by Peggy Webb
“In my closet.” Mama doesn’t blink an eye, just sits there like he’s not holding evidence of hanky panky. If I think about it too much, I’m liable to get my first gray hair, so I don’t. As a stylist, I strive to set the standard for hair beauty.
Mr. Whitenton mumbles something that sounds like hello but could be goodbye, then hurries back to his room. A guilty action if I ever saw one.
But I’m not even going to ask what he’s doing with her shoes and why they have connecting doors. When Mama wants to keep things from you, you could put her through the Spanish Inquisition and she still wouldn’t tell you the truth.
I decide to take the roundabout approach. “Why aren’t you rooming with Fayrene?”
“That’s my business.”
I’d beg to differ since I’m the one subsidizing her trip, but I’m partial to peace. I just take out my natural bristle brush and start brushing her hair.
The upside is that Mama’s dancing habit is much cheaper than her gambling habit. At the rate I’m saving money, I can hire a manicurist, at least part time. The only problem is finding somebody to fit smoothly into Mooreville society. Translated, that’s my beauty shop, Mooreville Feed and Seed, the video store, and Gas, Grits, and Guts—our one and only convenience store, owned by Fayrene and her husband, Jarvetis Johnson.
Another reason I don’t confront Mama about the telltale connecting door is that I really would like a peaceful weekend. I need to sit back and breathe, relax, and think about which direction I’m going.
It’s funny how I can be so certain of the future of Hair.Net (first a manicurist, then a tanning bed and spa) and so uncertain of my personal future. I know what I want: a home, a husband and children to love. The problem is, I don’t know how I’m going to achieve that ideal.
A part of me wants to go backward and try to fix whatever went wrong with Jack. (How do you forget seven years of marriage?) But another part wants to move forward with Champ. He’s uncomplicated and totally reliable and very good looking in a burnished blond sort of way. All the things Jack is not.
Not that Jack’s not handsome. He is, but in a dark, dangerous way.
You’d think the choice would be simple. But it appears I’m the kind of woman who can’t resist putting her hand in the fire.
“Callie, do you think this color makes me look younger?” Mama fluffs her hair and turns to view herself in the mirror.
I’m relieved to be jerked out of my problems and into Mama’s vanities.
“At least fifteen years,” I tell her, which is no lie.
Mama hugs me, and I figure you can’t get a better start to a relaxing weekend than that. After wishing her good luck at tonight’s dance competition, I head toward the elevator to join Lovie and Elvis in the lobby. If I’m lucky I might catch the tail end of the duck parade.
I’m just getting in the elevator when my cell phone rings. It’s Lovie.
“Callie, come quick. Elvis is in the fountain.”
“Is he hurt?”
“No, it looks like he’s trying to steal the show from the Peabody ducks. But hurry. He’s creating a sensation and I can’t get him out.”
So much for my quiet weekend. When you think about it, though, tranquility is highly overrated.
Chapter 2
Memorable Performances, Mama’s Mambo, and Murder
I hurry from the elevator hoping to get Elvis out of the fountain before the manager notices and throws us all out. A huge crowd hampers my progress. Fortunately I’m tall enough to see over many of them, especially in my red Kate Spade sling-back heels.
Listen, just because I’ve been traveling is no reason to let beauty and style slip. I’m in an elegant, historic national landmark as well as one of the ritziest hotels in the South—Tennessee’s answer to the Paris Ritz and the London Savoy. I’m not about to let anybody say folks from Mooreville, Mississippi, population 651 and suburb of the King’s Tupelo birthplace, don’t know style from a cow patty.
Craning my neck, I search for Lovie. She’s usually easy to spot. A hundred-and-ninety-pound bombshell with abundant red hair, she stands out. Not today, though. In this milling, chattering crowd, my dearest friend and cohort in everything that matters is nowhere to be seen.
She’s probably bending over the fountain trying to coax my dog to come out. If I were the kind of woman to ignore manners, I’d barge through, stepping on toes without even apologizing.
