Elvis and the Grateful Dead (5 page)

“L
et’s get out of here.” Lovie inches toward the window and I’m right behind her. Two murders in one day are enough.

“Bill, did you hear something?” It’s a woman’s voice coming from behind a closed door.

“What’d you say, Gertrude?”

“I said somebody’s out there.”

The door pops open and Lovie and I scuttle behind a damask drapery. But not before I get a good look at Bill and Gertrude. If they’re dressed for murder, I’m Jack the Ripper.

In wire-rim glasses and nightcap (Gertrude) and a mask with wicked fangs and a rubber snout (Bill), they make an unforgettable Grandma and the Big Bad Wolf.
Unforgettable
because they’re naked as boiled eggs—and judging by the evidence, at least eighty-five.

Geriatric sex just took on a whole new meaning.

Lovie’s choking with suppressed laughter and I poke her in the ribs. All we need is to be discovered behind the draperies and pressed into service as Little Red Riding Hood.

“I don’t see anybody, Gertrude.”

“You didn’t look, you old fool.”

“I’m too busy looking at you. Come here, Grandma.” It sounds like he’s chasing her around the room. “Tell me what big teeth I have.”

There’s a thump, then silence. They’ve either landed in a heap or keeled over dead from excitement.

“What’s happening?” Lovie whispers.

I peer around the curtain and see Grandma and the Big Bad Wolf on the sofa doing things I’m too embarrassed to talk about. Ducking back, I stir up dust and a huge sneeze. That’s all I need.

I pinch my nose to hold it back. Do sneezes implode and blow people’s brains out?

“Ohhh,” Gertrude is saying. “Big Bad Wolfie, what big teeth you have.”

“The better to eat you with.”

There’s a little pause, then that scream again. Only this time I know it’s not murder. Plus, it covers the sneeze I can no longer hold in.

“Now what?” Lovie whispers.

“We wait them out.”

I think about shoes. Any kind of shoes so long as they’re designer, so long as they take my mind off the sounds of Grandma and the Big Bad Wolf. I’m lusting over a pair of Franco Sarto suede ankle boots I saw at the hairdressers’ convention in Atlanta last week when I hear the bedroom door close.

I guess it’s the bedroom door. Where else would they be going this time of night?

Lovie starts toward the window, but I catch her arm and drag her back. We can’t risk showing ourselves until we’re sure the naughty geriatrics have turned in for the night.

We wait five of the longest minutes in eternity, then hightail it toward the window and freedom.

“That was close.” Lovie leans against the railing and the balcony lists like the bow of a ship in a heavy storm. “What are we going to do now, Callie?”

“Regroup.”

It’s raining harder. Most people would give up and go home, but not us. Lovie and I pride ourselves on being different. When everybody else is going left we go right.

My strong streak of independence (Jack calls it
stubbornness)
comes from Mama. She says people who always follow the crowd are
lemmings
—those little creatures who follow the herd over the cliffs and to their deaths rather than risk behavior that sets them apart.

The only thing Lovie and I have ever been traditional about is weddings and babies. We believe in church christenings and church weddings (for all the good that did me). But I’m sticking by my beliefs, no matter what.

I climb back into the tree and when Lovie joins me, it shakes like a twig in a monsoon. Grabbing the tree trunk, I hang on.

“Which window?” she asks. “Right or left?”

It’s like asking which door hides the prizes. Jack’s in one, Bertha’s in the other. Choose correctly and you get the prize. Choose wrong and you get the consequences. In this case, an almost-ex who may or may not be home…and in a forgiving, nonnosy mood.

“Let’s use the scientific method and find out,” I tell Lovie.

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Holy cow! I’m in a
tree.
”

“Well, so am I.”

In a huff and getting soaked, I try to figure out how I can blame all this on Jack, but my generous nature prevails. Being up a tree is my own fault. I should have ignored the crime scene tape and minded my own business. I should have climbed into my bed with my two faithful doggie companions keeping watch and let the law handle murder.

