Elvis and the Grateful Dead. Peggy Webb

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СКАЧАТЬ plan is for me to make the calls because Lovie’s Luscious Eats is all but famous and so is her sexy drawl. Think Kathleen Turner with a Marlene Dietrich twist. The cover story is that I’m doing a feasibility study for Ole Miss regarding a continuing education course on global warming at the Tupelo campus. Lovie wanted to make it a Masters and Johnsons type of survey, but common sense (mine) prevailed.

      As I wheel my monster truck into the parking lot, I notice Fayrene’s husband, Jarvetis, through the plate-glass windows. Thank goodness he’s the one closing the store tonight instead of his wife, who would barrel out bent on sniffing out our mission. Even worse, she’d want to help. Like Mama, Fayrene doesn’t know the meaning of discreet.

      I park as far away from the door as I can get. As I get out of the truck, I hear the distant rumble of thunder. My gardens need rain, the farmers need rain, everybody needs rain except two amateur detectives who have enough trouble without skulking around in a downpour.

      “You can wait in the truck if you want to, Lovie.”

      She clambers out behind me. “I’m the one knocking off old lovers.”

      “Good grief. Brian was your lover, too?”

      “No, but if I’d met him before he kicked the bucket, he would have been.”

      I think she’s kidding, but sometimes it’s hard to tell. Lovie has had her share of experiences, but she also covers up a lot of deep feelings with jokes and laughter.

      We pool our quarters and I start making calls. I get voice mails with the two Richards and a proposition with the first Dick. He lives on Enoch, never heard of Bertha, and thinks I’m his twenty-first birthday present from his buddies at the factory.

      On the final try we find the dead Dick’s unfortunate wife. In 225 Magnolia Manor. Jack’s apartment building.

      I stand by the pay phone thinking about that tacky yellow brick building with the pretentious name and the socially unacceptable address. Cracked asphalt parking lot. One pitiful pine. Not a flower in sight. As far as I know, not even a blade of grass.

      And Jack, who loves gardens and cool breezes and porch swings, is living there. All because of me. Well, because of him, too. But still…

      “I can’t go barging into Magnolia Manor, Lovie. What if I run into Jack?”

      “I thought you said he was leaving town.”

      “For all I know he caught a magic carpet and has already made a trip to Tibet and back. Besides, he didn’t say when he was leaving. My point is, I don’t want him to know what we’re up to.”

      “We’re going to be up to our asses in rain, if we don’t hurry.”

      A crack of thunder underscores her prediction as we race to the truck. I peel out of the parking lot just in time to be spotted by Jarvetis. That means he’ll tell Fayrene, who will tell Mama, who might tell Jack. Not that Mama would betray me, but she’ll do anything she can to get us back together. Because of my daddy, Michael Valentine, she believes in one true soul mate, and in her opinion, Jack is mine.

      If I thought that, I’d just give up and my poor unused eggs would go out and commit suicide.

      Rain sprinkles my windshield as I drive west toward Magnolia Manor.

      “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” I say. “We can’t just go barging down the hall for you to pick the lock.”

      “We should have worn disguises.”

      “I could be wearing an elephant suit and Jack would recognize me.”

      “Maybe I can do this by myself.”

      “Yeah? And how will you explain yourself when Jack catches you breaking and entering?”

      Lovie says a word I’ll bet even the devil doesn’t know. “You’re getting paranoid, Callie. Jack’s out of town. And if he’s not, we’ll lie.”

      “Oh, right. Like he won’t know.”

      She says another word, even worse. “Fetuses can hear,” I tell her.

      “Are you telling me you’re pregnant?”

      “No, but someday I will be. You don’t want to pollute the ears of your little goddaughter.”

      “Give me two weeks’ notice and I’ll quit. Are you satisfied now?”

      “Maybe.” Actually I won’t be satisfied till I’m home in my bed. I don’t like the idea of being in Jack’s territory in the dark. “I can tell you one thing. I’m not sleeping with him again.”

      “I didn’t know you slept.”

      “That’s mean, Lovie. And you know that’s not what I meant.”

      “Okay. Forget I said that.”

      The entrance to Magnolia Manor looms ahead. I press down on the accelerator.

      “You passed it, Callie.”

      “I know. I’m thinking.”

      “Of what?”

      “A way to get to the second floor without being seen.” And I think I just might have it. If the tree is in the right place.

      I turn around in the parking lot of the Putt-Putt golf course next door, then head back to the Magnolia Manor. It’s even uglier than I remembered, the yellow brick getting dingy, the hideous brown shutters peeling, and the dinky wrought-iron balconies looking like they’re about to fall off the side of the building.

      A postage-stamp patch of dirt surrounds the building, which sits in the middle of the parking lot. The lonesome pine presses close to the yellow brick. Right where I remembered.

      “You see that tree?” I ask Lovie. “It’s near Jack’s window. He’s in 221, which means Bertha is two doors down.”

      I bail out of the truck, but she sits there like she’s hatching eggs. I stick my head back in the cab. “What?”

      “The only elephant I ever saw in a tree was Dumbo. The next thing I know, you’ll be telling me I can fly.”

      “We grew up climbing trees, Lovie.”

      “Yeah, but I was thirty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter.”

      “Well, all right, then. You sit here. I’ll do it myself.”

      I’ve gone only half a dozen yards when Lovie catches up. I knew she would. We’ve been a team since Lovie beat the tar out of Johnny Lipscomb in the sandbox in Ballard Park for stealing my pail. She was four, I was three.

      “I’m going to sue somebody if I fall,” she says.

      “You’re not going to fall. I’ll go first.”

      I know I sound brave, but believe me, if healthy thirty-seven-year-olds could have heart attacks from fright, I’d already СКАЧАТЬ