Elvis and the Grateful Dead

by Peggy Webb

  Six are laid out under the warming lamp. When the vendor reaches for them, Lovie says, “No. I want fresh. And I want to see them cooking.”

  There’s a tense, slow-motion moment when Lovie and the vendor stare at each other like cowboys daring to see who will draw his six-shooter first. Finally, the vendor shrugs, opens a fresh package of hot dogs, and starts cooking.

  I never doubted that Lovie would win.

  There’s still a commotion going on by the stage. I’m torn between craning my neck to find out what’s happening and keeping an eye on the food to make sure nobody slips in some exotic poison. Since the crowd by the stage is not growing larger and the screaming has stopped, I opt for vendor surveillance.

  When somebody touches me on the shoulder from behind, I nearly jump out of my skin.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Holy cow! It’s Champ, all golden and freshly scrubbed. If you want to know the truth, he’s a hunk. Wouldn’t you know my tail’s dragging and my shoes are dusty? Thank goodness they’re cute. The only thing that would make me feel better is a little spritz of Jungle Gardenia on my pulse points. Just in case.

  Lovie turns around and I tell her, “You remember Dr. Luke Champion?”

  When her right eyebrow shoots up, I brace myself for one of her ribald comments, but all she says is, “Of course. I’m Lovie Valentine. I brought Callie’s dog to see you earlier in the summer.”

  “I remember. Is it thanks to you I have a new patient?”

  “Yes.” The vendor passes Lovie’s order across the counter and she tells Champ, “We’re having corn dogs. Join us.”

  She offers one to him, then nudges me in the ribs, which means here’s your chance, grab it, though how I’m going to seize opportunity, catch a killer, worry over Mama’s secret boyfriend, and hide the fact that I’m wearing a gun all at the same time is beyond me. Still, chaos is no reason to let manners slip.

  “By all means, if you don’t have other plans, please join us. Lovie’s friend Rocky will be back soon.”

  “Thanks.” When Champ accepts the corn dog I get goose bumps, which I take as a sign. Of what, I don’t know. It could be good or bad, but the way I feel standing next to him, I’m betting it’s good.

  “Actually,” he says, smiling straight at me, “I was hoping to find you here.”

  In spite of circumstances, I get warm and fuzzy. Of course, I felt the same way when Jack first took notice of me. Well, maybe not warm and fuzzy. More like a Fourth of July fireworks explosion.

  I believe in fate. The universe put Champ in my path for a purpose. I’m standing here smiling, trying to figure out if the purpose is what I want it to be (you don’t even have to ask). At the same time, I’m trying to figure out how Lovie and I can carry out our plans without alarming two stalwart men, when she lets out a yell.

  “Look! Here comes Rocky.”

  He’s easy to spot because he towers above the crowd. I can’t guess what happened by studying his face because he’s wearing the inscrutable look that once made us think he wanted to kill us (back during the Bubbles Caper).

  Judging by the way he’s hurrying, he has either caught a killer or can’t wait to get back to Lovie. I’m hoping for both.

  Chapter 18

  Winners, Losers, and Vanishing Bertha

  Lovie grabs Rocky’s arm. “Has somebody been killed? What happened?”

  Champ goes into hero mode, putting his arm around me and turning so I’m nearest the vendor and he’s the one buffeted by the crowd. Obviously he has followed the news about the Elvis murders, but I’ll bet he had no idea he’d end up in the middle of it.

  “Nobody’s dead,” Rocky says. “It was a purse snatching. The police nabbed a teenaged girl.”

  “I’d have sworn it was Bertha.” Lovie passes two hot dogs to him.

  “I don’t think she’d come back here.” Champ speaks with a quiet authority that commands attention. “Cody Lacey said Bertha was wanted for questioning in the impersonator murders and that she’d skipped town.”

  As if Lovie and I don’t know. I come in a New York minute of blurting out Bertha’s headed to Las Vegas, but unless WTVA’s anchor, Cody Lacey, said that on the six o’clock news I’d be revealing more than I want on my first post-Jack date.

  Not that this is really a date. More like a trial run.

