Elvis and the Grateful Dead

by Peggy Webb

  Everybody swivels to look at the dancing waters. Even Bulah Jane is mollified, though her satisfaction would be short-lived if she knew Elvis was still pointing her shoes.

  The minute we get to the Birthplace, I’m putting him on a leash…and buying chocolate to calm Lovie.

  With impersonators swarming all over the gift shop, the museum, the chapel, and the shotgun house where the King was born, Lovie and I are sitting beside the fountain taking a breather and eating Hershey’s bars.

  “I know this is going straight to my hips.” Lovie pats her ample thighs. “Fortunately Rocky likes his women round.”

  “I wish it would go to mine.” I look like a swizzle stick. Especially beside Lovie. And especially since Jack left and my appetite went down the drain. All arms and coltish-looking legs and big brown eyes. Chest flat as a flitter.

  Mama has the classy movie star looks of a past-her-prime Katharine Hepburn while Lovie has the glamour and lush beauty of Rita Hayworth. Even Uncle Charlie can still turn heads. At sixty-three, no less. But the good looks fairy passed me by. My two best features are my clear olive skin and my thick brown hair. Which, thanks to my expertise, always looks like it ought to be featured on the pages of Glamour.

  Everybody has to have something to brag about, and I guess with me, it’s my sleek, stylish hair.

  Lovie’s cell phone rings and when she sees the number pop up, she tells me, “Rocky.”

  I’ve never seen her like this—her blue eyes shining and her voice dreamy.

  “Hey, baby.” She never calls anybody baby, not even Elvis, whom she adores. This is a Lovie I don’t even know.

  I’m happy for her, really I am. But a little scared, too. As I leave the fountain and walk my dog toward the statue of a barefoot, teenaged Elvis wearing overalls and carrying his cherished guitar, I say a little prayer that my cousin, who has never, ever been in love, doesn’t lose herself in this new territory.

  I also say a little prayer for myself. Jack and I used to call each other pet names. The sound of his voice used to make me misty-eyed. (Sometimes it still does, but I’m not going there.) If I thought I’d never have that kind of love again, I’d chop off my hair and join a nunnery.

  Of course, that’s a little extreme, especially since I’d have to give up cute designer shoes. Maybe I’d just leave Mooreville and go somewhere exotic. Or at least, someplace where Jack is not.

  Impersonators are lined up to get their pictures made with the bronze image of their icon, so I volunteer as cameraman. When they find out my dog is named Elvis, they invite him to be in the pictures.

  Naturally he tries to steal the show. And I’ll have to say he’s succeeding. Next year maybe I’ll have him a little sequined doggie jumpsuit made.

  Elvis puts on his best smile—tongue lolling out, lower lips pulled back—till Beulah Jane walks by clapping her hands.

  “Listen up, Elvises! It’s time to load the bus! Chop, chop, everybody!”

  As he makes a beeline for her bony ankle, I grab Elvis’ leash. “Don’t even think about it.”

  The impersonators nab cameras and bulging bags from the gift shop, then rush after Beulah Jane.

  Lovie strolls up wearing a big grin. “What’s the one-woman hostility committee up to now?”

  “Herding the tribute artists to the bus.”

  Lovie consults her watch. “We have fifteen minutes. What’s her hurry?”

  “Never mind. Let her enjoy being in charge. Tell me about Rocky.”

  “He’s coming to Tupelo.”

  “When?”

  “In a few days. He’s flying with a friend in a private plane.”

  “That’s good news, Lovie.”

  “Good, my foot. You can hear my vagina shouting hallelujah all the way to the state line.”

  Now, that’s the Lovie I know and adore. I link my arm through hers and we head to the bus.

  Beulah Jane is standing up front, her lips moving as she counts heads.

  “We seem to be one Elvis short,” she tells me.

  “Who’s missing?” As I scan the crowd, it doesn’t take me long to realize our missing impersonator is the waiter from Huntsville. “Has anybody seen Brian?”

  Eli, the lone female artist, stands up at the back. “I saw him in the chapel about five minutes ago.”

