Elvis and the Grateful Dead (13 page)

I’m grateful Bobby’s in the room.

Out of the blue he says, “I see wheels on the horizon.”

“What?”

I glance over and he’s sitting so straight and still he looks like a cardboard imitation of himself. The way he’s staring into the distance is eerie, and I whirl around to look behind my back, half expecting to see somebody there. Carrying a butcher knife.

Or a flacon of poison.

“Wheels. For you. A new sports car. Red.” He rolls his blue eye, but not the green. How does he do that? “I see travel, lots of events, picnics, and weddings, you’ll be attending weddings.”

I rethink my decision to involve Bobby in the murder case. There’s no way I’m trading my big Dodge pickup for a car that’s low slung and wimpy, one that doesn’t have the muscle to say
I’m bad to the bone, back off
. As for travel and social events, that could be part of anybody’s future.

“Wait!” Suddenly Bobby turns his blue eye on me, and it’s like being hit by a blast of air-conditioning. I wrap my arms around myself to keep from shivering.

“I’m getting something.” His voice is low and urgent. Between Bobby and Dick I’m wondering who turned this tranquil mostly pink room I love into a spook house.

“Something big,” he says, and I just hope it’s not Jack. Which goes to show the alarming turns a woman’s mind will take when she’s still halfway over the moon with her almost-ex.

“There’s danger all around you,” Bobby says.

I’m about to be spooked.

“Danger from a dark-eyed stranger.”

Wait a minute. Right after Bobby came here, didn’t I hear Mama and Fayrene discussing something about
danger from a dark-eyed stranger?

Since the killer is focusing on impersonators, the only danger I’m likely to be in is from Elvis, who will get mad and do no telling what when I leave him home this evening while I go to the festival finale.

I don’t care what Mama thinks. As far as I’m concerned, if Bobby Huckabee wants to be part of the Valentine family, he’s going to have to curb his enthusiasm for predicting the future.

I finish Dick as quickly as I can. Fortunately Bobby has
seen
all he’s going to and sits on the sofa without saying another word until I’m ready to leave.

“Be careful,” is all he says, and I tell him I will.

It will be a relief to get into my truck and go home.

Something’s flapping on my windshield. It can’t be a parking ticket. I’m on the Eternal Rest lot.

I pluck the note off and unfold it.

Keep your nose out of my business or you could be next,
signed with a shaky drawing of skull and crossbones.

I let out a little yelp, but stop myself before it becomes a full-fledged scream. I’m trying to turn myself into a woman to be reckoned with.

Tucking the note into my pocket, I resolve to rethink my opinion about Bobby and his ominous predictions. As I head home I look every which way for a dark-eyed stranger, or at least somebody with a suspicious look and a beef against me. I don’t cotton to the idea of being the Elvis Festival killer’s next victim.

Even if I wouldn’t be caught dead in a sequined jumpsuit. No pun intended.

A
s much as I’d love to go home and sink into a hot bubble bath, I head straight to Everlasting Monuments to rescue my dog. Wouldn’t you know? Mama has stuck a
CLOSED
sign on the door, and it’s not even closing time.

Fortunately, she doesn’t have to keep regular hours. She has made the monument company so popular that people are willing to wait just so they can honor their dearly departed with a headstone from Ruby Nell Valentine. Of course, she sells great-quality stone—pink marble from Italy and black from Africa as well as the traditional gray granite.

But it’s those crazy carvings that draw the crowd.
Woody’s gone to the Eternal Dairy Barn to take care of the Master’s cows
and
Pete’s still growing prize tomatoes at that great Farmers’ Market in the sky.

Mama’s sayings give the bereaved something to latch on to. I can imagine them going home and saying to each other, “Herbert, I feel better knowing Daddy’s still growing tomatoes,” and Herbert replying, “Yep, Izzy Mae. If Ms. Valentine carves it in stone, it has to be true.”

Mama’s car’s not here, but I rattle the knob and bang on the door just in case she and Fayrene are carpooling. They do that sometimes when they have plans for the evening, pick each other up way in advance, drop one car off, then take care of business till it’s time to leave for their latest entertainment.

My racket brings Alice Ann Street, who owns the video store next door. She prides herself on knowing the movie tastes of every one of her customers and being on hand to personally make recommendations.

“Your mama’s not here, Callie.”

“Do you know where she is?”

That would be a crazy question to ask in Boston or Berkeley, but in Mooreville everybody knows everybody else’s business. Which is a good thing if you’re sick with flu and the neighbors are waiting in your front yard with chicken soup by the time you get home from the doctor. On the other hand, it can be aggravating if you don’t want anybody to know your almost-ex is still keeping your body hot. Not to mention your bed.

“A little while ago she went tearing off toward Gas, Grits, and Guts.”

“Elvis was with her, I assume.” I hope.

Alice Ann tells me he was, and I tear off in that direction myself. If anything else goes amiss today, I’m likely to pack my clothes and spend the night in Reed’s shoe department. There’s nothing like the smell of expensive leather to perk me up.

I park my Dodge Ram in front right by Mama’s telltale red convertible and hurry inside. Jarvetis is behind the counter looking grim. Well, no wonder, after that stunt Mama and Fayrene pulled over in Tunica. I buy a bag of chips and a Coke, then stand there asking what he thinks about Mississippi State’s baseball team, hoping that will cheer him up. The only thing Jarvetis Johnson likes better than the Bulldog baseball team is his redbone hound, Trey.

“Lately, I haven’t had time to keep up with anything except Fayrene.”

Jarvetis has said this before, but always with a wink and a grin. I hate to think Mama is partially the cause of this unhappy turn of events. Still, I don’t want anybody blaming her.

Except me, of course.

“Is Mama in the break room?”

He nods toward the back and I head that way. I don’t know what I expected, probably the jingle of quarters and the shuffling of cards. Certainly not Mama and Fayrene bent over a piece of paper with their heads together, whispering. And most certainly not them jumping when they see me, then rolling up the paper like it’s a treasure map I’ve come to steal.

I don’t even want to know what they’re plotting now. Well, I do, but after the kind of day I’ve had I don’t think I can stand any more nasty surprises. And if they’re whispering so Jarvetis won’t hear, the surprise is bound to be unpleasant.

They greet me like I’m a long-lost favorite relative. Confirmation they’re planning trouble.

“I guess you’ve come to get your dog,” Mama says.

If she turns the wattage of her smile up one more notch, she’s going to light up Mooreville. Meanwhile, Elvis knocks the paper out of Fayrene’s hand and she jerks it up and stuffs it in a cookie jar as if I don’t have good eyesight and good sense, to boot.

Ordinarily I’d scold Elvis, but today I’m more concerned about his health than his manners. I scoop him up and check him out. He seems all right. His bandage hasn’t been gnawed off and he’s not addled. I can breathe a bit now.

I turn my attention toward my latest problem. “Is everything all right, Mama?”

“If things were any better I’d be turning cartwheels.”

This could mean she and Uncle Charlie have patched up their differences or it could mean Mama’s putting on a show so I won’t worry. She’s good at that. When I was growing up, I never knew when she cried about losing Daddy or trying to learn how to run a business, or that she worried I’d turn out wrong because I didn’t have a father. It was only after I married and was furious at what I considered Mama’s meddling that Jack told me those things.

“She just wants the best for you,” he’d said.

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.

C
allie 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.