Murder Boogies with Elvis

by Anne George

  “That’s Larry.” Tammy Sue squealed. “Hey, Larry!”

  Larry’s hips moved even faster.

  I poked Tammy Sue. “Where’s Virgil, Jr.?”

  “That’s him coming up now.”

  He wasn’t dancing like Larry had done. His movements were slower, more sinuous. He was Elvis, the slight sneer on his face, the lock of hair across his forehead. The audience went crazy.

  And then the line was back together again. The music changed to “Love Me Tender,” and the Elvises began the chorus-line kick. Since they weren’t all the same size, it was ragged but effective nonetheless. Thirty Elvises advanced toward us. Twenty-nine stopped at the edge of the stage, held up their arms, and then bowed. But one kept coming, staggering sideways for a moment, then advancing. For a second he looked straight at me, his face contorted. Then he reeled and fell backward into the deep orchestra pit.

  There was the screech of musical instruments in the pit, silence from the audience, and then an uneasy stirring. This was just another stunt like the Cock Fight guy had pulled. Right? Then twenty-nine Elvises rushed over and looked into the pit, some of them in imminent danger of following their cohort as they jockeyed positions to see what had happened.

  “Larry, don’t you fall off that stage,” Tammy Sue screamed. “Get your ass back.” She jumped up and looked down into the pit. “My God. He’s hurt bad.”

  Virgil, too, was leaning over and looking.

  “Daddy!”

  Virgil looked up. Virgil, Jr., who was okay, was yelling at him. Virgil closed his eyes and sat back down.

  The audience had caught on. Several people rushed down the aisle toward the stage. Doctors, I hoped.

  “Don’t look,” Fred told me.

  “Are you crazy? No way.”

  Tammy Sue was keeping us apprised of what was happening anyway.

  “His head’s in the bass fiddle. He’s not moving. I’ll bet those strings cut the hell out of him. Looks like he bounced off the organ, though. The corner’s smushed.”

  “Let’s go. I hate this,” Fred said, standing and taking my hand.

  “We’re going,” I said to Mary Alice, who had her hands over her face. She nodded.

  “Looks like there’s blood everywhere,” Tammy Sue announced. “I’ll bet it was one of those new guys who didn’t know what he was doing. Probably dead.”

  “Sit down, Tammy Sue,” Virgil ordered. He had an arm around Sister’s shoulder.

  Tammy Sue looked startled, but she sat.

  Fred and I got the hell out. Most of the people in the audience were still seated, waiting to find out about the Elvis, to see what was going to happen next, hoping against hope that he would prance back onstage with a tinsel halo. So the aisles were still fairly clear. We got out of the parking lot easily and were almost home before either of us spoke. Then Fred said, “Stuff like that gets to me. Did you see the expression on that poor man’s face? I never saw anything like it. Weird.”

  “I think he was dying before he fell.”

  Which was true. The story made the eleven o’clock news. Not only was the Elvis dead of an apparent heart attack, but 911 had received a record number of calls. The name of the man was being withheld until relatives could be notified.

  I fixed us some hot chocolate with a lot of tiny marshmallows, and we sat by the fire talking about Haley and the baby, trying to dim the too vivid picture of the man with the contorted face staggering toward us.

  It was midnight before we went to bed. It had been an unnerving evening, but the last thing I thought about before I went to sleep was Tammy Sue, and I had to smile. Mary Alice just might have met her match.

  Four

  E-mail from: Haley

  To: Mama and Papa

  Subject: Homecoming

  Oh, happy day! We’ve made our plane reservations. The three of us will be on a Delta flight that gets into Birmingham at 4:15 on April 1. I didn’t know how homesick I was until I realized that this time next month we’ll be settled in our own house in Alabama. I can’t wait to see all of you. I know the twins have grown so much, and we haven’t even set eyes on David Anthony. Debbie’s been sending us pictures, but I can’t wait to hug him. To hug all of you.

