Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders

by Peggy Webb

  “Maybe there was a long line of criminals waiting to be booked,” I say, and Lovie doesn’t even look surprised. We’ve been reading each other’s mind since we were kids. Just let us loose on the farm and we’d always head in the same direction, whether it was to our favorite oak climbing tree in the pasture or to the barn loft where we’d sit in the fragrant hay and dream for hours or to the lake where we’d watch the fish jump and make shining circles in the water.

  Mama comes back with her trophy. “I’m going to build a special bookcase for this in the dining room.”

  “You already have a bookcase in the dining room.”

  “That’s for books. This one will be for trophies. The first of many.” She kisses her trophy. “Wait till Charlie sees this.”

  When the emcee holds up a trophy for the mambo and announces the award will go posthumously to Gloria Divine, a hush comes over the crowd. Gloria’s partner, a slender, silver-haired man I’d noticed the first day of the competition, takes the microphone and gives a tearful speech.

  “Gloria had a lifelong love of dance,” he says.

  Lovie punches me and I bite my tongue to keep from yelling. Not because of Lovie but because I’ve just remembered something. Fifi Galant, former exotic dancer and bride-to-be with her Peabody fountain wedding, has the same last name as none other than the duck master. Melvin Galant.

  I remember seeing his nametag when we were on the roof the evening Babs was pushed off. And most recently, while we were crossing the lobby and I kept Elvis from chewing off his leg.

  What if Elvis knows something I don’t? What if he had other reasons besides hatred of ducks to want to bite the duck master?

  I’m fixing to grab Lovie and hightail it out of there when the emcee holds up the disco ball trophy.

  “And nowwww for the Grand Prize! Winners are FAYRENE AND JARVETIS JOHNSON!”

  Fayrene screams, then outruns Jarvetis and grabs the microphone.

  “I’m prostate with joy,” she yells, and the audience cracks up.

  Jarvetis catches up with her and holds the disco ball trophy aloft. Fayrene clutches the microphone looking like she’s getting ready to give a full-blown speech, but he escorts her off. Thank goodness. I don’t think Memphis is ready for Mooreville’s Mrs. Malaprop.

  The disco ball was the final trophy and the audience is beginning to drift out of the ballroom. Soon a crew will be in here to strip, clean, and redecorate for this evening’s Elvis tribute dance.

  Giving Lovie the look, I offer quick congratulations all around, then the two of us head toward the door.

  “We’re going to splurge at Chez Philippe’s,” Mama says. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I need to take Elvis out.” I kiss her cheek. “Have fun.”

  “Wait. You can meet us later. I’ll get a table big enough for all of us.”

  “You go ahead, Mama. Lovie and I will probably pick up a quick sandwich or something.”

  “What are you planning that does not include me?”

  Mama gets this narrow-eyed look when she smells a rat. I’d hoped the trophy would take her mind off my business, but it looks like I’m wrong. Again.

  “Aunt Ruby Nell, we’ll see you at the dance tonight.”

  Mama rarely argues with Lovie. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s because they’re so much alike—flamboyant, stubborn, maddening women who usually get their way.

  Placated, she turns back to Fayrene, and the two of them start discussing how much money they’re going to spend on dinner. Jarvetis just looks on with a half smile. Until the Memphis dance competition, I would have called that look long-suffering. Now I understand it’s amused tolerance.

  I pull Elvis up on a tight leash and am just heading toward the door and freedom when Bobby grabs my arm.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No need for you to miss the celebration. You go ahead with Mama.”

  His blue eye beams into mine. “There’s danger.”

  Thank goodness, he didn’t add from a dark-eyed stranger. I’m getting ready to tell him to have dinner with Mama and company when I remember the TV special he and Elvis were watching—all about dancer-turned-socialite Fifi Galant.

  “On second thought, come with me,” I tell him.

  Bobby could know something that will help us find the real Peabody killer.

  Chapter 24

  Ice Statue, Icy Reception, and Flying Ice

  When we get outside the ballroom, Lovie asks, “What’s this about?”