  I just hope the formidable Miss Lacey didn’t blab that I’d been spotted all over town asking about Bertha.

  “Did she interview anybody besides the police?” Imagining what the mind-boggling Eric Miller might say, I lose interest in my hot dog.

  “Yes.” I’m going to hyperventilate. When Champ says, “She did some on-site interviews of festival goers, but nobody wanted to talk about the murder,” I can breathe again.

  “What did they talk about?” I ask.

  “Who was going to win the impersonator contest. Most of them thought Thaxton Miller would win, but since he’s also missing they’re betting on Terry Matthews.”

  G. I. Elvis. Who is also a chemist. Holy cow.

  “Lovie, quick.” I grab her arm. Fortunately she has the good sense and the moxie to flash her winning smile at Champ and Rocky.

  “Would you excuse us, please,” she says. “It’s a girl thing.”

  We hustle back to the Porta Potti. I just hope the woman who called us Jezebels is not lurking somewhere nearby. Ditto, Cody Lacey with her TV camerman.

  Or my latest suspect with a vial of poison.

  The gods of women who don’t want to get caught are with us, and nobody is at the toilet. Squeezed inside, I tell Lovie, “You’ll never guess who’s a chemist.”

  “If you drag me away from Rocky and wedge me in here one more time, you won’t have to guess who’s going to be the next victim. Out with it.”

  “G. I. Elvis. The front runner.”

  “He’d know how to distill poison from plants.”

  “Exactly. Which goes back to my early theory that one of the impersonators was knocking off the competition.”

  “But what about Bertha?”

  “Shoot, Lovie. Maybe she’s slept with G. I. Elvis, too. Or maybe they don’t even know each other. Maybe he’s the real killer and she’s just a killer in bed.”

  “Move over.”

  “What?”

  “I have to pee.”

  “Again? It’s just been fifteen minutes.”

  “I had lemonade.”

  “So did I.”

  “Hush up and move before I pee on your shoes,” Lovie says, and I do. Carefully. Trying to keep the weight evenly distributed.

  “I don’t know how we’re going to stop him if he tries to kill again.” In spite of the fact that I’m packing steel, I don’t want to use it on anybody, even to defend myself. Besides, my skills are questionable.”

  “Maybe he won’t. They’ll be announcing winners in a few minutes.”

  “If you don’t get off the toilet, we’re going to miss it.”

  “If we do, remember whose bright idea this was in the first place.” Lovie reaches behind to flush.

  “How else was I going to tell you? We can’t whisper in front of Champ and Rocky. It’s not polite.”

  “Polite is not what I’m thinking about with Rocky Malone.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Lovie. Steam’s coming from your ears.”

  “Then let’s get out of here before I set the toilet afire.”

  Nobody’s waiting for us except Champ and Rocky, who are still by the corn dog stand. From the looks of things, they’re enjoying each other’s company. I can picture a future with the four of us sitting around the Thanksgiving table surrounded by little Valentine/Malone and Valentine/Champion offspring in high chairs.

  Of course, that’s assuming Jack ever gives me a divorce. And that Champ ever wants to see me again after I’ve dragged him into the center of a homicide investigation.

  Not that you’d call Lovie and me detectives. More like accidental investigators.
And unlicensed. Okay, and really, really amateur.

  I hook my arm through Champ’s while he smiles and pats my hand. It’s not over-the-moon joy to see me, but it’s a start.

  The four of us try to press toward the stage to see Mayor Getty announce the winner of the impersonator contest, but the crowd is too thick.

  I suggest we go over to the refreshment booth. “It won’t be so crowded,” I add, “and we can still hear.”

  “Great idea,” Lovie says. “We can have some of my chocolate cherry cake. If it hasn’t all been sold.”

  Frankly, I could use a chocolate stress cure. Between a new suspect popping up and Champ looking better by the minute but still falling short of Jack on the yes, yes, YES scale, I’m a bundle of frayed nerves.

  It takes a while before we can find out about the cake because the fan club’s top three officers are embroiled in a heated argument over camellias, of all things.

  “I still say they do better on the north.” Tewanda’s so mad her corkscrew curls are quivering, and Clytee’s red face says that she’s not far behind.