“At least I’m not mooning half of Las Vegas,” Lovies says, reminding me of our Bubbles Caper. We both laugh so hard we nearly fall out of our precarious perch.

Our good humor and resolve restored, Lovie starts saying, “Eenie, meanie,” and I join in with “Minie, moe.”

By clever deduction we pinpoint the window on our left as Bertha’s, and I head that way. Sort of. Getting onto a slick balcony from a tree that is slightly off center presents logistical problems.

“Step on my branch, Lovie, and see if the tree will lean far enough so I can get a foothold on the balcony.”

“Why don’t I just shimmy down the trunk, uproot the tree, and move it over three feet?”

“That would work.”

“Smart-ass.”

She stomps down on my limb and I fly through the air with the greatest of ease. If I didn’t have the body of an athlete and the tenacity of Elvis insisting he’s an international icon, I’d be flattened on the pavement. Instead, I grab the railing on the upswing and vault over the side on the downswing.

“You’d better stay in the tree, Lovie. I don’t think you can make it.”

Saying a word that jeopardizes her chances of prissing through the Pearly Gates, she gets on all fours and wobbles along the limb.

“Give me a hand, Callie.”

While I try to maneuver her across five feet of empty space, I petition Mother Earth, Buddha, and the spirit of the late, great Karl Wallenda. Flying acrobat.

Getting Lovie onto the balcony will be a miracle on the order of the parting of the Red Sea. While I tug, Mother Nature provides the sounds effects. Crashing thunder and lightning bolts followed by a monsoon.

“Pull, Callie.”

“I’m pulling.”

We crash backward onto the balcony. If that didn’t wake Bertha, she’s dead. Which would be just our luck.

Still, heedless of the deluge and the possibility of getting struck down before my eggs ever have a chance to be fertilized, I sit on the balcony and count my blessings.

“Am I alive?” Lovie asks.

“Yes, am I?”

“You bet your sweet patootie.” Lovie stands up, wrings water out of her shirt, and puts on her gloves (another little trick she learned from “Slick Fingers” Johnson, the black-sheep cousin Jarvetis never claims). “As soon as we get in there and crack this case, I’m going out the front door. I don’t care what Bertha’s doing.”

It turns out the new widow’s asleep with a night-light glowing beside her bed and an open bottle of Valium on her nightstand. That would explain her sleeping through the noisiest breaking and entering since Fayrene set pots and pans at the entrance of Gas, Grits, and Guts to catch the lawless sportsman who was stealing her fish bait.

“I guess we don’t have to be quiet.” Leaving a trail of wet footprints on the baby-blue carpet that doesn’t match another single thing in the room, Lovie stomps over to Bertha’s dressing table and proceeds to sack and pillage.

Meanwhile, I grab the stack of mail on her bedside table and check it by the night-light. You never know. Maybe Bertha’s been corresponding with hit men.

There’s nothing of interest here. Just an overdue light bill and a recent bill from Deb’s Deep Discounts, a place that sells shoes I wouldn’t be caught dead in. What did I expect from somebody with her lack of fashion sense?

“Look what we have here.” Lovie tromps over and holds out a rhinestone hairpin. “See, it has the same daisy design as the one behind your tea olive.”

If it’s not an exact match it’s close enough to fool me. And I’m an expert on fashion and beauty. Still…

“That’s not proof she killed Dick. Or was hiding behind my tea olive.”

“Yeah, but it’s the only one on her dresser. Which means she lost the other one somewhere. It’s evidence.” Lovie pockets the hairpin.

“It’s a start,” I say. “Keep looking.”

Bertha moans and we jump like the guilty. Peering over Lovie’s shoulder, I hold my breath till she settles back into her pillows and resumes snoring.

She could use a good haircut. If I weren’t in her apartment illegally, I’d leave a business card.

