by Peggy Webb
“It was Club Hoochie Mama, Cal.”
“Jack. Oh my God.”
“Same to you, darlin’.”
“Oh, hush.” Why does this man always get under my skin? “The killer told Mama, die, hoochie mama.”
“I know. We think Melvin went berserk after Fifi left, and started picking off dancers. He’s still at large, babe. I want you to get your cute butt into your room and stay there. Take Lovie.”
“You can kiss my big fat attitude.”
“That’s not what I plan to kiss, Cal.”
The line goes dead. I’m so mad I could spit.
“What was that all about?” Lovie asks.
“Apparently Jack went looking for me and found Bobby and Elvis, instead. The good news is that Melvin Galant is our man.”
I wouldn’t be so certain if I had only Bobby’s say-so, but Jack Jones always gets his man. At least, that’s what Uncle Charlie told me. I tell Lovie the news about Melvin’s mama.
“Great,” she says. “Revenge is a big fat motive. If we’re going to find him before Jack, we’d better hustle.”
“Hustle where? Melvin Galant could be anywhere in this hotel. Shoot, by now he’s probably on the streets.”
“Remember his Elvis mask. Think of all the hoochie mamas getting ready to fill the Continental Ballroom for the Elvis tribute dance.”
“You think he’ll show up? With cops all over this hotel, not to mention Jack Jones and the Valentine vigilantes?”
“Killers aren’t governed by reason.” The elevator arrives and Lovie punches the fourth floor. “I like Valentine Vigilantes, Cal. When we get home, let’s have cards printed. VALENTINE VIGILANTES, GUNS FOR HIRE.”
“Guns, my foot. We don’t even have your baseball bat.”
“Not for long.” The elevator stops on the fourth floor and we get off. “I’m fixing to be armed and dangerous.”
“You’re always armed and dangerous.”
Back in our room, we grab our Elvis masks as well as Lovie’s weapon. Listen, a baseball bat might not sound like much, but in her hands it’s as formidable as it was in the hands of Babe Ruth.
Still, this is not some juke joint. For goodness sake, this is the Peabody.
“Maybe we ought to rethink the bat. You can’t go into the ballroom wielding that thing.”
“Big skirts hide lots of things besides the Holy Grail and the national treasure. Besides, if Melvin Galant decides you’re the next one who needs to die, you’ll be glad I brought my lethal weapon.”
Tucking the bat into the folds of her skirt, she heads out the door and I follow.
The ballroom is already filled with dancers. Usually I can spot Mama a mile away, but how can I tell who anybody is with everybody wearing an Elvis mask?
“We’ll never find him in this crowd,” Lovie says.
I’m thinking she’s right, when all of a sudden I see Bobby Huckabee standing in the doorway, mask in place, distinguishable from the crowd only by the dog he’s holding on a leash.
“Oh yes, we will. Look who’s standing in the door.”
“Bobby? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No. Elvis.”
“He’s a pampered pooch, Cal. You think he can track?”
“He can smell Jarvetis’ pickled pigs’ lips from across the street and Ann-Margret halfway across Mooreville. You bet your sweet patootie he can track.”
“Brilliant, Sherlock.”
“Thank you, Watson.”
I whip out my cell phone and ring Bobby’s number. “Stay put, Bobby. Lovie and I are headed your way. We need Elvis.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” Bobby says.
I can never tell whether he’s kidding. Though I’m finding out there’s more to Bobby Huckabee than meets the eye.
He’s so glad to see me, he wags all over himself. (Elvis, not Bobby.) I squat beside him and rub his ears (my dog’s, not Bobby’s).
“How would you like to sniff out some dastardly ducks, boy? Ducks?” He wags his tail, but I’m not a hundred percent sure he understands what I’m saying. “I wish we had some duck feathers.”
“There’s bound to be some in the fountain,” Bobby says. “I’ll go see.”
“Thanks, Bobby. We’ll wait here.”
“By the refreshment tables,” Lovie amends.
As Bobby leaves, Lovie makes a beeline for the food. Keeping Elvis on a short leash, I strike out after her, but I can’t plow straight through the crowd without getting my dog trampled. Looking for openings, I meander.
Suddenly Elvis pulls against the leash. Hard. I’m getting ready to play our usual tug of war and test of wills when I notice he has his nose to the floor.
My dog is on the scent. Let’s just hope it’s not the scent of beef shish kebabs.
