and walk my dog toward the statue of a barefoot, teenaged Elvis wearing overalls and carrying his cherished guitar, I say a little prayer that my cousin, who has never, ever been in love, doesn’t lose herself in this new territory.
I also say a little prayer for myself. Jack and I used to call each other pet names. The sound of his voice used to make me misty-eyed. (Sometimes it still does, but I’m not going there.) If I thought I’d never have that kind of love again, I’d chop off my hair and join a nunnery.
Of course, that’s a little extreme, especially since I’d have to give up cute designer shoes. Maybe I’d just leave Mooreville and go somewhere exotic. Or at least, someplace where Jack is not.
Impersonators are lined up to get their pictures made with the bronze image of their icon, so I volunteer as cameraman. When they find out my dog is named Elvis, they invite him to be in the pictures.
Naturally he tries to steal the show. And I’ll have to say he’s succeeding. Next year maybe I’ll have him a little sequined doggie jumpsuit made.
Elvis puts on his best smile—tongue lolling out, lower lips pulled back—till Beulah Jane walks by clapping her hands.
“Listen up, Elvises! It’s time to load the bus! Chop, chop, everybody!”
As he makes a beeline for her bony ankle, I grab Elvis’ leash. “Don’t even think about it.”
The impersonators nab cameras and bulging bags from the gift shop, then rush after Beulah Jane.
Lovie strolls up wearing a big grin. “What’s the one-woman hostility committee up to now?”
“Herding the tribute artists to the bus.”
Lovie consults her watch. “We have fifteen minutes. What’s her hurry?”
“Never mind. Let her enjoy being in charge. Tell me about Rocky.”
“He’s coming to Tupelo.”
“When?”
“In a few days. He’s flying with a friend in a private plane.”
“That’s good news, Lovie.”
“Good, my foot. You can hear my vagina shouting hallelujah all the way to the state line.”
Now, that’s the Lovie I know and adore. I link my arm through hers and we head to the bus.
Beulah Jane is standing up front, her lips moving as she counts heads.
“We seem to be one Elvis short,” she tells me.
“Who’s missing?” As I scan the crowd, it doesn’t take me long to realize our missing impersonator 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
