Elvis and the Devil in Disguise (A Southern Cousins Mystery With Bonus Charmed Cat Mystery)

by Peggy Webb

  “What about Jack?”

  “He had to make a business trip overseas and won’t be back ‘til next week.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  Rocky squeezes my hand and then turns into a parking lot close to Bourbon Street. He’s read my mind. We set out down the street looking and listening for a little dark haired boy playing a harmonica.

  The street is teeming with tourists and there’s a musician on every corner—guitarists, singers, Louis Armstrong hopefuls playing trumpet, mimes, dancers. But not a single little kid coaxing the blues from a mouth harp.

  Rocky and I wait in front of a sandwich shop until an ancient man with white hair and a deeply wrinkled face finishes his rendition of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”

  “Have you seen a little kid about this high,” Rocky measures Pete’s height with his big expressive hands. “Dark eyes and curly hair. Plays a harmonica.”

  “You looking for Pete?”

  “Yes.”

  “He in trouble with the law?”

  “Nothing like that.” Rocky slides his arm around me. “He helped us out today and I wanted to see if he might help us again.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “Shoe shines and tourist guide,” I say. “He’s a great kid and my…”

  “Fiancé,” Rocky says, and I feel the heat rush to my face. I haven’t blushed since I was ten years old.

  “Yes. My fiancé and I would really love to hire him again tomorrow.”

  The old man strums his guitar as if he’s considering the matter. Rocky drops a ten dollar bill into the hat sitting beside his guitar case, but the man just hums to himself and looks for inspiration in the sky. Rocky drops another ten into the hat.

  “He was here earlier this evening. Plays that harmonica like a pro. Man, he’s good.”

  “If you could tell us where his parents live,” I say, “we’d be very grateful.”

  “His home is the St. Mary of Mercy Orphanage.” Rocky squeezes my waist and I can feel compassion flowing through him like a river. “But he won’t stay there. Nor foster homes, either. Runs away all the time. He’s got a nickname, CR. Constant Runaway.”

  I don’t trust myself to say another thing without bursting into tears. Rocky clears his throat.

  “How does he survive?”

  “Every now and then the cops catch him and return him to the orphanage, but he always comes back to the streets. The musicians take turns providing for him. We take care of our own.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be staying tonight?”

  The old man has several ideas that run the gamut from “down under the bridge with dancing Sol” to “singing Josie’s lean-to behind the French Market” to “any park in New Orleans that has running water.”

  We set off at a pace that even Callie in her pre-pregnancy state would have a hard time keeping. We don’t talk. We don’t speculate about all the horrible things that could happen to a little kid alone in the streets of New Orleans at night.

  “The park near the center,” Rocky says.

  “My thoughts, exactly.” I wish I’d paid more attention to the wistful look on Pete’s face when he said his mother was going to meet him there with fried chicken and biscuits. As we head toward the river, I make a silent vow that I’ll pay attention in the future, that I’ll never let this kid down again.

  The park has sparse lighting on the side that features park benches and picnic tables facing the river. A couple of teenagers in tight embrace occupy one of the benches, but there is no little boy in sight.

  “He’d go to the shadows.” Rocky tugs me toward the other side of the park. As we’re plunged into a deep night with only a sliver of moon for light, we strain our eyes toward every bush and tree. Suddenly he grabs my arm. “Shh. Over there.”

  At first I see nothing but an outdoor toilet made of concrete blocks and cast into shadow by the overhanging branches of moss-draped live oaks. Then I see Pete. His head is resting on a black plastic garbage bag probably stuffed with his earthly possessions, and there’s a big hole in the sole of his left high-top tennis shoe.

  I didn’t know there were so many ways to break a heart. If we take him back to the orphanage he’ll only run again. And what kind of future does he have hanging out with singing Josie in her shanty and dancing Sol under the bridge?

  “Oh, Rocky. What are we going to do?”

  He studies the sleeping child. In the sliver of moonlight that bisects his face, I see every one of my own emotions cross Rocky’s face. And finally I see this good man who has lived most of his lonely life in the world’s most remote places come to a decision that brings him peace.

