Elvis and the Grateful Dead (11 page)

Apologizing profusely, I backtrack and try to find a way around.

I guess I showed them.

B
y the time I get close enough to hear what Bertha’s angry about, she’s made a complete about-face and is sweet-talking Love Me Tender Elvis.

Running her hands all over Thaxton’s chest and down toward dangerous regions I don’t care to discuss, Bertha croons, “Now, Thaxton, you’re just too precious to think such a thing about little ole me.”

Somebody from Chicago or Scranton might interpret this display to mean Thaxton is the love of Bertha’s life, but I’m here to tell you, it’s not necessarily so. The minute a southern belle uses the word
precious,
you can bet she has not handed you a compliment.
Doris, those shoes are just so precious
is her way of saying
Those shoes are so tacky I wouldn’t wear them to the pigpen.
And if a pure-blood southern belle says
Aren’t you just precious?
she’d as soon cut out your liver as look at you.

Thaxton Miller is in big trouble. If I’m going to prevent his death by exotic poison, I’m going to need backup. I consider calling the police, but only briefly. What would I say to them?
I’ve withheld evidence that points to Bertha being the killer and now she’s going to kill again?

“Come on, precious,” Bertha tells Thaxton. “Let’s go somewhere cozy so we can kiss and make up.”

She walks off with her future victim.

Holy cow!
She has cajoled him toward his death. There’s no time to do anything except follow them, easier said than done in this crowd. Willie Nelson is one of the few great entertainers left from the Elvis era, and three states (Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee) have turned out in force.

Thaxton and Bertha are heading toward the east gate. Grateful for my long legs and skinny self, I step over obstacles (small dogs, empty lawn chairs, and several coolers) and slide through holes in the crowd with the ease of the Shadow, only once having to suck in my stomach so I can get through.

Bertha and her prey break out of the crowd and head toward the Bancorp South Convention Center’s parking lot with me right behind them. The lot is a solid sea of vehicles, mostly SUVs and pickup trucks, and I lose them. While I’m trying to decide whether to race back to my Dodge Ram, which is parked way back up at Courthouse Square, a motorcycle roars by so fast I’d never know who was on it except for one thing: I can spot a bad hairdo a mile.

It’s Bertha, jiggling all over Love Me Tender Elvis. Doesn’t she know better than to get on that bike without a helmet?

I wait long enough to see them hang a left out of the parking lot and another left on Main. Bertha said
some place cozy,
and the Hilton Garden Inn where the impersonators are staying is the closest cozy spot in that direction.

I break into a run and head to my truck, congratulating myself all the way that I never slack on my fitness routine. If I did I’d be bigger than my truck, considering all the sherry-laced chocolate delights Lovie offers up.

By the time I get back to Main, Thaxton and Bertha are nowhere in sight. With only instinct as my guide, I head straight to the hotel. I don’t know what I’ll do when I find them. My plan is just to take one step at a time and depend on my stellar instincts for my next move.

I don’t see a motorcycle in the parking lot. Have I lost them or did they transfer to Bertha’s car while I was getting my truck? I don’t know what she drives, so there’s no way I can tell.

Since I’m here anyway I might as well find out if she’s in Thaxton’s room vamping him one more time before she knocks him off.

I march straight into the lobby and right up to the desk clerk, Ricky Pate, according to his name tag, an efficient-looking young man with killer looks and a wide smile. Probably smart, college educated, good family.

What is wrong with me? Lately I can’t look at a member of the opposite sex between the ages of twenty-five and forty without considering his genes, and I’m not talking Levi’s here.

“I’m here to see Thaxton Miller.” Let Mr. Centerfold Gorgeous think whatever he wants. By the time I offer explanations, Thaxton could be dead. “Will you ring his room?”

The Pate hunk shuffles through his files. “Did you say
Thaxton Miller?
” I nod, and he says, “He checked out.”

“Oh dear.” South of the Mason-Dixon Line, the helpless act usually gets results. “There must be some mistake. I had a two o’clock appointment with him.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. He checked out this morning at eight.”

That leaves Bertha’s apartment in Magnolia Manor as the last available
cozy place
for them. Maybe I’m not too late.

As I head that way I wonder when I got old enough for twenty-year-olds to call me
ma’am.

Finally I get lucky: there are three bikes parked in the lot, one of them Jack’s Harley Screamin’ Eagle. It’s the only one I know because I make it my practice
not
to pay attention to motorcycle brands.

Hoping one of them belongs to Thaxton, I head through the front door. Thank goodness Jack’s still in Mexico (meaning he’s not here to catch me), which I refuse to dwell upon because if I do I might start agonizing
everything to do with my almost-ex
in spite of the fact I swore off worry. Since it was only a recent resolution, I don’t feel bad that I can’t seem to keep it.

