Chapter 8
Gentle Murder, Graceland Send-offs, and Fatal Attractions
Uncle Charlie’s color is better, but he still looks fragile. On the way up to his room, Lovie asked if I’d be the one to tell him about Wayne.
“You can do it so much more gently than I can, Cal.”
“Sure,” I told her, but I don’t know how you can be gentle when you’re breaking the news about murder.
I flounder my way through, but Uncle Charlie takes the latest Christmas murder in stride. Lovie is the one who takes things badly. I’m not used to seeing my unflappable cousin cry.
She lets Uncle Charlie hug her, and even leans on his shoulder a while, which is unusual for her. Lovie has always believed her daddy is disappointed that she’s not a boy. She tries so hard to act like she doesn’t care, she’s finally convinced herself it’s true. “Why don’t you stay here with me tonight, dear heart?” he says to Lovie. “The death of a friend is hard. You could use the company and I could, too.”
“I think I will if Cal doesn’t mind.”
“Of course not.” I tamp down on my enthusiasm. It won’t do to let Lovie see how excited I am that she’s finally dropping her tough girl attitude and letting her real feelings show. “Besides, I need to stop by the funeral home to make sure Bobby doesn’t need help getting ready for Steve Boone’s wake tonight.”
“He called to say he has everything under control, but I’d feel better if you’d check, dear heart.”
I hug Lovie and Uncle Charlie, tell them to call if they need anything, then hurry through the parking lot. I spot my truck, but no Elvis. If he’s gone missing again I’m going to scream. I barrel toward the Dodge Ram, resisting the urge to scream, “Elvis!” I’ve had enough drama today without everybody in the parking lot thinking I’ve gone stark raving crazy.
Yelling that famous name in Tupelo can cause a stampede. Half the folks here think somebody else is buried at Graceland while the King leads a simple life in the hills, venturing out only once in a blue moon. Some even declare to have spotted him at the Piggly Wiggly.
I say a little prayer, then jerk open my truck door. Elvis stands up, stretches, yawns, then gives me a slobbery dog kiss. I know this is not George Clooney—or for that matter, Jack Jones—but I was never so glad to see anybody in my life.
“Elvis! You obeyed!”
He twirls around and takes a bow. I swear, he looks like somebody on center stage, which in a way he is. I’ve spoiled him into thinking everything in my life is all about him.
Still, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with animals and people you love? I give Elvis one last cuddle, then hop into my truck and turn the keys in the ignition.
But suddenly everything that has happened in the last few days crashes around me. I can’t go another step. Leaning my head on the steering wheel, I just breathe.
Elvis nuzzles my arm, but I still don’t move. When he whines, I say, “This has been a long day, boy. And it’s not over yet.”
Satisfied, he flops onto the passenger side, while I take another deep breath before heading to Eternal Rest. It’s a wonderful old Victorian house on Jefferson Street in the heart of downtown Tupelo. When Uncle Charlie converted it into a funeral home, he used a Graceland theme minus the shag carpet. Mama’s influence, no doubt. Still, the bereaved take a great deal of comfort in knowing Uncle Charlie sends their loved ones off in grand style.
Thankfully, the parking lot is empty because nobody has died this week except Santa and his reindeer.
Holy cow, I sound like Mama. I must finally be coming undone.
After doing another deep-breathing exercise, I let myself in the front door, then take Elvis off his leash. This is a second home to him. He has the run of the place unless there’s a funeral or a viewing in progress. Of course, there have been a few times when Elvis escaped our vigilance and showed up in the chapel to howl “Amazing Grace” along with Mama. She does the music for all Uncle Charlie’s funerals, though she’s usually not howling.
Today I don’t have to worry, though. Eternal Rest is empty except for Steve Boone, who is lying in state in the blue parlor on my left. I don’t have to check to know that he looks good. When I make up the dead they look like they could pose for the cover of Harper’s Bazaar.
Leaving Elvis to wander toward the kitchen, probably looking for crumbs, I head toward Bobby’s office. It’s downstairs, near the embalming room and across the hall from the room I use to work my makeup magic on the deceased.
Bobby’s door is ajar, so I don’t knock. Instantly, I regret that decision. Bobby’s standing with his back to the door and his arm around the waist of a curvaceous blond. Will wonders never cease? Both of them are bent over his desk with their heads together, mumbling something.
I’m sorry to report that I lean forward, straining to hear, but only for a split second. My better nature reasserts itself, and I creep backward and pull the door almost shut. Then, calling on acting skills learned when I was a cabbage in Mr. McGregor’s garden in a second-grade play, I keep a straight face and give the door a sharp rap.
There are footsteps inside, and Bobby comes to the door. He’s followed by none other than my manicurist.
“My goodness,” I say. “Darlene!” I know, I know. Not very cabbage-like of me, but it has been a long day and my savoir faire is slipping.
“Oh, hi, Callie.” All smiles, Darlene opens the door wider, while I stand there speechless and Bobby looks on, red-faced. “Come on in. Bobby and I were just looking at today’s horoscope.”
He tugs his tie and expels a long breath. Poor Bobby. Listen, if he and Darlene are trying to get something going, I’m glad. He’s so shy he can barely string two words together unless he’s around Mama and Fayrene. They think he’s a true psychic and consult him all the time. He’s practically garrulous around them.
