Now Let's Talk of Graves (31 page)

“Ruined his career, didn't it? But you remember what they said about Elvis after he died? Grown women he was with, well, maybe a little on the young side, but legal—all with the same panties.”

“I don't remember this, Ark.”

“He made 'em all wear white cotton panties.
That
was what he liked. Well, Otis had the same problem. There he was, at the pinnacle of his career, couldn't stop chasing white cotton panties.”

“That's disgraceful,” said Sam, sounding like her aunt Lona.

“Well, now, before we get all high and mighty,” said Ark, “I think we ought to think about what's on the TV these days, not to mention the movies and videos anybody can rent, walk in off the street.
Furthermore,
take a look at what's running around. Women, young and old, dressed up in high heels and short skirts and makeup? Wearing black fishnet stockings, dozens of rings in their ears, not to mention some in their noses? Tattoos on their behinds?”

“Arkadelphia! Where you been hanging out?”

“They're all over town. You just ain't been paying attention. You watch these Sacred Heart girls what they put on when they get home, out of them little plaid skirts and into their play clothes. Play! In a pig's you know what. Their mamas too. Some of them grandmamas.”

“What are you saying, Ark?”

“I'm saying old Otis had plenty of temptation. It was everywhere. And just 'cause he's a man of the cloth don't mean he was blind.”

“So what'd they catch him doing?”

“Pair of twenty-year-old twins had him tied down to a bed in a Holiday Inn with their cotton panties. Took Polaroid pictures. Sent 'em to the board of deacons.”

“And the business hit the fan.”

“Honey, they took back that Mercedes and that Cadillac and that house in River Oaks so fast it'd make your head spin.”

“Where's Aunt Stella, Ark?”

“We getting there. So anyway, that's the last of poor old Otis as a preacherman. Mary Sue divorced him on the spot. Got herself on the next plane to the Dominican Republic, paper in her hand she'd made Otis sign, saying the divorce was okay with him, giving her what little they had left. Otis dropped clear out of sight. And nobody much cared. First Corinthians Baptist Church of Houston got itself a new preacher. Old man. No flash. Just did the Old Testament fire-and-brimstone thing. Everybody's happy.”

“So?”

“So a couple years later, anybody'd who'd ever known about old Otis had done forgotten him, when these weird things started happening at Mardi Gras.”

Taking it on faith that somehow he'd bridge the gap from one part of this story to the other, Sam said, “I thought that was the
definition
of Mardi Gras.”

“Nawh. I mean
weird.
What it was was this man started appearing at fancy Carnival balls. Not like Comus, you understand, where it dudn't matter if you give 'em your right tit, pardon my French, they still won't let you in, but still real fancy ones. Like Osiris, which is especially rich. Athenians. Rex. Caliphs of Cairo—with a lot of new money.”

“Do I hear that the tinkle of coins is important here?”

“You got it. And here's the trick. This man, in the correct formal attire, top hat, cane, cape, the whole ball of wax, would get in without a wrinkle—finagled, forged invitations, nobody knew. But, anyway, there he'd be, tall and good-looking in his penguin suit, which meant he wasn't a member of the krewe—or at least he wasn't dressed for a parade or the tableaux—the best dancer on the floor, with callouts for the richest ladies.”

“Callouts? How'd he manage that?”

“Nobody knew. But these ladies, some of them fat old battleships, maiden aunts like Tante Marie, would suddenly hear their names called when they'd be least expecting it, some of them sitting around in the balcony for years without a whirl, and there on the floor waiting for them would be Prince Charming.”

Sam remembered her own expectations at the Comus ball and blushed, her tummy doing a little flip. Prince Charming. Rich Right. Isn't that who every woman waited for—sometimes her whole life long?

“Wearing an Elvis mask.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That's right. Looking like Elvis—which wuddn't so unusual, people wearing all kinds of things and Elvis is always popular—and crooning in their ears while they waltzed. Sounded
exactly
like The King. Or so said the one or two who finally talked.”

“After—”

“So, see, he danced them and romanced them, and then—he waltzed them right off the dance floor.”

“To—”

“Their houses. Where, of course, these ladies being who they were, members of these fancy families who were all at the ball, nobody was home.”

“Whereupon—”

“He'd make love to them like they'd never been made love to before.”

“I like it so far.”

“When they woke up, he have hogtied them to the bedposts.”

“Oh, no!”

“Nothing ugly, just tied up. Everything worth hauling off would be gone.”

“Ah. Jewels.”

“Jewels, especially, but paintings, too, silver—and believe me, a lot of these folks think nothing of having service for a hundred—Persian, Chinese carpets, antiques of all sort—”

“My God, did he have a truck?”

“Sure did. Would load it right up.”

“And in the midst of Carnival madness, nobody would notice.”

“Nope. And the beauty part was—”

“Nobody would tell. It was too embarrassing.”

“Absolutely! Seems like by the time Carnival was over, he'd have scored enough hits, there's
lots
of balls, to have retired for the season.”

“Spend the rest of the year on the Riviera.”

“Wherever. Oh, did I say the part about the underpants?”

“I was waiting for that little article of clothing to drop.”

“If the lady in question was more partial to nylon or silk or rayon, he'd oblige her with a pair of his favorites before the festivities began.”

“Came prepared?”

“All seemed to be a part of his seduction kit. Burglar's tools. Or if she had her own cotton, he'd help himself to a few pairs of those as he was leaving. Part of the booty.”

