Elvis and the Grateful Dead (18 page)

I
n case you’re wondering who cracked the case, that would be yours truly. Jack got a call from Charlie while I was straightening things out at Gas, Grits, and Guts (more about that later), so the two of us took off to Beulah Jane’s house. If it hadn’t been for me keeping a lookout while Jack went inside, he might never have had time to find the incriminating evidence. After he got the tansy oil, he rounded up the cops and cornered the killer on Ruby Nell’s farm.

We got there just in the nick of time, too. Most folks wouldn’t look on a bullet to the shoulder as a blessing, but I do. If my human daddy hadn’t been shot down in Mexico and come home to discuss this business with Charlie and take care of things, I might have lost my human mom.

And there’d be no living with Jack if he lost Callie.

Listen, he’s taking care of her even as I speak. While I’m sitting out here on the Harley in my doggie seat wearing my special helmet and snacking on a pepperoni pizza bribe, he’s inside Vanelli’s pretending to eat dinner—at a table right next to Champ and Callie. I don’t have to see this to know. He told me the plan before we left Magnolia Manor.

He has no intention of letting Champ get his hands on Callie.

Jack probably won’t say a thing, just sit there like a brooding mountain and make Luke Champion wish he’d gone out on the town with another woman. Any woman except Jack’s.

As for the murder case, Beulah Jane’s been indicted and Charlie got a postcard from Bertha today. She and Thaxton got married in the Chapel of Love in Las Vegas. She said he’s gaining impersonator fame with nightly appearances in Hot Tips. I doubt that. I know Vegas like the back of my paw, and Hot Tips is not the place to shoot you to stardom.

Bertha also wrote, “Do what you want to with Dick. I’m not coming back.”

There’s no way Charlie Valentine is going to put that poor sucker in the ground without fanfare. He and Ruby Nell have put aside their differences long enough to plan the unfortunate impersonator’s going-away ceremony.

Thanks to Callie, it will be a doozie. She said to them, “Poor dead Dick deserves a jazz funeral complete with a marching band.”

I’m considering selling tickets to this one.

Meanwhile, Trey is hiding out down on the farm, and Jarvetis is so busy looking for his best redbone hound he’s postponed leaving Fayrene.

My machinations, thank you, thank you very much. All I had to do was jiggle the kennel fence so the latch popped up and Trey could race to freedom.

He knows the plan. I’ll see that he gets plenty of food. (Not that he couldn’t fend for himself. He can catch a rabbit faster than any hound I know.) He’ll stay put till Fayrene gets out of hot water with Jarvetis.

If Ruby Nell keeps turning up the heat, that won’t be any time soon. She and Fayrene went right ahead with the séance in spite of Jarvetis claiming it would be over his dead body. Now they’re charging forth to build a bigger room.

So they can invite more spirits, I guess.

I don’t know why they don’t consult me. I’m the reincarnated dog around here. I could get some spirits into Gas, Grits, and Guts that would have the place rocking. Johnny Cash, to name one. All they have to do is ask, and maybe sweeten the request with a few pickled pigs’ lips.

Just not tonight.

Callie and Champ are hurrying toward his car, and strolling right behind them is my human daddy. From the looks of his grin, I’d say he accomplished his mission.

Jack straps on his helmet and revs up the motorcycle.

“They’re headed to Callie’s house for some TV viewing. How does
Three’s
Company sound to you, pal?”

Like music to my ears. No way am I going to stand for a pack of
his, mine,
and
ours
animals. As long as Callie and Jack stay married, I’m top dog, and I plan to keep it that way.

The big Harley roars out of the parking lot and we hit a long stretch of highway. By the time Callie and Champ get to her house, Jack will be sitting on Callie’s couch holding the remote. He’ll even have the popcorn made. For three. Four, if you count me, and anybody worth his salt does.

I throw back my head and howl a few bars of “Blue Suede Shoes.”

Elvis has left the building.