Elvis and the Grateful Dead

by Peggy Webb

  I can see that so clearly now. She was always my cheerleader, my solace, my biggest fan, even my clown. Who needed a circus when you had Mama tap-dancing you around the kitchen singing “Side by Side”? In Mary Jane tap shoes she’d painted gold and then glued with sequins, no less.

  “Thanks for taking care of Elvis.” I give her a hug, and Fayrene, too. Listen, sometimes the best thing that happens to you all day is a hug. The nice thing is that when you give one, you get one right back.

  Feeling like a better human being, I head home with my dog, leaving Mama and Fayrene to their own devices. They’re grown women and they’re both smart. Whatever is eating Jarvetis, they’ll figure out how to handle it.

  It feels so good to walk into my house, I consider sinking into a bubble bath and spending the rest of the evening in my tub. First, though, I have to see what the blinking light on my answering machine is all about. I put Elvis down and watch to see that he’s walking right before I punch MESSAGES.

  A deep voice says my name.

  I know this man. The first big surprise is that he called; the second, that he jolts me into a state of excitement.

  “This is Champ,” his message tells me, as if my baby factory is not already sitting up taking notice. “I’m calling to see how Elvis is doing. I’ll be at the office till seven.”

  I glance at my watch. He’s still there.

  “If you get this message, please let me know. I like to keep up with my patients.”

  Did he add that last to cover his real intentions? Or is he telling the truth and I’m letting my father-of-the-future-baby search make a fool of me.

  Elvis clumps by wagging his tail, and I take that as a sign. Before I change my mind, I dial the number on my caller ID.

  “Champ here.”

  “I got your message. About Elvis.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s doing great. He’s not so wobbly now and he seems to have suffered no ill effects from the medication.”

  “Good.” There’s a long pause and for a minute I think the connection is broken. I’m getting ready to hang up when he says, “You’re just a few miles up the road. I can pop by tonight and check him out. If you’d like.”

  I imagine Champ in my house sitting on my sofa with his long legs stretched out, his big gentle hands holding a cup of green tea chai and me in the wing chair thinking that any man who fits so well in the room might fit nicely into my life.

  Hard on the heels of that delightful dream I see Jack on the same sofa with his hands elsewhere and me with my skirt over my head thinking yes, yes, yes.

  I will not let Jack Jones sabotage my future.

  “Did you say something?” Champ asks.

  Holy cow. Did I? If so, it would have been a very unladylike growl.

  “Just clearing my throat. Thank you for offering, but I’ll be at the Elvis Festival tonight.”

  After I hang up I wonder if I turned Champ down because of the festival or because of Jack. I’m not even going to think about it. Instead I call Lovie.

  “Did you find out anything about the poisons?”

  “Rocky’s here.” Lovie sounds out of breath. I’d be jealous if I were that type. “We’ll talk about it at the festival tonight. Meet us at the T-shirt booth.”

  “When?”

  “Eight?”

  “Fine,” I tell her in a way that clearly means the opposite.

  After I hang up I ask Elvis, “How are we going to discuss poison with him around? I thought Rocky wanted her to keep her nose out of murder.”

  Not only am I turning surly as my eggs shrivel, but I’m also turning into one of those maidenly women who talk mostly to their cats and dogs.

  I stomp outside to feed my menagerie, notice the crime scene tape still around my courtyard, and decide on the spot to name the cats. All seven of them. I need something to restore my sense that my home is a place of deep comfort and magical promise.

  While dogs are great companions and protectors, it’s the cats that make a place both cozy and mystical.

  “All righty, then. You’re Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Doc, Grumpy, Bashful, Happy.”

  Why not? I’ve instantly turned my life into a fairy tale. They can be the seven dwarfs who adore me and I can be Snow White, who hopefully will not get felled by a poisoned apple. Or any other kind of poisoned plant.

  Elvis stops eating, gives me his Ruby Nell look, and walks away. In time, he’ll warm up to the cats.

  The young champagne-colored Siamese female I’ve named Happy prances over to rub against my legs, then leaps around with such joie de vivre she reminds me of my college roommate, Happy Jacques, who studied dance and electrified her audience every time she went onstage.