  “I think we got the wrong man.” I tell them about the duck master’s nametag.

  “Could be coincidence,” she says.

  “No!” Bobby is usually quiet and rarely adamant. We stare at him. “Melvin Galant is Fifi’s ex-husband.”

  “Are you sure?” Lovie thinks Bobby’s psychic eye is balder-dash (my word, not hers).

  From time to time, she has also expressed serious doubts about his other mental capabilities. In private, of course. The only thing she’s never disputed is his reputation as an undertaker. Like Uncle Charlie, Bobby can make the dead look like they’re fixing to climb out of the casket and stroll down to Gas, Grits, and Guts for a Mountain Dew and a bag of boiled peanuts, cooked to perfection right in the parking lot. (Fayrene and Jarvetis like to keep a flea market going, weather permitting.)

  “While you were snooping in the wrong room, Elvis and I saw this TV show where Fifi was saying she wanted to get married at the Peabody on account of her many happy memories here with her former husband. The duck master.”

  Lovie almost faints. First off, neither of us rarely hears Bobby utter more than six words strung together at one time. Second, she does not like to be told she did anything wrong. She’s shocked at Bobby’s not-so-subtle suggestion that she made a mistake going into Thomas’ room.

  Of course, I did, too, but I’m not as sensitive to criticism as Lovie. With Ruby Nell Valentine for a mother, how could I be? Of course, I mean that in the best way. Mama has taught me some wonderful life lessons. For one thing, live large. If I can master that, I think I’ll be okay.

  “Still,” Lovie says, “that does not mean that Melvin Galant had a thing to do with the murders.”

  “Yes,” I say, “but we have some strong connections. The showgirl angle plus the fact that all the murders took place around the ducks. And he was always there.”

  “What would be his motive?” Lovie asks.

  “Bobby, did Fifi say anything else about Melvin?”

  “Let me see. Just that his mother had been a showgirl. I think that was it.”

  “That’s a lot of showgirls—the two Galant women and two of the victims.” Elvis is straining at his leash, and I’m having a hard time standing in one place. “Still, how does Babs fit in?”

  “And we still don’t have motive. What’s your plan, Cal?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Well, you’re the one who dragged us out here. You must have had something in mind.” She grins. “Housekeeping, anyone?”

  “Wipe that look off your face. We will not prance around this hotel again looking like French maid hookers in a bordello.”

  “I thought both of you looked very nice.” Bobby blushes. “I mean. Really. You did.”

  “Thank you, Bobby. By the way, did you bring a computer?” He nods. “Why don’t you check out the Galant family? If you find anything interesting, call my cell. And would you mind taking Elvis? Lovie and I may need to move fast.”

  “Okay. But maybe you should come with me. There’s danger from a dark-eyed stranger.”

  “I know.” I pat his hand. “Don’t worry. I have Lovie.”

  Elvis is not happy to be leaving with Bobby. Like Mama, he loves to be in the middle of the action.

  Lovie puts her hands on her hips. “You have me for what?”

  “To go to the roof.”

  “No thank you. I’ve already seen the view. From the window ledge.”

  “We need to see what we can find out about
Fifi and the duck master. Besides, I’m not asking you to climb over the balustrade.”

  “Believe me, I’m not planning to. What’s our cover?”

  I glance at my watch. The afternoon duck parade is over, so our timing should be perfect.

  “You wanted to check out the catering for the wedding rehearsal dinner at the Skyway, didn’t you? We’re crashing the party. Old friends of Fifi’s.”

  “Brilliant, Sherlock.”

  “If I don’t get us both killed.” A strong possibility. I’m beginning to have second thoughts. “Maybe we ought to just call Jack or Uncle Charlie and see if they booked Thomas.”

  “Daddy? Why?”

  Holy cow. If I’m not careful, I’m going to have a slip of the tongue and reveal Uncle Charlie’s secret connection to The Company.

  “Just because. Uncle Charlie always takes charge of things. And Jack…” I shut my mouth before I say anything else foolish. And dangerous. What would happen if Lovie found out about The Company, and suddenly she slips up and tells Rocky who just might tell his most trusted right-hand man. All of a sudden, Jack’s cover would be blown and people all over the world could come gunning for him.