  “Tewanda’s right,” Clytee says. “They won’t bloom if the morning sun hits them when the dew is on.”

  Leaned back in the camp chair fanning, her huge patent leather purse at her swollen feet, Beulah Jane looks like a sweet little grandmother. But there’s nothing grandmotherly about the way she slaps her fan onto the counter and says, “That’s a bald-faced lie.”

  “Might I remind you that Tewanda and I are officers in the garden club and you are not,” Clytee says.

  The garden club. Why didn’t I think of that before? These women know their plants. Which means they know their plant poisons.

  I poke Lovie in the ribs, but she gives me this look that clearly says I’ve lost my tiny mind. She’s probably right. Why would sweet little old ladies want to knock off Elvises?

  Well, maybe they’re not so sweet, but arguing over how to grow camellias is a far cry from poisoning impersonators. Besides, they have no motive.

  All this running around in circles is giving me a headache. I rub a forefinger across my temple.

  “Are you okay?” Champ says, which means he’s very observant and not an easy man to fool. Like Jack.

  Am I doomed to repeat my past mistakes? I’d better slow down on the family Thanksgiving/high chair/baby bib thinking.

  “I’m great.”

  The officers finally notice us and look up chagrined, while I stand there with my left eye twitching. Thank goodness, Champ doesn’t know my telltale body signals of prevarication.

  “Oh, my, my,” says Clytee, while Tewanda offers us cake and Beulah Jane urges us to have some peach tea.

  I’m grateful for both, as well as the chance to step out of the flow of human traffic and catch my breath.

  Over on stage one the microphone roars and Mayor Getty says, “Testing, one, two, three.”

  Though I can’t hear her, I imagine Junie Mae’s grabbing her husband’s coattails and telling him in her loud stage whisper, “It’s working, hon.” She’s done it at so many public functions, folks around town have adopted it’s working, hon as the standard response to almost any question, including do you like the cheese grits?

  “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” The mayor is yelling into the microphone, which starts roaring again almost drowning out the drumroll and trumpet fanfare. (Listen, I know it’s over the top, but southerners enjoy drama and take every opportunity to create one.)

  “The winner of this year’s Elvis impersonator competition is…” Mayor Getty pauses, drawing out the suspense. Beulah Jane, Clytee, and Tewanda clasp hands and wait as if they expect to be raptured.

  “Terry Matthews, G. I. Elvis from Pensacola!”

  Clytee faints while Tewanda and Beulah Jane jump around squealing. When the new champion of Elvis impersonators takes the microphone and croons “America,” they burst into tears of joy.

  They don’t notice their fallen friend till Rocky lifts Clytee into a chair. Lovie squats beside him with a wet paper napkin and starts rubbing Clytee’s pale face while Champ takes her wrist to check her pulse.

  “Is she dead?” Beulah Jane’s question is matter-of-fact. I guess you get that way about death when you grow old. Or is Beulah Jane still mad at Clytee about the camellias?

  “She’s just overcome,” Tewanda says, but I’m still waiting for the official verdict, never mind that the doctor usually checks dogs and cats. “Terry Matthews is Clytee’s nephew,” she adds.

  Holy cow. G. I. Elvis just jumped to the top of my suspect list, with his aunt Clytee as an accomplice. He has knowledge of poisons, she had access to the food and drink, and they both had motive.

  “I was pulling for him,” Beulah Jane says. “He’s the spitting image of Elvis. I think the King would be pleased.”

  She pours herself a glass of peach tea, ignoring the rest of us. It’s not like her to forget her manners. Judging by her faraway look, I’d say she’s in a mild state of shock.

  Clytee’s eyelids flutter as she comes back to life.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “You had a little fainting spell.” Tewanda hands her a glass of tea. “Are you all right, hon?”

  “Terry won, didn’t he?”

  As if he heard his cue, the new King of impersonators strolls into the refreshment booth to embrace his aunt while Tewanda and Beulah Jane press around him vying for attention.

  It’s getting too crowded in here, and besides, I don’t like the vibes I’m picking up. Something is amiss; I just don’t know what it is. I glance to see if Lovie feels the bad energy, too, but she’s so engrossed in Rocky she doesn’t even notice me.

