Elvis and the Grateful Dead (10 page)

F
irst of all, let me set the record straight: I did
not
step on that piece of broken glass to garner sympathy. I don’t like pain.

Furthermore, if I wanted Callie’s sympathy I’d think of a much better way to get it. Take last night, for instance. All I had to do was bat my basset eyes and droop my tail a little, and she had me on the couch before you could howl the first bar of “Love Me.”

As for showing her who’s boss, I try to keep that low-key—like looking cute when she gets herself a snack so she’ll give me a treat, even though she’s put me on a diet that wouldn’t sustain one of her dratted, aggravating stray cats. Or showing my teeth to Hoyt when she’s not looking so he won’t horn in on my territory. Callie’s lap is my private domain, thank you very much, and I’ll thank him to keep his dirty paws off.

She’s whizzing north on Highway 371 exceeding the speed limit, which is not like her. I ease over and put my head in her lap so she’ll slow down, so she’ll see that I’m not fixing to haul off and die.

Listen, I’m a young buck. I still have lots of living and loving to do. Not to mention that I have lots left to teach my human mom.

How to hold on to hope, for one thing. Lately she’s been discouraged about the stalemate between her and my human daddy. I want to teach her to pay attention to every single detail of her life every day, not just when things are going great, but on those days when she feels hopeless and lonely, when she believes she’s destined to a future empty of children and the love of a good man.

Revel in the simple joys, I say. Give thanks for slow lazy mornings when you can loll on the front porch in the sunshine and let a breeze blow your ears back. Get excited about rolling in the grass and listening to Jack coax the blues out of his harmonica. Be grateful you can still eat fried chicken and not fart.

Callie’s foot eases off the gas pedal, and I lift my head to watch the scenery. Nothing much is stirring this early in the morning except a few Holstein cows. This is farm county, the kind that makes a dog want to get out and find a cow patty or two to roll in. I’ve done it a few times on Ruby Nell’s farm, but it puts Callie in such a state I’ve decided to forgo bovine cologne in favor of more socially acceptable fragrances. Dirt, for instance. There’s nothing quite as relaxing as tumbling around in a good dusty hole, and Callie’s okay with that.

The clinic rolls into view and she has me out of the truck so fast I don’t have time to get irritated over the cats pictured on Luke Champion’s wooden shingle out front, let alone heist my leg on his petunias.

There’s a cute young chick at the reception desk who looks about the age of my bobby-socks fans (though they’re likely in wheelchairs by now). She’s probably some kid doing summer work till school starts. Chickie baby takes one look at Callie’s stricken face and the blood all over her shirt, then goes running toward the back yelling, “Doc!”

See,
I told you she was just a kid.

Luke Champion hustles out, all business till he sees my human mom. You could strike a match on the sparks.

“Let’s see what we have here.” He whisks me toward the back room with Callie trailing along beside us asking, “Is he going to be all right?”

The table’s cold and hard as brickbat (vet’s examining tables always are), but I’m don’t complain. Listen, anybody who can survive being mauled by thousands of screaming fans can endure a bit of discomfort in a town hardly bigger than one of my signature Cadillacs.

Still, you’d think they’d put a blanket or something on the table when they see me coming. It’s not every clinic in northeast Mississippi that gets graced with the dog who changed the face of music.

“The wound is not deep,” the vet says. “I’ll clean it out, put in a couple of stitches, and he’ll be good as new.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am. Thank you, Dr. Champion.”

“My friends call me Champ.”

This man works fast, and I’m not just talking about his medical skills. While he’s swabbing and stitching, he’s eyeing Callie like a Thoroughbred stallion checking out a filly he’s planning to breed. And bless’a my soul, she’s looking right back.

Listen, things in this life don’t happen by chance. Any fool can look at the changing of seasons, the choreography of stars and planets, the movement of tides, and know Somebody Up There is in charge.

For instance, take me meeting my cute little Frenchie. If I hadn’t escaped that day and if Ann-Margret hadn’t been at Gas, Grits, and Guts, we might never have had our romantic rendezvous behind Mooreville Truck Stop.

It looks like fate has just given a great big nod to my human mom and my new vet.

I know she loves Jack, but what red-blooded woman who thinks she’s been ditched for a motocycle wouldn’t perk up under the admiring scrutiny of a handsome blue-eyed man? Besides being vulnerable, Callie’s biological clock is ticking and she’s just stumbled onto prize-winning daddy stock.

