Elvis and the Grateful Dead

by Peggy Webb

  “On cloud nine, as you can imagine. I wanted him to spend some time with me, but he had to get back to Pensacola.”

  Lovie and I exchange a look that says on the lam. Naturally you wouldn’t want to stick around after knocking off your competition.

  “He’s choir director at his church, you know. Such a fine boy. Last year he was voted Citizen of the Year.”

  There goes my latest theory. I don’t think choir directors will kill you, though I’ve known a few first sopranos who might disagree with me. I glance at Lovie, who looks like she’s about to say a word that will give Clytee a stroke.

  “Callie, are you sure you girls don’t want some tea? Both of you look a mite peaked.”

  “We don’t have time.” I glance at Lovie for some help.

  “No, we don’t, but it’s great tea. I had some at the festival. Could I have the recipe?”

  “Oh, it’s not mine. It’s Tewanda’s.”

  Tewanda was on that bus, too, dispensing tea like it was going out of style tomorrow. But if she put poison in the tea the first day, why didn’t all three impersonators die at one time?

  I ask if Tewanda made all the tea for the festival, but even if she did, what was her motive for killing impersonators?

  “Oh yes. She made all the tea. Her secret is fresh peaches.”

  What other secret does Tewanda have? Or was the culprit Clytee?

  Just as Clytee reaches to set her empty glass on a coaster beside her chair, a big gray Persian leaps into her lap, knocking the tea and a framed photo onto the floor.

  “Oh no,” she wails. “Elvis.”

  Elvis? What’s going on here?

  Clytee and her cat are tangled in the chair and tea is running all over the floor. I leap to rescue the glass with my handy rag while Lovie scoops up the photograph.

  Clytee dissolves into tears. “I’ll just die if anything happens to that picture. It’s the only one I have of Elvis and me.”

  Lovie turns the picture over. It’s a group of children posing on the schoolhouse steps under the caption LAWHON ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, THIRD GRADE.

  Elvis is easy to spot. Pictures of the serious looking child wearing overalls and glasses have been widely published.

  Clytee pushes the cat off her lap and leans over to point out a pigtailed girl in a checked gingham dress. “That’s me.” Her finger moves to a chubby, dark-haired girl. “And that’s Tewanda.”

  “Both of you were Elvis’ classmates at Lawhon?” I’m not surprised. She would be the right age. In fact, I vaguely recall her name being mentioned in the newspaper a couple of years ago when an enterprising reporter interviewed some of Elvis’ classmates.

  “Yes.”

  “Is Beulah Jane on here, too?”

  “No. She didn’t meet Elvis till later.”

  “When?” Lovie asks.

  “At Milam. She claims they were school sweethearts, but these days every old lady in the fan club claims to be Elvis’ girlfriend.”

  Remembering the dispute between Beulah Jane and Clytee, I don’t know what to believe. Was the argument simply over camellias or were there deeper motives? Jealousy over who had the closest relationship with Elvis?

  “The nice thing about failing memory,” Clytee adds, “is being able to invent an exciting past and really believe it.”

  She puts the cherished photograph back on the table, and I ask if she can give us a tour of her gardens before we go.

  It’s ten degrees hotter than when we first arrived, and Clytee’s long-winded tour adds to the problem. Sweat is rolling down my face, and if my clothes get any damper Clytee will see the imprint of my gun.

  I punch Lovie and she blurts out, “Do you grow poison plants?”

  Clytee moves so fast she could win the senior Olympic races. Perched in front of Lovie like a ruffled-up sparrow, she shakes her bony finger under my cousin’s nose.

  “Young lady, if you think I’d grow oleander and risk Terry’s precious children getting poisoned, you ought to be spanked. I would never do such a thing. And I can’t believe you’d accuse me.”

  “Oh no, Lovie didn’t mean to accuse you. She’s been studying herbs lately.” I invent as I talk, but Clytee is not convinced. “For her catering business, you know. She’s just trying to learn from an expert gardener. That’s all.”

  Flattery does the trick. “You’re a good girl, Callie.” Clytee smiles, but only at me, while Lovie stomps off to my truck.