  Mama, I’ve got a favor to ask. Could you go over to Philip’s house (I haven’t started thinking of it as our house yet. Guess I will soon.) one day soon and open it up? Don’t do any cleaning, just air it out. We’ll get a maid service when we get home to clean it up. We’ve got to straighten everything out first. We got married and left in such a hurry that I just sort of threw my stuff in.

  I’m feeling fine. I can’t wait!

  Hugs and kisses to both of you and to Woofer and Muffin, too.

  Love,

  Haley

  E-mail to: Haley

  Mama

  Subject: Can’t wait to see you

  Honey, I can’t wait until the first of April. I’ll be happy to go over and open up the house. All sorts of things are happening here. Your aunt Sister has set the date for her wedding, but I’m sure that she or Debbie has e-mailed or called you. It’s May 14. We are all to be bridesmaids. More details on this later. You’re really going to like Virgil. We met his daughter last night. His son is an Elvis impersonator. Not bad, either. We went to see him perform last night at the Alabama, a fund-raiser for Vulcan.

  Take care, honey. Love to you, Joanna, and Philip

  There was no reason to tell her all of the evening’s details. I hit the send button and delivered her hugs and kisses to Muffin, who was lying in the bay window in the kitchen watching the birds at the feeder.

  “I’m keeping you, though,” I said. It was the first time I had voiced this, but I knew it was true. There was no way that Haley was going to get Muffin back. Muffin’s tail slashed back and forth as my elbow accidentally hit the window and the birds flew away.

  She gazed up at me with a look-what-you’ve-done-now look.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized.

  She might or might not forgive me.

  “I’m keeping you anyway,” I said.

  It was almost 8:30. I had slept the night before but not a deep, restful sleep. Fred hadn’t slept well, either, and at some time during the night he had gotten up. The afghan crumpled on the den sofa told me that was where he had finished the night. I hadn’t heard him leave. I’d check with him in a little while. He’d want to hear Haley’s news, too.

  Fred had brought the morning paper in and left it on the table. The Metro Section had been pulled out and I saw what he had probably been looking for. The headline announced: ACCIDENT AT ALABAMA KILLS PER-FORMER.

  Accident? No way. Heart attack, maybe.

  I poured myself a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee and sat down to read the story. There was nothing new. An Elvis impersonator had fallen into the orchestra pit of the Alabama Theater during a performance the previous evening. He was pronounced dead at University Hospital. The name was being withheld pending notification of next of kin.

  Suddenly the man’s face, contorted as it had been the night before, was superimposed on the story. Damn. I pushed the paper aside, reached over, and turned on the TV on the kitchen counter.

  “An accident at the Alabama Theater last night claimed the life of an unidentified man.”

  I switched off the TV and made myself think about Haley coming home. Her refrigerator would need to be stocked, and she wouldn’t feel like going to the grocery. It had taken me a week to get over jet lag when we got back from Warsaw, and I wasn’t pregnant. Some flowers would be nice, too.

  I got a pencil and a piece of paper from the junk drawer. In a few minutes, I was lost in list making.

  A spatter of rain against the window startled me. I glanced out at the thermometer on the deck and saw that it was forty-two degrees. A raw day. March. I got my raincoat from the hall closet, slipped my feet into my sneakers, and went to check on Woofer. He was snuggled up warm and cozy in his igloo. I handed him a couple of treats, promised
a walk if the weather improved, and invited him into the house.

  He declined the invitation. I gave him the hug and kiss that Haley had sent and scurried back into the house, where the phone was ringing.

  “You okay?” Fred asked.

  “I’m fine. You okay?”

  “Fine. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Have you heard anything more about that man at the Alabama?”

  “They’re saying it was an accident, and they haven’t given his name yet.”

  “That was no accident.”

  “I know.”

  “Let me know if you hear anything.”

  “I will. And, honey? We got an e-mail from Haley. They’re getting in on April the first. She wants us to open up the house for them.”

  “How about that.”

  “I know.”

