by Peggy Webb
Trotting toward the T-shirt booth as fast as Elvis can keep up, I whip out my cell phone.
“Lovie, where are you?”
“In my kitchen beheading shrimp and mutilating tomatoes.”
“You’re making jambalaya?”
“Yes, and garlic mashed potatoes, cheese grits, black-eyed peas, whiskey-glazed carrots, jalapeño corn bread, brandied peaches, and chocolate cherry cake.”
“Holy cow, Lovie. Are you making all that for Rocky?”
“No. For me. I’m not about to go to prison hungry.”
“You’re not going to prison. I’m headed to the T-shirt booth to talk with Uncle Charlie and Mama. How fast can you get down here?”
“I’ve removed myself from the lynch mob. I’m not coming back.”
“You’re innocent, Lovie, and we’re going to act that way. Besides, we need to come up with a plan to find the real killer.”
I guess I must be doing something right because she promises to stow the food, clean the fishy smell off her hands with lemon, and come back, pronto. And I don’t even have to bribe her. Obviously, murder has unhinged her. Lovie usually drives a harder bargain. There was that time I wanted her to back up the tiny little fib I told Jack, and it cost my favorite pair of Juicy Couture sandals.
Well, the fib wasn’t exactly tiny. It all happened last year at Thanksgiving just a few weeks before he left me. We’d been going back and forth about having children and I told him I was pregnant. My intentions were good. I thought if I could get him excited about the prospect of a fictional baby, I’d have no trouble nudging him into having a real one.
It all backfired. I lied, Lovie lied, and we fooled Jack for all of two minutes. All because of a small error: I forgot I always get this twitch in my eye when I’m not telling the absolute, unvarnished truth. I don’t know why I thought I could get by with such a whopper. Listen, I can’t even successfully tell a little white lie.
I’m glad the cops didn’t question me. I’d probably have confessed last night’s breaking and entering along with stealing (the diary) and withholding evidence (both the diary and the rhinestone pin).
Mama sees me coming and waves. When I see her clashing fingernail polish in the bright light of day I repent my earlier decision not to steer her away from her fashion faux pas. Okay, so she won’t receive stars in her crown for motherhood, but she’s my biggest fan and defender. If I’d been the one in the kitchen questioned for murder, she’d have been in there taking names and kicking butt.
“Hey, Mama.” I lean down to kiss her cheek, and she says, “What’s that all about?”
“Nothing. Just because.” I hug Uncle Charlie, then settle into the red canvas camp chair beside Mama and unsnap Elvis’ leash.
He makes a beeline for Uncle Charlie, whom he adores. Mainly, I think because Uncle Charlie’s the closest thing I know to a guardian angel on this earth, but also because he sometimes takes my dog fishing and lets Elvis sample the fish bait.
He bends down to scratch Elvis’ ears. “I was going to call you, dear heart. You heard about Lovie?”
“Beulah Jane told me they grilled her and took food samples. I wonder what they’re looking for.”
“The detectives are waiting on toxicology reports. If Jack were here we’d know more.”
Uncle Charlie thinks Jack can turn water to wine. Well, sure, they fish together and tell the same jokes and get along like father and son, but I don’t see how that translates into Jack being the answer to all our prayers.
Someday I’m going to ask Uncle Charlie why, but now is not the time.
“We don’t need Jack,” I tell him, and Mama gives me this look like she’s the queen of some small country and I’ve committed high treason and might get my head chopped off. “We just need to find out who did it. And fast.”
“Here comes Fayrene.” Mama motions her friend to the white camp chair. “Maybe she can help.”
Dressed in lime-green slacks and blouse, Fayrene looks like a cucumber. I mean that in the best way. Cucumbers are a personal favorite of mine.
“Whatever it is, of course I can help. I have ESPN.” Fayrene plops down beside Mama. “I don’t even need a weatherman to tell me when the barium pressure is high. I can tell just by my ultrasensory precipitations.”
“Great,” Mama tells her. “You got your dancing shoes?”
“Right here.” Fayrene pats a purse the size of the Grand Canyon, then jerks her mirror out and fluffs up her hair. “I swear, Jarvetis was so mad this morning I couldn’t half pimp.”
Translation: primp. And what in the world was Jarvetis mad about? Surely not the dancing. He’s the mildest-mannered man I know. He didn’t even get angry when Fayrene sold his favorite bird dog in a fit of revenge over his adding pickled pig’s lips to the inventory without consulting her. She thought nobody would buy them, and they’ve turned out to be her next to highest-selling item, running a close second to boiled peanuts.
I remind myself to ask Mama. Jarvetis and Fayrene are Mooreville’s Desi and Lucy, Bogart and Bacall, George and Gracie—so famous as a couple I can’t imagine Gas, Grits, and Guts with only one of them.
Lovie arrives with a basket of food and proceeds to serve hunks of chocolate cherry cake, her favorite remedy for trouble, guaranteed to take your mind off everything except murder.
The crowd has thinned because of the heat, and nobody’s near the T-shirt booth. It’s the perfect time to discuss our private investigation.
I put my half-eaten cake aside and look straight at Fayrene, Mooreville’s Mouth. Which is the unmitigated truth, no matter how much I like her. “Everything that’s said in this booth stays in the booth.”
“Cross my heart and hope to outlive Jarvetis,” she says.
Things at Gas, Grits, and Guts must be worse than I thought.
“Lovie, did you bring the rhinestone hairpins?” I ask.
She pulls them out of her pocket while I tell where we found them, leaving out the part about the first one being behind the tea olive instead of the Confederate jasmine. I don’t want to hurt Fayrene’s feelings.
The great thing about loyal family and friends is you don’t have to explain things, like why you didn’t turn evidence over to the cops.
