Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse Read online

  Books by Peggy Webb

  ELVIS AND THE DEARLY DEPARTED

  ELVIS AND THE GRATEFUL DEAD

  ELVIS AND THE MEMPHIS MAMBO MURDERS

  ELVIS AND THE TROPICAL DOUBLE TROUBLE

  ELVIS AND THE BLUE CHRISTMAS CORPSE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  ELVIS and the Blue Christmas Corpse

  Peggy Webb

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Peggy Webb

  Title Page

  Elvis’ Opinion # 1 on Love, Revenge, and Santa Paws

  Chapter 1 - Jazz Funerals, Santa’s Elf, and Fa La La La Farewell

  Chapter 2 - Santa’s Court, Jingle Bell Nail Art, and the Tall Elf

  Chapter 3 - Unexpected Christmas Show, Final Curtain, and Ruldoph the Red-Nosed Deer-ly Departed

  Chapter 4 - Home Cooking, Unwanted Safety Tips, and Murder

  Chapter 5 - Bad News, Big Surprise, and Deck the Mall with Christmas Corpses

  Chapter 6 - Yellow Tape, Santa Haters, and Cancelled Christmas

  Chapter 7 - Frosty the Stolen Snowman, Mrs. Claus, and the unHoly Cow

  Chapter 8 - Gentle Murder, Graceland Send-offs, and Fatal Attractions

  Chapter 9 - Up on the Rooftop, Mooreville Mayhem, and Santa Barbecue

  Chapter 10 - White Lies, Baseball Bats, and Big Trouble

  Chapter 11 - Lethal Games, Angry Neighbors, and Annie Get Your Gun

  Chapter 12 - Caught Red-handed, Something Foul’s Afoot, and Flitter

  Chapter 13 - Faded Beauty, Bogus Pageants, and the Shrimp Queen

  Chapter 14 - Cookie Caper, Chocolate Trouble, and Raising Caine

  Chapter 15 - Cops, Jazz Funerals, and Dashing Through the Pearly Gates

  Chapter 16 - Bogus Massage, Free Cuts, and Suspecting Caine

  Chapter 17 - Bravery, Bedlam, and Beauty

  Chapter 18 - Christmas Ornaments, Hair Mistake, and Salem Witches

  Chapter 19 - Killing Miss Sweet Potato, Lethal Spaghetti Sauce, and Armageddon

  Chapter 20 - Raising the Dead, Jilted Lovers, and Whodunnit

  Lovie’s Luscious Eats - Holiday Sweet Treats and More

  Copyright Page

  Elvis’ Opinion # 1 on Love, Revenge, and Santa Paws

  With the Mayan misadventure behind us, you’d think my human family (the Valentines) would be settling down to enjoy a cup of Christmas cheer and a good ham bone, preferably dug up from the back yard by yours truly and seasoned with a bit of Mississippi red clay.

  But everybody in Mooreville is “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.” (Not my song, but, hey, I’m a generous, humble dog who appreciates the efforts of other singers—though they pale compared to mine.) The Wildwood Baptist choir (the church of choice for the Valentines) is gearing up for the Christmas cantata, otherwise known as amateur hour. With all that off-key caterwauling, I keep expecting the local choir director to come looking for advice from an expert. That would be yours truly, world-famous King of Rock ‘n’ Roll in a basset hound suit. But, like everybody else in this little northeast corner of the state, they dismiss me as just another handsome face and go on about their silly business. Which means they don’t know G flat from a tasty stick of Pup-Peroni.

  Fortunately, I have a human mom who appreciates my many talents—Callie Valentine Jones, owner of the best little beauty shop in town and caretaker to half of Mooreville. Currently that includes my human daddy, Jack Jones, who got caught in a jaguar trap in the jungle and is now happily ensconced in Callie’s bed. But not for the reasons you’re probably thinking. Callie’s taking care of him while he recovers from leg surgery.

  Listen, I’m a generous-hearted but portly dog. I want my human daddy to get well quick, but not so fast he has to leave. Callie’s got me on a strict diet, but Jack pays that no more mind than he does when she tells him no (as in no hanky panky). Which she does with some regularity. While he’s here, I get all the forbidden fat-laden snacks I please, plus a goodly number of T-bone steaks. Jack knows who’s in his corner and who’s not. I’m doing all I can to make sure my human parents get together again. For good, this time.

