Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse Read Free

have fever. And for another, he’s my almost-ex, as she well knows. So does Champ. No need to keep harping on it.
    Fayrene puts her hand on Jack’s forehead. “Don’t worry, hon. If poor Jack catches ammonia while you’re gone, we’ll call an avalanche.”
    Champ, who is still not used to Fayrenese, looks slightly shell-shocked, while Jack grins like a possum eating peaches.
    “I’ll be all right, Cal,” Jack says. “Have fun.” Just when I’m thinking he’s trying to shed all the danger he wears like a second skin and turn noble, he blows that hope right out of the water. “The massage you promised can wait till you get back.”
    “In your dreams, Jack.”
    I’m grateful to step into the cool night air.
    Southerners never know what to expect in December. Anything is possible, from a heat wave to an ice storm. Thankfully, we’re having one of those lovely cold Christmas seasons where you want to spend as much time as you can in front of the hearth with a cup of hot chocolate in your hand and Elvis at your feet. My dog. Though the real thing would be nice.
     
    The party is in Mantachie, an easy fifteen-minute ride north through rural countryside on Highway 371. White frame houses dot the landscape, and all of them are built on lots so big nobody can look out the window and see his neighbor. The scenery also includes a barn or two, a few soybean fields, and several pastures, some featuring cows. This is one reason I love northeast Mississippi. It’s so quiet and peaceful you can easily believe the nightly horror stories coming from the TV news channels don’t apply to you.
    If you close your eyes and count to twenty, you can drive right through Mantachie and miss the whole town. Same as Mooreville. Though I’ll have to admit Mantachie has it one up on us by being incorporated. They have a Dollar General store, a mayor, and city ordinances against firing a shotgun in your back yard, even if you’re trying to kill a rattlesnake.
    Champ’s veterinary clinic is located here. With Elvis and my rescues—Hoyt, the spaniel Elvis views as his competition, and the Seven Dwarfs, otherwise known as cats—I’m his best customer.
    Our hostess is also one of Champ’s customers, Glenda McAfee, Mantachie’s mayor. Her two-story antebellum home is decorated with five Christmas trees, garlands galore, at least fifty pots of poinsettias, and enough lights to guide small aircraft safely home. She matches her house—large, decked out in bright red satin, and flashing enough diamonds to light up a runway.
    If she weren’t my hostess, I’d offer a little fashion advice. Women of a certain size should not wear red form-fitting sheaths. And when it comes to accessorizing, if you look like you’re wearing all your loot from a recent jewelry store robbery, you’ve overdone it.
    Since I’m a guest, I content myself with slipping one of my tasteful business cards out of my black satin purse and leaving it on her hall table beside the cranberry potpourri. Discreetly, of course.
    While Champ goes off to the refreshment table, I recognize the mayor’s background music as Elvis’ Christmas Peace album. “Santa Bring My Baby Back (to Me)” makes me wonder what Jack is doing. Then I feel guilty because, while I’m thinking of another man, Champ has come back from fetching two cups of eggnog. He’s kind, handsome, successful, and loves kids and animals—perfect father material. I ought to be ecstatic.
    Instead, when he slides his arm around my waist, I feel like an imposter.
    “The mayor’s gardens are as splendid as her house.” Champ leans down so I can hear him over the party crowd. “I’d like to show you around.”
    A golden-haired, good-looking man in the moonlight would be almost impossible to resist. Champ’s been hinting of an engagement since I returned from Mexico, and I’m sure he’s looking for every edge, especially since his major competition ended up right back in my house.
    Suddenly my cell phone