Elvis and the Grateful Dead

by Peggy Webb

  Fayrene is right behind her. When I lift my eyebrows, Lovie winks at me.

  “Fayrene said she came early to help.”

  Snoop is more like it. Fayrene loves to be in the know. But I’m more than happy to leave arranging the food to Mama and her coconspirator in dance and devilment because Lovie is motioning me behind their backs.

  We slip out of the kitchen and into my living room. Actually it’s two rooms with vaulted ceilings and the adjoining wall knocked out, dominated by my antique baby grand piano. When you enter you have the feeling of being in Thomas Jefferson’s elegant Monticello.

  “What gives, Lovie?”

  “Rocky called again. He’s booked a room at the Ramada.”

  “It’s a nice hotel.”

  “Why doesn’t he want to stay with me, Callie? He’ll just be here a few days and then he’s flying to Mexico on a dig.” Rocky’s an archaeologist who apparently has more passion for treasures of the past than the treasure right before his eyes. “He’ll be gone no telling how long. What am I going to do?”

  Asking me for love advice is like asking a sinner to preach at a Baptist church revival. I wrote the book on how not to. Still, I can’t be flippant with Lovie. For the first time since Aunt Minrose died (Lovie was fourteen), she is thinking of men in terms of commitment instead of a Band-Aid to tape over the wound of loss.

  “It looks like Rocky wants to move slowly, Lovie. And that might be a good idea.”

  “I’m not interested in slow. I want a little sugar in my bowl.”

  How like Lovie to use the language of the blues. Aunt Minrose was a professional musician and Lovie’s no slouch, herself.

  “Focus on the bright side. I’ll bet he’s bringing not only the sugar but a big stirring spoon.”

  Mama sticks her head around the door frame. “To stir what?”

  “The Prohibition Punch,” Lovie says, referring to her special recipe that parades itself as punch but has enough alcohol to make a herd of elephants tipsy. Actually the recipe originated with a governor’s wife in Georgia during the Prohibition Era.

  Lovie squeezes my arm, then swishes past me to the kitchen while I race to answer the front door.

  Standing on my porch are Tupelo’s mayor and his wife, and behind them are Beulah Jane and twenty bespangled, pomaded impersonators.

  By seven thirty the party is in full swing. The bigwigs are crowded around the refreshment table refilling their cups with Lovie’s recipe and loosening their ties. Fayrene is in my Angel Garden/courtyard matching Beulah Jane and the officers of the fan club with Elvis stories of her own. (Fayrene claims to be Gladys’ niece’s second cousin twice removed). And Mama’s at the piano pounding out Elvis songs while the impersonators try to outdo each other showing off their vocals and their hip moves. George Blakely, a skinny balloonist from Dallas who calls himself Texas Elvis, seems to have the corner on swivels.

  The real King strolls in (my dog, who else?) carrying a black wig he dug from my closet when I wasn’t looking. Elvis is the most opinionated dog on earth. Obviously, he has a point to prove. I bend down, take it from his teeth, and arrange it on his head, then lavish pats on him.

  “You look mighty handsome, Elvis.” My philosophy is that everybody needs affirmation, even a dog.

  “Here, dear heart. You look like you need this.” Uncle Charlie hands me a fresh cup of Prohibition Punch.

  “It’s not every day I see a dead Elvis in the Birthplace. Have you heard anything else about Brian?”

  “John’s sticking by his on-site evaluation of natural causes. The body has already been released to his family in Huntsville.”

  That ought to make me feel better, but I still have the uneasy feeling I’m on the Titanic while an iceberg lurks just beyond the next wave. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the turmoil of my love/hate relationship with Jack and our stalled divorce.

  “Don’t worry about it, dear heart. Everything’s under control. Enjoy your party.”

  In spite of his reassurances, Uncle Charlie stations himself in my blue velvet wing chair in the corner. He’s either found a perfect observation post because something is amiss, or he’s watching for trouble just to be on the safe side.

  Going in search of comfort, I find Lovie in the kitchen refilling a serving tray with hot miniature ham and cheese quiches. I grab a spatula to help, but end up dropping quiche on the floor.

