Chapter 10
White Lies, Baseball Bats, and Big Trouble
By the time Lovie and I get Uncle Charlie out of the hospital and settled into his apartment above Eternal Rest, it’s nearly dusk. Winter afternoons seem to fly by, and dark always comes before I’m ready for it.
He looks very good, almost normal. Though I’m certain Jack has already told him what’s up with the Santa killer, I don’t mention Albert Gordon.
And I certainly don’t mention our plans. He’d be just like Jack, anxious to keep us out of police business and therefore out of danger.
Uncle Charlie and Jack are not only as close as father and son, but my uncle trained Jack for the Company. Charlie Valentine may be everybody’s favorite silver-haired undertaker and look like he wouldn’t hurt a flea, but he’s led a dangerous and checkered past.
Of course, I’m the only one in the family who knows about Uncle Charlie’s dark side besides Jack. And he’s technically not even a member of the family.
Thinking about family secrets and a Christmas killer on the loose makes me long for a big cup of eggnog and a vacation, which is not likely to happen anytime soon. The holiday season is one of my busiest at Hair.Net.
“I hate leaving you here by yourself, Uncle Charlie. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“If the killer is after me, he’s liable to find more trouble than he bargained for.” He winks at me.
“For Pete’s sake, Daddy, you sound like John Wayne doing Rooster Cogburn. Maybe I ought to see if Bobby will stay with you.”
I wish I could tell Lovie what Jack told me: Uncle Charlie was the Company’s best marksman and can shoot a dime out of the air. I really hate keeping secrets, especially from Lovie.
“Don’t worry, dear heart. If trouble comes looking for me, the cops are only six blocks away.”
Mollified, she kisses him on the cheek and we head out the door. In the parking lot of Eternal Rest, she says, “My house.”
“Why?”
“Cat burglars don’t wear red sequins.”
I see her point. Shine a light on me and my Christmas sweater could be seen clear to the Pontotoc County line. And Lovie’s wearing jingle bells. When she moves, her sweater decorations sound like Santa swooping past with his eight tiny reindeer.
I follow my cousin to her pink cottage, where we discuss our plans while we ditch church garb and put on some of her black sweatpants and tee shirts. Since she outweighs me by a ton and I’m a gazillion inches taller, all I can say is, “Thank goodness for elastic waistbands.”
“Eat chocolate,” she says. “That’s why I have so much fun and you’re always worried about something.”
“I’m not worried. Just cautious.”
“Let me put your mind at ease.”
She pulls her baseball bat from underneath her bed and swings it. If a Santa thief had been standing in her path, he’d be missing body parts. Might I add, she played first base in high school, and she was known for knocking the ball out of the park.
“I feel safer already.”
“Smart ass,” she says, then detours by the kitchen and comes back armed with a bulging brown paper bag.
“Goodness gracious, Lovie. What’s all that?”
“Every stakeout has food.”
“We’re not going on stakeout. This is a simple break and enter.”
“You’d starve to death without me.”
She sashays out the door, and I’m right behind her wearing baggy, high-water pants that I hope don’t fall off. It’s full dark now with the threat of rain. Not a star can be seen among the dense cloud cover, and not even a sliver of moon.
“It’s a good night for skullduggery,” Lovie calls through the dark.
“Let’s rumble.”
We sound like characters in one of the black-and-white film noir classics Lovie and I enjoy. Giggling, I crank up my truck and head out for an evening of breaking the law.
According to plan, Lovie and I enter my neighborhood from the east side so we won’t pass by my house. Jack and Elvis can pick out the sound of my Hemi engine from two blocks away. He’d put two and two together before I could say “shoe sale.” Crutches or no, he’d be after me before I could get past Albert Gordon’s gate.
Also as discussed, we turn off our headlights on the approach to TV weatherman Butch Jenkins’ house and park in the shadow of three giant oaks in his yard. Being careful not to slam my car door, I mince my way across the pitch-black yard to Lovie and run smack into her.
Only it’s not Lovie, it’s a holly bush with enough prickles to almost make me say one of Lovie’s colorful words.
“Where are you?” I whisper.
“Over here.”
“Are you laughing?”
“Yes.”
“I may have to kill you.”
“Get in line.” Lovie switches on a miniature penlight, and I follow the tiny beam toward a hedge that separates the Jenkins’ yard from Albert’s. “You first.”
