by Peggy Webb
Lovie jerks off her wig, then mine. “Let’s go to the room and get out of these maid outfits.”
“But not to stay.”
“Definitely not to stay. This show’s not over till the fat lady sings.”
Then Lovie stands right there in Mr. Whitenton’s room and belts out “Hard Hearted Hannah.” I guess she’s trying to show me she’s okay.
Or maybe she wants to remind me that soft hearts can get stepped on and tromped all over, that the best way to navigate life’s treacherous tides and killing seas is to harden your heart. But not all the way. Just enough to stormproof it.
Chapter 22
Weddings, Breaking News, and Tequila
Lovie and I leave Thomas’ room and make it to the elevator without encountering any needy guests requesting soap and shampoo or any nosey guests wondering why we’re not riding the service elevator.
I punch the button for the fourth floor, and we both lean against the walls.
“I can’t wait to get out of this uniform,” I say.
“I can’t wait for a drink.”
“Anything except Long Island Ice Tea. I don’t hanker for another tattoo.”
“Live a little, Callie. We could get one that says ‘I collared the Peabody killer.’”
“You really think Thomas did it?”
“Yeah. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know. Mama is usually astute about people. I can’t believe she’d be so wrong about Thomas Whitenton.”
“I thought you wanted him to be the killer.”
“Not really. I just want him out of Mama’s life. Even if he’s not a criminal, there’s something about him that’s just not right for her.” Lovie rolls her eyes. “Well, he’s not. He doesn’t even appreciate Mama’s Modigliani.”
“That’s not saying much, Callie. Neither does anybody else in Mooreville.”
The door slides open, and I’m glad to end this conversation. We burst through and race toward our room, giddy with success.
Bobby and Elvis are sitting on the floor watching TV, two empty plates in front of them. The room smells suspiciously like hamburger.
When he sees me, Elvis thumps his tail and looks so smug, I don’t have to have a psychic eye to know Bobby has been spoiling him.
“We caught the killer,” Lovie announces.
“Who?” Bobby looks up from the TV, some show about Memphis’ glitterati.
“Thomas,” she says.
“We think.” I scoop up the empty plates, then sit on the floor beside them. “We’re going to celebrate. Do you want to join us?”
“You mean it?”
“Of course. Just sit tight while we change clothes.”
“Here?” His face turns red.
“In the bathroom. You can stay put, or leave and come back. Your choice.”
“Well, this show is interesting…”
“Hey.” Lovie stares at the TV screen. “Is that Fifi Galant?”
“Yeah, it’s a taped show. She’s having her wedding rehearsal dinner at the Skyway tonight. How’d you know her?”
“I saw her picture in the paper.” Lovie throws her wig in the direction of the closet and misses. I pick it up and put it on the top shelf. “I’d love to see the rehearsal dinner. I’ll bet the Peabody’s doing an ice sculpture.”
“Maybe we can crash it,” he says.
I can’t believe it. Bobby? Crashing a wedding event?
He looks a bit sheepish, as if he’s reading my mind. “I do that sometimes. When I don’t have anything else to do. Which is pretty often.”
“Let’s do it, then,” Lovie says. “I haven’t crashed a party since college.”
Leave it to Lovie. To give her credit, she is probably hoping to learn some new tricks for her catering business. Then again, her window-ledge high is wearing off. She could be just itching to get into more trouble.
“We will not be crashing any wedding parties. What we’ll do is get out of these uniforms, stash them somewhere, then sit down and have a civilized drink. As long as it’s not tequila.”
“Maybe we can just scoot up to the Plantation Roof and peek into the Skyway.”
“Hush, Lovie. Change your clothes. You can go first.”
While she’s in the bathroom, I sit on the floor and rub my dog’s ears. Elvis leans against my leg and Bobby turns his full attention back to the interview with Fifi Galant. Frankly, I’m glad I don’t have to talk to anybody or make plans to catch the killer or even think about anything. Especially about Jack and The Company and my divorce.
