Elvis and the Grateful Dead (7 page)

J
ack once told me petty criminals target weak people, that if I ever think I’m being followed I should act like a woman nobody in his right mind would mess with. Naturally, I said,
I am
, which veered us onto a different path I don’t care to remember. It’s ninety-four degrees and I’m hot enough already.

“Lovie, on the count of three, turn around and act like you’re going to beat the tar out of somebody.”

She doesn’t ask why (a tribute to the kind of friendship we have). I start counting and when I get to three we whirl around. Nobody I know is behind us except Beulah Jane.

“Mercy.” She puts her hand over her heart. “You scared me to death.”

“Sorry,” I said. “We just passed the lemonade vendor and I’m about to parch.”

“If you don’t want lemonade, Tewanda just made a fresh batch of peach tea. I would’ve stayed to help her, but my bladder’s about to pop.” Beulah Jane heads toward the portable potties, then backtracks. “Are you all right, Lovie? I thought you went home.”

“I decided nobody’s going to intimidate me.”

“Well, law, if I had that kind of spunk I’d be president of the Garden Club.”

As Beulah Jane tootles off toward the toilets, Lovie and I grab a lemonade.

“I told you nobody was following us, Lovie.”

“Don’t be too sure. I saw Bertha ducking behind the corn dog vendor.”

We take off in that direction, but if Bertha really did leave off mourning dead Dick long enough to partake of the Elvis festivities, she’s blended back into the crowd, an easy thing to do since this year’s attendance has set a record—eleven thousand people.

As Love Me Tender Elvis croons his ballad, the younger fans jam the blocked-off streets around the portable stage, screaming and throwing scarves. Veteran festival goers have moved their lawn chairs to the few bits of shade downtown Tupelo offers—the east side of Tupelo Hardware, the little park east of Reed’s Department Store, the Alley across from the historic courthouse where wrought-iron tables are set up with umbrellas, and the sparse shade of crape myrtle trees Tupelo’s beautification committee planted along Main Street and a few of its arteries.

Lovie’s asking, “Which way now?” when my cell phone rings. It’s Uncle Charlie.

“I think we’re on the right track, Callie,” he says. “There are photos on George’s Web site of him with both Brian and Dick.”

“Could they just be three impersonators posing for the camera?”

“No. These are candid shots. Looks like they’re in the middle of a card game.”

“Is Thaxton Miller in them, too?”

“Who?”

“Love Me Tender Elvis. From Memphis. You know…the one with the baby-blue bell-bottom jumpsuit and the rhinestone belt with TCB and the lightning bolt.”

“No,” Uncle Charlie says. “But Bertha’s in the pictures.”

“With Dick?”

“No. With George. And they look cozy. I’m going to keep digging.”

After I hang up I tell Lovie the latest developments.

“Maybe George was messing around with Bertha,” she says. “Have you had a chance to read any more of her diary?”

“Not yet. But now we have motives for both George and Bertha. Either one of them could have killed Dick to get him out of the way.”

“Why would either of them kill Brian?”

“That’s what we have to find out. This way, Lovie.”

“Where?”

“You see that baby-blue jumpsuit? Thaxton Miller just finished his performance, and I intend to find out what he knows.”

We catch up with him just as he finishes autographing the program from a teenaged girl dressed mostly in freckles. I swear, if her cutoff blue jean shorts ride up any higher she’ll be showing off Christmas (one of Grandmother Valentine’s many euphemisms for private body parts).

Thaxton Miller is not too happy to see us, but since he knows we’re both working this festival, he’s too savvy to be rude. You never know who might have some influence with the judges.

“You did a great job onstage,” I say, meaning it. “Lovie, get him a glass of iced peach tea, then meet us in the Alley.”

It’s a miniature courtyard across the street from the historic courthouse in what was once a junky alley between a row of upscale law offices and the Stables, a popular pub and restaurant. While Lovie heads toward the refreshment booth, I lead Love Me Tender Elvis toward an umbrella-shaded table beside a heat-distressed potted geranium.

“Thanks.” Thaxton flops into the chair across from me. “But I’ll never hold a candle to the King.”

