by Peggy Webb
Hurrying over, I squat beside her bed and inspect her from head to toe. While I’m at it, I take a closer look at Thomas. His eyes are bloodshot and he looks nervous.
“Are you all right, Mama?”
“I will be as soon as everybody quits hovering.”
Don’t let Mama fool you. She loves to be the object of outrageous displays of devotion, and everybody who loves her knows it. Nobody leaves their coveted spot beside the reigning queen.
“Where have you been?” She gives me the once over. “And what’s that on your pants?”
“It’s water and duck stuff. I was out walking Elvis and found Gloria Divine in the fountain.”
Everybody in the room starts asking questions except Thomas. Did he not hear? Or did he already know?
“Is she okay?” Mama asks.
“No. I tried to save her, but it was too late.”
Bobby makes the sign of the cross in the air over Mama’s bed. “There’s danger everywhere.”
Fayrene stops rubbing Mama’s feet and strikes a dramatic pose. Washington crossing the Delaware.
“This business is starting to irrigate me.”
I’m already irrigated and I’d be irritated, too, but I have bigger things on my mind.
“Mama, have you reported the attack?”
“No. I was waiting for you to get here.”
I nod at Lovie, who calls the cops.
This kind of role reversal is not new. Mama bulldozes along telling folks what to do and doing as she pleases until there’s a real crisis, then she relies on me to take charge.
While I’m assuring myself Mama is okay, Fayrene climbs into the other side of the bed and pulls up the covers.
“Wild hogs couldn’t drag me out of here tonight, and don’t you argue, Ruby Nell.”
Mama doesn’t. For one thing, the night’s almost over.
“What happened up here?” I ask.
“I heard the commotion in Miss Ruby’s room,” Thomas bursts in before Mama can answer. “Of course, I rushed right to her aid.”
Through the connecting door, obviously, which was unlocked and is standing wide open. Did Mama do that, or did he?
I make a mental note to get to the bottom of the unlocked connecting door.
“I was scratching and clawing and kicking like a wildcat.” Mama sounds proud of herself. “I knocked the phone off and kicked my suitcase off the rack at the end of the bed.”
“The minute I walked in, whoever was trying to kill Miss Ruby ran out.”
“What did he look like?” I ask.
“It was a she,” Thomas says. “Medium height. Black pants. Or it could have been blue jeans. Longish hair. Black.”
“I don’t think so, Thomas,” Mama says, and he recants.
“Wait a minute. Her hair could have been red.”
“Are you sure it was a woman?” I sound like the young cop, second guessing everybody. All I need is sugar on my sweats.
“It was definitely a woman.” Thomas rams his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth. “On second thought, it might have been a man. I saw it all and will testify to the fact.”
“Mama? Was your attacker male or female?”
“Male. No doubt about it. When he tried to smother me with my pillow, I smelled his aftershave. Old Spice. No woman in her right mind would wear Old Spice.”
Lovie catches my eye and nods toward Thomas, who is rubbing his chin. What I see gives me chills. If it weren’t for my level head, I’d probably accuse him on the spot.
“Mr. Whitenton, you’d better put something on those scratches on your hands.” I’m proud of my even tone. Only Lovie knows I’m barely holding myself together. “How’d you get them?”
“Oh. These?” He sticks his hands in his bathrobe pockets. “The attacker must have scratched me in the scuffle.”
“What scuffle?”
Why didn’t he mention it before? Was he lying when he said the attacker ran out when he walked in. Or is he lying now? I don’t ask for fear of putting him on the defensive. You learn more if people think you trust them.
“There was so much commotion going on, I guess I forgot.”
“I should call Daddy,” Lovie says.
“Don’t you dare call Charlie.” Mama practically leaps out of the bed. “The day I need somebody keeping tabs on me is the day you can put me in a nursing home.”
Mama’s performance is interrupted by the arrival of the police. Unfortunately it’s the sugar coated baby cop, and his tough as nails partner, who want to know what I’m doing at the scene of another attack.
