Chapter 18
Christmas Ornaments, Hair Mistake, and Salem Witches
When I get back to Hair.Net, Lovie’s in no shape to drive home, emotionally or physically. And I’m more than happy to take her to my house. Jack’s still staying in my guest bedroom, but I’m not making any rash promises to myself about how long that will last. My unfortunate attraction has been making itself known with depressing regularity. I blame it on the Christmas season.
Take tonight, for instance. When I go inside, he’s got a box of ornaments on the floor, two mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table, and the lamps turned down low. To top it off, he’s playing Elvis’ love ballads. If there’s anything sexier than the King’s voice crooning about love, I don’t know what it is.
Jack helps Lovie and me out of our coats, then hangs them in the hall closet.
“I thought we’d trim the tree tonight, Cal.”
The last thing I want tonight is to be reminded of all the years Jack and I spent trimming the Christmas tree—those great years when hopes were high and dreams were bright.
Lovie is no help at all. She just shrugs her shoulders and heads for the stairs.
“Wait, Lovie. We haven’t had dinner.”
“I made myself a sandwich while you took Aunt Ruby Nell and Fayrene home. I just want to crawl in a tub of hot water and have a long soak.”
“ ’Night, Lovie.” Jack’s just full of good cheer. I wonder how fast he’d wipe that smile off his face if he knew I’d been up to my neck today in the murder investigation.
“I’m tired, too, Jack. I don’t think this is a good time to trim the tree.”
“You need a little dose of Christmas, Cal.” He starts to massage my shoulders. It feels so good, I ought to hire him as a masseuse for Hair.Net. It would be one way to keep him from getting shot at.
Or maybe not.
“Besides,” he adds, “I can put the star on top.”
He could always put the star on top, and I’m not just talking about trees. I can feel myself caving in when my cell phone rings.
It’s Champ, reassuringly down-to-earth and full of stories about Mantachie’s mayor who brought her cats, twin Siamese named Puss and Boots, to his clinic today.
“She didn’t have them crated, and they both got loose. Boots climbed the Christmas tree, and Puss grabbed the garland. Before I could corner them, my patients got hog-tied with forty feet of garland, and the tree had crashed down onto Mr. Simpkins’ Great Dane, who took off after the cats.”
I plop onto the sofa, lean my head back, and laugh till tears roll down my face. It feels so good, I keep on chuckling, even after Champ has ended his story and is asking me out to dinner tomorrow night.
Somewhere in back of the sofa, I hear Jack moving around. Is he putting ornaments on the tree? I close my eyes and rub my temples and simply lose myself in the soft cadence of Champ’s ordinary conversation.
A click from front door catapults me from the sofa, and I race to the window in time to see the taillights of Jack’s Jag disappearing down my street.
Should he be driving so soon? Where is going? And is he coming back?
“I’d like to see you tomorrow night, Champ.”
“Great. I have a surprise for you.”
My appetite gone, I head up the stairs to see Lovie. She’s out of the tub and going through the stack of books on my bedside table. One I’ve already read, two I’m trying to read but can’t get interested in, and one I’m saving for a weekend when nobody is being shot at or poisoned or electrocuted and I have the luxury of sitting in my rocking chair with a cup of hot chocolate and a little blaze in my Victorian-style gas heater.
“Trying to take your mind off things, Lovie?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think it will work tonight.”
“Me, neither.”
We look at each and simultaneously say, “Popcorn,” then head to the kitchen to make a popper full, cooked the old-fashioned way, served up in a big blue bowl, and dripping with butter.
“Where’s Jack?”
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to talk?”
“No, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Good.” I head up the stairs with Lovie right behind me. We sit in the center of my bed with the bowl between us. Elvis plops on his pillow beside the bed, Hoyt yawns and stretches from his pillow in the corner (I don’t even want to know how it got there), and I breathe, simply breathe.
Sometimes, the best way to solve a problem is to keep quiet and just sleep on it.
I wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of laughter. The bedside clock hands point to eight, and my first appointment is at nine. I can’t believe I overslept.
Grabbing my robe, I race down the stairs, pass by my poor naked Christmas tree, and hurry into the kitchen. Lovie and Jack are making waffles and bacon.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Jack smiles at me as if nothing happened last night. Come to think of it, nothing did, really. I was on the phone and he left to get supper. Or take a drive. Or shop. Or help catch a killer. It could be any one of those.
