Murder Boogies with Elvis

by Anne George

  “I had a cheeseburger in Montgomery. Where’s Uncle Fred?”

  “Asleep in the den. Montgomery was a long time ago. Why don’t you go dry off, and I’ll fix you something to eat. We’ve got potato salad and baked beans left over. And I can grill you a cheese sandwich.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  Just then the phone rang.

  “If that’s Mama, you haven’t seen me. Please, Aunt Pat.”

  “Okay, honey.” But it wasn’t Mary Alice, it was the Hannah Home. Their truck would be in our neighborhood on Wednesday. I was relieved. Whatever was going on, Mary Alice was Marilyn’s mother. I didn’t want to have to keep anything from her.

  “Hey, Uncle Fred,” I heard Marilyn say. The phone must have awakened Fred.

  “Hey, sweetheart. What are you doing here?”

  “Long story. I’m going to go get dried off. I’ll tell y’all then.”

  I plugged in the grill and got the cheese, butter, and dill pickles from the refrigerator. If the coffee wasn’t still hot, I could stick a cup in the microwave. Unless Fred wanted some more, in which case I would have to make another pot. I looked in the den and saw he was already asleep again. The theme song for Millionaire was playing.

  Was Marilyn running away from Charles Boudreau? Or running to him? That was certainly a strange message I was given to pass along to her. And why didn’t she want her mother to know she was here? Why was she here?

  “It was terrible driving tonight,” she said, coming back into the kitchen. “Solid rain after I left Montgomery.” She reached over the counter and took a bite of the potato salad I had already put on her plate. “Umm. That’s good.”

  “It wasn’t raining in Pensacola? The weather lady said it was choo-chooing up from the Gulf.”

  “Not when I left.”

  “Sit down, honey. Everything’s ready.” I lifted the sandwich from the grill with a spatula. Melted cheese oozed from the side. It looked so good, I decided to fix one for myself. But first I handed Marilyn her plate and took her coffee from the microwave.

  “This looks great, Aunt Pat. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” I sliced the cheese for my sandwich while Marilyn started eating. Questions could wait for a few minutes.

  Muffin strolled in and went over to her water bowl.

  “That’s Haley’s cat, isn’t it?” Marilyn asked.

  “Not anymore. Seven months gives me squatter’s rights.”

  Marilyn smiled. “I’m thrilled about Haley’s baby. Debbie told me.”

  I put my sandwich on a plate and joined her at the kitchen table. “Joanna. That’s a nice name, isn’t it?” I said it again, savoring the sound, “Joanna.”

  “It’s a beautiful name.”

  I took a bite of my sandwich, which I needed like I needed a hole in my head, but which was delicious, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Marilyn, a man named Charles Boudreau came by here today. He said he was here to impregnate you, that he would be willing, happy, ecstatic, and that he hoped it wasn’t too late.”

  Marilyn put her fork down carefully and looked at me. “Charlie was here?”

  I nodded. “There were some other adjectives, but I can’t remember them all. They all had to do with his willingness to participate in conception, though.”

  Marilyn nodded but didn’t say anything.

  Finally I asked her if she would clue me in on what was going on. “The poor man was crying at one point.”

  She looked startled. “Charlie was?”

  “Into a very nice, white handkerchief.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Marilyn picked up her fork and began to eat again as if we had been discussing the weather.

  “He said to tell you that he’s at the Tutwiler.”

  “Tough.” Marilyn shoveled a forkful of potato salad into her mouth and chewed slowly.

  “Who is he?”

  Marilyn held up her hand signaling that she was chewing and unable to answer. Finally she took a sip of coffee, pushed her plate back, and patted her lips with her napkin.

  “It’s a long story, Aunt Pat.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “You’re sure he was crying?”

  The scowl on my face told her that she had better get on with her story.

  “You remember about fifteen years ago when I first moved to Pensacola that I took some courses at West Florida?”

  I nodded that I remembered; I didn’t.