They look skeptical when I explain, but I’m not about to be intimidated. I stick around for their questions. Unfortunately, I don’t learn a new thing.
It’s nearly dawn when Lovie and I leave, and my stomach is starting to rumble.
“I can’t sleep,” I tell Lovie. “Let’s get out of this hotel. Someplace quiet. Besides, Elvis needs some real exercise.”
“The river,” she says.
I don’t even take time to change clothes. They’re almost dry and who’s going to see me anyway? We grab a bag of his dog food, some doughnuts from Lovie’s stash, and coffee made in the room, then head to the riverside park.
In the damp chill of dawn, we sit on benches with the rising sun at our backs, loading up on carbs and sugar. The play of color and light across the water is spectacular. Of one accord (Lovie and I can practically read each other’s mind), we don’t talk. Awe leaves no room for murder.
Until today “the mighty Mississippi” was merely a term I’ve heard since grade school. Now it’s a visceral feeling, a bone-deep affirmation.
“It makes you feel like you ought to sing,” Lovie says.
Why not? Maybe it will bring some sanity into chaos. Lovie and I sing duets at Wildwood Chapel all the time. When I start “How Great Thou Art” in a clear, high soprano, she joins in with a dusky-voiced alto.
Naturally Elvis prances up, throws back his head, and howls. It was one of his alter ego’s biggest hits and his favorite song, to boot.
But music can’t compete with murder, and the song peters out. My dog trots off to pee on an oak tree, and I start putting two and two together.
“I think Mr. Whitenton might have killed Gloria Divine,” I tell Lovie. “And maybe even Babs Mabry Mims.”
“What makes you think that? The scratches?”
“That, plus his early-morning taxi ride.” I tell her about seeing him outside the hotel.
“But what was his motive? I think Babs’ husband is the likeliest suspect.”
“Which one? The first one or the second one?”
“The current. H. Grayson Mims.”
“We have two dead bodies that are totally unrelated, Lovie. We need to broaden our investigation beyond next of kin. Besides, what else was Mr. Whitenton doing out at that time of night?”
“Catting around?”
“Get serious. At his age?”
“Let’s hope so. If ‘geriatric’ means ‘dead libido,’ I’m not planning to celebrate another birthday after fifty.”
She probably won’t, either. I look around to see if my dog is staying out of trouble. He’s over by a magnolia tree digging a hole.
“Did you notice Mr. Whitenton’s aftershave?” I ask.
“It was very faint. I think it was English Leather. But even if it was Old Spice, why would he attack Aunt Ruby Nell?”
“I don’t know, but anybody as colorful as Mama is bound to have given dozens of people multiple reasons to do her in. I just want to catch the killer before he makes Mama his next victim.”
“Does this mean I get to wear a disguise?”
“No disguises, Lovie. And no clambering around in high places.”
Who can forget Lovie in feathers mooning half of Las Vegas in what we now refer to as the Bubbles Caper? Us teetering on a rickety balcony in a monsoon as we tried to find out who was killing Elvis impersonators? And don’t get me started on the hot air balloon.
“Agreed?”
“Of course not.” Lovie stands up and dusts the powdered sugar off her pink tee shirt. You’d think the color would clash with her hair, but on her it looks great. “What’s the use of doing anything if you can’t have fun?”
Elvis’ Opinion #3 on Big Secrets, Shady Pasts, and Back Alley Leftovers
This is what happens when you’re the hottest, biggest box office star the world has ever seen and you die and get sent back in a dog suit: nobody asks your opinion about anything anymore. I once had minions hanging on my every word. One and a half billion people saw my telecast from Hawaii, and reporters were lined around the block to talk to me. Now I can’t even get one person (my human mom, to be exact) to ask me what I know about Gloria Divine.
A lot, that’s what. Of course, it was in my other life. I had a close business connection to her after I got back from Germany.
For your information, I’m a patriotic dog. I’d have joined the army anyway if they hadn’t drafted me. I remember it well: 1958. The year after I bought Graceland.
