Elvis and the Grateful Dead

by Peggy Webb

  Fancy Footwork, Fancy Lying, and Double Trouble

  I have two choices, shimmy down and face the music or wait him out. (Assuming there is somebody gunning for me under the tree.) If I wait, Lovie will come looking, and then she’ll be the one dealing with the problem.

  I’d shave my crowning glory before I’d do that to her. I start my descent. St. Peter ought to put a star by my name.

  My foot slips on a wet limb but I remain cool. Translated: I don’t wet my pants.

  With feet and bladder finally under control, I inch downward. When I touch ground I consider bending down to kiss the earth.

  In fact, I do bend down. But only to search for my car keys. Straining my eyes and sweeping my arms in long arcs, I come up empty. They can’t be far. I distinctly heard them hit the ground.

  I make another futile arc, then hear that noise again. In the mud on my knees, I whisper, “Lovie? Is that you?”

  “Guess again.”

  Jack steps out of the shadows, and I don’t know whether to slap him silly or fall into his arms in a relieved, ragged heap.

  “I swear, Jack Jones. You scared me to death.”

  “Fancy meeting you here.” He hauls me up and pulls me hard against his chest. “My, my. You’re all wet.”

  His wicked lips make me forget my promise of abstinence. If he kisses me like that again I won’t be responsible for getting arrested on public property for indecent exposure.

  While I try to act as if don’t want to wallow in the mud and make his babies, he’s looking at me like he can’t decide whether to spank me or have me for a midnight snack.

  “Let me go, Jack Jones.”

  He laughs, but turns me loose, then leans against the tree. “Don’t mind me. Go ahead with what you were doing.” I stand there with my hands on my hips trying to outstare him. “What were you doing, Callie?”

  “None of your business.”

  “In that case, I guess you don’t need these.” He pulls my keys out of his pocket and dangles them just out of my reach.

  “What are you doing with my keys?”

  “What are you doing up a tree in the middle of the night? Besides getting into trouble.”

  Mama taught me the best defense is a good offense. “Why are you still here? I thought you were headed to parts unknown.”

  “Not until I rescue you, Callie.”

  Good grief. He makes rescue sound like something risqué. And it probably is in the hands of Jack Jones.

  “Give me the keys.”

  “First, promise you’ll keep your pretty little nose out of this murder investigation.”

  “How did you know about that?” As if I have to ask. Jack’s like the Shadow. Everywhere at once. Finding out stuff that only a Houdini could know.

  Plus, Uncle Charlie or Mama could have told him. Both of them think my almost-ex is right up there with Lovie’s Jack Daniel’s apple pie and buttered rum ice cream.

  “Say you’ll let the authorities handle this, Cal.”

  Squared off with Jack, I guess I ought to feel proud of myself for not caving in. Listen, he’s the kind of delicious man who can melt the strongest woman’s resolve, and I never pretended to be one of those iron-willed, boardroom, ball-busting types. I like Passion Pink fingernail polish and Jungle Gardenia perfume as well as the next woman.

  “You’ve lost the right to protect me, Jack.”

  His silence is so intense I swear I can hear a falling star. Just before I pop out of my skin, he reaches for my hand, presses the keys inside, then closes my fingers over them.

  My heart stops. I swear it does.

  And when he bends over and kisses my fist, I channel Julie London singing “Cry Me a River.” Men who are macho one minute and tender the next ought to be outlawed.

  “Night, Cal. Take care.”

  I couldn’t move if I were in the path of a herd of stampeding mustangs. When Lovie walks up, I jump two feet.

  “I just saw Jack. What was that all about?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  I head to my Dodge Ram, keeping well ahead of her. A miracle considering I never outwalk or outrun Lovie.

  By the time she gets to my truck, I have the engine running.

  “Are you sure about this divorce, Callie?”

  “How can anybody ever be sure about anything?” It’s been a long day, and I’m not in the mood for introspection. “Lovie, what do you know about Bertha?”

  “Same thing you do. She used to sell lingerie at Victoria’s Secret, but I haven’t seen her there in a while. She was pleasant enough but didn’t go out of her way to help you.”