  “Well, one was a speech course, and Charlie was in it. One night he asked me if I would go to dinner with him that Saturday, that it was his birthday. I told him it was my birthday, too, and we found out that we were exactly the same age to the day.” Marilyn hesitated, examining a red fingernail so perfect that it had to be acrylic. I wondered if she had had any fungus problems. I had let Sister talk me into getting fake nails several years earlier and had ended up going to the doctor.

  “Anyway,” Marilyn continued. I pulled myself away from the thought of greenish-black nails and listened. “We had a wonderful time, and we ended up with a relationship that lasted for a couple of years. Then Charlie went back to Lafayette because of his mother’s and father’s health. He asked me to marry him and go with him, but I think he would have been surprised if I had said yes. What we did do, though, was promise to see each other every year on our birthday. We made a pact that if we weren’t married and didn’t have children by the time we were forty, that we would get together.”

  “Sounds like Julia Roberts in My Best Friend’s Wedding.” I could have bitten my tongue when I said it. But Marilyn didn’t take offense.

  “It does, doesn’t it? Their deadline was thirty, though. We weren’t in any hurry.” Marilyn poked at the fingernail, which popped off and landed on the remains of her potato salad. “Damn,” she said, picking it up and wiping it on her paper napkin. The real nail, I noticed, looked pink and normal. “That thing’s been feeling funny all day,” she said. “I’ll have to get it glued back on before I go to the hospital.”

  “You’re going to the hospital? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m going to the fertility clinic, Aunt Pat. I’m going to be artificially inseminated like Debbie was.”

  “Tomorrow?” I gave up on the cheese sandwich, which I hadn’t needed anyway.

  “For tests. They have to make sure I’m ovulating okay and that everything’s all right. Then they’ll set the date.”

  “But honey—” I actually felt a little dizzy.

  “Ma’am?”

  “What about Charles?”

  “I called him last weekend and said, ‘Charlie, we’re going to be forty next month, and I don’t want to get married, but I do want to have a baby, and you promised.’”

  “And?”

  “He said he thought our pact had always been a joke. So I told him that was fine, that my sister had gotten her twins at UAB and, by damn, so could I. And that you would understand.”

  “Apparently he’s regretted his decision.”

  “I don’t care.” Tears filled Marilyn’s eyes. She reached for her paper napkin, placing the fingernail on the table.

  A hard shower of rain hit the bay window. Muffin came and jumped in my lap.

  “Maybe you should give him a call anyway,” I said. “He certainly seemed upset.”

  “I don’t think so. And, Aunt Pat, please don’t tell Mama I’m here.”

  “But why not? She would understand.”

  “Like hell she would. I mentioned the possibility of going to the clinic once, and she said she couldn’t understand why her daughters couldn’t get pregnant out of the usual conduits.”

  “Conduits?” I grinned. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard them called that before.”

  Marilyn snorted into the napkin, a half-laugh, half-sob. “Damn.”

  “I won’t tell her, but I wish you would.”

  Marilyn shook her head no.

  “Does Debbie know?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll tell her.” She
got up, splashed water from the sink faucet onto her face, and dried it with a paper towel. “She knows about the conduits. She thought it was funny.”

  I forced back a giggle, which resulted in a hiccup.

  Marilyn sat back down. “Okay, enough about this. Tell me what’s been going on, Aunt Pat.”

  “You’re going to see your mother while you’re here, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, sure. I’ll see her after I go to the clinic. I’ll just tell her I’m here on business. Which is the truth.”

  “Then she can update you on the wedding plans.”

  “They’re so bad you can’t tell me?”

  “How do magenta and sunflower strike you?”

  “Oh, Lord. Are you the magenta?”

  I nodded. “She’ll tell you all about it.”

  “You like Virgil, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “Very much. Fred and I saw his children last night. They seem nice, too. His son’s an Elvis impersonator.”

  “Really?”

  I told Marilyn about our evening at the Alabama Theater, about Griffin Mooncloth, the switchblade, the fall into the orchestra pit.

  “Dusk Armstrong knew who he was,” I added.