If Jack knows what’s good for him, he’ll get his shot-up butt on a plane and hightail it back to Mooreville. And if he doesn’t start taking my love advice, he’s likely to find himself outside Callie’s fence looking in.

Which reminds me, I’m going to find myself in the same predicament if I don’t dig a hole to freedom and mosey on down to check on Ann-Margret. Just because a French poodle’s not in heat doesn’t mean she wants to be ignored by her personal hunk ’a burning love.

After my paw is all bandaged up, Doc gives me two doggie bones, further proof he’s trying to get on Callie’s good side. When he sets me back on the floor, a sneaky Siamese minces around the corner and gives me the evil eye, then switches her tail like she’s queen of the walk.

Doc calls her
Puss
and Callie calls her
precious.
I’d call her
history
if Doc hadn’t filled me so full of medicine I’m seeing double and walking wobbly.

One thing I can’t abide is an uppity cat.

I’m about to call for a wheelchair and get the heck out of Mantachie when Doc scoops me up and escorts Callie back to her pickup.

If he wants to be my personal slave, that’s all right with me, Mama.

“Nice chassis.” He puts his hand on the hood, but take it from me, he’s not talking about her truck.

As we head back down the road, Callie looks over at me and says, “Champ’s a really nice man. Don’t you think so?”

How can I not agree? Doc has gentle hands and a kindly manner. In addition, he understands that if he wants to get on Callie’s good side, he’s got to bribe the boss. That would be yours truly.

I thump my tail but get distracted when I spot a hawk circling over the oak trees on our right. If I could sneak off down here, maybe get my old pal Trey (Jarvetis’ best redbone hound) to go with me, we’d have a high old time. That hound’s got a nose like Jimmy Durante; he can smell a fat rabbit a mile. I howl a bit of “Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog” just on general principles.

“After all, I’m not
really
married,” Callie says. “Of course,
legally
I’m still Jack’s wife. But we’ve been separated a year. Well, almost.”

I can tell she wants me to agree, but much as I like pleasing my human mom, I’m not about to be a party to a love triangle that involves my human dad.

Though, come to think of it, having another man in the picture might not be such a bad idea. Maybe if Jack sees another man going after the woman he still considers his, he’ll come to his senses and start revving up the charm he used to win her in the first place.

Belatedly I thump my tail again and inch over to lick her hand so she understands that if she wants the vet’s slippers under her bed, I won’t pee on them.

“I
knew
you’d agree with me. Not that I’m planning on doing anything with Champ. For goodness’ sake, he hasn’t even asked me out. But it never hurts to plan ahead.”

Happy now, Callie whips out her cell phone to tell Charlie we’re on the way to Eternal Rest after she takes care of her eleven o’clock beauty shop regular. I’m always happy to go to the funeral home. Not only does Charles Sebastian Valentine understand my finer qualities, but he’s a straight-up man.

Callie wheels by the house to ditch the bloodstained clothes, but I notice she doesn’t ditch the gun. Thanks to my tutorial skills, she’s beginning to learn that she’s a precious person worth spilling a little blood and guts over.

Jack gave her the weapon, and she hated the target practice he insisted on, but since then she’s been down to the farm more than once to sharpen her skills.

The beauty shop regular is Roy Jessup, owner of Mooreville Feed and Seed, who’s not ashamed to let it be known he prefers a sophisticated cut at Hair.Net to the skinned-neck look he’d get at a barbershop. Just between you and me, I think he comes here mostly to pick information out of Callie about his girlfriend, Trixie Moffett. Like her cousin Leonora, she’s not the “Stand by Your Man” type. (Now,
there
was a big talent, that Tammie Wynette. She put Tremont on the map. Of course, it was nothing like what I did for Tupelo and Memphis.)

After we finish at Hair.Net, we head to the funeral home, where Charlie carries me downstairs so we can keep Callie company while she pretties up Philistine for her journey into Glory Land.

Charlie puts me in his lap and scratches my ears while he reads
The Dream
by Edna St. Vincent Millay. He believes he’s merely entertaining us with good poetry, but I see the heartbreak behind the words, hear his longing for Minrose and the long, sweet summer days when the fish were jumping, his blood was singing, and his true love was only a heartbeat away.