When I’m certain she’s down for the count, I whisper to Lovie, “You search the drawers, I’ll take the closet.”

I don’t know what I expect to find. I’m still new at skullduggery. But since the Bubbles Caper, Lovie and I have started watching detective shows. TV killers keep evidence of their crimes—I guess to prove how powerful they are.

I can reach the top shelf of Bertha’s closet without a step stool. The usual suspects are there—purses, scarves, gloves. I can tell you one thing: Bertha Gerard could use a personal shopper. Nothing matches. And it’s all jumbled in a heap. I ram my arm under the untidy mess, reach as far back as I can, and pull out a small, spiral-bound book.

Kneeling beside the night-light, I realize I’ve just hit pay dirt. Keeping my voice low, I call Lovie.

She hurries over and squats beside me. “What is it?”

“Bertha’s diary.”

Thumbing through, I catch glimpses of her life. Trips to the dentist, fried green tomatoes at Romie’s Grocery, a broken toe playing tennis. The daily minutia that makes up her life. I feel like a Peeping Tom.

I’m about to put it back when I see an entry that could crack this case wide open.

“Lovie, listen to this.
Jilted lovers who are jealous because I have Dick. Leonora M., Josie K., Lovie V.”

“Let me see that.” Lovie snatches the diary. “It’s all a pack of lies. Leonara M. is bound to be Leonora Moffett, and she’s never been jilted in her life. She does the ditching.”

“Who do you think Josie K. is?”

“You remember Josephine Kessler who moved here from Memphis two years ago and stayed only four months?”

“The one with the bad bleach job?”

“That’s the one. She had an affair with Dick, but she didn’t give a flip about him.”

“How do you know?”

“I catered her sister Abby’s wedding reception. People talk.”

Bertha gives a big snort and we freeze. She turns over, fumbles on the bedside table, and knocks off the plastic bottle of valium. It rolls across the carpet and lands at my feet. I see my future unfold—hairdresser to female prisoners.

If I get out of here without being arrested, I swear to Bloomingdale’s I’ll never play detective again.

Maybe that’s going too far. My family might need me. I’ll grab the evidence and run, that’s what I’ll do. I won’t stand over somebody’s bed and carry on a whole conversation.

Two lifetimes later Bertha gurgles, her hand flops off the table, and she settles back into heavy snoring. Somebody up there likes me.

Adding
stealing
to our growing list of crimes, Lovie pockets the diary with my hundred percent blessing. No sense leaving incriminating evidence behind even if it is a deliberate, calculated falsehood.

We tiptoe out of the bedroom and she nods toward the door.

“Car keys,” I whisper, motioning her to go on. What I’m really thinking is
Jack.
It would be just like him to divine my presence and waylay me in the hall.

I wait till Lovie’s out of the door before I climb through the window. Thank goodness, the monsoon has stopped. A few stars are even peeping out.

With every nerve I have shredded, I don’t have enough resolve left to play Tarzan swinging through the jungle in a rainstorm. If I get off this balcony alive, I swear to give up sex.

But only with Jack.

I reach as far as my long arms will allow, grab the end of a branch, and pull it toward the balcony. Sending petitions to the god of second chances, I vault into the tree, then hang there, clinging to the trunk and trying to breathe.

What’s that sound? I lean down as far as I dare, listening.

If somebody besides Lovie is under this tree, I’m up to my wet T-shirt in trouble.

I
have two choices, shimmy down and face the music or wait him out. (Assuming there is somebody gunning for me under the tree.) If I wait, Lovie will come looking, and then she’ll be the one dealing with the problem.

I’d shave my crowning glory before I’d do that to her. I start my descent. St. Peter ought to put a star by my name.

My foot slips on a wet limb but I remain cool. Translated: I don’t wet my pants.

With feet and bladder finally under control, I inch downward. When I touch ground I consider bending down to kiss the earth.

In fact, I
do
bend down. But only to search for my car keys. Straining my eyes and sweeping my arms in long arcs, I come up empty. They can’t be far. I distinctly heard them hit the ground.

