Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders

by Peggy Webb

  “You have finally rendered me speechless.”

  “Good. Let’s hope I have that same effect on Rocky.”

  Lovie prances out and I finish my shower. It’s already mid-morning and we have dirt to dig and secrets to uncover.

  Chapter 18

  Masked Madness, Toilet Trickery, and Peeping Tom

  When I reenter the bedroom, Lovie’s propped on her pillows eating a bag of corn curls and watching TV.

  “I forgot to ask. Where’s Jill?”

  “Gone home. She wanted to get an early start. Said to tell you thank you and she’d stay in touch.”

  “What about Victor?”

  A reporter on Channel Five interrupts a game show rerun—as well as Lovie and me—with a late-breaking bulletin on the Peabody killer.

  “The police say they are still questioning witnesses but, so far, no suspects have been taken into custody.”

  The reporter shoves the microphone at Chief of Police Miller Stewart. “My sources say the MPD will be out in force at today’s dance competition finale at the Peabody. Do you expect to make an arrest?”

  “Let me assure you, the Memphis Police Department will catch this killer. As for the particulars, no comment.”

  I grab a pair of sequined leather Manolo Blahnik heels. If there’s a chase, let the MPD do it.

  “We never heard a peep from Victor,” Lovie says.

  “That can’t be good. I wonder what he’s up to?”

  “We don’t have time to discuss it. The competition finale starts in five minutes. They’re serving brunch, and I’m starving.”

  Lovie tosses the empty snack bag into the garbage, then jerks on a flimsy costume hardly big enough for a midget.

  “If you expect me to zip that, you’re out of your mind.”

  Her costume is gaping two inches. Zipping it will take a miracle on the order of the parting of the Red Sea.

  “You’re just jealous about my national treasure.”

  “Don’t make me laugh, Lovie. I’m mad at you.” I grab her zipper and try to haul it upward.

  “Pull, Callie.”

  “It’s stuck. Why don’t you wear something else?” Sans dance costume makes sense to me. She’s decided not to do the jitterbug competition so she wouldn’t be competing against Uncle Charlie.

  She says a word that will get her barred from public places, sucks in enough air to propel a clipper ship across the Pacific, and gets the zipper closed. It’ll take an act of Congress to get it open again. But I’m not going to worry about that, yet.

  For once, Elvis is satisfied to be left alone. I guess he’s still tuckered out from his morning run. Not to mention his late night prowl on Beale Street.

  We hurry downstairs, making plans as we go. With all the dancers in one room, it’s the perfect time to ask questions, then break and enter. I’m not keen on the idea, but we still don’t know anything about the third victim. And we certainly need to know what Thomas Whitenton has been up to, besides no good with Mama.

  The finale is in the Peabody’s glorious Continental Ballroom. Enormous crystal chandeliers and Venetian-style frescoes make me feel as if I’ve stepped back into a more genteel time when women embraced femininity and men practiced courtliness. I’m glad I opted for sequined shoes.

  Mama and Uncle Charlie are not here yet, but Fayrene and Jarvetis meet us at the door. Both are holding Elvis masks.

  “They’re giving them to everybody.” Fayrene puts hers on. “Tonight is tribute night to the King. Be sure to get yours.”

  I think I’ll get one for Elvis, just for kicks.

  “Can you believe Grayson is here?” She nods toward the baby grand piano where he’s standing with his sister and trying to balance two loaded plates from the buffet. “You’d think he’d be prostate with grief.”

  I have a hard time keeping my face straight and Lovie covers her giggle with a cough.

  “Maybe he was hungry,” she says. “I certainly am.”

  Lovie barrels toward the buffet tables, but I lag behind and try to think of something nice to say.

  “Break a leg in the jitterbug competition.”

  “Lord, I hope not,” Jarvetis says, and Fayrene pats his hand. “Hon, it’s theater jargon for good luck.”

  By the time I catch up with Lovie, she’s halfway through a plate of cheese grits with shrimp.

  “Needs less salt and more cheese.”

