by Peggy Webb
“We don’t carry cheap, but we do have a line that’s very affordable. This way please.”
As I lead her toward the casket room I figure now is the best opportunity I’ll get to dig for information. Forget that she got my hackles up and I’d as soon coat her with peanut butter and hang her out for the birds as look at her. I can turn on the charm when I put my mind to it.
Normally I’m not a mean and spiteful person, but anybody who claims she needs the National Guard to get the attention of the best funeral director in Mississippi has a long way to go before she can get back on my good side.
“It must be a relief to finally know what killed your husband,” I tell her. “Did they identify the poison?”
“What does it matter? He’s dead, one way or the other.”
“I’m so sorry.” I lead her to a simple gray casket without ornamentation. “This is our most popular economy brand.”
“It’ll do.”
“Fine. I’ll get papers so you can fill out the obituary information.”
“Later. I have things to do.”
Like killing Thaxton Miller?
I race downstairs to tell Uncle Charlie that Dick’s body will be arriving, but the widow didn’t stay long enough to complete funeral arrangements. The atmosphere is icy down here, and it’s certainly not due to the air-conditioning.
“Mama, are you going back to Everlasting Monuments?”
“Naturally. I have a business to run.”
She stands up and sprays herself with a flacon of Michael from her straw purse, a ploy deliberately calculated to make us wonder what she’s up to now. The only good thing I can say about Mama’s perfume is that she still wears a fragrance named after my daddy. (Technically speaking it’s named for designer Michael Kors, but don’t try to tell anybody in our family it’s not named for Michael Valentine.)
“At least Philistine had the good sense to be creative when she preordered her tombstone.”
“What did she want on it, Mama?”
“‘Gone to sing solo in the heavenly choir.’ Now, that’s my kind of woman.”
Mama marches out and I have to run along behind to see if she will take Elvis back to Mooreville. His medicine has kicked in and he’ll probably sleep the rest of the day. Maybe even into the night.
“Of course I will,” she says.
“Take him straight to my house, Mama. I want him to be comfortable in his own bed.”
“What are you going to be doing?”
“Festival.”
Bertha didn’t say she was going there, but it makes sense if she’s planning to snuff out another Elvis.
Thank goodness Mama doesn’t sniff out my little white lie. What I’m going to be doing is tailing Bertha, the exact opposite of Uncle Charlie’s advice. He’s nearly always right and I nearly always go along, but how can I sit back and let Bertha poison another Elvis impersonator? That’s just un-American.
While Mama goes back to get Elvis, I whip out my cell phone and race toward my Dodge Ram.
“Lovie, what are you doing?”
“Having a Calgon Take Me Away moment.”
“In the middle of the day?”
“Rocky’s coming over and I’m planning a sneak attack.”
“Meaning you’re going to pretend you lost track of time and greet him at the door wearing nothing but bubbles.”
“Among other things.” I don’t even want to know. “You sound distressed, Callie. What’s up?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I hope. “Have fun, Lovie.”
I peel out of the parking lot hoping I can find Bertha in the festival crowd and that I’m not too late to save Thaxton.
It’s funny, when there’s not a single living soul in your house except you and the pets, all you can see is couples. Running around the festival searching for Bertha I spot middle-aged married couples with their arms around each other, teenaged kids with body piercings and tattoos lip-locked in the middle of Main Street, geriatrics holding hands, even stray dogs rendezvousing in the alleys.
The sight makes me want to run home, lock the front door, and inspect myself for fatal flaws. I know, I know. Jack’s leaving was not my fault. (Not entirely his, either. I pride myself on being nonjudgmental.) Still, no matter what or who causes a breakup, the pain is just as intense. I’ve heard women who wanted a divorce so badly they’d have killed for it to say they cried themselves to sleep every night for six weeks after they actually signed the papers.
I guess this angst has to do with loss and knowing that every little thing is left up to you. Even the hard stuff like getting stuck in a hot air balloon with a murder victim and not having anybody to run home and tell it to—the equivalent of paying a gazillion bucks an hour to lie on a psychiatrist’s couch and relieve yourself of every messy ounce of guilt, shame, and fear.
