Elvis and the Grateful Dead (17 page)

If one of the three geriatrics fan club officers or Bertha Gerard is back there, I’m pulling out my gun, and I don’t much care what I hit as long as I draw blood.

“Let’s go, Lovie.”

She pulls out of the parking lot and I settle into the passenger side. But I have the eerie feeling somebody is watching.

J
ack knows what a dog likes, but he doesn’t have a clue about a woman. When I spot him coming up the sidewalk with a wad of wilted wildflowers, I figure he needs some serious counseling on courtship. It’ll be up to me.

“Hey, boy,” he says, then goes straight to the kitchen and sticks his floral mistake in a Mason jar.

I howl a few lines of “Red Roses for a Blue Lady” (not one of my hits, but it fits the occasion). Jack bends down and scratches my ears.

“You’re not feeling good, are you, boy?”

I’d chalk my human daddy off as hopeless in the romance department if I didn’t know from some serious voyeurism (listen, I’m not perfect) that he’s hot in the sack.

He calls Callie to say he’s taking me (another major mistake for a man hoping to win points) and we head off toward Gas, Grits, and Guts.

Free at last. With the wind blowing my ears back I feel like anything is possible. Even a little visit to my own ladylove. If I can catch Jack in the right mood (meaning when he’s not mooning over how to win Callie back now that another man is in the picture), maybe I can talk him into a little side trip to see my knocked-up Frenchie and I won’t have to fool with getting that silly spaniel to do my dirty work.

Jack helps me off his bad boy’s Harley and I sashay into Gas, Grits, and Guts expecting a round of applause from my local admirers and a little smackeral of something good from Jarvetis.

Well, bless’a my soul, what’s this I hear? A public debate (to put a polite spin on it) between Mooreville’s answer to Lucy and Desi over Bobby Huckabee. And they don’t stop when they see us coming, either.

Jarvetis is saying, “Fayrene, for the last time, I will not allow you to expand the break room in my store so Bobby Huckabee can hold séances.”

Little does he know—she and Ruby Nell have already drawn up the plans, and Fayrene’s already hired a contractor.

“Whose store did you say?” Fayrene owns fifty-one percent of this establishment, a fine point that’s landed her hapless spouse into some serious trouble and deprived me of my treat. Jarvetis has more on his mind today than pickled pigs’ lips.

“It’s not enough that you and Ruby Nell go all over the country flashing your skirts.”

“It’s called dancing, Jarvetis, and I asked you to go.”

“This is the last straw. I’m not ruining the reputation of Gas, Grits, and Guts with devil worshipers.”

He stomps to the coffeepot and she flounces to the back room. I’m surprised she let that devil worship remark pass.

If I don’t do something fast, Jarvetis is going to be on the next train to Memphis taking my snacks and my pal Trey, to boot. Besides that, if Gas, Grits, and Guts shuts down, Mooreville’s entire social structure will collapse.

But not to worry. I have a plan.

While Jack’s over by the canned goods ignoring the proprietors and trying to figure out whether to have Sweet Sue chicken and dumplings or sardines for supper, I mosey out the door and around back where my old pal Trey is lolling under the oak tree enjoying a ham bone. Fresh, from the smell of it.

I lean casually against the kennel fence. Mooreville society is not fixing to collapse while I’m in charge.

“Get your redbony self over here, Trey. We’ve got some important business to discuss.”

I
’m still feeling jumpy when we get to Lovie’s, so I follow her around the house while she throws her stuff into an overnight bag.

You’d never call her a neatnik. Her clothes are scattered all over the house.

So are the roses from Rocky. I try not to think about that, about Lovie having a sweet man but acting like she doesn’t because his old-fashioned ideals clash with her need to feel loved. When it comes to love, she has a fast food mentality (wanting everything instantly). I’ve told her so, but I’m afraid she doesn’t hear.

Both of us need some getaway time on the farm. Maybe we’ll do that tonight.

“Lovie, have you heard Mama planning a séance?”

“No, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Aunt Ruby Nell’s wanted to get in touch with Uncle Michael ever since he died.”

Why didn’t I know that? And once Mama sets her mind, there’s no stopping her.

“Good grief, the next thing I know, Mama will be going on television.”

“What’s so bad about that? If things don’t heat up with Rocky soon, I may have to take out my frustration on the microwaves.”

“
Airwaves,
Lovie. You sound like Fayrene.”

