Elvis and The Dearly Departed Read online

  “Is he related to Bubbles?” Lovie shucks off her blanket and grabs a handful of Hershey’s Kisses from a blue bowl on the coffee table.

  “I don’t know,” Uncle Charlie says. “So far all Jack has is that Rocky was once arrested for disorderly conduct at a nightclub called Hot Tips. Jack’s going to track it down.”

  My almost-ex again. See, I knew there was a reason I can’t trust that man. Apparently he has this whole other secret life that allows him direct connection to the underbelly of society. Plus, if he keeps digging around he’s going to find out about my questionable activities at Hot Tips. This makes me so mad I want to hit him with my Jimmy Choos.

  I’m getting tired of Jack acting as if I can’t take care of myself, coming and going as he pleases, picking locks and entering at will. I’m determined to prove that I can not only function brilliantly without him, but I can solve this homicide.

  “What we ought to do is question the people who knew the suspects,” I say.

  “Brilliant, Sherlock Holmes. We had so much luck the last time.” Lovie tosses me a Hershey’s Kiss.

  I ignore her jab. “Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

  “We don’t have much time,” Uncle Charlie says. “Now that Bevvie’s back, we’re going to finally get Leonard in the ground.”

  “Who says he’ll stay?” Mama asks.

  “I’ve put a string of garlic under him, just in case,” Uncle Charlie says, deadpan, and he and Mama crack up.

  I imagine he’s joking about the garlic, but lately I’ve decided there are things about him I can’t even begin to guess. It’s just good to see him laughing.

  On the way to Mooreville, Lovie and I stop by her house for some clothes. I bail out of my Dodge Ram, but I never can keep up with Lovie. Before I have finished telling Elvis “I’ll be right back,” she’s at her front door, yelling.

  “Callie, quick!”

  I jerk out my gun and make sure the safety is on. The way my luck has been running, I can’t be too careful, and Lovie would be less than happy if I shot off one of her prized body parts.

  Taking the steps two at a time, I’m going so fast I ram into her. She explodes with a heartfelt string of words I hope my dog doesn’t hear. He has enough bad habits without taking up howling words that would scandalize the Baptist church ladies.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Take a look.” Lovie holds up the latest threat—a pair of red pasties, sparkling under the glow of front porch lights. “If that fool’s going to keep leaving these, the least he could do is get some in my size.”

  “Where’d you get those?”

  “Pinned to this.”

  Lovie hands me a note scrawled in dripping red. The words send chills and nightmares of lying in Lovie’s camellia bush with my throat slit: I saw what you did.

  “Is it blood?” I ask.

  “No. Hunt’s catsup.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My nose is so refined I could sniff out truffles.”

  “Let’s leave, Lovie. Forget about clothes. This Rocky Malone character could be inside.”

  “I’m not convinced he’s the red pasties perpetrator.” Lovie picks up a flowerpot, planted. “I’m not letting anybody keep me out of my house.”

  We ease open the door and sneak inside, me in front gripping the gun and Lovie behind me, hefting the pot and trailing pink wave petunias.

  “Come get me, sucker,” she yells.

  “Shhh. What if he hears us?”

  “That’s the idea. When I took Tan Sui karate, my grand master said never let anybody smell your fear.”

  “I didn’t know you took karate.”

  “You were in Atlanta. My hands are lethal weapons. Ask any one of my old boyfriends.”

  If we’re going to die tonight, we might as well die laughing.

  Elvis’ Opinion # 9 on Bodyguards, Uneven Ears, and Four-Letter Words

  Lovie has a colorful way with language, and Callie’s probably cringing that I’m in the truck listening. Take it from me; I’m a dog of world. In my heyday I used a word or two myself. But when you’ve been around a lifetime or two, you get a little wiser, a little more mellow. Nowadays, my favorite four-letter F word is fame.

  If they’d put me on the job, I could reclaim my fame—this time around as the most renowned dog detective in the world. I have my ways. I know things. For instance, even if I hadn’t overheard Callie and Lovie talking, I could tell you without looking what’s in that note.

