Elvis and the Grateful Dead (3 page)

That ought to make me feel better, but I still have the uneasy feeling I’m on the
Titanic
while an iceberg lurks just beyond the next wave. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the turmoil of my love/hate relationship with Jack and our stalled divorce.

“Don’t worry about it, dear heart. Everything’s under control. Enjoy your party.”

In spite of his reassurances, Uncle Charlie stations himself in my blue velvet wing chair in the corner. He’s either found a perfect observation post because something is amiss, or he’s watching for trouble just to be on the safe side.

Going in search of comfort, I find Lovie in the kitchen refilling a serving tray with hot miniature ham and cheese quiches. I grab a spatula to help, but end up dropping quiche on the floor.

“Let me do that.” Lovie elbows me out of the way. “Are you going to tell me what’s up, or are you going to spend the rest of the evening with that face?”

“It’s the only face I have.”

“You know what I mean. What’s up?”

“Nothing if you don’t count Mama taking clandestine dance lessons and me letting Jack back in my bed.”

“Don’t worry about it, Callie. Divorced people do it all the time.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me. I know these things. Besides, at least Jack finds you appealing.”

“Lovie, Rocky has been crazy about you ever since he saw you imitating a Las Vegas showgirl.”

“How do you know?”

“You told me. Besides, you’ve been seeing him…what? Two weeks?”

“Three. They build Jim Walter homes in less time. At the rate he’s going, I’ll be in dentures and Depends before he discovers the holy grail.”

This is Lovie at her irreverent best. Anybody who didn’t know her might think she’s taking everything in stride, but I see the heartache behind the laughter.

Elvis (the icon, not my dog) is crooning “It’s Now or Never” over my indoor/outdoor speakers, which is the last thing Lovie needs to hear. Apparently Mama has abandoned the piano and put on some Elvis CDs.

“What you need is some fresh air.”

Lovie’s a party animal. If I can get her surrounded by people, she’ll be okay. Linking arms, we head to the courtyard I call my Angel Garden.

This place always makes me feel better. Sometimes in the early morning if I come out here and sit very still, I can feel the brush of angel wings. Not that I’m New Age-y or anything. I just believe you have to adopt a Zen-like state of stillness in order to be in touch with the universe.

Tonight, though, angel wings take a powder because there’s Mama in dishabille, so to speak, with Texas Elvis. Actually, they’re dancing—if you can call being crammed so close you can’t get a straw between your bodies
dancing
. Plus, his hands are where they have no business being.

The worst part is, she doesn’t seem to mind, which leads me to believe this could have been her idea. If she’ll care to remember, she has a daughter older than this man. To top it off, this is my house, and I’m not fixing to let this gold-digging Elvis swivel his way into a beautiful farm in Mooreville. Not to mention Mama’s Everlasting Monument Company and a place at the Valentine family Thanksgiving dinner.

Besides that, he’s not even handsome. How could Mama go for a weasely man who looks like Pee-Wee Herman?

I march right into my house and remove the
Burning Love
album. I don’t care how many times it went platinum. I have no intention of providing the ambience for Lady Chatterly. Next I put on “Shake, Rattle and Roll.” Let Mama and George Blakley cozy up to that.

“What’s wrong, dear heart?”

I jump out of my skin. How did Uncle Charlie get across the room without me ever seeing him move?

“Nobody but Mama could turn dance lessons into something you have to worry over.”

He doesn’t say a word, just slips out the door with his blue eyes looking like they could burn a hole through metal. Now what?

I hurry after Uncle Charlie and find him leading Mama back onto the dance floor while George Blakely cools his ardor on the sidelines with a glass of peach tea.

The courtyard has been cleared to make way for a second dance couple. None other than Lovie with Dick Gerard.

Who is married, might I add. And whose wife, Bertha, is not here.

I can see my party being written up in the society pages as the biggest scandal Moorevile has seen since Leonora Moffett stole Roy Jessup’s daddy from the Mooreville Feed and Seed. Even worse, she didn’t want him. Sent him back to his wife in three weeks because he
had the IQ of a snail
. Leonora’s words, not mine.

All I can say is
thank goodness
the hip-hop music prevents Lovie from dancing cheek to cheek with Dick. Though the way she’s rocking (all over the courtyard) and the way he’s rolling (all over her), my party ought to be rated triple X.

What in the world is Lovie trying to do? As if I need to ask. Feeling uncertain about Rocky’s intentions and floundering around in unfamiliar territory, she’s falling back into her old habits—seeing how many men she can conquer with her charms (which are considerable, believe me).

But who am I to talk? Don’t I let Jack sweet-talk me every time? What can I say? There’s comfort in the familiar.

