Elvis and the Grateful Dead

by Peggy Webb

I wonder if he also hears that sports car turning onto our road. Easing off my pillow, I pad toward the front and position myself at the window with full view as Callie’s headlights hit the driveway. Not far behind is the Ford Mustang convertible I recognize from my unfortunate venture up Highway 371.

  The engines cut off and Callie and the doc stroll toward the front steps, hand in hand. I glance at the swing expecting Jack to catapult off the porch and beat the tar out of Luke Champion. But he has blended himself into the dark like a big black panther. (By the way, that’s his code name, but you’re not getting another word about Jack’s profession out of me).

  The doc says, “Callie, thank you for a lovely evening,” and she tells him, “You’re welcome” in her sweet southern drawl that would melt the heart of Hitler.

  The aura I’m picking up from the swing is dark enough to start World War III. I brace myself for battle. If Callie invites Champ in, I’ll be the only one to save the situation.

  I do my best to send her a telepathic message that Jack’s on the porch, but she just stands there, oblivious. My humans have so much to learn I’d be daunted if I were a lesser dog.

  Instead I send her another message. Say good night. Come inside. Now. But she’s just standing there looking like Willie Nelson’s “Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground” while Champ closes in. Judging by the aura I’m picking up from him, he’s not planning to whistle “Let’s Be Friends.”

  He lacks the finesse I used with Ann-Margret. You’d expect more from a man who is around animals all day. As for Callie, without the highly refined senses of a French poodle, she doesn’t even notice that Champ could use some lessons on the art of courtship.

  He’s going to kiss her. I can smell his intent.

  With the other third of the love triangle crouched in the swing, this is not going to be pretty.

  I’m about to head out the doggie door to rescue the situation when the black panther springs.

  “Hello, Cal.” Jack’s off the porch and planted between them so fast I’m probably the only one who saw him move. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Extending his hand, he says, “Jack Jones. Callie’s husband.”

  “Ex,” she says.

  “Not quite.”

  “Soon.”

  “Never.”

  “In your dreams.” Callie rarely loses her temper, but she’s spitting mad.

  Champ’s just standing by looking like he doesn’t know whether to intervene, mind his own business, or turn tail and run. If I don’t do something fast, this business is liable to get out of hand.

  Drat the bandage and full speed ahead!

  I race through the doggie door into the backyard, but the fence keeps me from going around front where all the action is. Being the talented dog I am—and cagey, to boot—I let loose with a mournful rendition of my hit “Peace in the Valley.”

  It’s not perfect for the occasion, but gospel is always good for sympathy and the song fits. If I don’t restore some peace between my human parents, I’m liable to end up with Champ’s spiteful Persian in the family. It’s bad enough to have seven newly adopted stray cats in the family without adding a hateful step-cat.

  Callie and Jack come running, just as I knew they would, with Champ matching them step for step. First through the gate, Callie scoops me up and starts crying into my fur.

  If I weren’t so pleased with myself for putting an end to that pissing contest in my front yard, I’d get down and wallop the daylights out of those two studs. I’ll think of a way to get even later. Nobody makes my human mom cry and escapes my wrath.

  After Champ checks my bandage to see if everything is all right, he bids Callie a hasty good night and heads his Mustang back to Mantachie. I can tell by the way Jack’s looking at me that he knows I’m responsible for getting rid of his competition.

  Even more to the point, he’s grateful, which means tonight’s shenanigans will earn me a good T-bone steak reward.

  I rethink my position on revenge. Maybe I won’t go whole hog with Jack. Maybe I’ll just pull a little stunt or two that will let him know who’s in charge around here.

  I’m not a dog you want to mess with.

  Chapter 19

  Complications, Tangled Webs, and Geriatric Courtship

  This has turned into the longest, most traumatic day of my life. I’m going to sleep for a year if I ever get to bed. And I can guarantee you, it will be without Jack.

