Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble (2 page)

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Authors: Peggy Webb

BOOK: Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble
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Chapter 1
Mooreville Gossip, Mexican Capers, and Misbehaving Mamas
M
ooreville was edging toward fame with the disco ball dance trophy at Gas, Grits, and Guts, plus my dog Elvis, who thinks he’s the King of Rock ’n’ Roll. But I put it on the map when I hired an Atlanta manicurist who paints roses with faux jewels—and everything else you can imagine—on my customers’ nails. My little beauty shop is now the talk of northeast Mississippi.
When I hired Darlene Johnson Lawford Grant to enhance the beauty experience of my clients at Hair.Net, I never figured on getting another menagerie plus a cherub/holy terror on chubby, dimpled legs. (Her son, David, from what Darlene terms her “second and final” marriage.)
Not that I’m complaining. In fact, just the opposite. Having a five-year-old running around the shop is almost like having my own little boy. Now that Jack Jones has promised a divorce and Luke Champion is acting like he’s my personal prize stallion (he’s a vet, which explains the animal analogy), I see my most cherished goal—motherhood—just over the horizon.
The only hitch is that I keep seeing my aspiring stallion-inhot-pursuit as a delicious-looking blonde confection you admire through the window, but never get the burning desire to reach in and take a bite of.
On the other hand, just let my almost-ex come within spitting distance, and I want to eat him up, starting with his dark, always mussed hair and ending with his size twelve feet, which just about says it all.
But where Jack’s concerned, I’ve decided to make
no
my new middle name. After all, everybody in the know in Mooreville’s society considers me an entrepreneur on the upswing since Hair.Net got a manicurist. I’d be featured in the newspaper if Mooreville had one. Which is not likely in the next fifty years, considering Darlene and David are the biggest population explosion we’ve had in ten years. And they only brought the live body count up to six hundred fifty-two.
Holy cow, listen to me, thinking in body counts. I’m turning over a new leaf. Now that we’ve put the Peabody murderer behind bars, I’m giving up crime. Period. Unless you consider it criminal to amass the stash of cash I’m saving so I can hit the after-Thanksgiving shoe sales next month.
The sight of Mama in her red Mustang distracts me from thoughts of cute designer shoes. She’s driving with the top down. Anybody else her age would drive with the top up. Shoot, they wouldn’t even have a convertible in the first place. But that’s Mama, sassy all over, and I have to say I’m glad. In this day and age, a little joie de vivre can take you a long way past the blues.
Mama’s wearing a flaming red caftan, which matches her car, but clashes with her hair. I might tell her, depending on what kind of mood she’s in. She doesn’t always take criticism well, even if it’s well meant. Which mine most certainly is. My motto is
Be nice to everybody
. There’s too little kindness in this world, and I try to do my part to spread it around.
Mama bursts through the front door and charges in like she owns the place. “I want the works.”
“Mama, whatever happened to
hello?
”
“Flitter, everybody here knows who I am.” Mama sashays over to the manicure table to see what color Darlene is painting Fayrene’s fingernails. “Is that green?”
Well, naturally. Fayrene always decks herself out in the color of money.
“It’s called peacock.” Fayrene holds up her left hand. “It matches the new swimsuit cover-up I bought for my trip to the undertakers’ convention.”
For once Mama is speechless. If I recall, she never invited Fayrene, even if they are best friends.
“You didn’t think I’d let you go to Cozumel without me, did you, Ruby Nell?” Fayrene blows on her left hand, though she knows good and well I’ve installed the latest technology, a nail dryer in pink, which happens to be my signature color, as well as Elvis’ (my dog
and
the real King). Plus, it matches my loveseats with the hot pink vinyl covers.
“Besides,” Fayrene adds, “that hammering over at Gas, Grits, and Guts is driving me crazy. As much as I want a séance room, I need some rest and respiration.”
