Murder Boogies With Elvis (4 page)

Tammy Sue’s face was flushed. “Weren’t they wonderful? Can you believe that Larry’s their agent?” She held up the brass button that Bobby Joe had thrown to her and looked at it as if she were a jeweler appraising a valuable stone.

“Must have been paying the preacher,” Fred said.

I put my hand on Fred’s cheek and turned his face toward me. “Enough.”

He grinned and stood up. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Take your time.”

“He seems very nice,” Tammy Sue said as he left.

“He usually is. Rock bands just aren’t his type of music.”

“What is?”

“You talking about Fred?” Mary Alice leaned over and joined in our conversation. Virgil, I noticed, had joined the crowd streaming up the aisle. “Last I heard he was into Tommy Dorsey.”

“Oooh, I love Tommy Dorsey,” Tammy Sue exclaimed. She turned to me. “Is Mr. Hollowell a good jitterbugger?”

“Absolutely,” I said, smiling sweetly at Sister.

She smiled back just as sweetly. “You ever heard of the Hollowell Jive of Fifty-Five, Tammy Sue? Fred originated that. Of course, that was back when his joints worked.”

Tammy Sue looked from one of us to the other. “Y’all are kidding me.”

“Now, would I do that?” Sister asked.

“Yes.”

“And you’d be right.” Sister stood up. “Do either of you want to try for the bathroom?”

I shook my head. No way I was going to stand in the line to the ladies’ room which I knew would be snaking up the steps.

“I don’t want to miss the second half,” Tammy Sue said.

The three of us nodded in agreement. Damn men architects.

“I wish I had a choice. Oh, well.” Sister gave a little wave. “See you later.”

“She seems very nice,” Tammy Sue said. “I know Daddy’s crazy about her.”

I nodded. It was going to be interesting to see how Tammy Sue and Mary Alice worked out their relationship. I hoped Tammy Sue wouldn’t be intimidated by her new stepmother.

“Do you think they’re going to get married?”

I had forgotten that Mary Alice and Virgil hadn’t told his children yet. That explained Sister’s unusual quietness tonight. She was nervous about breaking the news. A new role for Sister.

“Maybe,” I said.

“Well, maybe it’ll work out. Daddy’s been needing someone. And Mary Alice seems so easy to get along with. I really like her.”

Easy to get along with? Lord have mercy.

“I just hope, if they do, that it’s a little wedding, and that she’s not planning on me wearing a bridesmaid dress. I’m done with that. Last time I was in a wedding I had to wear the most god-awful yellow dress you ever saw, and I said to myself, ‘No more, Tammy Sue.’”

Oh, joy. Welcome to the family, Tammy Sue.

We had a wonderful fifteen minutes of conversation. I told Tammy Sue about Haley and the baby. She told me about her job as a realtor, that she and Larry had been married for five years, that her brother, Buddy, was still drifting, she thought. An Elvis impersonator? Get real. It was fun for Larry, but sometimes she thought Buddy really believed he was Elvis. He
needed to settle down, get a good job, and find a nice girl to marry.

Members of the orchestra began to wander back into the orchestra pit. Fred and Virgil came down the aisle.

“Did you see Mary Alice?” I asked.

Virgil nodded. “In the line outside the ladies’ room. You ought to see that line.”

“We see them every day,” Tammy Sue said.

Neither man looked concerned. Hah. Nicholas and Alexandra hadn’t been concerned, either. Soon the great bladder revolution, boys.

The lights dimmed and the Mighty Wurlitzer rose from the floor again to begin the second half of the show. The organ was so well lighted that the women trying to get back to their seats weren’t having too much trouble. By the time we sang “Cuddle Up a Little Closer,” “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” and Mr. Wurlitzer had segued into what he announced was the
hymn du jour,
“How Great Thou Art,” the audience was settling down—even Mary Alice, who was breathing heavily and fussing, “Who the hell’s idea was it to put the bathrooms in the basement?” as she stumbled over Virgil’s feet.

