Elvis and the Grateful Dead

by Peggy Webb

  So much for showing my card. Obviously he can’t read small print. I briefly consider seizing this opportunity to give a false name, then think better of it.

  “Callie Valentine. From Eternal Rest Funeral Home. Dick’s body is there.”

  “Too bad about Dick. Wonder who done it.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” I hope my eye is not twitching. Jack says it does when I lie. “I’m just here to see Bertha. Do you know if she’s home?”

  Mr. Miller’s apartment has a picture window that faces the parking lot and a row of smaller windows on the inside facing the entry hall. The venetian blinds are wide open and a big-screen TV blares inside. The setup is the only thing that passes for security in Magnolia Manor. Not only does the manager see his tenants’ comings and goings, but he also can see who else enters his building, including yours truly. Unless, of course, they use the back door.

  Even if I weren’t such a keen observer, I’d know all this because of Jack.

  “Don’t reckon she is,” Mr. Two-steps-away-from-prison says. “She’s gone.”

  “Gone?” As in dead or visiting? I’m afraid to ask.

  “Yeah. Moved out without notice. If I hadn’t seen the moving van at the back door, I wouldn’t have knowed a thing about it.”

  “When was this?”

  “About eighty thirty this morning. Saw it just as it was pulling out.”

  “Do you know where she’s moving?”

  “If I did I’d serve her with papers. She owes two weeks’ rent.”

  I guess killing and stealing go together.

  “Which moving company?”

  He names one on the south side of town while I get up enough courage to ask him if he’s kin to Thaxton Miller. It’s a long shot, but who knows? It might be the best lead I have.

  “Listen, lady, if I was kin to this Thaxton feller, I wouldn’t admit it. Any man with a name that wimpy ain’t got no business being a Miller.”

  Do you thank somebody for that kind of information, or what? While I’m trying to decide, he slams the door in my face. So much for manners.

  I head to my Dodge Ram and call Lovie.

  I don’t make any apologies, either. Some things are worth interrupting personal business over, and murder is one of them.

  “Is Rocky still there?”

  Lovie says a word she didn’t learn in Sunday school. Obviously the whole Calgon/bubbles/seduction plan didn’t go well.

  “He said he had to go back to the motel to take care of some details for his dig.” She couldn’t sound more scathing if fire were shooting from her nostrils. Knowing Lovie, maybe it is.

  “He probably did exactly what he said. It must take lots of organization for an archaeological trip that will last months. For goodness’ sake, Lovie. He sent roses.”

  “Who are you now? Rocky’s PR person?”

  Ordinarily I’d say Sarcasm doesn’t become you, but I can smell hurt all over the place, and I’m not about to add to her feeling of rejection.

  “No, I’m your favorite cousin who is trying to prove you didn’t kill the impersonators.” I bring Lovie up to date on the poison and the escaped lovers. “You’ve got to help me find them before she kills him.”

  “I can’t find Rocky’s libido. How do you expect me to find Bertha and Thaxton?”

  “I’m coming to get you. Be ready in ten minutes.”

  “In disguise?”

  That’s one thing I love best about Lovie, her ability to bound right back.

  “No. Just put on something besides bubbles. And be ready for bribery.”

  I gun the engine and hightail it out of Magnolia Manor. Bertha has a huge head start. We don’t have any time to lose.

  Elvis’ Opinion #8 on Foreign Languages, Freedom, and Illegitimate Dogs

  Ruby Nell never pays the least bit of attention to what Callie tells her, which is all right with me. I like hanging out at Everlasting Monuments. People don’t pop off like flies in Mooreville, so the pace is slow and lazy around here.

  Even dogs live longer (the clean air and laid-back lifestyle, I guess), which suits my purposes fine. I have a big agenda, like seeing all the Valentines settled down and happy. I don’t want to be hampered by having to give up my sassy basset suit and come back as something else. What if I came back as a cow? Of course, knowing my resourcefulness, I’d figure some way to get right into the middle of Valentine business, even if it meant learning to moo six bars of “Love Me Tender.”

