by Webb, Peggy
“We’re probably dealing with at least two people who have different agendas. I’m going to talk to Jack.”
Before I can remind him that Valentine family business is no longer Jack’s business, Uncle Charlie has gone to the kitchen. And since when did they become such cronies, anyway? Uncle Charlie always liked him, but I didn’t think they were confidants.
In a few minutes he comes back with two fat mugs of hot green chai tea.
“Drink this. Gertrude’s viewing is not until Wednesday. You can come back tomorrow and finish her. Let’s put all of this out of our minds for now.”
I’m still shaking and hot chai spills on my hands. Uncle Charlie wipes it off with his handkerchief, then notices my bare foot and goes back downstairs to retrieve my missing shoe.
When he returns he puts on his glasses, takes out a thick blue volume, and begins to read aloud:
“When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate…”
I know Uncle Charlie is trying to soothe me with poetry—and succeeding. But I also know how Shakespeare’s Sonnet 29 ends, and I wonder if he’s remembering my advice and showing me that age has a wisdom only the young can dream of.
“For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
Remembering the Uncle Charlie of my childhood, I see him bending over Aunt Minrose while she’s at her baby grand piano, offering her a freshly cut rose, the dew still on its petals. And I see their faces, lit with a tenderness that stopped me in my tracks and held me behind the living room door, heart racing.
I wonder if I’ll ever know a passion such as that. Or have already known it, and let it slip through my fingers.
After I leave the funeral home, I drive to Lovie’s. She meets me at the door with Elvis, who looks suspiciously content. Usually after a visit to the vet, he gnaws a few chair legs to get even.
“How did it go, Lovie?”
“He’s a dreamboat. An absolute hunk.”
“Elvis?”
“No, the new vet. When he put his hands on Elvis, it was all I could do to keep from crawling onto the examining table, myself.”
“What happened to Dr. Sandusky?”
“Elvis hates him.”
“How do you know?”
“By looking at your furniture. Are you going to stand in the door quizzing me all night, or are we going spying?”
While I update her on the latest doings at Eternal Rest, we don Uncle Charlie’s hats and wigs from Aunt Minrose’s stage days. With jet-black curls springing out from my felt fedora, I look like a werewolf doing Phillip Marlowe.
When we planned this stakeout, we decided to go incognito, and I guess the disguises are working. Elvis sees us, and his hackles rise about three inches.
I soothe his ruffled feelings, then ensconce him on the sofa with a Milk-Bone and his favorite TV show, American Idol. He likes to howl along.
Armed with binoculars (my idea) and a meat cleaver (Lovie’s weapon of choice), I tell Elvis to be good and guard the house. Then we climb into my Dodge Ram and drive off.
“What’s wrong with Elvis?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“I’ve never seen him ignore a doggie treat.”
“I already gave him one.”
“Not too much, I hope. Dr. Sandusky says if he keeps gaining weight, I’ll have to put him on a fitness diet.”
“Champ didn’t mention a diet.”
“Champ?”
“The new vet. Luke Champion. That’s his nickname.”
I don’t even want to know. Besides, we’ve arrived at our destination, the subdivision on the south side of Tupelo where all the streets are named for presidents.
Kevin’s one-story brick house is on Eisenhower, which I think is the main reason he was doomed with Lovie from the start. She’s a yellow-dog Democrat, and here he is living on the street named after a Republican icon.
Made wiser by our Pomeranian encounter, we decide to avoid backyards. I park two blocks from Kevin’s and we mosey down the sidewalk.
“This wig is hot as the devil.” Lovie scratches her head so hard she reminds me of Elvis before the flea treatment.
“The wigs were your idea.”
“Do you have a better one?”
“No.”
“Then hush up and pretend you don’t see that patrol car.”
It pulls up beside us, and a flashlight shines in our faces.
“Do you two ladies need any help?”
