Several of the impersonators snicker, but the sheriff remains straight-faced. A local who gets his gas as well as his fish bait at Gas, Grits, and Guts, he knows Fayrene is the queen of malapropisms.
“When was the last time you saw Bertha?”
“I just told you,” Fayrene says.
“Before tonight.”
“It was three weeks ago. At the dentist’s. I was just getting ready to go under Anastasia.”
The mayor and his wife are choking on their Prohibition Punch, and Italian Elvis is frantically consulting his pocket translation guide.
The sheriff turns to me. “Was Bertha on the guest list?”
“Yes,” I say, “but she called early this morning to say she couldn’t come.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said she was sick.”
“Did she sound sick?”
Good grief, what am I now? A doctor?
“She wasn’t coughing and I didn’t detect any nasal stuffiness, but she could have had an upset stomach. I really can’t say.”
The sheriff walks off to consult Deputy Rakestraw while Fayrene sits there looking miffed. Probably because the sheriff didn’t take her word as gospel. Mama goes over to lend Fayrene moral support.
Meanwhile Sheriff Trice comes up to me and asks for a private room to question Lovie. What would he do if I told him I didn’t allow the enemy into my private quarters? Put me in jail, probably.
I lead them into my kitchen, which is Lovie’s natural habitat. If she’s going to be the prime suspect just because she was dancing with the deceased, the least I can do is give her an edge during the interrogation.
“Can I sit in for the interrogation?” It’s my house. I don’t see why not.
“I’m sorry. This one has to be in private.”
Before I close the kitchen door I see Lovie reaching for a chocolate éclair. She’s going to be all right.
That’s what I’m telling myself when Mama and Fayrene walk in and catch me still standing at the kitchen door.
“Are you eavesdropping?” When I tell Mama no, she says, “Why not?”
She and Fayrene grab two of my crystal glasses off the coffee table, dump the leftover wine into my potted peace lily, then proceed to put the rim to the kitchen wall.
I grab a glass and follow suit. But not before I lock the front door so we won’t get caught. Listen, if this was the worst thing I’d ever done, I’d be nominated for sainthood. And we all know that’s not going to happen.
“Did you notice anything strange when you were dancing with Dick?” I hear the sheriff asking Lovie.
“No. Not at first. The music was loud, rock ’n’ roll, and I was really into it.”
“You said not at first.”
“Yes. I thought something was amiss when he began to lean heavily on me. Then I realized he wasn’t gyrating to the beat.”
“What was Dick doing?”
“I’m no doctor, but I’d say he had a seizure of some kind.”
“You’re in charge of the food here. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I always cater the Valentine parties.”
“What about the festival? Are you in charge of the refreshment booth?”
“Not really. The officers of the Elvis fan club are in charge of it.”
“That would be…”
“Beulah Jane Ball, Tewanda Hardy, Clytee Estes, and James Holman.”
“Who provided the food for the booth?”
Holy cow! It’s Lovie, of course. Any southerner worth his salt who wants the best always uses Lovie’s Luscious Eats.
The sheriff is building a case for murder right in my kitchen. And all I can do is stand outside the door and wait.
Mama, of course, has other ideas. “I’m going to march in there and snatch him bald-headed.”
She grabs the door handle and I pull her back in the nick of time. Putting my finger to my lips, I lean in to pick up the thread of interrogation.
“Did you know Dick before this festival?”
“Yes,” Lovie says. “He delivers my mail.”
“Is that all he delivers?”
There’s a long pause, which means something’s up. Probably something I’m not going to like.
“We were lovers.”
Lovie tells me everything. Why didn’t I know about Dick?
“But that was a long time ago, before he married Bertha,” she’s saying. “Until this festival, I hadn’t seen nor spoken privately to Dick in six months.”
“So he jilted you?”
“No. He did not.”
“The two of you broke up and you had hard feelings.”
“The only beef I have against Dick Gerard is that he scatters my mail all the way from Church Street to Highland Circle.”
Chairs scrape against my kitchen floor, and we jump into action. I put the telltale glasses on a tray on the coffee table, then race to unlock the front door while Fayrene grabs a book off the shelves and pretends to be reading. Mama plops onto the piano bench and starts belting out “Suspicious Minds.”
Leave it to Mama. Sheriff Trice, who knows his Elvis, glares at her, but she just winks and keeps on warbling. Normally her voice is pure as rain, but considering the kind of pressure we’ve suffered this evening, she’s considerably off-key.
The sheriff comes over to me and says, “Callie, can you point out that Confederate jasmine bush?”
I lead him back to the courtyard and point out the bush. While the deputies search for clues and gather food and drink samples, Uncle Charlie pulls Sheriff Trice aside to request that the guests be allowed to leave.
Very few people can get by with telling the law how to do their job, but everybody has deep respect for Uncle Charlie, including Sheriff Trice.
“B. B. King is in concert tonight at the Elvis Festival,” Uncle Charlie tells him. “It’s a pity for all these people to miss it if they don’t have to. Especially our international guests.”
“They’re free to go.”
“And my daughter?”
While his deputies are loading up the food samples and little plastic bags of whatever evidence they’ve found, the sheriff puts his hand on Uncle Charlie’s arm. “Mr. Valentine, with two impersonators dead on the same day and both of them in their prime, we’ll treat this as a criminal case until the autopsy shows otherwise. Right now we don’t have enough evidence for an arrest, but I’d appreciate it if you’ll see that your daughter doesn’t leave Lee County.”
With those chilling words, Sheriff Trice and his deputies get into their patrol cars and leave. In short order my house and grounds are clear of everybody except family.
Gathered on the front porch watching the last of the blue lights flash down the street, we don’t say anything.
Lovie is suspected of murder. It’s like having a big pink elephant in the porch swing. We all know it’s there, but nobody wants to be the one to acknowledge it.
Finally