Elvis and the Grateful Dead (9 page)

“H
ang on, Lovie!”

We grab the sides of the basket while the balloon plummets between a giant oak tree and a grape arbor. It rips off branches, collapses supports, and scatters grapes before it deposits us on the ground with teeth-jarring force. Lovie is thrown on top of dead Texas Elvis, but I manage to remain upright.

“Lovie, are you all right?”

“If you ever mention hot air balloon to me again, I’ll shoot you.”

I take that as a yes. Anxious to get out, I swing one leg over the side of the basket when I hear a roar of outrage. And it’s not coming from my cousin.

Swiveling toward the left, I look right into the beady eyes of a mad boar hog.
Holy cow!
We’ve landed in the middle of the pigpen, and the head pig monster is bent on revenge.

I jerk my leg back so fast I topple into Lovie, who had barely gained her feet. While we huddle in a screaming heap, the rampaging hog rams the side of the basket with his snout.

My whole body is shaking and my head feels funny, but I’m not about to be outdone by a farm animal.

“We’ve come too far for death by hog,” I tell Lovie.

“What do you propose we do? Invite him to George’s funeral?”

“Fight back.”

“With what?” Lovie asks.

“Anything you can get your hands on.” She reaches down and I add, “Except George.”

“Spoilsport,” she says, jerking off her boot (which she is fond of wearing with peasant skirts, even in summer).

I grab my purse and hit the hog over the head, yelling, “Shoo” while Lovie whacks him with her boot, a lethal weapon if I ever saw one. It’s a size 8 with a steel-reinforced heel.

She whacks his snout and the mad hog retreats squealing his outrage.

“Lovie,
run.
”

We hightail it over the basket toward the fence with me trying to keep up. Lovie scrambles over and I’m not far behind.

At last. Freedom.

Or not.

The lanky, sunbaked farmer who is suddenly standing over us in his dusty overalls doesn’t look like the welcoming committee. More like a lynch mob.

“The grape arbor you gals took down with that contraption is going to cost you a pretty penny.”

Furthermore, he’s brought backup—the Lee County sheriff. Who doesn’t look happy to see us, either.

“You again.” Sheriff Trice gives Lovie the evil eye. At least that’s what I’ll call it when I retell this story. If I live to retell it. “What brings you to Plantersville in a balloon?”

Without waiting for an answer, he climbs over the fence and waves his hands at the mad hog, who trots off and starts rooting under an oak tree as if he never had any intention of ripping Lovie and me to shreds.

Any minute now Sheriff Trice is going to discover another dead Elvis.

I can’t just sit here without reporting it first. That will make us look guilty. Getting up, I brush off the seat of my skirt, but after that race through the pigpen I don’t even want to think about the state of my Burberry ballerinas.

“It was an unfortunate accident,” I call after Sheriff Trice. “All of it.”

Where’s Lovie? Soon we’re likely to be handcuffed and hauled off to jail, and she’s over there under a sweet gum tree talking on her cell phone.

Sheriff Trice takes one look in the basket, uses his phone to call reinforcements, then strides back to me.

“You have some tall explaining to do.”

“Well, Lovie and I were just—”

“Callie, stop.” Thank goodness Lovie’s back, and judging by the fire and brimstone shooting from every pore, she’s back in full force. “We’re not saying another word. Daddy will be here in a minute with Grover Grimsley.”

The family lawyer. Also my divorce attorney. Why didn’t I think of that? With three dead impersonators, two of whom died practically in Lovie’s arms, we’re in trouble so deep neither my logic nor my cousin’s charm is going to get us out of it.

Lovie and I stake out a spot under the sweet gum, and while we wait for Uncle Charlie and Grover, I have plenty of time to repent my hasty foray into murder detection. Why did I think I was capable of confronting a killer (who turned out to be another victim)? Why didn’t I go home, pour myself a cup of green tea chai, sit on my front porch swing with Elvis at my feet, and wait for the law to handle things?

“How did you know where to tell Uncle Charlie to come?” I ask Lovie.

“While you were getting ready to spill your guts to Sheriff Trice, I asked that old coot his name.” She nods in the direction of the farmer, who is now in the pigpen inspecting the balloon.

“Who is he?”

“Bruce Holland, one of the biggest farmers in Lee County.”

Uncle Charlie arrives with Elvis and Grover in tow, and the sheriff proceeds to question us. It’s mostly
who, what, when,
and
where?
I’ll have to say I don’t hear a thing that couldn’t be answered without a lawyer present, but I’m not about to question Uncle Charlie’s judgment. Who knows? If he hadn’t brought Grover, I might be on my way to jail now instead of heading back to Tupelo to collect my alter ego (translated: my Dodge Kick-Ass Ram).