  “I’m really sorry if we upset you, Clytee.”

  “That’s all right, dear.” She pats my hand. “I know you didn’t mean any harm. If your cousin really wants to know about poison plants, ask Tewanda. She’s the one who grows them.”

  I join Lovie in my Dodge and we head toward Tewanda’s house. “I don’t think Clytee’s the killer, Lovie.”

  “I think we’re wasting our time. These little old ladies are just growing flowers and trying to one-up each other about who was closer to their idol.”

  “I still say we need to check them all out.”

  “Besides, if Clytee was going to knock off her nephew’s competition, why did she pick the three worst singers?”

  Lovie should know. She was training to be a professional musician before her mother died.

  “Maybe she’s tone-deaf,” I say. “Or maybe he selected the victims for reasons we don’t know yet.”

  Lovie turns up the air-conditioning, then starts fanning with the Wildwood church bulletin I left on the seat.

  “If we’re going to catch the right person this time, it’s going to take more than sitting in some little old lady’s parlor on Sunday afternoon discussing flowers.”

  “What do you suggest? False mustaches and felt fedoras? Good grief, Lovie. Tewanda and Beulah Jane know us. They’d see right through disguises.”

  “You talk about flowers if you want to. I’m doing some real detective work.”

  Translated: snooping. I’m better at it than Lovie, but I’ll go along with her scheme. She needs something to occupy her mind besides her failure to find Rocky’s libido.

  Tewanda lives in a small pink stucco house with a circular drive in east Tupelo, not far from Elvis’ birthplace. As I enter the drive from the east side, Tewanda roars out the west.

  I watch her Honda Civic disappear in the direction of Barnes Crossing Mall. “Clytee called to tell her about our visit.”

  “Who made you Houdini?” Lovie’s not in a good mood (with cause, I’ll grant you). I have reasons to be surly, too (both of them male), but I pride myself on holding up under pressure.

  “Clytee was in Reed’s Bookstore the day you asked about poison plants, and somebody put the threatening note on my pickup that day. If Clytee didn’t do it, she spread the word to Tewanda and Beulah Jane, and one of them did. It’s obvious, Lovie.”

  “Well, get the lead out and let’s get this over with.”

  Lovie always talks about my driving. I’d make a remark she wouldn’t like, but it’s Sunday.

  As we head toward Beulah Jane’s I have a strong feeling she won’t be home, either, and it turns out I’m right. Breaking and entering is not an option because it’s broad daylight and people are sitting on their front porches hoping to see something worth talking about.

  Stymied, we head to Eternal Rest to see what Mama and Uncle Charlie are up to.

  In his case, reading, and in Mama’s, no good.

  While Lovie’s in the office talking to Uncle Charlie, I head to the kitchen and find Mama in a huddle with Bobby Huckabee.

  “Mama, did I hear you mention a séance at Fayrene’s?”

  She and Bobby jump like the guilty. “How do I know what you heard?” she says. “I’m no mind reader.”

  “But I am.”

  “Hush, Bobby.” Mama gets up and pours me a glass of Prohibition Punch, the Valentine family remedy for everything from a broken heart to a broken fingernail. “You look like you could use this. Sit down.” She motions me to a chair. “How’s Jack? I talked to him and he
didn’t sound too perky.”

  Naturally they talked. They have a mutual admiration society. Where he’s concerned, Mama seizes every opportunity to meddle.

  Ignoring her question, I sit at the table, grateful the punch has plenty of vodka. No sooner am I in my chair than Bobby says, “I see danger from a dark-eyed stranger.”

  “Not now, Bobby.” Mama pats my hand. “Now tell me what’s going on with you and that sweet man.”

  “Mama, I can think of many ways to describe Jack Jones, but sweet is not one of them.” I take a fortifying sip of punch. “Has anybody heard from Bertha?”

  “No. The law is still looking for her.”

  “What’s Uncle Charlie going to do with poor old dead Dick?”

  “You’ll have to ask Charlie.”

  “Mama, whatever’s eating you two, I wish you’d fix it.”

  “Have some more punch.” She refills my cup and quite frankly, I’m glad to let her. Lovie can drive. When I get home I plan to do nothing but curl up on the sofa with Elvis and take a nap.

