Chapter 12
Caught Red-handed, Something Foul’s Afoot, and Flitter
Ihop out of my Dodge Ram primed for an argument with Mama, but to tell the truth, the little girl in me is really glad to see her. When I was growing up on the farm, Lovie and I were always getting into trouble doing things we’d been told not to. But Mama was always there with a scolding, followed by milk and cookies, a big hug, and a Band-Aid. She can skip the scolding, but I sure could use all the rest.
As I climb the steps to Lovie’s front porch, I’m trying to decide whether to play defense or offense. Lovie saves me the trouble of tough decisions. Breezing past everybody, she unlocks the front door and calls over her shoulder, “Come on in. Take a load off. I’ll put on the coffee.”
She presses the light switch, and Mama sees all my sleuthing wounds. She narrows her blue eyes and purses her lips. I stand in front of her like a six-year-old waiting for the third degree, punctuated by umpteen “Carolinas” and “Flitters .”
Instead, she hugs me for such a long time I’m close to crying. Finally she clears her throat, leads me to the sofa, and pulls me down beside her. It’s like she doesn’t want to be three inches from me.
“Callie, one of these days your stubborn sense of duty is going to get you killed. What in the world happened to you?”
Uncle Charlie has taken a seat in the wing chair across from us and is sitting there like a quiet, benevolent godfather, a man who will do anything to protect his family.
I start telling about Albert Gordon’s Santa bonfire, leaving out a few harrowing details. Halfway through the heavily edited version, Lovie comes in with four steaming cups of coffee on a tray with cream and sugar. She’s added a little chicory, and the taste reminds me of being in the French Quarter in New Orleans.
She’s also bearing first-aid ointment and Band-Aids.
Ignoring her drink, Mama grabs the first-aid supplies and sets to work patching my scratches, even the ones that don’t need it. By the time she’s finished, I’m going to look like Frankenstein’s bride.
At the end of my story, everybody sits in silence. This is the first Valentine Christmas marred by murder, and I think we’re still in a state of disbelief about how close one of our own came to being the victim.
Mama picks up her cup and gives my cousin her famous dramatic look. “I hope you’ve got some Prohibition Punch back there. Before this night is over, we’re going to need it.
Everybody laughs, but it’s the nervous kind of laughter when you’re trying too hard to see the bright side of things.
“I don’t want you two putting yourselves in any more danger,” Uncle Charlie says. “I’ve already told the Tupelo police about Albert Gordon’s beef against me.”
“What is it, Charlie?”
I can tell he’d like us to move on to another subject, but Uncle Charlie can never deny Mama.
“When we were in Special Forces together, Albert’s temper kept him from moving up in the ranks. He blamed me.”
“For Pete’s sake, Daddy. Why?”
“Who knows how a mind like that works? I got the promotions and he didn’t.”
“Is there anybody else in Tupelo who might have a beef against you, Uncle Charlie?”
He lifts his eyebrows at me, a signal that he knows full well I’m not going to sit on the sidelines and play it safe while any member of the Valentine family is at risk.
“You might as well tell us, Charlie. The girls are pretty darned good amateur sleuths, and so am I.”
Lovie’s about to burst, but she has the good sense not to let Mama see how hard she’s holding back laughter. As for me, I’m glad to have Mama’s support. Let me tell you, any woman who can write such offbeat tombstone sayings and make a success of it is formidable.
“There’s Abel Caine,” Uncle Charlie says. “He did time because of my testimony.”
“One of Katrina’s victims?” I know him because I was one of the volunteers processing the hurricane refugees who took shelter in Tupelo’s Bancorp South Coliseum. I remember him because his name is so unusual.
“Like so many of Katrina’s survivors, Abel fell in love with Tupelo and stayed. He finally got a job at Mike’s Tires.”
“How much time did he do, Charlie?”
“Ten years.”
“Holy cow. I’d say that’s motive.”
“Callie’s right.” Mama grabs a pencil off Lovie’s end table and scribbles on the edge of a newspaper lying on her coffee table. “Who else wants you dead, Charlie?”
“Nelda Lou Perkins, Miss Vardaman Sweet Potato, 1966, once told me she’d rather see me dead than lose me.”