  She used to say, “Callie, there are three international languages—love, laughter, and music.” I believe that.

  When my newly adopted cat does a pirouette, then winks at me, I call Elvis.

  “Have you been talking to this cat about reincarnation?”

  I swear the Siamese is watching me with Happy Jacques’ knowing eyes.

  After giving my dogs and cats a quick cuddle, I go inside, take a quick shower, and change into a blue jean skirt and Elvis T-shirt before heading to the festival. As a concession to fashion I’m wearing a pair of Dolce & Gabbana flats and as a nod to murder I’m wearing my gun, strapped high on my thigh, the holster hidden under my skirt.

  I pride myself on being prepared.

  Elvis’ Opinion #9 on Marriage, Pickled Pigs’ Lips, and Mark Twain

  Callie has gone off without me and I blame the cats. If she hadn’t been so busy giving that bunch of silly strays names, I could have sweet-talked her into letting me attend the festival’s finale.

  And don’t get me started on the names. If she was going to elevate them from interlopers to household members, the least she could have done was name them after some of my backup musicians like she did with Hoyt. I’d have been satisfied if she’d named a couple of them Jerry Lee Lewis and Frank Sinatra, even if old Blue Eyes did once call rock ’n’ roll the music of every sideburned delinquent on the face of the earth. Years later he changed his tune and called me the embodiment of the whole American culture. I can live with that.

  What I can’t live with is a bunch of feline freaks. Callie had better not even think of getting little snobby cat beds and moving them in with me. If she does I’ll just go live with Jarvetis. There’s a man who appreciates his dogs. Not a cat on the premises.

  Why do you think I was able to walk away from my supper dish tonight? Jarvetis slipped me a bunch of pickled pigs’ lips when Ruby Nell carried me over there. That’s what.

  And speaking of tonight’s visit, Ruby Nell and Fayrene’s latest scheme is a doozie, but I’m not fixing to betray their confidence. All I’m going to say is this: if they go through with this project, it could be the death of marriage as Fayrene knows it.

  Because Jarvetis is so easygoing, she’s making the mistake of thinking she can get by with anything short of infidelity and murder. I tried to tell her every man has his limits. The trick is knowing what they are.

  Jarvetis has never missed a Sunday at Bougefala Baptist Church. That ought to tell her it won’t do to mess around with his religion. She got around him about going off dancing with Ruby Nell, but if she’s going to get this scheme past him, it’ll take a miracle.

  Of course, you’re looking at a miracle worker. I’ll think of something.

  Don’t get me wrong. I care about those two, but I’m no paper saint. If Jarvetis walks I’ll lose his pickled pigs’ lips and his redbone hound dog, to boot.

  I have lots of planning to do. I snarl at the cats, then amble toward the doggie door for some quiet cogitation on my pillow.

  Wouldn’t you know? Hoyt’s dragged his pillow around to my side of the bed. Now he’s looking at me with his silly grin that melts Callie’s soft heart. But it just pisses me off.

  I’m fixing to scare him off with a wild rendition of “T-R-OU-B-L-E,” but
then I get this great idea. (Naturally, I’m full of them.)

  “Hoyt, old buddy. How’d you like to have the most fun of your young life?”

  He jumps up wagging his tail so hard he’s shaking his silly self all over. This is going to be easier than Tom Sawyer talking the neighborhood kids into whitewashing his fence. (Don’t think I don’t know my Mark Twain. I’m a dog of letters.)

  As an added bonus, my plan will get Hoyt in a heap of trouble with my human mom. (Notice, I didn’t say his mom.)

  “Listen, old pal. If you could dig a little hole under the fence, I’d take you out on the town, introduce you to that cute shih tzu down the street.”

  Hoyt’s about to wet his scraggly britches.

  It’s not this hyper little pest and that pain-in-the-butt down the road I have on my mind, but a certain lush Frenchie in the family way.

  “I’d do the digging myself, but my paw’s all banged up.”

  Now I’ve got his sympathy. Always a good thing. By the time I head toward the doggie door, Hoyt’s drooling all over himself with the notion of being the King’s right-hand dog.