  It’s a threat—just like the one Jack found on the door of Callie’s beauty shop.

  If Ruby Nell had stuck around when Jack called Charlie tonight, she’d know, too. But she’s too impatient. Has to be running and doing, always thinking she’s in the know. Let me tell you, it takes the precision of a stakeout artist to get the inside scoop. That and a set of radar ears.

  Don’t let the uneven nature of mine fool you. I can hear Jack’s Harley coming for miles. Overhearing both ends of a telephone conversation is nothing to a dog of my talents.

  But back to Callie’s note…It said Crime does not pay. Of course, she’ll never see it. Jack made sure of that. He’s having it analyzed for fingerprints, which is more than I can say for Lovie’s note. The way those two are mauling it, there won’t be a single, usable print left.

  They’re headed into the house now. If I didn’t know what I know, I’d break out of this truck in a New York minute and be in there throwing my weight around. But I know something they don’t know: Jack’s watching. Charlie asked him to make sure the girls were okay, but Jack would have been on the job, regardless. You don’t mess with what’s his, and he considers Callie his.

  Of course, what she considers is a different thing, but I have too much on my mind to get into marriage counseling.

  Lovie and Callie will never know he’s trailing them: Jack’s got more stealth than the stealth bomber. But like I said, I can hear that Harley for miles. Which bodes well for me. With a little help from Jack, I can sneak out of the house tonight and have a go at that dratted tomcat. Furthermore, I can spend some quality time howling at the moon.

  Here comes Callie, waving and calling me sweet pea and baby.

  Back to my role as favorite pet.

  Chapter 17

  Uninvited Guests, Loose Tongues, and Loose Libidos

  Jack’s Screamin’ Eagle wakes me from a sound sleep, and I sit up so fast I nearly tumble out of the top bunk. Lovie’s snoring in the bottom bunk and Elvis is snoring on the rug, which means I must be dreaming. If Jack were anywhere within five miles, Elvis would be at the window wagging his tail.

  I climb down and grab my robe anyway because Mama’s in the kitchen brewing coffee and frying bacon. Elvis doesn’t stir.

  Holy cow. Is he dead? I call his name, but he just opens one eye then goes right back to sleep.

  In the kitchen I grab a piece of bacon, then go back in the bedroom and wave it around. It brings Elvis and Lovie both to life.

  “Up and at ’em. We have sleuthing to do.”

  Lovie and I don’t have much time for questioning friends of the suspects. Dr. Laton’s funeral is tomorrow, and she’s doing the Laton’s food while I’m doing Janice’s hair.

  Leaving Elvis with Mama, we head out at the crack of eight in our latest disguise. We look like Billy Graham in drag. Navy blue linen suits, hair in tight buns, reading glasses perched on the nose, and orthopedic shoes Mama bought after her hip surgery. The only thing that could make me wear these ugly shoes is the threat of jail.

  Our first visit is to Kevin’s next door neighbor. We feel safe here because Lovie knows he’ll be at work. Besides, his car is gone.

  I punch the buzzer and a woman in a short robe that shows sagging legs and knobby knees comes to the door. Her gray hair is wadded up in brush rollers, and pink platic picks are sticking out all over her head. I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling her those things will split her ends.

  “Hi,” Lovie shouts, and the woman jumps back
three feet. “We’re with the Ever Blooming Garden Club, and we’re getting ready to nominate your next door neighbor as Tupelo’s Citizen of the Year.”

  “Kevin? My, my, isn’t that nice?”

  “Oh yes,” I say. “It’s quite an honor. But we need your help. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

  “He’ll be back around four. I’m sure he can tell you more about himself than I can.”

  “I’m sure,” Lovie says. “But the nominations are secret. You’ve read about it in the paper, of course. Part of the fun is catching the winner by surprise.”

  The woman holds her door open. “As long as they spell my name right in the paper. That’s Sugarbee Martindale, one word spelled with two es. My mama said I was born due to the birds and the bees and I was just as sweet as pie.”

