Murder Boogies With Elvis (8 page)

“He was taking a class with Dusk?”

“Not really. I think he was dating one of the girls in her class and would come down and dance with them some.”

“The paper said he was quite an outstanding dancer,” Mitzi said.

“Apparently.” Bernice wiggled her fingers at a waiter who was passing by. “Could I have some coffee, please?” She turned back. “Day has seen him dance when she’s been in New York. She said he’s the best.” A slight hesitation. “Was the best.”

“And they have no idea why he was in Birmingham dressed like Elvis?” I asked.

“Lord, no.” Bernice’s coffee arrived, and she reached for the cream. “They think it’s the craziest thing they’ve ever heard of. He was Russian, you know.”

“Well, he was here for something other than doing an Elvis impersonation,” I volunteered. “He had an appointment the next day with Debbie for some business he wanted her to help him with. An appointment he didn’t keep, obviously.”

Bernice frowned. “Mary Alice’s daughter Debbie? The lawyer?”

I nodded. “She didn’t have any idea what it was about.”

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter much now.” Bernice gave a small shrug. “How are both of your husbands?”

“Just fine.”

“I heard Arthur got shot, Mitzi, but that he’s all right.”

“Couldn’t sit down for a few weeks.”

“Mama?” Day Armstrong approached the table. She
resembled her mother, tall, willowy, blond. I remembered Marilyn saying that Debbie had been in school with Day, which would make her in her mid-thirties. She looked ten years younger.

Bernice glanced up in alarm. “Something wrong?”

“Dusk called me on my cell phone just as I got in my car. She says she’s feeling terrible.”

“Oh, my. I was scared I shouldn’t have left her. She was too quiet. Did she give any specifics?”

“Just that she’s sick.” Day turned to us. “Hi, ladies.”

We nodded. Bernice got her purse that was hanging on the side of her chair and stood up. “Why didn’t she call me?”

“She said she tried to.”

“I’ll bet I don’t have the damn thing turned on. Well, you go on back to work, honey. I’ll go see about her and let you know. Bye, y’all.”

“Let us know, too, Bernice,” Mitzi said.

She nodded. “Bye, y’all.” She and Day hurried out.

“It doesn’t matter how old your children are, does it?” Mitzi said.

“No. Thirty years from now, Haley will still panic if anything is wrong with Joanna.”

We smiled at each other.

“Want another orange roll?” Mitzi asked.

“I’ll half one with you.”

E-mail from: Haley

Mama and Papa

Subject: Happy. Happy.

Just think. This is one of my last e-mails from Warsaw, y’all. We’re flying KLM to Atlanta and then Delta to Birmingham. The flight gets there just in time for supper, and I
want fried chicken and biscuits and milk gravy. I know that’s terrible, but I can just taste it. Morning sickness isn’t getting me down at all, Mama. Obviously. In fact, I’ve already gained four pounds.

We’ve still got a lot of packing to do and friends to say good-bye to. There’s so much about this place that I love and will miss. But I’ll be HOME!

I e-mailed Freddie and Alan about the baby, and they both e-mailed back that you had called them and how happy they are for us. Maybe this will give Freddie some ideas.

Got to go. Just think, y’all. April.

I love you,

Haley

There was one more e-mail. Martha Stewart and I have become good friends since I signed on to her website. I get nice chatty notes from her about big cookie cutters and nesting rabbit dishes. When I retired from teaching, Sister gave me a subscription to
Martha Stewart Living,
saying it would perk up my appetite and maybe I would gain some weight.

Well, to give Martha credit, the pictures do perk up my appetite, but Fred drew the line when I served him lettuce and herb soup declaring that men didn’t eat boiled lettuce. Actually, I thought it was right tasty.

Today Martha was telling me what fun the children would have drawing on the windows with her crayons, easily removed with window cleaner. Ha!

While I had the computer open, I looked to see if there was a website for Griffin Mooncloth. There wasn’t. I clicked on to the New York City Ballet. He was listed, but not as one of their principal dancers. Hmm.

I glanced at the clock. It was two-thirty. Marilyn would be at UAB. I wondered what they would tell her, what she would decide. I wondered if Dusk Armstrong was all right and who had killed Griffin Mooncloth and why. I wondered if it would freeze tonight and ruin the peach crop.