Believe me, Lovie’s not being polite. This intimidating, prickly-feeling hedge looks like it could swallow small dogs and skinny hairdressers. Still, I brave on through. At what cost to my hair and Lovie’s clothes I don’t even want to ponder.
“When I get home I’m going to look like I’ve been to war.”
“If you get home, Cal.”
Lovie sounds as dark as Bobby. Furthermore, she’s on the other side of the hedge.
“Come on through, Lovie. It’s not so bad.”
“Maybe not for you. Try being a bale of cotton.”
“Good grief. Reach for my hand.” I stretch my arm past thorns the size of redwoods and grab hold of her. Digging in my heels, I tug. Lovie pops through the hedge in one piece, but I can’t say the same for her clothes. Judging by the ripping sounds, I’d say she now has a hole in her pants as big as the Grand Canyon. I don’t even want to know where.
Instead, I scuttle across a backyard where I have no business while she stomps along behind me saying words that would ignite bonfires.
If Albert hears her, our goose is cooked. Or is that our geese? Holy cow. I think I’m going crazy.
Suddenly a big hulk looms out of the darkness. “Psst, Lovie. Up ahead.” I grab her arm and she switches off her light and her mouth at the same time. We both come to a dead halt, dead not being a prophetic word, I hope. If there was ever a time to practice being a cabbage, now is it. I stand so still I can practically hear the sweat inching down my face.
“You should have brought a weapon,” Lovie whispers.
“Too late now.”
If that very large man turns in our direction, we can forget about finding out who wants Santa dead. We’ll be boogieing on up to Glory Land full of bullet holes. Or worse.
“Distract him, Callie.” In the dark, I feel Lovie inching away.
“Wait. What are you doing?”
“I’m going to get behind him and knock his brains out.”
“He’s dangerous. I say we stay put.”
“And wait for him to get the jump on us? Distract, Callie.”
Distraction comes, all right, but it’s not from me. Next door, the Jenkins’ little cocker spaniel makes enough ruckus to wake the dead.
Lovie says a word that would make them keel right back over.
Through the darkness Butch’s wife Wanda calls out, “Sadie, baby, what is it?”
Sadie baby is too close to the hedge for comfort. If she gets brave enough to scramble through, Lovie and I might as well prepare to spend Christmas in jail.
Grabbing hold of my cousin’s arm in case she decides to use this distraction for her foolhardy plan, I hold my breath.
“Is anybody there?” Wanda yells.
“Does she expect a thief to answer?”
“Hush, Lovie. She’ll hear us.”
“Not unless she has X-ray ears.”
Suddenly the Jenkins’ yard lights up like the White House Christmas tree. It’s Wanda’s floodlights, pouring across the hedge.
Tackling Lovie, I drop onto my stomach and see the incredible hulk in Albert’s yard in full, living color. It’s Santa, the jolly old man in red who appears on the rooftop at Gas, Grits, and Guts every Christmas. If I weren’t afraid Wanda was going to hear me and call Sheriff Trice, I’d laugh myself silly. Here we are, out to catch a murderer, and both of us are cowering at the feet of a plastic Santa.
“Wanda!” It’s Butch, calling to his wife. Let’s hope he’s not headed into his back yard. “What’s going on out there, pumpkin pie?”
“It’s just Sadie. Go back to watching True Blood, sweet pooky dookums.”
Lovie pinches me and I pinch her back. I can tell by her strangled sounds that she’s about to explode with laughter. Who would have thought? Mooreville’s mild-mannered TV weatherman and his equally shy wife have a hot thing going.
The back door slams—Butch and Wanda going back inside, I hope. I do a slow count to three, and just when I’m getting ready to rise, Wanda screams, “I said, who’s there?” Meanwhile her nosey cocker spaniel sniffs closer to the hedge and barks like she’s on the trail of bears.
The only good thing I can say about this situation is that I didn’t bring Elvis. He considers every dog in the neighborhood his competition and takes every opportunity to prove his superiority. Not that he’s a fighter, but he does like to lord it over the lesser dogs.
From this perspective—shivering and cowering on the cold ground—I see that Fayrene’s Santa has company, a pile of Santas with firewood laid in a circle around them. Proof positive that Albert Gordon is planning a big bonfire.
“Lovie, look.”
“All we need are marshmallows.”
Bound for her to think about food at a time like this. A hundred-and-ninety-pound bombshell—and every inch of her generous-hearted—Lovie is going to have a hard time getting back up.