  And speaking of broken relationships, Callie’s cousin Lovie still hasn’t forgiven Rocky Malone. She claims he left her to become a kidnapped Moon Goddess in a Mayan jungle while he stayed at his dig and searched for old bones. (He’s an archeologist, and I’ll have to say that a man who loves bones as much as he does gets my vote.) Currently she’s out doing the “Jingle Bell Rock” (another song I could have turned to gold, but left in the hands of lesser singers) with another man who’s not fit to stir the soup in her pot. (She’s the owner of Lovie’s Luscious Eats, the best little catering business in the South.)

  Then, of course, there’s Ruby Nell, Callie’s mama, who has finally patched up her feud with Charlie (Callie’s uncle and godfather to the entire Valentine family). Ruby Nell has also sent her not-so-true love traveling on a gravel road. That would be Thomas Whitenton, her sometime dance partner and who knows what all. Never one to be “Running Scared,” Ruby Nell is up to her neck with Fayrene in plans for a Christmas open house at the séance room on the back of Gas, Grits, and Guts.

  Fayrene finally got the séance room built. Thank the lord and hallelujah, she and her husband Jarvetis Johnson are once again Mooreville’s answer to Lucy and Desi. And the mystical addition to our one and only convenience store didn’t have to be over Jarvetis’ dead body!

  So far, the only hitch in Ruby Nell and Fayrene’s plan is that Bobby Huckabee’s psychic eye is on the blink and they’re looking for somebody else who can talk to the dead.

  Who needs somebody to talk to the dead when they have a basset hound who used to be the King? Give me a white beard, a little red four-legged suit, and a microphone, and I’ll bring down the house. “Santa Paws Is Back in Town!”

  Chapter 1

  Jazz Funerals, Santa’s Elf, and Fa La La La Farewell

  The last thing I expected to be doing was dressing for a Christmas party with my almost-lover Champ while my almost-ex Jack sprawls on my bed dishing out love advice. I’m bent over putting on some cute backless Bernardos with rhinestones on the toe when he pipes up with, “Cal, if you plan on snaring a husband, you need to show more cleavage.”

  “You’re a fine one to be giving love advice, Jack. And for your information, I don’t snare.”

  “You snared me.”

  I’m going to royally ignore that remark. Champ (Luke Champion) is a good man who stays at home to run a nice, safe veterinary clinic instead of gallivanting all over the world getting shot at. I’m not going to let a deep-cover assassin with a Harley Screaming Eagle spoil my evening. Even if Jack did get his leg smashed all to pieces while he was rescuing cousin Lovie.

  I just sashay right past the bed where he’s taking up his half and mine, too, and start putting on my lipstick. Pretty in pink, which enhances my olive complexion and gives my full lips a kissably soft appearance. Beauty is my business, and I don’t skimp when it comes to myself. In addition to expert styling skills, it’s my beauty example that has people flocking from all over three counties to make appointments at Hair.Net.

  Well, that plus the addition of my new manicurist, Darlene. She’s brought Atlanta nail art to Mooreville. Rhinestones on your toes, and all. She did my toenails for tonight. Pink to match my lipstick. I believe in coordinating colors.

  Some people clash. Like Mama. Which I won’t even get into at this time.

  “Cal, before you go, would you plump up my pillows? I just don’t feel like lifting my head.
”

  “If you’re that weak, how’d you manage to get out of the guest bed and into mine?”

  Jack gives me a mournful look then gazes at his crutches like a man with wheelchairs in his future.

  He’s probably faking it, but I’m too tenderhearted to go around ignoring pain and suffering. What if it’s real? I know, I know. The doctor said Jack is going to be one hundred percent okay, but I worry.

  Besides, Elvis is giving me a few dirty looks. Not the real King but my dog, who politely plopped his ample self onto the bed while I was primping and is now lying there with his head on Jack’s chest. He and Jack are two of a kind. Sneaky. They probably planned this pity party.

  I spritz on some Jungle Gardenia (for Champ, although it’s Jack’s favorite perfume) then march toward the bed in a no-nonsense fashion that lets him know I’m all business.While I’m bent over fluffing up his pillows, he’s getting a good gander at the body part he said I should bare more of for Champ. Champ, my foot. Jack was only thinking of himself. Which ought to make me mad enough to scream but instead makes me nostalgic.

