Elvis and the Blue Suede Bones

by Peggy Webb

  I’m not surprised to see Glenda Jo Cleveland and her husband here. According to the press, she has a new book out and is right in the midst of a whirlwind book tour. Also, according to press releases, she always makes the time to pay her respects to the dead, whether people are friends, business associates or merely acquaintances. I don’t know whether that last part is true or a publicist’s attempt to make Glenda appear kind hearted and accessible. I guess when you get to be famous you have keep your image polished.

  While I’m mulling over the price of fame, a standing arrangement of pink carnations starts moving. Either the too-sweet fragrance of the funeral flower is making me dizzy or the arrangement has decided to take a walk. I crane my neck to see, but a very tall man with a handlebar mustache is standing in my way. He has to be six two because I’m six feet in my three-inch heels and I can’t even see over him standing on tiptoe.

  The carnations settle back down, and I’m about to blame their traveling ways on a hallucination brought on by pregnancy when a discreet display of roses and baby’s breath suddenly takes a backseat to a gaudy arrangement of assorted gladiolas.

  “You witch!”

  The screech tears through the crowd like a buzz saw and I nearly jump out of my sale-priced designer shoes. I try to push my way to the front to see what’s happening, but the crowd is now milling like spooked cattle.

  “How dare you move my flowers!”

  There’s no mistaking the screamer now. That voice belongs to Martha Jo Matthews. Through a gap in the mourners, I see her catapult from her chair and make a beeline for Glenda Monts Cleveland. Wexford steps in front of his wife and takes a pummeling from Martha Jo’s fists.

  “You can’t hide from me, you untalented slut!” Martha Jo shouts. “I’m going to scratch your eyes out.”

  “Everybody stay calm.” Uncle Charlie’s voice precedes him and thank goodness he’s suddenly on the edges of the crowd, trying to push his way through and restore order.

  But this crowd has taken on the mentality of boxing fans smelling blood. There’s a low murmuring that gathers like a storm. The only watchers who move out of the way are those immediately surrounding the fighters.

  Wexford has a death grip on Martha Jo and it looks like he’s got the situation under control. But Glenda suddenly bursts from behind his back and starts swinging with her giant purse.

  The first blow lands on a faux Ming vase, and shards of pottery explode. The second blow narrowly misses Martha Jo and cracks the marble top of a side table.

  Holy cow! Lawsuit, I’m thinking. Ambulances, the police riot squad.

  Meanwhile, Mama’s cranking out “When the Saints Go Marching In” on the organ. I hate to be the one to tell her, but there are no saints here today, unless it’s poor unfortunate Becca Jean Whitwell, lying serene in her casket, and beautiful, too, thanks to my magic touch.

  Glenda draws back to swing again, but Elvis streaks by and takes a flying leap at her patent leather purse. Purse and dog land with a thump against a display of trumpet flowers and they cascade over him. If the situation weren’t so dire, I’d giggle. He looks like a winner at the Kentucky Derby, decked out in floral glory.

  “Give that basket hound a bone,” Fayrene yells, and everybody cracks up. It’s healing, this sort of laughter. It also serves as a cover for Uncle Charlie, who probably used his skills as an ex-Company man to subdue the fighters. While Bobby is quietly settling the crowd back to normal and discreetly cleaning up the mess, Uncle Charlie hustles the brawling three quietly out of the room.

  Little Jackie Nell is already tumbling like a trampoline artist. I need to get out of here and find a quiet spot. Elvis trots to my side and I lean down to rub his head.

  “Good job! You’re a hero, you know.” He wags his tail and I’ve no doubt he’s understood every word. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Just as we exit the viewing room, Lovie nabs my arm.

  “This way.”

  We’re headed straight to the kitchen where stacks of fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits are ready for the funeral reception. If we ever get things calm enough to have the funeral.

  “Wait, Lovie. Somebody needs to go into the chapel and tell Mama there’s been a delay in the funeral.”

  “I’ve already told her. She said she’d keep the music going.”

