Elvis and the Grateful Dead. Peggy Webb
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with being a dog. Put a bassett hound in the White House and he’d have this country straightened out before you could say pass the Pup-Peroni.
Hot on the scent of grease, I detour by the T-shirt booth for a whole lotta lovin’ from Charlie and Ruby Nell, then nose around the festival so everybody can get a gander at the real King. Listen, I may be a basset hound, but I know what I know: (l) impersonators singing flat notes and wearing hair gel you can smell a mile ought to be banned from wearing sequined jumpsuits, and (2) life’s better with a lot of petting and a hefty portion of fried pigskins.
Chapter 1
Hair Gel, Flat Notes, and the Rockabilly Corpse
Here comes Elvis looking so cute I don’t have the heart to chastise him for slipping his leash.
“There you are, boy.” I secure his leash and tighten the collar a notch, then give him some extra petting so he won’t get miffed.
Not many people can say they’re where they are because of a dog. But let me tell you, if it weren’t for Elvis I’d be a free woman sitting on a beach somewhere with a man who has daddy potential. By the time I settle my dog-custody battle with Jack Jones, my eggs are going to be on life support.
But I’m not about to give up Elvis, even if he is the reason I’m legally tied to a man who went out to buy a baby cradle and came back with a Harley. If Jack thinks he can deprive me of progeny and have my dog, too, he has another think coming. I’d as soon give up Mama.
Elvis is part of my family. And family is the reason I’m dispensing hair gel and pompadours from a tent in a corner of the blocked-off section of downtown Tupelo instead of shoring up my finances at Hair.Net (my little beauty shop in Mooreville, population six hundred and fifty—and a half since Fayrene’s niece got pregnant).
Uncle Charlie is on the Elvis Festival Committee. When he said we should all do our civic duty and help out with this year’s festival, it might as well have been an edict from God. Not only does Uncle Charlie own and manage the most popular funeral home in northeast Mississippi (Eternal Rest), but he manages to keep the entire Valentine family sane (barely) and out of trouble (mostly). We think he walks on water.
As for my dog, Elvis considers it his birthright to be on display at the annual Elvis Festival. When I mentioned I might leave him home so he could use the doggie door to get inside and stay cool, he chewed the laces off my Reeboks, then deliberately heisted his leg on my prize petunias.
He’s sporting his pink bow tie. Personally, I can see why my dog thinks he’s Mississippi’s most famous son reincarnated. The way he’s swaggering while Brian Watson belts out “Don’t Be Cruel,” you can almost see the swivel-hipped King himself.
Brian has a hitch in his swivel. Elvis trots to the tent opening and shoots him a disdainful look before ambling over to sit at my feet. I bend down to scratch his ears.
“Are you about ready for the tour of the Birthplace, boy? Promise you won’t go running off again.” I take his grin as a yes. I swear my dog looks human when he smiles.
Brian is the last of today’s competitors vying for tribute artist fame. As soon as the new American Idol winner takes the stage, Lovie and I will escort the impersonators on a tour of the famous Birthplace in east Tupelo.
I’m getting ready to shut down my on-site beauty salon when Lovie strolls in, hands me a glass of iced peach tea, and plops in front of the makeup mirror.
“If Brian’s notes get any flatter, I may have to join Aunt Ruby Nell in a five o’clock toddy.”
Mama always says a little libation is good for the spirit, and I guess she’s right because she’s one of the liveliest spirits I know.
“Pretty me up, Callie. Rocky’s going to call.”
“He can’t see you over the telephone.”
“If I feel sexy, I talk sexy. Work your magic.”
I grab a comb and set to work.
Rocky Malone is her current heartthrob, and from the looks of things, her last. Thanks to the teddy-bear charm of the man we thought wanted to kill us over the Bubbles Malone caper, Lovie’s likely to marry and end up in Las Vegas. Then what will I do?
I know, I know. This sounds selfish. But Lovie’s not only my first cousin, she’s also my best friend, my confidant, and my cohort in crime. (Thank goodness, I’m not a criminal, but if you had been with us when we tried to steal a corpse and haul it across the desert in ninety-degree heat, you’d know what I’m talking about.)
I put the finishing touch on Lovie’s flaming red mane. “What’s Mama doing with a five o’clock toddy? It’s only three.”
“When has reason ever applied to Aunt Ruby Nell? She said she wanted to be ready for your party tonight.”
Mama’s farm in Mooreville is only a fifteen-minute drive from Tupelo and I know it doesn’t take her four hours to get ready for a party. Something else is afoot. I just hope it doesn’t involve Fayrene’s back room at Gas, Grits, and Guts (Mooreville’s one and only convenience store) and that jar of quarters Fayrene keeps on the table.
For the Coke machine, is what Mama always says, but don’t let my cute shoes fool you; I’m nobody’s dummy. I’ve seen the deck of cards Fayrene keeps stashed behind the Sweet N Low.
I don’t have time to worry about such things because Jack Jones comes strolling in looking like something you’d want to eat with a spoon. I’m learning to resist. With my almost-ex, you always bite off more than you can chew.
“I was just passing through and thought I’d take Elvis off your hands.”
Passing through, my foot. Jack was spying. Ever since we separated I can’t go to the grocery store without discovering him lurking behind the Charmin. And believe me, it’s not toilet tissue he’s planning to squeeze.
“Whatever happened to hello?”
Major mistake. Jack stalks across the tent, pulls me hard against his chest, and kisses me senseless. Or at least, addled.
“Hello, Callie.” He winks at Lovie.
I try to act like I don’t want to take him to Reed’s Department Store and pick out Egyptian cotton sheets and new dishes, but with my cheeks on fire that’s hard to do.
“If you’ll care to remember, Elvis has a particular love of this festival. Why don’t you do us both a favor and get lost in a Brazilian jungle?”
“Then who would keep your cute buns out of trouble?”
“I would. That’s who.”
He walks out, laughing. I want to bop him with my blow-dryer.
“Of all the nerve. I ought to…to date.”
“Why don’t you?” Lovie’s not asking a question; she’s issuing a challenge.
“Because…” Jack still makes me want to cook gingerbread, wear his favorite perfume, and wash his socks. And that’s the least of it. If I don’t get him out of my head soon, I might as well sign up to announce my cracked-to-pieces love life on the Dr. Phil show. “Maybe I will date.”
“Good.” Lovie stands up and hugs me. “Let’s get this tour over with so I can go home and get a chocolate fix. Beulah Jane Ball is driving me crazy.”
“Shush, Lovie. Here she comes.”
In her daisy print dress and sturdy support stockings, Beulah Jane looks like a little grandmother who’s too timid to share her cookie recipe. Her appearance is misleading to say the least. She could run China. As president of the local Elvis Presley fan club, she’s not only lording over the refreshment booth—which everybody knows is managed by Lovie—but also trying to run the whole show.
“Callie, Lovie, hurry along now. The tour bus is waiting.” Beulah Jane shoos us