  Chapter 17

  Bathroom Breaks, Hunks, and Suspicious Minds

  There are more police uniforms than sequined jumpsuits at the festival tonight. That would make me feel safer if I didn’t have a sinking feeling that in addition to preventing another homicide, the cops came to keep an eye on their prime suspect.

  Who is not here yet. I just hope Lovie’s reasons for being late mean she and Rocky have settled their differences.

  Uncle Charlie is manning the T-shirt booth with Mabel Moffett and her daughter Trixie. (I guess Mama talked them into taking her place.) In spite of the fact that Lovie’s an inch from being arrested, he looks his usual tranquil self. It’s hard to think of him as ever having lived on the edge of the law. (That’s what Lovie says about her daddy, but she could be exaggerating. She loves to embellish.)

  When he sees me, he comes around and kisses my cheek.

  “You look tired, dear heart. Why don’t you go home? I can finish out the festival without you.”

  “I’m fine, Uncle Charlie. Did you catch any fish?”

  “Three catfish. They made a nice supper. Bobby ate with me.”

  I make a mental note to invite Uncle Charlie over for dinner the minute I get this murder solved. Maybe before. Usually Mama is the one making a big pot of soup with corn bread and having impromptu Valentine get-togethers, but she’s so busy going on secret dates with unknown elements she’s forgotten she has a family who has her best interests at heart.

  “Jack’s flying home,” Uncle Charlie tells me, and I’m too polite to say I don’t recall asking. But I do ask about his health. Out of curiosity.

  Okay, so I have other motives, but I’m too busy to feel guilty about it.

  “There’s no permanent damage,” Uncle Charlie says, “but he’ll be stiff for a while.”

  Jack’s always stiff. I nearly say it aloud. I don’t know why I have this die-hard attraction to a man who chooses bullets and a Harley over hearth and home. Not that I’m going to be too hard on myself. Most people want what they can’t have.

  But I’m planning to change. Really, I am. The minute I’m free I’m taking the cats to Champ’s clinic to be fixed, and if he asks me out, I’m saying yes.

  Seven cats are all right, but thirty-five are not. If anybody’s going to populate this world, it’s going to be me. I hope.

  Lovie and Rocky arrive all cozied up. A good sign for them. On the other hand, if he’s going to be glued to her side, I don’t see how we’re going to do any sleuthing.

  I know. I’m being surly. What I ought to be is happy. Rocky and Uncle Charlie are shaking hands and exchanging niceties while Lovie watches with the deep satisfaction of a wayward daughter who has finally mended her ways and brought home a man who lives up to her daddy’s expectations.

  Uncle Charlie waves us off with “Have fun,” which is not the reason I’m here.

  As soon as we’re out of his sight I tell Rocky and Lovie, “Excuse me. I have to take a little break.”

  She gets the picture. “I’ll be back in a minute, darling.”

  “Take your time, sweetheart.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Actually, I feel like doing both. After all this is over, I’m taking a vacation.

  As we head to the Porta Potti I figure nobody will pay us any attention in this crowd, so I just haul off and ask Lovie what she found out about the poison.

  “Many cause convulsions, then death, and most of the oils are extracted by steam distillation.”

  “Which means it would take special equipment.”

  “Exactly. Also, the process could be dangerous. I don’t think we’re talking about an amateur here.”

  “A professional hit man?”

  “Maybe,” she says. “Or it could be a scientist.”

  “What kind of scientist would want to kill Elvises?”

  My question earns us some suspicious looks, so I grab Lovie’s arm, drag her into the Porta Potti, and slam the door.

  She says a word that uncurls my pubic hair.

  “How do you expect to use the toilet with us wedged in here like sardines?”

  “I don’t have to use the toilet, Lovie. That was just an excuse to get you away from Rocky.”

  “Well, I do. Scrunch against the corner and don’t move.”

  As she squats over the throne, the entire Porta Potti teeters toward the left. I make a quick move to the right and step on both her feet. She says another word, but I don’t apologize.

  “If I hadn’t moved we’d have turned the toilet over.”