Listen, if you’d come as close to death as I have today, you’d allow yourself a little
word.
Maybe two. After all, I’m only
thinking
it.

When we arrive at our parked vehicles, Uncle Charlie says, “This case is getting too dangerous. I believe it’s best if we let the law handle it. Both of you go home and get some rest.”

“What about Philestine Barber?” I ask.

She was one of my regulars. I was planning to do her makeup tonight and fix her trademark hairdo, the French twist. I’m so good at making the dearly departed look natural, my regulars make postmortem beauty appointments before they even get sick.

“It can wait till morning,” Uncle Charlie says, and I’m not about to argue. I’m too relieved to have the rest of the evening for myself.

So is Lovie. She heads home saying she’s going to soothe herself with chocolate while I strike out to Mooreville with nothing in mind except a hot bath.

The first thing I do when I get home is feed Hoyt and Elvis plus seven stray cats. I’ve been meaning to find good homes for the cats, but they’ve been here nearly a year and so far I haven’t even looked. Pretty soon they’ll have squatters’ rights. Maybe I should just go ahead and name them.

Hoyt and the cats get regular fare, but I put Fit ’N Trim in Elvis’ bowl. The battle of Elvis’ bulge is a losing proposition. No matter what I feed him, Mama and Lovie sabotage his diet with forbidden treats.

After the pets are fed I climb into the shower and scrub myself clean, then emerge feeling almost human again. Even though it’s not even close to bedtime, I put on clothes that make me feel as if somebody (Jack, if you want to know the truth) has wrapped his arms around me and said
it’s okay, you can rest now.
Pajamas and my blue summer robe. Then I tie my hair with a blue ribbon and slide my feet into blue satin mules with ostrich plumes on the toe. The death of another impersonator is no reason to let fashion and beauty slip.

Next I make a steaming cup of green tea chai (my comfort drink of choice), then switch on the TV and curl onto the sofa with Elvis. I can tell he’s feeling the sting of rejection after being gone from me all afternoon.

Hoyt rounds the corner looking cute and comical. I try to get him on the sofa with me, but there doesn’t seem to be any room, so he just curls on top of my feet.

I try to get involved in the TV show, a funny rerun of
I Love Lucy,
which I deliberately chose because I don’t want to watch anything that smacks of blood and guts.

But something keeps niggling at my mind. Finally it hits me: the diary.

I hate unfinished business. Hurrying upstairs, I retrieve Bertha’s forgotten journal from my nightstand. When I come back down, Elvis is hogging the couch so Hoyt can’t jump up. My basset looks so disgruntled I laugh.

What would I do without my pets? With the love and loyalty of good animals, you can get through anything, including having your almost-ex leave you on a major family holiday and then go off and get shot in Mexico. And that’s not counting all the loneliness in between.

Jack had no business going off down there doing no telling what in the first place. No wonder he never wanted children. He was too busy running all over the country like a wildman.

I’m not even going to think about who shot him or why. Or where, for that matter.

And I especially won’t think about why I still harbor tenderness for a man like that.

Instead I nestle into the sofa again with Elvis and start reading Bertha’s diary. She writes about Dick’s numerous affairs in great detail, but it’s hard to tell truth from fiction. I know she lied in her diary about Lovie. How many other women were Dick’s lovers only in Bertha’s imagination?

Bertha is no Jane Austen, so most of what she writes almost puts me to sleep. And with small wonder. After the day I’ve had it’s a miracle I’m upright.

Yawning, I get up to make another cup of chai. So far I’ve learned nothing that will shed light on the recent murders. All I know for certain is that George’s death blows my theory that he was the killer.

I’m heading back to my sofa when the phone rings. Gas, Grits, and Guts pops up on the caller ID.
Good grief.
Is it Fayrene calling to say something has happened to Mama?

I snatch up the receiver and say a breathless “hello.”

“Callie?” It’s Jarvetis. “Fayrene told me not to call you, but if I was in your shoes I’d want to know.”

I’m going to have a heart attack.
“Know what?”

“Ruby Nell took a little spell over in Tunica and they’re staying overnight.”

“Is Mama in the hospital?”

“No. Fay said it was just a sinking spell and Ruby Nell didn’t feel like driving. I thought you ought to know.”

“Thanks, Jarvetis.”

Mama has her secrets, but it’s not like her to withhold health information. For one thing, she’s a drama queen and loves the attention she gets when she’s sick.