  And then where would I be?

  Probably the same place I already am. In limbo.

  “Come on, Lovie. Let’s kick some serious backside.”

  “Lord, Cal. Why can’t you just say…”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Lovie. What if I were pregnant? Would you want your unborn niece or nephew to come into this world using words like that?”

  “Probably not.”

  “See? So don’t even say it.”

  “I’d wait till they were two to teach them.”

  Lovie’s just kidding. I hope.

  On the way to the roof, we stop at the fourth floor to finish cooking our half-baked plan. While we’re at it, Lovie takes the pastries out of the purse, then pops open a can of peanuts from her stash. I have to say the junk food is just what I need. We haven’t had a real meal since this morning’s brunch.

  “Let’s review, Lovie. So far, Thomas and Victor have been hauled in, so that leaves Grayson and now the duck master. Unless Thomas really is guilty.”

  “Don’t forget Carolyn Mims.”

  “Okay, that’s three viable suspects. There were no weapons, so every one of them had means, and they were all here, so that gives them opportunity.” I nibble a peanut, hoping for inspiration. Nothing comes but the gut feeling that we’re on the right track. “But the biggest piece of the puzzle is still missing.”

  “Motive. And don’t forget, Cal, we could be dealing with more than one killer.” Lovie finishes the last of her pastry, then digs into the can of nuts. “Did you bring your gun?”

  “Are you kidding? To the Peabody? Besides, I’ve never hit anything except the side of a car and a very good pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.”

  Lovie disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running, then she emerges and pitches a damp washcloth in my direction.

  “Here. Wipe the sugar off your hands.”

  “I could have washed them in the bathroom.”

  “Saves time. If we’re going to blend in with the early arrivals at the wedding party, we’ve got to change clothes and we’ve got to hustle.”

  It doesn’t take me long to slip into a simple black sheath and sequined Manolo Blahniks. Not exactly the shoes I would choose for chasing a killer, but the black dress will be great for blending.

  “Let’s rumble.” Lovie is standing in the bathroom doorway in a hot pink sequined full-skirted number that screams see me. Strike blending.

  We head out the door, then trot to the elevator that will take us to the Skyway. Lord only knows what we’ll do when we get there.

  “Pray, Lovie.”

  “For what?”

  “Divine invention.”

  She punches me and I punch her back. When all this is over, I hope we’re still in a jocular mood. More to the point, I hope we’re still alive.

  It turns out Lovie was right about early arrivals. As we spill out of the elevator, we encounter a large group of tuxedoed men and perfumed women milling outside the Skyway. The flamboyant Fifi’s friends. If their over-the-top eveningwear, à la Lovie, was not a dead giveaway, then the garish lipstick cinches the deal. Fifi’s marrying a doctor. Trust me. These are not his cohorts. No doctor’s wife would be caught dead in cheap lipstick.

  A brassy blonde wearing tangerine approaches me. Somebody ought to tell her that shade of tangerine does not flatter her color type.

  “Hi. I’m Janice. Are you a friend of the bride or the groom?”

  “The bride. College roommate.”

  “I didn’t think Fifi went to college.”

  “That Rosita.” Lovie punches me on the arm. “Such a kidder.” She winks at Tangerine Disaster, a.k.a. Janice. “She’s a dropout of so many colleges, she thinks she got a degree.”

  I’m not sure Janice is buying Lovie’s spiel. “Actually, I was surprised to get this invitation,” I say. “Fifi and I haven’t kept up and I haven’t seen her in…like…forever.”

  “Just between you and me, neither have I.” Janice leans closer. “Actually, I’ve heard Fifi is pregnant, which, if you ask me, is the only way she could land a doctor.”

  “Does Melvin know?”

  “Probably. I’ve heard he keeps pretty close tabs on Fifi.”

  “Odd,” I say, hoping Janice will tell us more, but she’s distracted by a guy with movie-star looks and no wedding ring. Excusing herself, she trots off after him.