While I’m saying Pardon me, I’m sorry for the fifteenth time, a woman shouts, “Look! She’s in!” There’s a spattering of applause followed by a few catcalls.
This can’t be good. I burst through the wall of human flesh, then screech to a halt.
Holy cow! The duck master is wringing his hands, Elvis is paddling around wearing his basset grin, and Lovie is upended in the fountain mooning Memphis. All you can see of her are flailing legs and more black lace than even she would care to show in public.
“Hold on, Lovie,” I shout. “I’m coming.”
No use ruining a pair of Kate Spades. I’m kicking off my shoes when a couple of long, lanky teenage boys step into the fountain and pluck Lovie out. She comes up sputtering and says a word that threatens to shatter every piece of crystal in the Peabody.
“It’s only water, Lovie.” I hand her a lipstick-smeared tissue from my purse. She looks at it askance, but starts swabbing her face anyhow.
“If I’d wanted total immersion, I’d have called John the Baptist.”
Leave it to Lovie to upgrade her shenanigans with religious icons. Still muttering words I hope nobody else hears, she wrings water out of her skirt while I try to coax Elvis from the fountain.
The crowd on my right parts of its own accord, which can mean only one thing. Somebody important is heading this way. My guess would be the hotel manager. The only thing worse would be Jack Jones, getting ready to seduce me on top of the lobby’s player piano.
“Come on, Elvis. Let’s go. Please.”
He gives me his daredevil look and swims to the other side of the fountain, sending the Peabody ducks into a frenzy of flapping and squawking and the duck master into near apoplexy. The crowd claps and presses closer to see what will happen next.
I already know. The Valentine contingent and our dog who thinks he’s famous are going to be tossed out on our collective ear.
I’m no pushover: I resort to bribery. “Elvis! Pup-Peroni!” He makes a sharp turn, prances down the duck ramp and strolls nonchalantly in my direction. I wish everybody would stop laughing and clapping. It only encourages him.
Elvis shakes himself, wags his tail, and takes a few bows (I swear, that’s what it looks like) before he lets me scoop him up. I try to blend into the crowd, but Lovie barges ahead of us, dripping water and wet wads of tissue all over the marble floor. She wouldn’t try to blend even if she could.
Somewhere behind us a deep male voice booms, “What’s going on here?”
“Quick, Lovie. The stairs.” We duck (no pun intended) into the stairwell and hotfoot it to our room on the fourth floor. I slam the door shut behind us, then lean against it and listen for an irate person of importance to show up and demand explanations.
When somebody does pound on the door, I nearly have a heart attack. What if it’s hotel security? What if they have a key?
I glance through the peephole and see the top of a head. Male. Longish hair slicked back.
“Ma’am?” The intruder hammers away at the door, then shifts so I can see his face, and I reach for the latch.
“Don’t answer it,” Lovie shouts, but I swing the door open.
“You forgot your shoes.” It’s the boys who rescued Lovie. The taller of the two holds out my Kate Spades.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“We followed you up the stairs.”
Lovie’s already rummaging around for a tip. A twenty-dollar one. From my purse.
After the boys leave I say, “Couldn’t you have given them a smaller bribe?”
“I didn’t want you to look cheap.”
She glances at the clock and dives into the shower. It’s only thirty minutes to show time and she’s in this evening’s tango competition. Lovie takes more time gilding her lily than any woman I know. It’s going to take a major miracle to get her out the door on time.
Her dance partner (as well as Fayrene’s) is Bobby Huckabee, Uncle Charlie’s new assistant in the funeral home. Actually he’s been with us since this summer’s Elvis impersonator caper (as we now call it), but we still call him new.
It takes more than a few months to know the complicated Valentines, even if you do have a psychic eye. (Bobby has mismatched eyes and claims the blue one is psychic, though I’ve yet to see definitive proof.)
I’m still toweling Elvis dry when Lovie emerges from the shower. Without asking, I grab a hair dryer and start fluffing her hair while she jiggles into a green feathered and sequined costume. Feathers fly every which way.
“I look like a molting jungle parrot. Whoever picked out this costume?”
“You did. Hold still before I scorch your feathers.”