In order to preserve my sanity (almost) and calm my nerves (barely), I watch Uncle Charlie and Mama. She’s a really good dancer, which doesn’t surprise me. Whatever Mama sets her mind to, she does with gusto and excellence. The surprise here is Uncle Charlie. I had no idea he could dance, much less that he’s so smooth. With that talent and his handsome, silvery fox looks, he could have senior women drooling all over him.

Suddenly somebody yells, “What’s happening?”

Lovie and Dick are gyrating so wildly that Mama and Uncle Charlie quit the dance floor. If I couldn’t see the panic on Lovie’s face, I’d think she was doing this on purpose.

“Uncle Charlie,” I yell, but he has already sprung into action. When Dick Gerard topples, he lands right in Charlie Valentine’s arms.

While Tewanda Hardy and Beulah Jane fan Dick with their cardboard Elvis fans, I race inside to get some ice water and a cold cloth. Considering the heat, no wonder he’s overcome. Not to mention the potency of Lovie’s charms and her Prohibition Punch.

By the time I get back, my bassett hound is on the scene and Dick is laid out on the concrete.

Uncle Charlie looks up from the body. “It’s no use, dear heart. He’s dead.”

I
could have told them that before Dick Gerard hit the floor. But then, I’m smarter than the average dog. What I saw was not a man in the throes of dance; it was a man in the throes of a fit.

With sirens wailing toward Callie’s, everybody’s standing around the body saying, “I told you so.”

Tewanda Hardy is saying, “I told you it was an epileptic fit,” while Fayrene is saying, “It looked more like he got stung by a bee.”

Even that uppity cocker spaniel is nosing around trying to act important. Need I remind him that Callie named him Hoyt because of
me
? I’m the only icon around here, and if he wants some peace in the valley, he’ll do well to remember it.

Before he got his own pillow and tried to horn in my territory, I was starting to warm up to him. Even considered teaching a thing or two about music, but that’s gone with the wind now. I may be the most beloved dog in Mooreville, not to mention the coolest, but I have my limits.

Hoyt will have to fend for himself. Ditto, this untalented, ragtag group of impersonators. There was a moment this morning after competition got under way that I considered moseying around their tent and offering remedial voice lessons. But after hearing Brian Watson I figured,
why waste my valuable time?
It would take an act of God to improve the singing of this sorry lot.

Now, if you listen to this party crowd jabbering, you’re probably thinking God has already intervened, but let me tell you…Brian and Dick did not die of natural causes. Ask the best canine detective in the world (that would be yours truly); two dead impersonators add up to murder.

To prove my point, Callie’s front yard is filled with flashing blue lights. There’re more cops here than I have fleas. And they’re everywhere.

While the Lee County sheriff and two of his deputies clear Callie’s courtyard and put crime scene tape around it and the coroner hauls Dick off, Hoyt starts howling “Love Me Tender.”

I politely priss my ample butt over there and tell him to knock it off. Any fool knows it’s tasteless to sing the wrong song. Besides, he can’t even sing backup. What makes him think he can sing solo?

And speaking of singing, the two deceased impersonators were the worst of the lot. If you ask me (which, of course, nobody does), anybody who makes my songs sound that bad ought to be grateful they’re dead.

C
rime scene tape in my own backyard
. I wonder if that would hold up in a divorce court as proof I’m an unfit dog mother. All I can say is that I’m glad Jack’s out of town.

Even worse, my guests are milling around, shell-shocked, and the assorted Elvises are in a near riot. The one from Georgia is threatening to go home, the one from California is threatening to sue somebody, and the one from Japan is behind my gardenia bush pulling a stiletto out of his boots.

While the sheriff and his deputies ask questions and take notes, the Valentines gather in the kitchen for a summit. Lovie’s already dumping vodka in the Prohibition Punch and Mama adds enough sherry to float a small boat.

“Good,” Uncle Charlie says. “Pass it around.”

“Maybe I ought to turn off the music.” My house and gardens sound like the inside of a boot and skoot club.

“Leave it on, dear heart. The more normal we can seem, the better.”

“What are you going to do about the festival, Charlie?”

In spite of the bad advice Mama gives me and the bad judgment she uses in her own affairs, when caution and wisdom really count, she defers to Uncle Charlie.

“I’m going to announce that unfortunate events in Mooreville don’t mean cancelation of the festival in Tupelo.”

As he leaves, Mama follows him to the door. “Be careful, Charlie. There’s a murderer on the loose.”

She comes back and I press close to her and Lovie while we fill cups with the spiked punch. When George Blakely sticks his head around the door and booms out, “Hello,” I send punch flying onto the ceiling. Then I stand there under the drip like somebody nailed to the floor.

“Sorry.” He grabs a napkin and starts wiping punch out of my hair. “I just wanted to see if everybody is all right.”

