Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse Read online

  “She could have picked up a few pointers. She could be a Miss Sweet Potato who knows how to hotwire Santa’s throne.”

  “Furthermore, a while back she called Charlie to come over for Thanksgiving dinner and has been calling him ever since. He said no, of course.”

  “The jilted lover.”

  “They were never lovers.”

  “How do you know, Mama? Uncle Charlie’s a good-looking man and Aunt Minrose has been dead a long time.”

  “Flitter.”

  If I laugh, Mama will probably cut me off her Christmas card list. I hold in my mirth and store it away for when Lovie and I can compare notes on today’s doings.

  “I’ll have to say I’m impressed with your eavesdropping skills, not to mention your powers of deduction.”

  “You just earned yourself a bigger Christmas gift, Callie.”

  It seems Nelda Lou had reasons to hate every one of the men killed in Santa’s Court, as well as the one who didn’t die.

  “Mama, if she did kill her ex-son-in-law and the man she claimed did her husband wrong at the hardware store, she could still be after Uncle Charlie.”

  “I’ve already thought of that. Now that Santa’s Court is closed, Fayrene and I have come up with a plan to lure her out into the open.”

  “Do I even want to know?”

  “We’re going to have an open house at Gas, Grits, and Guts for the séance room.”

  “I can just hear what the Baptists will have to say about your séance room. And a few Methodist won’t be too happy with it, either. Nobody will come to that open house except Episcopalians.”

  “For Pete’s sake, I wonder why I didn’t think of that.”

  “It’s a good plan, Mama. It just needs a little refining, that’s all. If you call it a Christmas open house at Gas, Grits, and Guts, and then invite all the suspects plus anybody who had anything to do with the charity event at the mall, it just might work.”

  “It could have been anybody in that crowd.”

  “We’ll all put our heads together and try to come up with a list. Tonight at Uncle Charlie’s?”

  “No. Lovie’s.”

  “You didn’t discuss your plan with Uncle Charlie?”

  “Do you tell him everything you’re going to do?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

  “Let’s hope not, Mama.”

  About that time, all the lights go out in Hair.Net and somebody screams.

  What if Mama’s wrong about Nelda Lou and the killer is right here in my beauty shop?

  Elvis’ Opinion # 14 on Body Building, Fake Massages, and Dog Heroes

  If my human mom thinks I’m going to stay shut up in her office with the likes of that silly-looking dog of Darlene’s, she’s barking up the wrong tree. William promptly goes over and tries to mark his territory by hoisting his leg on Callie’s desk. What Ann Margret ever saw in him, I don’t know.

  I prance my iconic self over, look down my famous nose at the Lhasa Apso who thinks he’s the Dalai Lama, and snarl. He changes his tune in a hurry. Listen, if he knew how silly he looks with that little sawed-off leg hoisted in the air, he’d squat to pee. Dogs without real legs ought to know better than to show off. Especially in front of the King.

  Once I show that Lhasa Apso who’s boss, I put my front paws on the office door and proceed to “Shake, Rattle, and Roll.” The latch pops open, I sneak out, and push the door shut behind me. I don’t intend to share my freedom with a lesser dog. Especially one who’s been courting the mother of my puppies behind my back.

  The crazy, self-styled Dalai Lama sets up a howl. Fortunately, my human mom is too busy arguing with Ruby Nell to notice.

  Taking a kingly stance, I sniff to find out what’s cooking. Smells like “T-R-O-U-B-L-E” to me. And it’s coming from the direction of Lovie and the ex-con.

  I head that way, and fortunately, the door to the so-called massage room is not fully closed. All it takes is a little nudge to open it a crack and prance right in. The lights are low, and it takes a while to get the lay of the land.

  There’s a pile of men’s clothes on a chair, a big hulk on the table that I take to be the ex-con, and Lovie, in black toreador pants and a tight green sweater that shows more peaks than Mount Rushmore.

  A woman after my own heart. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say.

  She sees me and grins. Lovie and I have a pact. I don’t tattle on her and she doesn’t tattle on me.