Fortunately the audience was belting out the last line of “How Great Thou Art.”

Tammy Sue patted her on the arm sympathetically.

We sat back to enjoy the rest of the show. There were the usual jugglers, comedy routines, one spectacular group of contortionists that Fred said it hurt him to watch and which Tammy Sue said was one of her husband Larry’s acts. And then, according to the program, it was time for the dancing Elvises.

The music was “Jailhouse Rock,” and fifteen Elvises came from each side of the stage, thirty Elvises in all.
They were short, tall, skinny, paunchy, but still eerily alike with their black hair, sideburns, and white jump-suits. They danced onto the stage with a sort of sidestep, then joined arms, bowed to the audience’s applause, and then broke apart. We soon caught on that there were four stars who got to come to the front of the stage and do their version of Elvis dances. One turned cartwheels and did splits, which I had never seen Elvis do, but he was good at it and got a round of applause. One was wonderful, dirty-boogying and sweating.

“That’s Larry.” Tammy Sue squealed. “Hey, Larry!”

Larry’s hips moved even faster.

I poked Tammy Sue. “Where’s Virgil, Jr.?”

“That’s him coming up now.”

He wasn’t dancing like Larry had done. His movements were slower, more sinuous. He was Elvis, the slight sneer on his face, the lock of hair across his forehead. The audience went crazy.

And then the line was back together again. The music changed to “Love Me Tender,” and the Elvises began the chorus-line kick. Since they weren’t all the same size, it was ragged but effective nonetheless. Thirty Elvises advanced toward us. Twenty-nine stopped at the edge of the stage, held up their arms, and then bowed. But one kept coming, staggering sideways for a moment, then advancing. For a second he looked straight at me, his face contorted. Then he reeled and fell backward into the deep orchestra pit.

There was the screech of musical instruments in the pit, silence from the audience, and then an uneasy stirring. This was just another stunt like the Cock Fight guy had pulled. Right? Then twenty-nine Elvises rushed over and looked into the pit, some of them in
imminent danger of following their cohort as they jockeyed positions to see what had happened.

“Larry, don’t you fall off that stage,” Tammy Sue screamed. “Get your ass back.” She jumped up and looked down into the pit. “My God. He’s hurt bad.”

Virgil, too, was leaning over and looking.

“Daddy!”

Virgil looked up. Virgil, Jr., who was okay, was yelling at him. Virgil closed his eyes and sat back down.

The audience had caught on. Several people rushed down the aisle toward the stage. Doctors, I hoped.

“Don’t look,” Fred told me.

“Are you crazy? No way.”

Tammy Sue was keeping us apprised of what was happening anyway.

“His head’s in the bass fiddle. He’s not moving. I’ll bet those strings cut the hell out of him. Looks like he bounced off the organ, though. The corner’s smushed.”

“Let’s go. I hate this,” Fred said, standing and taking my hand.

“We’re going,” I said to Mary Alice, who had her hands over her face. She nodded.

“Looks like there’s blood everywhere,” Tammy Sue announced. “I’ll bet it was one of those new guys who didn’t know what he was doing. Probably dead.”

“Sit down, Tammy Sue,” Virgil ordered. He had an arm around Sister’s shoulder.

Tammy Sue looked startled, but she sat.

Fred and I got the hell out. Most of the people in the audience were still seated, waiting to find out about the Elvis, to see what was going to happen next, hoping against hope that he would prance back onstage with a tinsel halo. So the aisles were still fairly clear. We got
out of the parking lot easily and were almost home before either of us spoke. Then Fred said, “Stuff like that gets to me. Did you see the expression on that poor man’s face? I never saw anything like it. Weird.”

“I think he was dying before he fell.”

Which was true. The story made the eleven o’clock news. Not only was the Elvis dead of an apparent heart attack, but 911 had received a record number of calls. The name of the man was being withheld until relatives could be notified.