Uncle Charlie’s eyes are twinkling, but Mama’s are not. In fact, she’s so mad I can practically see sparks shooting off her.
“If Nelda Lou messes with my family, I’ll send her back to Calhoun County and put her where sweet potatoes belong. Under the ground.”
“Now, now dear heart.”
“Don’t you dear heart me, Charles Sebastian Valentine. I’m not going to take this sitting down.” Mama jerks up her car keys. “I’m taking you back to your apartment. Then the girls and I have some sleuthing to do.”
“Ruby Nell, I strongly advise against that. This case is liable to turn nasty.”
“Flitter. If you think nasty scares a dyed-in-the-wool farm girl like me, you’ve got another think coming, Charlie.”
Mama winks at me and flounces out. For the first time since I’ve known him, Uncle Charlie looks helpless. It looks like the electric shock shook him more than I had imagined.
“What am I going to do with your mother?”
I take hold of his arm. “She’s right about you being home, Uncle Charlie. I’ll take you to her car, and when she comes back here, Lovie and I will figure out how to keep her nose out of this case.”
Lovie grabs the empty cups and heads to the kitchen. When Uncle Charlie and I step onto her front porch, the night sky has turned splendid, like a picture postcard of winter constellations you’d want to frame.
“I know you’re not going to stop until the killer is found. But please remember, dear heart, that Jack can’t be of much help till he’s out of his cast. And until I’m stronger, neither can I.”
“I know. We’ll try not to repeat tonight’s performance at Albert’s bonfire.”
“Take Jack to the farm, and let him help you with some target practice.”
“You think I need to pack a gun?”
“Not until you can blow a hole in something smaller than the side of a barn.”
I’m glad to see Uncle Charlie’s sense of humor is still intact. I wave as he climbs into the passenger side of the Mustang, where Mama’s waiting with the music turned up too loud. You can hear “Winter Wonderland” all over Lovie’s neighborhood. I just hope her neighbors have enough Christmas spirit not to call the cops to report us for disturbing the peace.
I watch until the Mustang disappears around the corner, then hurry inside, where Lovie is wearing a purple robe and crown and holding her green plastic pitcher of Prohibition Punch.
“A crown?”
“Drink this. Queen’s orders.”
“Queen, my foot. More like the cousin who would still be stuck in Albert’s window if it hadn’t been for me.”
“Water under the bridge.”
“Amen.”
We both flop onto the sofa. In Lovie’s too-big clothes and a gazillion Band-Aids, I look like a refugee from a beleaguered country.
Still, I’m neck-deep in murder, and there are things I need to know. With my Prohibition Punch in easy reach, I open Lovie’s laptop and educate myself on weapons.
“Did you know Albert had a Glock and a Ruger?”
She looks up from the telephone directory. “What I want to know is where Abel Caine lives.”
“After tonight’s fiasco, you want to break and enter again?”
“Have you ever known anything to stop me?” I giggle thinking of the many obstacles that didn’t deter Lovie—a pigeon caught in her hair, a dunking in the Peabody fountain, a Mayan tribe who thought she was the Moon Goddess.
“See,” she adds. “There’s your answer. Besides, I sure don’t want to confront him face to face.”
“Neither do I. And if the Santa killer is after Uncle Charlie, I think he’s the most logical suspect. But what are we going to do about Mama?”
“Give her plenty of punch.”
“Not unless we’re going to drive her back to Uncle Charlie’s.”
“We can handle that. After tonight, I’d say we can handle anything.”
“Except maybe that Abel Caine character. I don’t like the thought of breaking and entering the house of an ex-con, Lovie.”
“Then what do you propose? There’s a Santa slayer still on the loose, and you’re still on the cops’ suspect list.”
My cousin doesn’t have to remind me. Furthermore, there’s a former operative from the Company sitting in his apartment over Eternal Rest Funeral Home wondering how to keep us out of harm’s way (Uncle Charlie) and an active one (Jack Jones) sitting in my living room, most likely watching TV with Elvis, and he would probably chain me to the bed if he saw me now.
And I’m not talking about for kinky purposes, either.