  I could imagine how Fred’s face had brightened at the news. Her absence these last few months had left a giant hole in our lives.

  The phone rang again just as I hung up.

  “Egg McMuffin or sausage biscuit?” Sister asked.

  “Egg McMuffin.”

  I put on a pot of fresh coffee.

  She must have been calling from the drive-in window, since she was at my kitchen door before the coffee had finished perking.

  “Damn,” she said, holding out a McDonald’s sack for me to take while she closed her umbrella. “So much for the sunny South.” She stepped inside and pulled off her raincoat.

  “What on God’s earth have you got on?” I asked. “You look like Yul Brynner.”

  She swirled so I could get the benefit of the outfit from all directions. Yards of white material, tied at the waist with a yellow scarf, ballooned out as she turned. I was wrong. She looked more like the Pillsbury Doughboy than she did Yul Brynner. She hung the raincoat on the back of the pantry door.

  “I’m taking a class in the martial arts. It’s a mixture of karate, tae kwon do, and some other stuff. It’s Virgil’s idea. He says every woman should be able to protect herself.”

  “You’ve been doing a pretty good job.” I got plates down, put them on the table, and started unwrapping Egg McMuffins.

  “I think he’s right, though. You ought to go with me. Little as you are, you’re a sitting duck.”

  “But I have you to protect me.”

  Sister pulled a chair out and sat down. “True. Actually, Virgil wanted me to get a gun, too, but I told him I didn’t like them. He said he didn’t like them, either, but being a sheriff it was pretty important to have one.”

  “But you’re not, are you? Getting one?” I poured the coffee.

  “Of course not. I’m just going to learn how to break necks. Incidentally, you need a new bathrobe. That thing is pitiful. I didn’t even know they still made chenille.”

  “Penney’s found some somewhere.” I took a big bite of my Egg McMuffin. Delicious.

  Sister pointed to the newspaper I had placed on the counter. “Did you see the article about the man who fell in the orchestra pit last night?”

  “Don’t want to talk about it while we’re eating. That was pretty gruesome.”

  “I was just going to tell you who he was. His name was Griffin Mooncloth.”

  “Mooncloth? What kind of name is that?”

  “Just a name. Pretty, isn’t it?”

  “How did you find out? They’re still not releasing it on the news.”

  “Virgil called me this morning. He stayed last night to help the Birmingham police out. Tammy Sue took me home.”

  What I was supposed to do then, what Sister was waiting for me to do, was to ask her to tell me more, but I didn’t. Death and Egg McMuffins don’t mix. A man with a name is too real. I concentrated on my food and told her that Haley was coming in on the first.

  “Good,” she said, wiping her hands on a paper napkin. “We’ll give them a party.”

  I had taken exactly two bites of my Egg McMuffin. Sister had polished hers off.

  “Can I tell you some more stuff that’s not too bad?” she asked.

  I nodded. Might as well.

  “Nobody knew who he was.”

  “He just boogied out onstage with the other Elvises and none of them knew him?”

  “Apparently. He was in Bud McCracken’s place in the line, and nobody noticed that it wasn’t Bud because he’s new anyway.”

  I finished chewing my Egg McMuffin, swallowed, and crumpled up my paper napkin.

  “What happened to Bud?”

  “He’s disappeared.” Sister tapped her fingers on the table. “Can I tell you now what happened to Griffin Mooncloth?”

  “Don’t be too graphic.”

  “Would ‘somebody slit his gizzard out’ be too graphic?”

  The Egg McMuffin stuck about halfway down my esophagus. I reached for my coffee. “You’re lying.”

  Mary Alice shook her head. “That’s what Virgil said. He said, ‘Mary Alice, honey, somebody just slit the gizzard right out of that poor boy.’”

  I glared at Sister. “That can’t be right. Virgil’s putting you on. That man was dancing right toward us in a white satin suit and there wasn’t a drop of blood on it.”

  Sister reached down and picked up Muffin, who was rubbing against her leg. “You going to let Haley have this cat back?”