“No, I meant what I said. I have a new recipe for micro-waved fudge brownies.”

She goes into her big kitchen with the shiny green tiles and copper pots. It smells of the wonderful herbs drying on a rack, fresh chocolate from her latest creation, and the cinnamon-scented orchid blooming on her windowsill. I want to sit down in here and not move for about three hours. I don’t want to meditate, think, listen to music, or even dream. I just want to get into a Zen-like state of being.

She’s buried in the pantry rattling cans and bottles.

“What are you doing, Lovie?”

“Getting snacks. You never have any.” True, which explains my skinny backside. “I thought we’d go down to the farm tonight.”

Sometimes she reads my mind. I believe in mental telepathy one hundred percent. But don’t let that fool you into thinking I want Mama trying to contact Daddy just because she thinks Bobby Huckabee’s blue eye really is psychic.

“If you can bring me back in the morning, I’ll just leave my van here and we’ll take your truck.”

“Fine.” Unless anybody has a big emergency like a wedding or a funeral, I close my beauty shop on Mondays.

Lovie’s packed enough to withstand the Civil War siege of Vicksburg and we finally head out the door. While she’s locking up, a little car roars out from the curb a block down the street, and I strain my eyes to see the driver. The car is not a Honda Civic, so it can’t be Tewanda.

“Lovie, did you notice what kind of car Clytee drives.”

“Buick. Why?” She heads toward my Dodge Ram and I follow so close I step on her heels. She says a word and turns around. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Somebody’s following us.”

“If anybody messes with me today they’d better be prepared to lose body parts.”

Maybe I ought to give Lovie the gun. We climb into the Dodge and head to Mooreville. Armored with bad attitude, she keeps her eye on the road, but I look over my shoulder all the way home.

When we get to my house I make Lovie go in with me and get a flashlight so we can search all around the grounds. Ordinarily Elvis would be home to keep intruders away, but we all know where he is now. With the enemy.

Okay, so that’s not quite fair. Jack is not the enemy, just the man who wants custody of my dog. And who won’t give me a divorce. And who pops out of nowhere when I find a man who could take his place.

I’m shining my flashlight under the house while Lovie shines hers in the bushes. “There’s nothing out here, Callie.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Your yowling cats are enough to scare away Jack the Ripper.”

I hurry to feed the cats and Hoyt while Lovie goes back inside. Before fall I think I’ll build a little cat house with seven cat beds and a warming lamp to keep them cozy this winter. That way they’ll be safe and toasty and I won’t have to worry about cat hair all over the house. I don’t fancy it as a fashion accessory on all my skirts and pants, and Mama’s allergic to cat dander.

While I’m at it, I need to get a feeder and teach them to use it before my trip to Italy next summer. Since Jack left, self-sufficiency has been my other major goal. (I’m not even going to get into the primary one, which I break with such regularity it would be depressing if I couldn’t blame Jack. He’s the one who keeps breaking and entering.)

I tell my cats good night, pet them all around, then go into the house and check my messages. There are three. The first is from Champ asking me out to dinner, a relief considering our shaky start. I call him, get his machine, and leave a message accepting his invitation.

The other two are from Mama telling me I ought to be checking on Jack’s health and if I don’t some other woman will because he’s a catch. Her words, not mine.

Tomorrow is soon enough to tell Mama my marriage is really over (a truth she might as well start accepting). After a good night’s sleep and a long, quiet evening I’ll feel more like coping with her.

I go into the kitchen, where Lovie is sorting through her stash of snacks. She has already poured two glasses of Prohibition Punch, and brings one straight to me.

“What’s with the daises?” she asks.

I spot the flowers on the table. In spite of all common sense and good intentions, I head that way and bury my face in the petals. I don’t know where Jack got them—probably plucked from some neighbor’s yard because mine doesn’t have daisies. His simple gift melts my resolves and stirs up my eggs.

Jack would make a wonderful father except for one little flaw. He’s always trying to get himself killed.

“Is somebody trying to tell us something?” Lovie slugs her punch. “Daisies foreshadow death.”

“I think that’s lilies, Lovie. Besides, I think we were followed in Tupelo. Even a smart killer can’t be two places at the same time.” I take another sip of punch. “Unless he had an accomplice.”

“I don’t want to think about any of that. Grab a quilt and let’s go. I’ll get the food and drink.”

