Elvis and the Grateful Dead. Peggy Webb
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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, hoists 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.
Chapter 2
Motels, Mexico, and the Fatal Fox-Trot
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 leave the body unattended.
“You be the heroine if 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 steamrolls 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 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