I fixed us some hot chocolate with a lot of tiny marshmallows, and we sat by the fire talking about Haley and the baby, trying to dim the too vivid picture of the man with the contorted face staggering toward us.

It was midnight before we went to bed. It had been an unnerving evening, but the last thing I thought about before I went to sleep was Tammy Sue, and I had to smile. Mary Alice just might have met her match.

E-mail from: Haley

To: Mama and Papa

Subject: Homecoming

Oh, happy day! We’ve made our plane reservations. The three of us will be on a Delta flight that gets into Birmingham at 4:15 on April 1. I didn’t know how homesick I was until I realized that this time next month we’ll be settled in our own house in Alabama. I can’t wait to see all of you. I know the twins have grown so much, and we haven’t even set eyes on David Anthony. Debbie’s been sending us pictures, but I can’t wait to hug him. To hug all of you.

Mama, I’ve got a favor to ask. Could you go over to Philip’s house (I haven’t started thinking of it as our house yet. Guess I will soon.) one day soon and open it up? Don’t do any cleaning, just air it out. We’ll get a maid service when we get home to clean it up. We’ve got to straighten everything out first. We got married and left in such a hurry that I just sort of threw my stuff in.

I’m feeling fine. I can’t wait!

Hugs and kisses to both of you and to Woofer and Muffin, too.

Love,

Haley

E-mail to: Haley

Mama

Subject: Can’t wait to see you

Honey, I can’t wait until the first of April. I’ll be happy to go over and open up the house. All sorts of things are happening here. Your aunt Sister has set the date for her wedding, but I’m sure that she or Debbie has e-mailed or called you. It’s May 14. We are all to be bridesmaids. More details on this later. You’re really going to like Virgil. We met his daughter last night. His son is an Elvis impersonator. Not bad, either. We went to see him perform last night at the Alabama, a fund-raiser for Vulcan.

Take care, honey. Love to you, Joanna, and Philip

There was no reason to tell her all of the evening’s details. I hit the send button and delivered her hugs and kisses to Muffin, who was lying in the bay window in the kitchen watching the birds at the feeder.

“I’m keeping you, though,” I said. It was the first time I had voiced this, but I knew it was true. There was no way that Haley was going to get Muffin back. Muffin’s tail slashed back and forth as my elbow accidentally hit the window and the birds flew away.

She gazed up at me with a look-what-you’ve-done-now look.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized.

She might or might not forgive me.

“I’m keeping you anyway,” I said.

It was almost 8:30. I had slept the night before but not a deep, restful sleep. Fred hadn’t slept well, either, and at some time during the night he had gotten up. The afghan crumpled on the den sofa told me that was where he had finished the night. I hadn’t heard him leave. I’d check with him in a little while. He’d want to hear Haley’s news, too.

Fred had brought the morning paper in and left it on the table. The Metro Section had been pulled out and I saw what he had probably been looking for. The headline announced:
ACCIDENT AT ALABAMA KILLS PER-FORMER
.

Accident? No way. Heart attack, maybe.

I poured myself a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee and sat down to read the story. There was nothing new. An Elvis impersonator had fallen into the orchestra pit of the Alabama Theater during a performance the previous evening. He was pronounced dead at University Hospital. The name was being withheld pending notification of next of kin.

Suddenly the man’s face, contorted as it had been the night before, was superimposed on the story. Damn. I pushed the paper aside, reached over, and turned on the TV on the kitchen counter.

“An accident at the Alabama Theater last night claimed the life of an unidentified man.”

I switched off the TV and made myself think about Haley coming home. Her refrigerator would need to be stocked, and she wouldn’t feel like going to the grocery. It had taken me a week to get over jet lag when we got back from Warsaw, and I wasn’t pregnant. Some flowers would be nice, too.

I got a pencil and a piece of paper from the junk
drawer. In a few minutes, I was lost in list making.