“Guess who sent a Christmas card?” Lovie nods toward the table, where the morning mail is in a stack beside the newspaper. “Jill Mabry.”
I grab the envelope with a Tennessee postmark and open it to find a note from the cute little kitten-like former Miss Paris (Tennessee, not France) that Lovie and I took under our wing in what we now call the Memphis mambo murders.
My divorce from Victor is final, she writes. Yay! And I’m back in school working on a degree in medicine. It’s harder than I’d thought. I’ll probably be in Depends before I finish. (Grin) I just wanted to thank you and Lovie for being so nice to me in Memphis. Without you, I’d never have had the courage to change my life. I’d like to come down and thank you in person. Maybe sometime during the holidays?
“This is wonderful, Lovie.”
“I know. Makes me feel all Oprahish.”
“I don’t think that’s a word.”
“It ought to be.”
Jack’s filling a plate with buttery waffles with syrup and a side of bacon. He sets it on the table in front of me.
“I don’t have time to eat, Jack. I’ve got to dress and run.”
“Eat. I’ll go open the shop and put the coffee on.” I open my mouth to protest, but he says, “It’s not negotiable,” then he grabs my spare shop key off the key rack on the kitchen wall and walks out whistling.
What can I say? I’m starving, so I dig into breakfast.
Lovie studies me over the rim of her coffee cup. “He’d be a hard man to let go.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” I put down my fork. “Lovie, Champ’s getting ready to propose.”
“Nothing wrong with that man, either. But I’d take a test run before I bought the car.”
“I’ll leave the test runs to you.”
“Way to go. If you keep on, you’re liable to grow up and be a smart mouth just like me.”
“I don’t want to grow up.”
“Nobody does.”
“I just want to make up my mind.”
“Good luck, kiddo.”
My cousin knows when to offer advice and when to merely lend support. Good friends always do.
She turns on the small kitchen TV, refills her coffee cup, fills her plate, and joins me at the table. On the local morning news, a reporter gives an update on the murders at the mall and announces that no suspects have been arrested.
“Not yet, but wait till Aunt Ruby Nell and Fayrene have their séance. The dead are going to show up at Gas, Grits, and Guts to point out the killer.”
It feels great to start the day with laughter.
“I agree about the futility of a séance, Lovie, but the open house might work.”
“Not unless we can learn more than we already know. I’m about ready to turn in my detective badge.”
“What badge?”
“The one I’m going to have tattooed near the Holy Grail.”
“You’re kidding. Right?”
“Just think of the confessions I’ll get when I flash my badge.”
I toss my napkin at her, and she bursts out laughing.
The TV camera cuts from the mall to a roving reporter standing in a residential neighborhood in Tupelo.
“In separate incidents in Highland Circle,” he says, “two residents were mugged while they were jogging at night. The mugger, believed to be a male of average height, has not been caught.”
“People ought to know better than to jog in the dark.” Lovie gets up to add more waffles to her plate. “They ought to know better than to jog, period. It’s bad for the knees.”
She reaches up to turn off the TV.
“Wait a minute.” I scan the area behind the reporter. “That’s six thirteen, Lovie. Nathan Briggs’ house.”
“That doesn’t mean Nathan was mugged.”
“What if he was? Or even if he wasn’t, why was the mugger in that neighborhood? They have really tight security.”
“You’re saying he was more than a mugger?”
“Maybe this so-called mugger is the killer.” I get up to rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher. “Think about it. First, a break-in at Nathan Brigg’s house, and now two muggings in his neighborhood.”
“No such thing as coincidence,” we say at the same time, then high-five each other.
“Lovie, I think the killer is after the mall’s original Santa.”
“What about poor Wayne and the attempt on Daddy?”
“They were in the perfect disguise. If you hadn’t known they were going to be in Santa’s Court, would you have recognized the man behind all that fake hair and beard?”
“You’ve got a point, Sherlock.”
“What’s on your schedule today, Watson?”
“Besides baking ten of my famous butterscotch cream pies for the Christmas party at the Wellness Center, I think I’ll be finding out who had a beef against Nathan Briggs.”
“You’re serving cream pies at the Wellness Center?”
“They wanted broccoli bites with low-calorie dressing, but I’m fixing to show them the error of their ways. If those exercise nuts don’t put on a little weight, they’re all going to dry up and blow away.”