  He reaches for my hand. “We’re going to give Pete the best home he ever had.”

  My heart just forgot how to keep a steady rhythm. “What kind of proposal is that?” Now I’ve just ruined a perfect proposal with a snarky comment.

  “It’s the only kind you won’t turn down.”

  He knows me too well. There’s no way I can possibly turn down any plan that will give Pete the chance for a good future. Still, I don’t want to say yes too fast. Rocky views me as the treasure he’s had to work harder to obtain than the one he dug out of the rubble at Tulum.

  “What happens if I say yes?”

  “We’ll be married in three days. In the grand style you deserve.”

  “I hate to disillusion you, but a wedding in grand style is going to take longer than that. Why don’t we just grab a Justice of the Peace and let Callie be our witness?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  There’s a sudden flurry of movement beside the toilets, and Pete streaks past with his garbage bag slung over his shoulder. Rocky and I dash after him, but I’m outdistanced in ten seconds flat. I sink onto a park bench just as Rocky closes in and grabs Pete in a bear hug.

  “Whoa, Pete. It’s me. Rocky Malone.”

  “Boy, I can outrun anybody except you.”

  “I think that’s a very good place to start.”

  “Start what?”

  “A brand new life.”

  “Naw. I already got one.”

  Rocky turns to me, and I wrap my arms around Pete’s slim shoulders. “I think you might like this one better. Why don’t I take you back with me and in the morning we’ll talk about it?”

  “Where we going?”

  “Remember Miss Grace? It’s her house. Callie’s there, and Elvis, too.”

  “I sure like that dog pillow. Can I sleep on it?”

  “We’ll have to clear that with Elvis.” I wink at Rocky over the boy’s head. “But I’ll bet he’s willing to share.”

  Chapter 14

  Elvis’ Opinion on Everything

  Well, bless’a my soul! Let me turn my back for one minute, and the whole Valentine family is steppin’ out of line. First Lovie drops this bombshell that she and Rocky are getting married in three days and adopting this kid off the streets, and then I find out I have to share my pink pillow with him.

  Lesser dogs would have asked why me, Lord, but yours truly has more class than that and twice as much sense. As it turned out, Lovie and Callie insisted that Pete had to sleep in a real bed--this great big canopied thing that might have belonged to Marie Antoinette. So I ended up spending the night like royalty on a feather mattress so soft I was glad to let Pete hog my own personal pillow.

  I’m happy to report that nobody’s head got chopped off. The only consequence of our sleeping arrangements is that this morning Pete’s hair smells like eau de dog. On the upside, I see how I might cajole my way into bed with the little short bald person when he joins the Jones household. Or she, as the case may be.

  The great thing about getting up in the morning with a short person, even if Pete has more hair than I do, is that he bounds everywhere he goes, and I get to bound right along with him. There’s something joyful about moving around that way. Everybody ought to try it.

  Except Callie, of course. I trot my handsome self over to check
on my human mom. She’s in her element this morning, glowing with good health and surrounded by women who are all talking at once about Lovie’s surprise engagement and her wedding. Move over, ladies, the expert has arrived. I said it all in 1969 when I stood in American Studies in Memphis and crooned “Without Love (There is Nothing).”

  A swirl of activity surrounds the chatter. Grace is cooking pancakes like there’s no tomorrow, Pearl is hunched over her laptop, Fayrene is holding forth about how “ravenous” Lovie will look in her wedding dress, and the bride-to-be, herself, is on the phone telling her daddy the news.

  I don’t have to use my radar to ears to know that Charlie is thrilled. The minute he realized Rocky was serious about Lovie, he dug up everything there was to know about the man. Before Rocky became a world-renowned architect, he was a bouncer in Las Vegas where his dearly departed mom, Bubbles Malone, was a showgirl. His size, skill and track record got him noticed by people with influence, and he ended up being body guard to three governors, first Nevada, then Texas and Louisiana. Former governors now, but still, when Rocky calls, there’s a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.