  The only thing she’s picky about is food. She looks on it as a source of hedonistic pleasure while I view it as sustenance. Putting fresh fruit on my plate, I glance around the room. There’s a cop in every corner, but still no sign of Mama and Uncle Charlie. I’m wondering whether I need to call one of them when Victor strolls into the ballroom.

  “Lovie, look.” I nod toward the door. “You take Grayson and Carolyn, I’ll take Victor. Meet you in the ladies’ room in fifteen minutes.”

  By the time I get across the dance floor, Victor’s wearing his Elvis mask. And he’s none too happy to see me.

  “You!” Victor Mabry has the charm of a squash. No wonder Jill is leaving him.

  He turns to leave, but I say, “Wait, I want to talk to you.”

  “Meddling again, Ms. Jones?” I guess my surprise shows, and Victor sneers at me. “I make it a point to find out who my enemies are.”

  “I’m not your enemy, Victor. I just rescued your wife.”

  “If you don’t butt out of my business, you’re the one who’s going to need rescuing.” He stalks off, but I’ve found out two things I wanted to know: under stress, Victor Mabry does not speak with a lisp, and he’s capable of great anger. But is it enough to have killed the woman he loved and lost? And what motive could he possibly have had for killing the other two?

  Grabbing a mask for my dog, I head toward the ladies’ room. The buffet tables are being cleared, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Lovie refilling her plate. She catches up with me in the hall.

  “Standing up ruins my digestion.” She plops into a Queen Anne loveseat while I tell her what I found out. It’s not nearly as much as she did, though.

  “Grayson was extremely jealous of Victor and any other man who looked at his wife.”

  “What about the lisp, Lovie?”

  “Not a sign with Grayson, but Carolyn has one. It’s slight, but it’s there. And she fairly well hated her sister-in-law.”

  “Did you smell anything? Old Spice aftershave? A perfume that Mama might have mistaken for that?”

  “Yes. But there were so many people standing around I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.”

  I have a feeling we’re getting close. Lovie’s reaching for a chocolate covered strawberry when an unholy scream rips the air. We race toward the sound while cops pour out of the ballroom and thunder right behind us toward the restrooms.

  A masked man bolts from the ladies’ room. Two cops give chase while two more sprint past us and into the restroom.

  Lovie and I burst through the doors and Jarvetis roars in right behind us.

  The screams are coming from none other than Fayrene, who is attached to the toilet door by her green silk scarves. Red faced and bulgy eyed, she looks as if she’s being strangled Isadora Duncan style.

  “It’s the killer,” she screeches.

  “Now, hon.” Jarvetis grabs her scarves and starts untangling. “You just got your scarves caught and you panicked, that’s all.”

  Apparently he didn’t see the man scuttling from the restroom. While the cops take Fayrene’s statement, Lovie and I hurry back into the hallway to see what we can find out about the masked mystery man.

  Nothing, it looks like. The hallway is empty.

  Lovie leans against the wall. “If I run another step I’m going to need oxygen.”

  “I wanted to see who that masked man was.”

  “It wasn’t Thomas. He couldn’t have run that fast with a banged-up leg.”

  “I distinctly saw him limping.”

  “You just want it to be him, Callie. W
hat in the world would be his motive? The only thing we know for sure is that all the killings took place near the ducks.”

  “Maybe the ducks did it.” She gives me this look. Usually she’s the one making smart-mouth remarks. “Besides, you’re forgetting the attempts on Fayrene and Mama.”

  “Aunt Ruby Nell’s a drama queen and Fayrene’s got the biggest imagination in Mooreville.”

  “How does that explain Mama clubbing Thomas with the baseball bat?”

  “Maybe there are two killers.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. It would explain why we’ve found no connection between Babs’ murder and the other two.”

  “We’re not through yet. Come on.” Lovie grabs my arm and starts hustling me toward the ballroom. Apparently there’s nothing like playing detective to give Lovie a second wind.

  We’re in sight of the ballroom when I spot cops down a side hall. Collaring a man wearing an Elvis mask.

  “Lovie, quick. This way.”

  If that masked Elvis is Mama’s constant companion, I want to be the first to know.