“No.” Lovie hides her meat cleaver in the folds of her skirt and flashes her famous smile. “We’re just out for a stroll.”
This is the first time I’ve seen her charm fail. Probably because her wig is turned sideways.
“Is that your Dodge parked down the street?”
“We’ve been visiting my aunt on McKinley,” I tell him. “We were heading home when my friend got a cramp in her leg. We’re trying to walk it off.”
Lovie hops up and down on one foot—a sight to behold. With a warning to be careful, the streets are no place for ladies this late at night, the officer tips his hat and leaves us to our misdeeds.
“Hustle, Callie, before we land in jail.”
Lovie powers off and I have to trot to keep up with her. Putting on the brakes when we near Kevin’s yard, we tiptoe toward cover, scrunching down so we’re out of the pool of light coming from his window.
The two of us (combined width, the approximate size of a small Toyota) attempt to hide behind a hydrangea bush (two feet max, even with the blossoms). Branches creak and pop in our wake, and to my guilty ears they sound like the crack of doom.
We freeze, expecting Kevin to come out the door with a gun. But all is quiet so we hunker down and get to the business of eavesdropping.
“Somebody’s with him,” Lovie whispers. “A woman.”
“Can you hear what they’re saying?”
“No, but I can guess…and it’s not for the fainthearted. Can you see who it is?”
“Wait a minute.” I shift a limb out of my way and clear a bird’s-eye view of Kevin’s living room. “It’s Mellie. Crying.”
“Why?”
“How would I know? Shh. Wait a minute.” I press closer to the window and catch a snatch of conversation. “They’re talking about Bubbles…and Bevvie. Holy cow!”
“What? What?”
“They used the word murder.”
“Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to be their next victim.”
We hotfoot it out of there, leaving behind two murder suspects and a mutilated hydrangea bush. Back in the van, Lovie spends ten minutes recovering her breath while I spend it recovering from a near heart attack. To say the least.
“Bevvie did it,” Lovie says.
“We don’t know that for sure. I still think Janice is the only one with enough venom, and Kevin is a known liar.”
Still, Bevvie is in parts unknown. Suddenly I remember an article in Field and Stream featuring a picture of the youngest Laton offspring with a pile of poor dead ducks at her feet. Tomorrow I’m going to Google the rest of the Laton heirs to see what else I can discover, especially about the family’s big game hunter, Bevvie.
If I live that long.
After I drop Lovie off and tell her to dead-bolt every door, I head toward Mooreville with Elvis. Even though he snoozes the whole way home, I’m glad I won’t have to walk into my dark house alone. Especially with a killer on the loose and my suspicions it could be the one sleeping in my guest bedroom.
Listen, I know it might have been smarter to stay somewhere else, with Lovie or Mama or even Uncle Charlie, who tried to persuade me. But if I’m now the target, why put the rest of my family in jeopardy? And if both Lovie and I are next on the list, why give the murderer an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone?
Anyhow, I’m stubborn. I’m not fixing to let anybody run me
out of my own house. Besides, I have Elvis. He’s not what you’d call an attack dog, but at least he’d bark and give me enough time to arm myself.
I let myself in with my new key, then bend down and caution Elvis to be quiet going up the stairs. The last thing I need is Janice waiting in the dark to pounce and quiz me. Or worse.
Most people who’ve had the traumatic day I did would skip the bedtime ritual, but I’m not the kind of woman to let beauty and good grooming slip. Besides, my hair is stuck to my scalp from sweating under Aunt Minrose’s wig, and I look like Rudolph Valentino wearing too much Alberto V05.
After my shower and shampoo, I spend a full ten minutes with Oil of Olay. At my age any less is just asking for premature crow’s-feet.
“Come here, boy.” Elvis trots over for his good night petting, and then we both fall into bed.
I am not alone.
Somebody has pinned my arms to the bed and clamped a hand over my mouth. I flail around, trying to get loose.