My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t had lunch, and no wonder I’m running around here conjuring up a pity party all over a public place. I hustle over to the refreshment booth, where Beulah Jane and Tewanda descend on me like a pair of Walt Disney fairy godmothers.
Beulah Jane leads me inside the booth to a chair while Tewanda waves an Elvis fan in front of my face.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Tewanda says, and Beulah Jane, not to be outdone, says, “It’s the heat, Tewanda. Pour her some iced peach tea to cool her off.”
“Thanks, I’ll take some of Lovie’s barbecued ribs, too.”
She made enough to sustain Hannibal’s army on their march over the Alps. And they are particularly delicious, not the Memphis Rendezvous’ dry ribs so many people rave about, but good old southern wet barbecue, lots of ketchup and vinegar and honey with just a hint of pineapple.
When I’m feeling more like a human being, I tell them about Dick’s body being released.
“We heard.” Tewanda takes my empty plate and dumps it in the garbage can, then sits down beside me and starts to fan herself. “I don’t believe it was arsenic or strychnine, though. Do you remember what they called it, Beulah Jane?”
“Exotic, is all they said. I think they’re still trying to identify it.”
These two geriatrics are discussing poison the way you’d talk about whether to have sugar or lemon with your tea. Maybe that’s what comes with age, a calm acceptance of life’s ever-changing stage play, comic one minute, tragic the next, and always, always on-the-edge-of-your-seat suspenseful.
Or else Twenada and Beulah Jane don’t want to get excited and get their blood pressures up.
“Did they find anything in the food or drink samples?” I ask.
“Fortunately for poor dear Lovie, they didn’t find a thing.” Beulah Jane goes over and pours herself a tall glass of tea. “What I heard is, sometimes you never can pinpoint some of those obscure poisons.”
Not that I’m trying to pinpoint anything. I’m bowing out of this investigation. As soon as I find Bertha.
“Has anybody seen Bertha?” I ask.
“She’s in mourning,” Beulah Jane says, “I don’t think she’ll be coming here.”
“Why, she was just here. Didn’t you see her?”
Beulah Jane’s face turns bright red. “Well, Tewanda, I guess I was too busy doing my job to be watching for widows.”
“Where did you see her?” I’m eager to get on the trail, especially with a quarrel brewing between the fan club’s top two officers.
“Over by stage one. Dressed in a blouse so low cut you could see everything she’s got.”
Looks like Bertha’s cast off her widow’s weeds in record time.
“What were you doing over by stage one?” Beulah Jane wants to know.
“That’s where the toilets are. But then, I guess you’re so high and mighty you never have to take a tinkle.”
Easing out of the booth, I tell them, “Bye” but I don’t think they hear me. Holy cow. Is that what Lovie and I will be like in thirty years? Given my choice, I’d rather be like Mama. Or even Fayrene, who at least wears a
n up-to-date hairdo, thanks to yours truly.
As I race toward stage one I spot two volunteers I don’t know manning the T-shirt booth with Fayrene, of all people. I guess this means she’s still sparring with Jarvetis. Normally, the only thing that can get her out of Gas, Grits, and Guts is an outing with Mama. And I know for a fact that Mama is at Everlasting Monuments.
Or at least, I think I know it for a fact. With Mama, nothing is certain.
I wave but Fayrene doesn’t see me, which is just as well. She’d be full of questions, most of them nosey.
I smell Bertha before I see her. Old Mosquito Hair Spray herself is standing in the middle of the crowd around stage one talking to none other than Thaxton Miller. I reach down and pat my gun holster just to be sure it’s still there, though how I think I could get by with firing a weapon in the middle of a crowd in downtown Tupelo is beyond me.
Easing closer, I scrunch down and almost knee-walk so Bertha won’t see me. Being taller than the average woman is an advantage if you want everybody in a room to notice you’re wearing a cute new dress with Jimmy Choo shoes, but it’s a real pain if you’re trying not to be seen.