I make another futile arc, then hear that noise again. In the mud on my knees, I whisper, “Lovie? Is that you?”

“Guess again.”

Jack steps out of the shadows, and I don’t know whether to slap him silly or fall into his arms in a relieved, ragged heap.

“I swear, Jack Jones. You scared me to death.”

“Fancy meeting you here.” He hauls me up and pulls me hard against his chest. “My,
my
. You’re all wet.”

His wicked lips make me forget my promise of abstinence. If he kisses me like that again I won’t be responsible for getting arrested on public property for indecent exposure.

While I try to act as if don’t want to wallow in the mud and make his babies, he’s looking at me like he can’t decide whether to spank me or have me for a midnight snack.

“Let me go, Jack Jones.”

He laughs, but turns me loose, then leans against the tree. “Don’t mind me. Go ahead with what you were doing.” I stand there with my hands on my hips trying to outstare him. “What
were
you doing, Callie?”

“None of your business.”

“In that case, I guess you don’t need these.” He pulls my keys out of his pocket and dangles them just out of my reach.

“What are you doing with my keys?”

“What are you doing up a tree in the middle of the night? Besides getting into trouble.”

Mama taught me the best defense is a good offense. “Why are you still here? I thought you were headed to parts unknown.”

“Not until I rescue you, Callie.”

Good grief.
He makes rescue sound like something risqué. And it probably is in the hands of Jack Jones.

“Give me the keys.”

“First, promise you’ll keep your pretty little nose out of this murder investigation.”

“How did you know about that?” As if I have to ask. Jack’s like the Shadow. Everywhere at once. Finding out stuff that only a Houdini could know.

Plus, Uncle Charlie or Mama could have told him. Both of them think my almost-ex is right up there with Lovie’s Jack Daniel’s apple pie and buttered rum ice cream.

“Say you’ll let the authorities handle this, Cal.”

Squared off with Jack, I guess I ought to feel proud of myself for not caving in.
Listen
, he’s the kind of delicious man who can melt the strongest woman’s resolve, and I never pretended to be one of those iron-willed, boardroom, ball-busting types. I like Passion Pink fingernail polish and Jungle Gardenia perfume as well as the next woman.

“You’ve lost the right to protect me, Jack.”

His silence is so intense I swear I can hear a falling star. Just before I pop out of my skin, he reaches for my hand, presses the keys inside, then closes my fingers over them.

My heart stops. I swear it does.

And when he bends over and kisses my fist, I channel Julie London singing “Cry Me a River.” Men who are macho one minute and tender the next ought to be outlawed.

“Night, Cal. Take care.”

I couldn’t move if I were in the path of a herd of stampeding mustangs. When Lovie walks up, I jump two feet.

“I just saw Jack. What was that all about?”

“Don’t ask.”

I head to my Dodge Ram, keeping well ahead of her. A miracle considering I never outwalk or outrun Lovie.

By the time she gets to my truck, I have the engine running.

“Are you sure about this divorce, Callie?”

“How can anybody ever be sure about anything?” It’s been a long day, and I’m not in the mood for introspection. “Lovie, what do you know about Bertha?”

“Same thing you do. She used to sell lingerie at Victoria’s Secret, but I haven’t seen her there in a while. She was pleasant enough but didn’t go out of her way to help you.”

“Do you think she’s the killer?”

“I can see why she’d want to kill Dick. If Rocky did that to me, though, I’d choose something more creative, like tying him to the back of my van and dragging him over six miles of bad backcountry roads.”

Lovie loves to shock.

“But why would she want to knock off Brian Watson?”

“I don’t know, Callie. Maybe her diary will tell us something.”

Stopped at a red light in the Elvis Presley District of east Tupelo, I mull over the things we know. Brian was a waiter, Dick a postman, and they lived in different states. But they were both thirty-something, good-looking Elvis impersonators trying to be named the best tribute artist at the festival.