Closing my eyes, I try to get into a Zen-like state, fall into the moment and just be, but something on the TV catches my attention.
“We’re having the wedding in the lobby of the Peabody,” the bride-to-be is saying. “We’ll be using the same red carpet used in the parade of ducks.”
I snap my eyes open. What kind of weird person wants to drag her wedding gown down a carpet where ducks leave a nasty daily trail?
I stare at Fifi, something nibbling on the outer reaches of my mind. Why do I get the feeling I’m missing something?
I don’t know why I do this—pick a subject to pieces even after the dust has settled and all the shouting is over. For goodness sake, we’ve caught the killer, solved the crime, closed the case.
Though Fifi is wearing subtle makeup and a subdued Albert Nipon dress, she still has an air of flamboyance, an unmistakable stage presence that almost screams showgirl. What did Lovie say? She got her start at Hot Tips?
Still, what does that have to do with anything? Except, two of the Peabody victims were showgirls. And both were killed near the fountain. Where the ducks swim.
“I’m finished.” Lovie swings into the room in tight jeans and a hot pink tee shirt with a sequined cowboy across her awesome bosom, hot pink cowboy boots on her feet. “Make it snappy, Callie. I’m ready to rumble.”
Relieved to be jerked out of my endless cogitation, I grab my clothes and head to the bathroom. If I could bottle Lovie, I’d mark her Instant Personality and sell her at Hair.Net for millions. She always makes me smile. Even better, she makes me forget what I was worried about in the first place.
After I change, Lovie and I stash the uniforms temporarily in our suitcases, then the four of us (including Elvis) head to Café Espresso in a row of little shops off the lobby. It has the old world charm of a Viennese bakery—terra-cotta floors, real linen napkins on the tables, a chef in white hat serving delectable edibles from a glass case. These pastries look so sinful, one mouthful could put twenty pounds on each hip.
Bobby selects a table for us near the Peabody promenade so that technically Elvis is not in the small eatery. Within minutes we’re all deep in sugar-overload heaven. Even Bobby seems at ease.
“You know,” he says, “Calls to God are local here. This is God’s country.”
“Amen,” I say, and Elvis thumps his tail. Lovie has her mouth full and can’t reply.
My cell phone shatters our peaceful outing. I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” It’s Jill. I never forget a voice. “Callie? I just wanted to let y’all know I’m home.”
“Great. How’s it going?”
“The minute I mentioned divorce, Mother started wringing her hands and Aunt Betty Jean started quoting scriptures.” Jill giggles. “Then Mother saw my tattoo and nearly fainted.”
“What’d you get?”
“Mine says ‘Miss Paris Reigns.’ I was on top of the world when I wore that crown and that’s where I plan to be again. Nothing can stop me now.”
“Good for you.” I tell Jill about our escapades in Thomas’ room while Bobby leans forward, all ears. This is his first time hearing the particulars. “We’re celebrating with pastries now.”
“Have a fat flaky one for me.”
“Will do.”
“Callie? I can’t thank you and Lovie enough for what you did for me. You two are my inspiration.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been anybody’s ins
piration. After Jill promises to keep in touch and says goodbye, I sit, in this quaint café, enjoying the good feeling of helping her find the right path, and collaring the killer.
“Who was that?” Lovie asks.
“Jill. She’s great. Called us her inspiration.”
“Thomas didn’t do it.” Bobby runs his finger around the bottom of his plate to catch an elusive pastry flake.
“What do you mean, he didn’t do it?” Lovie’s face is turning red with the effort to moderate her voice.
“I just had a vision.”
“Visions don’t mean squat in a court of law,” she says. “We found evidence.”
“Wait a minute, Lovie. I don’t think the tapes are enough.” Bobby’s green eye is twitching but his blue one is staring across the promenade with a faraway look. How does he do that? “Tell us about your vision, Bobby.”
“There’s danger from a dark-eyed stranger.”
“If you say that again, I’m going to scream.” This from Lovie, who looks like she’s about fifteen seconds from doing so now.