She jiggles some more and fabric tears. The side slit intended to show a bit of leg becomes an open doorway to paradise. As if we weren’t up to our necks in trouble already. I grab some safety pins and set to work.
“Just let it go, Callie. I want the judges to be so busy looking at me, they don’t notice my partner can’t dance worth a flitter.”
Poor Bobby. I’m going to clap very loud for him.
With Elvis in pink bowtie and securely on his leash, we finally head to the Tennessee Exhibition Hall. Also known as Peabody Alley and directly connected to the hotel mezzanine, it has a huge ballroom on the second floor. The Memphis Ballroom is already teeming with dancers ranging in age from twenty to eighty-five.
The first dance is an open invitation, which means you can dance even if you didn’t enter the competition.
Currently Elvis is behaving (meaning he’s being petted and admired) but I’m not about to leave him for one minute, even if a nice-looking man named something-or-other Mims—I didn’t quite catch his first name—is asking me to dance.
“Thank you, but no.” The words are hardly out of my mouth before a pretty blond-haired woman drags him off. She’s wearing a wedding ring, a pink dress, and red lipstick that clashes. He calls her Babs honey in a wheedling sort of way while she pouts. I wonder if she’s his wife and how their marriage came to this.
I get a funny feeling up under my breastbone. They’re about my age, and a terrible reminder that the fairy tale version of things can be dead wrong.
Fayrene, in a frilly green dress that makes her look like a head of romaine lettuce, joins me. Fortunately, I like salad. Though Mama says anything she wants, she taught me to always say nice things about people.
“That’s a lovely shade of green, Fayrene.”
“Thanks, Callie.” Fayrene plops into the chair beside me. “I deflowered so much roast beef I thought I wasn’t going to get it zipped.”
Babs honey and her partner are dancing by and do a double take. I want to stop them and explain she meant devoured but I don’t get a chance. The Mimses—if they are Mr. and Mrs.—will just have to spend the rest of the evening wondering about Fayrene’s relationship to her rump roast.
“Are you entered in tonight’s competition, Fayrene?”
“No. I don’t feel right doing Latin dances without Jarvetis. But do you think I can get him to budge? Oh no, he wants to stay down there sulking because I’m gone. Didn’t even fix himself any lunch. Just sat there and ate Fruit of the Looms.”
Thinking I’ll have to clarify that she meant Fruit Loops, I look for the Mims couple, but they’re on the other side of the floor.
The free dance ends, and twenty-five couples entered in the mambo competition take the floor. Mama and Mr. Whitenton are number twenty-two.
“There they are.” Fayrene punches me as if I could look anywhere else.
Mama simply shines, and it’s not merely from the gold dress. If I weren’t so busy watching to see where Mr. Whitenton puts his hands, I’d be fascinated watching her dance. She’s gyrating in body parts I didn’t even know she had.
Sometimes I wish I could bottle Mama’s spirit and put it on a shelf for inspiration. If I could filter out her penchant for trouble and tone down her sassy tongue, I’d want to be just like her.
After the mambo is over, she joins us. Mr. Whitenton is conspicuously absent, but I don’t ask. I’m just grateful to have her to myself.
“Was I good?” Mama is like Elvis; she loves compliments, the more lavish the better.
“Fantastic,” I tell her, and Fayrene says, “My ESPN tells me you’re going to win.”
ESP, I hope. But with Mama you never know. She could make headlines on the six o’clock news.
They link arms and head toward the outside hallway to get refreshments. I don’t follow because Lovie and Bobby Huckabee have just taken the floor and I want to see their tango.
With the lights dancing all over her dress and her hair, Lovie looks like the goddess of some exotic island while poor Bobby looks like Ichabod Crane on the edge of hysteria. All he needs to push him over is the headless horseman.
If Jack were here, I’d send him to rescue Lovie’s hapless partner. The music starts and I suddenly realize Elvis is missing.
Did Mama take him without telling me? That’s not like her. I’m about to panic when my dog comes strolling back with telltale crumbs around his muzzle. As if sneaking around stealing cookies wasn’t bad enough, he’s eyeing the dance floor. The next thing I know he’ll be out there doing the tango.