  The song drifting my way now sounds suspiciously like “Send in the Clowns.”

  “Let’s just hope she sticks to hymns. We’ve had enough excitement for today without her throwing in a Broadway tune.”

  “You worry too much, Cal.”

  Lovie drags me to a chair while Elvis trots over to his dog dish which is overflowing with fattening gravy and biscuit Lovie knows good and well are not on his diet. Still, in light of his heroics today, I don’t have the heart to say anything.

  My cousin sets a big glass of milk and a plate heaping with fried chicken and all the trimmings in front of me. “Eat.”

  “That’s enough food for an army.”

  “You’re eating for two. Hush up and enjoy it.”

  Fayrene appears in the doorway then proceeds to plop into the chair next to mine. “I’ll have what she’s having. That brawl’s got my whole consternation in an uproar.”

  I’ll have to say, I’m glad to see her. She’s knows both the brawlers better than anybody here except perhaps Mama, and she’s busy playing sacred songs. I hope.

  Before I get into matters pressing on my mind, I fortify myself with a big bite of gravy and biscuit then cover my womb with my hand to reassure myself that Jackie Nell is settling down.

  “Fayrene, why on earth would a famous writer engage in such a horrible public fight?”

  “Glenda Monts wasn’t always a famous suspect novelist. When your mama and I went to school with her she was homely and unpopular and the blunt of many jokes.”

  I sort through the Fayrenese to get a mental picture of an outcast child building up resentments.

  “Who were her tormentors?” Lovie has just asked the question on my mind.

  “Martha Jo Matthews, for one,” Fayrene says. “Sometimes I think Glenda funded her husband’s land scraping business just to get back at her.”

  “So you think moving her husband’s arrangements to the front and sticking Martha Jo’s at the back was just petty revenge?”

  “Or is Glenda capable of more?” Lovie plops down beside us with a plate filled sky high. You might think if we keep on eating like this, there won’t be enough food for the funeral reception, but Lovie always prepares for an overflow crowd.

  “I didn’t see evidence of that, but who knows? They say still waters run steep.”

  Uncle Chalie appears in the doorway looking as if he’s come from the opera instead of a free-for-all in the viewing room.

  “Do you want a plate, Daddy?”

  “No, thank you. Just coffee.” Lovie hands him a cup, black, just the way he likes it and he sits in the chair next to mine. “Everything has settled back down and the funeral is underway.”

  “What happened after I left, Uncle Charlie?”

  “The cops were going to arrest Glenda and Martha Jo for public disturbance, but I talked them out of it. The Whitwells didn’t need any more drama. It’s bad enough their daughter was murdered. But they did insist that Martha Jo and Glenda leave.”

  “I can see Martha Jo slinking out,” Fayrene says, “but I’ll bet Glenda didn’t leave quietly. She’s got a Lego as big as Texas.”

  “She was a perfect lady about it. I escorted her to her car.” Uncle Charlie always makes things sound simple, but I suspect he had a big hand in getting Glenda and Martha Jo to leave the premises quietly. He reaches for my hand. “How are you doing, dear heart?”

  “I’m fine. A little stressed from that fight over the flowers.”

  “I’d like for you to go home and get some rest.”

  Uncle Charlie is from the older generation who still views pregnancy as an illness and mothers-to-be as delicate. Still, he’s sweet a
nd dear to me and I don’t like to contradict him. Besides all that, I would enjoy getting away from this three ring circus.

  “I think that’s good advice.” I stand up to gather my purse.

  “Fayrene, would you mind going with her? Ruby Nell and Lovie can handle everything from here.”

  “Do you want me to take the basket hound?”

  “That might be best. Not everybody loves a dog, and I don’t want any more distractions from the funeral.”

  *

  I can’t say that I’m sorry to get home and put my feet up. I’m settled on the sofa with a glass of iced tea and Elvis is curled beside me with his head on my lap. Might I add that with Jack gone, my dog has become extra protective, which is fine by me. Elvis knows more about compassion and unconditional love than lots of people. Plus, he’s not running out to buy iron bars for windows.