Lovie gives me a look and I know exactly what she means.
Snooping. We’d better keep an eye on this one.
You don’t grow up sharing the same sandbox and the same quilt at sleepovers without learning to read the other person’s mind.

“I’m fine.” I step out of George’s reach. His hands give me the creeps. Probably because he had them all over Mama. “What can I do for you?”

“The sheriff was asking about Lovie. I think he wants to question her.”

Mama links her arm through his. “George, you be a good boy and march right out there and tell Sheriff Trice, Lovie will be there when she’s good and ready.”

“I don’t know, Ruby girl.”

Girl?
I could slap him.

“Well, I do. There are plenty of people at this party to question first without him trying to put my niece on the hot seat. If he knows what’s good for his next election campaign, he’ll treat the Valentines with a little respect. And you can tell him I said so.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Grinning, George salutes Mama, then hurries off to do her bidding.

“Mama, what’s up with you and that impersonator?”

“Oh, was something up? I didn’t notice.”

She prisses off with a tray, all flouncy ruffles and big attitude. I wouldn’t dye her hair Marilyn Monroe blond if you took away my Jimmy Choo sling-backs. Mama gets in enough trouble as a redhead.

“I might as well get our there and face the music.” Lovie grabs a tray and starts out the door.

“Not without me, you don’t.”

The sheriff is taking notes while Fayrene holds court on my porch swing. The porch is crowded with people trying to eavesdrop but look like they’re not, and the scent of Zephrine Drouhin roses from the nearby arbor is heavy on the still summer air.

“Of course Lovie was dancing with Dick Gerard, but she didn’t do anything to him.” Fayrene glares at Sheriff Trice like she’d love to skewer him and serve him as shish kabobs. “Ask anybody here. The Valentine family is above reproach.”

“Ma’am, just stick to the facts. What did you see?”

“I saw Dick’s jealous wife, Bertha, hiding behind the Confederate jasmine watching them dance in the courtyard. That’s what I saw.”

“Are you sure it was Bertha Gerard?”

“I never forget a face. I have a pornographic memory.”

Several of the impersonators snicker, but the sheriff remains straight-faced. A local who gets his gas as well as his fish bait at Gas, Grits, and Guts, he knows Fayrene is the queen of malapropisms.

“When was the last time you saw Bertha?”

“I just told you,” Fayrene says.

“Before tonight.”

“It was three weeks ago. At the dentist’s. I was just getting ready to go under Anastasia.”

The mayor and his wife are choking on their Prohibition Punch, and Italian Elvis is frantically consulting his pocket translation guide.

The sheriff turns to me. “Was Bertha on the guest list?”

“Yes,” I say, “but she called early this morning to say she couldn’t come.”

“Did she say why?”

“She said she was sick.”

“Did she sound sick?”

Good grief, what am I now? A doctor?

“She wasn’t coughing and I didn’t detect any nasal stuffiness, but she could have had an upset stomach. I really can’t say.”

The sheriff walks off to consult Deputy Rakestraw while Fayrene sits there looking miffed. Probably because the sheriff didn’t take her word as gospel. Mama goes over to lend Fayrene moral support.

Meanwhile Sheriff Trice comes up to me and asks for a private room to question Lovie. What would he do if I told him I didn’t allow the enemy into my private quarters? Put me in jail, probably.

I lead them into my kitchen, which is Lovie’s natural habitat. If she’s going to be the prime suspect just because she was dancing with the deceased, the least I can do is give her an edge during the interrogation.

“Can I sit in for the interrogation?” It’s my house. I don’t see why not.

“I’m sorry. This one has to be in private.”

Before I close the kitchen door I see Lovie reaching for a chocolate éclair. She’s going to be all right.

That’s what I’m telling myself when Mama and Fayrene walk in and catch me still standing at the kitchen door.

“Are you eavesdropping?” When I tell Mama
no
, she says, “Why not?”

She and Fayrene grab two of my crystal glasses off the coffee table, dump the leftover wine into my potted peace lily, then proceed to put the rim to the kitchen wall.

I grab a glass and follow suit. But not before I lock the front door so we won’t get caught. Listen, if this was the worst thing I’d ever done, I’d be nominated for sainthood. And we all know that’s not going to happen.

“Did you notice anything strange when you were dancing with Dick?” I hear the sheriff asking Lovie.

“No. Not at first. The music was loud, rock ’n’ roll, and I was really into it.”

“You said
not at first.
”

“Yes. I thought something was amiss when he began to lean heavily on me. Then I realized he wasn’t gyrating to the beat.”

“What was Dick doing?”

“I’m no doctor, but I’d say he had a seizure of some kind.”

“You’re in charge of the food here. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I always cater the Valentine parties.”

“What about the festival? Are you in charge of the refreshment booth?”

