Read Online Murder Boogies With Elvis by Anne George - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne George
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for some big changes.
“A switchblade,” Mary Alice said as we went up the steps. “Sounds like West Side Story, doesn’t it? With those rumbles. Sort of old-fashioned.”
“Old-fashioned, my foot. The kids at school call them flicks. And they’re easier to hide than guns.”
“You’re just full of information, aren’t you?”
“You’re full of it, too.” I expected her to swat me on the behind, but she had apparently missed the barb. I had just relaxed when she yelled, “Yaa!”
I leaped over two steps to avoid whatever my sister, who had suddenly turned into Chuck Norris, was about to do to me.
“It works, doesn’t it?” she said, smiling.
Six
“I mpregnate Marilyn?”
Fred and I were sitting at the kitchen table eating the barbecued chicken, baked beans, and potato salad without mustard (we hate potato salad with mustard in it) that I had picked up at the Piggly Wiggly on my way home. Rain was still hitting the windows and Woofer was lying under the table. I had pulled off my shoes and was rubbing him with my sock feet.
“I swear that’s what he said. He even repeated it.”
Fred frowned. “Sounds like a crazy man. I’m glad you didn’t let him in. What did Mary Alice say when you told her?”
“I didn’t tell her. I talked to Debbie, and she’d had a message from Marilyn saying not to tell her mother.”
“That some man was showing up to impregnate her?”
I helped myself to more potato salad. “Debbie’s not sure. Marilyn must have been calling from her car phone and the message was garbled. But that might have been what she was talking about.” Under the table, Woofer rolled over and gave a little sigh of pleasure as my feet massaged him. In the den, Muffin was stretched out on the sofa asleep, her head resting on a pillow.
“I’m not giving that precious cat back,” I said, pointing toward her.
“I know.” Fred wiped his hands on a paper napkin before he reached for another piece of chicken. “Did Debbie know this man?”
“No. She doesn’t have any idea what’s going on.”
The sound of the rain was steady, hypnotic. I was suddenly grateful for my warm, dry house, for the furry body beneath my feet, for the lovely man scarfing down barbecue chicken across from me. It was one of those moments that you want to save, when you realize how lucky you are.
“Well, Marilyn’s always had good sense. She can take care of herself. You don’t think this man is dangerous, do you?” Fred asked.
“He just seemed upset.”
“Well, we’ll find out what it’s all about eventually.” He took a bite of chicken and said, “Umm, that’s good. You need to get the Piggly Wiggly’s recipe, honey.”
There went the moment. I hesitated and decided not to take offense. I’ve learned in forty-one years of marriage that half the time I get mad at Fred, he has no idea what he’s said or done that could possibly have upset me. Besides, it’s hard to get mad at a man with barbecue sauce on his nose.
“Wipe your nose,” I said.
The evening continued peacefully.
We took our coffee into the den and turned on the news. We had had three inches of rain. Village Creek was flooded. Tonight’s designated challenge-the-elements reporter pointed toward the rushing water, rain pop-popping on her umbrella. “A train of rain choo-chooing from the Gulf is causing this,” the wind-blown reporter—obviously the mother of small children—explained.
Then back to the studio and the story of the murder at the Alabama Theater. Griffin Mooncloth, Elvis impersonator, killed at a benefit for the restoration of the statue of Vulcan.
A tape: Mr. Wurlitzer pointing toward the floor of the orchestra pit. “Right here. Missed smushing the organ by inches.” A look of sadness. “That would have been a great loss.”
“Lord,” Fred grumbled, clicking over to Wheel of Fortune.
“We forgot to turn off the burglar alarm today at Haley’s,” I said while Vanna was turning over three S ’s.
“A switchblade,” Mary Alice said as we went up the steps. “Sounds like West Side Story, doesn’t it? With those rumbles. Sort of old-fashioned.”
“Old-fashioned, my foot. The kids at school call them flicks. And they’re easier to hide than guns.”
“You’re just full of information, aren’t you?”
“You’re full of it, too.” I expected her to swat me on the behind, but she had apparently missed the barb. I had just relaxed when she yelled, “Yaa!”
I leaped over two steps to avoid whatever my sister, who had suddenly turned into Chuck Norris, was about to do to me.
“It works, doesn’t it?” she said, smiling.
Six
“I mpregnate Marilyn?”
Fred and I were sitting at the kitchen table eating the barbecued chicken, baked beans, and potato salad without mustard (we hate potato salad with mustard in it) that I had picked up at the Piggly Wiggly on my way home. Rain was still hitting the windows and Woofer was lying under the table. I had pulled off my shoes and was rubbing him with my sock feet.
“I swear that’s what he said. He even repeated it.”
Fred frowned. “Sounds like a crazy man. I’m glad you didn’t let him in. What did Mary Alice say when you told her?”
“I didn’t tell her. I talked to Debbie, and she’d had a message from Marilyn saying not to tell her mother.”
“That some man was showing up to impregnate her?”
I helped myself to more potato salad. “Debbie’s not sure. Marilyn must have been calling from her car phone and the message was garbled. But that might have been what she was talking about.” Under the table, Woofer rolled over and gave a little sigh of pleasure as my feet massaged him. In the den, Muffin was stretched out on the sofa asleep, her head resting on a pillow.
“I’m not giving that precious cat back,” I said, pointing toward her.
“I know.” Fred wiped his hands on a paper napkin before he reached for another piece of chicken. “Did Debbie know this man?”
“No. She doesn’t have any idea what’s going on.”
The sound of the rain was steady, hypnotic. I was suddenly grateful for my warm, dry house, for the furry body beneath my feet, for the lovely man scarfing down barbecue chicken across from me. It was one of those moments that you want to save, when you realize how lucky you are.
“Well, Marilyn’s always had good sense. She can take care of herself. You don’t think this man is dangerous, do you?” Fred asked.
“He just seemed upset.”
“Well, we’ll find out what it’s all about eventually.” He took a bite of chicken and said, “Umm, that’s good. You need to get the Piggly Wiggly’s recipe, honey.”
There went the moment. I hesitated and decided not to take offense. I’ve learned in forty-one years of marriage that half the time I get mad at Fred, he has no idea what he’s said or done that could possibly have upset me. Besides, it’s hard to get mad at a man with barbecue sauce on his nose.
“Wipe your nose,” I said.
The evening continued peacefully.
We took our coffee into the den and turned on the news. We had had three inches of rain. Village Creek was flooded. Tonight’s designated challenge-the-elements reporter pointed toward the rushing water, rain pop-popping on her umbrella. “A train of rain choo-chooing from the Gulf is causing this,” the wind-blown reporter—obviously the mother of small children—explained.
Then back to the studio and the story of the murder at the Alabama Theater. Griffin Mooncloth, Elvis impersonator, killed at a benefit for the restoration of the statue of Vulcan.
A tape: Mr. Wurlitzer pointing toward the floor of the orchestra pit. “Right here. Missed smushing the organ by inches.” A look of sadness. “That would have been a great loss.”
“Lord,” Fred grumbled, clicking over to Wheel of Fortune.
“We forgot to turn off the burglar alarm today at Haley’s,” I said while Vanna was turning over three S ’s.
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