I’ve had dealings behind closed doors with Gloria’s girlfriend, too. Lalique, my mismatched ears. Her name is Latoya LaBelle, and she’s a luscious fifty-nine and holding. Gloria was sixty-two and still stacked.
And that’s all I’m saying on the subject. Listen, I may be a dog of character, but I’ve got a few skeletons rattling around in my past just like anybody else. The difference between me and the general public (besides talent and looks, of course) is that I know how to keep my mouth shut.
Bless’a my soul, what’s this I see? A genuine American sternwheel steamboat cruising down the river. I sidle closer to the water to get a better look.
It’s the Mississippi Queen, newly refurbished, I’ve heard, and looking like a riverboat gambler might step onto the deck at any minute. If I could get Ann-Margret and the pups up here, we’d take a family vacation on the river.
I’ve always wanted to go on a sternwheeler.
Back when I was starring in one movie after the other out in Hollywood, the Delta Queen still reigned. I used to hole up in the Knickerbocker Hotel and dream of ways I could get out of the glare of fame long enough to board that grand old lady (now retired) and cruise from Memphis down to New Orleans.
But no matter what disguise I thought up, my fans still recognized me. I couldn’t go anywhere without causing a riot. I can still cause riots, but that’s a whole ’nother story—and the price of fame.
Now all I’m trying to do is sneak down to the water’s edge and give the tourists a thrill without Callie noticing. I trot toward a massive magnolia tree and when she looks up to check on me I pretend to be digging a hole.
Satisfied, she gets back to planning a murder investigation with Lovie. I dart behind the trunk and perk up my radar ears to see if the coast is still clear. It is, so I hotfoot it toward the river.
“Elvis! Come back here. You’ll fall in the water.”
Foiled. What does she think? I can’t swim?
Still, I don’t like to worry her so I waltz my ample backside up the bank, but I take my time about it. Next, I sit at her feet looking cute and perky so she’ll scratch my ears.
Listen, you have to work these humans. You should never let them think they have the upper hand. That means you don’t come directly when they call and you don’t show remorse over anything, even if they catch you red-pawed.
If I sit here long enough, maybe Callie will bring me into the investigation. But no, she just keeps on acting like she and Lovie will do it all.
What does my human mom think I was doing in the hotel lobby this morning? Whistling “Don’t Be Cruel?” I was sniffing out clues. Callie thinks she learned a lot when she overheard the police questioning Victor and Jill Mabry. (Listen, she doesn’t even know Victor’s wife’s name.) If I told her what I know, she’d probably take me to the alley across Union and reward me with a little smackerel of pork barbecue from the Rendezvous.
You talk about great Southern cooking—I’d hold their ribs right up there with the ones we had at Graceland. The only difference is the Rendezvous uses a dry sauce and ours were wet. Of course, ribs don’t compare with fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, but I’m just a country dog at heart. Always have been, always will be.
But back to murder…. The second Mrs. Victor Mabry was spitting fire when I overheard her, and all because Victor said he was devastated over Babs’ death. Let me tell you, she was mad enough to have killed Babs herself.
If you want my opinion, Jill Mabry is capable of having killed Gloria, too, but I’ve yet to sniff out their connection.
I’m being hustled off the riverbank now, but I have a plan. As soon as we get back to the Peabody, I’ll start working all the angles of this murder. And while I’m at it, I’ll be trying to find an escape hatch. The security is so tight around me you’d think I was wearing a spangled jumpsuit and still making a news headline like the one in 1974 that proclaimed, “Elvis for President.”
I’ve got to find a way to slip out so I can pay homage to my fans at Graceland.
Elvis’ Recipe for Wet Barbecue Sauce
First wag your tail and sidle up to Callie, humming “Stuck on You.” If she doesn’t succumb to flattery, paw the cabinet door open and knock over the tomato sauce and the chili powder.
Next, offer to squeeze the lemons to show you’re helpful (indispensable, too, but she already knows that). She’ll decline, of course. My human mom is something of a control freak. One of the things I have to teach her is how to let go. Relax. Forget the details and enjoy the big picture.