“Get ’em, boy. Sic ’em.” A few heads turn my way, but if people are glaring, I can’t tell because of the masks.
Letting Elvis take the lead, I’m pulled away from the refreshment tables and across the room toward the stage. Too late, I realize I’m losing Lovie and her baseball bat.
“Lovie,” I call, but over the buzz of conversation, she doesn’t hear me.
The stage is at the center back of the ballroom, approximately fifteen feet wide and eight feet deep. Onstage, band members are setting up their snare drums and electric guitars. An Elvis look-alike in a red jumpsuit covered with rhinestones fiddles with the microphone.
Holy cow. Is my dog heading this way to steal the show? It would be just like him.
The drummer hits a few licks and the faux Elvis breaks into “Heartbreak Hotel,” which describes the current state of the Peabody to a tee. Ask any of the victims.
Not to mention my torn-to-pieces self.
Elvis lifts his head and howls. Fortunately, nobody notices. They’re all on the floor gyrating to the beat. Plus, the music is loud enough to burst eardrums.
Hot on the trail, Elvis vaults onto the stage, with yours truly being dragged along for the ride. The Elvis tribute artist sees my dog and grins. I’ll bet he thinks we’re part of the act. After all, the King once sang to a basset hound on the “Steve Allen Show.”
Elvis flies past the drummer and knocks over the cymbals. They crash to the floor, but the band never misses a beat. And neither does my dog. He’s streaking backstage.
I fly through the curtains after him. And straight into the arms of the duck master.
“Your turn to die, hoothie mama.”
In one smooth move, he wraps a scarf around my neck. I can’t yell. I can’t breathe.
“Heartbreak Hotel” plays on while the masked audience stomps and claps. The duck master tightens my noose.
Where’s the baseball bat when I need it? Where’s Jack? Where’s Lovie? Probably eating cake while I am going to die.
The leash goes slack in my hand and Elvis breaks free. He lunges and the duck master screams. The scarf drops to the floor and I gulp for breath.
Sucking air into my starved lungs, I stagger backward. Elvis has Melvin Galant’s leg in a death hold. He’s shaking the duck master like a cottonmouth moccasin on Mama’s farm that he’s planning to kill.
“Cal!”
It’s Jack, racing to my rescue. Thank goodness, I’m no longer the kind of woman who needs rescuing. I kick off my Manolo Blahniks, pick one up, and whack Melvin over the head.
The spike heel draws blood and the Peabody killer slides to the floor. Elvis takes one look at my attacker, lifts his leg, and pees on Melvin’s shoes.
I’m going to buy him a T-bone steak for supper.
“Elvis, you’re my hero.”
How I ended up in the honeymoon suite of the Peabody would be a mystery to me if I didn’t know Jack Jones so well. After all the shouting was over and Melvin was led away in handcuffs, Jack just whisked me off.
And I was too shaken to protest. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
I’m also telling myself that in spite of the fact that Jack has kissed the bruises on my neck and i
s now kneeling beside the loveseat massaging my ice cold feet, I will not let him see my unicorn.
“I don’t care what you do, Jack Jones. I’m keeping my clothes on.”
Famous last words. Fifteen minutes later he’s peeling me like an onion. When my dress hits the floor, he starts laughing so hard I figure he’s finally coming unhinged. If I’d kept umpteen secrets from my spouse, I’d come unglued, too.
“What?” I say. “What?”
“A unicorn tattoo. I can’t believe it.”
He goes off into another gale of guffawing, which serves the wonderful purpose of bringing me to my senses.
Scooping my dress off the floor, I cover my unicorn.
“Jack. I want a divorce.”
“I can see that. You’ve got our love symbol tattoed all over your cute butt.”
“I’m serious, Jack. I want children.”
“We’ve gone through all that, Cal. The time’s not right.”
I’m not fixing to get into another argument with Jack about timing while my eggs atrophy. I’m determined to end this once and for all.
“The time’s never going to be right for you, Jack. I know what you do. I know what The Company is.”
He crams his hands into his pockets and walks to the window.
“Fine,” he says.
“Fine?”
“I’ll sign the papers.”
I can hardly believe my ears. This is what I want. Isn’t it?
“You’ll sign?”
“Yes. You can have whatever you want.”
“You won’t fight me for custody of Elvis?”
“No.”
He turns back around and strolls my way, smiling. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was wearing a mask.
“Maybe you’ll name the first kid after me, Cal.”