  I lay my handsome self down near the Himalayan salt lamp Callie installed just for this occasion. It’s putting out so many negative ions, I feel like I’m lying on a beach. Which was smart thinking on Callie’s part. With all that sea-breeze-like tranquillity, who’s going to notice that the masseuse doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing?

  “Man, that feels good,” Abel Caine says.

  “I’m so glad you like it.”

  Lovie grins at me and then slathers enough oil on his big, ugly, hairy body to enter him in a greased pig contest. Smart girl. What she lacks in skill, she’s making up in the externals. Too much scented oil. Music that will put you to sleep if you’re not careful. Soft lights. And this beachy lamp that’s got me so relaxed I’m already yawning.

  “My, what muscles.” Lovie sounds like a character in a fairy tale. And I guess this is a fairy tale of sorts. Two of the nicest amateur sleuths I know trying to catch a killer. “You must work out.”

  “Six days a week. It’s my religion.”

  “Does that give you time for friends?”

  Lovie’s trying to find out if killing is also this man’s religion. I sniff the air for clues. I could tell her a thing or two, but she’s too busy trying to find out what Caine knows about the Santa murders to consult a smart dog.

  “I keep to myself,” he says.

  “A man who entertains himself has to be very resourceful.”

  “I guess you could call it that.” His laugh is as big and ugly as his body.

  When Lovie lifts the sheet so he can turn onto his back, I find out more about him than I ever wanted to know. She’s discreetly hidden behind the sheet, but I’m on the open side. And let me tell you, Abel Caine without his clothes on is not a sight you’d want to encounter in the dark. With his over-pumped muscles, he looks like a cartoon figure of a superhero.

  And when I say cartoon figure, I’m not kidding. You know how Disney and Pixar draw those heroes? Neutered. No embarrassing body parts that would get their movies rated X.

  If I was so underendowed, even I might go on a rampage against Santa Claus. Fortunately, I have Ann Margret to attest to my many charms.

  Lovie upends the oil bottle onto him. If she’s not careful, he’s going to slide right off the table.

  But when she starts up with her questions again, he sidesteps as smoothly as a man dancing the tango. She’s going to learn nothing from this man. I could have told her and Callie.

  While they’re playing cat and mouse with an ex-con, the real killer’s out there planning another move.

  That’s not to say they’re in no danger. This man is nobody’s fool, and his aura has turned nasty. It wouldn’t take much to push him to violence.

  It’s not happening under my vigilant eye. If I can keep said eyes open.

  I’m nodding off when all bedlam breaks loose. The lights go out, the hulk rises from the table, somebody screams, and Callie bursts through the door, hollering for Lovie.

  This situation calls for a real hero. Elvis the Incredible to the rescue!

  Chapter 17

  Bravery, Bedlam, and Beauty

  When I march into the faux massage room, I almost faint. Lovie’s backed into the corner with my Himalayan salt lamp raised like a weapon, Abel Caine’s hulking over her in a sheet, and Elvis is tugging at its corner and growling like he’s going to eat somebody alive.

  “What’s going on in here? Lovie, was that you screaming?”

  Believe me, I might sound like somebo
dy in charge, but I feel like a quivering bird trying to cling to a high wire in a bad wind.

  “Not yet, Cal.”

  “You sure you’re all right, miss?” Abel says. “I thought it was you.”

  Is this man kidding? Did he really think Lovie was the one who screamed and him right here in the room with her?

  Elvis has grabbed hold of Abel’s sheet, and the way he’s hanging on, he’s not going to let go till Christmas. Something’s afoot. My dog is never wrong about people.

  “Who turned out the lights?”

  Holy cow. It’s Mama standing in the doorway, flicking the light switch.

  “They won’t work, Mama. Something tripped a switch.”

  In the front of the shop I can hear Wanda yelling “What’s going on?” and Darlene trying to calm her down.

  “If you’ll call off this dog and let me get my clothes back on,” Abel says, “I can fix it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I’m the one who’s not sure. Is he saying that so Lovie will put down her weapon and I’ll collar Elvis, and then he’ll be free to do his meanness? Or is he sincere?

  “If you’re going to fix it, you’d better hurry,” Mama says. “I’ve already called Charlie.”

