Free Elvis and the Grateful Dead by Peggy Webb Page B

on this earth, but also because he sometimes takes my dog fishing and lets Elvis sample the fish bait.
    He bends down to scratch Elvis’ ears. “I was going to call you, dear heart. You heard about Lovie?”
    “Beulah Jane told me they grilled her and took food samples. I wonder what they’re looking for.”
    “The detectives are waiting on toxicology reports. If Jack were here we’d know more.”
    Uncle Charlie thinks Jack can turn water to wine. Well, sure, they fish together and tell the same jokes and get along like father and son, but I don’t see how that translates into Jack being the answer to all our prayers.
    Someday I’m going to ask Uncle Charlie why, but now is not the time.
    “We don’t need Jack,” I tell him, and Mama gives me this look like she’s the queen of some small country and I’ve committed high treason and might get my head chopped off. “We just need to find out who did it. And fast.”
    “Here comes Fayrene.” Mama motions her friend to the white camp chair. “Maybe she can help.”
    Dressed in lime-green slacks and blouse, Fayrene looks like a cucumber. I mean that in the best way. Cucumbers are a personal favorite of mine.
    “Whatever it is, of course I can help. I have ESPN.” Fayrene plops down beside Mama. “I don’t even need a weatherman to tell me when the barium pressure is high. I can tell just by my ultrasensory precipitations.”
    “Great,” Mama tells her. “You got your dancing shoes?”
    “Right here.” Fayrene pats a purse the size of the Grand Canyon, then jerks her mirror out and fluffs up her hair. “I swear, Jarvetis was so mad this morning I couldn’t half pimp.”
    Translation: primp. And what in the world was Jarvetis mad about? Surely not the dancing. He’s the mildest-mannered man I know. He didn’t even get angry when Fayrene sold his favorite bird dog in a fit of revenge over his adding pickled pig’s lips to the inventory without consulting her. She thought nobody would buy them, and they’ve turned out to be her next to highest-selling item, running a close second to boiled peanuts.
    I remind myself to ask Mama. Jarvetis and Fayrene are Mooreville’s Desi and Lucy, Bogart and Bacall, George and Gracie—so famous as a couple I can’t imagine Gas, Grits, and Guts with only one of them.
    Lovie arrives with a basket of food and proceeds to serve hunks of chocolate cherry cake, her favorite remedy for trouble, guaranteed to take your mind off everything except murder.
    The crowd has thinned because of the heat, and nobody’s near the T-shirt booth. It’s the perfect time to discuss our private investigation.
    I put my half-eaten cake aside and look straight at Fayrene, Mooreville’s Mouth. Which is the unmitigated truth, no matter how much I like her. “Everything that’s said in this booth stays in the booth.”
    “Cross my heart and hope to outlive Jarvetis,” she says.
    Things at Gas, Grits, and Guts must be worse than I thought.
    “Lovie, did you bring the rhinestone hairpins?” I ask.
    She pulls them out of her pocket while I tell where we found them, leaving out the part about the first one being behind the tea olive instead of the Confederate jasmine. I don’t want to hurt Fayrene’s feelings.
    The great thing about loyal family and friends is you don’t have to explain things, like why you didn’t turn evidence over to the cops.
    “I knew I saw Bertha behind that bush,” Fayrene says.
    “This is still not proof she killed Dick,” I say. “It’s a common type you can buy at Walmart. Anybody at the party could have lost it.”
    “I have one just like it,” Lovie says, which is news to me. Bad news, and all the more reason I’m glad we withheld evidence. “I discovered it this morning when I was rambling through my bathroom drawers looking for a ponytail holder.”
    “You have a set?” Mama asks.
    “No. I guess I lost one. I have no idea where.”
    Even worse.
    “Oh, pshaw!” Fayrene waves her hand about.