Judging by the way Elvis licks Thaxton’s feet, I’d say my dog agrees. Or else, Thaxton has dropped ice cream on his boots.

Usually I’m a model of southern manners, but today I don’t have time to sit around and make polite small talk. Lovie’s future hinges on an expeditious apprehension of the real killer.

When she slides into the chair beside me with three glasses of tea and a paper cup of water for my basset, I say, “Thaxton, when you played cards with Geroge, were Dick and Brian the other part of the foursome?”

He looks like he’d rather be anywhere except with me discussing two dead Elvises. Still, I sense he’s also rattled about something. If George has already killed two of his card-playing buddies, could it be that Thaxton is afraid he’ll be next?

“They were,” is all he says, and I can tell he’s going to make me work for every little bit of information I get.

If I don’t think of a way around this stalemate, this interrogation could take all day. While I’m discarding schemes as fast as I can dream them up, Lovie says, “George was boffing Dick’s wife.”

Thaxton’s face turns a deep shade of red, but Lovie barrels forward as if she doesn’t even notice. “Were you aware of that?”

“Bertha would never do that.”

Holy cow.
He sounds so angry I lean back in my chair to put some space between us. Thaxton Miller suddenly looks more like a suspect than the next victim.

What nerve did we touch? And how does he know what Bertha would do? Even more to the point, why would he defend her?

“Do the four of you still play cards?” I ask.

“No.”

Could he be any more terse? What nerve did I hit now?

“Why not?” Lovie asks, and for a minute I think Thaxton is going to turn tail and run.

“Nobody wants to get in a game with somebody who cheats at cards.”

“Who was cheating?” I ask.

“Dick.” That figures. “George found out and called his hand.”

“Did George have any issues with Brian?” Lovie asks.

“Not that I know of.” Thaxton leans toward her. “Are you two with the cops or something?”

“No. Just gathering information for Daddy. He’s on the festival committee, you know.”

Lovie’s a smooth liar. I used to think it was a character flaw, but ever since we landed up to our eyeballs in murder (the Bubbles Caper) I’ve begun to see her talent for prevarication as an asset.

Love Me Tender Elvis does an about-face and turns on the Tennessee charm, not to mention the drawl.

“I hope ya’ll don’t think I had anything to do with Dick’s death.”

Winking at him, Lovie says, “I’ll be sure to tell Daddy how cooperative you were.”

After Thaxton leaves we finish our peach tea and try to thrash the wheat from the chaff.

“He could have been lying,” I say.

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“I don’t think so. How could he fake that reaction when I mentioned George and Bertha?”

“It could have been the way you said it, Lovie.”

“Never underestimate shock value.” She finishes her tea, then digs an ice cube out and starts sucking on it. “Assuming Thaxton told the truth, then George had double motive for killing Dick.”

“That’s two big
ifs. If
he was serious about Bertha and
if
he would kill over a deck of cards.”

“John Wayne would.”

“You’ve been watching too many old westerns, Lovie.”

“My social life stinks.”

“Rocky will take care of that when he gets here.”

“That’s not what I want him to take care of.”

If Lovie gets on the holy grail again I don’t know what I’m going to do. Fortunately my cell phone saves us all. It’s Uncle Charlie again.

“I’m back at the T-shirt booth, dear heart, and I need to see you and Lovie. Right away.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as you get here.”

It’s not like Uncle Charlie to be mysterious. I have a bad feeling about this.

S
o far Thaxton Miller is the only contestant who can sing well enough to be worthy of wearing my sequined jumpsuit. But music aside, he was lying through his teeth to Callie and Lovie. If they’d let me off this leash I’d catch up to him and make him tell the truth.

Don’t let this pretty face fool you. My early pals weren’t called the Memphis Mafia for nothing.

And speaking of the good old days, every time I look across at what used to be the old Mississippi/Alabama fairgrounds and see how they tore down the grandstand, I want to march down to City Hall and jerk a knot in some tails. Reporters came all the way from London to cover my second—and final—concert there (1957). Never mind that I was at the bottom of the playbill—behind the beef show, the 4-H Club style show, and the so-called
Daring Balloon Ascension and Jump.
My name was bigger and in bold print. Which is more than I can say for any of these upstarts at the festival today.