  “Come on, Cal. I see an ice sculpture.”

  We head into the Skyway. “Rosita?” I say, and she says, “Yeah, well, somebody had to think of something. We were going to be exposed before we ever got started.”

  The ice sculpture towers above the buffet table, a monumental art piece featuring two intertwined hearts surrounded by…

  I can’t believe my eyes.

  “Lovie, tell me that’s lovebirds.”

  “Look again. It’s flying ducks. Carved in ice.”

  “Did Fifi love ducks that much or is she just rubbing Melvin’s nose in her wedding?”

  “Who knows? And what does it have to do with murder, anyhow? I think we’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Even if we are, just seeing this ice carving is worth being wrong.”

  “Since we’re here, we might as well eat.” Lovie grabs a plate off the end of the table.

  “Put that back. We’re not invited guests.”

  “Caterers always prepare extra. If we don’t eat, a lot of this food will just go to waste.” She piles chocolate petit fours on her plate.

  “You mean go to waist.”

  “Cute, Cal.” She hands one to me. “Eat this. You’ll feel better.”

  Suddenly there’s a small sound, like ice cubes breaking apart in a glass.

  “Lovie? Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  The sound comes again, louder this time. And it’s coming from the direction of the bizarre frozen artwork. “That. Did you hear it?”

  “Yes. It’s…Oh…my…God. Run, Callie!”

  Lovie’s already streaking toward the door, leaving a trail of chocolate petit fours. I take off after her just as the ice sculpture explodes. Shattered ice crystals rain over my head and a chunk the size of the Portage Glacier, to say the least, narrowly misses my head.

  If I don’t watch out, tomorrow’s headlines are going to read “Mooreville’s Entrepreneur Killed by Flying Ice.”

  Chapter 25

  Change of Plans, Who Dunnit, and Love Me Tender

  My Manolo Blahniks are slipping and sliding on the ice. If I’m not careful, I’m going to join the women who are falling to the floor, their skirts flying over their heads like multi-colored kites.

  I’m flailing my arms to keep my balance, but Lovie plows ahead like she has ice treads on her shoes. And she’s not heading toward the door.

  “Lovie. Wrong way!”

&nb
sp; “I saw somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. He was wearing an Elvis mask.”

  We clear the icy portion of the floor and round the corner of the ladies’ room. I see him now, just up ahead, racing down the hallway toward the kitchen wearing a mask with sexy, curled lips and black plastic sideburns. He’s also wearing a suit with a double-breasted jacket trimmed in gold braid. If it’s not the duck master, it’s somebody wearing his suit.

  “Melvin,” I yell, and he turns to glance backward. “It’s him, Lovie.”

  “I saw.”

  “Don’t let him get away.”

  Our target picks up speed and slams into a waiter heading toward the Skyway with a loaded tray. Food shoots into the air, then crashes around us. I’m being buried under an avalanche of shrimp.

  Undeterred, Lovie’s gaining on the killer. The duck master ducks (no pun intended) into the service elevator and the door slides shut right in Lovie’s face. I catch up, panting for breath and holding a stitch in my side.

  Lovie says a word that would terrify small children and give old ladies heart attacks.

  “We’ve lost him,” I say.

  “Not necessarily.” She grabs my arm and drags me back up the hall. The poor, hapless waiter glares at us as if we’ve personally deprived the wedding party of shrimp.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, but I don’t think it moderates his opinion of women who crash parties.

  The only way to the public elevators is back through the Skyway, which is still in a high state of turmoil. Waiters are mopping up glass, tuxedoed men are trying to herd their dates to the ice-free corners, and women wearing cheap mascara are crying black tears. Nobody notices us.

  Just as we reach the bank of elevators, my cell phone rings.

  “Bobby? What do you have?”

  “It’s him, Callie. It’s the duck master.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. When he was three, his mother abandoned him at the stage door of the club where she worked, and you’ll never guess what it was called.”

  “What?”

  There’s dead silence, and for a minute I think I’ve lost the connection. Then a new voice comes over the line.