Elvis and the Grateful Dead (2 page)

Lovie strolls up wearing a big grin. “What’s the one-woman hostility committee up to now?”

“Herding the tribute artists to the bus.”

Lovie consults her watch. “We have fifteen minutes. What’s her hurry?”

“Never mind. Let her enjoy being in charge. Tell me about Rocky.”

“He’s coming to Tupelo.”

“When?”

“In a few days. He’s flying with a friend in a private plane.”

“That’s good news, Lovie.”

“
Good
, my foot. You can hear my vagina shouting hallelujah all the way to the state line.”

Now,
that’s
the Lovie I know and adore. I link my arm through hers and we head to the bus.

Beulah Jane is standing up front, her lips moving as she counts heads.

“We seem to be one Elvis short,” she tells me.

“Who’s missing?” As I scan the crowd, it doesn’t take me long to realize our missing impersonator is the waiter from Huntsville. “Has anybody seen Brian?”

Eli, the lone female artist, stands up at the back. “I saw him in the chapel about five minutes ago.”

“Everybody stay put. Lovie and I will check.”

Even if Brian is not in the chapel, he can’t be far. The Birthplace is very small with all the buildings clustered in an area little more than a city block. Grabbing Elvis, we trudge across the parking lot, past the gift shop, and up the hill toward the small ’seventies-style chapel. I don’t dare leave him unattended on the same bus with Beulah Jane.

“Listen, Lovie. Is that music?”

“If that’s music, I’m a hot buttered biscuit.”

Elvis, who obviously agrees with Lovie, heists his leg on a native hibiscus bush.

I recognize the flat tenor notes wafting from the chapel. It’s Brian, all right, playing the piano and wailing, “I once was lost but now am found…”

Suddenly there’s a discordant crash and “Amazing Grace” comes to a halt. I have the sick feeling you’d get if you were standing on the deck of the
Titanic
and felt it tilting under your feet.

“Hurry.” Grabbing Lovie’s arm, I half drag her and Elvis up the last stretch and through the chapel doors. It’s dim in here and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust.

Then I see our missing impersonator—slumped over the keyboard of the upright piano.

“Brian!”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. I call out again, but he’s very, very still.

Elvis’ hackles come up and he starts growling. Not a good sign.

I squeeze Lovie’s arm, and she squeezes back.

“I don’t like this, Callie.”

Neither do I. But I didn’t earn my reputation as the best hair and makeup artist in Mississippi by backing down from the hard stuff.

When I’m not making Mooreville’s glitterati look glamorous at my little beauty parlor, I’m over at Uncle Charlie’s fixing up the dead. You wouldn’t think I’d be squeamish in a situation like this. But you’d be wrong. Under Uncle Charlie’s vigilance, death is tamed, demystified, and even friendly. Beyond his watchful eye, anything could be waiting to reach out and grab you.

“Come on, Lovie.”

“You go first. I’ll be right behind you.”

With my fierce watchdog trotting beside me still rumbling deep in his throat and Lovie dragging up the rear, we inch toward the front.

The setting sun shines through the vaulted window behind the pulpit, and the bank of stained glass windows in primary colors along the east wall glows softly as our feet move in carpeted hush. In spite of the peace and beauty of these surroundings, I don’t want to find out what waits for us up front.

“Brian?”

I didn’t really expect an answer. Taking a deep breath, I touch his shoulder and he topples off the bench, landing on his knees with his face flat against the floor.

“He’s dead, Lovie.”

“Either that or he’s praying for the right notes.”

Sometimes laughter is the only reason we can keep breathing. If I could bottle Lovie’s spirit and sell it, I’d be rich.

I
call Uncle Charlie on my cell phone; then Lovie and I debate who’s going to tell the other impersonators Brian is dead and whether it’s disrespectful to the leave the body unattended.

“You be the heroine is you want to, Callie, but I’m going outside till I can get my chocolate and my bladder under control.”

“Uncle Charlie said he’d be right here. A few more minutes won’t kill anybody.” I hope. “I don’t think we ought to leave him.”

“What do you think he’s going to do? Rise up and be raptured through the ceiling?”

