Murder Boogies With Elvis (2 page)

“Treat,” I promised. I grabbed the box of dog biscuits off the kitchen counter and shook them.

He sat down and yawned.

I shook the box again. “I won’t let Muffin bother you.”

He knew I was lying but he came in anyway. Muffin is Haley’s cat, which I’ve been keeping for her. Muffin adores Woofer, purring and ducking her head against his. Woofer loves to lie down by the heating vent in the den, and Muffin curls up right by him. I’ve gotten several cute pictures of the two of them to send to Haley. In each, Muffin looks blissful and Woofer looks disgusted.

“See?” I said, giving him a couple of treats. “She’s not even in here. She’s in the middle of my bed, where she’s not supposed to be.”

Woofer ate one of the biscuits and took the other one into the den. I sat down at the table to eat my sandwich and make out a grocery list. I had planned on tomato soup and tuna sandwiches, but spring had turned into winter in the last couple of hours. Beef stew? Chicken potpie?

The phone rang and I jumped. The dull ache in my head pounded.

“Aunt Pat? Magenta and sunflower?”

“That’s what she says.”

“I can’t believe Mama’s really getting married.”

“She’s done it three times before.”

“But Mary Alice Tate Sullivan Nachman Crane Stuckey?”

“Maybe this will be the last one. She’s running out of room at Elmwood Cemetery.”

Debbie, Sister’s daughter, and I both giggled. Sister has all of her husbands buried together at Elmwood. They had each impregnated her once and died neat deaths—though Roger Crane’s demise on a transatlantic flight had caused some problems. She’s still complaining that on his death certificate the place of death is listed in terms of longitude and latitude. “And
us so close to Atlanta. Now that would be a nice place to die. They could have put that.”

“You haven’t heard from Haley, have you?” I asked Debbie.

“Not yet. Everything’s all right, though, Aunt Pat.”

“I know.” But I wanted reassurance. I wanted a copy of the amnio test in front of me saying the baby was fine, a healthy boy or girl. “I wish she would let them tell her the sex so we could plan things.”

Debbie gave a snort. “Put Mama on the case. I didn’t want to know about David Anthony, remember, and she went snooping in the files or bribed somebody or something and came in yelling, ‘It’s a boy! It’s a boy!’”

“She gave a considerable donation to the neonatal care unit at University Hospital.”

“Well, I guess I shouldn’t complain.”

“She means well.”

Debbie and I giggled again.

“Have you heard about the honeymoon?” I asked.

“No. Tell me.”

Which I did.

“Mama and Virgil in an RV? Oh, Lord, that’s priceless. How far do you think they’ll get?”

“Gardendale, maybe,” I said, naming a suburb west of Birmingham and immediately feeling guilty. “I’m sorry, Debbie. I’m being mean. I think it’s the knot on my head.”

Which called for more explanations.

“Did you check your pupils? Are they dilated?”

I assured Debbie that I was all right.

“Well, you really might have a concussion if you were knocked out for a minute. Don’t go to sleep for a while.”

I promised that I wouldn’t, Debbie said she would check with me later, and we hung up.

A light rain had begun to fall, more heavy mist than rain. The Piggly Wiggly could wait, I decided. I went into the den, lay down on the sofa, pulled up the afghan, and immediately fell asleep. So much for promises.

L
ooks funny up on the mountain without Vulcan,” Fred said, coming in and shaking out his jacket. “Dark.” He came over where I was putting turkey bacon on the microwave grill, gave me a very nice kiss, patted me on the behind, and said, “Umm. I love breakfast for supper.”

I leaned against him for a minute. Nice. “There’s a benefit for the old boy at the Alabama Theater tomorrow night. Mary Alice got us some tickets. We’ve got to get him repaired and back up.”

“What kind of benefit?” Fred went to the refrigerator and got a beer.

“It should be fun. Virgil’s son’s an Elvis impersonator, and he’s on the program. He got us front-row tickets.”