They think a tight spangled jumpsuit makes them Elvis. Don’t get me wrong. It’s flattering to have people imitating me after all these years. Back when I was rocking and rolling all over the world, I was the only entertainer wearing spangled costumes. Except Liberace. Not to knock his talent—but he wasn’t in my league. He looked just plain over-the-top.

I had style. Still do.

Didn’t care a whit (and still don’t) that pink was considered sissy and no man in his right mind would put on a velvet shirt and stand up in front of a hometown crowd of people just like my folks—sharecroppers, small-time farmers, factory laborers, and dirt-poor kids who picked cotton so they’d have enough money for the gate fee.

I never did let fame go to my head, and still don’t. I’ll admit I put on the King bit in front of Ann-Margret, but it takes talent to lure a French poodle in heat away from the rest of the pack.

Speaking of which, I could give that feisty-looking beagle exuding pheromones over by the lemonade stand a run for her money if Callie would give me free rein at this festival. Not that I’d do anything serious like singing “Love Me,” but I wouldn’t mind humming a few bars of “Bosa Nova Baby.”

Naturally we whiz on by so all I have time for is a wink and a wiggle, but Beagle Baby gets the point. She sets up a howl that causes her owner, a self-important matronly type, to hustle her off saying, “Now, stop that Fluffy.”

“Great Balls of Fire”—to borrow from the piano-stomping Jerry Lee Lewis—if I’d been saddled with a name that silly I’d be howling myself. In outrage, not a song.

Instead I perk up my mismatched ears to see what’s cooking over at the T-shirt booth. Charlie’s on the phone. To Jack. Who is up to his own ears in trouble.
Big
trouble.

Callie’s not going to be happy. I’d hate to be the one to tell her. I don’t know how Charlie’s going to break the news.

If I were in his shoes, I’d start with that gaudy bouquet of red roses. Which he does. Only it turns out they’re not for Callie; they’re for Lovie.

“For me?” She’s as surprised as the rest of us. “Two dozen of them?”

Like me, Lovie gets around but not with the kind of lover who sends roses. If you ask me, it’s about time somebody recognized her worth. I do what I can to teach her the value of herself, but as you know, I’ve got my hands full with my human mom.

Lovie looks at the card. “Rocky!”

“He wired them,” Charlie says. “I guess he knew you’d be working the festival.”

“I can’t believe it.” She buries her face in the flowers, and at the rate she’s breathing on them, they’ll be wilted within the hour. “Red means love eternal. Right, Callie?”

“I’d say it’s a very good sign.”

I’ve never been prouder of my human mom. She knows good and well red roses don’t mean a darned thing except the man who sent them had money in his pocket and a yen for an extravagant gesture.

Last Christmas, Jack filled Callie’s house with red roses. Must have cost him a small fortune. Every room smelled like Charlie’s funeral home. And maybe that was the point. The death of a marriage. It sure as heck didn’t mean love everlasting because he left the next day.

Not that I’m placing blame. Jack’s human, just like the rest of us. (Well, I
used
to be and I still remember what it’s like. If you ask me, dogs are a more evolved species, but sometimes I miss the emotional ups and downs of being like the rest of the unevolved, all that gut-busting joy and angst.)

I sidle up to Lovie and let her know how happy I am she got roses.

“Aren’t they
great
, Elvis?” She leans down to pat me and I howl a few bars of “My Happiness,” that little song I recorded so long ago for my mother, Gladys, at Sun Studios in Memphis.

Who knows? If I get lucky, Lovie will reward my loyalty and compassion by sneaking me a bite of that chocolate cake while Callie’s not looking. Forget that dogs aren’t supposed to have chocolate. Anybody worth his salt knows I’m a world-famous idol in dog’s clothing.

I
’m glad Lovie got roses. Really, I am. But I don’t think that’s why Uncle Charlie called us to come back to the T-shirt booth.