The more I think about this angle, the more I’m convinced I’m on the right track. All the impersonators have motive and opportunity. As far as I know, Bertha was nowhere near the Birthplace when Brian died.

“Lovie, what if one of the other impersonators is trying to kill the competition?”

“I’ll help him.”

“The singing wasn’t that bad.”

“Ask your dog. He’ll back me up.”

“Be serious, Lovie. I think we’re on to something.”

“You be serious if you want to. It’s after midnight. All I want is to brush my teeth and go to bed.”

By the time we get back to Mooreville, the sky is clear—which bodes well for tomorrow’s festival activities—and the stars are out in force. I park the Dodge Ram and we sprint into the house, then strip off our damp clothes and put on pajamas. Black silk and lace from an expensive bridal lingerie shop in Memphis for Lovie—what else?—and Walmart Betty Boops for me.

In the bathroom she says, “I forgot my toothbrush,” and I tell her, “You can borrow mine.”

With that, we haul off to bed without even saying good night, Lovie in my guest room painted the color of sunshine and me in my big cushy bed with my faithful doggie sentinels on either side.

Hoyt is chasing a rabbit in his dreams, his little legs jerking. Judging by the sound of Elvis smacking his lips, he’s dreaming of fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, the King’s signature dish and a favorite treat for my basset. Content, I burrow into my pillow and watch the stars through the skylight.

Sometimes, all it takes to make you feel good is knowing people (and pets) you love are nearby.

The next morning Lovie and I have breakfast al fresco. The Angel Garden is usually my spot of choice, but crime tape spoils the ambience, so we opt for the front porch.

Lovie has cooked pecan waffles and bacon. She thinks it’s bad luck to start the day with a stingy breakfast. If you do, she claims, everything else coming your way that day will be puny.

I can go along with that. My own beliefs are so far off the beaten path I’d be barred from singing duets with Lovie at Wildwood Baptist Church if they knew.

Over waffles Lovie says she’s leaving Bertha’s diary with me. “Between cooking for the Elvis Festival and getting ready for Rocky, I don’t have time to read it.”

“Okay. I’ll take a look as soon as I can.” I don’t know when. I’ve got to get to Hair.Net this morning to take care of my business.

After breakfast, I put on a CD of Native American flute music, then burn sacred white sage for good measure, fanning the smoke around us with the redtail hawk feather I bought last September at the White Buffalo Powwow in Tupelo. If there are any bad spirits lingering around after Dick’s murder, I’m sending them on the run.

I inherited more than olive skin and high cheekbones from my dearly departed daddy, Michael Valentine: I got enough Cherokee blood that ancient Native American beliefs and rituals resonate with me.

Lovie and I do the dishes and then she heads to the festival. After I dress Elvis in his pink bow tie and myself in a blue sundress with matching Burberry ballerina flats, we make a detour by my beauty shop.

The impersonators won’t need me until this afternoon right before their competition starts. On the other hand, my regulars count on me to make them feel gorgeous.

Listen, if a woman’s hair looks good, she feels good all over. I built my reputation by making sure my clients have the best-looking hair in Lee County.

Bitsy Morgan is waiting for me, all ears to hear what I have to say about the murder in Mooreville. The community grapevine is the best I’ve ever seen, mainly because Fayrene makes it her business to tell everything she knows. Ask anybody in Mooreville. If you want gossip with your gas, all you have to do is walk into Gas, Grits, and Guts and says, “Hey, Fayrene, what’s new?”

I’m not above doing it, myself. I like a good story as well as the next person as long as it’s not mean and doesn’t hurt anybody.

While I transform Bitsy from gray to medium blond, I tell her the bare details, leaving Lovie out of it.

That satisfies her and she moves on to her bursitis and her nephew’s new job in Memphis.