  Abel suddenly goes very quiet. Does he still harbor a grudge against Uncle Charlie?

  Finally he makes a sound that passes for laughter, and the tension eases a bit.

  “I’ll be quick, ma’am. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  I tear Elvis away from the sheet, then we all file out and leave Abel Caine shut up in the dark. Hopefully putting on some clothes.

  I motion for Lovie and Mama to come into the break room, then shut the door behind us, and we get in a huddle.

  “Did you really call Uncle Charlie?”

  “No, but I’m fixing to.”

  “Wait a minute, Aunt Ruby Nell. I don’t think Abel Caine’s the killer.”

  Mama purses her lips, which could mean any of a dozen things, none of them good.

  “Why, Lovie? What did he say?”

  “It’s not anything he said, Cal. It’s just a feeling I have. And you know I have good instincts about men.”

  That’s debatable, but I don’t want to get into that subject with Lovie. Mama doesn’t have the same self-control.

  “If we stake our lives on your instincts about men, we’ll all be dead.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Lovie opens my cutlery drawer and pulls out a paring knife. “Wonder Woman to the rescue.”

  Suddenly she gives me a warning nudge, and I turn around to see Abel Caine, who has invited himself inside without knocking. The only good thing I can say about this situation is that he’s wearing clothes. He’s also staring at the knife in Lovie’s hand.

  “Oh, there you are, Mr. Caine.” I try for cheerful but come off a little ragged around the edges. I give Lovie a help-me-out poke in the ribs.

  “I’m making sandwiches,” she says, then whirls around to the counter and jerks up a loaf of bread. “What would you like, Mr. Caine? Pimento or ham and cheese.”

  “Neither, thanks. I’m looking for the switch box.”

  If he’d said ham and cheese, I might have had to kill Lovie. There’s nothing in my refrigerator except a box of Mrs. Weaver’s pimento cheese, a bag of questionable lettuce, and a pitcher of Prohibition Punch.

  “Behind the last cabinet door on the right,” I tell him.

  When he walks past, I try not to scrunch in closer to Mama and Lovie. I don’t care what my cousin’s instincts say, I don’t trust this man.

  A big clap of thunder makes us all jump, and a torrent of rain slashes against the windows of my little beauty salon. It’s a good time for murder, is what I’m thinking. Though, of course, it’s daytime, and I’m not in the middle of a scary story. I’m in the middle of wishing I was somebody else. I’d have a nice quiet mama who stays home and bakes pies instead of spending my money in the casinos over in Tunica, and a less flamboyant cousin who would never think of ditching a perfectly good man who loves her to get engaged to a soon-to-be-dead Santa.

  When the lights come back on, I nearly jump out of my skin.

  “All set.” Abel is back in my kitchen looking only slightly less threatening in the light than he did in the semi-darkness.

  “Thanks. Are you ready for that free haircut?”

  “You bet.”

  I head out to the front of my salon with Abel in tow. Lovie follows with Mama close behind. I notice my cousin has fixed two sandwiches. She’s scarfing down one, and Mama’s nibbling on the other. Lovie may have the worst instincts about men since Little Red Riding Hood got fooled by the Big Bad Wolf, but she knows how to set the stage for everything, including catching a killer.

  “Callie, I think I know why the power went out.” Darlene comes from behind her manicure table, holding her nail dryer. “When I plugged this in, the lights went out.”

  “If you ladies will allow me,” Abel says, “I can have that fixed in no time flat.”

  “Great.” Darlene hands over the nail dryer while I try to send Lovie a signal she either doesn’t get or has chosen to ignore. Her sandwich already finished, she’s on my loveseat with a copy of Entertainment Weekly.

  Trying to act natural and in charge, I ease her way and flip through a copy of Southern Living.

  “The washer and dryer will be on now,” I tell her.

  “Oh, goodness.” She puts the magazine back in the rack. “I guess I’d better head back, then, and get the table ready for my four o’clock.”

  Why didn’t she say five o’clock? If Abel doesn’t hurry up with that nail dryer, he’s still going to be in my chair at four, and I don’t take him for a fool. He’s bound to notice if nobody comes through the door for a massage.

