by Peggy Webb
“Daddy got that tart pregnant, and she insisted on having the baby. Mother took Janice and me and left, but he begged her to come back. And she did. The fool.”
“Then they adopted Kevin?”
“Bubbles was only eighteen. How was she going to take care of herself and a kid?”
“Exactly. And on a showgirl’s salary.”
“She never got over losing Daddy and Kevin. In a fit of remorse and revenge, she stole my fiancé.”
Back at the funeral home, Mellie was right. Kevin should know he has a half brother. But this family secret is not mine to tell.
“Look at me. Who would have me besides bighearted Flash Malone? After Bubbles stole him, do you think anybody else was going to have me? When that floozy ending up stealing Daddy’s money, too, it was the last straw. I wanted to make her pay, but I never meant to kill her.”
After all this is over, I’m going to give her a full makeover. If she doesn’t turn on me and kill me first.
“Mellie, do you want to come with me?”
Jack is standing behind us looking like some dark avenger who dropped out of the sky. I’m so relieved I could kneel at his feet and polish his shoes. Among other things.
Tomorrow I’m going to hate that he’s the sneaky kind, but today I’m going to go home and light a candle.
Police cars squall to a stop at the top of the hill, and Jack puts his arm around Mellie and leads her off.
The way Mellie smiles at him, you’d think he had proposed. Which is Jack Jones all over. A charming rogue who can lead anybody down the garden path.
Anybody, that is, except me. As far as I’m concerned, Jack Jones’ corn has worms, his beans have blight, and his squash has root rot. And I’m not even going to discuss his tomatoes and cucumbers.
Uncle Charlie and Mama arrive on the heels of the cops.
Mama falls on me like she hasn’t seen me in thirteen years. “If anything has happened to you, I would die.” Apparently she’s not all that close to death’s door, because when she straightens up, she’s full of feist and devilment. “I should have cut Mellie’s gizzard out when I had the chance.”
“Good grief, Mama. You sound serious.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
I don’t want to know. I’ve had enough of murder and mayhem. Instead of encouraging Mama with a reply, I march around the lake to get my Jimmy Choo shoes.
When I get on the other side, I look back and see Mama and Uncle Charlie and Lovie, all lined up in a row watching me, checking to make sure I’m safe.
I grab my shoes, dash a little tear out of my eye, and race back to my family.
Suddenly it hits me. This case may not be over.
“Did Bevvie get away?”
“Jack and I let her go. She had no timing device in her camera and no plans to blow up the funeral home. She was headed to the cemetery to take pictures so she could reassure herself Leonard was six feet under.”
“How do we know she wasn’t involved? Mellie said she killed Bubbles by herself, but she could have been lying.”
“Jack checked Bevvie’s alibi. It was airtight.”
Jack again. How does he know all that stuff, anyhow? If I were still officially married, I’d try to find out.
“Fayrene said she had some fresh bait.” Uncle Charlie puts his arms around Lovie and me. “After we get you two back home, what do you say we all go fishing?”
It’s the most sensible idea I’ve heard in weeks. I’m so happy to be doing something normal, I’d gladly jump in the lake and spear a fish with the heel of my favorite Jimmy Choo shoes.
Elvis’ Opinion #12 on Diets, Astrology, and Normal
Considering the major role I played in apprehending the criminal, you’d think folks would show some appreciation. But oh no. Now that she has time to notice such things as the portly figure I cut, Callie has put me on a diet. Never mind Ann Margret’s opinion that I’m God’s gift to poodles.
No Pupperoni. One measley doggie bone a day and no more scraps from the table. If it weren’t for Lovie sneaking me a few tasty tidbits, I’d be crying in the chapel.
And speaking of Lovie…this Rocky Malone dude has her all shook up. It turns out he’s an archaeologist who’s far more interested in old bones than in running women off the road. Heck, he wasn’t even carrying a real gun. It was a plastic Roy Roger’s six-shooter.
Now that the police have released his mother’s body, he has gone back to Las Vegas to make funeral arrangements. But he’s been calling Lovie.