I’m in tiptop shape, but if Wanda doesn’t soon turn off the floodlights, even I will have a hard time rising off the ground. My left leg has a cramp, and my right’s not feeling too perky.
Mercifully I hear her little dog yip as she scoops her up. Her back door slams, her yard goes dark, and I wait for total silence.
Finally I nudge Lovie. “Come on. That was a close call. Let’s get this over with.”
“Thank God I didn’t bean Santa.”
“It could be worse. We could be in handcuffs.”
She grunts, and I roll to my knees, then spring up and sprint toward Albert’s covered back porch. The screen door is open, so I slide through and lean against the wall. Guess who isn’t leaning with me?
“Lovie?” No answer. Holy cow! I backtrack and nearly stumble over her. She’s still sprawled on the ground in pitch blackness.
“Get the backhoe.”
“Good grief, Lovie.” I grab her hand and tug. She rises like Lazarus from the dead, and we race toward the porch. If early events are any indication, this evening is not going to turn out well.
Lovie props her baseball bat against the wall, sticks a hairpin into Albert’s back-door lock and sets to work. My part in all this is playing lookout while I pray for protection from Mother Nature, Mother Theresa, and motherhood.
Lately, my cousin’s had more practice picking locks than I care to think about. We’re inside Albert’s house in record time. Fortunately, he has left lamps burning, so Lovie doesn’t have to use her penlight. Still, I grab her arm before she goes bulldozing through his kitchen.
“The curtains,” I say, then drop to all fours. They’re wide open. All Wanda and Butch have to do is look out their window to see us.
“If you think I’m getting down on my belly again you’re crazy. I felt like a beached whale.”
“Then stick to the shadows and come on.”
“Where?”
“How should I know? If you’ll care to remember, I’m not a professional crook.”
She says a word that would defrost icicles, then creeps around the walls and vanishes through an open door. I crawl along behind her and find her standing in the middle of Albert’s den. Lit by the glow of a desk lamp is an arsenal big enough to blow Mooreville off the map.
“Holy cow.” The den curtains are closed, and I can walk around like a normal person to take stock. There are .44 Magnums in here and double-barreled shotguns and .38 pistols and weapons with names even a country girl who grew up on a farm south of Mooreville doesn’t know. But you can bet your boots I intend to find out.
If I live to get to a computer.
“Lovie, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yes, this is a dangerous man. We need to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“Wait.” On a bookshelf I spot three framed photos of a grim-looking, dark-haired man I assume is Albert posing with his Special Forces buddies. Uncle Charlie is in two of the photos, the prominent horseshoe-shaped scar on his right forearm a dead giveaway.
“Lovie, look.” I hand the photo to my cousin. In both pictures, Uncle Charlie’s face is scratched out.
“Looks like Albert Gordon hated Daddy.”
“The question is why? See what you can find in his desk.” While Lovie’s riffling through Albert’s desk, I hustle over to his file cabinets.
“What are we looking for?”
“Good grief, Lovie. I’m not Quantico. You’ll know it when you see it.”
I spot Albert’s medical records when I hear a sound not found in nature. Whirling around I see Lovie sitting in Albert’s chair with her feet propped on his desk eating a bag of potato chips.
“What in the world?”
“These were in his desk just going to waste. Since he’s deprived me of my evening’s entertainment, he owes me. Besides, I’m starving to death.”
Considering she ate enough of Mama’s roast beef to tide her over till New Year’s Day, I doubt that. Still, I wouldn’t let her stay for dessert, so I keep my smart remarks to myself and focus on the task at hand.
Albert’s medical records go all the way back to his days in Special Forces. One in particular catches my eye. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, it reads.
“Hey, Lovie, do you think post-traumatic stress disorder could make Albert hate Christmas?”
“If I had it, I’d hate everything.” She rams another handful of chips into her mouth. “Except food.”
Suddenly a boom rocks the house and chips fly every which way.
“Hit the decks,” Lovie yells.
I don’t have to be told twice. Every window in the room lights up like Fourth of July fireworks. I don’t know whether to scream or run.
Elvis’ Opinion #8 on Love, Revenge, and Bachelor Buddies
Ordinarily, I enjoy being home alone with my human daddy, just two buddies hanging out. Jack always fixes us a bunch of snacks, and we pile up on the couch to watch the news or whatever sport happens to be seasonable.
