Chapter 11
Lethal Games, Angry Neighbors, and Annie Get Your Gun
While Lovie and I cower on the floor of Albert’s den, the ruckus from outside sounds like the Second Coming. With my face in Albert’s dusty old rug and my hands over my head, I wait for I don’t know what all to befall me.
“Lovie?” No answer. Holy cow, has she been kidnapped? “Lovie, are you okay?”
She says a word that will likely get her barred from the Pearly Gates—unless I can get there first and do some fast talking. But at least I know my cousin is still her sassy self.
Lifting myself on my elbow, I risk looking around. Everything is normal in here, meaning Albert’s file cabinet is standing wide open, potato chips are everywhere, and his guns all look like they’re pointed straight at me.
Outside the racket goes up several decibels. I begin to make out voices.
“That’s my Santa. Grab him!” That’s Fayrene.
“Are you kidding me?” That voice belongs to Roy Jessup of Mooreville Feed and Seed. I’d tell him Fayrene was not kidding, but I’m in hiding. “If you stick your hand in that fire, you’ll bring back a burned nub.”
Sirens scream. Probably Mooreville’s Volunteer Fire Department to the rescue. Maybe even a Lee County squad car or two. Visions of jail dance in my head.
“Lovie, let’s get out of here.” In one fluid move I’m off the floor.
“Not so fast, missy.”
Holy cow and pig and stockings, too. Albert Gordon looks exactly like his Vietnam photo as he faces me in full camouflage. A lethal-looking weapon is pointed at the chest of my cat burglar suit, which might as well be a red-sequined sweater for all the good it’s doing me now. I’m going to have to start wearing a flak jacket.
The only good thing I can say about this situation is that I’ve never seen Lovie get off the floor so fast. You’d think she was the cousin who jogs three miles every day instead of the one who has three sausages and biscuits for breakfast, then one more with butter and jelly.
While I’m still staring into the barrel of a gun whose gauge I don’t even want to know, Lovie grabs my arm and drags me into the kitchen faster than Elvis can chase my seven formerly stray cats. Albert is right behind us.
“Quick, Lovie. The back door.”
She says a string of words that would stop a platoon of Army tanks. Through the glass panels, I can see why. The back door leads to a giant bonfire, a flock of angry neighbors trying to rescue burning Santas, Sheriff Trice, and two deputies, plus a troop of firemen trying to contain the blaze.
Lovie jerks me toward a door that goes no telling where. A hallway that leads to a bedroom, it turns out, but even I know better than to hide under the bed. If there’s one thing all this unexpected sleuthing has taught me it’s never let yourself get cornered.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Albert calls.
Holy cow! He’s playing cat and mouse for keeps, and he’s right on our trail. Thank goodness he apparently didn’t see us duck in here. I hear loud footsteps as he stomps off in the opposite direction.
I try to shove open a window while Lovie stands guard with her baseball bat. I don’t tell her it would be no match for Albert’s gun. Let her live her last few minutes in ignorant bliss.
The window’s stuck. This is an old house with at least three previous owners since I’ve lived in the neighborhood. The latch looks like it’s covered with so many coats of paint it would take an act of God—or Jack Jones—to get it loose.
Putting my shoulder against the window, I give another big shove. Meanwhile, somebody at the back of the house pounds on the door while somebody else discharges a gun.
Forget shoving and pushing. I jerk off a perfectly good Donald J. Pliner ankle boot and proceed to ruin the heel by smashing the windowpane. Glass flies everywhere, including on me, but I have bigger worries than whether or not I’m going to bleed to death.
“Freeze!” Sheriff Trice yells.
I don’t intend to stick around to find out whether I’m going to be shot by Albert or arrested by the sheriff.
Knocking the rest of the glass out, I yell, “Lovie, dive!”
With my long legs, I step right through the window. But I can’t say the same for Lovie. She’s stuck, the top half of her viewing freedom and the bottom half saluting whatever lies behind.
“Quick, Lovie. Reach for me.”
I grab her hands and pull, but as hard as I tug, I can’t get her to budge. In the bedroom I’ve just vacated, it sounds like Armageddon.
Any minute now, Lovie’s going to say something noble like, “Save yourself, Cal. Run!” But of course, I’d never leave my cousin.
What she really says is, “If you don’t get my big ass out of here, I’m never sharing another secret with you as long as I live.”
So much for noble.
I brace one leg against the side of Albert’s house and give another tug. Lovie pops through with the ease of a cork shot from a champagne bottle. As she lands in an undignified heap on the ground, I’m looking straight through the shattered window into the grinning face of Sheriff Trice.
“I thought you could use a little help from this side, Miss Callie.” He tips his hat and winks. Behind him, I spot a deputy I don’t know leading Albert off in handcuffs.
“Aren’t you going to arrest us, too?”
“I never saw you. Have a nice evening.” With another tip of the hat, he’s gone.