The only thing to do was to take a nap, which I did, with Muffin curled beside me on the sofa and the afternoon sun dimming through the kitchen window.

W
hile I was out walking Woofer, Marilyn called and left a message that everything was okay and that she would fill me in on the details later. She was eating supper out so I shouldn’t worry. She knew where the key was.

It was freezing outside and the clouds had lowered again. If it weren’t March, I could have sworn that it was going to snow. I brought Woofer inside, and he immediately lay down on the heat vent. Muffin, as always, was delighted to have him in the house. She rubbed against him adoringly; he sighed and put up with her attentions.

I turned on the early news to hear the weather report. Thirty-four degrees tonight with wraparound clouds from the cold front that had come through. No precipitation. All of those extensive green blobs on the radar
were virga, the weatherman explained, precipitation evaporating before reaching the ground.

I was considering a hot bubble bath when the phone rang.

“Bring garlic bread,” Sister said and hung up.

Fred came in the back door, kissed me on the neck, and got a beer out of the refrigerator.

“It’s not supposed to snow, is it?” he asked.

“Not according to the weatherman. Did you have a good day?”

“Fine. Has Marilyn gone?”

“She’s having supper out. And we’re having steaks at Sister’s. Don’t forget that Sister doesn’t know Marilyn’s here.”

“I know nothing. Is Henry bringing the hors d’oeuvres?”

“Probably.”

Henry Lamont, Debbie’s husband, is a chef at one of Birmingham’s finest country clubs. Fred loves Henry’s cooking so much that I think if he hadn’t asked Debbie to marry him, Fred would have gotten his shotgun out.

“Good.” He took a swig of his beer. “Hear any more from Haley?”

“We got an e-mail. I printed it and put it with the rest of the mail on the desk.”

“Good girl.” He slapped me on the behind.

I slapped him back on his and went to look in the freezer to see if we had a loaf of garlic bread.

Three cars were already parked in Mary Alice’s circular driveway, and lights glowed from all of the downstairs windows.

“Looks like a sure enough party,” Fred said. “I thought it was going to be a little family cookout.”

“Virgil’s kids and Debbie and Henry. We’re getting
to be a pretty big family.” I stepped from the car and admired the house, which I think is one of the most beautiful in Birmingham. Sister has always wanted a house like Tara with columns and a veranda. This house fit its setting, though. Elegant and sturdy.

Something damp hit my face. I held out my hand and looked toward the porch light. “Fred, I think it’s snowing.”

“Couldn’t be snow. It’s way above freezing.”

I wasn’t so sure.

Sister opened the door before we knocked. She was dressed in a purple velour pantsuit, and the porch light made her hair look more golden than usual. Or maybe she had made a trip to Delta Hairlines today. She thrust out her hand. “You got the garlic bread?”

“And a good evening to you, too, dear sister-in-law. What a pleasure it is to see you this evening and don’t you look lovely.” Fred handed her the sack. “We stopped by the Piggly Wiggly and got two loaves.”

“Fool.” She took the sack and hurried down the hall. “Y’all come in,” she called over her shoulder.

“Southern hospitality,” Fred said. “May I take your coat, dear?”

“Yes, you may, dear, and then I’ll take yours.” We grinned at each other. I hung the coats in the hall closet, and we went back to the den.

Five people were gathered in front of the fire. Debbie, Tammy Sue, and a girl we hadn’t met were seated on the sofa. Larry Ludmiller and Buddy Stuckey were standing with their backs to the fire. Larry had on a plaid shirt and khaki pants and his black hair was combed back, lessening the Elvis look. Buddy, however, had on a black turtleneck and black jeans. His hair was combed Elvis style and his full lips curled on
one side when he greeted us. Elvis himself couldn’t have done it any better.

Debbie stood up, hugged us, and made the introductions. The girl was Olivia Ludmiller, Larry’s sister. Olivia was thin, pale, and didn’t seem to care whether she met us or not. She said, “Hello,” and went back to studying her fingernails.

“Where’s Henry?” Fred asked. God forbid that Henry and his food not be present.

