
Chapter 12
Sweet Dreams, Bad Dreams and the Circus
I’ve got my laptop running, and I’m scrolling around Facebook to see what I can find out about the major players in what has turned out to be the most stressful cook-off I’ve ever attended.
“Look at this, Lovie.” Glenda Swift has been a chef at an alarmingly long list of restaurants. “Either she got fired at some of them or she enjoys instability.”
“I don’t get any bad vibes from her, Cal. She’s a pretty fair judge, too.”
“She was on Tootie’s list of George’s lovers. And I got the distinct impression she was following us tonight.”
“That could be true. But Sol? No way would he be mixed up in murder and intrigue.”
“Maybe she was just using him so she could track us down and see what we were up to.”
“If anybody wanted to keep track of me it would Melinda Taft,” Lovie says. “She’s turned out to be a bigger busy-body than Doris Shackley. And she clearly hates my guts.”
I start the search, but Melinda is almost squeaky clean. She gets great reviews – both personal and professional – at her restaurant over in Oxford, Mississippi, an upscale establishment she’s owned for the last seven years.
I’ve been there. Her specialty is Nassau shrimp and grits, and the way she makes them, they’re almost as good as Lovie’s. She lists Methodist as her religion of choice and Lady Gaga as her favorite singer. She has no children, and has only been married once - to Jeff Taft for two years.
“They’re still practically on their honeymoon, Lovie. What was she doing sleeping around with George Ransom?”
“She’s selfish. She wants everything, especially if it belongs to somebody else.”
“Still, I don’t see her stooping to murder over George or anybody else, for that matter.”
I type in Jeff Taft.
“Holy cow! Look at this!”
What I find gives me goose bumps. And not in a good way. Lovie, who is reading over my shoulder, obviously feels the same way because she starts calling him names she invents on the spot. And none of them decent.
“I can’t believe this.” Before Jeff Taft started his own body building gym over in Oxford – some say with Melinda’s money - he worked in various capacities at the circus. “Who works at the circus, Lovie?”
“It used to be a hiding place for all sorts of criminals.”
Her remark sets me off on another search. And there it is: Jeff Taft has a criminal record. Credit card fraud. Passing bad checks. Assault and battery.
“Bingo,” I say. “I think we just found one of George’s killers.”
“We know who has the .38 and who broke his neck, but I can’t see Jeff with a .22. That just leaves him with my knife. So how did he get it?”
“Anybody could have grabbed it from your cooking station the first day. It was bedlam, and we were all over the place unloading your stuff.”
“True. But I can’t figure out his motive.”
“Maybe he was jealous over Melinda’s affair with George?”
“You’d have to be an idiot to kill somebody in a jealous rage over that heifer. And why on earth would he try to pin it on me?”
“Obviously, we’re missing something.”
I start another search on Jeff, this time trying to find out who his ex-wives are, but Lovie is clearly disinterested. She’s wandering around the room, yawning and stretching and going though bags until she finds what she’s looking for, a bag of potato chips and a bag of crunchy corn curls.
Then she proceeds to plop onto my bed and chew out loud in an effort to drive me crazy.
“Lovie, if you’ll care to remember, that’s my bed and you’re getting potato chip crumbs all over it.”
“Too bad, too sad. I’ll shake the covers when I finish.”
“Then they’ll be all over the floor and I’ll step on them with my bare feet.”
“You’re just testy because you can’t spend the night with Jack.”
“Guilty.” I grin at her and shut down the laptop. I don’t know why I’m doing all this sleuthing when the Company’s best agent is on the job.
I plop onto the bed beside Lovie and dig into the potato chips then we sit there in companionable silence, chewing and thinking, me about what I’m going to name my baby girl if I ever get pregnant. And who knows what’s on Lovie’s mind? Food, probably.
When the bag is empty, she wads it up and makes a perfect shot into the waste can over by the desk.
“I don’t know about you, Cal, but I’m beat. I’ve got first dibs on the bathroom.”
I clean up the mess while she’s in the shower, and by the time I’ve finished my own bath, Lovie’s flat on her back, wearing her sleep mask and snoring her head off. I notice she’s put her baseball bat within easy reach.
After I put on a cute set of pink seersucker pajamas with matching robe, I check my messages. I have two texts. Uncle Charlie’s says are the two of you all right, dear heart?
Fine. Tucked in for the night.
I hit reply and then take my time reading the text from Jack. It’s personal and steamy and everything you’d want to hear from your husband, who is out chasing killers while you’re preparing to climb into bed and have sweet dreams.
Or bad, depending on who pops up in them.
Elvis waddles over to say goodnight, and I hug him extra tight.
“I know this has been a hard trip for you, boy.” I scratch behind his ears and he rolls over for me to scratch his tummy, which is substantially bigger than it ought to be. “When we get back home, I’m going to have to put you on a diet, Elvis.”
He gives me this miffed looked then twirls around doing dog-talk that I swear sounds like “Heartbreak Hotel.” I laugh out loud then check to see if our antics have awakened Lovie. She’s still flat on her back with her mouth wide open making freight train noises. It would take a brass band and a parade of elephants, to boot, to wake my cousin.
“Good night, Elvis.” He trots over to the door and plops down. “Guard the house.”
He gives me this superior look as if he’s saying who do you think I am? That sorry cocker spaniel stray, Hoyt?
Good grief. I’ve spent so much time with my dog, I’m beginning to think like him.
I climb into bed and pull the sheets up to my chin then send Jack a text message that I hope sets his hair on fire…as well as other body parts I’m too much of a lady to mention. Then I turn out the lights and prepare to dream.
Someone is after me in the dark. I can’t see the face, only the wicked glint of the knife in his hand. It’s Lovie’s knife. I try to say no, stop, but I can’t seem to get the words out. Nor can I run. I feel as if my legs are mired in quick sand.
With a gasp, I sit straight up in my tangled bedcovers, my heart pounding and my hair sweaty. There’s a low, guttural growl, and Elvis pads over to put his head on my mattress.
I glance in the direction of Lovie’s bed. She’s still deeply asleep, thank goodness.
“It’s just a nightmare, boy. Go back to bed.”
No one is there, of course. What was I thinking?
“It’s just a bad dream, boy. Go back to sleep.”
I pad off in the direction of the bathroom. Maybe a glass of water will help. There are only two small ice cubes in the bucket, but I’m not about to go trotting down an empty hall to an even emptier service room that holds the ice machine.
I let the cold water run for a while, hoping it will go from tepid to bearable. Finally I give up and rattle the ice bucket, hoping to find more than two cubes. There’s one I missed, lurking among the folds of the plastic lining.
I lift the glass to my lips…and an unearthly screech takes six years off my life. There is it, again…followed by Elvis barking as if he’s treed a wild bobcat.
Holy cow! Lovie’s in there alone with no telling what!
My first instinct is to bolt to her rescue. My second is to look for a weapon. Given the only two choices I have - the top of the toilet tank, which is far too heavy for me, or a can of Hold and Shine Hair Spray - I race into the room holding the hair spray can like a Colt .45.
There’s a masked man as big as King Kong standing in the middle of our room. Elvis is nipping at his heels and Lovie is standing on the bed, swinging the baseball bat for all she’s worth. He’s dancing out of my dog’s reach, ducking Lovie’s bat and laughing
“What are you, a girly girl? You’ll have to do better than that.”
Good grief, he’s mocking her. I could kill him…if I had the toilet tank lid. He’s so busy baiting Lovie, he hasn’t even seen me.
I sneak a bit closer while Lovie calls him every bad name in the book and some she invented just for this occasion.