Elvis and the Grateful Dead

by Peggy Webb

  “Not necessarily. We were wrong about George. What if we’re on the wrong track with Bertha?”

  “I’m never on the wrong track.” Lovie licks a bit of chocolate icing off her finger. “Sometimes I need to make a little correction, that’s all.”

  “Let’s switch our focus from motive to means and see what we can find out.” I back out of the parking lot and head downtown.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Reed’s Bookstore. While we’re this close we might as well grab everything we can find on exotic poisons.”

  “The toxicologists don’t even know what kind it was, Callie.”

  “I’m not saying we can pinpoint the poison, but if we have some general idea of what it might be and where it came from, maybe we can work backward and discover who would have access.”

  “That’s a lot of big maybes,” she says.

  “I can’t just sit by while you’re accused of poisoning Elvises.”

  “Lead on, Sherlock. It’s not as if I have anything exciting to occupy me this afternoon.”

  Which means she’s not seeing Rocky. I’m not going to ask, but I do strike a little silent bargain with God that if He’ll smooth the romantic path for my cousin, I’ll clean out my closet and give my excess cute designer shoes to deserving people. But only the shoes I’ve already worn at least twice.

  At the bookstore, I try to look natural (translation: not up to something) while I browse among the books on poison. I’m standing behind the racks in a semisquat so nobody can see me over the top when Lovie brays, “Come over here and look at this book on gardening, Callie. It has a whole page about poison mushrooms.”

  She doesn’t know the meaning of discreet.

  Everybody on my side of the stacks turns to stare, including Clytee Estes. Who outranks Fayrene in the gossip department. And she’s an officer of the Tupelo Elvis Fan Club. The only thing worse would have been Jack standing there.

  I lurch upright and hurry over to Lovie. “Would you keep it down? What do you want, everybody in Tupelo on the witness stand telling how you were in the bookstore looking for books on poison?”

  “Let ’em talk. It won’t be the first time.”

  As a matter of fact, it won’t. Lovie’s a colorful character and makes no bones about it. Last Christmas she was at the center of a swirling controversy when she was tapped for the church pageant as the Virgin Mary. Fannie Jo Franks, who has been lobbying for the role all year, started the rumor Lovie got it because she went to the auditions wearing a blouse cut down to her navel. Lovie finally put an end to the rumor by saying she was typecast.

  It’s hard to spread vicious gossip when you’re laughing.

  Still, researching poisons is one bit of gossip I want to keep away from Lovie’s door.

  All of a sudden I remember the movie White Oleander where Michelle Pfeiffer’s character poisoned her lovers with the beautiful but lethal tropical flower. Maybe Lovie has a point about poison mushrooms.

  I snatch up some gardening books without even looking at the titles, add them to the stack I’ve already selected, then hustle over to checkout before I get arrested as an accomplice to murder.

  Back at Lovie’s cottage I call to check on Elvis.

  “He’s sound asleep.” Mama sounds out of breath.

  “What are you doing, Mama?”

  “Just whirling around a bit. Practicing my tango steps.”

  “By yourself?”

  “No, Elvis is here. And Thomas.”

  Bound for Mama. She knows good and well I won’t chastise her about not taking Elvis straight home to bed because she’s just dropped a bombshell.

  “He wouldn’t be the little something that came up over in Tunica, would he, Mama?”

  “I don’t recall giving you the third degree when you were dating.”

  “You’re dating?” Lovie starts laughing and I stick out my tongue. “Mama, why do you keep secrets like this? If you’re seeing somebody I have a right to know.”

  “You sound like Charlie. Act your age, Callie. Last time I looked it wasn’t eighty-five. Ta-tah.”

  Mama hangs up. I’m in the midst of calling her right back when Lovie says, “For Pete’s sake, Callie. Let Aunt Ruby Nell alone. At least somebody in this family is having fun.”

  “You don’t think she’d elope without telling me?”

  “I don’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I know Aunt Ruby Nell. If she ever walks down the aisle again, she’ll have a brass band and a parade of exotic dancing girls following her to the altar.”