I bump into an old gentleman and almost knock him off his walker.
“Excuse me,” I say, but I’m too much a lady to repeat what he says. Suffice it say, I revise my opinion about him being a gentleman.
I crab-walk sideways, then risk standing up so I can see what Bertha’s up to. It turns out she’s up to her cleavage in rage. If I’ve ever seen a madder woman, I don’t want to recall it. She has ditched her black coat, and her face and neck are mottled all the way down to her popping-out you know whats.
I ease closer and try to hear what she’s saying, but I’m hampered by two very large women wearing Elvis Lives! T-shirts who form a solid wall of flesh, then glare at me as if I’ve tried to make off with their Social Security checks.
If I’m going to prevent Bertha from killing Thaxton, I’m going to have to adopt Lovie’s don’t mess with me attitude.
Rising to my full height, I tower a good four inches over them.
“Excuse me, please. I have to get through.”
“Don’t mess with me, missy.” The larger of the two gets right in my face. “I been here since eight o’clock this morning to hear Willie Nelson, and if you think you can be Johnny Come Lately and waltz on through, then I’m fixing to sell you a rooster that lays eggs.”
Apologizing profusely, I backtrack and try to find a way around.
I guess I showed them.
Chapter 14
Sweet Talk, Lies, and Vanishing Elvises
By the time I get close enough to hear what Bertha’s angry about, she’s made a complete about-face and is sweet-talking Love Me Tender Elvis.
Running her hands all over Thaxton’s chest and down toward dangerous regions I don’t care to discuss, Bertha croons, “Now, Thaxton, you’re just too precious to think such a thing about little ole me.”
Somebody from Chicago or Scranton might interpret this display to mean Thaxton is the love of Bertha’s life, but I’m here to tell you, it’s not necessarily so. The minute a southern belle uses the word precious, you can bet she has not handed you a compliment. Doris, those shoes are just so precious is her way of saying Those shoes are so tacky I wouldn’t wear them to the pigpen. And if a pure-blood southern belle says Aren’t you just precious? she’d as soon cut out your liver as look at you.
Thaxton Miller is in big trouble. If I’m going to prevent his death by exotic poison, I’m going to need backup. I consider calling the police, but only briefly. What would I say to them? I’ve withheld evidence that points to Bertha being the killer and now she’s going to kill again?
“Come on, precious,” Bertha tells Thaxton. “Let’s go somewhere cozy so we can kiss and make up.”
She walks off with her future victim.
Holy cow! She has cajoled him toward his death. There’s no time to do anything except follow them, easier said than done in this crowd. Willie Nelson is one of the few great entertainers left from the Elvis era, and three states (Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee) have turned out in force.
Thaxton and Bertha are heading toward the east gate. Grateful for my long legs and skinny self, I step over obstacles (small dogs, empty lawn chairs, and several coolers) and slide through holes in the crowd with the ease of the Shadow, only once having to suck in my stomach so I can get through.
Bertha and her prey break out of the crowd and head toward the Bancorp South Convention Center’s parking lot with me right behind them. The lot is a solid sea of vehicles, mostly SUVs and pickup trucks, and I lose them. While I’m trying to decide whether to race back to my Dodge Ram, which is parked way back up at Courthouse Square, a motorcycle roars by so fast I’d never know who was on it except for one thing: I can spot a bad hairdo a mile.
It’s Bertha, jiggling all over Love Me Tender Elvis. Doesn’t she know better than to get on that bike without a helmet?
I wait long enough to see them hang a left out of the parking lot and another left on Main. Bertha said some place cozy, and the Hilton Garden Inn where the impersonators are staying is the closest cozy spot in that direction.
I break into a run and head to my truck, congratulating myself all the way that I never slack on my fitness routine. If I did I’d be bigger than my truck, considering all the sherry-laced chocolate delights Lovie offers up.
By the time I get back to Main, Thaxton and Bertha are nowhere in sight. With only instinct as my guide, I head straight to the hotel. I don’t know what I’ll do when I find them. My plan is just to take one step at a time and depend on my stellar instincts for my next move.