  “Everybody stay put. Lovie and I will check.”

  Even if Brian is not in the chapel, he can’t be far. The Birthplace is very small with all the buildings clustered in an area little more than a city block. Grabbing Elvis, we trudge across the parking lot, past the gift shop, and up the hill toward the small ’seventies-style chapel. I don’t dare leave him unattended on the same bus with Beulah Jane.

  “Listen, Lovie. Is that music?”

  “If that’s music, I’m a hot buttered biscuit.”

  Elvis, who obviously agrees with Lovie, heists his leg on a native hibiscus bush.

  I recognize the flat tenor notes wafting from the chapel. It’s Brian, all right, playing the piano and wailing, “I once was lost but now am found…”

  Suddenly there’s a discordant crash and “Amazing Grace” comes to a halt. I have the sick feeling you’d get if you were standing on the deck of the Titanic and felt it tilting under your feet.

  “Hurry.” Grabbing Lovie’s arm, I half drag her and Elvis up the last stretch and through the chapel doors. It’s dim in here and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust.

  Then I see our missing impersonator—slumped over the keyboard of the upright piano.

  “Brian!”

  He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. I call out again, but he’s very, very still.

  Elvis’ hackles come up and he starts growling. Not a good sign.

  I squeeze Lovie’s arm, and she squeezes back.

  “I don’t like this, Callie.”

  Neither do I. But I didn’t earn my reputation as the best hair and makeup artist in Mississippi by backing down from the hard stuff.

  When I’m not making Mooreville’s glitterati look glamorous at my little beauty parlor, I’m over at Uncle Charlie’s fixing up the dead. You wouldn’t think I’d be squeamish in a situation like this. But you’d be wrong. Under Uncle Charlie’s vigilance, death is tamed, demystified, and even friendly. Beyond his watchful eye, anything could be waiting to reach out and grab you.

  “Come on, Lovie.”

  “You go first. I’ll be right behind you.”

  With my fierce watchdog trotting beside me still rumbling deep in his throat and Lovie dragging up the rear, we inch toward the front.

  The setting sun shines through the vaulted window behind the pulpit, and the bank of stained glass windows in primary colors along the east wall glows softly as our feet move in carpeted hush. In spite of the peace and beauty of these surroundings, I don’t want to find out what waits for us up front.

  “Brian?”

  I didn’t really expect an answer. Taking a deep breath, I touch his shoulder and he topples off the bench, landing on his knees with his face flat against the floor.

  “He’s dead, Lovie.”

  “Either that or he’s praying for the right notes.”

  Sometimes laughter is the only reason we can keep breathing. If I could bottle Lovie’s spirit and sell it, I’d be rich.

  Chapter 2

  Motels, Mexico, and the Fatal Fox-Trot

  I call Uncle Charlie on my cell phone; then Lovie and I debate who’s going to tell the other impersonators Brian is dead and whether it’s disrespectful to the leave the body unattended.

  “You be the heroine is you want to, Callie, but I’m going outside till I can get my chocolate and my bladder under control.”

  “Uncle Charlie said he’d be right here. A few more minutes won’t kill anybody.” I hope. “I don’t think we ought to leave him.”

  “What do you think he’s going to do? Rise up and be raptured through the ceiling?”

  She streamrolls toward the door with me racing along behind her. Outside, I s
tand a few minutes deep-breathing. I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. If God had wanted me to deal with the seamier side of life, He’d have put me in a family of hard-nosed cops and criminal lawyers instead of one that promotes beauty (me) and vodka (Lovie) and gives the job of official funeral home greeter to a dog.

  Uncle Charlie arrives hard on the heels of the coroner.

  “Wait out here, dear hearts. John will take care of things inside.”

  “What about the other impersonators?” Elvis is now running around me in circles while Lovie sinks to the ground and fans herself with the tail of her skirt. “They’re sitting in a hot bus wondering what happened.”

  “I’ll handle things. When I get back, I’ll take you two back into town.”

  As he sprints off toward the bus, I untangle my legs from the leash and sit down beside Lovie. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be as soon as my stomach gets out of my throat.”