  My phone rings and I answer it out of pure habit. When I hear a male “hello” I wish I’d checked the caller ID first. Today I don’t need one more added complication.

  “Elvis is lonely,” Jack says.

  “What are you doing in my house?”

  “I’m taking him for a while.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say, but he has already hung up. I reach for another cup of Prohibition comfort.

  Lovie joins us in the kitchen and pours herself a cup.

  “Just drink one, Lovie. I’m on my third. You’re driving.”

  “In that case.” She fills a plastic pitcher of punch. “We’ll go by my house for clothes. I’m staying with you tonight.”

  “It works for me.”

  I don’t want to be alone, either. In addition to kidnapping my dog, Jack’s probably planning to waylay me tonight, and I’m fresh out of willpower.

  Leaving Uncle Charlie holed up in his apartments above the funeral home and Mama holed up in the kitchen with Bobby Huckabee, we step into the parking lot and a blast of heat. I’m just getting ready to ask Lovie if she knows what Mama and Bobby are plotting when she says, “What’s that on your windshield?”

  It’s another note. I pluck it off and she reads it aloud, “‘I hear you’re been snooping again. Stay out of my business.’ What the devil?”

  “Not the devil, Lovie. The killer.”

  “It must be Clytee.”

  “Or she’s perfectly innocent and it’s one of the cronies she called.” I fold the note and stick it in my purse.

  “Maybe Bertha doubled back.” Lovie swivels around looking for trouble, and I do, too.

  If one of the three geriatrics fan club officers or Bertha Gerard is back there, I’m pulling out my gun, and I don’t much care what I hit as long as I draw blood.

  “Let’s go, Lovie.”

  She pulls out of the parking lot and I settle into the passenger side. But I have the eerie feeling somebody is watching.

  Elvis’ Opinion #11 on Motorcycles, Séances, and Courtship

  Jack knows what a dog likes, but he doesn’t have a clue about a woman. When I spot him coming up the sidewalk with a wad of wilted wildflowers, I figure he needs some serious counseling on courtship. It’ll be up to me.

  “Hey, boy,” he says, then goes straight to the kitchen and sticks his floral mistake in a Mason jar.

  I howl a few lines of “Red Roses for a Blue Lady” (not one of my hits, but it fits the occasion). Jack bends down and scratches my ears.

  “You’re not feeling good, are you, boy?”

  I’d chalk my human daddy off as hopeless in the romance department if I didn’t know from some serious voyeurism (listen, I’m not perfect) that he’s hot in the sack.

  He calls Callie to say he’s taking me (another major mistake for a man hoping to win points) and we head off toward Gas, Grits, and Guts.

  Free at last. With the wind blowing my ears back I feel like anything is possible. Even a little visit to my own ladylove. If I can catch Jack in the right mood (meaning when he’s not mooning over how to win Callie back now that another man is in the picture), maybe I can talk him into a little side trip to see my knocked-up Frenchie and I won’t have to fool with getting that silly spaniel to do my dirty work.

  Jack helps me off his bad boy’s Harley and I sashay into Gas, Grits, and Guts expecting a round of applause from my local admirers and a little smackeral of something good from Jarvetis.

  Well, bless’a my soul, what’s this I hear? A public debate (to put a polite spin on it) between Mooreville’s answer to Lucy and Desi over Bobby Huckabee. And they don’t stop when they see us coming, either.

  Jarvetis is saying, “Fayrene, for the last time, I will not allow you to expand the break room in my store so Bobby Huckabee can hold séances.”

  Little does he know—she and Ruby Nell have already drawn up the plans, and Fayrene’s already hired a contractor.

  “Whose store did you say?” Fayrene owns fifty-one percent of this establishment, a fine point that’s landed her hapless spouse into some serious trouble and deprived me of my treat. Jarvetis has more on his mind today than pickled pigs’ lips.

  “It’s not enough that you and Ruby Nell go all over the country flashing your skirts.”

  “It’s called dancing, Jarvetis, and I asked you to go.”

  “This is the last straw. I’m not ruining the reputation of Gas, Grits, and Guts with devil worshipers.”