  I’d herd her back to the Porta Potti for a private discussion, but I don’t have the heart. This is Rocky’s last night in Tupelo, and unless Lovie flies to his dig in Mexico, she won’t see him for a long time. She deserves a night free of everything except the possibility of love.

  The four of us bid good-bye to G. I. Elvis and his adoring geriatric fan club, but I don’t think any of them hear us.

  As we head back into the crowd Lovie says, “I’m ready to call it a day,” and Rocky agrees with the speed of a man eager to be alone.

  I hug them both good-bye and tell Lovie, “Call me tomorrow.”

  With the festival over and Clytee’s nephew the newly crowned King, she’s not likely to strike again. Tomorrow is soon enough to find out if she has the moxie for murder.

  Elvis’ Opinion #10 on Illegal Holes, Pissants, and Love Triangles

  When I hear Jack’s Harley, I know I’m caught red-pawed. I could have fooled Callie into thinking digging a hole under the fence was all Hoyt’s idea, but my human daddy is going to take one look at my guilty mug and know I was the one who put him up to it. Furthermore, he’s going to know why.

  It takes one to know one. Jack’s a man of the world and I’m a dog-about-town. As much as I enjoy guiding Callie in her journey through life, occasionally I have to have the diversion of some good canine companionship (emphasis on good, meaning cute Frenchie and not stupid spaniel).

  As a last-ditch effort to cover my crime, I toss my marrow bone into the hole and say, “Quick, Hoyt, act like you’re burying it.” But he keeps digging so hard you’d think he was trying to find China. That silly dog has a one-track mind.

  When the Harley’s motor dies (Jack’s tucked it in the garage, I see, trying to surprise Callie) I amble over to the gazebo trying to act like I’m out for a midnight stroll in the moonlight.

  “Looks like you got into trouble without me.” Jack squats to examine my paw, and for a minute I think the sympathy vote (my bandage) is going to get me out of trouble. “You wouldn’t know anything about that hole under the fence, would you?”

  I howl a few bars of “Ain’t Misbehavin’.” Although Fats Domino could bring the house down with his rendition, I don’t make a dent in Jack.

  He gets a shovel from the garage, fills up the hole, then clea
ns the dirt off us with a water hose and a doggie towel. (My towel, thank you very much. I allow Hoyt to use it only because I’m feeling magnanimous tonight.) My human daddy marches us inside and straight to bed, then turns off the light.

  “Stay put.” Hoyt immediately starts snoring, but I open one eye as Jack heads for the bedroom door. “I mean that, Elvis. Callie will be home soon and I won’t have her worrying.”

  I don’t have to ask how he knows. Where Callie’s concerned, he has built-in radar. And if that fails, all he has to do is call Charlie. Those two are thicker than pissants at a picnic.

  As for staying put, who does he think he’s dealing with? Some cheap imitation in an ill-fitting sequined jumpsuit? I’m the real thing, and I’m not about to loll around on my doggie pillow and miss my cues and curtain calls.

  Jack heads to the front porch, but I don’t trot along behind and get caught. I lie low on my pillow, knowing that I have the advantage. Listen, my human daddy is formidable but unfortunately his ears match. What he gains in looks he misses in acute hearing.

  I hear him tromping around the Angel Garden, checking out the crime scene tape, no doubt, thinking how Callie must hate it and making plans to see that it disappears.

  If you’ve guessed that I think my human daddy walks on water, you’d be right.

  Finally the chains on the porch swing creak and I hear the soulful strains of Jack’s harmonica. He’s a good musician. I like to think it’s my influence.

  If Hoyt wouldn’t make a pest of himself, I’d wake him up to hear this. Jack’s music always matches his mood. That he chose my hit “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” instead of “Reconsider Baby,” by Lowell Fulson or “Walking the Blues” by Willie Dixon says it all.

  I’m not just King of the world, I’m king of this hill, and Hoyt might as well learn to genuflect.

  In the distance I hear the low-pitched roar of Callie’s big Hemi engine. The music stops, which means Jack hears it, too.