Elvis and the Grateful Dead by Peggy Webb Page B

rings. It’s Uncle Charlie.
    “I think we’re on the right track, Callie,” he says. “There are photos on George’s Web site of him with both Brian and Dick.”
    “Could they just be three impersonators posing for the camera?”
    “No. These are candid shots. Looks like they’re in the middle of a card game.”
    “Is Thaxton Miller in them, too?”
    “Who?”
    “Love Me Tender Elvis. From Memphis. You know…the one with the baby-blue bell-bottom jumpsuit and the rhinestone belt with TCB and the lightning bolt.”
    “No,” Uncle Charlie says. “But Bertha’s in the pictures.”
    “With Dick?”
    “No. With George. And they look cozy. I’m going to keep digging.”
    After I hang up I tell Lovie the latest developments.
    “Maybe George was messing around with Bertha,” she says. “Have you had a chance to read any more of her diary?”
    “Not yet. But now we have motives for both George and Bertha. Either one of them could have killed Dick to get him out of the way.”
    “Why would either of them kill Brian?”
    “That’s what we have to find out. This way, Lovie.”
    “Where?”
    “You see that baby-blue jumpsuit? Thaxton Miller just finished his performance, and I intend to find out what he knows.”
    We catch up with him just as he finishes autographing the program from a teenaged girl dressed mostly in freckles. I swear, if her cutoff blue jean shorts ride up any higher she’ll be showing off Christmas (one of Grandmother Valentine’s many euphemisms for private body parts).
    Thaxton Miller is not too happy to see us, but since he knows we’re both working this festival, he’s too savvy to be rude. You never know who might have some influence with the judges.
    “You did a great job onstage,” I say, meaning it. “Lovie, get him a glass of iced peach tea, then meet us in the Alley.”
    It’s a miniature courtyard across the street from the historic courthouse in what was once a junky alley between a row of upscale law offices and the Stables, a popular pub and restaurant. While Lovie heads toward the refreshment booth, I lead Love Me Tender Elvis toward an umbrella-shaded table beside a heat-distressed potted geranium.
    “Thanks.” Thaxton flops into the chair across from me. “But I’ll never hold a candle to the King.”
    Judging by the way Elvis licks Thaxton’s feet, I’d say my dog agrees. Or else, Thaxton has dropped ice cream on his boots.
    Usually I’m a model of southern manners, but today I don’t have time to sit around and make polite small talk. Lovie’s future hinges on an expeditious apprehension of the real killer.
    When she slides into the chair beside me with three glasses of tea and a paper cup of water for my basset, I say, “Thaxton, when you played cards with Geroge, were Dick and Brian the other part of the foursome?”
    He looks like he’d rather be anywhere except with me discussing two dead Elvises. Still, I sense he’s also rattled about something. If George has already killed two of his card-playing buddies, could it be that Thaxton is afraid he’ll be next?
    “They were,” is all he says, and I can tell he’s going to make me work for every little bit of information I get.
    If I don’t think of a way around this stalemate, this interrogation could take all day. While I’m discarding schemes as fast as I can dream them up, Lovie says, “George was boffing Dick’s wife.”
    Thaxton’s face turns a deep shade of red, but Lovie barrels forward as if she doesn’t even notice. “Were you aware of that?”
    “Bertha would never do that.”
    Holy cow. He sounds so angry I lean back in my chair to put some space between us. Thaxton Miller suddenly looks more like a suspect than the next victim.
    What nerve did we touch? And how does he know what Bertha would do? Even more to the point, why would he defend her?
    “Do the four of you still play cards?” I ask.
    “No.”
    Could he be any more terse? What nerve did I hit now?
    “Why not?” Lovie