Where’s my dog and why didn’t he wake me? I’m going to be front-page news. MOOREVILLE’S MOST FAMOUS HAIRSTYLIST ATTACKED IN HER BED.
“Don’t scream.”
The whisper is close to my ear. I shiver, then get hot all over. In places you don’t want to know about.
“Are you going to keep quiet?”
“Hmmm.”
Jack releases me, then brushes a kiss on my shoulder. “Good girl.”
“How did you get in?”
“Picked the locks.”
“If you’ll care to remember, this is my house.”
“I know.”
“I ought to call the law.”
“But you won’t.”
His hand is on my leg, sliding under my gown. I know I ought to make him leave. And I could. He’s not the kind to force his attentions.
I have only one thing to say on the subject: I’m glad I’m wearing Victoria’s Secret.
Chapter 14
Guns, Strangers, and Man-eating Trollops
Inever thought I’d be packing a pistol. But here I am on the farm before any decent rooster would think of stirring, pouring bullets into the air around a bale of hay with Jack’s .45. Not only that, I’m sporting a leg holster he had strapped on me before I was really awake from a lovely dream that featured me floating through the air behind a line of baby carriages.
On the positive side, all I can say is that Jack had me out of the house before any of the Latons woke up.
I don’t see the point of all this, and I’ve told him so. He said it was to keep me safe, but I have a news flash. After this Laton business is cleared up, the only dangerous thing I plan to do is be the first one crashing through the doors for McRae’s Labor Day shoe sale so I can get to the Cole Haans before they’re picked over.
I’ve never had to use a weapon for that. Though at times it’s tempting.
I squint and take aim again, this time blasting a hole in the oak tree. Jack just stands there, obviously awed by my skill.
Finally he says, “That tree was six hundred yards away from your target.”
“Yeah, but I hit it, didn’t I?”
“The point is to hit your target. Don’t think about it, Callie. Just point and shoot.”
“Like that will help me if I’m looking into the eyes of a cold-blooded killer.”
At the rate I’m going I’d have my leg shot off before I could get the gun out of its holster.
“Okay, let’s try something else.” Jack wraps his arms around me from behind and stands so close you couldn’t get a straw between us.
If I’d known this target practice was going to turn X-rated, I’ve have put on a chastity belt. Or my cute new thong.
Putting his hand over mine, he swings my arm and squeezes the trigger. Bull’s-eye.
“How did you do that?”
“You did it, Callie. Now. Again.”
He repeats this motion till I think my arm will fall off. Suddenly I’ve blasted the target before I’m even aware that he’s no longer pulling the trigger.
He takes the gun, reloads it, then hikes up my skirt and rams it into the holster.
“Stay out of trouble, Callie. I have business to take care of.”
I wonder if his business involves Leonora Moffett (Mama’s bad advice fomenting), but I’d cut off my tongue with my favorite haircutting scissors before I’d ask. I have better things to do than stand around being jealous of every woman who looks at Jack sideways. Besides, it would take me about fifteen years because that includes every woman in Lee County except Fayrene and Mama.
After Jack drops me off and I pick up Elvis, I head to Hair.Net and power up my computer to search cyberspace for clues. This takes a while because I’m still on dial-up. Though some would say differently, Mooreville is not the center of the universe and not exactly top of the list for fast Internet access service. In the middle of my typing Bevvie Laton into the Google search engine, my computer heaves a big sigh and goes to that great computer roundup in cyberspace. Permanently, it looks like.
I predict another big hole in my expenses, and I don’t even need a gazing ball.
There are some places you can’t get by with a gun, even if Jack Jones did tuck it up your skirt. Lee County Library is one of those. You can’t even take your dog in there.
I had to leave Elvis with Mama.
After I finished transforming poor old Gertrude to Greta Garbo at the funeral home, I headed to the library for more sleuthing. I could have used Uncle Charlie’s computer or Lovie’s or even Mama’s, but after being with Jack all morning—and night—I felt the need for some real solitude so I could repent without family commentary.