  Elvis’ Opinion #8 on Entrepreneurship, Escape, and Felonious Cats

  Do you think I’d be stuck in this room if I didn’t want to be? Naturally I pretended to be sulking about not going to the dance finale. I didn’t want Callie to get suspicious.

  Listen, I have big plans that go way beyond who killed the three dancers. This is my town. I plan to figure a way to escape while Callie and Lovie are gone.

  My public is waiting. I got a taste of them last night at the park named for that other musician whose fame does not even approach my iconic status.

  Now I’m all fired up to sashay down the street in my pink bowtie and cut another record at Sun Studios. Maybe sign a few paw prints on the way. Then I want to mosey back up to Beale Street and sit in on a gut-bucket blues jam session, recapture the good old days, bask in the accolades, feel my sap running high.

  Maybe I’ll even pay a visit to the gift shop, see if I can scare up a Lansky, then see about having a bell-bottom jumpsuit made. Of course, it would feature four legs, but who cares. If anybody can make four legs all the rage, it’s me.

  I prance over to the door, cock my mismatched ears, and listen for sounds of the maid. The first little sign of activity in the hallway and I plan to set up such a howl, somebody will come running and open the door.

  That’ll be all she wrote. I’ll be outta here, baby. Adios. Sayonara. Toot, toot, tootsie, good-bye.

  Naturally, I’ll be back. I’d never permanently run away. Callie needs me. Especially now that she’s hired a new woman for Hair.Net.

  I’m not saying a manicurist is a bad thing. In fact, it’s a smart entrepreneurial move. Even Darlene is not a bad choice. The only thing wrong with her is the entourage that comes along with her.

  Don’t think I didn’t hear both ends of the phone conversation at the river. I can live with a little boy in the beauty shop. In fact, I plan to teach him a few tricks. How to dig a hole to China. How to bury treasure all over the backyard. I might even teach him how to spit.

  What I can’t deal with is Darlene’s cat. Mal, she calls him. What kind of name is that? It’s too short. Lacking class. Without character. It’s bound to stand for something else. Probably Malicious. Malevolent. Malcontent. Maladjusted. Maladroit.

  Heck, for all I know, it stands for Malarkey. Whatever it stands for, it can’t be good.

  Hair.Net’s not big enough for me and a cat. One of us will have to go. And I can guarantee you, it won’t be me.

  Guess what’s right across the street from Gas, Grits, and Guts in beautiful downtown Mooreville? A fireworks place.

  Have you ever seen what a few firecrackers tied to a cat’s tail will do? Let me put it this way: Mal will be lucky if he stops running before he gets to the Alabama state line.

  Hold your horses. Is that the sound of little rubber wheels in the hallway? I hunker down with my ears perked up. It looks like I’m going to get my chance to blow this joint.

  Chapter 19

  Misdemeanors, Felonies, and Jitterbug

  I don’t know why I said, “Quick.” If I’d known I’d be running all over the place, I would never have worn four-inch heels.

  By the time Lovie and I halt our momentum enough to reverse direction and turn the corner, the cops are leading the suspect off.

  “Wait!” I yell.

  The prime suspect turns his head, sans mask. Alas, the man in cuffs is not Thomas; it’s Victor.

  I’m sorry to say I’m disappointed, which means I have a lot of work to do on myself in the milk-of-human-kindness department. It looks like I’ll stoop to all kinds of vengeful thinking to get what I want—Mr. Whitenton out of Mama’s life.

  One of the cops separates himself from the group and heads our way. Fortunately, it’s a grandfatherly looking gray-haired man and not the baby cop who already has me on his pain-in-the-neck list.

  Lovie says a word that could get us both arrested while I try to act as if I’m not going all over the Peabody interfering in police business.

  “Do you ladies have something to tell me?”

  “Is that the Peabody killer?” I ask.

  “Names?” The cop whips out his notebook and Lovie punches me. Hard.

  “She’s just scared, that’s all. So many dancers dying.” Lovie fakes a convincing shiver that sets every sequin on her costume aquiver. The cop smiles. A good sign. “We were headed to the bathroom.”