“I’ve got to get dressed, Lovie. Call me if you find out anything.”
“My van’s at the beauty shop. Remember?”
Actually, I didn’t. With everything that has been going on, it’s a wonder I remember my name.
Though I love to soak in a leisurely bath and take my time dressing, I’m a woman who can be showered, changed, and fully made up in fifteen minutes flat.
Fortunately, so is Lovie. And Elvis is always ready to go. We hop into my Dodge Ram and head to Hair.Net. Lovie bids us goodbye outside, then drives off toward Tupelo.
I push open the door and walk into my domain, where all the lights are on, the lamps are glowing, the thermostat is set exactly right, and the coffee is already brewed.
I’d like to thank Jack, but his Jag is not in the driveway, so I know he has already left. One of the nicest things about living in small-town Mississippi is that it’s still safe to leave your door unlocked.
I walk straight to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. There’s a note by the coffee pot: Cal, I thought you needed some privacy last night, so I spent the night at my apartment. XOXO Jack
Hugs and kisses. Plus breakfast every morning, hot chocolate nearly every night, and a live Christmas tree I can replant.
Right now, though, I can’t think about the many ways he’s trying to please me—and why?—because the bell over my shop door just tinkled.
“Come on back and grab a cup of coffee, Mabel.”
Mabel Moffett, here for a trim, likes to be the first client of the day. She joins me in the kitchen and helps herself to the coffee.
“I’m so excited about Fayrene and Jarvetis’ open house. I’ve got to go to the mall after I get my hair done. I don’t have a thing to wear.”
Mabel Moffett could start a clothing store with her used evening gowns. She goes over the top at Mooreville’s social events, always wearing long gowns with too many fake pearls, even at Mama’s annual hog roast. And she thinks it’s a sin to be seen in the same gown twice.
Still, I’m glad the word’s getting out about the open house, and I’m glad Mama and Fayrene have thought to invite Mooreville’s glitterati. After our tangle with the law at Albert Gordon’s Santa barbecue, it won’t do for the Lee County sheriff to figure out what Lovie and I are up to. The last thing we need is a long line of uniforms.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my unexpected involvement in murder, it’s that no killer is going to tip his hand in front of a bunch of cops.
We finish our coffee and head up front, where I drape Mabel in a pink cape and take out my scissors.
“I had to stop by the post office to mail a Christmas package to my sister in Atlanta,” she says. “Did I see Jack leaving your shop?”
“He volunteered to open up this morning.”
“He seems like such a nice young man.”
“He is.”
“I told my daughter, I said, ‘Trixie, forget about marrying Roy Jessup. He’s nothing but a fertilizer and manure man. If Callie’s divorce is ever final, you need to set your cap for that handsome Jack Jones.’ ”
I cut off a chunk of her hair as big as Texas. Accidentally, of course. It never occurred to me that if I didn’t want Jack, women all over Mooreville would be clamoring for him.
“You look funny, Callie. Did I say something to upset you, hon?”
“No. I suddenly remembered I’ve got to pick up a roast for dinner.” I make myself smile at her reflection in the mirror. “Jack likes meat and potatoes.”
It’s better for Mabel to chew on that for a while than to know I’m doing some creative styling behind her back. Holy cow. I never make a miss-whack with the scissors. If I don’t learn to keep my personal feelings under wraps, I’m going to ruin my reputation as the best stylist this side of the Mississippi River.
At mid-morning, Darlene comes in, and we both get so busy I barely have time to think about my quandary over Jack. Around four, Mama drops in, which usually spells trouble. But I’m so glad to have an excuse to take a break, I don’t care if she’s come to say she needs the rest of my Christmas gift money for a little restorative jaunt to the casinos over in Tunica.
“Callie, come outside. I’ve got to show you the decorations we’re putting in the séance room.”
Leaving Darlene with one customer in her manicurist’s chair and another waiting, not to mention my dread of instant holiday poverty, I head to my small parking lot, where Mama’s Mustang is taking up two spaces. Yesterday’s storm has blown over, the weather has turned unseasonably mild, and she’s driving with the top down.
The red convertible is overflowing with gold garlands, strings of lights shaped like snowflakes, and an assortment of hang-from-the-ceiling Christmas characters. Santa’s there with Mrs. Claus and Frosty the Snowman, plus all his reindeer and Rudolph, too.
