Waking Up Dead Page 8

  I rubbed Mason’s shoulder in what I hoped was a motherly way. “I’m so sorry you got hurt, and I appreciate you staying here to help me out. But you really don’t have to put on a show for me.”

  Mason’s ears turned red. “You know I’d do anything for you, baby.” He leaned in for a kiss.

  Simon and Garfunkel’s, “Mrs. Robinson,” echoed in my head. Mason was all puckered-up with his eyes closed as he waited for me to reciprocate. I played Demi to his Ashton and leaned in for a chaste kiss only to keep up the facade. Penny and Senator Bubba Thorsen barged through the door and interrupted us. She barely acknowledged our presence as they struggled through all the hot boxes and rack carts to a bathroom by the pantry.

  The senator touched his forefinger to his eyebrow in a weird salute when he passed by. Mel reflected my quizzical look. She bobbed her head in the direction of the Elvis costume and wig slung over his shoulder. Ah, Senator Elvis. How could I forget the “Love Me Tender” election campaign theme?

  We stifled our giggles until he closed the door to the bathroom and Penny left the room with a canapé tray in her hand. I bet it turned up later in the coat closet.

  “What is the world coming to when a senator has to dress up like Elvis to get votes,” Mel whispered unsuccessfully.

  “What’s the world coming to when he actually gets those votes,” I retorted.

  “Give him a break,” Mason scolded. “I hear he’s pretty good.”

  Big Mama was an “Elvis freak.” She infused me with her passion. We made the pilgrimage to Graceland together at least four times before she died.

  “He just doesn’t look like the type that would go around impersonating The King.” I handed trays of hors d’oeuvres to Mel and Mason.

  “Well, we’ll just have to see if he looks as good as The King did in his spandex jumpsuit,” Mel leered before pushing Mason through the door and out to feed the hungry Europeans.

  Grunts came from behind the bathroom door as I pushed a cart of food to the walk-in refrigerator. Yuck. Hurry up, slow poke. One of the wheels on the cart Kitty found for me turned sideways. I muttered a few choice words as I struggled to correct it before it toppled over. A sequined sleeve brushed my shoulder and catapulted my heart into warp speed.

  “Thank ya. Thank ya, very much,” drawled the senator through the pastries he crammed in his mouth.

  Senator Thorsen ravaged another tray of food. Crumbs fell into his abundant chest hair. It waved at me through the V-neck of a poorly replicated white porthole jumpsuit. The real Elvis was pudgy, but sexy, when he made the suit famous at the nineteen seventy-two Madison Square Garden concert. The senator looked like a stack of unbaked biscuits in it.

  “If I’d known you were coming uh…Elvis, I would have made some peanut butter, bacon, and nana sandwiches.” Not. I grabbed the tray he decimated and slid it into the refrigerator.

  “Ah, little Stacy is stepping into her Aunt’s ‘Blue Suede Shoes,’ hunh?” His lip crooked in a bad impression of Elvis’ sneer until he laughed at his own joke.

  “I sure am.” I leaned in, because the senator loved a good flirt. “I was hoping to talk to you about the party she catered for you the night,” fake tears filled my voice, “she passed away.”

  The senator draped his arm over my shoulder. I took a breath and got strangled by the body odor fumes, Hai Karate, and cigarettes.

  “Well, little darling,” I flinched as he broke into his Elvis voice again. “I can’t say I remember very much about that night. I ‘Got My Mojo Workin’ after a certain point, if you know what I mean.”

  How dare he adulterate an Elvis song title?

  He squeezed a little tighter. I turned my head away from his armpit to gasp for air.

  There was no way in hell he’d get any “mojo” working with me. I broke his grip and reached for another bowl of shrimp. “Guess I’d better get this food out there.”

  Senator Elvis stepped aside.

  “Thank ya, thank ya, very much!” I mimicked with a smile.

  He shot me another Elvis TCB salute.

  I took a few seconds to admire the food stations with their perfectly planned, beautifully plated, and, of course, extremely delicious, food. Paula Deen—look out! Sure, pride was yet another sin. I figured it was okay as long as I didn’t get carried away. Craig snuck up from behind and snaked a hand over to grab a bite.

  I bumped into the food table to get away. Luckily, the platters didn’t crash to the ground.

