Elvis and the Grateful Dead by Peggy Webb Page A

that looks like roadkill, but I’m too polite to ask.
    Lovie winks at me and pulls a chair close to Thaxton. “Do you enter these competitions often?”
    “Every chance I get.”
    “Then you must know a lot of the other tribute artists.”
    I see where she’s going with these questions, and I’m happy to leave the interrogation to Lovie. When I’m in the middle of hair, I like to use every ounce of concentration on making it look wonderful. That’s why people call me a hair artist instead of a mere stylist.
    When she asks about Texas Elvis, Thaxton says, “Yeah, I know George. We play cards together.”
    “Then you know him pretty well.”
    “Naw. It’s just an occasional card game. All I know is he likes cigars and Miller Lite.”
    Not a very good case for murder.
    Before Lovie can ask more, I’ve finished transforming Love Me Tender Elvis and he’s sprinting toward the stage saying he can’t be late for the competition.
    “What was his big hurry?” Lovie says.
    “Guilt?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree with George.”
    “Right now, it’s the best tree we have. Come on, Lovie.”
    By the time I’ve put the CLOSED sign on the tent flap, the competition is under way again and fans are going wild. As Lovie and I press through the crowd, she grabs my arm.
    “Somebody’s following us.”
    “Good grief, Lovie. In this madhouse, how can you tell?”
    “As Fayrene would say, it’s my ESPN .”
    Lovie jokes even when she’s scared to death, and to tell the truth, I’m not feeling so brave myself. In light of recent events I’m glad Elvis is with us, even if he’s never had to prove himself as a watchdog.

Chapter 8
Gamblin’, Lyin’, and Cheatin’
    J ack once told me petty criminals target weak people, that if I ever think I’m being followed I should act like a woman nobody in his right mind would mess with. Naturally, I said, I am , which veered us onto a different path I don’t care to remember. It’s ninety-four degrees and I’m hot enough already.
    “Lovie, on the count of three, turn around and act like you’re going to beat the tar out of somebody.”
    She doesn’t ask why (a tribute to the kind of friendship we have). I start counting and when I get to three we whirl around. Nobody I know is behind us except Beulah Jane.
    “Mercy.” She puts her hand over her heart. “You scared me to death.”
    “Sorry,” I said. “We just passed the lemonade vendor and I’m about to parch.”
    “If you don’t want lemonade, Tewanda just made a fresh batch of peach tea. I would’ve stayed to help her, but my bladder’s about to pop.” Beulah Jane heads toward the portable potties, then backtracks. “Are you all right, Lovie? I thought you went home.”
    “I decided nobody’s going to intimidate me.”
    “Well, law, if I had that kind of spunk I’d be president of the Garden Club.”
    As Beulah Jane tootles off toward the toilets, Lovie and I grab a lemonade.
    “I told you nobody was following us, Lovie.”
    “Don’t be too sure. I saw Bertha ducking behind the corn dog vendor.”
    We take off in that direction, but if Bertha really did leave off mourning dead Dick long enough to partake of the Elvis festivities, she’s blended back into the crowd, an easy thing to do since this year’s attendance has set a record—eleven thousand people.
    As Love Me Tender Elvis croons his ballad, the younger fans jam the blocked-off streets around the portable stage, screaming and throwing scarves. Veteran festival goers have moved their lawn chairs to the few bits of shade downtown Tupelo offers—the east side of Tupelo Hardware, the little park east of Reed’s Department Store, the Alley across from the historic courthouse where wrought-iron tables are set up with umbrellas, and the sparse shade of crape myrtle trees Tupelo’s beautification committee planted along Main Street and a few of its arteries.
    Lovie’s asking, “Which way now?” when my cell phone