It seems he was a tougher nut to crack than Callie thought. He was holding out about what he knew regarding Kevin and his mother. After Mellie knocked Bubbles off, Rocky found a scrapbook in her closet featuring Kevin—school pictures, report cards, hair from his first cut, all the stuff mothers keep, obviously supplied by the doctor. He was quicker than Callie to catch the family resemblance.
Lovie didn’t have the same compunction as Callie about telling Laton family secrets. Rocky’s coming back after the funeral so he can get to know his half brother.
And not coincidentally to take Lovie out. She told Callie they’re having a first date a week from Saturday night.
Lovie doesn’t have dates. She has affairs.
You can understand why Callie is confused. When she asked what had happened to Lovie’s attraction to Champ, she said, “I’ve found bigger fish to fry.”
As for the Latons, Kevin finally gave up on Lovie, Mellie’s facing extradition to Las Vegas, and Janice and her brood are back in California. I’d like to report I have the place all to myself, but it turns out Callie’s named that silly cocker spaniel and put another doggie bed in the house.
On the opposite side of the bed, thank you, thank you very much, or I’d have to put out a contract on him.
If she thinks I’m going to take up singing duets simply because she’s calling him Hoyt, she’s whistling Dixie. Just because I hung a portrait of the Jordanaires in the Trophy Room at Graceland doesn’t mean I’m fixing to start sharing the limelight here in Mooreville, Mississippi. I have better things to do than try to teach an untalented stray how to sing.
Now that things are back to normal around here (if you don’t count Hoyt, and I most certainly don’t), Ruby Nell has motored down to Vicksburg to check out the riverboat casinos. She talked Fayrene into going with her. And guess what else she’s taking? The switchblade she keeps in her purse. Nobody knows about it except Charlie and me.
Don’t ask how I know. I get around. Anything that’s worth knowing, I sniff out.
While Fayrene’s gone, Jarvetis is in charge of Gas, Grits, and Guts. Now, there’s a man who understands his hounds. I’ll be feasting on bologna rinds and pickled pigs’ lips if he can get some shipped up from Scooba. And if I can find the back door open.
Callie is back to dispensing beauty and consulting the stars. This morning while we were having breakfast in the gazebo she said, “Listen to this, Elvis.” Then she read her horoscope.
Today you’re going to meet the man of your dreams.
I don’t usually put much stock in such things, but last night while my human mom and I were outside communing with the stars, Venus was lined up with Mars. Let me tell you, when those two powerful planets get together, anything can happen.
For instance, here comes my human daddy on his Harley. Callie looks out the window, then around at her empty beauty parlor.
“Man of my dreams, my foot. More like my worst nightmare.”
Jack strides in and tosses his helmet on the love seat. Well, bless’a my soul. He left the front door open.
I mosey in that direction but my human parents are too busy to notice. She’s astraddle him on her own beauty shop chair.
Don’t think I’m going to divulge details. I pride myself on being a dog with class.
Nosing the door back, I squeeze my fat butt through and sniff to see which way the wind’s blowing. Is that the succulent scent of pigs’ lips?
After checking the road f
or Peterbilt rigs, I trot off to see if Jarvetis is in a sharing mood.
Elvis has left the building.
Every year, a hip-shaking herd of Elvis impersonators descends upon the King’s birthplace of Tupelo, Mississippi, for the annual Elvis festival. Usually the main attractions are lots of sequined jumpsuits and even more off-key singing, but this year something much more deadly has the town all shook up…
When the first Elvis impersonator is found slumped over his piano, a heart attack seems the likely suspect. But when a second keels over mid-swagger at Callie Valentine Jones’s party, suspicious minds begin to wonder if something foul is afoot. Because everyone knows two dead Elvis impersonators add up to only one thing: murder.
As it turns out, Callie’s cousin Lovie—a 190-pound bombshell who’s had more lovers than the King had hit records—turns out to be suspect number one. Callie knows she’s innocent but to prove it, she and Lovie will have to find out who the real killer is. Could it be Texas Elvis, who’s sworn to out-swivel his rivals? Maybe the female Elvis from Australia, with the fake sideburns? Or one of the endlessly bickering officers of the fan club?