  He winces when he puts Elvis back on his guitar shaped pillow. My first instinct is to rush over, ask if he’s all right, urge him into an easy chair, then bring a cool cloth for his head and a steaming cup of green tea chai for his soul.

  I know, I know. I can’t make any progress by moving backward.

  Still, keeping my distance from Jack is the hardest thing I’ve done today. Change is so difficult it takes enormous courage and resilience to pull it off. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m working on it.

  Elvis immediately falls asleep and I’m left standing by a bed that suddenly takes up all the space in this room while my almost-ex watches me. I bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling.

  “I’m very tired, Jack. It’s been a long day.”

  Two steps and he’s beside me, cupping my face in his warm hands.

  Just don’t let him kiss me, that’s all I ask.

  “Cal.” He rubs his thumbs down my damp cheeks. “I’m sorry I made you cry.”

  Without another word, he exits.

  I don’t think my legs are going to hold me up more than two more minutes. I let my clothes fall to the floor and climb into bed without hanging them up, without even taking a bath. Pulling the sheets over my dusty feet and up to my chin, I stare at the moonlight pouring through the skylight, and I don’t allow myself to think about anything.

  Not one single thing.

  I wake up to the smell of coffee and the glorious feeling that this is Sunday morning. No hair appointments. No festival. No bodies waiting at Eternal Rest for my magic touch (I hope). Nothing to do but go to Wildwood, the little white clapboard church built on property donated by my grandfather Valentine and filled with stained glass windows in memory of my dearly departed Valentine ancestors.

  Well, actually I do have something to do, but I don’t intend to check out my latest suspect until I’ve paid proper homage to the universe and this day. Clytee Estes can wait.

  I believe in keeping your priorities straight.

  Elvis is stirring, which means if I don’t get out of bed soon, he’ll drag his doggie dish into the bedroom and let it clank to the floor. Besides, the rich smell of coffee is impossible to resist.

  I don’t remember setting the timer, but I guess I did. The minute my feet touch the floor, I revise my guess. My clothes are not there. Ditto, my shoes. Which means somebody picked them up and put them in their proper place. It doesn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure out who that somebody is.

  Jack, of course. Who else has the key to my house and comes and goes as he pleases?

  Grabbing my robe, I head to the kitchen. Lo and behold, there’s a cheese Danish muffin on my blue lacquered tray along with a Gertrude Jekyll rose. I am grateful and even feel a bit pampered, never mind that the rose is probably from my garden and the cheese Danish is still wrapped in plastic.

  I pour myself a cup of coffee and take my breakfast onto the front porch expecting to enjoy it in the swing. But another miracle is waiting for me outside. The crime tape around my Angel Garden has vanished.

  I’m so grateful I take my cell phone out of my robe pocket and call to ask Jack about his gunshot wound.

  “I’ll live,” he says, which makes me want to shake him.

  “You got shot, Jack. How can you be nonchalant about somebody trying to kill you?”

  “What about you, Cal? Who’s trying to kill you?”

  Bound for him to turn the tables. “Nobody,” I tell him.

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  Nobody knows about that threatening note except
Lovie, and I know she wouldn’t tell him. But then, Jack doesn’t need anybody to tell him anything. Obviously, he has spies or has bugged everything I own and every place I go. I wonder if there’s a law against that.

  Still, it seems querulous to pick a fight after the lovely coffee and Danish, especially on Sunday.

  “Thank you for breakfast, Jack.”

  “You’re welcome, Cal.”

  “And for making the crime scene tape disappear.”

  He doesn’t deny it, just says, “My pleasure.”

  When he tells me good-bye and hangs up without turning this conversation into something for his advantage, I wonder if he’s coming down with a fever.

  I don’t have long to stew over it, though, because Mama calls to invite me to lunch after church. The frame of mind I’m in, her invitation makes me wonder what she’s done now. Probably some misdeed that would make me lose sleep.

  The first thing I do when I get to church is check out Mama’s chin for beard burn. It’s either not there or she has cleverly disguised it with makeup.

  “What are you staring at?” she asks.