“Holy cow, where will we put the guests?”
“Jarvetis is going to put all this stuff in the store.” Just as Lovie drives up, Mama reaches into a pile of silver bells and pulls out a crystal ball and a gypsy’s scarf decorated with red roses. “This is what I’m talking about for the séance room. It’s the genuine article.”
“Do I even want to know where you got that?”
“It belonged to a real witch. I got it at that little antiques and junk store down at Richmond.”
“If she’s still able to straddle a broomstick, invite her to the séance open house, Aunt Ruby Nell.” Bound for Lovie.
About two miles south of Mama’s farm is the tiny farming community of Richmond. It features Richmond Baptist Church, a hole-in-the-wall store called Junk and Stuff that has a beauty shop attached, and a convenience store that Fayrene says won’t hold a candle to Gas, Grits, and Guts. I feel the same way about their beauty shop. Though Richmond would love to be as uptown as Mooreville, they don’t even have a post office, let alone a salon as cosmopolitan as Hair.Net.
“How do you know it’s genuine, Mama. I never heard of a witch in Richmond.”
“I’ve personally met one or two,” Lovie says.
“Be nice,” I tell her. “It’s Christmas.”
“This belonged to one of the Salem witches,” Mama says. “Her crystal ball got handed down from generation to generation and ended up with a descendant in Richmond.”
“That’s a little far-fetched, Mama.”
“I showed it to Bobby to verify that the crystal ball is real.” Mama stuffs it back into her car. “You’ll see.”
With that dire prediction, Mama drives off.
“Holy cow!” I say, and Lovie deadpans, “And pig, too!”
“What did you find out about Nathan Briggs, Lovie?”
“Not much. Five years ago, he was Tupelo’s Man of the Year. He’s a deacon at First Baptist and has a wife named Wendy and two daughters in college.”
“You need to make sure Wendy is invited to the open house.”
“Why me?”
“I’ve got to do something I should have done when we got back from Mexico.”
Lovie gives me this searching look. She knows. I swear, sometimes I think we can read each other’s mind.
“Do you want me along for support?” she asks.
“No. I’ll be fine. I’m taking Elvis. Just go over to Gas, Grits, and Guts and make sure Mama and Fayrene are not planning something with that crystal ball that will scandalize Mooreville.”
Lovie leaves in her van, and I go inside to tell Darlene to lock up when she leaves. Then I freshen up in the cute bathroom featuring my salon’s signature pink, load Elvis in my Dodge Ram, and head toward Mantachie.
Elvis’ Opinion # 16 on Breaking Up, Great Pies, and Mean Cats
If you’re wondering why Callie would take a dog as moral support for a breakup, you’ve got a lot to learn about human nature. The best moral support is not somebody who will talk your ear off and tell you how you ought to do it and afterward tell you what you did wrong.
It’s a smart canine who keeps his mouth shut, puts his head in your lap, and holds in his noxious gas till he gets out of the truck. Listen, there’s a lot to be said for a canine head on your lap. It gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling, a sense that you’re not alone and that you are totally loved, no matter how bad you mess up.
My human mom keeps her hand on my head all the way to Mantachie, but she doesn’t say anything, just drives with more caution than she usually displays when she’s behind the wheel. She’s in no hurry to get there. And who can blame her? Champ’s a good man and a doggone good vet.
If a disaster came along and I ended up without Jack, I could get used to a substitute who can give a vaccination so easy you don’t feel it.
But Jack’s still here, and nobody can take his place. Callie’s finally realized this. Still, that didn’t make her decision any easier or what she’s about to do any less difficult. I smell regret and pain all the way to Champ’s clinic.
When we go inside, his secretary tells her the vet is in his office and to just go on back. Naturally. Nobody keeps the King waiting.
“Callie?” Champ acts surprised to see her, but I can see he’s putting on a front. The vet’s a smart man. I’ve read his aura and his body language. He’s been expecting this ever since my human daddy ended up at Mooreville in Callie’s house.
My human mom is gentle as she tells Champ she can’t keep giving him false hope, that it’s not fair to any of them, that all along she’s been fooling herself.
“Champ, what I feel for you is the deep respect and loyalty of a good friend.”