“Not really. The officers of the Elvis fan club are in charge of it.”

“That would be…”

“Beulah Jane Ball, Tewanda Hardy, Clytee Estes, and James Holman.”

“Who provided the food for the booth?”

Holy cow!
It’s Lovie, of course. Any southerner worth his salt who wants the best always uses Lovie’s Luscious Eats.

The sheriff is building a case for murder right in my kitchen. And all I can do is stand outside the door and wait.

Mama, of course, has other ideas. “I’m going to march in there and snatch him bald-headed.”

She grabs the door handle and I pull her back in the nick of time. Putting my finger to my lips, I lean in to pick up the thread of interrogation.

“Did you know Dick before this festival?”

“Yes,” Lovie says. “He delivers my mail.”

“Is that all he delivers?”

There’s a long pause, which means something’s up. Probably something I’m not going to like.

“We were lovers.”

Lovie tells me everything. Why didn’t I know about Dick?

“But that was a long time ago, before he married Bertha,” she’s saying. “Until this festival, I hadn’t seen nor spoken privately to Dick in six months.”

“So he jilted you?”

“No. He did not.”

“The two of you broke up and you had hard feelings.”

“The only beef I have against Dick Gerard is that he scatters my mail all the way from Church Street to Highland Circle.”

Chairs scrape against my kitchen floor, and we jump into action. I put the telltale glasses on a tray on the coffee table, then race to unlock the front door while Fayrene grabs a book off the shelves and pretends to be reading. Mama plops onto the piano bench and starts belting out “Suspicious Minds.”

Leave it to Mama. Sheriff Trice, who knows his Elvis, glares at her, but she just winks and keeps on warbling. Normally her voice is pure as rain, but considering the kind of pressure we’ve suffered this evening, she’s considerably off-key.

The sheriff comes over to me and says, “Callie, can you point out that Confederate jasmine bush?”

I lead him back to the courtyard and point out the bush. While the deputies search for clues and gather food and drink samples, Uncle Charlie pulls Sheriff Trice aside to request that the guests be allowed to leave.

Very few people can get by with telling the law how to do their job, but everybody has deep respect for Uncle Charlie, including Sheriff Trice.

“B. B. King is in concert tonight at the Elvis Festival,” Uncle Charlie tells him. “It’s a pity for all these people to miss it if they don’t have to. Especially our international guests.”

“They’re free to go.”

“And my daughter?”

While his deputies are loading up the food samples and little plastic bags of whatever evidence they’ve found, the sheriff puts his hand on Uncle Charlie’s arm. “Mr. Valentine, with two impersonators dead on the same day and both of them in their prime, we’ll treat this as a criminal case until the autopsy shows otherwise. Right now we don’t have enough evidence for an arrest, but I’d appreciate it if you’ll see that your daughter doesn’t leave Lee County.”

With those chilling words, Sheriff Trice and his deputies get into their patrol cars and leave. In short order my house and grounds are clear of everybody except family.

Gathered on the front porch watching the last of the blue lights flash down the street, we don’t say anything.

Lovie is suspected of murder. It’s like having a big pink elephant in the porch swing. We all know it’s there, but nobody wants to be the one to acknowledge it.

Finally Uncle Charlie stands up, puts his hands in his pockets, and rattles his car keys, a habit when he’s trying to sort things out. “‘Better to leave undone than by our deed acquire too high a fame.’”

He’s quite a scholar and always quotes Shakespeare, especially in time of stress. That’s his way of telling us to be still and let the law catch the killer.

“Ruby Nell, are you ready to go?” Uncle Charlie’s talking about the blues concert, which is this evening’s main event at the Elvis Festival.

“I’m always ready, Charlie.”

If I needed any proof that Mama meant her double entendre, all I have to do is look at her wicked grin.

In his courtly way, Uncle Charlie offers Mama his arm. “Relax, dear hearts. We’re going to hold our heads high and get through the rest of the festival in true Valentine fashion.”

After Uncle Charlie and Mama leave, Lovie and I make a beeline for the Prohibition Punch. I guess you could say that when
true Valentine fashion
was passed around, I was at a fifty-percent-off sale looking for Juicy Couture shoes and Lovie was in the bedroom searching for the right man to appreciate her holy grail.

Elvis strolls through the doggie door with Hoyt trailing along behind. I remove my basset’s wig and bow tie, then give them both a doggie treat.

Lovie says a word that sends Hoyt scurrying under the table.

“What?” I put the box of Milk-Bone back on the shelf, then refill our glasses.

“You know what this means, Callie?”

“We’ll have hangovers?”

“We’ve got to find the real killer.”

She’s right, of course. With one successful (more or less) bit of detective work behind us, we’re primed to sleuth. And I know just where to start.