“What’s the prediction?” I stroll into the office and sit in an overstuffed beige chair in front of a bookcase bulging with books. I’m so tired I might just fall asleep.
“Clear sailing ahead,” she says. “Good thing, don’t you think, considering the two Christmas corpses in Santa’s Court? What do you see, Bobby?”
“I don’t know. My psychic eye is acting up.”
Poor Bobby. Usually he says, “There’s danger from a dark-eyed stranger.” Today I’d be inclined to agree with him. I’ve had Opal Stokes’ little beady brown eyes on me enough to feel the danger.
Darlene pats his arm. “Don’t worry. Before you can say Pass the eggnog, you’ll be getting psychic signals right and left.” She grins at me. “Sometimes you have to stretch your imagination a little to line up what the stars say with what Bobby gets firsthand, but he’s always right.”
I half expect him to shuffle his feet and say, Ah, shucks. When he says, “Thank you, ’Lene,” I nearly pass out from surprise. Considering that he calls Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune his best friend, his progression to a nickname for Darlene shocks me as much as if Lovie had left off using all the words she didn’t learn in Sunday School.
“I’ve gotta run.” Darlene grabs her purse and blows us a kiss. But I don’t miss that she’s sending it more in Bobby’s direction than mine. “Mama and Daddy have David at Gas, Grits, and Guts, and Mama’s going to have a conniption fit if I’m late.”
“Thanks for your help at the charity event, Darlene. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“It was fun. But I’m glad it’s over. Wow! Two murders in three days. Thank goodness the bazaar’s not open Sunday.”
“Take Monday off, too, if you want. It’s always a slow day at Hair.Net.”
“And miss all the fun? No thanks. I’ll see you there.”
She whizzes out the door with Bobby watching until she disappears.
“Well,” he says, then plops behind his desk like a man who has suddenly discovered his legs are made of straw.
“She’s very nice, Bobby. I’m happy that you two are developing a friendship.”
“Yes.”
I wait for him to say more, but when nothing is forthcoming, I rub my hands together as if I’m trying to wash away events of today. “Do I need to help you do anything to get ready for Steve’s viewing?”
“I’m all set.”
“How about the jazz funeral?”
“His family declined.”
“Not everybody appreciates a creative undertaker. Mama’s going to be busy taking care of Uncle Charlie, and Lovie and I have our hands full, so call the substitute organist and caterer.”
My phone rings, startling me almost out of my skin. “Before I forget, Bobby, call me if you have any trouble.” I press my cell phone to my ear. “Hello.”
“Callie, when are you going to get home to see about Jack?” It’s Mama.
“What are you doing at my house, Mama?”
“Since when is it a crime to check on my son-in-law?”
“Ex.”
“Flitter.”
“You didn’t tell him what I’m up to, did you?”
“What do you think I am? Senile? Get yourself home, Carolina. I need to leave so I can stay with Charlie.”
“I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Besides, Jack can take care of himself, and Lovie’s staying with Uncle Charlie tonight.”
“I’m not leaving till you get here. Furthermore, you’re bringing Jack to Sunday dinner after church. He looks like he’s starving to death.”
“Good grief, Mama, I’m not even going to dignify that with a comment. ’Bye now.” I shove my phone back in my purse and stand up.
“Be careful, Callie,” Bobby says.
“It’s been a bad day. If you tell me there’s danger from a dark-eyed stranger, I’m going to scream.”
Bobby actually grins. “My psychic powers are on the blink, but I know there’s a murderer loose.”
Coming from him, that’s the equivalent of a State of the Union address.
“I’ll be careful, Bobby. Thanks.”
I give him a little hug simply because he looks like he needs it. And to tell the truth, I do, too.
Then I round up Elvis and head to Mooreville to face the music. Translated, that means face Mama and Jack at the same time; they’re a powerful duo when they’re in cahoots with each other.
As it turns out, Mama’s red Mustang convertible (what else?) is not in my driveway, and I don’t even feel like an ungrateful daughter when I say, “Hallelujah.” Elvis thumps his tail as if to say, “Amen.”
My dog bounds out the door to greet Jack, who is waiting for me on the front porch swing. Or was he waiting for Elvis? I hang back while Jack greets him as if my basset is a soldier arriving home after a three-year tour of duty in a dangerous third-world country. My conscience pricks me, and not for the first time.
But I refuse to think about divorce at Christmas. Especially since my lawn is newly covered with wire reindeer moving their spindly legs and flashing their tiny blue lights.
“Jack, who put the reindeer out?”
“I did. Ruby Nell helped.”
Now I do feel like an ungrateful daughter. “Why did Mama leave?”
“I told her to go on home, Cal. She needed the rest.” I ascend the steps and Jack drapes his arm not-so-casually across my shoulders. “It looks like you do, too. How does hot chocolate sound?”
“Hot chocolate, a long hot soak in the tub, and then an evening in front of the fire watching a holiday movie classic, preferably something with Jimmy Stewart.”
Jack grins at me and we say, “It’s a Wonderful Life” at the same time.
For once I’m glad Jack is in my house. I’m glad I don’t have a date. I’m glad I don’t have company.
In the gathering dusk, we walk inside, arm in arm, while the Christmas reindeer on my lawn sparkle like tiny blue stars.