“Jack’s doings, no doubt,” Lovie says from her throne on the ground.
“How do you know? Maybe Sheriff Trice just likes me.”
“It was my royal backside he had his hands on. Get me up from here.”
“If you’re going to start issuing orders, you ought to wear a crown.” I help her up for the last time, I hope.
“Next time I will.”
“Furthermore, I don’t think Sheriff Trice’s assistance has anything to do with your Holy Grail. Or your National Treasure, either.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.”
The next thing I know Lovie will be trying to overcome her grief as Santa’s almost-widow by flirting outrageously with our tough “Walking Tall” sheriff.
If I don’t do something, and fast, she’s going to end up trying to be Lee County’s answer to Mrs. Buford Pusser. But I can’t think about that right now. I’m too busy running from trouble and getting punctured by Albert’s prickly hedge. As I hotfoot it across Butch Jenkins’ yard hoping his little dog doesn’t come out and finish off what’s left of me, I pray to every goddess I know, including Martha Stewart.
Tonight I’ve been shot at, slashed with thorns and flying glass, and almost arrested. All I want is a nice bath, a cup of hot chocolate, and Elvis.
Well, who doesn’t want Elvis, but I’m talking about my dog. And I’ll have to say, with his cute little wiggle and his funny basset grin and his silly, howling imitation of “Blue Christmas” he’s a wonderful substitute.
Not that I can go home after tonight’s fiasco. It’s bad enough that Jack tries to keep tabs on my dates. If he sees my cuts and scratches, there’s no telling what he’d do.
Lovie and I have almost reached my truck when I hear Wanda calling her dog. “Sadie, baby. Where are you?”
Maybe I should have prayed to Oprah.
I freeze, hoping Wanda won’t turn on the light. Suddenly I spot Sadie baby, streaking around the side of the house.
“If that little dog barks, we’re done for.”
“Not yet.” Lovie shoulders her baseball bat. “The next person who comes after me is asking for a big headache.”
About that time, Sadie baby sidles up to me and pees on my designer boots. If Lovie laughs, I’m going to give her a cheap Christmas present.
Fortunately, she doesn’t, and Sadie trots peacefully back to the front porch, where Wanda says, “Did Mommy’s widdle baby do her widdle potty?”
“All over my cousin’s boots,” Lovie deadpans.
“They were old.” I flounce into my truck and slam the door.
“Phew.” Lovie slams the other door. “Don’t turn on the heater.”
“Roll your window down and don’t say another word.”
Lovie’s nobody’s fool. She knows when I’ve reached my limit. She’s over there on the passenger side with her lip zipped, which happens only once in a blue moon. The only racket she makes is the rattling of her paper bag as she rummages for food. Chocolate, it turns out. I could smell it a mile away.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a bite?”
“You said not to say another word.”
“Smarty pants.” I reach, palm up, and she breaks off a chunk of Hershey’s with almonds, our comfort food of choice. Though after all we’ve been through tonight, it would take a six pack to settle my nerves.
My cell phone rings, and I nearly jump out of my borrowed baggy cat burglar suit. It’s Mama.
“Jack’s looking for you.”
“Mama, what happened to hello?”
“Where are you?”
“In my truck.”
“Going where?”
“To Lovie’s, if you must know.”
“Is that any way to act while I’m still making my Christmas gift list? Besides, since when is it a crime for a mother to ask her only daughter’s whereabouts on the most dangerous night in Mooreville’s entire history? It’s a wonder the whole neighborhood didn’t go up in flames.”
Naturally, Fayrene has already given Mama a blow-by-blow report of the doings at Albert Gordon’s bonfire. I just hope she didn’t find out Lovie and I had an up-close-and-personal view. Still, Mama’s exaggerating, as usual. But that doesn’t mean I’d want her to see me in my present condition.
I decide to try placation. “Don’t worry, Mama. My neighborhood is safe, and I’m all right.”
“Then why are you going to Lovie’s?”
To plot our next move is not something I want to say to Mama.
“We’re having a spend-the-night party.”
“Flitter.”
“Mama, what does that mean?” I ask, but she has already hung up. With her, flitter can mean any number of things from why didn’t you include me? to I don’t believe a word you’re saying.
“What did Aunt Ruby Nell want?”
“To be in the middle of my business.”
“Cheer up, Callie. At least Aunt Ruby Nell’s got good health and a lively sense of humor.”
“Yeah, and most of my bank account.”
Though I’ll have to admit that ever since Mama left off restorative gambling (her words, not mine) and took up dancing with the wrong partner, I’ve been making fiscal progress. At the rate I’m saving money, next spring I might be able to paint a beach scene on the walls of my beauty shop, add a tanning bed and a massage table, and turn the back room at Hair.Net into a tropical spa.
The idea cheers me considerably. And so does the second big chunk of chocolate Lovie hands me.