  “Whoa! It’s just Uncle Craig here,” he said with a smug smile.

  I turned heel, and beat a trail to the kitchen, but the jerk put his hand on my shoulder to stop me.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you plan to do with the house?”

  You better believe I mind! Just for a second, I wondered if I could make him blow up like the tree trunk in the park.

  “Yeouch!” Craig yanked his hand away so fast, I thought he got hold of some holy water.

  Oh well. I’ll just have to concentrate harder next time. “Wow, Uncle Craig. It must have been static electricity or something.”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” Craig pursed his flabby lips and rubbed his hand.

  “Okay. Then, I need to go back to the kitchen. Bye now.” I wiggled my fingers at him.

  “Son of a—” I flung the shrimp bowl in the sink. “He has some nerve—” I stopped short. Senator Elvis was still in the kitchen. He grazed his way through the mushroom tarts to the lime curd pastries.

  The man didn’t even bother to look ashamed. He wiped some crumbs off his mouth, sauntered over to me, tart in hand, and belched loudly. Lime and mushroom-curry fumes assailed my nose.

  My eyes watered. Mental note to self—never, ever, ever serve either of those foods in any combination again. I swore the air was tainted greenish-yellow. I fanned until it cleared.

  “That was a real gum-flapper,” he laughed. “Kinda’ snuck up on me. Uh…sorry about that.”

  The pans on the pot rack rattled. I curbed the urge to grab the nearest skillet and bash every man and angel in the vicinity over their pointed heads.

  I deftly removed the tart from his hand before it dropped in his mouth. “Senator…Elvis, won’t all this food you’re eating interfere with your singing?”

  “Never stopped me before.”

  I assumed this applied to people, too. Maybe he knew I left the message about him and Nina Blackstone for his wife to hear on their answering machine. I tried to disguise my voice after Kitty shared the news with me. She saw them going at it like animals when she climbed into the big green dumpster behind the home decorating shop.

  Was I too obvious when I showed up at his office later that day to offer my catering services? I studied the cheap scarves around his neck. No way did he get to be a senator by impersonating Elvis. Maybe he killed me without batting an eye through those extremely dark, gold framed TCB sunglasses. Those eyes batted now as he peered unabashedly at my chest.

  “Senator, how well did you know my aunt?” The sound of my voice brought his attention to my face.

  “Your Aunt Ava? I can’t say I knew her that well.” He pulled a pastry out of his pocket and sat down on a bar stool across the counter from me. I restrained the urge to freeze him and snatch the pastry from his hand.

  “You didn’t happen to see if she left your place with anyone did you?” I didn’t remember anything but waking up dead. Usually, I left events with Jimbo or my crew. It figured. The one time I left with someone else, I got killed instead of laid.

  “You’re like a ‘Hound Dog’ on a trail ain’t you?” He left sticky residue on my hand when he patted it. “All I can say is it was a damn good party and I was,” he hesitated for effect, “‘All Shook Up,’ so I can’t say I recall.”

  He hedged like a typical politician. What made me think he would pay attention to me—Ava? I had cankles for Heaven’s sake.

  The kitchen door startled me out of my redundant ankle evaluation. Penny Beecher marched through. Her h
eels clicked in time to the beat of some type of Elvis intro music. “Senator, you’re on,” she commanded.

  The senator stood, snapped his sleeves down, brushed the crumbs off, and saluted me. He and Penny barreled out of the “in” door, knocking Mason into the wall as he tried to bring trays in for refills.

  The sound of trays clattering to the ground was barely heard over the opening strains of Senator Thorsen’s obnoxiously loud karaoke version of, ‘Don’t be Cruel.’

  I flew to Mason. “Oh, hon, are you okay?”

  The color drained from his face. “Same damn shoulder.”

  I escorted him into the kitchen over to a stool while the gears worked in my brain. Hell, I “healed” the dents out of Robert’s car, why couldn’t I heal Mason? Of course, if I was able to heal his arm, he would only use the hand to pinch my ass. It was catch twenty-two.

  “Open your shirt for me.”

  “You sure you just want me to open the shirt for you? It’s what’s below that’s really hurt.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Since we ain’t done it in a few days, it might be broke.” Mason waggled his eyebrows.

