Elvis and the Grateful Dead. Peggy Webb

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 hundred-year-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. СКАЧАТЬ