She streamrolls toward the door with me racing along behind her. Outside, I stand a few minutes deep-breathing. I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. If God had wanted me to deal with the seamier side of life, He’d have put me in a family of hard-nosed cops and criminal lawyers instead of one that promotes beauty (me) and vodka (Lovie) and gives the job of official funeral home greeter to a dog.

Uncle Charlie arrives hard on the heels of the coroner.

“Wait out here, dear hearts. John will take care of things inside.”

“What about the other impersonators?” Elvis is now running around me in circles while Lovie sinks to the ground and fans herself with the tail of her skirt. “They’re sitting in a hot bus wondering what happened.”

“I’ll handle things. When I get back, I’ll take you two back into town.”

As he sprints off toward the bus, I untangle my legs from the leash and sit down beside Lovie. “Are you okay?”

“I will be as soon as my stomach gets out of my throat.”

“Brian can’t be more than thirty. What do you suppose happened to him?”

“Whatever it is, Callie, it’s none of our business.”

“You’re right.” Visions of Lovie and me cramming a stiff into a freezer (a.k.a. the Bubbles Caper) are enough to make me keep my nose out of Brian Watson’s demise.

Unless, of course, Uncle Charlie needs us. After all, he’s in charge of this festival. (Well, practically.)

The coroner passes by with Brian’s covered body strapped to a gurney. Uncle Charlie stops him a few yards away to chat.

I know it’s none of my business, but I strain my ears anyway, hoping to hear what they’re saying. “Natural causes,” the coroner says, and “shipping the body back to Alabama.”

Thank goodness nobody mentions foul play.

The coroner heads toward his van and Uncle Charlie joins us.

“Looks like it was a heart attack. Poor boy. I assured the other tribute artists the festival would not be canceled.”

Which means the wine and cheese party I’m having tonight at my house in Mooreville will go on as planned. All the impersonators will be there as well as the fan club officers, the Elvis Committee members, Tupelo’s mayor, Robert Earl Getty, and his wife, Junie Mae, the city council, and the bigwigs.

Not that I’m in a party mood, but it could be just the thing to take Lovie’s mind off Brian’s death. She’s the best caterer in Mississippi. Any time there’s a Valentine family function, she does the food. And nothing makes her feel better than being up to her elbows in grits soufflé and shrimp jambalaya.

Unless it’s sex, and I refuse to go there. About her love life or my unfortunate attraction to my almost-ex, either one.

Uncle Charlie drives us back to get our vehicles. My Dodge Ram four-by-four with the Hemi engine (my
don’t mess with me
alter ego) is parked near the historic courthouse square in the heart of downtown Tupelo.

I love this square. Daddy used to bring me here on Saturdays while Mama shopped downtown. We’d circle the hundredyear-old courthouse admiring the Civil War monument and the mysterious statue of the angel that nobody seems to know who put there. Then he’d boost me into the big magnolia tree on the northwest side of the square and stand underneath while I peered down at him through the waxy green leaves.

“I used to climb this tree, Callie. Someday your children will climb it.”

As I get into my truck and head home I put my hands flat over my stomach to assure myself my eggs are still there. Humming their little cradle song. Just waiting for the right daddy to come along.

In case you’re wondering, my white clapboard cottage in Mooreville is my dream house. It has a wraparound front porch with a beaded wood ceiling and old brick floors, porch rockers and wind chimes everywhere, a swing on the west end near the arbor spilling with Zephrine Drouhin (a French bourbon rose).

If you mentioned my house, you’d have to say it in the same breath as
southern charm.
That’s the main reason most of the Valentine family socials, as well as more than a few civic events, are held here.

The first thing I do when I get home is turn on the stereo, which is already loaded with my favorite CDs—Eric Clapton’s blues, Willie Nelson’s whiskey-voiced ballads, and Marina Raye’s haunting Native American flute. Nothing fills up space and makes a house more welcoming than music.