  “Dawn’s little sister? I was in school with Dawn. I think Debbie was in school with Day.” Marilyn shook her head. “I can’t believe she named the last one Dusk.”

  “Well, she was Bernice’s last gasp before menopause.”

  Tears welled again in Marilyn’s eyes. “Oh, Aunt Pat. I hope I haven’t waited too long.”

  “You haven’t, honey. Everything will be fine.”

  Another burst of rain.

  “You’re staying here tonight, aren’t you?”

  “If it’s okay.”

  “It’s more than okay.”

  “Then I’ll go get my overnight bag.”

  Marilyn got her raincoat from the pantry door and darted to her car. I woke Fred up and he headed down the hall to bed.

  “Marilyn spending the night?” he asked.

  I said that she was.

  It was a couple of hours before I joined him. Marilyn and I had a lot of catching up to do. Finally though, I slid into bed beside Fred and was about to drift off to sleep when he snuggled up against me.

  “Honey?” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Let’s talk about conduits.”

  “You jackass,” I laughed. “You were eavesdropping the whole time.”

  “Just part of it.”

  “Well, tell your conduit to behave himself.”

  “I think he needs a schoolteacher to tell him.”

  So a schoolteacher did.

  Seven

  The sound of Fred taking a shower woke me up the next morning. I reached for the remote, clicked on Good Morning America, and promptly went back to sleep. By the time I woke up, Fred was gone, and the program was almost over. Oh, the joys of retirement.

  I opened the blinds and saw that the rain had stopped, but the sky was still sitting on us, dark with layered clouds. It was possible that more rain was in the offing. The outside thermometer with the huge numbers read forty-eight degrees. I had found it at Home Depot and bought it immediately. It’s wired to our fence, and Sister frequently remarks about how tacky it is. But hey, we can see it.

  The door to the guest room was closed, so I assumed Marilyn was still asleep. I was wrong. She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the paper. She had on flannel pajamas that had seals balancing balls on their noses all over them.

  “I want a pair of those pajamas for Christmas,” I said, heading for the coffee.

  “Morning, Aunt Pat. I’ll put it down on my list.”

  “You want some more coffee?”

  “Not yet.” She folded the paper and put it on the table. “I was just reading about that Mooncloth guy, the one who got killed. There’s a long article about him in the paper. Did you know he was a Russian dancer? A real prominent ballet star.”

  I reached for the sugar. “A Russian named Mooncloth?”

  “According to the paper, it’s a translation of his name that he used on the stage.”

  “A Russian ballet star dressed as Elvis dancing onstage at the Alabama? What in the world?”

  Marilyn pushed the paper toward me. I didn’t recognize the picture of the handsome young man on the first page. But the only time I had seen him his face had been contorted. RUSSIAN BALLET STAR SLAIN AT ALABAMA THEATER, the headline proclaimed, the lead story of the day. I sipped my coffee and read the article that stated Mr. Mooncloth, one of Russia’s premier dancers, was in the United States on a cultural exchange. He was currently appearing with the New York City Ballet, where he had received rave reviews for his performances in Prism and Symphony in C. Mr. Mooncloth, the article continued, had been finishing his second and final year as an exchange artist when he was killed.

  “Oh, Lord,” I said. “Birmingham’s going to make all the headlines again. Probably an international incident. Why couldn’t whoever stabbed him have done it in New York? What was he doing here anyway, jumping around on the stage at the Alabama with Larry and Buddy and those other Elvis impersonators?”

  “If we knew that, we’d probably know why he was murdered.” Marilyn pushed her chair back. “You want a bagel, Aunt Pat?”

  “Sure.” I read while Marilyn put the bagels in the toaster and got out the cream cheese.

  “They don’t even know where he was staying or how he got here.” I said in disgust. “And he had to get that Elvis costume somewhere. Seems like the police would be looking into that.”

  “None of it makes sense,” Marilyn agreed. “You want some more coffee?”

  I held out my cup. “No wonder Dusk Armstrong knew who he was. I thought she said he was in one of her classes. She must have meant that he was teaching it.”