“Just so it’s not a ballet,” he called as he headed
down the hall toward the bathroom. “You can see the men’s hernias when they pick the girls up.”

“Is that what they’re called?”

I heard a laugh as the bathroom door closed.

Vulcan, the largest iron statue in the world, has stood on Red Mountain overlooking Birmingham for as long as any of us can remember. He’s the god of the forge. Majestic from the front, an apron shielding vital parts from sparks, and bare-butted in the back, his tight rear end mooning the whole southern side of the city. We’re used to the sun glinting off this huge behind, but visitors are frequently amazed when they look up at the statue.

“None of my husbands looked like that,” Mary Alice remarked one day as we were driving down Valley Avenue and she glanced up at Vulcan. “Will Alec didn’t have a butt, remember? He had trouble keeping his pants up. And Philip and Roger weren’t much better. Men’s hips are too low down on their bodies. Have you ever noticed that, Mouse?”

I’ve given up on the “Mouse” bit. It was my childhood nickname because I was so little and supposedly squeaked when I cried. I’ve tried to get Mary Alice to quit calling me that, but it’s a lost cause.

“Fred’s aren’t,” I said.

“Just looks that way because of the roll of fat.”

I gritted my teeth. “Love handles.”

“You wish.”

Poor Vulcan and his magnificent behind have fallen on hard times recently. There was some worry years ago that he wasn’t secure enough on his pedestal, that during a windstorm he might topple off, taking out visitors, the gift shop, the parking lot, and Twentieth Street—one of Birmingham’s main arteries. The solu
tion was to cut a hole in the top of his head and fill him halfway up with concrete. Smart. Rain came though the hole in his head. The concrete expanded and contracted in the heat and cold, and the iron didn’t. So Vulcan began to crack up, bless his heart. He had to be taken down, piece by piece, and taken to iron statue intensive care where they promised to restore him to full health in a couple of years. In the meantime, the mountain is dark and we miss him. And the money has to be raised to bring him back.

“Heard from Haley?” Fred was back in the den.

“Not yet.”

“Where’s the TV thing?”

“The remote? Try the sofa.”

I thought that in a moment I would hear Peter Jennings’s voice. Instead, Fred surprised me by coming into the kitchen and sitting at the table.

“Maybe we ought to call her.”

“It’s two in the morning in Warsaw.”

“They’d be sure to be at home.”

I stuck the biscuits into the oven and looked at him. He seemed to be serious.

“Not a good idea, I said. “She’ll let us know when she gets the test results.”

I reached in the refrigerator. “Two eggs enough?”

“Sure.”

“Mary Alice and Virgil are getting married in May.” I took a bowl down and started breaking the eggs into it.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“She just might do it this time. I’m to be the matron of honor and wear a magenta dress. The girls are wearing sunflower.”

“Good Lord.”

The rain had gotten harder. It was drumming lightly on the den skylight. The phone rang and Fred answered it.

I can always tell when he is talking to either Freddie or Alan, our two sons who live in Atlanta. He talks louder than normal, a Santa Claus voice. I can just imagine him calling them to tell them when I die. “Ho, ho, ho, Son. Your mother seems to have dropped dead on the kitchen floor. How’s everything going with you?” Well, maybe I’m exaggerating with the “ho, ho, ho,” but the tone is right. And Freddie and Alan are just as bad. They sound like sports announcers when they talk to each other. Which brings me to the point that I knew he was talking to either Freddie or Alan.

“Haven’t heard a word, but we’re sure everything is fine. Absolutely. You want to speak to your mother?”

I wiped my hands on a paper towel to take the phone, but Fred said, “Okay, Son,” and hung up.

“Alan on his car phone,” he explained. “Just checking on Haley. Says he’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay. You ready to eat?”

“Let me go check the computer again. Sometimes there’s a delay from overseas.”

I was putting the food on our plates when he called, “Who’s Joanna?”