  “Let me do that.” Lovie elbows me out of the way. “Are you going to tell me what’s up, or are you going to spend the rest of the evening with that face?”

  “It’s the only face I have.”

  “You know what I mean. What’s up?”

  “Nothing if you don’t count Mama taking clandestine dance lessons and me letting Jack back in my bed.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Callie. Divorced people do it all the time.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me. I know these things. Besides, at least Jack finds you appealing.”

  “Lovie, Rocky has been crazy about you ever since he saw you imitating a Las Vegas showgirl.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You told me. Besides, you’ve been seeing him…what? Two weeks?”

  “Three. They build Jim Walter homes in less time. At the rate he’s going, I’ll be in dentures and Depends before he discovers the holy grail.”

  This is Lovie at her irreverent best. Anybody who didn’t know her might think she’s taking everything in stride, but I see the heartache behind the laughter.

  Elvis (the icon, not my dog) is crooning “It’s Now or Never” over my indoor/outdoor speakers, which is the last thing Lovie needs to hear. Apparently Mama has abandoned the piano and put on some Elvis CDs.

  “What you need is some fresh air.”

  Lovie’s a party animal. If I can get her surrounded by people, she’ll be okay. Linking arms, we head to the courtyard I call my Angel Garden.

  This place always makes me feel better. Sometimes in the early morning if I come out here and sit very still, I can feel the brush of angel wings. Not that I’m New Age-y or anything. I just believe you have to adopt a Zen-like state of stillness in order to be in touch with the universe.

  Tonight, though, angel wings take a powder because there’s Mama in dishabille, so to speak, with Texas Elvis. Actually, they’re dancing—if you can call being crammed so close you can’t get a straw between your bodies dancing. Plus, his hands are where they have no business being.

  The worst part is, she doesn’t seem to mind, which leads me to believe this could have been her idea. If she’ll care to remember, she has a daughter older than this man. To top it off, this is my house, and I’m not fixing to let this gold-digging Elvis swivel his way into a beautiful farm in Mooreville. Not to mention Mama’s Everlasting Monument Company and a place at the Valentine family Thanksgiving dinner.

  Besides that, he’s not even handsome. How could Mama go for a weasely man who looks like Pee-Wee Herman?

  I march right into my house and remove the Burning Love album. I don’t care how many times it went platinum. I have no intention of providing the ambience for Lady Chatterly. Next I put on “Shake, Rattle and Roll.” Let Mama and George Blakley cozy up to that.

  “What’s wrong, dear heart?”

  I jump out of my skin. How did Uncle Charlie get across the room without me ever seeing him move?

  “Nobody but Mama could turn dance lessons into something you have to worry over.”

  He doesn’t say a word, just slips out the door with his blue eyes looking like they could burn a hole through metal. Now what?

  I hurry after Uncle Charlie and find him leading Mama back onto the dance floor while George Blakely cools his ardor on the sidelines with a glass of peach tea.

  The courtyard has been cleared to make way for a second dance couple. None other than Lovie with Dick Gerard.

  Who is married, might I add. And whose wife, Bertha, is not here.

  I can see my party being written up in the soci
ety pages as the biggest scandal Moorevile has seen since Leonora Moffett stole Roy Jessup’s daddy from the Mooreville Feed and Seed. Even worse, she didn’t want him. Sent him back to his wife in three weeks because he had the IQ of a snail. Leonora’s words, not mine.

  All I can say is thank goodness the hip-hop music prevents Lovie from dancing cheek to cheek with Dick. Though the way she’s rocking (all over the courtyard) and the way he’s rolling (all over her), my party ought to be rated triple X.

  What in the world is Lovie trying to do? As if I need to ask. Feeling uncertain about Rocky’s intentions and floundering around in unfamiliar territory, she’s falling back into her old habits—seeing how many men she can conquer with her charms (which are considerable, believe me).

  But who am I to talk? Don’t I let Jack sweet-talk me every time? What can I say? There’s comfort in the familiar.