  I pick up the first book on our stash from Reed’s, which just happens to be a book on gardening.

  “Do I act eighty-five, Lovie?”

  “Sometimes.” I’m going to kill her. “But mostly you’re my gorgeous, talented, young-at-heart best friend who just happens to be my cousin.”

  Okay, so I’ll let her live.

  Still stewing about Mama, I flip through the gardening book without expecting to see a thing. Lovie is digging through Forensics for Dummies and a box of chocolate-covered cherries.

  She pops two into her mouth and tosses two to me. I nibble the chocolate off one side, then suck out the juice, saving the cherry for last. Sometimes there’s comfort in calories.

  “According to this,” she says, “there’s no such thing as an untraceable poison. Which means we’re spinning our wheels over something the toxicologist will eventually find out.”

  I’m only half listening because I’ve stumbled over a pure gold mine. Not evidence, exactly, but a lead I would never have dreamed.

  “Eventually is the key, Lovie. While the experts are still looking, we can nab the killer. Listen to this. Plants that may cause death. Creamy poison milk vetch, death camas, mountain laurel, castor bean, common tansy, lily of the valley. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Holy cow!”

  If this list is not exotic poisons, I don’t know what is. It looks like we’re on to something.

  “Lovie, find everything you can about these plants, where they’re grown, how they kill, where you’d get their poison oils, and so forth.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I have to go to Eternal Rest and fix up poor dead Dick. Call me when you find out anything that stands out.”

  “I’m not speaking to you again if you don’t stop calling him poor dead Dick.”

  “Listen, Lovie. I don’t think Rocky’s you know what is dead. I just think he’s saving it.”

  “For what? The second coming?” Trust Lovie to tangle up sex and religion. And who knows? Maybe they ought to be. There were times when sex with Jack was a religious experience. Sometimes I’d think if this is not the closest thing to experiencing the wonder of the universe, I don’t know what is.

  Let me get out of here before I get converted to hedonism or something. Lovie’s pink house tends to do that to me, work some kind of voodoo magic. Frankly, I don’t see how Rocky can come here and resist.

  Uncle Charlie is not at the funeral home. “Gone fishing,” Bobby Huckabee tells me. I’m glad. This lets me off the hook about telling him Bertha’s whereabouts and gives Uncle Charlie a chance to relax. It also gives me an opportunity to get to know his assistant better.

  Bobby is painfully homely and shy, especially with me, but he’s very good at his job. Otherwise, Uncle Charlie would never have hired him, let alone left him in charge of Eternal Rest.

  “The body’s downstairs,” he says, then scoots back about four feet and stands there jiggling his left leg. This is the equivalent of a schoolboy shuffling his feet, bursting with something else to say but uncertain whether to blurt it out or run.

  “Was there something else, Bobby?”

  “Well, I thought I’d go down to keep you company. If that’s all right with you. I don’t want to impose.”

  “I’m always glad to have company. My clients at Eternal Rest aren’t exactly a barrel of laughs.”

  His messy
guffaw is all out of proportion to my joke. Poor Bobby. Trying too hard to please.

  I put my arm through his and let him escort me down the stairs. I’m determined to do everything I can to put him at ease.

  “It’s wonderful to have you here, Bobby. After you get to know us better, I hope you’ll think of us as family.”

  “Oh, I already do with your mama.”

  See, that’s the reason Mama can get away with so much. She’s so charming nobody can resist her. Correct that. She’s charming when she wants to be.

  “Most folks don’t take to me right away on account of my psychic eye, but Ruby Nell says it’s one of my biggest assets.”

  Psychic eye? Bobby turns to show me the other side of his face.

  “It’s this blue one. It lets me see things.”

  Maybe he can see who murdered the impersonators. As nervous as he is, I don’t want to scare him away. I’ll have to broach that subject gradually.

  Soft pink light spills from the wall sconces with their shell-shaped shades. The dead deserve respect and Uncle Charlie has made sure this room is as uplifting and beautiful as possible.