I sashay past the manager/owner’s office and barrel up the stairs two at a time (just in case the elevator breaks down and I get trapped inside, which would be my luck considering the hot air balloon episode). When I get to Bertha’s apartment I can’t decide whether to ring the bell or break and enter.

If I break and enter I might interrupt something I don’t care to see, but if I ring the bell, I’ve lost the element of surprise.

Shoot, if Lovie can pick a lock, so can I. I’ve got everything else in my purse: I’m bound to have a hairpin.

I do, but it proves to be an uncooperative brand. After three minutes of probing, all I end up with is a broken fingernail and a bent hairpin. Since I’m not the kind of woman to let small setbacks deter me, I ring Bertha’s doorbell. Naturally I’m not going to blurt out
I’m here to prevent murder
. What I’ll say is,
Uncle Charlie needs to get Dick’s funeral scheduled and I’m here so it’ll be easier for you to make the arrangements.

Bertha doesn’t appear on the first ring, nor even the fifth. I just politely march myself downstairs and ring the doorbell on the apartment that has
ERIC MILLER
,
MANAGER
/
OWNER
painted on the door. I wonder if he’s any relation to Thaxton.

A burly man who looks like he does serial killing on the side answers. I wish I’d had time to dress in disguise in case I make him mad and he decides to find me and slit my throat. The only thing I can do now is tell the truth—or at least enough to get me into Bertha’s apartment.

I present my card from Eternal Rest that features my name below a gold-embossed butterfly, a symbol of hope, of emerging from an ordinary cocoon to become something more beautiful. The Valentines are renowned for positive attitudes and optimistic funerals, complete with a jazz band and dancing Jezebels if that’s what the mourners want.

And sometimes surprise Jezebels who inherit all the money, but that’s a whole other story (the Bubbles Caper).

“I’m here to make arrangements with Bertha Gerard about her husband’s funeral,” I tell the formidable Mr. Miller. “I rang her bell, but apparently it’s broken.”

“It ain’t broke.” He lifts an arm the size of a Virginia ham and scratches his hairy, unwashed pit. I almost pass out from the fumes. “Who did you say you was again?”

So much for showing my card. Obviously he can’t read small print. I briefly consider seizing this opportunity to give a false name, then think better of it.

“Callie Valentine. From Eternal Rest Funeral Home. Dick’s body is there.”

“Too bad about Dick. Wonder who done it.”

“I wouldn’t know.” I hope my eye is not twitching. Jack says it does when I lie. “I’m just here to see Bertha. Do you know if she’s home?”

Mr. Miller’s apartment has a picture window that faces the parking lot and a row of smaller windows on the inside facing the entry hall. The venetian blinds are wide open and a big-screen TV blares inside. The setup is the only thing that passes for security in Magnolia Manor. Not only does the manager see his tenants’ comings and goings, but he also can see who else enters his building, including yours truly. Unless, of course, they use the back door.

Even if I weren’t such a keen observer, I’d know all this because of Jack.

“Don’t reckon she is,” Mr. Two-steps-away-from-prison says. “She’s gone.”

“Gone?” As in
dead
or
visiting?
I’m afraid to ask.

“Yeah. Moved out without notice. If I hadn’t seen the moving van at the back door, I wouldn’t have knowed a thing about it.”

“When was this?”

“About eighty thirty this morning. Saw it just as it was pulling out.”

“Do you know where she’s moving?”

“If I did I’d serve her with papers. She owes two weeks’ rent.”

I guess killing and stealing go together.

“Which moving company?”

He names one on the south side of town while I get up enough courage to ask him if he’s kin to Thaxton Miller. It’s a long shot, but who knows? It might be the best lead I have.

“Listen, lady, if I was kin to this Thaxton feller, I wouldn’t admit it. Any man with a name that wimpy ain’t got no business being a Miller.”

Do you thank somebody for that kind of information, or what? While I’m trying to decide, he slams the door in my face. So much for manners.

I head to my Dodge Ram and call Lovie.

I don’t make any apologies, either. Some things are worth interrupting personal business over, and murder is one of them.

“Is Rocky still there?”

Lovie says a word she didn’t learn in Sunday school. Obviously the whole Calgon/bubbles/seduction plan didn’t go well.

“He said he had to go back to the motel to
take care of some details for his dig.
” She couldn’t sound more scathing if fire were shooting from her nostrils. Knowing Lovie, maybe it is.

