Free Murder Boogies With Elvis by Anne George Page A

is a foot taller than I am. Unlike her mother, she is thin. She is also beautiful with naturally curly dark brown hair, olive skin, and big brown eyes. She is the exotic-looking one in our pale family; and she has always had the sense to emphasize this by wearing bright colors and long, flowing skirts.
    “She looks like a gypsy,” I’ve heard her mother complain. “And why won’t she cut her hair? It sticks out like a long black Brillo pad.” I’ve also heard Haley and Debbie wishing that they looked just like Marilyn.
    But this night she looked nothing like a gypsy. When the black raincoat came off, I saw that her hair was pulled back and caught at her neck with a barrette. She was wearing jeans, a red sweater, and running shoes, and her eyes were puffy as if she had been crying.
    “Did I scare you? I’m sorry.”
    “Just for a second.” I hung her coat on the pantry door. “Have you had any supper?”
    “I had a cheeseburger in Montgomery. Where’s Uncle Fred?”
    “Asleep in the den. Montgomery was a long time ago. Why don’t you go dry off, and I’ll fix you something to eat. We’ve got potato salad and baked beans left over. And I can grill you a cheese sandwich.”
    “That sounds wonderful.”
    Just then the phone rang.
    “If that’s Mama, you haven’t seen me. Please, Aunt Pat.”
    “Okay, honey.” But it wasn’t Mary Alice, it was the Hannah Home. Their truck would be in our neighborhood on Wednesday. I was relieved. Whatever was going on, Mary Alice was Marilyn’s mother. I didn’t want to have to keep anything from her.
    “Hey, Uncle Fred,” I heard Marilyn say. The phone must have awakened Fred.
    “Hey, sweetheart. What are you doing here?”
    “Long story. I’m going to go get dried off. I’ll tell y’all then.”
    I plugged in the grill and got the cheese, butter, and dill pickles from the refrigerator. If the coffee wasn’t still hot, I could stick a cup in the microwave. Unless Fred wanted some more, in which case I would have to make another pot. I looked in the den and saw he was already asleep again. The theme song for Millionaire was playing.
    Was Marilyn running away from Charles Boudreau? Or running to him? That was certainly a strange message I was given to pass along to her. And why didn’t she want her mother to know she was here? Why was she here?
    “It was terrible driving tonight,” she said, comingback into the kitchen. “Solid rain after I left Montgomery.” She reached over the counter and took a bite of the potato salad I had already put on her plate. “Umm. That’s good.”
    “It wasn’t raining in Pensacola? The weather lady said it was choo-chooing up from the Gulf.”
    “Not when I left.”
    “Sit down, honey. Everything’s ready.” I lifted the sandwich from the grill with a spatula. Melted cheese oozed from the side. It looked so good, I decided to fix one for myself. But first I handed Marilyn her plate and took her coffee from the microwave.
    “This looks great, Aunt Pat. Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome.” I sliced the cheese for my sandwich while Marilyn started eating. Questions could wait for a few minutes.
    Muffin strolled in and went over to her water bowl.
    “That’s Haley’s cat, isn’t it?” Marilyn asked.
    “Not anymore. Seven months gives me squatter’s rights.”
    Marilyn smiled. “I’m thrilled about Haley’s baby. Debbie told me.”
    I put my sandwich on a plate and joined her at the kitchen table. “Joanna. That’s a nice name, isn’t it?” I said it again, savoring the sound, “Joanna.”
    “It’s a beautiful name.”
    I took a bite of my sandwich, which I needed like I needed a hole in my head, but which was delicious, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Marilyn, a man named Charles Boudreau came by here today. He said he was here to impregnate you, that he would be willing, happy, ecstatic, and that he hoped it wasn’t too late.”
    Marilyn put her fork down carefully and looked at me. “Charlie was