“Hush, Lovie. You’re going to scare him.” Keeping my voice low and even, I say, “What else, Bobby?”
“It’s not personal,” he says.
“What’s not personal?”
“The murders.”
“You mean he didn’t mean to kill his victims, or he didn’t know them?”
Bobby just sits there staring into space. Apparently, he’s gone into some kind of trance.
“Why don’t we just hold a séance right here in the Peabody? Maybe we can contact the victims and ask them.”
“That’s not nice, Lovie. Besides, people are staring.”
“When I’m in the room, people always stare. I like to give them plenty to stare at.”
Bobby still looks comatose and has now tilted sideways.
“Lovie, do you think he’s going to fall out of his chair?”
“If he does, we’ll just leave him here and pretend we don’t know him.” You could knock me over with a drop of tequila. Lovie’s not mean spirited. “Just kidding, Cal.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to order another raspberry pastry.”
“What about Bobby?”
“I’ll get one for him, too.”
Lovie gets up and prances off. Which is just like her. If Bobby falls out of that chair while she’s gone, I’m going to kill him.
Elvis’ Opinion #10 on Rejection, Revelry, and Reformation
I can’t speak for Bobby, but if Lovie doesn’t bring a raspberry pastry for yours truly, I’m liable to take off somebody’s leg. Listen, being on the sidelines is for untalented cocker spaniels. I may be a reformed former icon in a dog suit (meaning I can live without the spotlight as long as I get to rule over the oak tree where my ham bones are buried), but I’m no pushover. The only thing that can soothe my ruffled fur is food. And plenty of it.
What do they think I was doing up there in that room? Acting like a couch dog? I’m too full of piss and vinegar for that. Even though I was hampered by four walls and a watchboy (Bobby), I made every minute count.
Before Jack arrived, I got a good whiff of the killer at the door, and I can tell you right now: it’s not Thomas Whitenton. If Callie would let me off this leash, I could track that scent down before you could howl “A Little Less Conversation.”
Not consulting the King is enough to make a lesser dog feel rejected. Of course, I’m not your average dog. Why do you think I get invited nearly everywhere Callie goes, including to the Café Espresso for their premature celebration?
For one thing, they have nothing to celebrate. But then, they don’t know that, because they didn’t bother to ask my opinion. For another, a pastry and a cup of coffee (water, in my case) are not what you’d call living high on the hog. If they want revelry, they ought to let me throw them a party in Graceland.
Now, there was some revelry. When I was living in Memphis, there was always a whole lot’a shakin’ goin’ on. Football in the back yard, target practice on the shooting range, and best of all, lots of good rockin’ around the piano, with yours truly providing the accompaniment. I could still wrap my paws around the ivories if I had some digits.
These days, though, I’m lucky if I get to twang a few notes on Jack’s guitar when I’m with my human daddy. Speaking of which, he’s not going to be too happy that Callie’s down here right in the path of danger.
Bobby’s correct on that score. There’s danger all around. Until Jack catches the Peabody killer, nobody’s safe in this hotel.
Chapter 23
Disco Balls, Second Prize, and Second Guesses
My cell phone rings again, jarring Bobby out of his trance. It’s Mama. Talking so loud you can hear her across the room.
“Callie, where are you?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not in this ballroom, and if you don’t hurry, you’ll miss the presentation of the trophies.”
Holy cow. I forgot. Bobby and I round up Lovie, who has just paid for a second helping of raspberry pastries.
“What do I do with these?”
“Put them in your purse, Lovie. If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss seeing Mama and Uncle Charlie win a dance trophy.” I glance at Bobby. “And don’t you dare tell me they’re not going to win.”
I enjoy surprise. Unless, of course, it’s Jack Jones surprising me in my own bedroom. In Mooreville and anywhere else he takes a notion.
We head through the lobby toward the Continental Ballroom just as the duck master is leading his feathered charges off the elevator. Elvis immediately takes offense. His hackles ruffle up and he starts that low, rumbling growl that means trouble.