  In order to preserve my sanity (almost) and calm my nerves (barely), I watch Uncle Charlie and Mama. She’s a really good dancer, which doesn’t surprise me. Whatever Mama sets her mind to, she does with gusto and excellence. The surprise here is Uncle Charlie. I had no idea he could dance, much less that he’s so smooth. With that talent and his handsome, silvery fox looks, he could have senior women drooling all over him.

  Suddenly somebody yells, “What’s happening?”

  Lovie and Dick are gyrating so wildly that Mama and Uncle Charlie quit the dance floor. If I couldn’t see the panic on Lovie’s face, I’d think she was doing this on purpose.

  “Uncle Charlie,” I yell, but he has already sprung into action. When Dick Gerard topples, he lands right in Charlie Valentine’s arms.

  While Tewanda Hardy and Beulah Jane fan Dick with their cardboard Elvis fans, I race inside to get some ice water and a cold cloth. Considering the heat, no wonder he’s overcome. Not to mention the potency of Lovie’s charms and her Prohibition Punch.

  By the time I get back, my bassett hound is on the scene and Dick is laid out on the concrete.

  Uncle Charlie looks up from the body. “It’s no use, dear heart. He’s dead.”

  Elvis’ Opinion #2 on Icons, Hospitality, and Murder

  I could have told them that before Dick Gerard hit the floor. But then, I’m smarter than the average dog. What I saw was not a man in the throes of dance; it was a man in the throes of a fit.

  With sirens wailing toward Callie’s, everybody’s standing around the body saying, “I told you so.”

  Tewanda Hardy is saying, “I told you it was an epileptic fit,” while Fayrene is saying, “It looked more like he got stung by a bee.”

  Even that uppity cocker spaniel is nosing around trying to act important. Need I remind him that Callie named him Hoyt because of me? I’m the only icon around here, and if he wants some peace in the valley, he’ll do well to remember it.

  Before he got his own pillow and tried to horn in my territory, I was starting to warm up to him. Even considered teaching a thing or two about music, but that’s gone with the wind now. I may be the most beloved dog in Mooreville, not to mention the coolest, but I have my limits.

  Hoyt will have to fend for himself. Ditto, this untalented, ragtag group of impersonators. There was a moment this morning after competition got under way that I considered moseying around their tent and offering remedial voice lessons. But after hearing Brian Watson I figured, why waste my valuable time? It would take an act of God to improve the singing of this sorry lot.

  Now, if you listen to this party crowd jabbering, you’re probably thinking God has already intervened, but let me tell you…Brian and Dick did not die of natural causes. Ask the best canine detective in the world (that would be yours truly); two dead impersonators add up to murder.

  To prove my point, Callie’s front yard is filled with flashing blue lights. There’re more cops here than I have fleas. And they’re everywhere.

  While the Lee County sheriff and two of his deputies clear Callie’s courtyard and put crime scene tape around it and the coroner hauls Dick off, Hoyt starts howling “Love Me Tender.”

  I politely priss my ample butt over there and tell him to knock it off. Any fool knows it’s tasteless to sing the wrong song. Besides, he can’t even sing backup. What makes him think he can sing solo?

  And speaking of singing, the two deceased impersonators were the worst of the lot. If you ask me (which, of course, nobody does), anybody who makes my songs sound that bad ought to be grateful they’re dead.

  Chapter 3

  Clues, Mistaken Identity, and the Dead Dick

  Crime scene tape in my own backyard. I wonder if that would hold up in a divorce court as proof I’m an unfit dog mother. All I can say is that I’m glad Jack’s out of town.

  Even worse, my guests are milling around, shell-shocked, and the assorted Elvises are in a near riot. The one from Georgia is threatening to go home, the one from California is threatening to sue somebody, and the one from Japan is behind my gardenia bush pulling a stiletto out of his boots.

  While the sheriff and his deputies ask questions and take notes, the Valentines gather in the kitchen for a summit. Lovie’s already dumping vodka in the Prohibition Punch and Mama adds enough sherry to float a small boat.

  “Good,” Uncle Charlie says. “Pass it around.”

  “Maybe I ought to turn off the music.” My house and gardens sound like the inside of a boot and skoot club.

  “Leave it on, dear heart. The more normal we can seem, the better.”