  “Do you think she’s the killer?”

  “I can see why she’d want to kill Dick. If Rocky did that to me, though, I’d choose something more creative, like tying him to the back of my van and dragging him over six miles of bad backcountry roads.”

  Lovie loves to shock.

  “But why would she want to knock off Brian Watson?”

  “I don’t know, Callie. Maybe her diary will tell us something.”

  Stopped at a red light in the Elvis Presley District of east Tupelo, I mull over the things we know. Brian was a waiter, Dick a postman, and they lived in different states. But they were both thirty-something, good-looking Elvis impersonators trying to be named the best tribute artist at the festival.

  The more I think about this angle, the more I’m convinced I’m on the right track. All the impersonators have motive and opportunity. As far as I know, Bertha was nowhere near the Birthplace when Brian died.

  “Lovie, what if one of the other impersonators is trying to kill the competition?”

  “I’ll help him.”

  “The singing wasn’t that bad.”

  “Ask your dog. He’ll back me up.”

  “Be serious, Lovie. I think we’re on to something.”

  “You be serious if you want to. It’s after midnight. All I want is to brush my teeth and go to bed.”

  By the time we get back to Mooreville, the sky is clear—which bodes well for tomorrow’s festival activities—and the stars are out in force. I park the Dodge Ram and we sprint into the house, then strip off our damp clothes and put on pajamas. Black silk and lace from an expensive bridal lingerie shop in Memphis for Lovie—what else?—and Walmart Betty Boops for me.

  In the bathroom she says, “I forgot my toothbrush,” and I tell her, “You can borrow mine.”

  With that, we haul off to bed without even saying good night, Lovie in my guest room painted the color of sunshine and me in my big cushy bed with my faithful doggie sentinels on either side.

  Hoyt is chasing a rabbit in his dreams, his little legs jerking. Judging by the sound of Elvis smacking his lips, he’s dreaming of fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, the King’s signature dish and a favorite treat for my basset. Content, I burrow into my pillow and watch the stars through the skylight.

  Sometimes, all it takes to make you feel good is knowing people (and pets) you love are nearby.

  The next morning Lovie and I have breakfast al fresco. The Angel Garden is usually my spot of choice, but crime tape spoils the ambience, so we opt for the front porch.

  Lovie has cooked pecan waffles and bacon. She thinks it’s bad luck to start the day with a stingy breakfast. If you do, she claims, everything else coming your way that day will be puny.

  I can go along with that. My own beliefs are so far off the beaten path I’d be barred from singing duets with Lovie at Wildwood Baptist Church if they knew.

  Over waffles Lovie says she’s leaving Bertha’s diary with me. “Between cooking for the Elvis Festival and getting ready for Rocky, I don’t have time to read it.”

  “Okay. I’ll take a look as soon as I can.” I don’t know when. I’ve got to get to Hair.Net this morning to take care of my business.

  After breakfast, I put on a CD of Native American flute music, then burn sacred white sage for good measure, fanning the smoke around us with the redtail hawk feather I bought las
t September at the White Buffalo Powwow in Tupelo. If there are any bad spirits lingering around after Dick’s murder, I’m sending them on the run.

  I inherited more than olive skin and high cheekbones from my dearly departed daddy, Michael Valentine: I got enough Cherokee blood that ancient Native American beliefs and rituals resonate with me.

  Lovie and I do the dishes and then she heads to the festival. After I dress Elvis in his pink bow tie and myself in a blue sundress with matching Burberry ballerina flats, we make a detour by my beauty shop.

  The impersonators won’t need me until this afternoon right before their competition starts. On the other hand, my regulars count on me to make them feel gorgeous.

  Listen, if a woman’s hair looks good, she feels good all over. I built my reputation by making sure my clients have the best-looking hair in Lee County.

  Bitsy Morgan is waiting for me, all ears to hear what I have to say about the murder in Mooreville. The community grapevine is the best I’ve ever seen, mainly because Fayrene makes it her business to tell everything she knows. Ask anybody in Mooreville. If you want gossip with your gas, all you have to do is walk into Gas, Grits, and Guts and says, “Hey, Fayrene, what’s new?”