  Perched on the edge of her oversized recliner, Sugarbee looks like a sparrow as she pulls her robe shut where it has gaped to show her pink nylon gown. “Now, what do ya’ll want to know? I’ve got all day.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” I say, and when Sugarbee launches into a blow-by-blow account of the beef and beans casserole she made to welcome Kevin to the neighborhood, Lovie kicks me under the coffee table.

  “We’re in kind of a rush,” I say. “This form has to be turned in by ten. His coworkers told us Kevin’s dedicated to his job. Do you concur?”

  “I don’t know so much about that, but I’d say he leaves here every morning at seven thirty like clockwork. Unless he’s sick.”

  When Lovie asks, “Has he been sick lately?” I feel certain Sugarbee will smell a rat and show us the door. But she chirps on, obviously happy at the prospect of getting her name in the paper.

  “He was out with a bug last week. Sick as a dog, he told me later. Why, he couldn’t even come to the door when I carried him some chicken soup. And it was my aunt Matilda’s recipe.”

  We pin her down, and sure enough, Kevin “couldn’t even come to the door” about the time Bubbles Malone was being killed and frozen like corn-fed veal.

  We’re getting ready to dig deeper when Sugarbee’s doorbell chimes—and in walks one of Tupelo’s finest, complete with a cocaine-sniffing dog. Sugarbee greets him in the hall and he calls her Mom, but Lovie and I don’t stick around to find out the purpose of his visit. In case it’s us, we hightail it through the kitchen and toward the back door so fast I leave one of my orthopedic shoes behind.

  Lovie backtracks and snatches it up just as Sugarbee is saying, “Now, where in the world did they go?”

  “To catch our coach before it turns to a pumpkin.” Safely outside I feel free to make wisecracks, but Lovie doesn’t hear me. She’s pulled ahead by two lengths. By the time I catch her, she has grabbed my spare key from the magnetic box under the chassis and already has the motor running.

  “Hurry.” She tosses me the shoe. “Hang on to that, Cinderella. The man in blue’s not a prince and you can bet your thong he’s not fixing to propose marriage.”

  Something with bars is more like it. I put on my ugly shoe and act like this doesn’t faze me. “Where to next?”

  “Somewhere dark. And safe. The back of my closet?”

  “With the Las Vegas police following clues that are bound to lead to us?”

  “Officer Jenkins was kind of cute.”

  “You’ll think cute when we land in jail. Besides, it’ll take more than flirting to get us out of this mess. Turn right.” She starts cutting left, and I yell, “Right, Lovie.”

  “Where are we going?”

  I can’t answer immediately; I’m too busy trying to breathe. Lovie corrected the van in midturn and almost straddled the light pole on the corner of Jefferson and Main.

  “The old white house west of the library.”

  Lovie pulls into a narrow lane that meanders behind a two-story white-clapboard house that has been turned into apartments. It looks like the kind of place a timid woman would choose, quaint and quiet, all the books she wants only a short walk from her door.

  I’ve seen Mellie at the guest lectures during National Library Week, always dressed in unstylish clothes in somber colors, always alone. I imagine her spending evenings in the library reading Jane Austen, surrounded by people and yet safely tucked into a corner where she’s almost invisible.

  We get out of the van and check for a lurking Ford F-150 while we adjust our severe skirts and tacky buns.

  “What if she sees us, Callie?”

  “She’s probably at work.”

  “What does she do?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You could’ve just asked Janice. She was right there in your house.”

  “Did you ever ask Kevin?”

  “There’s no need to get your thong in a wad, Callie.”

  She knows me too well. I am wearing a thong. Just in case. I priss straight to the first door I see and give it a whack.

  Who should answer my knock but Mellie Laton?

  “Yes?” she says. “Can I help you?”

  I can tell she doesn’t recognize me. She looks like we just woke her from a nap. And besides, she’s not wearing her glasses.

  “Run,” Lovie’s hissing in my ear like a tire with a slow leak.

  “Did somebody say run?”

  “There’s a run in Lovie’s stocking. We just stopped by to see if you’re okay.” I whip off my glasses and Lovie does the same.