But I’m fresh out of plans. Steam, too, it seems. All I want to do is lean my head against the back of the sofa and fall asleep.
Lovie’s having the same trouble. We’d probably both have toppled headlong into slumber, where visions of sugar plums would be outnumbered by nightmares of murder, if Mama hadn’t come storming back into the house.
“Ha!” She makes a beeline for the Prohibition Punch. “If somebody doesn’t get me a glass in two seconds flat, I’m drinking straight from the pitcher.”
Lovie prances off toward the kitchen and is back with another glass before Mama even sits down.
“The very idea.” She slugs back Lovie’s special recipe, which features vodka and enough other strong spirits to cure just about any ailment you can think of, except a case of hubris. Which Mama has in spades. “The nerve.”
“Mama, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Nelda Lou What’s Her Face.”
“I don’t see her at the top of the suspect list, Aunt Ruby Nell.”
“Lovie’s right. As far as we know, she was nowhere near the mall when Santa and Rudolph died. We don’t know if she even has a connection with Steve Boone and Wayne. And having the hots for Uncle Charlie is hardly motive for murder.”
“Wash your mouth out with soap, Carolina. I want that witch checked out from her knobby knees to her crows’ feet.”
“Mama, you don’t even know her.”
“I don’t need to and I don’t intend to. I know what I know.”
I wonder where she got her information. Bobby’s psychic blue eye? But I’m not about to ask. Tonight I’ve had enough weird happenings to last a lifetime.
I try to steer the conversation in a more sensible and productive direction.
“Abel Caine is the one Lovie and I intend to investigate. He certainly has motive, and he probably had means and opportunity.”
“Flitter.”
Lovie’s laughing so hard her crown is crooked. “Aunt Ruby Nell, would you please explain what that means.”
“It means whatever I want it to.”
“Would you care to enlighten us, Mama?”
“I’ve come up with a plan, that’s what it means. I’m not leaving Charlie’s side while that heifer’s on the loose.”
“That’s a wise plan, Mama. I’m proud of you.” Now I don’t have to worry about keeping her occupied and out of everybody’s hair.
“Watching after Charlie is not what I’m talking about, Carolina. If you’ll stop acting like I’m senile and in need of Depends, I’ll tell you my plan.”
If it’s like any number of Mama’s wild ideas, I don’t want to know. Still, at this point Lovie and I are out of ideas, out of sorts, and almost out of chocolate.
“Tell us, Mama. Any plan is better than none.” I sincerely hope those are not my famous last words.
Elvis’ Opinion # 10 on Normal, Taking Care of Business, and Plans That Don’t Include Yours Truly
Bright and early Monday morning, my human mom and I arrive to start the week off right by making Mooreville’s glitterati beautiful. Jack wasn’t too happy with her when she sashayed home this morning after spending the night at Lovie’s without so much as a “Love Letter in the Sand” (a Pat Boone song I could have done justice to). Still, he’s a man on a mission—i.e., getting out of “Heartbreak Hotel.” He knows when to express his opinions and when to keep them to himself.
He was just glad I’d be along to take care of Callie today. Forget what the uninformed think about me. Jack knows I can take care of business better than the next dog. He even got a lightning-bolt charm to put on my dog collar just to prove it.
So now here I am having a little afternoon siesta with one eye open, taking care of business.
If you want to find out everything worth knowing, spend the day in Callie’s beauty shop. Everybody who is anybody (including the Tupelo mayor’s wife, Junie Mae) comes to Hair.Net. While Callie’s shampooing Junie Mae, I’m ensconced on another of the pink satin, guitar-shaped pillows my human mom keeps in the shop especially for my relaxation and cogitation. (Listen, contrary to a few snarky reporters, I can use ten-dollar words as well as the next singer. Better than most. When I was holed up in a hotel room hiding from fans who wanted to rip my clothes off—don’t you wish!—I read the Encylopedia Britannica and Webster’s Collegiate, too. I’m nobody’s “Fool.”)