Finding a computer in the corner as far away from everybody as I can get, I start scanning newspapers for articles on Bevvie Laton’s nefarious activities. Listen, don’t talk to me about sport. I’m a dog mother.
An article from Florida shows Bevvie all decked out in hunter green with guns that would give you nightmares, her foot propped on an alligator the size of my recliner. I’d say she’s not a woman to mess with. I’d say she’d be more than a match for Bubbles Malone.
Then I see an article from Montana that gives me the shivers. After printing it out, I Google Janice. She’s not the news maker Bevvie turned out to be, but she is high enough in society to warrant a few inches of print.
Her wedding got a big spread but yields no clues. The only article of any significance is about a charity benefit Christmas ball Janice hosted. There’s nothing interesting here except a picture of a crowd scene with Janice in the forefront sporting a bad haircut and a salmon-colored gown with red lipstick that clashes.
I’m about to move on when I notice a face in the background that looks vaguely familiar. When I press ENLARGE, the woman comes into view—big hair, lots of cleavage, too much eye makeup. It’s Bubbles Malone.
I print the picture, then move on to Mellie. Apparently she never married. If she had, wouldn’t there have been a big society wedding like her sister’s?
I find an article from Las Vegas about her senior prom—a posh event sponsored by Dr. Laton, featuring the Latin rhythm band of Juan Cheveros, who billed himself as successor to Xavier Cugat, the Rumba King. In the picture, Dr. Laton is flanked by his wife, his daughter Mellie—who was surprisingly pretty as a teenager—and Mellie’s escort, a large, handsome guy with a shy smile. He couldn’t have been the band director because he’s obviously not Latino; plus, he’s not named. That means he also didn’t have enough blue blood to be considered newsworthy.
He looks vaguely familiar, though I have no idea why. This picture is nearly thirty years old. I was a mere child then. Still, I’m getting a funny vibe, as if I’m missing something important.
I print it out, and race to my Dodge Ram. Forget Googling Dr. Laton. I barely have time to share this news with Lovie before I head to Mooreville for my next appointment. I wouldn’t even take the time to call her, but if I’m the next victim, I want somebody to know what I know.
“Lovie, what are you doing?”
“The question is who.”
“Good grief, not Kevin Laton.”
“I decided to pump him for further information.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“What a way to die!” I hear dishes clanking; then Lovie says, “Anyway, he just left and I’m making brandied peaches. What’s up?”
“I’ve Googled the rest of the Latons. Janice knew Bubbles.”
“How do you know?”
“I have a newspaper picture of Bubbles attending one of her charity benefits.”
“Wouldn’t it be open to anybody who bought a ticket? That doesn’t necessarily mean she knew her.”
“My gut instinct tells me otherwise. But that’s not all. I found this newspaper article on Bevvie. And guess what the title is? Hunting Accident or Murder?”
“Holy shit. We’ve stepped in it now.”
“You’re not kidding. Listen. When Larson Clayton went looking for moose in the wilds of Montana, he never expected to be the first big game felled by a hunting rifle. Members of the hunting party claim his death was an accident. The hunters had scattered and nobody knows whose gun fired the fatal shot. The hunting party included Larson’s ex-wife, Angie, his brother, Clint Clayton, June Mathiston and Bevvie Laton.”
“The paper wouldn’t put murder in the headlines unless they had some evidence.”
“Here’s the scary part. An unidentified source says the day before the hunt, Larson Clayton broke off his engagement to Bevvie Laton. The accident is under investigation.”
“What did they find out?”
“Ballistics matched the bullet to Bevvie’s gun, but no charges were filed.”
“I’ll bet she killed Bubbles, and if she’s on the lam, we’ll never get that old geezer in the ground.”
“Don’t let Uncle Charlie hear you speaking ill of the dead.”
“Aunt Ruby Nell called him a two-timing turd. And Daddy didn’t say a word.”