  While I open my makeup kit, Bobby plops onto the end of the sofa where Uncle Charlie usually sits.

  When I start with Dick I can’t get the image out of my head of him slumped on my patio with his swivel permanently stilled. This is my first murder victim to prepare for the great heareafter, and let me tell you, there’s a big difference between working on a corpse who died peacefully and one who was murdered. It seems to me Dick’s spirit is not resting easy. It’s almost like he’s vibrating under my touch, trying to rise up and tell me something. Probably who killed him.

  I’m grateful Bobby’s in the room.

  Out of the blue he says, “I see wheels on the horizon.”

  “What?”

  I glance over and he’s sitting so straight and still he looks like a cardboard imitation of himself. The way he’s staring into the distance is eerie, and I whirl around to look behind my back, half expecting to see somebody there. Carrying a butcher knife.

  Or a flacon of poison.

  “Wheels. For you. A new sports car. Red.” He rolls his blue eye, but not the green. How does he do that? “I see travel, lots of events, picnics, and weddings, you’ll be attending weddings.”

  I rethink my decision to involve Bobby in the murder case. There’s no way I’m trading my big Dodge pickup for a car that’s low slung and wimpy, one that doesn’t have the muscle to say I’m bad to the bone, back off. As for travel and social events, that could be part of anybody’s future.

  “Wait!” Suddenly Bobby turns his blue eye on me, and it’s like being hit by a blast of air-conditioning. I wrap my arms around myself to keep from shivering.

  “I’m getting something.” His voice is low and urgent. Between Bobby and Dick I’m wondering who turned this tranquil mostly pink room I love into a spook house.

  “Something big,” he says, and I just hope it’s not Jack. Which goes to show the alarming turns a woman’s mind will take when she’s still halfway over the moon with her almost-ex.

  “There’s danger all around you,” Bobby says.

  I’m about to be spooked.

  “Danger from a dark-eyed stranger.”

  Wait a minute. Right after Bobby came here, didn’t I hear Mama and Fayrene discussing something about danger from a dark-eyed stranger?

  Since the killer is focusing on impersonators, the only danger I’m likely to be in is from Elvis, who will get mad and do no telling what when I leave him home this evening while I go to the festival finale.

  I don’t care what Mama thinks. As far as I’m concerned, if Bobby Huckabee wants to be part of the Valentine family, he’s going to have to curb his enthusiasm for predicting the future.

  I finish Dick as quickly as I can. Fortunately Bobby has seen all he’s going to and sits on the sofa without saying another word until I’m ready to leave.

  “Be careful,” is all he says, and I tell him I will.

  It will be a relief to get into my truck and go home.

  Something’s flapping on my windshield. It can’t be a parking ticket. I’m on the Eternal Rest lot.

  I pluck the note off and unfold it.

  Keep your nose out of my business or you could be next, signed with a shaky drawing of skull and crossbones.

  I let out a little yelp, but stop myself before it becomes a full-fledged scream. I’m trying to turn myself into a woman to be reckoned with.

  Tucking the note into my pocket, I resolve to rethink my opinion about Bobby and his ominous predictions. As I head home I look every which way for a dark-eyed stranger, or at least somebody with a suspicious look and a beef against me. I don’t cotton to the idea of being the Elvis Festival killer’s next victim.

  Even if I wouldn’t be caught dead in a sequined jumpsuit. No pun intended.

  Chapter 16

  Boogie, Bad Karma, and Hot Bodies

  As much as I’d love to go home and sink into a hot bubble bath, I head straight to Everlasting Monuments to rescue my dog. Wouldn’t you know? Mama has stuck a CLOSED sign on the door, and it’s not even closing time.

  Fortunately, she doesn’t have to keep regular hours. She has made the monument company so popular that people are willing to wait just so they can honor their dearly departed with a headstone from Ruby Nell Valentine. Of course, she sells great-quality stone—pink marble from Italy and black from Africa as well as the traditional gray granite.