  “Nothing. Did you and Fayrene and What’s His Name have a good time last night?”

  “His name is Thomas and he’s coming to lunch. I expect you to behave.”

  With that, Mama flounces to the organ and starts playing the prelude too loud—“Rescue the Perishing.” I wonder if she’s trying to tell me something. From where I sit, it looks like all the Valentines are going to perish if things don’t change around here soon.

  The only good thing I can say about Mama’s gentleman friend coming to lunch is that he can’t stay long. Philestine Barber’s funeral is this afternoon at two, and Mama has to provide the music.

  The big surprise at lunch is not Thomas Whitenton (more about him later), but Lovie and Uncle Charlie. He’s not here; she is.

  Now what? Mama’s never had a Sunday lunch without inviting Uncle Charlie. Did he stay away because she didn’t invite him or because of Mr. Whitenton?

  And Lovie was supposed to be bidding farewell to Rocky instead of sitting at Mama’s dining room table eating roast beef, fried okra, and corn on the cob. The first chance I get, I drag her into Mama’s bathroom to ask what happened.

  “Nothing,” is her answer.

  The way she’s snapping my head off I can guess what that means.

  “You mean absolutely nothing, Lovie, or just not what you wanted to happen?”

  “Oh, quit pussyfooting around. Rocky didn’t find the holy grail. He didn’t even look at the map.” She applies a fresh coat of red to her lips in spite of the fact we haven’t had dessert and Mama’s serving apple pie à la mode, which will smear her lipstick. “I must be losing my touch.”

  “You didn’t let him know how miffed you are, did you?”

  “What if I did?”

  “He might not come back.”

  “Maybe I don’t want him to.”

  I can tell by Lovie’s face she’s bluffing. I just hope Rocky didn’t leave feeling that she doesn’t want him to come back.

  Maybe I ought to call him and smooth things over. Since I have Lovie’s best interests at heart, I don’t see how you could call it meddling.

  “What about you? Did Champ kiss you?”

  “Sort of, but Jack spoiled it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I’m fixing to tell when Mama knocks and calls through the door, “The pie’s hot and it’s rude to tell secrets I can’t hear.”

  We hustle back to the table and listen to Thomas calling Mama “Miss Ruby” and bragging on her cooking, a surefire way to win most women. What he doesn’t know is that Mama is not like most women. If he wants to win the heart of Ruby Nell Valentine he’s going to have to brag on something besides her cooking. Her hair, for instance, which she has had me dye every color in the rainbow. Or her art. Mama prides herself on her bohemian tastes.

  When she went with me to a hair show in New York two summers ago, she bought a huge poster of a nude by Modigliani at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The poster now lords over the entire back wall of the dining room. It caused quite a stir when she first brought it home, but in spite of Fayrene’s advice to drape a cloth over it when the preacher comes to visit, Mama held firm.

  “My house is my throne,” she said, “and I refuse to abdicate.”

  I don’t intend to let Thomas in on Mama’s little vanities. If he flounders around long enough, she’ll throw him back for something better.

  For one thing, his nose is too long. For another, his purple shirt makes his face look mottled and doesn’t match a thing he’s wearing. Even worse, he snorts.

  This is good pie, snort, snort. What are you doing this afternoon, Miss Ruby, snort?

  The only good thing I can say about him is that he has the good sense to leave right after dessert so Mama won’t be late for poor old Philistine’s funeral.

  When I get her alone in the kitchen (except for Lovie, of course), I know better than to come right out and ask whether she invited Uncle Charlie. Back Mama into a corner and she grabs a pole and vaults through the ceiling.

  “Mama, can you and Uncle Charlie handle everything at the funeral?”

  “I’m fine.” While I’m covering the pie, she slaps a dish cloth over her shoulder and marches toward the table for the dirty dishes. “If you want to know what Charlie thinks, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  “Daddy’s fine without us. I already checked.”