“He probably did exactly what he said. It must take lots of organization for an archaeological trip that will last months. For goodness’ sake, Lovie. He sent
roses.
”

“Who are you now? Rocky’s PR person?”

Ordinarily I’d say
Sarcasm doesn’t become you,
but I can smell hurt all over the place, and I’m not about to add to her feeling of rejection.

“No, I’m your favorite cousin who is trying to prove you didn’t kill the impersonators.” I bring Lovie up to date on the poison and the escaped lovers. “You’ve got to help me find them before she kills him.”

“I can’t find Rocky’s libido. How do you expect me to find Bertha and Thaxton?”

“I’m coming to get you. Be ready in ten minutes.”

“In disguise?”

That’s one thing I love best about Lovie, her ability to bound right back.

“No. Just put on something besides bubbles. And be ready for bribery.”

I gun the engine and hightail it out of Magnolia Manor. Bertha has a huge head start. We don’t have any time to lose.

R
uby Nell never pays the least bit of attention to what Callie tells her, which is all right with me. I like hanging out at Everlasting Monuments. People don’t pop off like flies in Mooreville, so the pace is slow and lazy around here.

Even dogs live longer (the clean air and laid-back lifestyle, I guess), which suits my purposes fine. I have a big agenda, like seeing all the Valentines settled down and happy. I don’t want to be hampered by having to give up my sassy basset suit and come back as something else. What if I came back as a cow? Of course, knowing my resourcefulness, I’d figure some way to get right into the middle of Valentine business, even if it meant learning to moo six bars of “Love Me Tender.”

Ruby Nell’s inside polishing her toenails purple and watching
Days of Our Lives.
She’s partial to soaps and keeps the nineteen-inch TV in her office blaring at all times, even when customers are here. They’re so distraught they don’t notice, anyhow, and I’ve never seen a woman multitask the way Ruby Nell Valentine can. I’m probably the only one who notices she can follow every line of a soap saga while inventing creative tombstone slogans like
Martha baked her way to Glory and is preparing a big banquet in the sky.

Did I say she’s also studying an Italian/English dictionary? She’s gotten wind of Callie and Lovie’s trip to Italy next summer, and she’s not planning on being left behind.

Ditto for me, but I don’t need to learn a foreign language. All I have to do is look cute and howl one of my gold hits, and I can get by in any country no matter what the natives speak.

Right now I’m sitting on the screened-in porch Ruby Nell built on the back of Everlasting Monuments so she and Fayrene can loaf and enjoy iced tea laced with whatever they’re in the mood for. Usually it’s lemon, but sometimes it’s something stronger that would give Callie nightmares if she knew.

I’ll never tell. Ruby Nell covers my back and I cover hers. She never even latches the screen on this porch because she knows dogs, like women, need their freedom.

Well, bless’a my soul.
What’s that over yonder behind the video store? A stray, looks like. If I don’t take care of this matter, Callie will have that mutt scooped up and sitting in my yard on a satin pillow. Her strays are driving me to howl “You’re the Devil in Disguise.” Not to mention they’re gobbling my chow and making moves on my guitar-shaped pillow.

I clump down the back steps, a heroic canine who’s not about to let a little thing like a bandage and a few narcotics stop me. I give a warning growl, which usually sends the lower class running. Not this time, in spite of the fact I’ve got warrior blood coursing through my veins from Morning Dove White (the King’s great-great-great-grandmother). Of course, I’m so peaceable by nature I think my Cherokee heritage translated mostly as good looks.

It looks like I’m going to have to grit my teeth and drag all the way across the yard.

I’m only halfway there when the stray takes matters into his own hands and prances my way. Correct that.
Hers.
The doc’s drugs have done a number on my eyesight.

Turns out the intruder is none other than my French cutie, Ann-Margret. She greets me with a haughty look and turns her back with a dismissive switch of her shapely tail.

Well, bless’a my soul. She’s all knocked up and not the least bit interested in sneaking off for a good time.

Let me tell you, there’s nothing like being faced with parenthood to make a smart dog stop and think. Listen, there are enough illegitimate dogs in this world. I, for one, do not intend to add to that problem.

Besides, I kind of like the idea of a mixed-breed puppy with Ann-Margret’s looks and my talent and valor.

Putting on my best grin, I sashay over to my little Frenchie and ask
What’s cooking, baby?

Wrong question. She snaps at me like I stole her Pup-Peroni. Faced with female wrath, I do what any red-blooded American dog would do: I get down on my knees and beg.

I croon a few bars of “Help Me Make It through the Night,” and I’m not the least bit ashamed of borrowing a song from Kris Kristofferson. This is the love of my life and it’s marriage I’m talking here. And thanking my lucky stars doggie matrimony doesn’t involve all that silly business with tuxedos and stale wedding cake and legal documents that don’t mean a fart in a whirlwind.