All the more reason he should forget about trying to keep Ruby Nell out of trouble and find a good woman of his own.

Maybe I’ll sniff out one for him. After all, I’m a stellar judge of character and the best sleuth in the family.

T
hank goodness nobody has noticed the gun strapped to my leg, not even the incredibly appealing Luke Champion.

I’m glad Uncle Charlie’s was occupied with poetry because I never expected to have a new man on my mind, and I need some time to ponder. While I’m applying pancake to Philistine’s remains, I picture Champ’s hands on Elvis.

My philosophy is that you can tell a lot about a man from his hands. Champ’s were suntanned and strong, but at the same time gentle. (I
love
his nickname. Reminds me of heroes.)

Unlike Lovie, who enjoys speculating about how a man’s hand will feel on her erogenous zones (according to her,
all
her zones are erogenous), I like to imagine how a man’s hands will look cradling a baby, pushing a carriage, changing a diaper, giving a 3:00 a.m. bottle.

“Well, looks like you and Elvis got into trouble while I was gone.”

Mama sashays through the door wearing one of her notorious caftans designed to make her look like the queen of a small island. Bound for her to throw us off the scent of her own escapades by making a big todo over Elvis’ bandaged paw.

Uncle Charlie doesn’t ask about the dance or even why she stayed out overnight. Another twist in their newly cool relationship.

He says hello without adding
dear heart,
and she flounces into a chair without saying a word to him. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this.

“I guess Philistine’s funeral’s tomorrow.” Mama’s looking at a wall sconce and might as well be addressing Elvis.

“Two p.m.,” Uncle Charlie says.

“I guess you want me to do the music.”

“It’s up to you.”

“Since when has anybody else played the organ at Eternal Rest? It would be sacrilege.” Mama pulls out a cigarette and crams it into a holder that would have been right at home with Greta Garbo, then deliberately starts smoking just to get our goats. She
never
smokes unless she’s upset or mad at us.

There goes a quiet time of poetry and peace down the drain. To make matters worse, some woman has sneaked in upstairs and started pitching a hissy fit. Since the only corpse we currently have is Philistine, it has to be somebody looking to bury the newly deceased.

Uncle Charlie seems disinclined to get out of his chair (brand-new behavior for him) so I ask, “Where’s Bobby Huckabee?”

“Running errands. Can you see who that is, dear heart?”

I’m finished with Philistine, anyway. It won’t hurt me to handle business upstairs while Uncle Charlie and Mama work out whatever’s eating them.

You’ll never guess who’s storming around the foyer acting like she’s grieving over a beloved but very dead Dick.
Bertha.
Sporting widow’s weeds—a black skirt and black buttoned-up jacket. Also a bad haircut glued to her skull with so much cheap hairspray I feel like I’m running along behind a mosquito truck.

“I thought I was going to have to call out the National Guard to get some attention around here.”

Bertha pulls a handkerchief out of a purse as big as Pennsylvania and starts squalling her crocodile tears. Considering that she’s been sleeping with every man who owns a sequined jumpsuit and probably knocked off her husband, to boot, I don’t jump to comfort her.

As a mater of fact, I may have to shoot her. I’m glad I’ve got my gun.

“May I help you?”

“My husband’s body has finally been released.”

Which means the forensic specialists have found what they need for toxicology reports. Not that I’m getting involved; I’m taking Uncle Charlie’s advice and getting back to normal. Still, it won’t hurt to find out what she knows.

“I want to pick out caskets,” she says. “Something cheap.”

Bertha snorts into her handkerchief again. Probably to cover her last remark. Well, naturally she wouldn’t want to spend much money on a man she’s been cheating on right and left.

“We don’t carry
cheap,
but we do have a line that’s very affordable. This way please.”

As I lead her toward the casket room I figure now is the best opportunity I’ll get to dig for information. Forget that she got my hackles up and I’d as soon coat her with peanut butter and hang her out for the birds as look at her. I can turn on the charm when I put my mind to it.

Normally I’m not a mean and spiteful person, but anybody who claims she needs the National Guard to get the attention of the best funeral director in Mississippi has a long way to go before she can get back on my good side.

“It must be a relief to finally know what killed your husband,” I tell her. “Did they identify the poison?”

“What does it matter? He’s dead, one way or the other.”