I nab him in the nick of time. “Behave yourself.”
Bobby is off to a slow start and Lovie’s doing her best to distract the judges. I didn’t know she could kick her legs that high. If they go any higher, everybody in the audience will be seeing Christmas (my grandmother’s term for private parts you have no business exposing to the public).
With all those whirling, sweating bodies, the room warms up and so does Bobby. By the time the tango ends he’s downright loose.
He and Lovie come off the floor beaming.
“Let’s celebrate,” she says.
“With what?”
“Chocolate cherry cake.”
“The reception starts in an hour,” I tell her. “They’ll have plenty of food.”
“We’ll get a head start. Besides, I want to get out of this dress. These feathers itch.”
Bobby joins us in our room for cake, and when Lovie gets up to change, he says, “I’d better be going.”
“Sit down, Bobby,” she says. “I’m not going to do a striptease. Though I’m not above it.”
His ears turn red. “I guess I’ll have another piece. Of cake.” He turns practically purple.
I feel sorry for him. While Lovie’s in the bathroom changing, I cast around for topics that might capture his imagination and put his mind at ease. I’m not good at small talk and much prefer heart-to-hearts with good friends like Lovie.
“I notice Phantom of the Opera is playing at the Orpheum.” That’s Memphis’ old Grand Opera House, used now for concerts and Broadway-type shows.
“There’s danger,” he says.
“Well, yes, I suppose you could call the phantom dangerous, but I see him more as a wounded musical genius.”
“Danger from a dark-eyed stranger.”
Bobby’s looking off into space with his blue eye while the green one stares right at me. Though I know he has no powers to speak of, I get goose bumps. Fortunately, Lovie bursts back into the room, trailing black lace and White Shoulders perfume (her fragrance of choice).
“Let’s go,” she says, and I’m relieved to head up to the Skyway. It’s a swing era supper club at the top of the Peabody, art deco styling, big polished dance floor, tables with white linen cloths behind a filigree railing that makes you think Bugsy Siegel is fixing to come in and sit down.
By the time we
arrive, the competitive dancing couples are already there. Four hundred of them. In the crush, Bobby gets separated from us, which gives me a chance to shake off his dire prediction and quiz Lovie.
“Did I hear you on the phone while you were in the bathroom?”
“Yes. I called Rocky to tell him about my tango. Poor man.”
“What do you mean, poor man?”
“To hear me tell it, I had every man in the ballroom salivating.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know. He was down in a Mayan burial ground or something, and we lost the connection.”
The band plays “Stardust,” and a tall, big-boned woman who could use some fashion and hair advice floats by with Bobby in tow. Her dress has more colors than Joseph’s Technicolor Dreamcoat, and whoever did her hair ought to have his styling license revoked. I might sidle up later and hand her my card.
A few couples step onto the dance floor but most of them drift toward the Plantation Roof terrace where Lovie, Elvis, and I join them. The terrace is home of the duck palace, a glorified indoor–outdoor duck pen with the housing section built to look like a white-columned Southern mansion. Elvis perks up immediately and drags me in that direction.
I don’t know whether he plans to terrorize the ducks or lord it over them that he stole their thunder in the fountain. Either way, I’m fixing to foil his plans. Probably with more bribery.
I wish I wouldn’t be such a pushover.
I’m pulling a Milk-Bone out of my purse when the duck master starts flapping his hands at us.
“No dogs allowed!”
What does he think I am? Deaf? I don’t know where the Peabody found this duck master—Melvin Galant, his nametag says—but I’m guessing the turnip patch. Of course, to be fair, if I had to go around all day wearing that silly-looking uniform with too much gold braid and the pants too short, I’d be surly, too.
Elvis threatens to lift his leg on the duck master’s polished patent leather shoes, but I drag him back into the crowd before we get banned from Memphis. Though the duck master is probably no more than thirty-five, he looks like he hasn’t smiled in fifteen years and would just as soon march you out in tar and feathers as look at you.