I don’t want to think about murder, either. Anyhow, I’m feeling a little light-headed and the room is beginning to look fuzzy.

It will be a bit cooler on the farm by the lake, and the fresh air will clear my head.

Besides, there’s a full moon out tonight. Problems have a way of fading in the moonlight. Throw in a sky full of stars, and if you’re the kind of woman who is awed by the splendor of the universe (which I am), your problems will downright disappear.

Though I’m just starting to teach myself a few chords, I grab my guitar. Music and moonlight soothe the soul in a way that all the Sunday sermons in the South cannot.

“Are you about ready?” Lovie’s calling from the front room.

“Just a minute.”

I’ve remembered my gun. There’s no way I’m heading off for an evening of relaxation with a weapon strapped to my thigh.

I unbuckle the holster strap, toss the whole thing in the top dresser drawer, then strip off my skirt, put on a comfortable pair of jeans, and slip into my favorite Steve Madden moccasins.

My cell phone rings but I remember to look at the caller ID. It’s Jack. As much as I’m tempted, I don’t answer.

Nothing is going to spoil my evening.

A
s we head down the road to the farm I notice Mama’s car at Gas, Grits, and Guts. My instinct tells me she and Fayrene are up to their ears in trouble.

“Do you want to stop?” Lovie asks.

“No. Keep on driving.”

Tonight, their problems are not mine. Let poor old Jarvetis deal with it.

We turn into a lane shaded by a canopy of trees and suddenly we’re on the Valentine homestead. It’s Mama’s now, but when I was growing up it was the gathering place for extended family. They flocked here nearly every Sunday afternoon, and these hills rang with laughter.

My Dodge rattles across the cattle gap (an opening in the fence featuring a series of railroad ties spaced far enough apart that cattle can’t cross), and we’re on sacred ground. I know that sounds like sacrilege, but every time I set foot on this patch of earth I feel connected to the universe in a way that restores my sense of balance and harmony.

Lovie and I spread the quilt under our favorite oak tree on the hillside that overlooks the lake on Mama’s farm. I’m still limber enough to sit cross-legged, but Lovie is not. She reclines, then starts issuing orders like Cleopatra on her barge.

“Pass the cake and don’t spare the punch. While you’re at it, toss me one of those cardboard fans. I think I just got a hot flash.”

“You’re too young, Lovie.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do.”

I’m glad her good mood is back. Lovie enjoys a good-natured argument, but only when she’s feeling relaxed.

I eat two pieces of cake and she eats three; then she pours herself another glass of punch.

“I thought you were driving, Lovie.”

“We’ll spend the night, like we used to.”

Sleeping with stars, we called it. We’d badger Mama or Aunt Minrose or Uncle Charlie until one of them would bundle up quilts and blankets and flashlights and then bring us up here for a night of telling ghost stories and singing.

I pick up my guitar, pluck a few chords, and start singing one of the old hymns Lovie and I grew up with—“Love Lifted Me.”

“Sing something else,” she says.

“Why? I like that song.”

“I do, too, but not tonight.”

I segue into “Rock of Ages” and Lovie tells me to cut it out. Rocky is what’s eating her, of course.

“Can’t you play something besides a hymn?” she says.

“Not much.”

Hymns are easy. You can play one with only three chords. If Jack and I have a friendly divorce (if we ever get a divorce), maybe he’ll give me guitar lessons.

I try to strike up “On the Road Again,” one of Willie Nelson’s super hits, to remind Lovie of our trip to Italy next year, but the guitar’s not cooperating.

“Something’s wrong with your G string, Callie.”

“You tend to your G-string, and I’ll tend to mine.”

If Lovie’s just going to sit there giving advice, I might as well quit playing. When I stand up to take the guitar back to my Dodge Ram, a bullet whizzes by my head and blows a hole in the tree.

“Duck, Callie.”

Lovie grabs my legs and drags me down just as another shotgun blast knocks down a limb.

“Has that hunter gone crazy?” I’m shaking all over. “He nearly killed me.”

“That’s no hunter.” Lovie’s right. It’s dark out there, and there’s a hole in the tree big enough to drive a Mack truck through. Whoever is shooting at us means business.

“Holy cow.” Another blast passes over us so close it parts my hair the wrong way. “What are we going to do, Lovie?”

“Head for the woods. Zigzag.”