  Ruby Nell’s inside polishing her toenails purple and watching Days of Our Lives. She’s partial to soaps and keeps the nineteen-inch TV in her office blaring at all times, even when customers are here. They’re so distraught they don’t notice, anyhow, and I’ve never seen a woman multitask the way Ruby Nell Valentine can. I’m probably the only one who notices she can follow every line of a soap saga while inventing creative tombstone slogans like Martha baked her way to Glory and is preparing a big banquet in the sky.

  Did I say she’s also studying an Italian/English dictionary? She’s gotten wind of Callie and Lovie’s trip to Italy next summer, and she’s not planning on being left behind.

  Ditto for me, but I don’t need to learn a foreign language. All I have to do is look cute and howl one of my gold hits, and I can get by in any country no matter what the natives speak.

  Right now I’m sitting on the screened-in porch Ruby Nell built on the back of Everlasting Monuments so she and Fayrene can loaf and enjoy iced tea laced with whatever they’re in the mood for. Usually it’s lemon, but sometimes it’s something stronger that would give Callie nightmares if she knew.

  I’ll never tell. Ruby Nell covers my back and I cover hers. She never even latches the screen on this porch because she knows dogs, like women, need their freedom.

  Well, bless’a my soul. What’s that over yonder behind the video store? A stray, looks like. If I don’t take care of this matter, Callie will have that mutt scooped up and sitting in my yard on a satin pillow. Her strays are driving me to howl “You’re the Devil in Disguise.” Not to mention they’re gobbling my chow and making moves on my guitar-shaped pillow.

  I clump down the back steps, a heroic canine who’s not about to let a little thing like a bandage and a few narcotics stop me. I give a warning growl, which usually sends the lower class running. Not this time, in spite of the fact I’ve got warrior blood coursing through my veins from Morning Dove White (the King’s great-great-great-grandmother). Of course, I’m so peaceable by nature I think my Cherokee heritage translated mostly as good looks.

  It looks like I’m going to have to grit my teeth and drag all the way across the yard.

  I’m only halfway there when the stray takes matters into his own hands and prances my way. Correct that. Hers. The doc’s drugs have done a number on my eyesight.

  Turns out the intruder is none other than my French cutie, Ann-Margret. She greets me with a haughty look and turns her back with a dismissive switch of her shapely tail.

  Well, bless’a my soul. She’s all knocked up and not the least bit interested in sneaking off for a good time.

  Let me tell you, there’s nothing like being faced with parenthood to make a smart dog stop and think. Listen, there are enough illegitimate dogs in this world. I, for one, do not intend to add to that problem.

  Besides, I kind of like the idea of a mixed-breed puppy with Ann-Margret’s looks and my talent and valor.

  Putting on my best grin, I sashay over to my little Frenchie and ask What’s cooking, baby?

  Wrong question. She snaps at me like I stole her Pup-Peroni. Faced with female wrath, I do what any red-blooded American dog would do: I get down on my knees and beg.

  I croon a few bars of “Help Me Make It through the Night,” and I’m not the least bit ashamed of borrowing a song from Kris Kristofferson. This is the love of my life and it’s marriage I’m talking here. And thanking my lucky stars doggie matrimony doesn’t involve all that silly business with tuxedos and stale wedding cake and legal docum
ents that don’t mean a fart in a whirlwind.

  Ann-Margret becomes putty in my paws. What did you expect? When I walked on two legs and had sideburns, women threw their thongs at me.

  My little Frenchie seals the deal with a chaste nuzzle to my heroic chest. However, she declines to share my pillow, preferring instead to maintain separate residences and see each other when it’s convenient—her delicate way of saying when the heat’s on and she’s in the mood. I’m fine with that, as long as every other dog in the neighborhood knows to keep his paws off.

  Ann-Margret trots her cute butt home and I mosey on back to the porch. I’m just getting comfortable, weaving in and out of rabbit-chasing dreams, when Charlie arrives.