  My face screwed up on its own accord. “I am gonna break it for sure. Now open your shirt so I can see your shoulder.”

  He sighed and obeyed my less than friendly order. “I swear, Stacy. What happened to you? You were a lot more fun a few days ago. ”

  “I didn’t have as much going on a few days ago, Mason.” My stomach shot straight to my throat. His collar bone jutted out in an abnormal position.

  I went to get a wet rag from the sink fast enough to blow a few crumbs off the counter. Mason’s complexion reminded me of a lizard’s belly when he saw the condition his bone was in.

  “I guess I gotta go to the ER like Mel said, anyway.” He looked at me with defeat in his eyes.

  “Let’s try something, okay?”

  He nodded in agreement then sucked a short breath in when I gently pressed the warm cloth down on his shoulder. I focused my energy on the bone. Heal! Heal you stupid bone. Maybe I shouldn’t have thought, “stupid,” but I was anxious to see if it worked.

  My finger tips tingled with heat. I expected some kind of weird glow to shine through. Instead, the heat became as unbearable as sunbathing on a mirror. The rag and my fingers steamed.

  “Yeow!” Mason shrugged out from under my touch. “How hot did you make that damn thing?”

  He glared at me then looked down at his shoulder where my gaze was transfixed.

  “What the hell?”

  The bone no longer protruded. What do you know? I discovered a new power.

  “H-how? Did you do that?” Mason stammered, looked at me, then back to his shoulder in disbelief.

  “Um, Mason, it’s just uh… some herbs they taught us about in culinary school.” Oh, this whopper is sure to be added to the Heavenly score card. “They make us take classes in that sort of thing in case something happens in the kitchen.”

  “Those were some kinda’ herbs,” Mason rubbed his stubbly brown hair and inched away from me.

  “What herbs are y’all talking about?” Mel asked as she carried the trays of dirty dishes to the dishwasher. “I’m gonna need some.” Mel ignored my attempt to answer and loaded dishes while talking. “I mean, that’s the worst Elvis I have ever seen. He gyrated way too close to Mrs. Van Winkle. He just kept gyrating ‘til he had her wedged in that tiny door to the bar.” Mel loaded the last plate and turned to us. “And, you know Mrs. Van Wrinkle is at least three-hundred pounds wet. Elvis was into his third song before Mr. Van Winkle and the bartender got her out. I felt sorry for the bartender because he had to grab her rear to push.”

  The expressions on our faces finally stopped Mel’s monolog. “Oh, no! Y’all didn’t have a fight did you?”

  “Naw, Mel.” Mason pointed at his shoulder. “Stacy healed my shoulder…”

  “With some herbs,” I interrupted and made a beeline to the sink to wash the “magic herbal rag” out.

  “What the…,” Mel uttered as she rushed over to check Mason out.

  Uh-oh. Mason was easily fooled. Mel, on the other hand, was no push-over.

  She traced her finger over where the bone bulged from the skin minutes before. Mel turned a wary eye on me. “The bruise is gone.”

  Mason laughed as he closed his shirt. “You should have seen it after Mrs. Beecher hit me with the door. The bone was sticking up.”

  Mel’s mouth flew open. “The bone?”

  I darted to the oven to remove the appetizers I put in there earlier. My mouth watered from the aroma of blue cheese in won ton wrappers. Mel handed me a potholder.

  “Herbs my ass,” she snorted. “What the hell is going on here with the faith healer hoo-doo?”

  “It was a special poultice. He must have been imagining a bone sticking up.”

  ”Well, just what kind of poultice did you use?” Mel’s nostrils flared.

  She caught me in a lie. This meant bad news for the pastries. Several were already mangled in my attempt to get them from the baking sheets onto the serving dishes. I set the spatula down. “Look Mel, it was just some herbs.” I picked up a plate and offered it to her. “Let’s just get this food out there and pick up the dirty dishes. We can talk later.”

  Mel crossed her arms over her Rubenesque chest. “No way, girl. You haven’t been the same since you came back to town. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Yeah, Stac, something’s been wrong with you ever since your aunt died. But, you were great before that.” Mel slugged him in his good shoulder for me. “Ow!”