“I’m so sorry.” I lead her to a simple gray casket without ornamentation. “This is our most popular economy brand.”

“It’ll do.”

“Fine. I’ll get papers so you can fill out the obituary information.”

“Later. I have things to do.”

Like killing Thaxton Miller?

I race downstairs to tell Uncle Charlie that Dick’s body will be arriving, but the widow didn’t stay long enough to complete funeral arrangements. The atmosphere is icy down here, and it’s certainly not due to the air-conditioning.

“Mama, are you going back to Everlasting Monuments?”

“Naturally. I have a business to run.”

She stands up and sprays herself with a flacon of Michael from her straw purse, a ploy deliberately calculated to make us wonder what she’s up to now. The only good thing I can say about Mama’s perfume is that she still wears a fragrance named after my daddy. (Technically speaking it’s named for designer Michael Kors, but don’t try to tell anybody in our family it’s not named for Michael Valentine.)

“At least Philistine had the good sense to be creative when she preordered her tombstone.”

“What did she want on it, Mama?”

“‘Gone to sing solo in the heavenly choir.’ Now, that’s my kind of woman.”

Mama marches out and I have to run along behind to see if she will take Elvis back to Mooreville. His medicine has kicked in and he’ll probably sleep the rest of the day. Maybe even into the night.

“Of course I will,” she says.

“Take him straight to my house, Mama. I want him to be comfortable in his own bed.”

“What are you going to be doing?”

“Festival.”

Bertha didn’t
say
she was going there, but it makes sense if she’s planning to snuff out another Elvis.

Thank goodness Mama doesn’t sniff out my little white lie. What I’m going to be doing is tailing Bertha, the exact opposite of Uncle Charlie’s advice. He’s nearly always right and I nearly always go along, but how can I sit back and let Bertha poison another Elvis impersonator? That’s just un-American.

While Mama goes back to get Elvis, I whip out my cell phone and race toward my Dodge Ram.

“Lovie, what are you doing?”

“Having a Calgon Take Me Away moment.”

“In the middle of the day?”

“Rocky’s coming over and I’m planning a sneak attack.”

“Meaning you’re going to pretend you lost track of time and greet him at the door wearing nothing but bubbles.”

“Among other things.” I don’t even want to know. “You sound distressed, Callie. What’s up?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”
I hope.
“Have fun, Lovie.”

I peel out of the parking lot hoping I can find Bertha in the festival crowd and that I’m not too late to save Thaxton.

It’s funny, when there’s not a single living soul in your house except you and the pets, all you can see is couples. Running around the festival searching for Bertha I spot middle-aged married couples with their arms around each other, teenaged kids with body piercings and tattoos lip-locked in the middle of Main Street, geriatrics holding hands, even stray dogs rendezvousing in the alleys.

The sight makes me want to run home, lock the front door, and inspect myself for fatal flaws. I know,
I know.
Jack’s leaving was not my fault. (Not entirely his, either. I pride myself on being nonjudgmental.) Still, no matter what or who causes a breakup, the pain is just as intense. I’ve heard women who wanted a divorce so badly they’d have killed for it to say they cried themselves to sleep every night for six weeks after they actually signed the papers.

I guess this angst has to do with loss and knowing that every little thing is left up to you. Even the hard stuff like getting stuck in a hot air balloon with a murder victim and not having anybody to run home and tell it to—the equivalent of paying a gazillion bucks an hour to lie on a psychiatrist’s couch and relieve yourself of every messy ounce of guilt, shame, and fear.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t had lunch, and no wonder I’m running around here conjuring up a pity party all over a public place. I hustle over to the refreshment booth, where Beulah Jane and Tewanda descend on me like a pair of Walt Disney fairy godmothers.

Beulah Jane leads me inside the booth to a chair while Tewanda waves an Elvis fan in front of my face.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Tewanda says, and Beulah Jane, not to be outdone, says, “It’s the heat, Tewanda. Pour her some iced peach tea to cool her off.”

“Thanks, I’ll take some of Lovie’s barbecued ribs, too.”

She made enough to sustain Hannibal’s army on their march over the Alps. And they are particularly delicious, not the Memphis Rendezvous’ dry ribs so many people rave about, but good old southern wet barbecue, lots of ketchup and vinegar and honey with just a hint of pineapple.