  I amble back inside because I don’t want to miss this. Callie’s been wondering what’s up between these two, but I’ve been knowing all along. Unearthing secrets just took a little smart detective work and a lot of eavesdropping.

  Ruby Nell fixes Charlie a glass of iced tea with lemon and switches off her TV. He’s the only one she does that for.

  “The impersonators were poisoned,” he tells her. “Security has been beefed up around the festival.” He sips his tea and avoids looking at her. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

  “You didn’t come here to discuss the festival, Charlie.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t.”

  He sets his glass on her desk, careful to use the tile she keeps there. Give your soul a bubble bath, it says. Let me tell you, that Ruby Nell knows a thing or two about living. If more people took care of their spirits and souls instead of trying to take care of everybody else’s business, this world would be a better place.

  “It’s just dancing, Charlie.”

  “How did you know what I was going to say?”

  “Because I know you.”

  “I promised my brother on his deathbed I’d take care of you. And I intend to do it, Ruby Nell, whether you like it or not.”

  I smell Ruby Nell’s loss clear over here by the door. Her husband’s deathbed was brief, the fifteen-minute ride to the hospital from the creek where his tractor plunged in, Ruby Nell and Charlie in the ambulance with him, begging him to live. I’ve heard this story a jillion times.

  “Believe me, Charlie. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  They stare at each other, their silence so complete even a human without extraordinary ears could hear the baby Ben clock on her desk ticking. Finally, Ruby Nell picks up her polish and starts putting a coat of glitter over her purple-painted toenails.

  “I checked up on that Whitenton guy.”

  “For Pete’s sake, Charlie. Thomas is my dance partner.”

  “He’s had three wives, all of them rich.”

  “I don’t want to marry him. Just boogie with him.”

  “Interesting choice of words, Ruby Nell.”

  “Okay, then. Fox-trot, salsa, tango, rumba. Take your pick. And besides that, I asked you to be my partner.”

  “I don’t like to dance.”

  “You used to.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Everything was a long time ago.” She sets her polish aside and grabs a newspaper to fan her feet. “Did you ever wonder what our lives would be like if we’d made different choices? If I’d moved to New York after Michael died, Callie might be a famous hairdresser and I might be married.”

  “Is that what you want, Ruby Nell?”

  “I want to live, Charlie.”

  She stands up and twirls around the room. Since there’s no music, I howl a few bars of “Tennessee Waltz.”

  Nobody’s paying attention. They’re too busy with their pissing contest, Ruby Nell flaunting her daredevil independence and Charlie lobbying for caution.

  He’s a commanding man. Only somebody of Ruby Nell’s spitfire nature could defy him. When he gets out of his chair, he just stands there till he gets her attention.

  But she doesn’t capitulate. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she finishes her dance with a flirty flash of leg that flushes his cheeks, then stops right in front of his nose.

  “I’ve scheduled us to work at the T-shirt booth tonight. Will you be there, Ruby Nell?”

  “This is tango night in Pontotoc. I’ll get somebody to sub for me.” She grabs his hands. “Come with me, Charlie. Live a little. Be wild and crazy.”

  When Ruby Nell starts to cajole, it’s not easy to turn her down. Ask Callie. Ruby Nell wrote the book on charm. And for a woman her age—or any age for that matter—she’s a real looker.

  I can see Charlie’s turmoil. Somewhere inside him is still the man who could take Bourbon Street by storm, start out the night with a dollar in his pocket and end up buying drinks for everybody at Pat O’Brian’s. Of course, that was the good old days when his sap was high and the levee was holding.

  I strike up a few bars of “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” hoping Charlie will get the message. No sense in a good-looking, kindhearted man like him sitting in his apartment above Eternal Rest reading Shakespeare when he could be out having some fun.

  Much as I admire and love him, I’ll have to side with Ruby Nell this time. If you can’t loosen up and live a little, what’s the use of living at all?

  Charlie just grabs his hat and walks out.

  Looks like I’ve got more work cut out for me than I thought.