The TV weatherman’s wife, Wanda, is under the dryer, letting her permanent wave set. Darlene’s in the manicurist chair, consulting the horoscope before she paints Lovie’s nails. And little David is under the sinks with his Tonka truck, making sounds like a Peterbilt rig. Fortunately for everybody concerned, Darlene left that two-timing Lhasa apso William with Fayrene today. Ever since he’s been making eyes at my former French sweetie, I’ve been laying for him.
But if you think everything is normal here at the best little beauty shop in town, then I “Really Don’t Want to Know” what you think about anything else.
Lovie’s not here to get her nails done. She likes to do them herself. She’s here so she and Callie can finalize details on Ruby Nell’s sleuthing plan. Don’t think I came by this information because “I Got Lucky” either. I’m a dog with radar ears. And if that doesn’t work, I stoop to any low to get the goods, including eavesdropping. That’s what I did when Lovie arrived out-of-breath from catering a Christmas luncheon at All Saints Episcopal in Tupelo and the two of them hurried off to Callie’s office.
I just ambled my good-looking self over to the door, lay down like I was the “Keeper of the Key,” and dared anybody to cross my portly body. And bless’a my soul, did I get an earful. It seems the two cousins are going sleuthing tonight, all dolled up as former beauty queens. Not that they consider Nelda Lou Perkins a serious suspect. They’re only going to placate Ruby Nell, who came up with the plan. Callie won’t be packing heat, but she will be including yours truly.
Listen, I’m not a dog to take rejection lightly. Any more of this business about “leaving Elvis behind” and I’ll be packing up my Pup-Peroni and howling “I’m Movin’ On.” There are plenty of good homes that would welcome a famous singer with a heart as gold as his records—even if I am wearing a basset hound suit.
For now, though, I wait for this evening’s adventure and listen to Wanda holding forth on Albert Gordon’s bonfire.
“That old toot nearly burned my house down.”
“Law,” the mayor’s wife says, “I almost cried when I saw those burning Santas on TV.”
“Most of them were just singed, Junie Mae. Butch went over there after the fire was put out and brought ours back. He’s home now scrubbing Santa Claus with Ajax.”
“Does anybody know why Albert did it?” Darlene asks. “The TV news didn’t say.”
Lovie shoots Callie a look, and my human mom winks.
“All I know is he had an accomplice.” Wanda’s holding the floor. It’s obvious she considers herself an expert since she was next door to Mooreville’s biggest drama since Ruby Nell hung the nude Modigliani over her dining room table. “You ought to see my hedge where they escaped. If whoever it was sets foot on my property again, he’d better watch out. Sadie can identify him by scent.”
“Darlene!” Lovie speaks so loud everybody jumps. “I want ruby red on my nails.”
“Your horoscope says ‘Curb your impetuous nature. Caution advised.’ So I’m going with the shell pink.”
Wanda opens her mouth to keep her story going, but Lovie is too quick for her.
“I don’t give a lump of coal what my horoscope says, Darlene. I’m going with red.”
The mayor’s wife, all decked out in a dress the color of Pepto-Bismol, adds her two cents, “I’d go with the shell pink, dear. It matches everything.”
“It’s not Christmassy,” Wanda says. “Go red, Lovie.”
Around the beauty shop, everybody’s business is discussed and voted on by whoever happens to be here. It’s a small democracy where the majority usually rules unless Ruby Nell is here. Then we get a queen without the parliament.
“Red,” Lovie tells Darlene, who has the good sense to stop arguing. I can tell from the way she pinches her nose before she grabs the nail polish that she doesn’t like it. She and Bobby will probably have a long discussion this evening about people who don’t take advice from the stars and the dead.
And don’t think I don’t know about their date. He called at lunchtime while she was having a pimento and cheese sandwich in the break room, and I heard both ends of the conversation. To keep on Fayrene’s good side, those two are having to tread “Gently.” Not that Fayrene’s even close to losing her psychic. Listen, Darlene’s been twice burned at the altar, and Bobby’s not the marrying kind.
I guess I’m not either or I’d have made an honest dog out of Ann Margret before the puppies were born. “Que Sera Sera.”
Here comes David, dripping ice cream down his elbows. Excuse me while I get in a lick or two before I leave with Callie and Lovie for some detective legwork.