“I understand, Callie. I just hope we can remain friends and that I can remain your vet.” Luke Champion shows why he’s called Champ when he gives my human mom a genuine smile and gives me a big old pat on the head. “I’d miss seeing the King, here.”
“I’m so relieved you said that. I’d hate to lose you, too.”
Callie doesn’t even know she’s crying till Champ hands her a tissue. She wipes her eyes and gives him a hug, then we’re off for our little cottage in Mooreville.
But if you think this is one of those old movie classics where the heroine walks straight home into the arms of her true love, you don’t know real life from Pup-Peroni.
Jack calls to say he has some things to do, that he’ll be at his apartment if she needs him, and we settle in to decorate the Christmas tree. Everything but the star. Callie can’t reach the top, and I wouldn’t be climbing a ladder even if I did have digits. Too many chances my portly self might take a large tumble and do major damage to my handsome face.
Be that as it may, at least we have a mostly trimmed tree, complete with colored lights. It keeps us company over the next few days while Jack is on his mysterious errand and my human mom helps get ready for the Christmas open house at Gas, Grits, and Guts.
When the big day arrives, I get all gussied up in my four-legged red suit as the one and only Santa Paws and set out with my human mom to put Mooreville on the map.
Gas, Grits, and Guts is popping with lights and filled to the brim with guests. Looks like nobody turned down the chance to hobnob with Mooreville’s answer to Lucy and Desi. Fayrene, looking like a stalk of asparagus in her green velvet suit, has even talked Jarvetis into wearing a vegetable green tie.
But I’ll have to say if Macy’s ever needs a new decorator, Fayrene and Ruby Nell would fit the bill. Santa and Mrs. Claus, hanging from the ceiling just inside the door, greet guests. Lights are strung on every shelf in the store, with extras surrounding the disco ball Fayrene and Jarvetis won at the Memphis dance competition. A special display has been set up near the entrance to the séance room: Ruldolph and Santa’s sleigh, suspended over the pickled pigs’ lips.
Along the back wall of the store, a table is filled with holiday treats from Lovie’s Luscious Eats: her famous pies—butterscotch cream, Hershey, and pumpkin pecan—her Happy Holiday Kiss Kiss Eggnog, and enough other goodies to keep a dog who knows the art of the con busy the rest of the night.
Though everybody wants to stop and pet a beguiling basset in a Santa paws suit, I don’t waste any ho, ho, hos on the crowd. I reconnoiter before heading for the food.
Up front, Callie greets guests and hands out door prizes, another way of saying she’s checking out all the suspects. They’re probably checking her out, too. In a silver sequined blouse, black skirt, and the extravagant spike-heeled black calfskin designer boots I wouldn’t dream of peeing on, even in a snit, she looks like the kind of woman who wouldn’t be caught dead in a store with “Guts” in the name.
Charlie is keeping a low profile while he keeps an eye out for trouble. So is my human daddy, though he mostly has eyes for you know who.
If they want to see trouble, they’d do well to cast their attention in my direction.
Just when I’m getting ready to con the mayor’s wife out of a piece of pie, Darlene waltzes through the door. And while she’s got sense enough to realize you can’t take a Lhasa apso out in public and expect anything except embarrassment, she’s apparently got a blind spot about cats.
That stupid cat she calls Mal is with her. In a little cat carrier, granted, but how long does she think it takes a mean cat to get out of cat prison?
She sets the carrier in the corner and makes a beeline for Bobby Huckabee. The minute she turns her back, that ridiculous pox on the animal kingdom reaches toward the latch with a vicious claw.
I’d march over there and scare him out of about seven of his sorry little lives if I didn’t have pressing business with the mayor’s wife.
One more adorable basset grin in her direction, and she sets a paper plate on the floor with half a piece of pie.
“Here, you cute little Santa. I don’t need the calories.”
I start lapping up butterscotch cream, but don’t think I’m not still in charge. I know the minute Bobby leaves the front of the store. He’s going to get ready for a séance in the newly renovated back room, and he’ll be using the crystal ball of a genuine Salem witch.
I also spot that sneaky cat creeping out of his cell, heading in my direction. If he keeps on coming, I predict that the only dead who will show up for Bobby’s séance will be Darlene’s cat.
If the odious Mal puts one claw on my Santa suit—or my pie—he’s going to become the third Christmas corpse.