“Elvis, no.” I pull him in close to my left side. If he makes a scene, we could get thrown out of the hotel. A group of little old women having an afternoon toddy are already scowling in our direction.
“What’s with Elvis?” Lovie says.
“He hates the ducks. You two go ahead. We’ll catch up.” I squat beside my dog and try to soothe his bad attitude with a Pup-Peroni treat from my purse.
Unfortunately, the duck master and his quacking entourage are headed in our direction. Elvis’ whole body quivers. If he lunges, there’ll be duck feathers all over the lobby. I grab his collar in a tight hold just as the duck master passes by.
No wonder my dog is taking umbrage. Surprisingly, that silly braid-trimmed jacket is buttoned up wrong and the bottom is hanging crooked. You’d think somebody who was getting ready to put on a show would at least get his clothes on straight.
Hunkered on the carpet with my quivering dog, I wait until the duck master passes, then hotfoot it toward the ballroom.
Mama is waiting at the ballroom door.
“What took you so long?”
“We got sidetracked by the ducks.” Across the room, I spot Lovie and Bobby with Fayrene and Jarvetis. “Where’s Uncle Charlie?”
“Oh, you know Charlie. Off on some wild goose chase.”
“About what?”
“Jack’s in town.” She watches my face turn the color of a woman with one too many men and not enough willpower. “I see you already know.”
“I do.” Obviously Mama doesn’t know that Jack and probably Uncle Charlie have escorted her former dance partner to the police station, and he’s being booked for murder. If I tell her, though, it will spoil her day.
I lean over and kiss her cheek. “I hope you win, Mama.”
“Oh, I will.” As she leads me toward a row of chairs, she glances around the ballroom. “I wonder what’s keeping Thomas?”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling her. Now is not the time for true confessions about a man whose hobby is porn videos. Not to mention murder.
Lovie and Bobby are waiting for us in the third row. In the second, Fayrene and Jarvetis are holding hands. It looks like Mooreville’s answer to Lucy and Desi have completely made up. I’m glad. Without Jarvetis a
nd his redbone hound, social life in Mooreville would never be the same. If he left, Fayrene would probably ditch the fish bait, and who would restock the shelves with pickled pigs’ lips?
As I slide into the chair beside Lovie, I wonder why I’m not feeling a big sense of relief. We’ve caught the Peabody killer. Uncle Charlie’s absence is verification enough. He would never leave Mama alone if he thought we’d nabbed the wrong man.
Of course, Jarvetis is here, and who knows? Maybe Uncle Charlie told him to protect the ladies (those would be his precise words) until he returned.
I don’t have time for further speculation, because the emcee is at the microphone in the center of the dance floor.
“Ladieees and gentlemennnn.” He sounds like a ring-master at a circus. When you think about it, though, this entire dance competition has had the feel of a Barnum and Bailey big tent show.
Acrylic trophies are lined in a glittering row on the table at the emcee’s left. In the middle of the table beside a crystal vase of stargazer lilies sits the grand prize, a giant mirrored disco ball.
“How do they determine who gets the grand prize, Mama?”
“It varies with the competitions. In this one, it’s judges’ choice.”
“What does that mean?”
“No rhyme nor reason, that’s what it means. If they like you, you might get it. If they don’t, forget it.”
I pat Mama’s hand. “I know they liked you.”
“You think?”
“Who wouldn’t, Mama?”
The way Mama’s glowing, she looks like a teenager getting ready for her first date. No wonder Mr. Whitenton fell for her. I send silent prayers into the universe that she won’t be too upset when he’s charged with murder.
Suddenly, she grabs my arm. “That’s me! That’s me!” She jumps up and races toward the center of the dance floor.
I lean over and tap Lovie. “What did she win?”
“Didn’t you hear? She and Daddy won the jitterbug competition.” She glances around the ballroom, probably wondering the same thing I am. Where is he? What could be taking so long?