  Lovie has already gone to the back, so I can’t signal her again. And I don’t want to leave Mama and Darlene, not to mention Wanda, up front with this man. No matter how helpful he is. His handyman persona could be a front.

  Still, this is a perfect opportunity for me to do a little detecting on my own. I stroll to the manicure table, where Abel is seated on the frilly pink client’s stool with the nail dryer in pieces.

  I lean down as if I’m inspecting his work. “My goodness, you’re handy.”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you an electrician?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “There’s a big renovation project going on down at the mall.” I leave room for him to make up his own mind whether I’m prying or just being friendly. His stare chills me.

  “Been on that job myself. Too bad about poor old Steve Boone.”

  “I doubt there’s a soul in Tupelo who hasn’t been in his hardware store. Everybody will miss him.”

  He doesn’t comment either way, just hands the nail dryer back to Darlene, says, “All fixed,” then goes to sit in my chair.

  While Wanda slides her nails back under the dryer for the finishing touch and Mama’s on the loveseat pretending to be interested in magazines, I pick up my scissors, thinking that at least I have a weapon. And if push comes to shove, I know where to plunge the blade for maximum damage.

  Next I drape him with the pink plastic cape, my signature color, and fasten it around his bull-like neck. The whole time, he’s watching me in the mirror. I’m having a hard time keeping my hands from shaking.

  “I probably should get capes in a different color for my male clients.”

  “I don’t care what color the cape is, as long as you know what you’re doing.” He gives me another heebie-jeebie-inducing stare. “I’m told you do.”

  So he’s checked up on me. I wonder if his interest had to do only with hair or if he had other reasons.

  “Good cuts are my best advertisement.”

  He stares at my reflection in the mirror for so long I tighten the grip on my scissors.

  Darlene finally finishes Wanda’s nails, and Wanda prisses out of the shop. Which is a huge relief. If Abel Caine goes on a rampag
e, I’d prefer he not kill my paying customers. I feel a trickle of sweat roll down the side of my face. Finally, Abel says, “I’ve been ugly all my life. Do you think you can improve on me, Miss Callie?”

  “I’ve never seen a beauty challenge I couldn’t conquer.”

  Forget murder. I lift the scissors and set to work doing what I do best.

  Halfway through Abel Caine’s hair makeover, Fayrene breezes through the door.

  “I hope I’m not too late for my massage,” she says. “I try to be punctuated.”

  I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be glad to see Mrs. Malaprop coming to my rescue.

  Elvis’ Opinion # 15 on Gold Lamé, Christmas Surprises, and Aging Gracefully

  Take it from a dog who knows more about style than any canine in Lee County: my human mom’s hair makeover on the ex-con is nothing short of spectacular.

  When he leaves the shop, he hands her a tip big enough to ensure that I get plenty of Pup-Peroni in my Christmas stocking. And if I play my cards right, I’m liable to get the gold lamé doggie suit I’ve been hankering for.

  Every time we go into Pet Smart, I drop the hint with a subtle performance of “Blue Christmas.” I say subtle because I’m not one to pull out all the stops for shoppers who are paying more attention to birdseed than they are to the King.

  So far, Callie hasn’t bought the gold outfit. I know because I’ve sniffed out all her hiding places and torn open a few boxes. I even had a little sample or two of the doggie treats she’s saving for my stocking. Which I sincerely hope she doesn’t discover unless Jack is in the house. Having my human daddy around makes everybody more mellow.

  Now I’m not saying the suit makes the man. When I was putting every song I recorded on the charts and bringing millions of fans worldwide to a screaming frenzy, it was my pipes and my charisma that did the trick, baby. Not the costume.

  Still, it would be nice to dress in a gold dog suit and lord it over this crooked-legged little Lhasa apso. I’m glad when closing time comes and Darlene scoops him up and leaves Hair.Net.

  Callie sinks onto the loveseat beside Ruby Nell, and Lovie bursts out of the so-called massage room with her fake client right behind her, who is not a sight for the faint of heart. Fayrene is still wearing her towel, showing more of herself than I ever wanted to see. Take it from a worldly dog who’s been around and knows these things: women trying to age gracefully are better off leaving most things to the imagination.