  Now she’s prancing up and down like she can barely hold her water. Sometimes I think Lovie’s in the wrong profession. I can see her on Broadway or filling the silver screen in a B-grade movie. Shoot, with Lovie, it could even be A-list. After all, she is a national treasure.

  “The ladies’ room’s that way.” He nods his head in the direction of the restrooms, starts to leave, then turns back. “Didn’t I see you in the restroom earlier?”

  “Yes, but we were just there to touch up our lipstick.” Lovie was always quick on her feet, but I don’t think she has fooled the man in uniform.

  “You ladies stay out of trouble.” He pockets his notebook and rejoins the police who are escorting Victor out the door.

  “They’ll probably book Victor for felony,” Lovie says.

  “I don’t know if being a peeping Tom is a felony.”

  There’s a lot I don’t know. And not just about this case. For instance, I don’t know what I’ll do when Jack arrives.

  My phone rings, rattling the last nerve I have left. It’s Mama.

  “Where are you? The jitterbug competition’s about to start and Bobby’s looking for Lovie.”

  “She’s not going to compete against Uncle Charlie.”

  “Flitter. Fayrene and Jarvetis are competing against us.”

  “She’s dancing? After what happened in the ladies’ room?”

  “It’ll take more than somebody hiding behind an Elvis mask to stop Fayrene. Besides, Jarvetis hasn’t danced since 1989. She’s not about to let this chance get away. Hurry.”

  I pocket my cell phone. “We have our marching orders.” I repeat Mama’s conversation to Lovie.

  “I wanted to see Daddy dance anyway.”

  “So do I. Besides, it will give us a chance to see who’s there and who’s not. I still want to get into Thomas’ room.”

  “So do I.”

  “Shoot, Lovie. I thought you believed the cops had caught the killer.”

  “I just want another chance to check out the reaction to my maid’s outfit. You never know. It could come in handy down in Mexico.”

  If anybody can mix archeology and kinkiness, it’s Lovie. As we head toward the Continental Ballroom, I send a silent prayer into the universe that Lovie’s trip to visit Rocky will be everything she wants it to be.

  The buffet tables have been cleared, the jitterbug competition is already in full swing, and Bobby Huckabee meets us at the door.

  “Ruby Nell said to watch for you.”

  I spot Mama and Uncle C
harlie doing a tight, pitch-perfect jitterbug near the center of the dance floor. Fayrene and Jarvetis are nearby. Gyrating every which way, they almost knock over the barrier separating the judges’ stand from the dance floor. They correct their direction so fast they barely miss knocking over a geriatric couple shimmying at snail speed. (What they lack in skill, they make up for in enthusiasm.)

  “Looks like Fayrene and Jarvetis are giving Daddy and Aunt Ruby Nell a run for their money.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Lovie.”

  Naturally, I’m prejudiced, but I think Mama and Uncle Charlie are surefire winners. They look like they’ve been dancing together for years. And who knows? Maybe they have. They’re pros at keeping secrets.

  Who would have believed my uncle had been leading a double life? Mama, too. I didn’t find out till the Bubbles Caper that she smokes. She could also have been a deep cover agent in The Company, and I’d never know.

  “I’ve got seats saved,” Bobby says.

  He barrels ahead, reeking hair gel and moving so fast even Lovie has a hard time keeping up. I can see why he doesn’t have a girlfriend. He has the style and social grace of a toad. As soon as we get back to Mooreville, I’m going to offer him a few pointers. In a kind way, of course. Nobody wants to think of himself as lacking charm.

  As we trail along in his wake, I scan the crowd for Thomas Whitenton. Lovie’s doing the same thing. People are milling about, which makes it hard to find him. To complicate matters, many of them are already wearing Elvis masks in spite of the fact that the competition will last the rest of the day and the Elvis tribute dance won’t start till evening.

  “I guess I could go around snatching off masks.” Lovie would do it, too, if she thought it would help her family.

  “We have all day, Lovie. Be patient.”

  Bobby is waiting for us in the third row. I sit next to him, trying to keep my ulterior motives from showing. You never know. If Bobby really does have an all-seeing blue eye, he’d sniff out my intent to go snooping in the maid’s uniform.

  “Have you seen Thomas?”