“This gonna lead us to Otis Dew?”

“I bet you read the last page of mysteries first.”

No, she didn't. But she was still impatient, her plea to Mam'zelle for help on that issue notwithstanding. “Sorry.”

“Well, eventually a couple of ladies 'fessed up to the little parties, and a committee was formed—”

“They didn't go to the police.”

“Child, don't be silly,” said Uncle Luther, who'd been so quiet Sam had almost forgotten he was there. “Uptown folks don't go to the
po
-lice. No more than Tante Marie goes shopping. Why wash your dirty laundry—?” And then Uncle Luther got to thinking about what that laundry might be and was carried away again by a fit of giggling.

“As I was saying,” said Ark, “a committee was formed by male relatives of the aggrieved, and they found them an investigator.”

“Aunt Stella.”

“That's right.”

“Why her, might I ask?”

“Well, she's homefolks, specializes in being discreet, and her particular attraction in this case was that she was female. For talking to the ladies, don't you know?”

“I see. And what did Stella do?”

“Well, she came and talked to those who was talking, and that number grew, let me tell you, once the ball got rolling. It got to be sort of
the thing,
don't you know, to have been kissed and robbed by Elvis—”

“Kissed?” asked Sam.

“That being the local circumlocution.” Ark sat back with his arms folded and a big grin. Proud as punch of his vocabulary and the impression it had made on Sam, whose major failing as an investigator was that she'd never managed to keep her feelings off her face.

“Anyway. She talked with all the ladies, and then, as was her way, locked herself in a room for the evening. The penthouse, I might mention, of the Pontchartrain, the committee sponsoring her being no slouch, and when she came out the next morning, which, by the way, was during Carnival season, said, I know who it is. Who? they all asked. But Stella wasn't saying.”

“Otis Dew, of course. But how'd she know?”

“Stella has her ways.”

“Come on, Ark. Don't con a con man.”

“Why, Ms. Adams”—and then Ark batted his eyes behind the thick lenses—“whatever do you mean?”

“I mean spill the beans.”

“
Well.
She had suspected him all along, I mean from the time the committee had first called on her and outlined the case.”

“Why?”

“The Elvis business. The pretty ways. The build. And, then, Stella had the additional advantage of having caught Otis's preaching routine. Besides, the boy always did love nice things. After those Texas Baptists had given him a taste for the genuine article, you don't think he was gonna go back to no Dodge Colt, no Thunderbird wine, do you? Not our Otis, with his champagne tastes. Plus—”

“Don't forget the dog,” said Uncle Luther.

“I was just getting to that, if you please.”

“The dog?”

“Aunt Stella's hound Sweetpea. She got hold of some things used to belong to Otis, then ran Sweetpea around one of them houses he robbed.”

“Wait a minute, Arkadelphia. You trying to tell me this Sweetpea could pick up a scent that was
years
old.”

“You don't know Sweetpea.”

“Yeah, but I do know a shaggy hound story when I hear one.”

Ark held up his hands. “You want me to stop, I'm willing. I got three more lawns to mow before I go pick up the bleeding and the wounded with G.T.”

Sam shook her head. “Go on.”

“You sure?”

“Arkadelphia—” There was a knife in her voice. Poised at his throat. Which was exactly the response he was craving.

He took a deep breath. “So what Stella did was, she bought herself a fancy dress and went to every ball that seemed the least bit likely after that. Looking for Elvis.”

“But you said lots of people went as Elvis.”

“That's right. So, to avoid embarrassing folks who might wear the same mask or costume, she took along Sweetpea.”

“Took the dog to the balls?”

“Listen, there are balls where elephants, gorillas, camels are real popular. Nobody's gonna pay much attention to one hound bitch.”

“If you say so, Ark. So she found Elvis.”

“Sort of.”

Sam sighed. “Just tell me.”

“That's what I'm trying to do. I guess it was the tenth or twelfth ball. And there'd been plenty of Elvises. But Sweetpea didn't even give any of them a sniff. Then, just about the time the committee was losing its patience, because they suspected he was at it again—none of this latest batch of ladies talking, but some houses a good deal emptier and a few
grandes dames
wearing some very suspicious grins—and believe me, neither the penthouse at the Pontchartrain nor Aunt Stella come cheap, when bingo! There in the midst of the dancing at Osiris, Sweetpea starts whining.

“Stella is holding her tight by her leash, and Sweetpea is pointing like crazy, but Stella can't find any Elvis anywhere. “She's all over the place, her and Sweetpea, bobbing and weaving, afraid Elvis/Otis is gonna cut out with another prize before she gets to him when, lo and behold. She sees him.”

“Elvis.” Sam couldn't help herself.

“Nope. Jerry Lee.”

“He's wearing a Jerry Lee mask?”

“Well, that's what she thought.”

“Ark, I have been very patient.”

Uncle Luther laughed. “You ain't been nothing of the kind, missy. I've seen banty roosters more patient than you, and if you've ever seen a banty—”

“What do you mean, Ark?”

“So she sights him, and she lets go of the leash. Sweetpea takes out across the dance floor, and before you know it, the man is up with the orchestra. Stumbling in and out of the saxophones and the clarinets. Put his foot through a snare drum. But not slowed down a bit. Gets up there on the stage, all mixed in with the scenery for the tableaux, and I'll be damned if Sweetpea didn't tree him.”

“There was a tree on the stage, of course.”

“A live oak tree. The theme of the ball was Tara. There were these—”