  “No. I’ve got squatter’s rights.”

  Muffin settled down in Sister’s lap. Sister scratched her under the chin and said she reckoned that Griffin Mooncloth had had his gizzard cut out from the back.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I pushed my chair back so quickly that Sister and Muffin both looked up in surprise. “People don’t have gizzards.” I snatched my plate and Sister’s and put them in the dishwasher. “Gizzards are what come in the plastic bags they stick up frozen chickens’ rear ends.”

  “Well, my goodness. Don’t get testy. Maybe Virgil was speaking metaphorically.”

  Metaphorically? If I hadn’t been so upset, I’d have been impressed. Instead I asked, “What in hell would a gizzard be a metaphor for?”

  “Some important organ that he couldn’t get along without. Why is it making you mad, anyway?”

  “Because.” I reached for the coffeepot. “Because last night we were sitting in the Alabama Theater, having a nice time and watching a bunch of Elvises dance, and one of them named Griffin Mooncloth, and I don’t believe that name for a minute, whom nobody knew, got killed right in front of us, and Virgil treats it lightly by saying he got his gizzard cut out.” I pointed to Sister’s cup. “You want some more?”

  She nodded. “You take your estrogen today?”

  I ignored that and poured the coffee. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “You must not have.”

  I sat back down. Muffin deserted Sister and got in my lap. That made me feel better. I rubbed her head with one hand and reached for the sugar with the other.

  “I don’t know. It’s just that I saw his face and kept seeing it all night.” I stirred my coffee. “How did they find out his name if nobody knew him? There sure wasn’t room for a wallet in that jumpsuit.”

  “Dusk Armstrong knew him. Turned out he was one of her old boyfriends. Virgil said they asked everyone in the show to stay to see if anyone could identify him. She was the only one who knew him. She’s been studying dancing in New York and says he was in her class.”

  “He was from New York?”

  Sister nodded.

  I thought of Dusk outlined against the moon the night before, how beautiful she had been. Lord, I hoped this wasn’t something she was involved with.

  There was a tap on the backdoor and Mitzi Phizer stuck her raincoat-covered head in. “Hey,” she said. “I saw your car, Mary Alice, and thought I’d find out what happened at the Alabama last night. I heard on TV that one of the performers died onstage.”

  “Fell into the orchestra pit,” Sister said.

  “Oh, my Lord!” Mitzi shook raindrops from her gray curls
.

  “But he was already dead.” Sister looked at me. “Someone had removed one of his vital organs.”

  “What?”

  I got up, took Mitzi’s raincoat, and hung it on the door by Sister’s. It was raining so hard now that water dripped on the floor from the coat. I had a sudden memory of the old cloakrooms at Lakeview School, could even smell the damp of the coats and galoshes, the bologna sandwiches in tin Mickey Mouse lunch boxes. Damn. I shook my head, which I realized was throbbing dully. I felt the knot from the day before yesterday when I had slammed into the drainpipe. It was slightly sore. Did concussions take forty-eight hours to show up?

  “We had seats in the front row, and he fell right in front of us,” Mary Alice said. “He was one of the Elvis impersonators.”

  Mitzi sat down at the table. “And someone killed him?”

  “Dead as a doornail.”

  I picked up the coffeepot. Mitzi motioned that she didn’t want any.

  “Who was he?” she asked.

  Sister was happy to relate the story again. I leaned against the kitchen counter and listened. The rain hitting the skylight sounded loud. I felt cold.

  “Well, my goodness,” Mitzi said. “Dusk Armstrong? Bernice’s baby?”

  I nodded. “Dawn, Day, and Dusk. Bless her heart.”

  “Bernice should have had better sense,” Mary Alice said. She pushed her chair back. “I’ve got to go to class. Martial arts,” she explained to Mitzi.

  “I figured. Or trying out for The King and I. You look like Yul Brynner.”

  “The better to kick ass. Yaaa!” Sister jumped and gave a karate chop. Muffin skittered into the den and down the hall.