By now she’s in the swing of lip-smacking good Southern ribs. Sit back, layer it on thick with a few bars of “Earth Angel” while she shakes, rattles, and rolls with red pepper, vinegar, pickling spice, and dried mustard.
Segue into “Sweet Sweet Spirit,” a little reminder to dump in honey and brown sugar. Keep singing while she coats the ribs and socks them in the oven.
Bless’a my soul, the smell alone is enough to send you dancing through the doggie door in search of a spot to bury the bones. Gnawing the meat off first is optional. Personally, I’m partial to a bit of Mississippi red clay on my cuisine.
Chapter 6
Wild Goose Chase, Gibson Guitars, and Mojo Hands
As we hurry back to the hotel, I try not to think what I’m getting myself into. I try not to dwell on all the reasons why I should send Mama back to Mooreville, then hole up in the Peabody and let the police sort everything out. Right now all I want is a good hot bath.
We’re just crossing the lobby when I spot the recently widowed H. Grayson Mims III leaving the hotel looking anything but bereaved. With him is a strange-looking woman I haven’t seen among the dance competitors. He just jumped to the top of the suspect list.
“Lovie, quick. Follow him.”
“Who?”
You can hear her all the way to New York. H. Grayson Mims glances back and I jerk Lovie behind the player piano.
“It’s Babs’ husband,” I whisper. “With another woman.”
I won’t repeat what she says. Suffice it to say, if Grayson heard, he’d fear for his prized body parts. Unfortunately an older woman who is passing by hears every word. She takes one disdainful look and indicts us on the spot.
“Riffraff,” she sniffs. “Nowadays, there’s no accounting who they let in this hotel.”
Well, no wonder. My hair is uncombed, I’m wearing no makeup, and I’m still in sweats that got dragged through the fountain and other unmentionable debris. Lovie’s not much better in her favorite lounge-about jeans that look like they came over on the Mayflower, and a baggy tee shirt with a slogan across the front that says KEEP AMERICA BEAUTIFUL, STAY IN BED.
Still, the snooty woman’s no icon of fashion herself. I could tell her that painted-on eyebrows and hair teased to look like a football helmet went out of style in the seventies, but I won’t stoop to her level.
Lovie has no such compunctions.
; “Listen, you heifer. For your information, we’re famous musicians.” She plops on the piano stool and hits a few blues licks.
She could fool anybody. She’s so good, she could even play on Beale Street. Aunt Minrose (may she rest in peace) was a concert pianist, and Lovie got every bit of her mother’s talent.
“Come on.” I tap her shoulder. “The suspect is getting away.”
“I told you Babs’ husband was the killer.”
Lovie enjoys the last word. As we hurry after Grayson, Elvis trots along. He thinks it’s a game and he’s hamming it up, flashing his lopsided doggie smile and spreading his stage personality all over Memphis. There’s no way to remain unnoticed.
A tired looking young mother tries to stop us so her two rambunctious children can pet him. It breaks my heart to tell her Sorry, not today, without even slowing down. I imagine Saint Peter is putting black marks by my name.
“He’s headed to Beale Street, Lovie.”
“What’s he doing there this time of day?”
“Maybe a rendezvous with a hit man?”
Why else would a man be heading into a historic blues district at a time of morning when the stores aren’t even open, the clubs are closed, and the jazzy music that floats from every open doorway is missing?
“But why take another woman?” Lovie has a point.
“Maybe she’s in on it.”
She looks the type, short and slinky with a bad dye job. If I weren’t trying to nab her for murder, I’d tell her you don’t put platinum streaks in black hair unless you want to look like a polecat. (Translation: skunk.)
The closer we get to Beale Street, the harder my heart pumps. And it has nothing to do with murder.
Jack and I honeymooned in Memphis. Every moment we didn’t spend in our motel room (we couldn’t afford the Peabody and stayed at a cheap stucco inn farther from the river), we explored Beale Street. Mr. Handy’s Blues Hall and Silky O’Sullivan’s, Black Diamond and Club 152, Tater Red’s and A. Schwab’s Dry Goods Store.