Elvis ambles through the doggie door and into the backyard to lord it over my collection of stray animals—seven cats and Hoyt, the little blond spaniel. I haven’t decided what to do about the cats, but I’ve decided to keep Hoyt. Hence, the name. Hoyt was one of Elvis’ backup singers. Which ought to make my opinionated basset hound happy, but seems to have done just the opposite. From the kitchen window I spy Elvis sneaking off to his favorite oak tree to bury Hoyt’s bone.

I push open the back screen door. “Elvis, give that back right this minute. You know you have plenty without stealing.”

He gives me this
look
, then drops Hoyt’s bone, huffs over to the gazebo, and plops down with his back to me. I swear, if I didn’t know better I’d say he’s been taking lessons from Mama. She wrote the book on
looks that can kill
.

“You know you’re kidding. Be a good boy and don’t torture Hoyt and the cats.”

I race upstairs to change and shower. I can’t wait to get out of these clothes. I’m sweaty from being in a tent on the hot asphalt of downtown Tupelo; plus, I feel tainted with death.
Poor Brian.

Slipping into the shower, I close my eyes and imagine the water washing my troubles down the drain. As I reach for the soap it’s plucked from my hand.

“Here. Let me do that.”

No use screaming. I know who it is before I turn around.

“Jack, need I remind you that you don’t live here anymore? Need I also remind you that breaking and entering is a crime?”

His big laugh echoes off the tiled walls. “Who’s going to scrub your back?” He starts slathering soap on me, and I swear if I could chop off his talented hands and keep only that part of him, I’d die a happy woman.

Well, maybe his talented tongue, too, but I’m not even going to think about that. If I do I’ll end up in the middle of my own bed in a compromising position.

“Leave, Jack. And for goodness’ sake, put on some clothes.”

“Not before I say good-bye.”

Suddenly his hands are everywhere and I end up on my bed, anyway. For a very long time.

What can I say? I’m not sorry. Jack may have terrible daddy potential, but he certainly excels at the preliminaries. And after all, I’m still married to him. Sort of.

Leaving me sprawled across the rumpled covers, he reaches for his pants. And I watch. I’ll admit it. If there was anybody worth watching, it’s Jack Jones—six feet of muscle and mouthwatering appeal, and every inch of him lethal.

“I’m leaving town, Callie. I’ll be gone awhile.”

“For good, I hope.”

“Is that why you’re staring?” He plants a kiss that sizzles my roots, then strolls out the door like a swashbuckling Rhett Butler who just had his way with willful Scarlett.

And I’m back at square one—in the shower scrubbing off sweat.

“I thought you’d be dressed by now.”

The soap slips out of my hand and I whirl around to face this new intrusion.

“Good grief, Mama. Don’t you ever knock?”

“The front door was wide open.”

She tosses me a towel, then makes herself at home while I towel off. I don’t know another single person who could make the toilet seat look like a throne.

“I saw Jack.” She gives me this
look
. If anybody can make you squirm, it’s Mama. She has elevated stark raving silence to an art. “I told him to stay for the party. He’s still part of the family.”

“I never heard of family who went off whenever they pleased and didn’t bother to tell you where they were going or what they were doing.” Which is one of the many reasons I separated from Jack Jones. He could be a deep-cover assassin for all I know. “You shouldn’t have invited him, Mama. It’s my house.”

“Really, Callie. Everbody knows you’re still in love with him. Why can’t you see that?”

I open the bathroom door. “Mama, do you mind? I have to pee.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Ignoring the door, she stations herself in front of my bathroom mirror and inspects her hair. “I’m thinking of going blond.”

“For goodness’ sake, Mama, you just went burnished copper.”

“I’m thinking a Marilyn Monroe–ish look would go well with my dance costumes.”

“What dance costumes?”

“Didn’t I tell you?”
Naturally not.
Mama has secrets that would make you gray overnight. I guess that’s why she’s so crazy about Jack. They’re two of a kind. “Fayrene and I have enrolled in a senior citizens’ dance class. Everybody ought to expand their horizons, including you, my dear.”

The only horizon I want to expand is to get a manicurist for Hair.Net, but that’s hard to do. Every time I get a bit ahead, somebody comes along with a sob story. Mostly Mama, who usually needs
a little breather in Tunica
(her words, not mine). But I’ll have to say that subsidizing her occasional gambling jaunts is a small price to pay for having a mother who is larger than life.