I dial her cell phone. “Mama?” She sounds mighty perky for somebody at death’s door. “Are you sick?”

“No. Why?”

“Jarvetis called and said you were.”

“Oh, that.”

“What does
oh, that
mean, Mama?” I hear the distinct tinkle of coins pouring out of a slot machine. “Are you in the casino?”

“You knew Fayrene and I were going to do a little recreational gambling after the senior citizens’ dance. Something came up and we decided to overnight it.”

“What things? And why did Jarvetis say you were sick?”

“Well, if you must know, Fayrene told Jarvetis that to get him off our backs. The old coot. All he wants to do is pump gas, raise bird dogs, and draw Social Security. Fayrene tried to get him to take dancing, but
no,
he had to be a stick in the mud. Live a little, that’s what I told Fayrene.”

“Mama, you shouldn’t be in the middle of their marital rifts, and you certainly shouldn’t lie to Jarvetis. Poor man.”

I’d hate to have Mama and Fayrene ganged up against me.

“
I
didn’t lie.”

“But you’re a party to it.”

“What are you now? A lawyer? Loosen up, Carolina. Maybe if you’d lighten up a bit, Jack would come home where he belongs.”

“Sidetracking me won’t work, Mama. What is this
thing
that came up?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

She hangs up. I’ve a good mind to call her back and beg her to be sensible, but all in all I’d rather have a mother who’s having a bit too much fun than one who’s sitting home feeling sorry for herself and whining because I’m not at her beck and call. Thank goodness, Mama’s not that type.

Going back into the living room, I resume reading. I’m well into my second cup of chai when Bertha leaves Dick’s affairs behind and starts writing about her own. My drink forgotten, I read as fast as I can.

Holy cow.
If Bertha’s telling the truth, I might have just solved this case.

This is momumental. And much too important for a mere phone call. I change into jeans and a pair of cute Ferragamo sandals with turquoise beads, tuck my dogs into bed, tell them to use the doggie door if they need to potty, then climb into my Dodge and head back to Tupelo.

P
ainted pink with a wooden shingled roof and stained glass windows, Lovie’s house looks like a fairy-tale cottage. You expect to see unicorns lounging under the magnolia trees and a Cheshire cat or two lurking in the branches.

Considering her enchanted house and her penchant for shocking, I’m not surprised when she comes to the front door wearing a majorette costume complete with tasseled boots.

“Are you having a costume party, Lovie?”

“A party for one.” Instead of leading me inside and plying me with chocolate confections (her mission in life is to fatten me up), she eases the front door shut. That leaves us standing under her front porch light in plain view of any neighbor or passerby who cares to look this way. “Rocky’s inside.”

Meaning she has plans for him that are strictly private. I get the picture. Believe me, I don’t want to interfere, but I don’t want to drop the ball on murder, either.

“I didn’t know you expected him so soon, Lovie.”

“He wanted to surprise me. I picked him up at the airport about an hour ago.”

“I should have called first, but I was too excited.”

“What gives?”

“Bertha’s diary.” A car cruises past her house and I get the creepy feeling the driver is watching. Female. Is it Bertha? “We need to talk, but not out here.”

“Come in. Rocky knows all about the murders. Maybe he can help.”

Though he has been back to Tupelo a few times, I haven’t seen Rocky since the Bubbles Caper. But I don’t blame Lovie for keeping him under wraps in the early throes of courtship. Everybody in northeast Mississippi would have an opinion, especially the Valentine family. Including yours truly. Nothing tears up a relationship faster than listening to the bad advice of friends and family.

We get inside and Rocky is sitting on the sofa in a suit and tie with his brown hair carefully combed. He’d look like an oversized preacher making a Sunday afternoon call if it weren’t for his cowlick and his amazing golden laserlike eyes. Rocky Malone is an intriguing combination of teddy bear, little boy, and man of mystery who might not do to mess with. No wonder Lovie’s over the moon.

She offers coffee and brownies, but I tell her I won’t be staying that long. If there’s the least chance Lovie can find happiness with this man, I intend to do everything in my power to make it happen.

When she sits down, he reaches for her hand and gazes at her like she’s a star that just fell out of a southern summer sky. This is the stuff of every woman’s dreams and I find myself fighting a burst of envy.

It’s not that I begrudge her this romantic interlude. But sometimes, when I see another couple holding hands or sharing a quick kiss in the Barnes Crossing Mall parking lot, I want to race home and join Match.com. Or move somewhere so Jack doesn’t waylay me around every corner. In my most desperate moments I even think about going to one of those church socials for singles where the only available men wear their belts under their armpits and comb one long twig of hair across their bald spots.

