Elvis and the Grateful Dead (16 page)

W
hen 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 and 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.

“On cloud nine, as you can imagine. I wanted him to spend some time with me, but he had to get back to Pensacola.”

Lovie and I exchange a look that says
on the lam.
Naturally you wouldn’t want to stick around after knocking off your competition.

“He’s choir director at his church, you know. Such a fine boy. Last year he was voted Citizen of the Year.”

There goes my latest theory. I don’t think choir directors will kill you, though I’ve known a few first sopranos who might disagree with me. I glance at Lovie, who looks like she’s about to say a word that will give Clytee a stroke.

“Callie, are you sure you girls don’t want some tea? Both of you look a mite peaked.”

“We don’t have time.” I glance at Lovie for some help.

“No, we don’t, but it’s great tea. I had some at the festival. Could I have the recipe?”

“Oh, it’s not mine. It’s Tewanda’s.”

Tewanda was on that bus, too, dispensing tea like it was going out of style tomorrow. But if she put poison in the tea the first day, why didn’t all three impersonators die at one time?

I ask if Tewanda made all the tea for the festival, but even if she did, what was her motive for killing impersonators?

“Oh yes. She made all the tea. Her secret is fresh peaches.”

What other secret does Tewanda have? Or was the culprit Clytee?

Just as Clytee reaches to set her empty glass on a coaster beside her chair, a big gray Persian leaps into her lap, knocking the tea and a framed photo onto the floor.

“Oh no,” she wails. “Elvis.”

Elvis?
What’s going on here?

Clytee and her cat are tangled in the chair and tea is running all over the floor. I leap to rescue the glass with my handy rag while Lovie scoops up the photograph.

Clytee dissolves into tears. “I’ll just die if anything happens to that picture. It’s the only one I have of Elvis and me.”

Lovie turns the picture over. It’s a group of children posing on the schoolhouse steps under the caption
LAWHON ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, THIRD GRADE
.

Elvis is easy to spot. Pictures of the serious looking child wearing overalls and glasses have been widely published.

Clytee pushes the cat off her lap and leans over to point out a pigtailed girl in a checked gingham dress. “That’s me.” Her finger moves to a chubby, dark-haired girl. “And that’s Tewanda.”

“Both of you were Elvis’ classmates at Lawhon?” I’m not surprised. She would be the right age. In fact, I vaguely recall her name being mentioned in the newspaper a couple of years ago when an enterprising reporter interviewed some of Elvis’ classmates.

“Yes.”

“Is Beulah Jane on here, too?”

“No. She didn’t meet Elvis till later.”

“When?” Lovie asks.

“At Milam. She claims they were school sweethearts, but these days every old lady in the fan club claims to be Elvis’ girlfriend.”

Remembering the dispute between Beulah Jane and Clytee, I don’t know what to believe. Was the argument simply over camellias or were there deeper motives? Jealousy over who had the closest relationship with Elvis?

“The nice thing about failing memory,” Clytee adds, “is being able to invent an exciting past and really believe it.”

She puts the cherished photograph back on the table, and I ask if she can give us a tour of her gardens before we go.

It’s ten degrees hotter than when we first arrived, and Clytee’s long-winded tour adds to the problem. Sweat is rolling down my face, and if my clothes get any damper Clytee will see the imprint of my gun.

I punch Lovie and she blurts out, “Do you grow poison plants?”

Clytee moves so fast she could win the senior Olympic races. Perched in front of Lovie like a ruffled-up sparrow, she shakes her bony finger under my cousin’s nose.

“Young lady, if you think I’d grow oleander and risk Terry’s precious children getting poisoned, you ought to be spanked. I would never do such a thing. And I can’t believe you’d accuse me.”

“Oh no, Lovie didn’t mean to accuse you. She’s been studying herbs lately.” I invent as I talk, but Clytee is not convinced. “For her catering business, you know. She’s just trying to learn from an expert gardener. That’s all.”

Flattery does the trick. “You’re a good girl, Callie.” Clytee smiles, but only at me, while Lovie stomps off to my truck.

“I’m really sorry if we upset you, Clytee.”

“That’s all right, dear.” She pats my hand. “I know
you
didn’t mean any harm. If your cousin really wants to know about poison plants, ask Tewanda. She’s the one who grows them.”

I join Lovie in my Dodge and we head toward Tewanda’s house. “I don’t think Clytee’s the killer, Lovie.”

“I think we’re wasting our time. These little old ladies are just growing flowers and trying to one-up each other about who was closer to their idol.”

“I still say we need to check them all out.”

“Besides, if Clytee was going to knock off her nephew’s competition, why did she pick the three worst singers?”

Lovie should know. She was training to be a professional musician before her mother died.

“Maybe she’s tone-deaf,” I say. “Or maybe he selected the victims for reasons we don’t know yet.”

