Elvis and the Grateful Dead. Peggy Webb

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ is nosing around trying to act important. Need I remind him that Callie named him Hoyt because of me? I’m the only icon around here, and if he wants some peace in the valley, he’ll do well to remember it.

      Before he got his own pillow and tried to horn in my territory, I was starting to warm up to him. Even considered teaching a thing or two about music, but that’s gone with the wind now. I may be the most beloved dog in Mooreville, not to mention the coolest, but I have my limits.

      Hoyt will have to fend for himself. Ditto, this untalented, ragtag group of impersonators. There was a moment this morning after competition got under way that I considered moseying around their tent and offering remedial voice lessons. But after hearing Brian Watson I figured, why waste my valuable time? It would take an act of God to improve the singing of this sorry lot.

      Now, if you listen to this party crowd jabbering, you’re probably thinking God has already intervened, but let me tell you…Brian and Dick did not die of natural causes. Ask the best canine detective in the world (that would be yours truly); two dead impersonators add up to murder.

      To prove my point, Callie’s front yard is filled with flashing blue lights. There’re more cops here than I have fleas. And they’re everywhere.

      While the Lee County sheriff and two of his deputies clear Callie’s courtyard and put crime scene tape around it and the coroner hauls Dick off, Hoyt starts howling “Love Me Tender.”

      I politely priss my ample butt over there and tell him to knock it off. Any fool knows it’s tasteless to sing the wrong song. Besides, he can’t even sing backup. What makes him think he can sing solo?

      And speaking of singing, the two deceased impersonators were the worst of the lot. If you ask me (which, of course, nobody does), anybody who makes my songs sound that bad ought to be grateful they’re dead.

      Chapter 3

      Clues, Mistaken Identity, and the Dead Dick

      Crime scene tape in my own backyard. I wonder if that would hold up in a divorce court as proof I’m an unfit dog mother. All I can say is that I’m glad Jack’s out of town.

      Even worse, my guests are milling around, shell-shocked, and the assorted Elvises are in a near riot. The one from Georgia is threatening to go home, the one from California is threatening to sue somebody, and the one from Japan is behind my gardenia bush pulling a stiletto out of his boots.

      While the sheriff and his deputies ask questions and take notes, the Valentines gather in the kitchen for a summit. Lovie’s already dumping vodka in the Prohibition Punch and Mama adds enough sherry to float a small boat.

      “Good,” Uncle Charlie says. “Pass it around.”

      “Maybe I ought to turn off the music.” My house and gardens sound like the inside of a boot and skoot club.

      “Leave it on, dear heart. The more normal we can seem, the better.”

      “What are you going to do about the festival, Charlie?”

      In spite of the bad advice Mama gives me and the bad judgment she uses in her own affairs, when caution and wisdom really count, she defers to Uncle Charlie.

      “I’m going to announce that unfortunate events in Mooreville don’t mean cancelation of the festival in Tupelo.”

      As he leaves, Mama follows him to the door. “Be careful, Charlie. There’s a murderer on the loose.”

      She comes back and I press close to her and Lovie while we fill cups with the spiked punch. When George Blakely sticks his head around the door and booms out, “Hello,” I send punch flying onto the ceiling. Then I stand there under the drip like somebody nailed to the floor.

      “Sorry.” He grabs a napkin and starts wiping punch out of my hair. “I just wanted to see if everybody is all right.”

      Lovie gives me a look and I know exactly what she means. Snooping. We’d better keep an eye on this one. You don’t grow up sharing the same sandbox and the same quilt at sleepovers without learning to read the other person’s mind.

      “I’m fine.” I step out of George’s reach. His hands give me the creeps. Probably because he had them all over Mama. “What can I do for you?”

      “The sheriff was asking about Lovie. I think he wants to question her.”

      Mama links her arm through his. “George, you be a good boy and march right out there and tell Sheriff Trice, Lovie will be there when she’s good and ready.”

      “I don’t know, Ruby girl.”

      Girl? I could slap him.

      “Well, I do. There are plenty of people at this party to question first without him trying to put my niece on the hot seat. If he knows what’s good for his next election campaign, he’ll treat the Valentines with a little respect. And you can tell him I said so.”

      “Yes, ma’am!” Grinning, George salutes Mama, then hurries off to do her bidding.

      “Mama, what’s up with you and that impersonator?”

      “Oh, was something up? I didn’t notice.”

      She prisses off with a tray, all flouncy ruffles and big attitude. I wouldn’t dye her hair Marilyn Monroe blond if you took away my Jimmy Choo sling-backs. Mama gets in enough trouble as a redhead.

      “I might as well get out there and face the music.” Lovie grabs a tray and starts out the door.

      “Not without me, you don’t.”

      The sheriff is taking notes while Fayrene holds court on my porch swing. The porch is crowded with people trying to eavesdrop but look like they’re not, and the scent of Zephrine Drouhin roses from the nearby arbor is heavy on the still summer air.

      “Of course Lovie was dancing with Dick Gerard, but she didn’t do anything to him.” Fayrene glares at Sheriff Trice like she’d love to skewer him and serve him as shish kabobs. “Ask anybody here. The Valentine family is above reproach.”

      “Ma’am, just stick to the facts. What did you see?”

      “I saw Dick’s jealous wife, Bertha, hiding behind the Confederate jasmine watching them dance in the courtyard. That’s what I saw.”

      “Are you sure it was Bertha Gerard?”

      “I never forget a face. I have a pornographic memory.”

      Several of the impersonators snicker, but the sheriff remains straight-faced. A local who gets his gas as well as his fish bait at Gas, Grits, and Guts, he knows Fayrene is the queen of malapropisms.

      “When was the last time you saw Bertha?”

      “I just told you,” Fayrene says.

      “Before tonight.”

      “It was three weeks ago. At the dentist’s. I was just getting ready to go under Anastasia.”

      The mayor and his wife are choking on their СКАЧАТЬ