I don’t see a motorcycle in the parking lot. Have I lost them or did they transfer to Bertha’s car while I was getting my truck? I don’t know what she drives, so there’s no way I can tell.
Since I’m here anyway I might as well find out if she’s in Thaxton’s room vamping him one more time before she knocks him off.
I march straight into the lobby and right up to the desk clerk, Ricky Pate, according to his name tag, an efficient-looking young man with killer looks and a wide smile. Probably smart, college educated, good family.
What is wrong with me? Lately I can’t look at a member of the opposite sex between the ages of twenty-five and forty without considering his genes, and I’m not talking Levi’s here.
“I’m here to see Thaxton Miller.” Let Mr. Centerfold Gorgeous think whatever he wants. By the time I offer explanations, Thaxton could be dead. “Will you ring his room?”
The Pate hunk shuffles through his files. “Did you say Thaxton Miller?” I nod, and he says, “He checked out.”
“Oh dear.” South of the Mason-Dixon Line, the helpless act usually gets results. “There must be some mistake. I had a two o’clock appointment with him.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. He checked out this morning at eight.”
That leaves Bertha’s apartment in Magnolia Manor as the last available cozy place for them. Maybe I’m not too late.
As I head that way I wonder when I got old enough for twenty-year-olds to call me ma’am.
Finally I get lucky: there are three bikes parked in the lot, one of them Jack’s Harley Screamin’ Eagle. It’s the only one I know because I make it my practice not to pay attention to motorcycle brands.
Hoping one of them belongs to Thaxton, I head through the front door. Thank goodness Jack’s still in Mexico (meaning he’s not here to catch me), which I refuse to dwell upon because if I do I might start agonizing everything to do with my almost-ex in spite of the fact I swore off worry. Since it was only a recent resolution, I don’t feel bad that I can’t seem to keep it.
I sashay past the manager/owner’s office and barrel up the stairs two at a time (just in case the elevator breaks down and I get trapped inside, which would be my luck considering the hot air balloon episode). When I get to Bertha’s apartment I can’t decide whether to ring the bell or break and enter.<
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If I break and enter I might interrupt something I don’t care to see, but if I ring the bell, I’ve lost the element of surprise.
Shoot, if Lovie can pick a lock, so can I. I’ve got everything else in my purse: I’m bound to have a hairpin.
I do, but it proves to be an uncooperative brand. After three minutes of probing, all I end up with is a broken fingernail and a bent hairpin. Since I’m not the kind of woman to let small setbacks deter me, I ring Bertha’s doorbell. Naturally I’m not going to blurt out I’m here to prevent murder. What I’ll say is, Uncle Charlie needs to get Dick’s funeral scheduled and I’m here so it’ll be easier for you to make the arrangements.
Bertha doesn’t appear on the first ring, nor even the fifth. I just politely march myself downstairs and ring the doorbell on the apartment that has ERIC MILLER, MANAGER/OWNER painted on the door. I wonder if he’s any relation to Thaxton.
A burly man who looks like he does serial killing on the side answers. I wish I’d had time to dress in disguise in case I make him mad and he decides to find me and slit my throat. The only thing I can do now is tell the truth—or at least enough to get me into Bertha’s apartment.
I present my card from Eternal Rest that features my name below a gold-embossed butterfly, a symbol of hope, of emerging from an ordinary cocoon to become something more beautiful. The Valentines are renowned for positive attitudes and optimistic funerals, complete with a jazz band and dancing Jezebels if that’s what the mourners want.
And sometimes surprise Jezebels who inherit all the money, but that’s a whole other story (the Bubbles Caper).
“I’m here to make arrangements with Bertha Gerard about her husband’s funeral,” I tell the formidable Mr. Miller. “I rang her bell, but apparently it’s broken.”
“It ain’t broke.” He lifts an arm the size of a Virginia ham and scratches his hairy, unwashed pit. I almost pass out from the fumes. “Who did you say you was again?”