“What?” I set the plates down and went into the den. Fred was standing in the bedroom doorway.

“Who’s Joanna?”

“We got a message?”

“From Haley. It says, ‘We’re all fine and love you. Haley, Philip, and Joanna.’”

I rushed to the computer. There it was. Joanna.

“You dummy,” I squealed. “It’s a girl. Haley found out after all.”

Fred and I looked at each other and then we were hugging and blubbering. Our daughter was having a daughter. Joanna.

It was a long time before we got around to eating supper. Long after we called Warsaw and did a lot of laughing and crying.

“She’ll be Miss America for sure. Just think how beautiful she’s going to be with Haley’s strawberry-blond hair and Philip’s eyes.”

It was the next morning and my neighbor Mitzi Phizer and I were taking our morning walk. Mitzi and Arthur have lived next door to us for forty years, but it’s only recently that Mitzi has been joining me every morning when I take Woofer for his stroll. I’m delighted. She’s good company and swears she’s lost eight pounds, though I can’t believe it’s the exercise. Woofer stops at every tree to mark his territory, so our hour walk may take us around three blocks.

“No. She’s going to be President Joanna Nachman.”

“She could be both. What’s wrong with a beautiful president?”

“True.”

It was a wonderful day. It smelled like early spring, that unmistakable combination of the first quince and forsythia and the sun drying last night’s rain. I had called everyone in the family to tell them the news and had slept very little, but I could have run around the blocks instead of strolling. Fortunately Woofer and Mitzi weren’t as hyper as I was. So we ambled and enjoyed the morning.

“Mary Alice says she’s marrying Virgil Stuckey in May.” I had just remembered the other big news.

“Do you think she means it? She’s always getting
engaged. Where does she find all these men?” Mitzi stepped over a small puddle on the sidewalk. “It was that Cedric fellow last I heard.”

“She just might. She’s made an awful lot of plans like what color dresses the girls and I are going to wear and where they’re going on their honeymoon.”

“Really?” Mitzi grinned. “What color?”

“Magenta and sunflower.”

Mitzi pressed her lips together but gave up and burst out laughing.

“Are you the magenta?” she asked, reaching into the pocket of her jogging suit for a Kleenex and snuffling into it. Mitzi always cries when she laughs.

“I’m the magenta.” I giggled. Mitzi’s laugh was infectious. “We’re going to put some stuff on my hair so I won’t look so washed out.”

“You’re not.” Mitzi reached for another Kleenex.

“And can’t you just see pregnant Haley in sunflower? Sister says she’ll look like she’s in full bloom.”

“Oh, Lord.”

Woofer sat down and looked at us patiently. We had lost our minds, but that was okay.

“She won’t really do it, get married,” Mitzi said when we calmed down and started walking again. “This is just another one of her tangents, don’t you think? Like buying the Skoot ’n’ Boot because she liked to line dance.”

“Maybe so.” The country-western bar that she had bought was still a sore subject between Sister and me. “I’ll have the lay of the land better tomorrow. We’re going with Virgil and her to the Vulcan benefit tonight. It seems that Virgil, Jr., is an Elvis impersonator and is on the program.”

The Kleenex came out again. Woofer gave up and sat down. We called this exercise?

“I saw them advertising that on TV,” Mitzi said. “A whole line of Elvis impersonators doing that Rockettes kick.”

“Well, Virgil, Jr., is one of them.”

“Arthur and I ought to go. I wonder if it’s sold out. We gave some money to the Vulcan restoration fund, but we haven’t gotten in on any of the fun stuff.”

“Call and find out. You can go with us.”

We started walking again, two gray-headed ladies and a gray-headed dog. Which was fine.

“Did I ever tell you, Patricia Anne, that I dirty-boogied with Elvis once?”

“You what?”

“I dirty-boogied with Elvis. At least that’s what my sorority sisters called it.”

“You’re kidding. You actually danced with Elvis? And, no, you’ve never told me.”

“It was sort of embarrassing.”