Right now, though, I have to pack up my hopes and get through the evening.

Lovie’s as close as she can get without being in Rocky’s lap, and the way she’s caressing his leg with the toe of her majorette boot, I can tell she wants more from him than being put on a pedestal. But he just smiles and pats her hand.

Obviously these two have vastly different ideas about courtship. I’d better get out of here fast so they can work out their differences.

I make quick work of small talk with Rocky—
did you have a good trip? We’re glad to have you
—that sort of thing. Then I get right to the reason I shucked comfortable pajamas and hurtled into the city.

“Bertha’s diary chronicles her affairs in great detail. There’s no doubt she was cozy with George Blakely.
And
Brian Watson.”

“Two of the dead Elvis impersonators,” Lovie explains to Rocky. “The other victim was her husband.”

“Is she like the black widow spider?” he asks. “First sex, then murder?”

“Bingo,” I say. “My theory, exactly.”

“Are you turning the diary over to the police?” is his next question.

Lovie and I exchange a look.
No way.
Not with its damning implications against her.

“Not yet,” I tell him. “There’s more. Bertha’s also having an affair with Thaxton Miller. If nothing has changed since the last entry, she’s still seeing him.”

“Do you think she plans to kill Thaxton, too?” Lovie asks.

Ordinarily she’d have said a word, but it looks like she has moderated her language in honor of her new boyfriend, which raises him another notch on my suitability radar.

“It’s enough of a possibility that I don’t want you in the middle of this, sweetheart,” Rocky tells Lovie.

Well, glory hallelujah. Has my cousin finally found her prince?

Rocky puts his arm around her, and I’ll have to say if you needed somewhere to hide, behind him would be a good idea. Not only is he the size of a Whirlpool side-by-side refrigerator, but he also has the look of somebody whose body is bulletproof—lots of muscle and very little fat.

“You should be careful, too, Callie,” he says.

I like it that he’s concerned about Lovie’s family. Wouldn’t it be great if Rocky could fill the role of the older brother I always wanted but never had?

“You’re right,” I tell him. “We need to proceed with caution. Lovie, there’s no need for you to come to the festival tomorrow.”

Leaving Lovie to lie low and the two of them to work out their courtship differences, I drive home with an eye peeled toward the dark. Who knows what lurks out there?

That’s what happens when your courtyard is surrounded by crime tape, your cousin is suspected of murder, and your ex-protector is shot in Mexico. You get paranoid.

To take my mind off death I turn on the radio, but wouldn’t you know? In honor of the festival, the local DJs are playing Elvis. “Jailhouse Rock.” Which only makes me worry about Lovie being locked up behind bars.

The diary is not enough hard evidence to turn the police’s attention from Lovie to Bertha. I’m not fixing to let them get their hands on it. Their focus is still the means, and it was Lovie, not Bertha, who prepared food for the festival as well as my ill-fated party.

As soon as the autopsy reveals the type of poison, I’ll look into that myself. Meanwhile, I climb into bed trying to figure out how I’m going to stop Bertha from killing Love Me Tender Elvis and nail her for offing three other impersonators.

The first thing I do when I wake up is call Mama to see if she and Fayrene are back from their little overnighter. She doesn’t answer her cell or her home phone, which—knowing Mama—strikes terror in my heart. But instead of visions of her lying in a hospital somewhere with a heart attack, I picture her so tired after an all-night stint of gambling and partying that even an earthquake couldn’t wake her.

I hope she’s only been partying with Fayrene, but considering the
something else
that came up and her recent display in my courtyard with Texas Elvis—God rest his soul—there’s no telling what Mama’s up to.

I call Uncle Charlie to relate what I learned from Bertha’s diary and see what he thinks about tailing her before she can kill again.

“Let’s let the law handle it, Callie. With a killer on the loose and the festival still going strong, things are getting too dangerous for you and Lovie to be in the middle of it.”

He has a good point. I’ll be only too glad to get back to my normal life where nothing more exciting happens than Elvis stealing Hoyt’s bone and Trixie Moffett getting miffed because I cut her hair a quarter inch shorter than she wanted, never mind that the cut is more flattering to her little fox face and besides that, is the latest New York style.

I consider asking if Uncle Charlie has heard any news from Jack, but I’m trying to wean myself from worrying over my almost-ex. He’s on his own now. He’ll just have to muddle through without me.

Worry is no excuse for letting my exercise habit slip. This is one of the areas where Jack and I parted company. He’s a spur-of-the-moment man, given to abrupt comings and goings without forethought and planning. And certainly without revealing those plans to me.