Mama and Fayrene are still here, fizzing around admiring the roses and changing out of Nikes and into dance shoes, Mary Jane pumps with low heels. Jazz shoes, we used to call them when Lovie and I were in our teens and taking dance lessons from Miss Bea Perkins, whose husband, Jim, walked out the door one morning and never came back. She lived in a white antebellum house on Church Street and kept Jim’s slippers and robe on the chair beside the piano in the dance studio where he’d left them.

A performer by nature, Lovie soaked up dance, but I spent most of my time trying to blend in with the furniture so I’d get put on the back row where nobody would notice how gawky I was. In those dreaded spring recitals, Lovie always got to be a rose or a star and wear a pretty costume, while I was usually a tree or a turnip hidden behind fake leaves.

“Where’s my comb? Where’s my lipstick?” Mama’s digging through her purse asking rhetorical questions, so I plop down in a camp chair to stay out of the hubbub and remember my own dancing days.

I didn’t learn tap and ballet from Miss Bea, but I did learn that the heart beats on, no matter how empty the house is, that if you smile a lot and spend kindness like it’s oil and you’re a rich Texan, you fill up from the inside. And before you know it, the hole inside you is hidden under a crust so thick you barely even notice it’s still there.

“Fayrene, are you about ready to go?” Mama blots her newly painted lips on a Kleenex and hangs her purse over her arm.

She’s so one-sided about George Blakely I consider not even telling her what we learned before she leaves, but since the point is to help Lovie, I relent, summing it all up with “It looks like George Blakely had plenty of motive for killing Dick. I just don’t see any reason he’d go after Brian.”

“Well, I do,” Fayrene pipes up, and I say, “My goodness. I didn’t know you were playing detective, too.”

“I’ve just made my debutt.”
Debut
, I hope, though with Fayrene, you never can tell. “I can tell you exactly why George Blakely would kill Brian Watson. He was messing around with Brian’s girlfriend.”

“You don’t know that for sure, Fayrene.” It looks like Mama’s going to her grave defending Texas Elvis.

“Well, I guess I do, Ruby Nell. My information came straight from the horse’s ass.”

I don’t ask who the horse was, and I particularly don’t want to know that part of his anatomy. Besides, I think Fayrene meant
mouth.

Lovie’s laughing so hard nobody can hear himself think, let alone talk. Finally she ceases guffawing long enough to make a sane comment.

“You’re telling me somebody who looks like Pee-Wee Herman can get any woman he wants?”

“It’s his hot air balloon,” Fayrene says. “He hauls it to every competition just to get women. Apparently they love to take flight and check out George’s rigging.”

“He’d have to have more than a hot air balloon to make me want to check out his equipment,” Lovie says, never mind that Uncle Charlie is standing right there.

“Now, now, dear heart,” is all he says. He’s such a gentleman.

“Well, I happen to think you’re all barking up the wrong tree.” Mama actually sniffs when she’s in a snit. “Personally, I think George wouldn’t hurt a flea. And for your information, he bears a remarkable resemblance to George Clooney.” She jerks up her purse. “Fayrene, are you going to stand there all day and report falsehoods or are you coming with me?”

“Not if you don’t get off your high horse.”

They march out arm in arm, though it appears to me Mama’s still on her horse. That arrogant tilt to her head and the way she’s prissing.

Usually Uncle Charlie says
Drive safely, Ruby Nell
, but today he watches them leave without a word of caution. I’ve got to find out what’s causing his unusual reserve with Mama.

But first, we have to save Lovie from the electric chair.

“Maybe we ought to get George up in his hot air balloon, Lovie.” I think they fly those things after sunrise and before sunset, and the sun’s just getting ready to vanish over Tupelo’s western horizon.

“I think you should stay on the ground, dear hearts. Just talk to him casually and find out what you can.” Uncle Charlie sits down beside me. “Before you go, there’s something I have to tell you.”

When he takes my hand, I get this sinking feeling that whatever he’s fixing to say, it’s not something I want to hear.

“Jack called. From Mexico.”