  He stomps to the coffeepot and she flounces to the back room. I’m surprised she let that devil worship remark pass.

  If I don’t do something fast, Jarvetis is going to be on the next train to Memphis taking my snacks and my pal Trey, to boot. Besides that, if Gas, Grits, and Guts shuts down, Mooreville’s entire social structure will collapse.

  But not to worry. I have a plan.

  While Jack’s over by the canned goods ignoring the proprietors and trying to figure out whether to have Sweet Sue chicken and dumplings or sardines for supper, I mosey out the door and around back where my old pal Trey is lolling under the oak tree enjoying a ham bone. Fresh, from the smell of it.

  I lean casually against the kennel fence. Mooreville society is not fixing to collapse while I’m in charge.

  “Get your redbony self over here, Trey. We’ve got some important business to discuss.”

  Chapter 21

  Red Roses, Wilted Daisies, and Jealous Lovers

  I’m still feeling jumpy when we get to Lovie’s, so I follow her around the house while she throws her stuff into an overnight bag.

  You’d never call her a neatnik. Her clothes are scattered all over the house.

  So are the roses from Rocky. I try not to think about that, about Lovie having a sweet man but acting like she doesn’t because his old-fashioned ideals clash with her need to feel loved. When it comes to love, she has a fast food mentality (wanting everything instantly). I’ve told her so, but I’m afraid she doesn’t hear.

  Both of us need some getaway time on the farm. Maybe we’ll do that tonight.

  “Lovie, have you heard Mama planning a séance?”

  “No, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Aunt Ruby Nell’s wanted to get in touch with Uncle Michael ever since he died.”

  Why didn’t I know that? And once Mama sets her mind, there’s no stopping her.

  “Good grief, the next thing I know, Mama will be going on television.”

  “What’s so bad about that? If things don’t heat up with Rocky soon, I may have to take out my frustration on the microwaves.”

  “Airwaves, Lovie. You sound like Fayrene.”

  “No, I meant what I said. I have a new recipe for micro-waved fudge brownies.”

  She goes into her big kitchen with the shiny green tiles and copper pots. It smells of the wonderful herbs drying on a rack, fresh chocolate from her latest creation, and the cinnamon-scented orchid blooming on her windowsill. I want to sit down in here and
not move for about three hours. I don’t want to meditate, think, listen to music, or even dream. I just want to get into a Zen-like state of being.

  She’s buried in the pantry rattling cans and bottles.

  “What are you doing, Lovie?”

  “Getting snacks. You never have any.” True, which explains my skinny backside. “I thought we’d go down to the farm tonight.”

  Sometimes she reads my mind. I believe in mental telepathy one hundred percent. But don’t let that fool you into thinking I want Mama trying to contact Daddy just because she thinks Bobby Huckabee’s blue eye really is psychic.

  “If you can bring me back in the morning, I’ll just leave my van here and we’ll take your truck.”

  “Fine.” Unless anybody has a big emergency like a wedding or a funeral, I close my beauty shop on Mondays.

  Lovie’s packed enough to withstand the Civil War siege of Vicksburg and we finally head out the door. While she’s locking up, a little car roars out from the curb a block down the street, and I strain my eyes to see the driver. The car is not a Honda Civic, so it can’t be Tewanda.

  “Lovie, did you notice what kind of car Clytee drives.”

  “Buick. Why?” She heads toward my Dodge Ram and I follow so close I step on her heels. She says a word and turns around. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Somebody’s following us.”

  “If anybody messes with me today they’d better be prepared to lose body parts.”

  Maybe I ought to give Lovie the gun. We climb into the Dodge and head to Mooreville. Armored with bad attitude, she keeps her eye on the road, but I look over my shoulder all the way home.

  When we get to my house I make Lovie go in with me and get a flashlight so we can search all around the grounds. Ordinarily Elvis would be home to keep intruders away, but we all know where he is now. With the enemy.

  Okay, so that’s not quite fair. Jack is not the enemy, just the man who wants custody of my dog. And who won’t give me a divorce. And who pops out of nowhere when I find a man who could take his place.