  I try to blame my mood on Elvis. The real singer, not my dog. When I was downstairs making Jack some hot tea, I put “Blue Christmas” on the CD player, and now I wish I hadn’t. The way that man sings can break your heart. No wonder he’s still the most popular entertainer on earth, and him dead nearly forty years.

  “There.” I straighten back up. “Is that better?”

  “Just a little more on the left. Please.”

  I’m bent over Jack—again and for the forty millionth time—when Mama prisses in.

  Around Mooreville, it’s an insult to your neighbor to keep your door locked when you’re home. But it’s an equal insult not to ring the bell. Of course, Mama thinks rules don’t apply to her.

  “I just love a cozy family scene.” She swishes into the room trailing a red and green caftan decorated with sequined snowflakes, one of her many Christmas getups. She’s topped it off with a dangling pair of purple sequined earrings shaped like feathers. Mama went native in the jungle and hasn’t stopped since.

  She leans over and kisses Jack on the cheek, then proceeds to fluff up pillows that don’t need it one iota.

  “Mama, I just did that.”

  Naturally, she ignores me and keeps fussing over Jack. “Feather pillows pack down quicker than Elvis can run when you say treat.”

  “Thanks, Ruby Nell.” My almost-ex flashes his most winning smile, which I won’t let myself even think about, and she acts like a teenager smitten over a rock star.

  “Mama, don’t you believe in the doorbell?”

  “The front door was wide open. Besides, what I have to tell you is important.”

  “Can it wait? My date will be here in less than fifteen minutes.”

  “By all means, if you want to hurt Fayrene’s feelings, bankrupt my business, and disappoint Charlie, to boot, just go on and forget about us.”

  Did I tell you? Mama’s a drama queen. Still, she’s baited a trap and I fall right in every time.

  “How on earth does my attending a holiday party hurt Fayrene’s feelings? Not to mention bankrupt you.”

  I don’t even add anything about Uncle Charlie. If he wants me to do something, he asks, which is what most sane folks do. In the Valentine, family, though there’s a huge streak of the theatrical.

  Take Lovie. My cousin can turn a simple stake-out at the famous Peabody Hotel into an event complete with TV cameras while she moons half of Memphis. That was during what the Valentine family refers to as the Peabody murders, which I’m trying desperately to forget. And don’t even get me started on her getting kidnapped in the jungle. I don’t plan to get involved in anything else that even remotely hints at murder and mayhem. I plan to get on with my life. Starting this evening.

  “Never mind.” Mama’s pursed mouth says she means exactly the opposite. “Just go on about your business. Don’t even think about how many orphans you’ll let starve.”

  Jack’s laughing his head off.

  “Holy cow. Don’t encourage her.” The doorbell rings, and I’m so grateful for the distraction I nearly trip over Hoyt (my rescued cocker spaniel) trying to get to the door. “That’ll be Champ.”

  “He can wait.” Naturally Jack would say that. “We need to hear what Ruby Nell has to say.”

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  Good grief. It’s Fayrene. Before I can yell out “Come in,” she barrels up the stairs and makes a beeline for Jack.

  “How are you feeling?” She plumps up his pillows. If they get any fluffier, he’ll be airborne.

  “Pretty good, Fayrene. Considering.” He glances my way in a bid for sympathy. I’m not about to offer it in front of witnesses. It’s bad enough I had to offer a bed and have him in my house every minute of every day like God’s temptation to weak-willed women.

  “I brought you some Christmas cookies, Jack.” She plops a plate full of sugar-sprinkled Santas on the bedside table, then proceeds to peel the cellophane cover back and hand him one. “I’ve been medicating about you every day.”

  Meditating, I hope, but with Fayrene you never can tell whether her slaughter of the English language is accidental or deliberate.

  After Jack finishes bragging on her cookies, Fayrene looks over at Mama and says, “Did you tell her?”

  “She’s too busy getting ready for a date.” Mama makes my date sound like an appointment with the guillotine.

  “Maybe you should tell her, Fayrene,” Jack says. For a man who has to have everybody in Mooreville fluffing his feathers, he looks perky enough to brew coffee without the benefit of the pot.