  Marilyn poured the coffee and took the bagels from the toaster. “You know what I remember, Aunt Pat? I remember you keeping candy sticks on the counter to stir coffee with. It would give it the best flavor.”

  “Look on the second shelf of the pantry. They’re in a red tin can.”

  Marilyn put the bagels and cream cheese on the table and went to the pantry. She came back smiling, holding a peppermint stick and looking about twelve years old in her flannel pajamas.

  “Honey,” I said, watching her stir her coffee. “What are your plans for the day?”

  “My appointment at UAB is at two o’clock. Is it okay if I spend another night with you? It might be late when I get through.”

  “Of course it is. It’s our pleasure. You know that.”

  I spread cream cheese on my bagel and took a bite. “Have you thought any more about Charles Boudreau? I’m sure he’s still at the Tutwiler.”

  The peppermint stick clinked against the side of the cup. “I’ve thought about him.”

  “And?”

  “I told you what he said when I asked him if he would father my child, Aunt Pat. He stuttered like crazy, said he thought the pact was just a joke.”

  “But he’s changed his mind.”

  “Probably because he thinks I’ll marry him if I get pregnant.”

  I’m sure I looked puzzled.

  “It’s a long story, Aunt Pat. Suffice it to say there’s no way on God’s earth that I could live with Charlie Boudreau.” Marilyn took a bite of bagel and chewed viciously.

  So much for Charles Boudreau’s chances.

  “You want me to go with you this afternoon?” I asked after we finished eating.

  “No, but thanks. I’ll be fine.” She got up and put her plate and coffee cup in the dishwasher. “Right now you know what I’m going to do for you?”

  “Vacuum the house?” I asked hopefully.

  “Take Woofer for his walk. The weather’s too raw for you to be out this morning.”

  I suddenly felt a hundred years old and fragile as glass. “I’m sure I’ll be all right with my walker. And I’ll bundle up.”

  Marilyn laughed.
“Oh, Aunt Pat. That’s not what I meant at all.”

  But, of course, it was.

  I took the paper and settled on the sofa in the den while Marilyn was dressing. I wished that she would call her mother. I knew that the back door was going to fly open at any minute, and Mary Alice would come in and discover Marilyn was there and would get her feelings hurt as well as become mad. I’m used to her getting mad, but Sister’s feelings aren’t easily hurt, and in this case they would be. I was sure.

  “Marilyn,” I said as she came back through the den, “your mother is going to call or show up here any minute. I wish you’d call her.”

  Marilyn shook her head. At that moment, the phone rang, and she disappeared like a shot out the back door.

  “Have you read the paper?” Sister didn’t wait for me to answer. “Can you believe a Russian spy getting killed right in front of us? And what the hell would he be spying on in Birmingham? All of our nuclear war-heads in the caves under Vulcan?”

  Marilyn reopened the door, snatched Woofer’s leash from where it hung at the end of the counter, and took off again. Coward.

  “The paper said he was a ballet dancer. It didn’t say he was a spy.”

  “But you know he was. What would a Russian ballet dancer be doing in Birmingham?”

  “Doing Elvis impersonations?” I sighed. She was going to be furious with me when she found out Marilyn was here and I hadn’t told her.

  “Don’t be silly, Mouse. He could do that in Russia. But, listen, the reason I called is that Virgil is going to cook steaks here tonight. Debbie and Henry, and Tammy Sue and her husband, and Virgil, Jr., are coming.” She paused. “And you and Fred, of course. A nice family evening. I’d thought we’d wait until Haley and Philip got home and maybe Marilyn could come up, but the weather’s so god-awful and after what happened at the Alabama we all need something to cheer us up. We can do it again later on.”

  Guilt. Guilt.

  “What time?” I asked.

  After I hung up, I got out the vacuum and threw myself into housework with a vengeance. There’s something about cleaning a house that soothes the conscience.

  I was cleaning the toilet when Marilyn came down the hall and leaned against the door watching me.