Lovie and I set out across the dark pasture. Major mistake. Cows have tromped out potholes and left smelly gifts every which way. Lovie stumbles in a hole and goes down.

“Keep going, Callie,” she yells, but I’m not about to leave her behind as a target for the crazed killer.

You don’t grow up on a farm without knowing a twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun when you come face-to-face with it. They can shoot a hole in you big enough to loose all major body organs, and I don’t intend to be a donor. Not tonight, anyhow.

I grab Lovie’s arm and jerk her upright as another blast plows a hole in the ground next to us. Dirt flies all over my shoes.

Now, that makes me mad. What if she’d shot my leg off? I’d never be able to wear Jimmy Choo stilettos again.

I turn around and shake my fist at the source. “You maniac. What’s wrong with you?”

“You couldn’t stay out of it, could you?” It’s a woman’s voice, followed by another blast. In the dark with all the shooting and carrying on, I can’t tell who it is.

“Who’s out there?” I yell.

“Are you crazy?” Lovie jerks me back to the ground. “You’re a sitting duck.”

“I was standing.”

“Smart-ass. You know what I mean.”

We lie low, but our stalker is silent. Maybe she’s reloading or maybe she’s moving to a position to get a better shot. I’m not naive enough to think she’s gone home.

“Crawl,” Lovie whispers, and we drag belly first out of the dubious protection of the pothole toward the open patch of earth between us and the woods. The friendly moonlight suddenly becomes a spotlight that could send us to an early grave.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a figure running toward the woods. And I think I know who it is.

“Run, Lovie. She’s trying to get the drop on us.”

We rise up and dash toward the shelter of a stand of cedar trees. They’re thicker than the oaks and pines and will offer more protection.

“Did you get a good look?” Lovie whispers.

“Yes. I think it’s Beaulah Jane. Shhh. Here she comes.”

In a print dress and lace-up shoes, Beulah Jane would look like a little old grandmother lost in the woods except for two things—her shotgun and her hair. The weapon is lethal and her hair is a wild mess. It’s covered with leaves and brambles and sticking up from her head like a tower of cotton candy.

“Come out!” she yells. “I know you’re in there.”

She cocks the gun and pours a blast into the cedar tree next to Lovie. If I don’t do something fast, the next shot is liable to go right through her. Or me.

I don’t intend to die before I’ve ever had a chance to add to the Valentine family tree.

“Beulah Jane.” I’ve heard it throws criminals off if you know their name. “You don’t want to kill us.”

“You set the cops on me.”

“We didn’t.” But I’m glad to hear they’re doing their job. I was beginning to think that criminal detection in this town would be left up to Lovie and me. A scary thought.

“Yes, you did. Clytee said you were snooping. You stole my tansy oil and took it to the cops.”

So that’s the poison. I remember reading that it takes only a few drops of the lethal oil. Within two to four hours the victim convulses and dies. I’ve even figured out how Beulah Jane did it. While she scurried all over the festival offering peach tea to the impersonators, she reached into her purse to add a little something extra to the ones she wanted to kill.

What I don’t know is why.

“We’re not armed, Beulah Jane. If you kill us it will be cold-blooded murder.” She’s quiet, thinking it over, I hope. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to kill the impersonators.”

“Oh yes, I did. Their singing was sacrilege. The three who died didn’t deserve to wear the signature clothing of my sweetheart, let alone try to sing his songs.”

Clytee said Beulah Jane claimed to be Elvis’ sweetheart, but I never dreamed she’d be taking her role seriously after sixty-something years.

“I would have gotten away with it, too, if you and Lovie hadn’t stuck your noses into it.”

Beulah Jane lifts the shotgun. In the moonlight the steel double barrels look big enough to blow us straight through the Pearly Gates (at least, that’s the direction I hope I’m going).

I’m out of breath and out of options. Lovie and I wrap our arms around each other and hold on. It’ll all be up to Mama and Uncle Charlie now, and I can guarantee they’ll give us a send-off that will be the talk of Mooreville for generations to come.

The last thing I hear is “Drop the gun, Beulah Jane.”

When I come to, Uncle Charlie and Lovie are standing over me and Sheriff Trice is leading Beulah Jane toward a squad car.

“What happened?”

“Jack,” Uncle Charlie tells us, and that says it all.

In the distance I hear his big Harley roaring down the road, and I’m eternally grateful for two things. He saved my life and he didn’t stick around to collect a reward.