A spatter of rain against the window startled me. I glanced out at the thermometer on the deck and saw that it was forty-two degrees. A raw day. March. I got my raincoat from the hall closet, slipped my feet into my sneakers, and went to check on Woofer. He was snuggled up warm and cozy in his igloo. I handed him a couple of treats, promised a walk if the weather improved, and invited him into the house.

He declined the invitation. I gave him the hug and kiss that Haley had sent and scurried back into the house, where the phone was ringing.

“You okay?” Fred asked.

“I’m fine. You okay?”

“Fine. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Me neither.”

“Have you heard anything more about that man at the Alabama?”

“They’re saying it was an accident, and they haven’t given his name yet.”

“That was no accident.”

“I know.”

“Let me know if you hear anything.”

“I will. And, honey? We got an e-mail from Haley. They’re getting in on April the first. She wants us to open up the house for them.”

“How about that.”

“I know.”

I could imagine how Fred’s face had brightened at the news. Her absence these last few months had left a giant hole in our lives.

The phone rang again just as I hung up.

“Egg McMuffin or sausage biscuit?” Sister asked.

“Egg McMuffin.”

I put on a pot of fresh coffee.

She must have been calling from the drive-in window, since she was at my kitchen door before the coffee had finished perking.

“Damn,” she said, holding out a McDonald’s sack for me to take while she closed her umbrella. “So much for the sunny South.” She stepped inside and pulled off her raincoat.

“What on God’s earth have you got on?” I asked. “You look like Yul Brynner.”

She swirled so I could get the benefit of the outfit from all directions. Yards of white material, tied at the waist with a yellow scarf, ballooned out as she turned. I was wrong. She looked more like the Pillsbury Doughboy than she did Yul Brynner. She hung the raincoat on the back of the pantry door.

“I’m taking a class in the martial arts. It’s a mixture of karate, tae kwon do, and some other stuff. It’s Virgil’s idea. He says every woman should be able to protect herself.”

“You’ve been doing a pretty good job.” I got plates down, put them on the table, and started unwrapping Egg McMuffins.

“I think he’s right, though. You ought to go with me. Little as you are, you’re a sitting duck.”

“But I have you to protect me.”

Sister pulled a chair out and sat down. “True. Actually, Virgil wanted me to get a gun, too, but I told him I didn’t like them. He said he didn’t like them, either, but being a sheriff it was pretty important to have one.”

“But you’re not, are you? Getting one?” I poured the coffee.

“Of course not. I’m just going to learn how to break necks. Incidentally, you need a new bathrobe. That thing is pitiful. I didn’t even know they still made chenille.”

“Penney’s found some somewhere.” I took a big bite of my Egg McMuffin. Delicious.

Sister pointed to the newspaper I had placed on the counter. “Did you see the article about the man who fell in the orchestra pit last night?”

“Don’t want to talk about it while we’re eating. That was pretty gruesome.”

“I was just going to tell you who he was. His name was Griffin Mooncloth.”

“Mooncloth? What kind of name is that?”

“Just a name. Pretty, isn’t it?”

“How did you find out? They’re still not releasing it on the news.”

“Virgil called me this morning. He stayed last night to help the Birmingham police out. Tammy Sue took me home.”

What I was supposed to do then, what Sister was waiting for me to do, was to ask her to tell me more, but I didn’t. Death and Egg McMuffins don’t mix. A man with a name is too real. I concentrated on my food and told her that Haley was coming in on the first.

“Good,” she said, wiping her hands on a paper napkin. “We’ll give them a party.”

I had taken exactly two bites of my Egg McMuffin. Sister had polished hers off.

“Can I tell you some more stuff that’s not too bad?” she asked.

I nodded. Might as well.

“Nobody knew who he was.”

“He just boogied out onstage with the other Elvises and none of them knew him?”

“Apparently. He was in Bud McCracken’s place in the line, and nobody noticed that it wasn’t Bud because he’s new anyway.”

I finished chewing my Egg McMuffin, swallowed, and crumpled up my paper napkin.

“What happened to Bud?”