Lovie turns up the air-conditioning, then starts fanning with the Wildwood church bulletin I left on the seat.

“If we’re going to catch the right person this time, it’s going to take more than sitting in some little old lady’s parlor on Sunday afternoon discussing flowers.”

“What do you suggest? False mustaches and felt fedoras? Good grief, Lovie. Tewanda and Beulah Jane know us. They’d see right through disguises.”

“You talk about flowers if you want to. I’m doing some real detective work.”

Translated: snooping. I’m better at it than Lovie, but I’ll go along with her scheme. She needs something to occupy her mind besides her failure to find Rocky’s libido.

Tewanda lives in a small pink stucco house with a circular drive in east Tupelo, not far from Elvis’ birthplace. As I enter the drive from the east side, Tewanda roars out the west.

I watch her Honda Civic disappear in the direction of Barnes Crossing Mall. “Clytee called to tell her about our visit.”

“Who made you Houdini?” Lovie’s not in a good mood (with cause, I’ll grant you). I have reasons to be surly, too (both of them male), but I pride myself on holding up under pressure.

“Clytee was in Reed’s Bookstore the day you asked about poison plants, and somebody put the threatening note on my pickup that day. If Clytee didn’t do it, she spread the word to Tewanda and Beulah Jane, and one of them did. It’s obvious, Lovie.”

“Well, get the lead out and let’s get this over with.”

Lovie always talks about my driving. I’d make a remark she wouldn’t like, but it’s Sunday.

As we head toward Beulah Jane’s I have a strong feeling she won’t be home, either, and it turns out I’m right. Breaking and entering is not an option because it’s broad daylight and people are sitting on their front porches hoping to see something worth talking about.

Stymied, we head to Eternal Rest to see what Mama and Uncle Charlie are up to.

In his case, reading, and in Mama’s, no good.

While Lovie’s in the office talking to Uncle Charlie, I head to the kitchen and find Mama in a huddle with Bobby Huckabee.

“Mama, did I hear you mention a séance at Fayrene’s?”

She and Bobby jump like the guilty. “How do I know what you heard?” she says. “I’m no mind reader.”

“But I am.”

“Hush, Bobby.” Mama gets up and pours me a glass of Prohibition Punch, the Valentine family remedy for everything from a broken heart to a broken fingernail. “You look like you could use this. Sit down.” She motions me to a chair. “How’s Jack? I talked to him and he didn’t sound too perky.”

Naturally they talked. They have a mutual admiration society. Where he’s concerned, Mama seizes every opportunity to meddle.

Ignoring her question, I sit at the table, grateful the punch has plenty of vodka. No sooner am I in my chair than Bobby says, “I see danger from a dark-eyed stranger.”

“Not now, Bobby.” Mama pats my hand. “Now tell me what’s going on with you and that sweet man.”

“Mama, I can think of many ways to describe Jack Jones, but sweet is not one of them.” I take a fortifying sip of punch. “Has anybody heard from Bertha?”

“No. The law is still looking for her.”

“What’s Uncle Charlie going to do with poor old dead Dick?”

“You’ll have to ask Charlie.”

“Mama, whatever’s eating you two, I wish you’d fix it.”

“Have some more punch.” She refills my cup and quite frankly, I’m glad to let her. Lovie can drive. When I get home I plan to do nothing but curl up on the sofa with Elvis and take a nap.

My phone rings and I answer it out of pure habit. When I hear a male “hello” I wish I’d checked the caller ID first. Today I don’t need one more added complication.

“Elvis is lonely,” Jack says.

“What are you doing in my house?”

“I’m taking him for a while.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, but he has already hung up. I reach for another cup of Prohibition comfort.

Lovie joins us in the kitchen and pours herself a cup.

“Just drink one, Lovie. I’m on my third. You’re driving.”

“In that case.” She fills a plastic pitcher of punch. “We’ll go by my house for clothes. I’m staying with you tonight.”

“It works for me.”

I don’t want to be alone, either. In addition to kidnapping my dog, Jack’s probably planning to waylay me tonight, and I’m fresh out of willpower.

Leaving Uncle Charlie holed up in his apartments above the funeral home and Mama holed up in the kitchen with Bobby Huckabee, we step into the parking lot and a blast of heat. I’m just getting ready to ask Lovie if she knows what Mama and Bobby are plotting when she says, “What’s that on your windshield?”

It’s another note. I pluck it off and she reads it aloud, “‘I hear you’re been snooping again. Stay out of my business.’ What the devil?”

“Not the devil, Lovie. The killer.”

“It must be Clytee.”

“Or she’s perfectly innocent and it’s one of the cronies she called.” I fold the note and stick it in my purse.

“Maybe Bertha doubled back.” Lovie swivels around looking for trouble, and I do, too.