  “Brian can’t be more than thirty. What do you suppose happened to him?”

  “Whatever it is, Callie, it’s none of our business.”

  “You’re right.” Visions of Lovie and me cramming a stiff into a freezer (a.k.a. the Bubbles Caper) are enough to make me keep my nose out of Brian Watson’s demise.

  Unless, of course, Uncle Charlie needs us. After all, he’s in charge of this festival. (Well, practically.)

  The coroner passes by with Brian’s covered body strapped to a gurney. Uncle Charlie stops him a few yards away to chat.

  I know it’s none of my business, but I strain my ears anyway, hoping to hear what they’re saying. “Natural causes,” the coroner says, and “shipping the body back to Alabama.”

  Thank goodness nobody mentions foul play.

  The coroner heads toward his van and Uncle Charlie joins us.

  “Looks like it was a heart attack. Poor boy. I assured the other tribute artists the festival would not be canceled.”

  Which means the wine and cheese party I’m having tonight at my house in Mooreville will go on as planned. All the impersonators will be there as well as the fan club officers, the Elvis Committee members, Tupelo’s mayor, Robert Earl Getty, and his wife, Junie Mae, the city council, and the bigwigs.

  Not that I’m in a party mood, but it could be just the thing to take Lovie’s mind off Brian’s death. She’s the best caterer in Mississippi. Any time there’s a Valentine family function, she does the food. And nothing makes her feel better than being up to her elbows in grits soufflé and shrimp jambalaya.

  Unless it’s sex, and I refuse to go there. About her love life or my unfortunate attraction to my almost-ex, either one.

  Uncle Charlie drives us back to get our vehicles. My Dodge Ram four-by-four with the Hemi engine (my don’t mess with me alter ego) is parked near the historic courthouse square in the heart of downtown Tupelo.

  I love this square. Daddy used to bring me here on Saturdays while Mama shopped downtown. We’d circle the hundredyear-old courthouse admiring the Civil War monument and the mysterious statue of the angel that nobody seems to know who put there. Then he’d boost me into the big magnolia tree on the northwest side of the square and stand underneath while I peered down at him through the waxy green leaves.

  “I used to climb this tree, Callie. Someday your children will climb it.”

  As I get into my truck and head home I put my hands flat over my stomach to assure myself my eggs are still there. Humming their little cradle song. Just waiting for the right daddy to come along.

  In case you’re wondering, my white clapboard cottage in Mooreville is my dream house. It has a wraparound front porch with a beaded wood ceiling and old brick floors, porch rockers and wind chimes everywhere, a swing on the west end near the arbor spilling with Zephrine Drouhin (a French bourbon rose).

  If you mentioned my house, you’d have to say it in the same breath as southern charm. That’s the main reason most of the Valentine family socials, as well as more than a few civic events, are held here.

  The first thing I do when I get home is turn on the stereo, which is already loaded with my favorite CDs—Eric Clapton’s blues, Willie Nelson’s whiskey-voiced ballads, and Marina Raye’s haunting Native American flute. Nothing fills up space and makes a house more welcoming than music.

  Elvis ambles through the doggie door and into the backyard to lord it over my collection of stray animals—seven cats and Hoyt, the little blond spaniel. I haven’t decided what to do about the cats, but I’ve decided to keep Hoyt. Hence, the name. Hoyt was one of Elvis’ backup singers. Which ought to make my opinionated basset hound happy, but seems to have done just the opposite. From the kitchen window I spy Elvis sneaking off to his favorite oak tree to bury Hoyt’s bone.

  I push open the back screen door. “Elvis, give that back right this minute. You know you have plenty without stealing.”

  He gives me this look, then drops Hoyt’s bone, huffs over to the gazebo, and plops down with his back to me. I swear, if I didn’t know better I’d say he’s been taking lessons from Mama. She wrote the book on looks that can kill.

  “You know you’re kidding. Be a good boy and don’t torture Hoyt and the cats.”