Tonight, though, for all the attention Jack’s paying me, I might as well be trying to get back into the “Crazy Arms” of that two-timing French poodle, Ann Margret. Listen, I’m a dog with my ear to the ground. Don’t think I don’t know she’s come down with a “Fever” for Darlene’s uppity Lhasa apso. William thinks he’s the Dalai Lama. Dalai Lama my crooked leg! If he’s ever had a lofty thought in his head, I’m Michael Jackson. And we all know I don’t need a moon walk and a white glove.
Anyhow, ever since Ruby Nell drove us home, Jack’s been trying to find out where Callie and Lovie are. Usually my human mom has him humming “Gentle on My Mind.” But when she’s with Lovie, Jack’s always trying to figure a way to build a “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”
He’s in the kitchen now talking to Ruby Nell on the phone. I sidle in there and lick his ankle, a dog with a purpose. Number one would be getting a little smackeral of something good, preferably with sugar and grease.
Number two would be eavesdropping. Forget about southern manners. I’ve got as many as the next dog. But when it comes to protecting my human parents, I’ll stoop to any low.
“I just wanted to make sure you got back safely after you brought me home,” Jack is saying, and he means it, too. He thinks she hung the moon, and she thinks he walks on water. (Contrary to what some of my biographers wrote, I’m smart enough to know a hackneyed phrase when I say one. But do you think I give a “Flip, Flop, and Fly”? I got to be a worldwide icon and my biographers didn’t. I’ve earned the right to talk any way I want to.)
“You’re such a sweetie to check on me, Jack!” Ruby Nell is saying. “Naturally, I got home all right. I’m an expert driver.”If Ruby Nell is a good driver, I’m Johnny Cash. If she gets one more speeding ticket, she’s liable to be singing the “Folsom Prison Blues.”
“With all the ruckus going on around Mooreville, I’m going to send Cal to spend the night with you when she gets home.”
That’s Jack’s cagey way of finding out if Callie is already there. He has a snowball’s chance in you-know-where of sending my human mom anywhere, and he knows it.
“I won’t be here, hon. I’m heading out to spend the night at Charlie’s.”
“Is he okay?”
“To hear him tell it he is, but I’m not taking any chances.”
When Jack pockets his cell phone, I seize my chance for food. I amble my handsome self center stage, meaning right in front of the kitchen cabinets and do my bringing-the-house-down version of “Don’t Be Cruel.”
That gets a laugh from Jack, but nary a bite. “Just a minute, boy.”
Before I can say “Pup-Peroni,” he’s on the phone with Charlie. You might think “It Ain’t No Big Thing” when he finds out Callie and Lovie aren’t there, but let me tell you, “It’s a Matter of Time” before somebody’s head rolls. And the mood Jack’s in, just about anybody’s will do.
If he didn’t have that cast, he’d be on his Harley and on my human mom’s trail. As it is, he says a word Lovie would appreciate.
Listen, I know this is the time when a dog of my intelligence and compassion should try to make his human dad feel better. But you try being compassionate on an empty stomach, and see how much fun it is.
Holding my spot in center stage, I throw back my head and remind Jack not to “Put the Blame on Me.” Listen, I’m a short dog with four feet and no opposable digits. I can’t help it if these humans get into more trouble than I can get them out of.
And I know you’re not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition, either. Learned that in the fifth grade at Lawhon Elementary while everybody else was making fun of my overalls. Now they’re trying to outdo each other with I-knew-Elvis-when stories. But “That’s Life.” Learned that from old Blue Eyes himself.
I reckon I still have the stuff, because Jack bends down to scratch behind my ears, then hustles around fixing me a hefty snack of Milk Bone and Pup-Peroni.
“Don’t tell Cal.”
Does he think I’m “Crazy”? (I don’t mind borrowing from Patsy Cline, either. That woman had some pipes.) As soon as I finish eating, my lips are sealed.
Since he can’t get out of the house, Jack starts popping corn. Another tasty treat. If I hold my ears just right he’ll let me have my own bag.
Sure enough, he takes one look at cute little me and puts another bag into the microwave. One pop out of the bag, and the kitchen window lights up like Mooreville’s fixing to be raptured.
Before I can say, “There’s No Room to Rhumba in a Sports Car,” Jack is on the phone with the Lee County sheriff.
Don’t let his cast fool you. My human daddy is still the man in charge.