“We should all be so embarrassed.”

Mitzi shrugged. “I guess so. Anyway, it was at a sorority party. You know I went to college in Memphis.”

I nodded.

“And somehow Elvis got invited. And he came over and asked me to dance. He was absolutely the wildest dancer you ever saw. Actually, I think he was showing off some. Mostly I just stood there.”

“With Elvis.” I was astounded that Mitzi had never told me this before.

“There wasn’t anything about him that wasn’t going in different directions. I didn’t have any idea what I was supposed to do.”

“Just enjoy it.”

“I would now.”

“Well, have mercy, Mitzi. You dirty-boogied with the King and never said anything about it?”

“I guess so. He was just a kid, though. It’s hard to realize he’d be in his sixties now, like we are.”

“What was he like?”

“I don’t know. We just went out on the floor and he danced like crazy and that was it. To tell you the truth, I thought something was wrong with him, the way his knees bent. But he seemed nice.”

“Your fifteen minutes, Mitzi.”

“More like four long ones.”

“I’m jealous.”

“I’m jealous of myself when I think about it. There I was, eighteen and dancing with Elvis Presley. I remember thinking Elvis was a strange name and wishing that he wouldn’t wiggle quite so much.”

“Amazing.”

“Mary Alice is the one he should have gotten hold of.”

I shook my head. “Boggles my mind to think of it. He probably wouldn’t have gone on to be famous. She’d have worn the wiggle out.”

“Possibly.”

“So y’all come tonight. It’ll refresh your memories.”

“They’re fresh.”

We smiled at each other and walked along quietly for a while. Then Mitzi looked up at Red Mountain and said, “You know, Patricia Anne, on a sunny day like this, we’d be getting the full benefit of the moon. It seems so strange not to have Vulcan up there.”

“We’ll get that big bare butt back.”

We turned the corner and headed toward home. Our neighborhood is the first of the “over the mountain” suburbs, built when the word “suburbs” probably hadn’t been invented. With bedroom communities sprawling now into adjacent counties with hours of commuting time, we consider ourselves very lucky. Our houses have front porches, chain-link fences, sidewalks. And we’re ten minutes from everything, even downtown. Okay, so we’re not fancy, but we like it. And houses here seldom have “For sale” signs in the yards. Word of mouth sells them before realtors have a chance to list them. Mitzi and Arthur had recently come into a large amount of money and hadn’t even considered moving. They had added on a sunroom.

“Come in for some coffee,” I said.

“I can’t. Bridgett is bringing the baby by for me to baby-sit.”

“Tough job.”

We grinned at each other.

“Why did they wait until we were in our sixties to have babies?”

“Well, Alan and Lisa had their boys early, but I was teaching and they were in Atlanta. Believe you me, Joanna Nachman is going to be one spoiled baby.”

We had stopped in front of my driveway. Mitzi gave me a hug. “I’m so thrilled for all of you.”

“Me, too. Let me know if you want to go with us tonight.”

“If I can get Arthur up off of his behind.” She gave a little wave and headed toward her house.

I took Woofer’s leash off, gave him a couple of dog biscuits I had in my pocket, and went into the kitchen where Muffin was sitting on the table. I picked her up,
hugged her, and told her she wasn’t supposed to be on the kitchen table. She smelled like clean, healthy, sweet cat. How was I going to give her back to Haley? And how had I gotten so enamored of this cat anyway? I was a dog person. Mary Alice was the cat person. Her cat, Bubba, slept on a heating pad on her kitchen counter, which I had always thought was terrible. Granted, he was old. But on the kitchen counter? And he never moved. Several times I had been suspicious that he was dead and only the heat was keeping him flexible. Once I had even picked up his paw and let it drop, checking. Bubba had opened his eyes, yawned widely, and gone back to sleep. Now I hoped that Muffin didn’t decide she wanted to sleep on the kitchen counter. I sat down in my recliner and held her, purring loudly, against me.