  Ya’ think? “If y’all won’t get out there and get to work, then I will.” I huffed past them with my platters. It was a war zone out there with boozy Craig and an Elvis impersonator with a dangerous grind.

  Craig reminded me of a vulture hovering for fresh road kill. I almost did an about face back into the lion’s den when I saw the road kill was me. The smell of bourbon made two of my five senses go belly-up like an armadillo. People winced as he blow torched his way through them to get to me at the buffet table.

  “Hey, baby girl!” Craig’s arm flopped over me into the blue cheese appetizers.

  “Not now, Uncle Craig.” I did a little duck-then-squat motion to get myself out of the embrace. Can you get drunk by proximity?

  Mel and Mason passed me on their way to canvas the room to retrieve dirty dishes. They shot me a “better you than us” look.

  Craig followed me to the buffet table. “Uh-huh, I see how you a-are. Trying to avoid your old un-uncle.”

  I slid the tray onto the table. Everyone watched us. “I wasn’t avoiding you Uncle Craig. Let’s go talk in here.” I grabbed his arm and escorted him to the kitchen like a teacher dragged an errant student to the principal.

  I put the counter between us. “What the hell do you want?”

  “That ain’t a-a nice way to talk to your u-hic uncle,” Craig’s jowls continued to jiggle after he finished talking.

  “All right then, what the hell do you want, please?” I exhaled in frustration. The vapors were visible. When did it get so cold in here?

  “Look, me and uh…Mitzi are tired of living in the Europe Shangri-La Condos. I really want a house. I want to make you an offer on my old house.” Craig swept his arms open like he was Moses parting the Red Sea with a bourbon in his hand.

  All I heard was something about Mitzi in my house. That adulterous, man-stealing bimbo is not setting foot in my house! The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Big Mama always said it was a sign somebody was watching. Maybe she was. I checked the kitchen and found nothing.

  “Stacy, did you hear what I said?” Craig set his glass down.

  “Yeah, I heard you. I’m not interested.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  I picked up his bourbon glass. “Because Aunt Ava said you were the two-timing, lower than dirt, jackass who wasted three decades of her life. I’ll be damned if you and that whore e
nd up with her house!” He fumbled out the door just as the glass shattered against the door frame. Damn! I need to work on my timing.

  “Screw it. I’m probably condemned anyway.”

  I reached for the broom and dust pan I saw in the pantry earlier. Tendrils of dark smoke seeped under the bathroom door. Senator Thorsen, still in his sweat-stained Elvis costume, bounded out.

  “Hi Senator…”

  Crazy Elvis seized my neck like it was the last beer on the planet. “Sorry lil’ darlin’,” his voice was strained as if he was fighting against the controlling force inside, “My motto is ‘Don’t Be Cruel’.” He actually started singing. “But I can’t help…what I’m doing to you.”

  Oh, nuh-uh! I’m not getting killed again, especially not by the world’s worst Elvis impersonator. I teleported to the other side of the kitchen.

  Senator Elvis zapped to my side. “That’s ‘All Right, Mama!’ I am ‘T-R-O-U-B-L-E’,” he said and lifted me in the air like I was a dust bunny.

  He threw me across the room. I slammed into a metal shelving unit. Each shelf gave way, dumping its contents on me as I crashed down. Broken glass pierced my skin while salt burned the wounds. My face and body twisted in pain. I counted on adrenalin to work as a pain-killer and leapt to my feet.

  “Enough with the Elvis lyrics already.” An assortment of knives, spoons, forks, and other utensils landed on the floor when I crashed into the shelves. With a thought, I sent them whizzing his way. I zapped myself over to the stove to look for something, anything to stop him without killing him. I’d go to jail if I killed him and never know who or what controlled my attackers.

  The wild eyes and bear-like strength reminded me of the sheriff when he assaulted me. Something controlled this man too. I wanted it gone. One of the forks I hurled stuck in his arm. He pulled it out and watched the blood ooze from four prong-holes onto the white fabric.

  I searched for another weapon to use. Where the hell were Suriyel and Sam? They were probably duking it out in some alternate reality. Male fallen angels are as utterly useless as men.

  “Ah, c’mon baby, I’m just a ‘hunk a, hunk a burnin’ love’ for you!” Fire balls flew from his hands.