It’s a mystery fit for a King, and with a little help from Callie’s hunk-a-burnin’ love ex Jack and her talented hound dog Elvis—who’s convinced he’s the true reincarnation of the King—Callie and Lovie are determined to have the killer singing “Jailhouse Rock.” But they need to move fast and be ready for the killer’s next move, because their chance may be now…or never!
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
the next Southern Cousins mystery
ELVIS AND THE GRATEFUL DEAD
coming next month!
Elvis’ Opinion # 1 on Impersonators, the Valentine Family, and Fried Pigskins
If you ask me, all these impersonators running around Tupelo in sequined jumpsuits could use remedial voice lessons. Nobody can hold a candle to the King. That would be me, though these days I could pass through a crowd unnoticed if it weren’t for my pink bow tie. I also wanted to wear my black pompadour to the Elvis Festival, but Callie (my human mom) said basset hounds look silly in toupees.
What does she know? Don’t get me wrong. She’s the best human mom a dog could have, but she can’t even keep her own life straight, much less mine. If she’d seek my sage advice, I’d tell her to stop trying to take care of the world (and that includes picking up stray dogs and cats as well as loaning money to everybody with a sob story who walks into her beauty shop). Mostly, though, I’d tell her to drop divorce proceedings.
If any two people belong together, it’s Callie and Jack (my human daddy). She says they split over his Harley Screamin’ Eagle, but I know better. They split because she wants a family and he’s worried about having children and then getting shot and leaving them fatherless.
Of course, he’s never told Callie the truth because he’s never even told her about his real profession—and if I told you, I’d have to kill you. Suffice it to say, Jack Jones makes Rambo look timid.
Callie and Jack are at an impasse and “All Shook Up.” At the rate things are going, it looks like I’ll be punted between them for the next three years. Like a pigskin.
Speaking of which, I think I’ll mosey on over to the refreshment booth and see what’s cooking. Fried pigskins, for one thing. Lovie’s in charge. She shares my opinion that the body ought to be primed with sugar and fat. (Spirits, too, which she uses generously in her catering business recipes, though Callie would die if she knew her cousin sometimes slips me a little of her Jack Daniel’s apple pie.)
Take it from me, Lovie and I know a thing or two. She’s a hundred-and-ninety-pound bombshell with plenty of curves to hold on to; and in spite of my slightly mismatched ears and my portly figure, I’m a suave dog and a force to be reckoned with. We’ve both had more lovers than I’ve had hit records. But ever since Ann-Margret batted her French poodle eyes at me and Rocky Malone blew into Lovie’s life during what the Valentine family now refers to as the Bubbles Caper, we’ve both been testing the waters of love everlasting.
Frankly, if it weren’t for the example set by Ruby Nell (Callie’s mama) and Charlie (Lovie’s Daddy) I’d be howling “Rock-a-Hula Baby” instead of “Wear My Ring Around Your Neck.” Both of them had great marriages and still worship the quicksand their immortal beloveds walked on. (Even a Rock ’n’ Roll King knows his Beethoven.)
If you ask me (which nobody does around here), Ruby Nell and Charlie would benefit from a good dose of “Love Me Tender” with somebody who is not six feet under. In fact, I might help her find a savvy senior gentleman who appreciates a woman who walks on the wild side so she’ll stay out of Callie’s hair (and her pocketbook).
While I’m at it, I might find Charlie a smart, witty woman who still pays homage to her libido. A nice romance could be the key to unlock the passion he hides under the facade of godfather to the entire Valentine family.
If I could be like Ruby Nell and Charlie in my next life, I wouldn’t mind coming back as a human. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a dog. Put a bassett hound in the White House and he’d have this country straightened out before you could say pass the Pup-Peroni.
Hot on the scent of grease, I detour by the T-shirt booth for a whole lotta lovin’ from Charlie and Ruby Nell, then nose around the festival so everybody can get a gander at the real King. Listen, I may be a basset hound, but I know what I know: (l) impersonators singing flat notes and wearing hair gel you can smell a mile ought to be banned from wearing sequined jumpsuits, and (2) life’s better with a lot of petting and a hefty portion of fried pigskins.
