LITMIR.BIZ

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      He’s quite a scholar and always quotes Shakespeare, especially in time of stress. That’s his way of telling us to be still and let the law catch the killer.

      “Ruby Nell, are you ready to go?” Uncle Charlie’s talking about the blues concert, which is this evening’s main event at the Elvis Festival.

      “I’m always ready, Charlie.”

      If I needed any proof that Mama meant her double entendre, all I have to do is look at her wicked grin.

      In his courtly way, Uncle Charlie offers Mama his arm. “Relax, dear hearts. We’re going to hold our heads high and get through the rest of the festival in true Valentine fashion.”

      After Uncle Charlie and Mama leave, Lovie and I make a beeline for the Prohibition Punch. I guess you could say that when true Valentine fashion was passed around, I was at a fifty-percent-off sale looking for Juicy Couture shoes and Lovie was in the bedroom searching for the right man to appreciate her holy grail.

      Elvis strolls through the doggie door with Hoyt trailing along behind. I remove my basset’s wig and bow tie, then give them both a doggie treat.

      Lovie says a word that sends Hoyt scurrying under the table.

      “What?” I put the box of Milk-Bone back on the shelf, then refill our glasses.

      “You know what this means, Callie?”

      “We’ll have hangovers?”

      “We’ve got to find the real killer.”

      She’s right, of course. With one successful (more or less) bit of detective work behind us, we’re primed to sleuth. And I know just where to start.

      Chapter 4

      Rhinestones, Half-Baked Plans, and Moaning Strangers

      Grabbing flashlights (which I have two of, thanks to Jack Jones, who believes in always being prepared), I drag Lovie back to the courtyard.

      “We’re not supposed to cross the crime scene tape,” she says.

      “How are we going to find clues if we don’t?”

      “The deputies already searched there.”

      “Everybody in Lee County knows Fayrene doesn’t know a Confederate jasmine from a warthog. Besides, everybody’s already tromped all over my courtyard. What will two more hurt?”

      “You know what I always say.”

      Lovie and I give each other the high five while we chant, “If nobody sees you, you didn’t do it.” Then we clamber over the yellow tape.

      On our hands and knees, we train flashlights onto every inch of ground except that around the Confederate jasmine. In spite of the sophistication I have single-handedly brought to Mooreville—candles banked on the tables (which the sheriff’s deputies already snuffed out) and white lights strung around every bush and tree—there’s not enough illumination to find clues on the ground in the dark without added light.

      I adore being in my gardens, especially at night. I’ve made sure the artificial lights don’t overpower nature. Nothing is more soothing than lying in my Pauley’s Island hammock watching the stars and moon, reveling in the beauty and power of the universe. Everything is in perspective then, life’s tribulations reduced to a speck of dust.

      Except murder, of course. And maybe those involving Jack. Whom I would give my eyeteeth to see right now.

      In spite of his flaws—which are legion—he had a way of making me feel safe. And still does when I’m not too mad at him to notice. I don’t know. Sometimes the only reason you can breathe is that somebody holds you close and says everything is going to be all right.

      Which brings me back to the current dilemma. If I thought losing Lovie to a split-level in Las Vegas and three children would be tough, what about losing her to Parchman Penitentiary and prison chef?

      Behind me there’s a crash. Training my flashlight in that direction, I see Lovie sprawled on the ground under my tea olive.

      I race over to pull her up. No easy task. “Are you all right?”

      “I will be if I can get out of this ant bed.”

      While I brush dirt and twigs off the seat of her skirt, she says a word that’s good practice for being a hardened criminal.

      “Did they bite you?”

      “Are you kidding? After being crushed by this ass the little suckers are down there burying their dead.” She plops into a chair. “I’m not built for squatting. You’ll have to look for clues by yourself.”

      So far I’ve turned up nothing except a half-buried chew toy. Elvis’s work, I’m sure. He’s so determined not to share with Hoyt, he deprives himself of the pleasure of his doggie toys by trying to put them six feet under.

      I’m beginning to think this search is hopeless, that Fayrene made up the Bertha-behind-the-bush story to get in the limelight. But I don’t say this to Lovie. She needs to think we’re making progress in clearing her name.

      Elvis, who reads minds and knows when somebody’s hurting, prances over to Lovie and licks her foot, then joins me and starts nosing under the tea olive. Dropping to one knee, I shine my flashlight in his direction.

      “I found something.” Scooping it up, I sit beside Lovie and hold out my palm. Resting inside is a rhinestone hairpin.

      She leans forward to inspect it. “Do you think it belongs to Bertha?”

      “It could be. There’s only one way to find out.”

      “Find out where she lives, then break and enter.”

      Lovie and I slap palms. Lucky for us, Lovie dated “Slick Fingers” Johnson, who was always one step ahead of the law. One of the many things she learned from him was how to pick locks.

      I change into a black outfit cat burglars would wear while Lovie changes into the jeans and navy T-shirt she brought; then we search the telephone book looking for Dick Gerard’s address. There are two Richards and two Dicks. The only problem is we don’t know which one is the dead Dick.

      “We’ll just have to call and find out.” I glance at the clock. It’s not quite ten, still early enough to call without being impolite.

      “If we use your phone or either of our cell phones, anybody with caller ID can finger us.”

      There Lovie goes again, speaking in film noir. When we accidentally got into detective work via the Bubbles Caper, she started sounding like Dick Powell in Farewell, My Lovely and Humphrey Bogart in Dark Passage. Of course, this is not surprising since one of our favorite pastimes is kicking back with a big bowl of buttered popcorn, watching the classic movies on TV. Hers or mine. It doesn’t matter as long as we watch together.

      Now here we are, up to our necks in murder again, formulating a plan as we race to Gas, Grits, and Guts to use the pay phone outside.

      The plan is for me to make the calls because Lovie’s Luscious Eats is all but famous and so is her sexy drawl. Think Kathleen Turner with a Marlene Dietrich twist. The cover story is that I’m doing a feasibility study for Ole Miss regarding a continuing education course on global warming at the Tupelo campus. Lovie wanted to make it a Masters and Johnsons type of survey, but common sense (mine) prevailed.

      As I wheel my monster truck into the parking lot, I notice Fayrene’s husband, Jarvetis, through the plate-glass windows. Thank goodness he’s the one closing the store tonight instead of his wife, who would barrel out bent on sniffing out our mission. Even worse, she’d want to help. Like Mama, Fayrene doesn’t know the meaning of discreet.

      I park as far away from the door as I can get. As I get out of the truck, I hear the distant rumble of thunder. My gardens need rain, the farmers need rain, everybody needs rain except two amateur detectives who have enough

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