  “What are you going to do about the festival, Charlie?”

  In spite of the bad advice Mama gives me and the bad judgment she uses in her own affairs, when caution and wisdom really count, she defers to Uncle Charlie.

  “I’m going to announce that unfortunate events in Mooreville don’t mean cancelation of the festival in Tupelo.”

  As he leaves, Mama follows him to the door. “Be careful, Charlie. There’s a murderer on the loose.”

  She comes back and I press close to her and Lovie while we fill cups with the spiked punch. When George Blakely sticks his head around the door and booms out, “Hello,” I send punch flying onto the ceiling. Then I stand there under the drip like somebody nailed to the floor.

  “Sorry.” He grabs a napkin and starts wiping punch out of my hair. “I just wanted to see if everybody is all right.”

  Lovie gives me a look and I know exactly what she means. Snooping. We’d better keep an eye on this one. You don’t grow up sharing the same sandbox and the same quilt at sleepovers without learning to read the other person’s mind.

  “I’m fine.” I step out of George’s reach. His hands give me the creeps. Probably because he had them all over Mama. “What can I do for you?”

  “The sheriff was asking about Lovie. I think he wants to question her.”

  Mama links her arm through his. “George, you be a good boy and march right out there and tell Sheriff Trice, Lovie will be there when she’s good and ready.”

  “I don’t know, Ruby girl.”

  Girl? I could slap him.

  “Well, I do. There are plenty of people at this party to question first without him trying to put my niece on the hot seat. If he knows what’s good for his next election campaign, he’ll treat the Valentines with a little respect. And you can tell him I said so.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Grinning, George salutes Mama, then hurries off to do her bidding.

  “Mama, what’s up with you and that impersonator?”

  “Oh, was something up? I didn’t notice.”

  She prisses off with a tray, all flouncy ruffles and big attitude. I wouldn’t dye her hair Marilyn Monroe blond if you took away my Jimmy Choo sling-backs. Mama gets in enough trouble as a redhead.

  “I might as well get our there and face the music.” Lovie grabs a tray and starts out the door.

  “Not without me, you don’t.”

  The sheriff is taking notes while Fayrene holds court on my porch swing. The porch is crowded with people trying to eavesdrop but look like th
ey’re not, and the scent of Zephrine Drouhin roses from the nearby arbor is heavy on the still summer air.

  “Of course Lovie was dancing with Dick Gerard, but she didn’t do anything to him.” Fayrene glares at Sheriff Trice like she’d love to skewer him and serve him as shish kabobs. “Ask anybody here. The Valentine family is above reproach.”

  “Ma’am, just stick to the facts. What did you see?”

  “I saw Dick’s jealous wife, Bertha, hiding behind the Confederate jasmine watching them dance in the courtyard. That’s what I saw.”

  “Are you sure it was Bertha Gerard?”

  “I never forget a face. I have a pornographic memory.”

  Several of the impersonators snicker, but the sheriff remains straight-faced. A local who gets his gas as well as his fish bait at Gas, Grits, and Guts, he knows Fayrene is the queen of malapropisms.

  “When was the last time you saw Bertha?”

  “I just told you,” Fayrene says.

  “Before tonight.”

  “It was three weeks ago. At the dentist’s. I was just getting ready to go under Anastasia.”

  The mayor and his wife are choking on their Prohibition Punch, and Italian Elvis is frantically consulting his pocket translation guide.

  The sheriff turns to me. “Was Bertha on the guest list?”

  “Yes,” I say, “but she called early this morning to say she couldn’t come.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “She said she was sick.”

  “Did she sound sick?”

  Good grief, what am I now? A doctor?

  “She wasn’t coughing and I didn’t detect any nasal stuffiness, but she could have had an upset stomach. I really can’t say.”

  The sheriff walks off to consult Deputy Rakestraw while Fayrene sits there looking miffed. Probably because the sheriff didn’t take her word as gospel. Mama goes over to lend Fayrene moral support.

  Meanwhile Sheriff Trice comes up to me and asks for a private room to question Lovie. What would he do if I told him I didn’t allow the enemy into my private quarters? Put me in jail, probably.