Chapter 1
Hair Gel, Flat Notes, and the Rockabilly Corpse
Here comes Elvis looking so cute I don’t have the heart to chastise him for slipping his leash.
“There you are, boy.” I secure his leash and tighten the collar a notch, then give him some extra petting so he won’t get miffed.
Not many people can say they’re where they are because of a dog. But let me tell you, if it weren’t for Elvis I’d be a free woman sitting on a beach somewhere with a man who has daddy potential. By the time I settle my dog-custody battle with Jack Jones, my eggs are going to be on life support.
But I’m not about to give up Elvis, even if he is the reason I’m legally tied to a man who went out to buy a baby cradle and came back with a Harley. If Jack thinks he can deprive me of progeny and have my dog, too, he has another think coming. I’d as soon give up Mama.
Elvis is part of my family. And family is the reason I’m dispensing hair gel and pompadours from a tent in a corner of the blocked-off section of downtown Tupelo instead of shoring up my finances at Hair.Net (my little beauty shop in Mooreville, population six hundred and fifty and a half since Fayrene’s niece got pregnant).
Uncle Charlie is on the Elvis Festival Committee. When he said we should all do our civic duty and help out with this year’s festival, it might as well have been an edict from God. Not only does Uncle Charlie own and manage the most popular funeral home in northeast Mississippi (Eternal Rest), but he manages to keep the entire Valentine family sane (barely) and out of trouble (mostly). We think he walks on water.
As for my dog, Elvis considers it his birthright to be on display at the annual Elvis Festival. When I mentioned I might leave him home so he could use the doggie door to get inside and stay cool, he chewed the laces off my Reeboks, then deliberately heisted his leg on my prize petunias.
He’s sporting his pink bow tie. Personally, I can see why my dog thinks he’s Mississippi’s most famous son reincarnated. The way he’s swaggering while Brian Watson belts out “Don’t Be Cruel,” you can almost see the swivel-hipped King himself.
Brian has a hitch in his swivel. Elvis trots to the tent opening and shoots him a disdainful look before ambling over to sit at my feet. I bend down to scratch his ears.
“Are you about ready for the tour of the Birthplace, boy? Promise you won’t go running off again.” I take his grin as
a yes. I swear my dog looks human when he smiles.
Brian is the last of today’s competitors vying for tribute artist fame. As soon as the new American Idol winner takes the stage, Lovie and I will escort the impersonators on a tour of the famous Birthplace in east Tupelo.
I’m getting ready to shut down my on-site beauty salon when Lovie strolls in, hands me a glass of iced peach tea, and plops in front of the makeup mirror.
“If Brian’s notes get any flatter, I may have to join Aunt Ruby Nell in a five o’clock toddy.”
Mama always says a little libation is good for the spirit, and I guess she’s right because she’s one of the liveliest spirits I know.
“Pretty me up, Callie. Rocky’s going to call.”
“He can’t see you over the telephone.”
“If I feel sexy, I talk sexy. Work your magic.”
I grab a comb and set to work.
Rocky Malone is her current heartthrob, and from the looks of things, her last. Thanks to the teddy-bear charm of the man we thought wanted to kill us over the Bubbles Malone caper, Lovie’s likely to marry and end up in Las Vegas. Then what will I do?
I know, I know. This sounds selfish. But Lovie’s not only my first cousin, she’s also my best friend, my confidante, and my cohort in crime. (Thank goodness, I’m not a criminal, but if you had been with us when we tried to steal a corpse and haul it across the desert in ninety-degree heat, you’d know what I’m talking about.)
I put the finishing touch on Lovie’s flaming red mane. “What’s Mama doing with a five o’clock toddy? It’s only three.”
“When has reason ever applied to Aunt Ruby Nell? She said she wanted to be ready for your party tonight.”
Mama’s farm in Mooreville is only a fifteen-minute drive from Tupelo and I know it doesn’t take her four hours to get ready for a party. Something else is afoot. I just hope it doesn’t involve Fayrene’s back room at Gas, Grits, and Guts (Mooreville’s one and only convenience store) and that jar of quarters Fayrene keeps on the table.