While I’m flexible when the need arises, I’m mostly the kind of woman who thrives on routine.

Not wanting to interrupt anything, I don’t call Lovie, either. Though I’m dying to know how she fared with Rocky last night.

After a breakfast of oatmeal with strawberries, I change into loose jogging pants and Nike Airs. I also strap on my gun. A killer’s out there somewhere and I don’t intend be a statistic before I have a chance to be a mother.

I just hope I don’t have to use it. I’m no firearms expert, but in a pinch I
can
hit a target…if it stands still long enough.

Though my backyard is big enough for Elvis to get his share of romping, he needs to work off some girth, so I grab his leash.

Elvis and I head down the street past Leonora Moffett’s, whose little shih tzu spies us from the screened-in front porch and barks his head off. Sometimes Elvis barks back just to show him who’s in charge of the neighborhood, but today he royally ignores the shih tzu.

I have to keep track of my walks by time, not blocks. Unincorporated and not likely to get that way in the next hundred years, Mooreville doesn’t have blocks. It has streets, a few paved, most not, with glamorous names such as County Road 1820. Fayrene has up a petition to name our street Honeysuckle Lane, which makes sense considering the proliferation of the heavily scented southern vine.

Some people think the first sign of spring is daffodils, but in this neck of the woods it’s the sound of weed eaters doing battle with honeysuckle. It tries to take over mailboxes, fence posts, dog houses, and everything else that’s standing still and hasn’t already fallen victim to kudzu.

So far the county supervisors (our governing entity) have managed to shuffle her proposal to the bottom of the pile.

At the end of the street where Fayrene and Jarvetis live, we turn into the cul-de-sac. TV 9’s popular weatherman Butch Jenkins (famous because at the first hint Mississppi might get a flake of snow, he does a snow dance) is in his front yard spraying roses. From the looks of things, he might as well have saved his energy. Black spot blight and aphids have already beat him to the punch.

Usually I’d stop to chat—mostly about gardening, which I adore—but today I don’t have time for socializing. I just wave and keep on trotting.

Rounding the end of the cul-de-sac, I head back, but Elvis has other ideas. Lifting his leg on mailbox posts, for one. Nosing around other people’s yards, for another.

“Come on, boy. Let’s get home.”

No matter how I coax and tug, he refuses to budge. Sometimes I think he does this deliberately to show me who’s boss.

“All right, you win. Pup-Peroni treats.”

He comes running, which is not saying much. With his short basset legs and his portly figure, the most he can do is lumber along with his ears flopping.

Suddenly he skids to a halt. Now what?

“Elvis.
Come.
”

He gives me this
look,
which I’ll swear he’s been practicing with Mama, then heads my way.

Limping. And
bleeding. Holy cow!

He could bleed to death before I get him to Dr. Sandusky’s clinic in Tupelo. Whipping out my cell phone, I call Lovie.

“Quick. Give me directions to that veterinary clinic in Mantachie.” Run by Luke Champion, if memory serves.

Mantachie is only ten minutes from home. Lovie carried Elvis a few weeks ago as a favor to me.

I scoop up Elvis and run while I listen to Lovie. If he’s badly hurt, I’ll never get over it. I’ll have to hit every shoe sale in Tupelo just to make myself get out of bed in the morning.

“Do you need me, Callie? I can meet you at the clinic.”

“Thanks, Lovie. I think I’ve got it covered.”

When I ease my dog into the passenger side of my Dodge Ram, he whimpers.
Poor Elvis.

“Don’t worry, boy. We’re going to get help.”

Just out of the driveway I remember poor old Philestine Barber waiting for my magic touch at the funeral home. After I maneuver onto the highway I grab my cell phone to tell Uncle Charlie I’ve been delayed.

Thank goodness the Elvis competition is over (though not the festival), and I won’t be needed downtown to fix pompadours.

“Don’t worry, dear heart. Philestine’s viewing is not until three this afternoon. Is Ruby Nell back?”

This sounds like a throwaway question, but when Uncle Charlie speaks, you’d better pay attention because everything he says has purpose.

“She’s not back yet. But I’m sure she’ll be home in time for the funeral.”

Mama provides the music at Eternal Rest. Even she wouldn’t go so far as to have
other things
going on when Uncle Charlie needs her.

Strangely, he doesn’t respond to this news of Mama.

“Take care of Elvis. And remember…‘Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words and never stops at all.’”

In times of deepest distress, Uncle Charlie loves to quote the great poets and writers. Usually it’s Shakespeare, but today it’s Emily Dickinson. I don’t know why, but his little quotations always make me feel better.