  “Oh yes, the sauna. I had a bit of a stomachache, but I’ve fully recovered.” Grabbing my hand, Mellie tugs me inside with a grip that is surprisingly strong. “Come in. I was getting ready to make tea.”

  “We can’t.” Lovie’s planted in the threshold like General Custer at Little Big Horn.

  Mellie surges forward, dragging me in her wake. Finally Lovie surrenders her position and plops into a chair nearest the door. Thank goodness, Mellie doesn’t lock it behind us.

  Gathering my last wit, I examine the apartment. She’s certainly not neat, but I was right about the library books. They’re everywhere—piled on the coffee table, spilling onto the floor from woven baskets, scattered on the sofa and the side tables. Nobody can read that fast. I’ll bet she owes her soul in overdue fees.

  I give her a black mark. Everybody can forget an occasional book, but anybody who checks out that many books and doesn’t return them will do no telling what.

  Including murder?

  “Are you cold?” Mellie puts on her glasses, then just stares.

  “A little. I must be coming down with the same thing you had at the sauna.”

  Mellie’s still staring. “I like your suit.”

  Is she serious or is she on to us? “Thanks. We’ve been to a board meeting.”

  “Why don’t I get us some tea?” She scurries off, her ugly brown rubber-soled shoes hardly making a sound.

  Mellie could sneak up behind you, and you’d never hear her. And I don’t even have my gun. It’s in my old bedroom at Mama’s on the dresser. After shooting up the parking lot at Eternal Rest and nearly shooting Lovie on her front porch, I figured I’d be better off without it. Now I’m not so sure.

  “There’s two of us.” Lovie has an uncanny ability to read my mind.

  “Just act natural. And unbutton your jacket. We’ll be fine.”

  In spite of current circumstances, I believe that. I’ve survived the premature death of my daddy and the death of my marriage, not to mention the untimely demise of one of my best Prada shoes. Not only survived, but triumphed—if you count having the best little beauty parlor in Lee County and the best show dog in the state. And I do, even though Elvis has never won a single award.

  We’ll keep trying. Life’s never going to be perfect. Just jut out your chin and keep forging forward. That’s my motto.

  Actually, one of my many. I pride myself on being a multifaceted woman.

  By the time Mellie returns with three thin porcelain cups of tea, I feel up to any challenge. Even solving a homicide.

  I take a sip, belatedly wishing I’d just p
retended in case it’s poisoned, then put on my best company smile.

  “So, Mellie. Everything is all set for the funeral tomorrow. I’m sure this has been an ordeal for you.”

  “I’ve managed.”

  “How?” Lovie asks.

  I shoot her a look, then sail into a soliloquy about the value of good friends in time of trouble. Shakespeare must be rolling in his grave.

  While I’m pontificating, Lovie asks for directions to the bathroom, then huffs off.

  “Not many people drop by,” Mellie says, and I tell her, “We should have called first.”

  “No. I’m always here.”

  “Are you retired?”

  “I work out of my apartment. I do billing and accounts for several doctors in town.”

  “How nice to have that kind of freedom. Personally, I like being my own boss. I can come and go as I please.” I sip my tea, which is really delicious. Obviously it’s not poisoned or I’d be facedown on the floor by now.

  Lovie comes back and sits there with her eyebrows bouncing up and down and her eyes twitching. She’s either trying to signal me or developing a strange malady.

  “In fact, Lovie and I took a little trip last week. Out West.”

  Mellie blanches and Lovie’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline. She gives me a look that says have you lost your mind?

  “Out West?” Mellie sets her cup down.

  “Sightseeing,” I tell her. “Mostly camping in the Valley of Fire.”

  Let Mellie mull over that a while. If she’s guilty of anything, knowing we were in Vegas might be enough to flush her out.

  When we’re back in the van Lovie says, “Are you crazy? What if she’s the killer?”

  “We’re twice Mellie’s weight and three times her height. We could have whipped her with one hand tied behind our backs.”

  “Guns are a great equalizer, Callie.”

  “Mellie’s not the kind to have weapons.”

  “You didn’t see that double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun in her bathroom closet.”