Ann-Margret becomes putty in my paws. What did you expect? When I walked on two legs and had sideburns, women threw their thongs at me.

My little Frenchie seals the deal with a chaste nuzzle to my heroic chest. However, she declines to share my pillow, preferring instead to maintain separate residences and see each other when it’s convenient—her delicate way of saying when the heat’s on and she’s in the mood. I’m fine with that, as long as every other dog in the neighborhood knows to keep his paws off.

Ann-Margret trots her cute butt home and I mosey on back to the porch. I’m just getting comfortable, weaving in and out of rabbit-chasing dreams, when Charlie arrives.

I amble back inside because I don’t want to miss this. Callie’s been wondering what’s up between these two, but I’ve been knowing all along. Unearthing secrets just took a little smart detective work and a lot of eavesdropping.

Ruby Nell fixes Charlie a glass of iced tea with lemon and switches off her TV. He’s the only one she does that for.

“The impersonators were poisoned,” he tells her. “Security has been beefed up around the festival.” He sips his tea and avoids looking at her. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“You didn’t come here to discuss the festival, Charlie.”

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

He sets his glass on her desk, careful to use the tile she keeps there.
Give your soul a bubble bath,
it says. Let me tell you, that Ruby Nell knows a thing or two about living. If more people took care of their spirits and souls instead of trying to take care of everybody else’s business, this world would be a better place.

“It’s just dancing, Charlie.”

“How did you know what I was going to say?”

“Because I know you.”

“I promised my brother on his deathbed I’d take care of you. And I intend to do it, Ruby Nell, whether you like it or not.”

I smell Ruby Nell’s loss clear over here by the door. Her husband’s deathbed was brief, the fifteen-minute ride to the hospital from the creek where his tractor plunged in, Ruby Nell and Charlie in the ambulance with him, begging him to live. I’ve heard this story a jillion times.

“Believe me, Charlie. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

They stare at each other, their silence so complete even a human without extraordinary ears could hear the baby Ben clock on her desk ticking. Finally, Ruby Nell picks up her polish and starts putting a coat of glitter over her purple-painted toenails.

“I checked up on that Whitenton guy.”

“For Pete’s sake, Charlie. Thomas is my
dance partner.
”

“He’s had three wives, all of them rich.”

“I don’t want to marry him. Just boogie with him.”

“Interesting choice of words, Ruby Nell.”

“Okay, then. Fox-trot, salsa, tango, rumba. Take your pick. And besides that, I asked you to be my partner.”

“I don’t like to dance.”

“You used to.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Everything was a long time ago.” She sets her polish aside and grabs a newspaper to fan her feet. “Did you ever wonder what our lives would be like if we’d made different choices? If I’d moved to New York after Michael died, Callie might be a famous hairdresser and I might be married.”

“Is that what you want, Ruby Nell?”

“I want to
live,
Charlie.”

She stands up and twirls around the room. Since there’s no music, I howl a few bars of “Tennessee Waltz.”

Nobody’s paying attention. They’re too busy with their pissing contest, Ruby Nell flaunting her daredevil independence and Charlie lobbying for caution.

He’s a commanding man. Only somebody of Ruby Nell’s spitfire nature could defy him. When he gets out of his chair, he just stands there till he gets her attention.

But she doesn’t capitulate. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she finishes her dance with a flirty flash of leg that flushes his cheeks, then stops right in front of his nose.

“I’ve scheduled us to work at the T-shirt booth tonight. Will you be there, Ruby Nell?”

“This is tango night in Pontotoc. I’ll get somebody to sub for me.” She grabs his hands. “Come with me, Charlie. Live a little. Be wild and crazy.”

When Ruby Nell starts to cajole, it’s not easy to turn her down. Ask Callie. Ruby Nell wrote the book on charm. And for a woman her age—or any age for that matter—she’s a real looker.

I can see Charlie’s turmoil. Somewhere inside him is still the man who could take Bourbon Street by storm, start out the night with a dollar in his pocket and end up buying drinks for everybody at Pat O’Brian’s. Of course, that was the good old days when his sap was high and the levee was holding.

I strike up a few bars of “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” hoping Charlie will get the message. No sense in a good-looking, kindhearted man like him sitting in his apartment above Eternal Rest reading Shakespeare when he could be out having some fun.

Much as I admire and love him, I’ll have to side with Ruby Nell this time. If you can’t loosen up and live a little, what’s the use of living at all?

Charlie just grabs his hat and walks out.

Looks like I’ve got more work cut out for me than I thought.