  I can just see the headlines. Valentine Cousins Foul Festival.

  Lovie jiggles around trying to pull up her underwear, but it’s too crowded in here, so she just kicks them off and leaves them on the floor.

  “I don’t plan on needing them, anyhow,” she says, and I give her this look. “No, Callie, Rocky hasn’t found the holy grail yet, but he’s flying out tomorrow and I don’t intend for him to leave without a glimpse of glory. Tonight I’m drawing him a map.”

  When we finally emerge, an Amazonian woman with a bad bleach job and pursed lips is standing outside the Porta Potti. She gives us the once-over, stomps inside, then yells, “Jezebels” and slams the door in our faces.

  “Do you think she knows who we are, Lovie?”

  “What does it matter? If we don’t find the killer, my name will be in every newspaper in the world.”

  She’s right. Elvis always made headlines, and the death of the impersonators has already made news as far away as Japan.

  “Maybe one of the other impersonators is a scientist or a doctor, Lovie.”

  “Yeah, or maybe it’s just an ordinary person who ordered the poison.”

  “From where?”

  “South America. Central America. Who knows? You can find about anything you want on the Internet.”

  “That leads us back to square one,” I say. “Anybody at the festival could have bought a hot dog or lemonade, laced it with poison, and passed it to one of the impersonators.”

  “You forget who had the biggest motive, Callie.”

  “Bertha. Whose furniture is headed toward Las Vegas.”

  “Yes, but is she?”

  Lovie’s right. What if I was on the wrong track with Bertha? While I was checking out her apartment and Thaxton’s hotel, she could have taken him to some deserted place and killed him. His body could be lying in a remote neck of the woods anywhere in northeast Mississippi. It could take weeks to find it. Maybe years.

  What if she’s lurking somewhere looking for her next victim? Even worse, what if she put the threatening note on my Dodge Ram and I’m next on her list?

  When I tell Lovie about the note and my suspicions that Bertha’s out to get me, she says, “Not while I’m around, she won’t.”

  My cousin grabs me and heads toward Rocky like a heat-seeking missile. I’ll have to
say I’m relieved. If you wanted two bodyguards, you couldn’t do better than a hundred and ninety pounds of don’t-mess-with-me woman and a man who looks like he could bench-press Texas.

  Rocky smiles when he sees us and reaches a long arm to draw Lovie close.

  “Grab a hold of Callie and don’t let go,” she tells him, and he obeys without question. “Somebody’s trying to kill her.”

  “We don’t know that.” My protest doesn’t hold much force. For one thing, I’m smothered in what feels like a side of beef (a kindly side of beef), and for another, I feel safer than I’ve felt since Jack left.

  “Who’s after her?”

  “A short dishwater-blond woman with a bad hairdo and too much cleavage,” Lovie says, and I have to giggle. Lovie’s showing the Pike’s Peak of cleavage. And always does. “Go ahead and giggle,” she says. “There are women who know how to look classy flaunting it and women who look just plain cheap.”

  “You’re right, sweetheart.”

  “I know, Rocky. I’m always right. I’m also starving. Let’s have a corn dog on a stick.”

  “Do you think that’s wise, Lovie?” I’m starving, too, having had very little to eat today and most of that on the run. But I’m not about to take chances eating at the festival when we don’t have any idea who’s poisoning what.

  “They fry those things in hot grease while you watch,” she says.

  “Not always,” I tell her. “Sometimes the corn dogs are already on a spit.”

  “We’ll ask for fresh,” Rocky says, and that settles that.

  Lovie and I haul off in that direction, flanking Rocky like glued-on bookends. Within smelling distance of the deep-fried food, I change my mind.

  “I think I’ll have one, too,” I’m saying when a scream comes from the direction of stage one. We whirl around and Lovie and I spot Bertha at the same time.

  “There she is,” says Lovie, and Rocky sprints that way, calling back over his shoulder, “Stay put.”

  “It’ll take more than Bertha Gerard to separate me from food.” Lovie marches me up to the stand and orders three large lemonades and five corn dogs on a stick. I don’t have to ask. One for me, two for her, two for Rocky.