  “Wait a minute.” How did Mama and Fayrene end up in my bedroom at the precise moment I’m supposed to be out having a real life with a sane and sensible man? “Jack, did you call Mama and Fayrene?”

  “Why?”

  “You did! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Carolina, I won’t have you talking to a sick man like that.” Mama calls me Carolina when she gets mad.

  “Ruby Nell’s right,” Fayrene says. “The aftereffects of Jack’s surgery could be deathless.”

  Two against one. I might have known. Mama and Fayrene always stick together, even when she’s fighting with Jarvetis and Mama sticks her nose into business she knows good and well is not hers.

  “Holy cow. I give up.” I sink onto the stool at my dressing table and refresh my mascara. It looks like my pretty in pink lipstick will have to go to waste. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

  “There’s going to be a fabulous three-day benefit at the mall for the poor little orphans at the Tupelo Children’s Mansion.” When Mama pours it on that thick, she has a hidden agenda, usually one that involves me. And usually in a way I don’t even want to think about. “Charlie’s signed us all up.”

  There’s the hook. Uncle Charlie is my deceased daddy’s brother, my surrogate father, my best friend, Lovie’s daddy, the protector and leader of the entire Valentine clan. What he says goes. Not that he’s bossy. It’s just that he’s so wonderful nobody in this family wants to disappoint him.

  I’m getting ready to ask, Signed up for what, but Fayrene jumps in to fill the gaps.

  “We’ll all have booths at the Barnes Crossing Mall. Ruby Nell’s calling her Everlasting Monument booth Fa La La La Farewell.”

  “I’ll be offering Christmas discounts on tombstones,” Mama says. “And I’ve written a bunch of new holiday send-offs. How about Name Inserted climbed aboard a Christmas sleigh and jingled on up to Heaven? And listen to this. Name Inserted went dashing through the stars on a one-way ticket to that great Christmas reunion in the sky.”

  Mama’s famous for her tombstone sayings. Some of them are a little ambiguous, like the one she did for Jarvetis’ third cousin: Goober Johnson tooted his horn all the way home. He used to play the trumpet every Saturday night with his band, The Goobers, at the Evergreen Fish and Steak House five miles south of Mooreville on Highway 371. But everybody kno
ws Goober was also a braggart. Which, thanks to Mama, is now engraved in stone for the world to see.

  “Charlie’s giving away a free jazz funeral,” Mama adds.

  My uncle Charlie is owner of Eternal Rest, the best funeral home in Mississippi It’s in Tupelo, a ten-minute ride from downtown Mooreville, population 652 now that Darlene and her son are here. To supplement my income, I also do makeup and hair for the dearly departed.

  “What about you, Fayrene?” Jack asks.

  Naturally, he wants to encourage them. The more time I spend getting flustered, the less likely I’ll be able to enjoy my date with Champ.

  “Jarvetis and I are handing out free samples of our specialty.” That would be their pickled pigs’ lips. “We’ll be offering a jar free with a purchase of ten gallons of gas. And I hear Lovie’s going to be cooking on her electric girdle.”

  If anybody has an electric girdle, it would be my flamboyant cousin Lovie. But for the sake of the family reputation, I sincerely hope she’ll be dishing up Lovie’s Luscious Eats from an ordinary griddle.

  The doorbell rings again, and Lord only knows who’s there. This time I beat whoever it is to the door. It’s Champ, standing on my front porch looking blond and handsome and entirely sane. A vast improvement over the motley crew in my bedroom.

  And speaking of the devil, they’re now all lined up on the landing—Mama and Fayrene flanking Jack, who is trying to look as pitiful as possible on his crutches, and Elvis sitting beside my not-quite-husband with his ears perked for trouble.

  Ever cheerful, Champ smiles up at them and then me. “Looks like you’ve got company, Callie. We don’t have to leave right away.”

  “Yes, we do. For the sake of my sanity.”

  I snag my stylish black alpaca cape from the downstairs coat closet. Champ helps me into it while I endure a hostile audience of four (if you count Elvis, and I always do).

  “Carolina, do you think you ought to leave while your husband is burning up with fever?” Mama calls Jack my husband in a deliberate ploy calculated to break me up with Champ.