  I’ve got to make up my mind about the bars, and soon. Pregnancy has made me weak-willed.

  Fayrene turns on the TV, and unfortunately she scrolls through the menu to my favorite shopping network. They’re showing some really cute designer shoes on sale, but I’ve put myself on a shoe diet. If I buy anymore, Jack’s going to have to build a special closet just for them.

  My diet lasts through a showing of evening shoes with rhinestone studded heels (what would I do with them after Jackie Nell is born?) but it breaks apart when I see the cute pink Bernardo sandals. Listen, I may be renowned for the hair styles I dispense at Hair.Net and Uncle Charlie’s funeral home, but after all I’m only human.

  By the time I’ve ordered, I’m already wallowing in buyer’s remorse. I blame this entirely on the shopping network. If they didn’t make ordering as simple as picking up my cell phone and clicking through their options, I’d still be sipping tea and richer by sixty-nine dollars.

  Next up is a pair of Prada heels very much like the ones I had before I misfired my weapon. I’d meant to wound a killer and instead took out a tire on my truck and the left heel off my own shoes. I place the blame squarely on Jack. I never wanted a gun, but he insisted and then taught me how to use it. Sort of.

  “Quick, Fayrene. Change channels before I max out my credit card.”

  She finds reruns of the Golden Girls, which I don’t need. Don’t get me wrong. Their antics are funny, but who needs TV when I have two Golden Girls right under my nose. Mama and Fayrene get into trouble faster than I can come to their rescue.

  “Ha!” The front door flies open and in marches Mama, full of sass and big ideas. “Turn off that TV. I’ve got stuff to tell.”

  “I don’t wonder.” Fayrene punches the off button on the remote. “You’ve come straight from the Looney Tune bin.”

  “Guess where Shooter Maxey is?”

  Mama stands in the middle of my living room with her hands on her hips, posing.

  “Good grief, Mama. We’ve had enough drama for today. Just tell us.”

  “All right, Miss Priss….MONTANA!” She throws her arms out wide like she’s expecting drum rolls. Maybe a brass band with elephants, too.

  “How do you know?” It pays to be skeptical of Mama’s information. She’s not always the most reliable about using trustworthy sources.

  “I heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  I can already tell, she’s going to make me dig for every morsel. If I weren’t so curious, I’d refuse to play the game.

  “Well, who was the horse, Ruby Nell?” Fayrene beats me to the punch. “Anybody we know?”

  “You most certainly do. She sidled up to me after the funeral to compliment me on my music selection, especially “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “Climb Every Mountain.”

  “Good grief, Mama. You played Broadway showtunes!”

  “Appropriate ones. There’s a difference.”

  “Well, don’t just keep us in suspenders, Ruby Nell? Who’s the horse?”

  “None other than Fannie Lawson. She said she wanted me to play the same things when she can finally lay Evelyn’s bones to rest.”

  In some ways, this is good news. If Fannie wants Mama to play at her daughter’s funeral, then she doesn’t believe Mama is the killer and she won’t push Sheriff Trice for an arrest.

  “How does she know where Shooter lives?” I ask. “According to beauty shop gossip, Fannie Lawson has never set foot out of Lee County. Might I add, if it’s on the beauty shop grapevine it’s more reliable than the six o’clock news.”

  “He sends Christmas cards. He’s living on a ranch up there in Butte under the name of Brent Martin. We’ve hit the jackpot!”

  “I don’t know how you can say that, Mama.”

  “He never married and is up there all by himself. We can go up there and nab him for murder!”

  “If he’s a reckless,” Fayrene chimes in, “he’ll be easy pickings.”

  “Holy cow! We will not be going to Montana!”

  I can understand Fayrene’s eager agreement to this plan. She always goes along with whatever Mama says. Buy is my mama getting senile? Are there signs I’ve missed because I was trying so hard to get pregnant I didn’t even notice?