This is
definitely
not something I want to hear. Though I never had cause to doubt his fidelity when we were officially married, we’re not official anymore. With his killer looks and revved-up libido, he’s bound to have landed in a passel of trouble. As much as I don’t want to keep fighting him for custody of Elvis, I’m not fond of the idea that my almost-ex has run off with a doe-eyed senorita and will be sailing into the sunset in Cancún.

“He was in a little scrape,” Uncle Charlie says.

“What kind of scrape?” I ask.

“He’s been shot.”

The world as I know it comes to an end. I am a widow and Elvis is fatherless.

“Quick, Lovie. Get her some water.”

Lovie reaches into the cooler for a bottle of water and I drink till my head stops spinning and my chair settles back onto solid ground.

“Where? How?”

“He’s going to be okay, Callie. The bullet didn’t penetrate any major organs.”

What was he doing to get shot? In Mexico, of all places? I don’t know whether to get sick with worry or hop a plane and slap him silly.

“He’ll be good as new in a few days. He said to tell you not to worry.”

“If I’d wanted a life of worry I’d have married a Mafia hit man or a career criminal.” For all I know, he could be both. “You tell Jack Jones…”

That I can’t bear the thought of him bleeding? That when I thought he was dead I wanted to head to a cloister and take vows of eternal chastity?

I jump out of my chair but have to grab hold of the arms to stay upright.

Uncle Charlie steadies me. “Everything’s going to be all right, dear heart.”

I believe him, in spite of the fact that I’m currently more like the star of
The Trials and Tribulations of Pauline
than a grown woman having a real life. All I want is three children and a bulletproof husband. Is that asking too much?

“Can Elvis stay with you while we find George?”

Judging by my dog’s droopy tail, I can tell he fancies himself going with me in the hot air balloon, maybe becoming one of those flying Elvises. Or Elvi, as I heard one misguided TV announcer say.

“I’ll be glad to have the company. We’ll be at Eternal Rest. I need to check on Bobby.”

Bobby Huckabee from Pensacola, Uncle Charlie’s new young (twenty-nine) assistant. What Bobby lacks in looks, he makes up for in dedication. Which is the reason Uncle Charlie could leave the funeral home long enough to oversee the festival.

Uncle Charlie’s been trying to do everything by himself far too long. I’m not foolish enough to think he’s planning retirement—he’s much too vital for that—but it’s high time for him to have some leisure for the things he loves. Like fishing.

“I don’t know what time we’ll be back,” I tell Uncle Charlie, and he says, “Take your time. And be careful. If George acts the least bit suspicious, go to the police and let them handle it.”

When I bend down to tell Elvis good-bye, he turns his back.

He loves the funeral home and considers himself its official ambassador. I don’t know of another dog who gets to put on a bow tie and act as chief comforter to the bereaved. Still, you’d think I was consigning him to life with only bread and water.

With the final round of tribute artist competition over and blues great Big Bill Broonzy taking the stage, Lovie and I head into the crowd to search for our prime suspect.

“I don’t know how we’re going to get George to take us up in his balloon,” I tell Lovie. “That’s your department.”

She says a word not meant for the fainthearted. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—my heart’s having to grow more courageous every day.

“I’m not planning to jeopardize my relationship with Rocky over a man who can’t keep his pecker in his pants. You’re going to have to haul out your rusty flirting skills.”

“They’re not
that
rusty.”

“Come on. There’s George by the corn dog vendor. Prove it.”

“You think I can’t?”

Putting an extra swish in my hips, I head that way with Lovie goading me every step.

“You can do better than that. Come on, Callie. Shake that thing. Let’s see the real stuff.”

I know she means well. This is Lovie’s way of cheering me on. Still, she’s proving her point, too—that I’ve spent nearly a year pining over Jack, that I’ve lost interest in all things male since he walked out the door and rode into the great beyond on his Harley Screamin’ Eagle with the heated seats.

The thought of that hated Harley—not to mention Jack’s latest scrape—transforms me into a woman no man is safe around. Believe me, I have no intention of letting somebody who gets shot in Mexico continue to tamper with my heart.

I swear, if you could harness my pheromones right now and convert them to solar power, you could light up New York.

George Blakely doesn’t stand a chance.