When I’m feeling more like a human being, I tell them about Dick’s body being released.

“We heard.” Tewanda takes my empty plate and dumps it in the garbage can, then sits down beside me and starts to fan herself. “I don’t believe it was arsenic or strychnine, though. Do you remember what they called it, Beulah Jane?”

“Exotic, is all they said. I think they’re still trying to identify it.”

These two geriatrics are discussing poison the way you’d talk about whether to have sugar or lemon with your tea. Maybe that’s what comes with age, a calm acceptance of life’s ever-changing stage play, comic one minute, tragic the next, and always, always on-the-edge-of-your-seat suspenseful.

Or else Twenada and Beulah Jane don’t want to get excited and get their blood pressures up.

“Did they find anything in the food or drink samples?” I ask.

“Fortunately for poor dear Lovie, they didn’t find a thing.” Beulah Jane goes over and pours herself a tall glass of tea. “What I heard is, sometimes you never can pinpoint some of those obscure poisons.”

Not that I’m trying to pinpoint anything. I’m bowing out of this investigation. As soon as I find Bertha.

“Has anybody seen Bertha?” I ask.

“She’s in mourning,” Beulah Jane says, “I don’t think she’ll be coming here.”

“Why, she was just here. Didn’t you see her?”

Beulah Jane’s face turns bright red. “Well, Tewanda, I guess I was too busy
doing my job
to be watching for widows.”

“Where did you see her?” I’m eager to get on the trail, especially with a quarrel brewing between the fan club’s top two officers.

“Over by stage one. Dressed in a blouse so low cut you could see everything she’s got.”

Looks like Bertha’s cast off her widow’s weeds in record time.

“What were you doing over by stage one?” Beulah Jane wants to know.

“That’s where the toilets are. But then, I guess you’re so high and mighty you never have to take a tinkle.”

Easing out of the booth, I tell them, “Bye” but I don’t think they hear me.
Holy cow.
Is that what Lovie and I will be like in thirty years? Given my choice, I’d rather be like Mama. Or even Fayrene, who at least wears an up-to-date hairdo, thanks to yours truly.

As I race toward stage one I spot two volunteers I don’t know manning the T-shirt booth with Fayrene, of all people. I guess this means she’s still sparring with Jarvetis. Normally, the only thing that can get her out of Gas, Grits, and Guts is an outing with Mama. And I know for a fact that Mama is at Everlasting Monuments.

Or at least,
I think
I know it for a fact. With Mama, nothing is certain.

I wave but Fayrene doesn’t see me, which is just as well. She’d be full of questions, most of them nosey.

I smell Bertha before I see her. Old Mosquito Hair Spray herself is standing in the middle of the crowd around stage one talking to none other than Thaxton Miller. I reach down and pat my gun holster just to be sure it’s still there, though how I think I could get by with firing a weapon in the middle of a crowd in downtown Tupelo is beyond me.

Easing closer, I scrunch down and almost knee-walk so Bertha won’t see me. Being taller than the average woman is an advantage if you want everybody in a room to notice you’re wearing a cute new dress with Jimmy Choo shoes, but it’s a real pain if you’re trying not to be seen.

I bump into an old gentleman and almost knock him off his walker.

“Excuse me,” I say, but I’m too much a lady to repeat what he says. Suffice it say, I revise my opinion about him being a gentleman.

I crab-walk sideways, then risk standing up so I can see what Bertha’s up to. It turns out she’s up to her cleavage in rage. If I’ve ever seen a madder woman, I don’t want to recall it. She has ditched her black coat, and her face and neck are mottled all the way down to her popping-out you know whats.

I ease closer and try to hear what she’s saying, but I’m hampered by two very large women wearing
Elvis Lives!
T-shirts who form a solid wall of flesh, then glare at me as if I’ve tried to make off with their Social Security checks.

If I’m going to prevent Bertha from killing Thaxton, I’m going to have to adopt Lovie’s
don’t mess with
me attitude.

Rising to my full height, I tower a good four inches over them.

“Excuse me, please. I have to get through.”

“Don’t mess with me, missy.” The larger of the two gets right in my face. “I been here since eight o’clock this morning to hear Willie Nelson, and if you think you can be Johnny Come Lately and waltz on through, then I’m fixing to sell you a rooster that lays eggs.”