  I’m not above doing it, myself. I like a good story as well as the next person as long as it’s not mean and doesn’t hurt anybody.

  While I transform Bitsy from gray to medium blond, I tell her the bare details, leaving Lovie out of it.

  That satisfies her and she moves on to her bursitis and her nephew’s new job in Memphis.

  Mama pops by and proceeds to plop down at my manicure table and paint her nails a hot pink that clashes with her tunic. I’d steer her toward peach if I weren’t still outdone with her about dirty dancing with Texas Elvis.

  “I’m thinking of getting a cowboy hat,” she says.

  “Whatever for, Mama?” If she says a little trip to Texas, I’m calling Uncle Charlie.

  “Fayrene and I are going two-stepping over in Tunica.” Home of genuine Vegas casinos built right in the middle of Mississippi cotton fields. Listen, I’d rather have the cotton.

  But I’m so relieved Mama’s not hauling off to Texas I don’t even get upset when she calls me into my office and asks for fifty dollars. She calls it a little loan; I call it a donation. Some people would say I’m supporting her vices, but I prefer to look at it as subsidizing Mama’s happiness. What’s the harm in a bit of gambling if it makes her forget all the years she spent raising a daughter alone and never looking at another man because nobody could hold a candle to Michael Valentine?

  What can I say? Mama has five card stud; I have designer shoes.

  By the time I get to Tupelo, it’s after twelve. Terry Matthews, G. I. Elvis from Pensacola, is waiting in my hairdressing tent. He’s a chemist and a dead ringer for the King. In army uniform, he’s the only one not wearing a spangled bell-bottom jumpsuit. I’ve heard he sings so much like his idol you almost believe they buried somebody else in Graceland and Elvis still lives.

  I’m pulling for him.

  “Good morning, Terry.” I stow my purse under the table while my dog starts nosing around for crumbs. Like I didn’t just feed him enough to sustain a small third-world country. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  I don’t make appointments at the festival. The hair station is here strictly as a courtesy.

  “Thirty minutes.” As if his tone weren’t haughty enough, G. I. Elvis checks his watch to be sure.

  Major mistake. My dog comes over and slimes the leg of his pants. G. I. Elvis streaks out, leaving the scent of cheap pomade.

  I’ve changed my mind about who ought to win and who ought to lose. When we get home I’m giving Elvis a steak.

  Since nobody else is waiting for my deft touch, I put my clever basset back on his leash, then stroll to the refreshment booth.

  Beulah Jane is in a dither. With cheeks flushed and hair awry, she appears to be suffering from stress overload.

  “Lord, Callie. I’m so glad to see you I could die.” This is a big turnaround from yesterday when she was jockeying to be in charge of the tour, but I give her the benefit of the doubt. Tragedy sometimes brings out the best in people.

  Beulah Jane pours two glasses of peach tea, hands one to me, then turns the sign on the booth to CLOSED.

  “Thanks.” The tea is just what I need. I’m hot all over from G. I. Elvis’ rebuke, not to mention the ninety-degree weather.

  Remembering the fit Beulah Jane had over my dog riding the bus, I ask her, “You don’t mind if Elvis comes in?”

  “I’m so upset a brass band could come in and I wouldn’t care.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The Tupelo police were waiting for us this morning. Now that Dick’s dead, Brian’s death has been ruled homicide.”

  “Was Lovie here?”

  “Lord, yes. They grilled her like she was a pure dee criminal. Then proceeded to turn our food supply upside down taking samples. It was a disgrace.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She said she was headed home. The way they were trying to pin Brian Watson’s death on her, I don’t blame her.”

  “She didn’t even know him before this festival.”

  “That’s what Lovie told them, but I don’t think they believed her. And her, a fine upstanding citizen. Of all the nerve!”

  “Did she say she was coming back?”

  “No. I told her the fan club officers could take care of the booth. No need for her to stay here and put up with that kind of harassment. Not to mention the stares.”

  “What stares?”

  “Oh, you know. Word gets around.”

  I’m so mad I’d like to slap somebody. Just about anybody would do.