Mama pops by and proceeds to plop down at my manicure table and paint her nails a hot pink that clashes with her tunic. I’d steer her toward peach if I weren’t still outdone with her about dirty dancing with Texas Elvis.

“I’m thinking of getting a cowboy hat,” she says.

“Whatever for, Mama?” If she says
a little trip to Texas
, I’m calling Uncle Charlie.

“Fayrene and I are going two-stepping over in Tunica.” Home of genuine Vegas casinos built right in the middle of Mississippi cotton fields. Listen, I’d rather have the cotton.

But I’m so relieved Mama’s not hauling off to Texas I don’t even get upset when she calls me into my office and asks for fifty dollars. She calls it a
little loan;
I call it a donation. Some people would say I’m supporting her vices, but I prefer to look at it as subsidizing Mama’s happiness. What’s the harm in a bit of gambling if it makes her forget all the years she spent raising a daughter alone and never looking at another man because nobody could hold a candle to Michael Valentine?

What can I say? Mama has five card stud; I have designer shoes.

By the time I get to Tupelo, it’s after twelve. Terry Matthews, G. I. Elvis from Pensacola, is waiting in my hairdressing tent. He’s a chemist and a dead ringer for the King. In army uniform, he’s the only one not wearing a spangled bell-bottom jumpsuit. I’ve heard he sings so much like his idol you almost believe they buried somebody else in Graceland and Elvis still lives.

I’m pulling for him.

“Good morning, Terry.” I stow my purse under the table while my dog starts nosing around for crumbs. Like I didn’t just feed him enough to sustain a small third-world country. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

I don’t make appointments at the festival. The hair station is here strictly as a courtesy.

“Thirty minutes.” As if his tone weren’t haughty enough, G. I. Elvis checks his watch to be sure.

Major mistake
. My dog comes over and slimes the leg of his pants. G. I. Elvis streaks out, leaving the scent of cheap pomade.

I’ve changed my mind about who ought to win and who ought to lose. When we get home I’m giving Elvis a steak.

Since nobody else is waiting for my deft touch, I put my clever basset back on his leash, then stroll to the refreshment booth.

Beulah Jane is in a dither. With cheeks flushed and hair awry, she appears to be suffering from stress overload.

“Lord, Callie. I’m so glad to see you I could die.” This is a big turnaround from yesterday when she was jockeying to be in charge of the tour, but I give her the benefit of the doubt. Tragedy sometimes brings out the best in people.

Beulah Jane pours two glasses of peach tea, hands one to me, then turns the sign on the booth to
CLOSED
.

“Thanks.” The tea is just what I need. I’m hot all over from G. I. Elvis’ rebuke, not to mention the ninety-degree weather.

Remembering the fit Beulah Jane had over my dog riding the bus, I ask her, “You don’t mind if Elvis comes in?”

“I’m so upset a brass band could come in and I wouldn’t care.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The Tupelo police were waiting for us this morning. Now that Dick’s dead, Brian’s death has been ruled
homicide
.”

“Was Lovie here?”

“Lord, yes. They grilled her like she was a pure dee criminal. Then proceeded to turn our food supply upside down taking samples. It was a disgrace.”

“Where is she now?”

“She said she was headed home. The way they were trying to pin Brian Watson’s death on her, I don’t blame her.”

“She didn’t even know him before this festival.”

“That’s what Lovie told them, but I don’t think they believed her. And her, a fine upstanding citizen. Of all the nerve!”

“Did she say she was coming back?”

“No. I told her the fan club officers could take care of the booth. No need for her to stay here and put up with that kind of harassment. Not to mention the stares.”

“What stares?”

“Oh, you know. Word gets around.”

I’m so mad I’d like to slap somebody. Just about anybody would do.

But my good southern upbringing prevails. I thank Beulah Jane profusely (she’s the kind of woman who thrives on praise), then head to the T-shirt booth. The tribute artists will just have to make do with their own hair gel.

With Lovie on the hot seat for two murders, it’s time for another family summit.