Relaxation,
I hope, but you never can tell. Maybe Fayrene’s having breathing problems I don’t know about. Which is highly unlikely. The grapevine in Mooreville is alive and well. Not that I gossip. Far from it. But I pride myself on having created a spa-like atmosphere in Hair.Net. (That’s why I painted a beach scene on one wall.) I want my customers to be totally relaxed and to feel free to tell me everything.
“Mother’s horoscope said she’d be traveling to hot climes this month.” Darlene consults the stars daily. I didn’t know this when I hired her, but I was tickled pink to find it out. Any woman in touch with the stars is a welcome addition to Hair.Net.
Besides, Darlene’s a natural blonde with flawless skin and thick hair cut in long layers, perfect for her pretty little heartshaped face. With her angelic looks and unflappable personality, she’s drawing customers in here like there’s no tomorrow. Even the men are abandoning the Mooreville Barber Shop to come here for a great cut from yours truly and a good gander at Darlene in her slim-cut jeans and Texas style, genuine alligator-skin boots. She and Lovie have a lot in common.
The last two days, though, Darlene’s been looking a bit frazzled. I can’t help but notice how relieved she looks that her mother is talking about leaving the country.
Currently Darlene, her son, and their menagerie are living with Fayrene and Jarvetis. I guess they’re feeling a little crowded over there. That will happen after about a week of company. And I know for a fact she’s already been with her parents for three weeks.
My next project is to help Darlene find a little house with rent she can afford.
Darlene’s unfazed when Mama plucks some Persian pink polish right out from under her nose, then proceeds to open the bottle and paint her own nails.
“Mama, if you’ll care to remember, Darlene’s the manicurist. Besides, that color clashes with your caftan.”
“Since when is it a crime to try out a nail color in my own daughter’s beauty shop? And for your information, if I want beauty advice, I’ll ask for it.”
As if that didn’t announce her mood loud and clear, Mama flounces into my chair, snatches up a hand mirror, and views the back of her head like it’s the burning of Chicago and I’ve personally lit the torch.
“I can’t do a thing with my hair. You made a miswhack the last time.”
“That’s not even a word, Mama. And even if it was, I never miswhack.”
I cinch the haircutting apron around her neck a little tighter than usual. Listen, I may be a pushover when it comes to Jack and babies and Elvis and stray cats and dogs—well, to just about everything—but I have my limits. And being called anything less than a total expert with hair is one of them.
I’m so good, my older customers make post mortem hair appointments while they’re still alive. I have a whole shelf devoted to the special color blends I use on some of my customers (Bitsy Morgan and Mabel Moffett, to name two) in case I’m out of current stock if they die unexpectedly and need a little touch-up.
If you’re wondering, I also fix up hair and makeup of the deceased over in Tupelo at Uncle Charlie’s Eternal Rest Funeral Home.
“What do you want me to do today, Mama?”
“Take an inch off, color me jet black, and loan me about five hundred.”
There goes my after-Thanksgiving shoe shopping spree.
“Holy cow, you’ll only be gone a few days.”
“It’s for incidentals.”
“How many incidentals can you buy, Mama?”
“You never know. I hear Cozumel is a shopper’s paradise. I might need six hundred.”
At this rate, I’m going to have to go to the Yucatan to keep up with my money.
Besides, Mama’s not going to like her hair black. Knowing her, she’ll get a thousand miles away, then call me to fly down and turn her into a redhead.
“Black’s too harsh for your face, Mama.”
“It’s my hair. Besides, while I’m south of the border, I want to look like a señorita.”
“There’s no use arguing with Ruby Nell.” Fayrene prances over, plops herself into the empty chair next to Mama, then proceeds to hold her hands out to admire her green nails. “Every time I argue with her, it just irrigates the tar out of her.”
Nobody raises an eyebrow. Around here, we’re used to Fayrene’s rearrangement of the English language.
“Still, it’s my job as a hair professional to steer my customers to a flattering color.”
“Carolina, I’m not a paying customer.” Mama always calls me by my real name when she’s mad, though I can’t think of a thing I’ve done to get on her bad side except continue divorce proceedings with Jack Jones. She thinks he walks on water. “I don’t know if I want to go jet black or raven.”