  But my good southern upbringing prevails. I thank Beulah Jane profusely (she’s the kind of woman who thrives on praise), then head to the T-shirt booth. The tribute artists will just have to make do with their own hair gel.

  With Lovie on the hot seat for two murders, it’s time for another family summit.

  Elvis’ Opinion #4 on Appearances, Suspects, and Gossip

  If Callie would let me off this leash I could nose around the festival for suspects and gossips.

  And maybe keep an eye peeled for a foxy Lhasa apso or a sassy Pomeranian. Don’t get me wrong. Ann-Margret (my hot-to-trot French poodle) is the only one I’m crooning “I’m Yours” to, but I’d be a lesser dog if I didn’t check out my options.

  Looking at my debonair exterior, you might think I’m nothing more than a sex symbol and a pretty face, but I’m a dog of many talents. If my human mom would turn me loose I could rout out the gossipmongers and teach them a lesson before you could say “Don’t Step on My Blue Suede Shoes.”

  Nobody talks bad about a Valentine and escapes my wrath. Usually I’m the nonviolent type, but if Charlie hadn’t come along a few weeks ago when I was sporting on the farm with my little Frenchie, I’d have gnawed the leg off that sleazy character who wanted to spread gossip about Ruby Nell.

  It wouldn’t take me long to find who’s spreading lies about Lovie. I can smell the stench of mendacity a mile. (Listen, I’m no intellectual slouch. I know Tennessee Williams as well as that prissy shihtzu who lives down the street. He thinks he’s hot stuff because he can quote whole scenes from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Well, I’ve got news for him. Put me center stage under some hot lights and I could do a Brick that would make Paul Newman jealous.)

  As for finding the suspects, I have my theories. Plus, of course, my keen hearing. Why do you think God gave me mismatched ears? Because I’m smarter than the average dog, that’s why. Take a cocker spaniel, for instance. Hoyt wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do with information gleaned from judicious eavesdropping. But I just soak it all up, bide my time, and wait for the right moment to reveal myself as a star canine investigator.

  I guess that’s one of the reasons I got sent back as a dog. With my performing experience and people skills, not to ment
ion my big heart and generous nature, I am the perfect addition to the Valentine family.

  There’s no such thing as coincidence. Everything in life is part of a big plan. And I’m the foundation of the Valentine plan. Bereavement counselor at Charlie’s funeral home; protector, confidant, comforter, and oracle of wisdom for Callie; cheerleader for the entire family and doggie detective when the need arises. (Lately, it’s arising with a regularity that would be depressing if they didn’t have me around for entertainment value and bragging rights.)

  A lesser dog couldn’t juggle all these roles, but I’m the King. I can do anything.

  Right now, I’m helping Callie keep up appearances. Who better to enhance the Valentine family reputation than a show dog who can wag his tail with the best of the pedigreed (and even the unpedigreed riffraff) and still look intelligent and sophisticated?

  Chapter 7

  Character Flaws, Dirty Linen, and Swiveling Hips

  As Elvis and I weave through the festival crowd, it’s obvious word has gotten around about the two dead impersonators. In spite of the carnival atmosphere—hot dogs, balloons, souvenir T-shirts, plus the rocking piano and whiskey-voiced vocals of the Mississippi Delta blues great Eden Brent—people are acting skittish. They’re peering over their shoulders and cutting their eyes around to see who’s behind them.

  Even I’m not normal. Usually I don’t have a paranoid bone in my body, but today I imagine everybody is staring at me and talking. Did you know her house is a crime scene? Did you know her cousin is suspected of murder?

  I must have some heretofore hidden character flaw. When I get home (if I ever do) I’m going to light white candles under the moon, repent of falling off the abstinence wagon with Jack, and petition Mother Earth to make me a better person.

  But first I have to find Lovie and catch a killer. Oh, and did I mention make sure Love Me Tender Elvis from Tennessee ditches his awful wig before this afternoon’s competition? It looks like a dead guinea pig on his head. If he gets onstage wearing that ill-fitting, moth-eaten rug, Elvis is likely to drag it off his head and give it a decent burial. Not to mention that my reputation as Lee County’s premiere stylist will be ruined.