You can hear my free-at-last eggs shouting hallelujah all the way to the Mississippi River.
“Maybe I will, Jack.”
He doesn’t hear me. He’s already out the door.
I stand in the middle of the honeymoon suite picturing myself adding a playpen to Hair.Net.
Elvis’ Opinion #11 on Stardom, Freedom, and Being a Hero
Everybody’s back in Mooreville now, and according to my human mom, everybody’s happy.
I could say that would be true about everybody except Callie.
Lovie’s got a ticket to join Rocky down in Mexico. Nobody’s said exactly where he is. Just somewhere in the jungle digging up old bones. A man after my own heart.
I might see if I can finagle a ticket for myself. Digging is one of my specialties. Second only to turning the music world upside down and solving crimes. Listen, who do you think nabbed the Peabody killer?
If it hadn’t been for my sharp nose and even sharper teeth, he’d probably still be running around Memphis killing hoochie mamas. I knew it was him the minute I smelled him coming down the hall while Callie and Lovie were stealing maid outfits. A trained hound dog never misses the scent of eau de duck.
As for the rest of the Valentine clan, Ruby Nell’s content to have her guardian angel back. She and Charlie haven’t crossed swords since we got back from Memphis. In fact, he’s agreed to be her dance partner now that Thomas Whitenton is out of the picture.
Though Thomas was released from jail, he’s one thing Callie will no longer have to worry about. The minute Ruby Nell found out her light-footed partner had a secret taste for porn, she dismissed him from her life. Permanently. Listen, Ruby Nell may act like a wild woman who loves getting on Callie’s last nerve, but she’s got nearly as much sense as a basset hound. If somebody would put her on the ticket for president, I’d vote for her.
And speaking of Mooreville’s glitterati, Fayrene and Jarvetis have added a new attraction over at Gas, Grits, and Guts. The disco ball dance trophy is on display right beside the pickled pigs’ lips. Fayrene even had Jarvetis install a special overhead spotlight. You can’t walk into the store now without seeing mirrored rainbows all over the peas and corn.
They’re even over the fish bait. Some of the diehard fishermen are turned off by shiny fish bait, but give them time. Jarvetis and Fayrene are icons around here. Moorevillians may be slow to adjust to the dancing disco ball, but they’ll come around.
There are other big doings across the road, too. The minute I gave my old pal Trey the all-clear signal, he meandered on home. Jarvetis woke up one morning and found his favorite redbone hound sitting in the kennel waiting for his Purina Dog Chow.
And Fayrene’s hired a construction crew. Work has already started on Bobby’s séance room. He’s so happy, he’s stopped predicting danger from a dark-eyed stranger.
Back to my human mom.
Don’t let her smile fool you. Even though she’s acting like she’s jumping for joy over Jack’s promise to sign divorce papers, I can smell her sadness a mile away.
Listen, I know her better than anybody. She used to keep the radio on all the time at Hair.Net. She’d tap her foot to the beat while she cut hair, prance around while she was folding towels, sing along if she knew the words. She’d even whistle while she mixed that dratted perm solution that smells like dead rats even a dog wouldn’t touch.
These days, she spends a lot of time squatted beside me rubbing my ears.
“It’s okay, boy,” she’ll say, but I don’t think she’s trying to reassure me. If you want my opinion, she’s trying to reassure herself.
She’ll stop right in the middle of rolling Fayrene’s hair and gaze out the window, her head tilted. I know what she’s doing: listening for the sound of Jack’s Harley Screamin’ Eagle.
Jack’s not coming. I could tell her, but there’s no use driving a stake through her heart. He’s holed up in his apartment, which smells like dirty socks, congratulating himself that he’s doing the right thing. Now that he understands Callie’s bone-deep need for children, he thinks signing the papers is going to make her happy.
Listen, neither one of them wants this divorce. If Jack Jones signs the papers, I’m a Chihuahua. And we all know Mexican food gives me a bad case of heartburn.
Don’t hold your breath, is all I’ve got to say.
Meanwhile, there’s a foxy Frenchie down the road who is hot to see her hunk’a burnin’ love. Not to mention five of the smartest puppies who ever called a King daddy.
I sashay my heroic butt through the doggie door and walk around the perimeter of the back-yard fence. A dog of my intelligence can always find an escape route.
Thank you. Thank you very much. Elvis has left the building.
Kensington Books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2010 by Peggy Webb
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010930761
ISBN: 978-0-7582-6298-1