“He’s running a little late. I brought the hors d’oeuvres, though, Uncle Fred.” Debbie pointed toward a game table in the corner of the room. “I was helping Mama and forgot to put them over here.”

“I’ll get them,” Fred offered. I hoped the plates were full.

“Maybe I’d better go in the kitchen and see what I can do to help,” I said.

“The person who needs help is Daddy.” Tammy Sue pointed to the patio where a bundled figure huddled over a grill.

“I offered,” Buddy said.

Fred put a plate of what he calls “pinwheel patties” on the coffee table, helped himself to two of the patties, and walked to the French doors. “That’s Virgil out there?”

“Mr. Macho himself.” There was a slightly unpleasant tone in Buddy’s voice. Tammy Sue gave him a hard look.

“Well, hell, it’s snowing.” Fred put both of the patties in his mouth, opened the door, and went out to join Virgil. Just then, Tiffany, the Magic Maid, came in from the kitchen. Tiffany is supposed to work for a maid service, but she spends more and more of her time at Mary Alice’s. Tonight she had on red capri
pants and a tight red-and-white striped sweater. Her blond hair was French-braided. Tiffany is twenty-three. Need I say more?

“I’m taking drink orders,” she announced as both Larry and Buddy snapped to attention. “Hey, Mrs. Hollowell. I know you want Coke, and you do, too, Debbie, since you’re breast-feeding. Brother. But what about the rest of you?”

“You got any vodka?” Buddy asked.

Tiffany gave him an are-you-kidding look. “We got everything, Bud.”

“Buddy,” he corrected her.

“He wants it with orange juice,” Olivia said, marking her territory.

“And so does Larry,” Tammy Sue said. “I’ll have white wine.”

Tiffany smiled. “We got plenty of beer. Sure you hadn’t rather have that? Light, of course.”

Debbie and I glanced at each other. This was going to be a long evening.

“Mary Alice and Daddy have been telling us about the wedding,” Tammy Sue said after Olivia had also opted for white wine. “It’s really quick, isn’t it? They only met a couple of months ago.”

So that was why Mary Alice was hiding in the kitchen and Virgil was freezing on the patio. Tammy Sue had been expecting the news, but when it came, the news hadn’t gone over well.

Tammy Sue turned to Debbie. “What do you think about it?”

“I think it’s fine. There’s plenty of room at Elmwood for three more husbands.”

“No, there’s not,” I said. “Fred and I have been offered two of the plots and we’ve accepted.”

“What?” Tammy Sue looked from Debbie to me to see if we were serious.

“All of Mama’s husbands are buried at Elmwood together,” Debbie explained sweetly. “My daddy was the second one.”

“All?” Tammy Sue chewed on a cuticle.

“Just three.”

Tammy Sue looked so alarmed that I took pity on her. “They were all a lot older than Sister,” I explained.

Tiffany came in with the drinks and then passed the hors d’oeuvres around. “Mrs. Crane said to tell you that we’ll eat when Henry gets here. He just called and said it would be about a half hour.”

“We don’t have to wait on Henry,” Debbie said. “The steaks will be cold.” She pointed toward Fred and Virgil on the patio.

Tiffany offered me a pinwheel patty. “The steaks aren’t on yet. Sheriff Stuckey’s just warming up the grill.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Well, Virgil could get pneumonia if he wanted to, but Fred wasn’t going to. I put my Coke on the coffee table and went out to the patio to tell Fred to come in right this minute. The two of them were huddled over the open grill.

“Larry said he couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman,” Virgil was saying.

Fred looked up and saw me. “Hey, honey. Virgil was just telling me that Larry caught a glimpse of the person who stabbed the Russian guy. The only problem is Larry’s about blind without his glasses.”

“Hey, Patricia Anne.” The hood of Virgil’s jacket was tied under his chin, making his face look as round as a baby’s.

“Y’all come in. It’s freezing out here. You could cook these steaks in the kitchen, you know.”

Virgil closed the grill. “I guess we’d better. What’s Mary Alice doing?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t come out of the kitchen.”

Virgil sighed. “I’d better go see about her.”

“Did y’all have a fight?” my tactful Fred asked.