By the time we reach the city limits, I’m almost in a good mood. It’s further enhanced by the sight of the lighted snowflakes that line the streets of Tupelo and a glimpse of Christmas trees though the windows in Lovie’s neighborhood.
“Lovie, is that a car in front of your house?”
She says a word that will get her on Santa’s lump of coal in the stocking list. “What if the killer’s not Albert? What if it’s somebody else and we’re his next target?”
“Duck. I’m going to drive on by. If he’s looking for two people, maybe he won’t notice you.”
Too much snooping can get you killed. I’d take the lesson to heart if the Santa killer hadn’t almost snuffed out Uncle Charlie. Whoever’s waiting up ahead can forget about scaring me off. I’m a woman with two mortgages, eight animal mouths to feed, and a dangerous man in my bedroom. Nothing daunts me.
Still, I hold the steering wheel in a death grip and make myself stick to the speed limit. Approaching Lovie’s house at a crawl, I get a hard close look at the car parked crooked in front of her house.
Naturally, it’s a red Mustang convertible. Even if I didn’t know this is just the kind of thing Mama would do—lie in wait for us—the vanity tag gives her away. Queen Ruby 1.
“Relax, Lovie. It’s Mama.” I spot her on the front porch, unmistakable in a caftan that makes her look like the queen of a small exotic country. And with her is another shadowy figure that can only be Uncle Charlie. “Your daddy’s with her.”
“Busted,” Lovie says.
“Big time.”
I park behind Mama’s Mustang, take a few deep breaths, then climb down from my Dodge Ram to face the music. And you can bet it won’t be “Joy to the World.”
Elvis’ Opinion #9 on Mooreville’s Godfather, Tacky Gifts, and One Smart Dog
I guess you’re wondering why Jack’s sitting calmly in front of the TV eating popcorn when Ruby Nell calls to report that Callie’s spending the night with Lovie. It’s because he already knows my human mom is safe. Sheriff Trice didn’t waste any time calling to fill Jack in on all the details of what went down at the Gordon house.
Listen, though nobody around here knows Jack’s true profession except me and Charlie and now, unfortunately, my human mom, who worries too much, Jack is a cross between the Godfather and the Terminator. He’s dark, dangerous, and mysterious. If you want to be “King of the Whole Wide World,” that’s the way to go. We may not be rolling in “Money Honey,” but we’ve got “Respect.” (I’m sure that fabulous soul sister Aretha Franklin won’t mind a nod to her hit song.)
And speaking of respect, here comes that silly cocker spaniel sneaking into the den. I can smell his intent a mile away. He’s trying to weasel his way into my human daddy’s affections. And at Christmas, to boot.
Listen, short hairy runt. That’s my job. I’m top dog around here. Numero uno. (I speak a bit of Spanish, too, I’m proud to admit.)
I bare my teeth at him and show a few hackles. If Hoyt the Lesser is looking for company, let him go back to his inferior bed and “Reach Out to Jesus.”
Fortunately for his little crooked, sawed-off legs, Hoyt tucks his tail and slinks back where he came from. Listen, I’m a dog of importance. I know how to “Make the World Go Away.”
One problem down and one to go. I sashay my handsome self back to Jack and make a valiant but failed attempt to leap onto the sofa. But if you’re thinking I should go on a diet, tell it to “Western Union.”
“Need some help, Elvis?”
Jack picks me up and settles me against his right leg, which, as far as I’m concerned is the cat-bird seat. Then he turns his attention back to the TV. QVC, to be exact.
His credit card and a note pad are at the ready, and he’s taking notes and listing numbers. Well, bless’a my soul, Jack Jones is doing a little Christmas shopping.
Currently, he’s listening to a stunning woman named Lisa who is making an ugly polyester blouse sound like something no woman can live without. To my horror, Jack jots down the number. I may have to heft myself off this couch, get down on paws and knees, and beg for a “Marguerita.” Callie wouldn’t be caught dead in that blouse. For one thing, it has polka dots, which she can’t abide. For another, it’s the wrong color for her skin tone.
I know a thing or two about style. What do you think I do around that beauty shop all day? Whistle “Dixie”?
I punch a paw down on the remote, and the channel switches to CNN, where you can listen to disaster all day long. Let me tell you, anything’s better than a tacky, inappropriate Christmas gift.
“Cut that out.” Jack switches back to QVC, where, thank “Mary Lou Brown” and “Maybelline” both, that ugly blouse is “Gone, Baby, Gone.”
Now Lisa is touting a pair of pants that not even Fayrene, who has the fashion sense of Larry King, would wear. Jack’s jotting order numbers like his life depends on it.
Haven’t I taught him a single thing about romance? If he wants back in Callie’s good graces, not to mention back in the marriage he never wanted to leave in the first place, he’ll scroll through the TV menu till he finds an online shopping show that features fine jewelry.
Wrap an expensive emerald in a pretty package, take a few voice lessons from yours truly, and Jack could have Callie singing, “Today, Tomorrow and Forever.”