  But it’s those crazy carvings that draw the crowd. Woody’s gone to the Eternal Dairy Barn to take care of the Master’s cows and Pete’s still growing prize tomatoes at that great Farmers’ Market in the sky.

  Mama’s sayings give the bereaved something to latch on to. I can imagine them going home and saying to each other, “Herbert, I feel better knowing Daddy’s still growing tomatoes,” and Herbert replying, “Yep, Izzy Mae. If Ms. Valentine carves it in stone, it has to be true.”

  Mama’s car’s not here, but I rattle the knob and bang on the door just in case she and Fayrene are carpooling. They do that sometimes when they have plans for the evening, pick each other up way in advance, drop one car off, then take care of business till it’s time to leave for their latest entertainment.

  My racket brings Alice Ann Street, who owns the video store next door. She prides herself on knowing the movie tastes of every one of her customers and being on hand to personally make recommendations.

  “Your mama’s not here, Callie.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  That would be a crazy question to ask in Boston or Berkeley, but in Mooreville everybody knows everybody else’s business. Which is a good thing if you’re sick with flu and the neighbors are waiting in your front yard with chicken soup by the time you get home from the doctor. On the other hand, it can be aggravating if you don’t want anybody to know your almost-ex is still keeping your body hot. Not to mention your bed.

  “A little while ago she went tearing off toward Gas, Grits, and Guts.”

  “Elvis was with her, I assume.” I hope.

  Alice Ann tells me he was, and I tear off in that direction myself. If anything else goes amiss today, I’m likely to pack my clothes and spend the night in Reed’s shoe department. There’s nothing like the smell of expensive leather to perk me up.

  I park my Dodge Ram in front right by Mama’s telltale red convertible and hurry inside. Jarvetis is behind the counter looking grim. Well, no wonder, after that stunt Mama and Fayrene pulled over in Tunica. I buy a bag of chips and a Coke, then stand there asking what he thinks about Mississippi State’s baseball team, hoping that will cheer him up. The only thing Jarvetis Johnson likes better than the Bulldog baseball team is his redbone hound, Trey.

  “Lately, I haven’t had time to keep up with anything except Fayrene.”

  Jarvetis has said this before, but always with a wink and a grin. I hate to think Mama is partially the cause of this unhappy turn of ev
ents. Still, I don’t want anybody blaming her.

  Except me, of course.

  “Is Mama in the break room?”

  He nods toward the back and I head that way. I don’t know what I expected, probably the jingle of quarters and the shuffling of cards. Certainly not Mama and Fayrene bent over a piece of paper with their heads together, whispering. And most certainly not them jumping when they see me, then rolling up the paper like it’s a treasure map I’ve come to steal.

  I don’t even want to know what they’re plotting now. Well, I do, but after the kind of day I’ve had I don’t think I can stand any more nasty surprises. And if they’re whispering so Jarvetis won’t hear, the surprise is bound to be unpleasant.

  They greet me like I’m a long-lost favorite relative. Confirmation they’re planning trouble.

  “I guess you’ve come to get your dog,” Mama says.

  If she turns the wattage of her smile up one more notch, she’s going to light up Mooreville. Meanwhile, Elvis knocks the paper out of Fayrene’s hand and she jerks it up and stuffs it in a cookie jar as if I don’t have good eyesight and good sense, to boot.

  Ordinarily I’d scold Elvis, but today I’m more concerned about his health than his manners. I scoop him up and check him out. He seems all right. His bandage hasn’t been gnawed off and he’s not addled. I can breathe a bit now.

  I turn my attention toward my latest problem. “Is everything all right, Mama?”

  “If things were any better I’d be turning cartwheels.”

  This could mean she and Uncle Charlie have patched up their differences or it could mean Mama’s putting on a show so I won’t worry. She’s good at that. When I was growing up, I never knew when she cried about losing Daddy or trying to learn how to run a business, or that she worried I’d turn out wrong because I didn’t have a father. It was only after I married and was furious at what I considered Mama’s meddling that Jack told me those things.

  “She just wants the best for you,” he’d said.