  I race upstairs to change and shower. I can’t wait to get out of these clothes. I’m sweaty from being in a tent on the hot asphalt of downtown Tupelo; plus, I feel tainted with death. Poor Brian.

  Slipping into the shower, I close my eyes and imagine the water washing my troubles down the drain. As I reach for the soap it’s plucked from my hand.

  “Here. Let me do that.”

  No use screaming. I know who it is before I turn around.

  “Jack, need I remind you that you don’t live here anymore? Need I also remind you that breaking and entering is a crime?”

  His big laugh echoes off the tiled walls. “Who’s going to scrub your back?” He starts slathering soap on me, and I swear if I could chop off his talented hands and keep only that part of him, I’d die a happy woman.

  Well, maybe his talented tongue, too, but I’m not even going to think about that. If I do I’ll end up in the middle of my own bed in a compromising position.

  “Leave, Jack. And for goodness’ sake, put on some clothes.”

  “Not before I say good-bye.”

  Suddenly his hands are everywhere and I end up on my bed, anyway. For a very long time.

  What can I say? I’m not sorry. Jack may have terrible daddy potential, but he certainly excels at the preliminaries. And after all, I’m still married to him. Sort of.

  Leaving me sprawled across the rumpled covers, he reaches for his pants. And I watch. I’ll admit it. If there was anybody worth watching, it’s Jack Jones—six feet of muscle and mouthwatering appeal, and every inch of him lethal.

  “I’m leaving town, Callie. I’ll be gone awhile.”

  “For good, I hope.”

  “Is that why you’re staring?” He plants a kiss that sizzles my roots, then strolls out the door like a swashbuckling Rhett Butler who just had his way with willful Scarlett.

  And I’m back at square one—in the shower scrubbing off sweat.

  “I thought you’d be dressed by now.”

  The soap slips out of my hand and I whirl around to face this new intrusion.

  “Good grief, Mama. Don’t you ever knock?”

  “The front door was wide open.”

  She tosses me a towel, then makes herself at home while I towel off. I don’t know another single person who could make the toilet seat look like a throne.

  “I saw Jack.” She gives me this look. If anybody can make you squirm, it’s Mama. She has elevated stark raving silence to an art. “I told him to stay for the party. He’s still part of the family.”

  “I never heard of family who went off whenever they pleased and didn’t bother to tell you where they were going or what they were doing.” Which is one of the many reasons I separated from Jack Jones. He could be a deep-cover assassin for all I know. “You shouldn’t have invited him, Mama. It
’s my house.”

  “Really, Callie. Everbody knows you’re still in love with him. Why can’t you see that?”

  I open the bathroom door. “Mama, do you mind? I have to pee.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.” Ignoring the door, she stations herself in front of my bathroom mirror and inspects her hair. “I’m thinking of going blond.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Mama, you just went burnished copper.”

  “I’m thinking a Marilyn Monroe–ish look would go well with my dance costumes.”

  “What dance costumes?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Naturally not. Mama has secrets that would make you gray overnight. I guess that’s why she’s so crazy about Jack. They’re two of a kind. “Fayrene and I have enrolled in a senior citizens’ dance class. Everybody ought to expand their horizons, including you, my dear.”

  The only horizon I want to expand is to get a manicurist for Hair.Net, but that’s hard to do. Every time I get a bit ahead, somebody comes along with a sob story. Mostly Mama, who usually needs a little breather in Tunica (her words, not mine). But I’ll have to say that subsidizing her occasional gambling jaunts is a small price to pay for having a mother who is larger than life.

  Life with Mama is never boring. And if either one of us ended up in front of a speeding train, the other would step in and take her place on the tracks.

  She follows me into the bedroom trailing Hawaiian ginger perfume and hot-pink ruffles while I slip into a yellow sundress and matching Michael Kors ballerina flats. Designer shoes always perk me up, and after today’s events at the chapel, I need all the help I can get.

  We head down the stairs just as Lovie breezes in with the party food and her overnight bag. (She’s spending the night with me, which is not unusual. If she’s staying late in Mooreville or I’m staying late in Tupelo, we crash at each other’s houses.)