The phone rings and I’m relieved to abandon my losing battle over Mama’s disastrous hair choice. Lovie’s name pops up on the caller ID.
“Callie, is the speaker on?”
“You don’t have to shout, Lovie. I can hear you. And, no, the speaker’s not on.”
“Turn it on. I want everybody in Mooreville to know what’s going on down here.”
“Don’t you even want to know who’s in the shop?”
“I don’t care. I need some love advice. The more the better.”
“Hang on.”
I might as well turn the speaker on. Mama’s leaning over so far trying to eavesdrop, she’s about to fall out of her chair. Plus Fayrene and Darlene are all ears.
I’m glad I don’t feel the need to spread around my love life, or the lack thereof since Jack walked out. But my cousin enjoys being a one-woman show. She says it’s good for business (she’s the best caterer in the South), but personally I think she’s just trying to cover up that big soft heart of hers, which makes her open her arms—and other body parts I’m too much of a lady to mention—to anybody who needs a dose of “Love Me Tender.”
That’s one reason I’m pulling so hard for Rocky Malone. He’s the first man who has ever treated my cousin like the treasure she is. Besides, he’s the kind of gentleman who would take good care of a woman. Plus, he’s a very fine archeologist with a good shot at becoming world-renowned if things go well at his Mayan dig.
I put the phone on speaker. “You can broadcast to the masses now, Lovie.”
“We’ve got everything down here—romantic sunsets over the water, a lovers’ moon over the Mayan ruins, privacy out the wazoo—and Rocky’s not even close to discovering the national treasure.”
“I thought he was searching for a lost city,” Fayrene says.
“It’s the lost tomb of the Nine Lords of the Night,” Lovie tells her.
Mama chimes in. “The national treasure is my niece’s
you know what
, Fayrene. She had it tattooed.”
“Where?” Darlene wants to know.
“In Memphis,” I tell her, but Lovie says, “On my hips, one word on each. About as close to the Holy Grail as you can get.”
“The Holy Grail?” Fayrene looks puzzled, and her daughter says, “Mother, don’t ask. I’ll tell you later.”
“I’ve tried everything,” Lovie says. “When I went skinny dipping, Rocky ran to get me a bathrobe. And the only rise my Dance of the Seven Veils got out of him was to get up and turn down the lights in case somebody was looking in the window.”
“I think that’s sweet, Lovie,” I tell her. “Rocky’s an old-fashioned gentleman.” Something my almost-ex never was.
Lovie says a word that should not be broadcast over the speakerphone.
Here I am doing everything I can to reassure her, when Fayrene pops up with, “Got any cards? I used to play strip poker with Jarvetis.”
I don’t even want to picture that.
I’m thinking this whole speakerphone conversation was a bad idea, when little David wanders into the room trailing Elvis. Could it get any worse? Now I’m a party to polluting the mind of the innocent, plus my dog has ice cream all over his muzzle. Thank goodness, Darlene jerks up her son and whisks him to the back room.
“Flitter, Fayrene,” Mama says. “Anybody can play strip poker. Try a little lap dance, Lovie.”
I don’t even pretend her suggestion shocks me. Ever since I saw Mama doing the mambo up in Memphis with Mr. Whitenton, nothing shocks me where she’s concerned. Though I’m happy to report that after she found out Thomas Whitenton was not the gentleman we first thought, she hasn’t invited him back to her farm. Or any other place that I know of. Unless she’s keeping secrets. Which she’s perfectly capable of doing.
“Aunt Ruby Nell, when are you and Daddy flying down?”
“Day after tomorrow, Lovie. Charlie wants to have plenty of time to tour Rocky’s dig at Tulum before the undertakers’ convention.”
“That’s great. Callie, why don’t you come?”
I’m just getting ready to say
I can’t leave Hair.Net
when Mama says, “Fayrene’s coming, too. By the time we get there, we’ll have a seduction strategy.”

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