  Chapter 15

  Bribery, Cute Shoes, and Dark and Deadly Strangers

  Lovie is waiting for me on her front porch, carrying a cake and wearing a skirt so short there’s a bare inch between imagination and the real thing. She’s also wearing a pair of sling black Kate Spade heels I’d envy if I weren’t above it. At least with my cousin.

  “Where are your boots, Lovie?”

  Instead of answering, she settles into the passenger seat. “Gun it, Callie. Let’s get out of this neighborhood.” She proceeds to stick her foot over on my side of the truck toward the accelerator.

  “For Pete’s sake.” I whack her with the only weapon handy, a half-eaten box of Cracker Jack. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing. As you well know.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  “No, it’s not. Rocky and I have been dating long enough to move to the next level. Something must be wrong. I’ve never met a man I couldn’t seduce.”

  “And how many of those men ever sent you roses? Or flew all the way across the country just to sit on the sofa and hold your hand? Or bothered to stick around long enough to find out you’re worthy of more than a roll in the hay?”

  She’s quiet—thinking it over, I hope, or else admiring the view of her quaint neighborhood. Several years ago it was going to rack and ruin, but new owners came in and started an aggressive campaign of gentrification. Now the neighborhood looks much the same as it did when Elvis (the King, not my dog) attended Milam School two blocks from Lovie’s house.

  “What’s the cake for?” I ask her.

  “You’ll see.”

  We cross Main Street, then head south on Church. When I pull into the parking lot of Trouble-Free Movers, I don’t have a single idea how I’m going to extract private information about Bertha.

  “Wait here,” Lovie says, then bails out.

  I’m relieved to sit back and let somebody else do the dirty work. If any more intimidating Eric Millers and mouthwatering Ricky Pates are around, let Lovie deal with them for a change. Besides, she needs something to take her mind off Rocky and his stalled libido.

  Don’t let it be dead, that’s all I ask. For Lovie’s sake, let him be a normal, red-blooded male who just happens to believe in the old-fashioned ideals of courtship and marriage.

  By the time she gets back I’ve solved all her problems (only in my mind, of course) and she’s happily married with three children. If only it were that easy to solve my own.

  Lovie climbs into my Dodge Ram, sans cake, and I ask, “Did you find out anything?”

  “Bertha’s furniture is on its way to Las Vegas.” />
  The city where Lovie mooned half its residents and we nearly got caught breaking and entering. I don’t hanker to go there again.

  “She’s probably heading that way, too,” I say. “With Thaxton.”

  “Which means if she’s going to kill him, she’ll have plenty of time before we catch up with her.”

  “Are you suggesting we trail them to Las Vegas?”

  Lovie says a word that would embarrass sailors. “Do I look like I rolled off the watermelon truck? If you think I’m fixing to haul across the desert just so I can be near another dead Elvis, you’re not as smart as I give you credit for.”

  “Bertha will have to come back sometime,” I say. “Or at least call.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ve released her husband’s body. It’s at Uncle Charlie’s and Bertha didn’t leave funeral instructions. Poor Dick.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t care what we do with him.”

  “Shoot. What a mess.”

  Now I’m going to have to tell Uncle Charlie about Bertha’s move and he’ll know I went sleuthing against his wishes. Not that he’ll get mad. Or if he does, I’ll never know it. I could probably race to the top of the Statue of Liberty and moon New York and Uncle Charlie would just say now, now, dear heart.

  Lovie and I sit in my Dodge Ram in ninety-degree heat with the motor idling and the air conditioner running on high while I try to think of a next move that will keep us on the track but out of trouble. Not an easy task.

  “How’d you get the movers to give you Bertha’s forwarding address?” I ask her.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Combine chocolate with a few seductive moves and you can get just about anything you want.” Leave it to Lovie. “If Rocky were that easy I’d be sitting in the catbird seat.”

  “Don’t give me that. If he were that easy you wouldn’t have him. Not on any permanent basis.”

  “Who says I’m thinking about permanence?”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.” Lovie fiddles with the radio till she finds a station that plays blues. “With our prime suspect gone, looks like we’re up doodoo creek without a paddle.”