1
The vast, flat landscape of the Mississippi Delta has given way to the rolling hills and timbered verges of the northeast region of my home state. As the limo rolls through this intriguing terrain, I listen to the happy chatter of my best friends and think how Robin Hood would thrive in these forests. The girls and I are on vacation for the Christmas holidays, and set for adventure: drinking, eating, singing, and having fun. We have left our cares back in Sunflower County. Behind us is the rich alluvial soil of the Delta. We are now in the land of the black prairie, the Appalachian foothills, the impressive Tennessee-Tombigbee Waterway, and a rhythm of life different and exciting from our norm.
Tinkie’s rented limo deposits us in front of the Hound Dog Hotel in the heart of Tupelo, Mississippi. The December morning is crystal clear and brisk, and I step into the sunshine and take a deep breath. We are here at last. My partner in the Delaney Detective Agency, Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, has arranged another Christmas adventure with our best friends.
I’m followed out of the limo by Cece Dee Falcon, journalist extraordinaire; Tinkie, a force of fashion and nature at only five foot two; and Millie Roberts, owner of Millie’s Café and mother hen of our group. The boys—my lover, Coleman Peters; Tinkie’s husband, Oscar; Cece’s main squeeze, Jaytee; and the dazzling Harold Erkwell—will join us on Thursday night for an amateur Elvis competition. We are here to compete—and partake of the fabulous Elvis impersonators who have flooded the small city.
“Sarah Booth, you act like you’ve never been out of Zinnia,” Tinkie teases me as I look around, drinking in the setting.
The Hound Dog Hotel is decorated to the teeth with strings of colorful Christmas lights—all fashioned as Elvis doing his famous swivel. A giant neon Elvis in the doorway beckons us inside. It is Christmas, but it is also Elvis. The town is abuzz with excitement.
“Let’s head to town to grab some lunch,” I suggest. Truthfully, I am eager for my first encounter with an Elvis impersonator; they are roaming the streets of Tupelo, performing on street corners, in bars, and wherever they can gain an audience. I know Cece wants some footage for the newspaper website that she and Millie contribute to with their column, “The Truth Is Out There.” It’s a genius mash-up of outlandish theories, gossip, and scandalous revelations. Sometimes true and sometimes not.
Millie, who adores reading tabloid stories of Elvis and Princess Di sightings, along with two-headed calves, crazy diets, and hysterical “revelations” of celebrity scandals, is certain she’ll really see the ghost of Elvis. I am one thousand percent in on this belief. I, too, want to see the ghost of the legendary singer.
I love Elvis. I inherited my addiction to Tupelo’s native son from my mama, who basically had an altar to the Mississippi icon. One of my best memories is sitting on the blue velvet sofa in the music room watching my parents dance to Elvis classics. I’d never heard anything more romantic than his love ballads. His appearance on TV shows—my mother had purchased the entire collection—reeked of wholesome sexuality. He was a man ahead of his time and completely unprepared to deal with the fame that dropped on him like an anvil. Generous to a fault, he was easy pickings for some of the unethical people drawn to his life.
“Look!” Millie squeals as she points out a handsome Elvis in a white jumpsuit arriving at the hotel. As bellhops load our luggage onto a cart, we rush to the Elvis. He sings a few bars of “Love Me Tender” and Millie all but swoons on the spot. The Elvis impersonator has a great voice, and he’s clearly studied the poses and postures of the real Elvis. He pulls it off flawlessly.
“I’ll be at the Copa Bar tonight,” he tells us. “Come watch the show. It’s always a good time.”
“Are you from Tupelo?” Cece asks him, making notes for her story. She’d filmed everything, and she is loving it.
“I am.” He sticks out a hand. “Tommy Beech, at your service.”
“You make a fine hunk of Elvis,” Tinkie tells him. “We’ll see you later tonight.”
“You girls have some fun.” He gives a few pelvis thrusts and heads on his way.
“My heart won’t be able to take more of that,” Millie tells us. “Whew! It’s like a dream come true. Is it possible to overdose on sexy Elvises?”
“Let’s find out,” Cece says, putting an arm around Millie. “If you fall over, smote by too much Elvis, I’ll catch you.”
“Let’s get some food,” Tinkie says, amused at all the Elvis worship. Before this vacay is over, she’ll be wearing rhinestone jumpsuits and dyeing her hair black. No one is impervious to Elvis worship.
We head down the street, drinking in the delicious atmosphere of celebration and love. Elvis may be dead, but he isn’t gone from Tupelo.
When we pass a shop filled with riding tack and fun equestrian items, I send them on their way, saying I’ll catch up. I have a gift to buy for Coleman, Sunflower County sheriff and love of my life.
* * *
I found exactly what I needed in the Rough Riders shop—a rope for Coleman to practice lassoing. Always a prankster, I’d added a werewolf head to a sawhorse for my lover to rope. While standing at the counter of the shop, I watched the street traffic race by. I counted four Elvises in the short time it took me to pay and leave. The mayor and city council had been very smart to add the Christmas Elvis festival. Normally held in June, the Elvis impersonator events proved so popular the city decided to create a Christmas-themed Elvis festival. I had to admit this weather was also much better than the blasting hot June sun. This event was going to be a financial bonanza for Tupelo. It would also be my debut as a backup singer for Cece when we performed “Blue Christmas” in the amateur division.
My friends had walked down to Cadillac Café, where the decor was centered around a pink Cadillac. I knew from my mother’s memorabilia that Elvis bought the pink Cadillac Fleetwood in 1955 and then gave it to his mother. Elvis and I shared a great love of our mothers, which was another reason I adored him.
I had suggested the Cadillac Café for lunch because of Tinkie’s fondness for all Cadillacs and also because it was likely to be a buzzing hive of impersonators! This was what we’d come to Tupelo to experience.
I caught a glimpse of an Elvis in a classic outfit cutting down a narrow alley, and I stepped off the busy street and followed. The Elvis was lost from sight, but I knew which way he’d turned. I picked up my pace, hoping for a photo, when I heard someone singing “Danke Schoen,” a song that was the calling card of the iconic Las Vegas performer Wayne Newton.
I whipped around to see Wayne—a very young version of Wayne—only five feet behind me. He wore a beautifully tailored tux and bow tie, his dark hair coiffed and his body moving to the sound of a big band as he sang. Only this was no Vegas showman—this was my nemesis.
Jitty! My haint had followed me to Tupelo. There was no escaping Jitty.
“Why Wayne Newton?” I asked her as I kept walking, hoping I could outdistance her. Of course I couldn’t. She was a ghost, so she didn’t even have to walk. She kind of glided along behind me. I could only be relieved that no one else was in the alley listening to me talk to myself. No one could see Jitty but me. When I was beset by her in a public space, I often appeared eccentric, if not downright loony, talking to myself and carrying on.
“I love Wayne,” Jitty said, still in his body and voice. “That man was smooth when he came out of the womb.”
Wayne Newton had been a child when he started his Las Vegas act. He’d been a staple there for decades. I admired him, though not with the fervor I had for Elvis.
“Point taken,” I said. “Go home.”
“And miss this fun? Not on your life. I know your mama, Libby, loved Elvis, but I actually went to some of his first shows.”
Copyright © 2024 by Carolyn Haines
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