“He’s disappeared.” Sister tapped her fingers on the table. “Can I tell you now what happened to Griffin Mooncloth?”

“Don’t be too graphic.”

“Would ‘somebody slit his gizzard out’ be too graphic?”

The Egg McMuffin stuck about halfway down my esophagus. I reached for my coffee. “You’re lying.”

Mary Alice shook her head. “That’s what Virgil said. He said, ‘Mary Alice, honey, somebody just slit the gizzard right out of that poor boy.’”

I glared at Sister. “That can’t be right. Virgil’s putting you on. That man was dancing right toward us in a white satin suit and there wasn’t a drop of blood on it.”

Sister reached down and picked up Muffin, who was rubbing against her leg. “You going to let Haley have this cat back?”

“No. I’ve got squatter’s rights.”

Muffin settled down in Sister’s lap. Sister scratched her under the chin and said she reckoned that Griffin Mooncloth had had his gizzard cut out from the back.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I pushed my chair back so quickly that Sister and Muffin both looked up in surprise. “People don’t have gizzards.” I snatched my plate and Sister’s and put them in the dishwasher.
“Gizzards are what come in the plastic bags they stick up frozen chickens’ rear ends.”

“Well, my goodness. Don’t get testy. Maybe Virgil was speaking metaphorically.”

Metaphorically? If I hadn’t been so upset, I’d have been impressed. Instead I asked, “What in hell would a gizzard be a metaphor for?”

“Some important organ that he couldn’t get along without. Why is it making you mad, anyway?”

“Because.” I reached for the coffeepot. “Because last night we were sitting in the Alabama Theater, having a nice time and watching a bunch of Elvises dance, and one of them named Griffin Mooncloth, and I don’t believe that name for a minute, whom nobody knew, got killed right in front of us, and Virgil treats it lightly by saying he got his gizzard cut out.” I pointed to Sister’s cup. “You want some more?”

She nodded. “You take your estrogen today?”

I ignored that and poured the coffee. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“You must not have.”

I sat back down. Muffin deserted Sister and got in my lap. That made me feel better. I rubbed her head with one hand and reached for the sugar with the other.

“I don’t know. It’s just that I saw his face and kept seeing it all night.” I stirred my coffee. “How did they find out his name if nobody knew him? There sure wasn’t room for a wallet in that jumpsuit.”

“Dusk Armstrong knew him. Turned out he was one of her old boyfriends. Virgil said they asked everyone in the show to stay to see if anyone could identify him. She was the only one who knew him. She’s been
studying dancing in New York and says he was in her class.”

“He was from New York?”

Sister nodded.

I thought of Dusk outlined against the moon the night before, how beautiful she had been. Lord, I hoped this wasn’t something she was involved with.

There was a tap on the backdoor and Mitzi Phizer stuck her raincoat-covered head in. “Hey,” she said. “I saw your car, Mary Alice, and thought I’d find out what happened at the Alabama last night. I heard on TV that one of the performers died onstage.”

“Fell into the orchestra pit,” Sister said.

“Oh, my Lord!” Mitzi shook raindrops from her gray curls.

“But he was already dead.” Sister looked at me. “Someone had removed one of his vital organs.”

“What?”

I got up, took Mitzi’s raincoat, and hung it on the door by Sister’s. It was raining so hard now that water dripped on the floor from the coat. I had a sudden memory of the old cloakrooms at Lakeview School, could even smell the damp of the coats and galoshes, the bologna sandwiches in tin Mickey Mouse lunch boxes. Damn. I shook my head, which I realized was throbbing dully. I felt the knot from the day before yesterday when I had slammed into the drainpipe. It was slightly sore. Did concussions take forty-eight hours to show up?

“We had seats in the front row, and he fell right in front of us,” Mary Alice said. “He was one of the Elvis impersonators.”

Mitzi sat down at the table. “And someone killed him?”

“Dead as a doornail.”

I picked up the coffeepot. Mitzi motioned that she didn’t want any.