“I knew I saw Bertha behind that bush,” Fayrene says.
“This is still not proof she killed Dick,” I say. “It’s a common type you can buy at Walmart. Anybody at the party could have lost it.”
“I have one just like it,” Lovie says, which is news to me. Bad news, and all the more reason I’m glad we withheld evidence. “I discovered it this morning when I was rambling through my bathroom drawers looking for a ponytail holder.”
“You have a set?” Mama asks.
“No. I guess I lost one. I have no idea where.”
Even worse.
“Oh, pshaw!” Fayrene waves her hand about. “Anybody can be forgetful. The last time I was in Walmart I forgot to buy Jarvetis’ expositories. And him not even able to sit without a cushion.”
If I don’t do something fast, this summit is going to turn from murder to hemorrhoids. I lead the discussion back to Bertha’s motive, but nobody has a clue why she would kill Dick and Brian.
When Lovie repeats my theory that one of the impersonators is knocking off the competition, Fayrene jumps right in.
“I’ll bet it was George Blakely.”
Otherwise known as Texas Elvis.
“You’re just jealous because he danced with me and not you.” Mama in a huff is a sight to behold—eyes and cheeks blazing. And I swear even her hair springs up like the tines on a devil’s pitchfork.
“Mama, have you had the scissors to your hair?”
“Why do you ask?” She fluffs it, a sure sign of guilt.
“You have.”
“Only to trim a little straggle or two.”
I don’t leave straggles and Mama knows it. Just wait till she asks me for another fifty dollars. I’m likely to give her only thirty.
&n
bsp; “Dear hearts, let’s get back to George. Fayrene, why do you think he might have killed Dick and Brian?”
“Because I heard him in an argument with Dick about who was going to win the tribute artist competition.”
“When was this?” Uncle Charlie asks.
“Last night at the party. Right after the impersonators got there.”
“Do you recall exactly what George said?” I ask.
“Naturally. He said I’m going to win this contest no matter what it takes.”
Mama jumps to his defense. “George is a bit arrogant and high strung, but I don’t think he’s a murderer. What about that one from Tennessee? He has shifty eyes.”
“Love Me Tender Elvis is a pussycat,” I say. “I guarantee his only crime is bad hair.”
“You don’t know that, Carolina.” When Mama gets really upset with me she calls me by my full name, which I hate. It makes me feel like a state. Though I guess I’m lucky she didn’t name me Georgia and call me George. “Any one of the impersonators had the same motive and opportunity.”
“Still, Mama…he may be the best lead we have.”
Uncle Charlie steps in. “Why don’t you and Lovie follow that lead while I research the Internet to see what I can find out about our impersonators? Ruby Nell, can you and Fayrene handle the T-shirt booth till I get back?”
“As long as you’re back by four, Charlie.”
For reasons I can’t fathom, Uncle Charlie is not too happy with Mama’s demand. Usually he’s Mama’s staunchest supporter and defender, no matter how outrageous she acts.
Is he rattled because he needs to be at Eternal Rest taking care of business, or could it be he doesn’t like Mama’s latest venture? If he’s upset about something as innocuous as dancing, he must have a good reason.
I’ll have to keep an eye on the situation…as soon as I have a free eye to use. Between murder of the impersonators and my dog custody suit with Jack, I’m lucky to keep up with my own business, much less Mama’s.
Putting Elvis back on his leash, Lovie and I set out to uncover Texas Elvis’ dirty linen. But first we detour by my hairstyling tent so I can get the impersonators ready for the mid-afternoon round of competition.
There’s only one tribute artist waiting, and thank goodness it’s Love Me Tender Elvis. His real name is Thaxton Miller, a handsome thirty-something salesman at a motorcycle shop in Memphis. Festival scuttlebutt is that the spirit of Graceland has rubbed off on him and he’s a shoo-in to win.
I don’t know whether he channels Elvis or not. I haven’t heard him sing. All I know is that I’m fixing to make Thaxton’s hair look so good you’d have to be Elvis’ mama to tell it from the real thing.
Removing the guinea pig wig from his head, I say, “Do you want me to dispose of this?”
“No. I’m keeping it for sentimental reasons.”
I don’t know how anybody can be sentimental about a hairpiece that looks like roadkill, but I’m too polite to ask.
Lovie winks at me and pulls a chair close to Thaxton. “Do you enter these competitions often?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Then you must know a lot of the other tribute artists.”
I see where she’s going with these questions, and I’m happy to leave the interrogation to Lovie. When I’m in the middle of hair, I like to use every ounce of concentration on making it look wonderful. That’s why people call me a hair artist instead of a mere stylist.
When she asks about Texas Elvis, Thaxton says, “Yeah, I know George. We play cards together.”
“Then you know him pretty well.”
“Naw. It’s just an occasional card game. All I know is he likes cigars and Miller Lite.”
Not a very good case for murder.
Before Lovie can ask more, I’ve finished transforming Love Me Tender Elvis and he’s sprinting toward the stage saying he can’t be late for the competition.
“What was his big hurry?” Lovie says.
“Guilt?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree with George.”
“Right now, it’s the best tree we have. Come on, Lovie.”
By the time I’ve put the CLOSED sign on the tent flap, the competition is under way again and fans are going wild. As Lovie and I press through the crowd, she grabs my arm.
“Somebody’s following us.”
“Good grief, Lovie. In this madhouse, how can you tell?”
“As Fayrene would say, it’s my ESPN.”
Lovie jokes even when she’s scared to death, and to tell the truth, I’m not feeling so brave myself. In light of recent events I’m glad Elvis is with us, even if he’s never had to prove himself as a watchdog.
Chapter 8
Gamblin’, Lyin’, and Cheatin’
Jack 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 y
et. 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?