  “Good, Lovie,” I say. “I need your help this afternoon.” I dither over the pie. “Uncle Charlie loves your apple pie, Mama. Why don’t I cut a slice and send it to the funeral home?” Mama acts like she doesn’t hear me. “Mama? I said—”

  “I heard what you said. If Charlie wants pie, he can come and get it.”

  I roll my eyes at Lovie, but she just shakes her head. She doesn’t worry over Mama and Uncle Charlie the way I do. Or maybe she worries, but covers it so well nobody can tell. A real art, if you ask me.

  Chapter 20

  Peach Tea, Poison, and Surprising Suspects

  When Mama leaves for Eternal Rest, Lovie and I head to my house. While I check on the animals, I tell my cousin the plan.

  “I think we can end this murder investigation today. We’ll pay a little surprise visit to the fan club’s top three officers and see what we can dig up on Clytee Estes.”

  “I’m in no mood to find out why little old ladies would commit murder. I can’t even find Rocky’s libido.”

  “Forget about Rocky’s libido. You could be going to jail.”

  “That’s the only reason I’ll spend my Sunday afternoon sitting in a parlor full of cats.”

  “What’s wrong with cats?”

  “I’m not talking about your cats, Callie. Just cats in general.”

  Elvis sashays up and licks Lovie’s ankles. I swear, I think he understands every word we say. After I tell the animals good-bye, have fun while I’m gone, I get the phone book to look up addresses.

  “Why do we need all three?” Lovie says. “Let’s just get a confession from Clytee and be done with it.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  “The same way I did that purse-snatching twerp in Las Vegas. I’ll sit on her.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to. She’s the size of a bird. What harm can she do?”

  “You’re forgetting she’s killed three grown men.”

  Maybe. I strap on my gun, just in case. When we climb into my Dodge I feel like a woman capable of felling hardened criminals. The Hemi engine roars and we head south on Highway 371.

  Clytee Estes lives in a small brick house on Planterville Road. You wouldn’t pay it the least bit of attention if it weren’t for her yard. In spite of the killing summer heat and three straight years of near drought, her gardens are abloom with so many varieties of plants even I’m pressed to name them all.

  Lovie and I bail out, then just stand there gaping at the profusion of scent a
nd color. I wonder if any poison milk vetch or lethal tansy lurks among the innocent beauty.

  Clytee comes to the door shading her eyes and squinting. When she recognizes us, she hops down the steps with a spryness thirty-year-olds would envy.

  “Law me, I said to myself, who could that be? And it’s you!” She takes our hands and her smile is so genuine I decide she’s either the best actress in the world or I’m mistaken about her being the killer.

  “I hope you don’t mind that we just dropped by.”

  “Goodness, no. Come on in.”

  We follow her into a living room awash in cat fur. As the mother of seven newly named cats, I’ll have to take measures to ensure that this does not happen to my house. Lovie’s lips start to curl and I punch her.

  “I was just having a little sip of peach tea. Here, have some.” Clytee pours an extra glass and hands it to Lovie.

  She’s got the glass lifted to her lips when I get a flashback of Clytee dispensing peach tea on the tour bus—right before the first impersonator bit the dust.

  “No!” I shout and Lovie spills tea all over Clytee’s carpet. I poke her in the ribs, just in case she didn’t get the picture, but she’s turned white as a moon flower. Which means Lovie’s on to Clytee.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell Clytee. “If you’ll get a cloth, I’ll wipe it up.”

  When she heads to the kitchen I whisper to Lovie, “It was the peach tea.” I’m sure of it. Every chance they got, the officers of the fan club were passing out peach tea to the impersonators.

  We don’t have time to speculate further because Clytee’s back with a cloth. Though she says she’ll wipe the spill, I insist, then get on my knees to repair the damage.

  “We dropped by to thank you for the splendid job you did at the refreshment booth.” Flattery usually works. “You were wonderful.”

  “Oh, I loved every minute it of, Callie. Especially since my nephew won.”

  “How is he?” I don’t know what to do with the damp cloth, so I just fold it up and hold it on my lap while I sit on the sofa.