  Listen, I’m a big-hearted dog. I’m proud to give credit for that song to Jerry Lee Lewis.

  “Daddy, Rocky just drove up and I have to go. Are you sure you want to make that long drive? I don’t see how we’ll be doing anything in three days except standing before a JP.”

  “I’ll be there to walk my daughter down the aisle. Just trust Rocky, dear heart.”

  Rocky Malone’s not one of the great pretenders. He’s the real deal, a quiet but powerful man who never brags about his far-reaching influence. If I were a betting dog I’d place money that Lovie won’t be married in front of a Justice of the Peace.

  Lovie hugs Pete, but she’s in such a dither she gives a wave that resembles that used by Southern beauty queens. She’d die if she knew.

  “Cal, get Pete some new clothes, and when I get back we’ll shop for wedding dresses.”

  As she rushes out the door, Ruby Nell says, “Ha!”

  My sentiments exactly. Lovie might as well flip, flop and fly if she thinks she can get a marriage license and take care of all the red tape required to adopt the street urchin in one day.

  “The main thing,” Pearl says, “is to catch a thief and murderer before the wedding.”

  “The main thing,” Grace says, “is to eat these pancakes while they’re hot.”

  We all gather around the table where Pete nabs a pancake for yours truly so fast nobody sees his hands move except me. I guess he’s grateful I shared my silk pillow. I guess this kid is going to be my new best friend. I scarf the delicacy down and quick as wink there’s another one dangling before my eyes. The future unfolds for me as a continuous culinary banquet at the feet of this street kid who knows the meaning of eat while the food is on your plate.

  “I think the police might be close to catching the killer,” Callie says. While Pearl is voicing her agreement, my human mom polishes off the last of her pancakes and then cradles her coffee cup. “If theft had been his primary goal, he’d never have sold a necklace from the Treasures of Tulum at Channing’s Antiques. He’d have gone to the Black Market.”

  “Murder was his motive,” Pearl says. “He wanted to throw the police off track by dragging a red herring through Channing’s. And I think we’ve already established that Rocky was his target.”

  “I just can’t picture anybody wanting to kill him,” Ruby Nell says. “Besides, any of us could have eaten the poison soup and my niece was in the room with the snake. How can you be so sure?”

  She pushes aside her plate that contains half her breakfast, something she never does unless she’s dieting. That’s all right, Mama. Three days of cutting out sugar and butter won’t make enough difference to sneeze at, but in her mind she’ll be svelte and gorgeous when Charlie comes to town. And who knows, while wedding bells are ringing for Lovie, Ruby Nell might finally get a second chance to drink from the fountain of love.

  “Because of this.” Pearl clears her plate, opens her laptop to her latest search, and one slick dude leers at us from the screen, oily hair and smile, features just a tad too perfect. “Meet Otto Wagner, archeologist and vocal critic of Rocky Malone.” Pearl begins reading. “’Rocky Malone’s sloppy excavations and questionable methods of classifying artifacts lead more seasoned archeologists to ask disturbing questions about his qualifications and, indeed, his so-called finds.’ Otto never names the archeologists who are asking questions. ”

  “The very idea,” Fayrene says. “That’s nothing but a bunch of incinerations.”

  “It gets worse,” Pearl says. “Over the years he’s called Rocky a would-be celebrity, a Johnny-Come-Lately to a rarified world, under qualified and inexperienced. He stops just short of defaming him and bringing on a lawsuit.”

  “Where’s he from?” Callie asks.

  “He has homes in Lindau, Bavaria, and Seattle, Washington.”

  “Why would he come all the way to New Orleans when it would be so much more convenient to get rid of his rival at an archeology conference?” Ruby Nell gets up to refill her coffee. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe this will.” Pearl taps the computer keys and pulls up Otto’s Facebook page.

  “My stars and garters!” Grace leans across the table for a closer look and Fayrene rescues her teetering coffee cup. “His girlfriend is Cassandra Olsen!”