  “I’d like to know why not.” Mama’s got that look when she’s planning to argue till her face turns blue.

  “For one thing, the sheriff said you can’t leave town.”

  “Flitter.”

  “For another, I’m not about to climb in a car and drive clear across the United States on a wild goose chase. For all I know, he’s probably now living in Mexico under the name Peter Piper.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, missy. Fannie said he’s been sending cards from Montana for the last five years. Using different names, of course.”

  “See, that’s just what I mean, Mama. And who’s to say he hasn’t moved since Christmas? Shoot, we don’t even have enough evidence to say he’s a viable suspect. Besides all that, I think the two murders are linked and there’s no connection between Steven Maxey and Becca Whitwell.”

  Mama’s so mad she pulls that absurd 1920s cigarette holder out of her purse.

  “If you light up, I’m going to ban you from the premises. I don’t want…” Good grief, I almost spilled the beans and said Little Jackie Nell. “…my baby breathing second-hand smoke.”

  “Flitter. I’m not fixing to smoke. You’ve got me so upset I just need something to hold onto.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama.” I pat the sofa. “Sit down by me. I know being a person of interest in Evelyn’s murder is hard on you, but I promise I’m going to help get you off the hook.”

  She plops beside me and reaches for my hand. “You’re a good daughter, Cal.”

  See. That’s why I can never stay mad at Mama.

  “While you were playing the organ,” I tell her, “we were talking about Glenda Cleveland being bullied in school. Did Evelyn participate in that?”

  “She was the worst, calling Glenda poor little ugly rich girl. Glenda’s daddy owned Monts Construction Company.”

  “How did Glenda handle that?”

  “She’d just go off in a corner somewhere and cry. Now that I look back on it, all of us were cruel and jealous and selfish. Nobody went to Glenda’s defense and nobody called Evelyn down. All the boys were crazy about Evelyn and she thought she was hot stuff. She was voted most beautiful, but most of us girls thought she should have been called most likely to steal your boyfriend.”

  “So a lot of Evelyn’s classmates were jealous of her or hated her?”

  “Including me. She made no bones about wanting Michael. Now that I look back on it, I can see how a girl growing up with a mother whose trailer had a swinging door would have a hard time figuring out how to relate to both sexes. Evelyn was larger than life and she made lots of enemies. Just about anybody in that high school might have had reason to kill her.”

  Mama sounds very discouraged, and who can blame her? So far our efforts at catching Evelyn’s killer have resulted in a short jail stay, pie in the face, and a wrecked lawn chair. The funeral brawl was the worst, but I can
take no credit for that, and thank goodness, neither can Mama.

  “Don’t you worry, Mama. We’ll come up with a good plan.”

  “Let’s wait till Lovie gets here. I’m having a hard time thinking on an empty stomach.”

  Lovie breezes through my front door as if she’s heard Mama’s cue. “Leftovers are in the van, but I’m too pooped to unload it.”

  “I’ll get it.” Fayrene prances out with Mama right behind her while Lovie kicks off her shoes.

  “What’s this?” My cousin scoops up an envelope on the hall table.

  “Holy cow! I forgot to check the mail.”

  Lovie proceeds to pull a card from the envelope and stand there reading it, as big as you please.

  “Excuse me. That’s my private mail.”

  Lovie says a word I hope Jackie Nell doesn’t ever learn and then she tosses the envelope back on to the table.

  “It was nothing. Just an invitation to Glenda Cleveland’s booksigning in Oxford tomorrow evening.”

  I’m about to be as dismissive as Lovie, but I have a light-bulb moment at the exact time she does.

  “Sleuthing time,” she says.

  “But no funny business.”

  “Agreed. Pinkie promise.”

  We link pinkies the way we’ve been doing since were children, but I still get this gut feeling that something is wrong. When I hear Mama and Fayrene returning from Lovie’s van, chattering about fried chicken and their next move, I know exactly what’s off.