Life with Mama is never boring. And if either one of us ended up in front of a speeding train, the other would step in and take her place on the tracks.

She follows me into the bedroom trailing Hawaiian ginger perfume and hot-pink ruffles while I slip into a yellow sundress and matching Michael Kors ballerina flats. Designer shoes always perk me up, and after today’s events at the chapel, I need all the help I can get.

We head down the stairs just as Lovie breezes in with the party food and her overnight bag. (She’s spending the night with me, which is not unusual. If she’s staying late in Mooreville or I’m staying late in Tupelo, we crash at each other’s houses.)

Fayrene is right behind her. When I lift my eyebrows, Lovie winks at me.

“Fayrene said she came early to help.”

Snoop
is more like it. Fayrene loves to be in the know. But I’m more than happy to leave arranging the food to Mama and her coconspirator in dance and devilment because Lovie is motioning me behind their backs.

We slip out of the kitchen and into my living room. Actually it’s two rooms with vaulted ceilings and the adjoining wall knocked out, dominated by my antique baby grand piano. When you enter you have the feeling of being in Thomas Jefferson’s elegant Monticello.

“What gives, Lovie?”

“Rocky called again. He’s booked a room at the Ramada.”

“It’s a nice hotel.”

“Why doesn’t he want to stay with me, Callie? He’ll just be here a few days and then he’s flying to Mexico on a dig.” Rocky’s an archaeologist who apparently has more passion for treasures of the past than the treasure right before his eyes. “He’ll be gone no telling how long. What am I going to do?”

Asking me for love advice is like asking a sinner to preach at a Baptist church revival. I wrote the book on
how not to
. Still, I can’t be flippant with Lovie. For the first time since Aunt Minrose died (Lovie was fourteen), she is thinking of men in terms of commitment instead of a Band-Aid to tape over the wound of loss.

“It looks like Rocky wants to move slowly, Lovie. And that might be a good idea.”

“I’m not interested in
slow
. I want a little sugar in my bowl.”

How like Lovie to use the language of the blues. Aunt Minrose was a professional musician and Lovie’s no slouch, herself.

“Focus on the bright side. I’ll bet he’s bringing not only the sugar but a big stirring spoon.”

Mama sticks her head around the door frame. “To stir what?”

“The Prohibition Punch,” Lovie says, referring to her special recipe that parades itself as punch but has enough alcohol to make a herd of elephants tipsy. Actually the recipe originated with a governor’s wife in Georgia during the Prohibition Era.

Lovie squeezes my arm, then swishes past me to the kitchen while I race to answer the front door.

Standing on my porch are Tupelo’s mayor and his wife, and behind them are Beulah Jane and twenty bespangled, pomaded impersonators.

By seven thirty the party is in full swing. The bigwigs are crowded around the refreshment table refilling their cups with Lovie’s recipe and loosening their ties. Fayrene is in my Angel Garden/courtyard matching Beulah Jane and the officers of the fan club with Elvis stories of her own. (Fayrene claims to be Gladys’ niece’s second cousin twice removed). And Mama’s at the piano pounding out Elvis songs while the impersonators try to outdo each other showing off their vocals and their hip moves. George Blakely, a skinny balloonist from Dallas who calls himself Texas Elvis, seems to have the corner on swivels.

The real King strolls in (my dog, who else?) carrying a black wig he dug from my closet when I wasn’t looking. Elvis is the most opinionated dog on earth. Obviously, he has a point to prove. I bend down, take it from his teeth, and arrange it on his head, then lavish pats on him.

“You look mighty handsome, Elvis.” My philosophy is that everybody needs affirmation, even a dog.

“Here, dear heart. You look like you need this.” Uncle Charlie hands me a fresh cup of Prohibition Punch.

“It’s not every day I see a dead Elvis in the Birthplace. Have you heard anything else about Brian?”

“John’s sticking by his on-site evaluation of natural causes. The body has already been released to his family in Huntsville.”