  Chapter 15

  Secrets, Lies, and Sleuthing

  We spent the morning getting new clothes for Pete. Now we’ve staked out Cassandra Olsen’s antique shop across the street in front of a gift shop called Bless Your Heart. I’m squeezed on a bench between Mama and Fayrene like a fat sausage in a bun. Still, it feels wonderful to be involved in something more meaningful than pouring a cup of tea. I was going stir crazy being treated like a hothouse flower and asked every other minute if I’m okay.

  Naturally, Mama didn’t want me to come. When we left Elvis, Pete and the new clothes at the Charmed Cat, she said that she and Fayrene were perfectly capable of sleuthing, and she did not want her grandbaby born in the middle of the street. But who else would keep them out of trouble?

  I used my sure-fire argument with Mama. “How else am I going to be safe unless I’m with you? Besides, you promised Jack.”

  Jack was the magic word. And now, here we are in the French Quarter, taking a bite out of crime. Actually, I’m taking a bite out of my shrimp and sausage Po Boy. We’ve been watching the shop for so long, Mama had to leave and get lunch.

  Ever since we got here, Cassandra has been visible at the front desk near the display window except for three brief forays into the bowels of her shop with one of her customers—none of whom bear even a slight resemblance to Otto Wagner.

  “The nerve of her. Stringing Martin Sanders along while she was already in a relationship.” Suddenly Mama stands. “We’re going in.”

  “Good grief, Mama. You sound like somebody in an old film noir movie.” She looks the part, too. For our day of sleuthing, Mama ditched her caftan and opted for a full skirted sundress in neon turquoise, sunglasses with rhinestone frames, a natural straw hat with a floppy brim that covers most of her face and her Jazz Age cigarette holder. She couldn’t be more conspicuous if she wore a beauty queen banner.

  Thank goodness, she didn’t light up. She knows better than to smoke in the vicinity of little Jackie Nell. I’m hoping that being a grandmother will be an incentive for her to quit smoking altogether. I don’t relish the thought of burying my mother before her time.

  She wipes her hands on a napkin then adjusts her hat. “I’ll do the talking.”

  We put our trash into the can beside Bless Your Heart and then proceed across the street and into the shop.

  “What can I do for you today?”

  Obviously Cassandra doesn’t recognize us. That’s easy enough to see with Mama in her getup. And Fayrene can blend into the wallpaper when she wants to. But the only reason I can imagin
e Cassandra wouldn’t recognize a pregnant woman who sat right across the dinner table from her is that her mind was on the murderous onion soup.

  There’s not a single thing to like about Cassandra Olsen except her red Jimmy Choo ankle-strap heels.

  “I’d like to see your collection of Limoges.” Mama makes this announcement as if she’s the queen of some remote kingdom nobody ever hard of.

  “We have quite a selection.” Cassandra comes from behind her desk, still clueless.

  “She’s quite a common sewer, you know,” Fayrene adds, and I see a light bulb going off in Cassandra’s head.

  I try to distract her. “Could you point me to your ladies’ room?”

  She gestures toward the back of the shop, behind a line of antique dressers, and I make my escape before the truth settles in. Not that Cassandra is going to brew up some poison tea while I’m turning her shop upside down for secrets and lies, but she’s likely to alert Otto that we came snooping around. Then we might all have targets on our backs.

  Why didn’t I think of that before? I cradle my womb and apologize to my baby. Then I plunge through a door marked No Admittance…and stifle my scream. I’m facing a line of the most evil-looking villains in the criminal history of the U.S.

  “Please,” I whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

  I’m lifting my hands over my head when my eyes finally adjust to the dark. The cut-throats are a row of masks on the wall. And one of them looks exactly like Lovie. Above the masks is a line of wigs on pegs, and sure enough, her flaming red curls are there.

  Except for Lovie’s likeness, all the masks are horrible enough to cause nightmares.

  “What other secrets are you hiding here?” I creep through this gallery of horrors to look inside old books and thumb through ancient documents. There’s a roll-top desk in the corner and I find a little penlight inside. I use it to rifle through the drawers and cubbyholes, but there is nothing that will directly tie Cassandra to the theft and murder.