“I’m not sure. We told my kids to come a little early, so we could tell them we were getting married and what the plans were, and they said they didn’t think it was a good idea, and Mary Alice said, ‘Tough titty,’ or something like that, and Buddy said they’d better leave, and I said, ‘Hell, no, you’re not leaving. I spent sixty dollars on these steaks. You’re going to eat them if it kills the king.’ And Mary Alice went in the kitchen and said I didn’t take up for her.”

“Well, they sound like great steaks,” Fred said. I gave him
the
look.

“They are,” Virgil agreed.

“I’ll go see about Mary Alice,” I said. “Y’all come on in by the fire. What do you want to drink, Virgil? I know Fred wants beer.”

“Anything.” Virgil looked grateful. “Find out how mad she is and what I did wrong, will you, Patricia Anne?”

“That’ll be the day,” Fred said, pushing his luck.

Mary Alice was standing at the kitchen island crumbling bacon bits over a huge bowl of spinach salad when I came in.

“Don’t you say a word,” she said. “I’m sick and tired of being nice and sweet.”

“God forbid.” I stopped at the counter and petted Bubba Cat who was asleep on his heating pad. I picked
up one of his legs slightly and let it fall. He opened one eye and glared at me. Good, he was still alive. One of these days that cat is going to pass on to his heavenly feline reward, and no one is going to know for days.

Tiffany came in, glanced at us, and disappeared back into the dining room.

“I kowtowed to three husbands.” Sister went to the sink and turned on the water. “Well, no more. I don’t have to kowtow to anybody, certainly not to somebody who won’t take up for me.”

The idea of Mary Alice kowtowing to any of her husbands was laughable. If she lifted her finger, each of the three had jumped to do her bidding. Now didn’t seem to be the time to argue with her though.

She soaped her hands viciously. “Who wants to be Elvis’s stepmother anyway? Now that’s just tacky.”

She had a point there.

“And them acting like their father had lost his mind because he wants to marry me.”

“Well, it was a shock to them. Tammy Sue seemed real nice the other night at the Alabama. How did you break the news to them anyway?”

Sister ripped a paper towel from the holder to dry her hands. “They came in and Virgil said something like ‘Kids, the good Lord has seen fit to bring Mary Alice and I together, and we think the best thing we can do is make it legal.’”

“Mary Alice and me,” I corrected.

Sister scowled at me. “Don’t hand me any of that English teacher shit, Mouse.”

“Well, he ought to know better than to say ‘bring I.’”

“He could have said the whole thing better, if you ask me. And every one of them looked at me like I was
a big bug or something, and the Elvis guy even said, ‘You’re kidding. I don’t think this is a good idea, Daddy.’” She wrung the paper towel as if it were a chicken’s neck. “The pissant.”

“What did Virgil say then?”

“He said ‘Y’all come on in. We’ll talk about it.’ He didn’t say kiss my foot about how it was our business, not theirs.” She slammed her hand down on the counter so hard that Bubba actually moved. “Lord, I wish Mama hadn’t taught us to be polite. You know what else I wish?”

I shook my head.

“You’re not going to believe this, but sometimes I wish we were Yankees, Mouse. A Yankee would have just booted them out of her house with a clear conscience, and more power to her.”

“Did Virgil talk to them anymore? Tell them he loved you, not just that God wanted you to make it legal stuff?”

“I don’t know what he said. I came in the kitchen.” She propped against the counter. “And that Olivia Ludmiller wearing patent-leather shoes—and it was way after five o’clock. Did you notice that, Mouse?”

I had.

“Virgil came pussyfooting in and said he was going to light the grill to warm it up, and I said fine and handed him some matches. I wasn’t about to tell him there’s a perfectly good grill in here. Let him freeze.” There was a hint of a smile on Sister’s face. “What’s going on in the den?”

“Debbie and Tiffany are holding their own. And I hate to tell you, but I told Fred and Virgil to come in. I think there are a few flakes of snow falling.”

“That’s okay.” Sister squared her shoulders. “I’m
going to go in there and be the proper hostess. You remember Glenn Close in
Sarah, Plain and Tall
? She was from New England wasn’t she?”