Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders (10 page)

Fishing around in my purse, I finally find the phone. When I see the name pop up, something in my bones tells me this can't be good.

“Mama?”

She's in such a tirade, it takes me a while to sort it all out. When I do, I want to go to the back room and drown myself in the washbasin. I might as well take down my Hair.Net sign and put up one that says, “Callie Valentine Jones, Disaster Management.”

I slam the phone back in my purse. “Just pick something, and fast, Lovie. I'll meet you in Mama's room.”

“What's wrong?”

“She's nearly killed Thomas and she says she's fixing to kill Uncle Charlie.”

T
he situation in Ruby Nell's room is not pretty, but I'm on top of it. Listen, if it hadn't been for me, the killer would have iced her this time. Drowned Ruby Nell in her Calgon bubble bath.

There I was, minding my own business…Well, sulking, if you want to know the truth. I'm sick and tired of being cooped up in this room when Memphis is waiting to bow at my paws.

This is the town where I made my mark, went from truck driver to overnight sensation, bought my first pink Cadillac, made pink my signature color. Don't tell me fans aren't lurking behind closed doors playing “Love Me Tender” and hoping for the day I reappear. I've swapped my jumpsuit for a dog suit, but I can still bring fans to a screaming frenzy.

All I have to do is walk into Lansky's Gift Shop downstairs and you'd see some adulation. They'd know how to treat the man who put the Lansky name on the map. (Bernard was my clothier.)

But I digress. Back to the mayhem on the tenth floor. There Ruby Nell was, up to her neck in bubbles while I lolled around on her bed keeping an eye peeled on the door. (Actually, I was hoping a housekeeper might come in and I could make my escape.)

Things were getting pretty boring and I was about to doze off when my mismatched ears saved us all.

I heard the killer coming—stealthy footsteps, the key turning in the lock. (Yeah, he had a key. Bet nobody else knows that.) Next, my nose kicked in. You'd have to look long and hard to find a better nose than a hound has. Just about any hound will do but, of course, I'm prejudiced. Bassets are the best.

Trey would argue for redbone hounds, but I'd win. I always do. He hasn't yet learned it's useless to match wits against a dog who once brought the world to its knees with a smoky Southern gospel and blues voice and a pair of sexy hips that wouldn't stay still.

Anyhow, I leaped off the bed and started a howling rendition of “Jailhouse Rock.” Ruby Nell yelled, “What's going on out there, Elvis?” and I segued into “Only the Strong Survive.”

About the time she burst out of the bathroom, naked as a boiled egg, wielding Lovie's baseball bat, Thomas galloped through the connecting door like an over-the-hill racehorse, his skinny legs pumping three feet in the air. (Take it from me. Men built like Thomas Whitenton should never be seen in public wearing nothing but shorts and socks.)

Lovie's bat connected with skinny, hairy thighs and amidst the commotion, the real killer ran toward the front door.

Naturally I was hot on his trail, howling “That's All Right, Mama” so Ruby Nell would know I had the situation under control. I was just fixing to take a bite out of crime when Charlie barreled in and got between me and my goal.

Ordinarily he'd have noticed the killer slithering behind the door, but all he could see was Mr. Whitenton in his Fruit of the Looms. Before Thomas could hum “I Beg of You,” Charlie waded in with fists flying while the real assailant slipped out the door.

You don't want to hear the gory details. Suffice it to say, Charlie Valentine could still register his hands as lethal weapons.

Ruby Nell was yelling her head off that he had the wrong man, but Charlie didn't hear her till she picked up Lovie's bat and threatened bodily harm if he didn't stop.

I sashayed around trying to smooth things over so Callie wouldn't have to deal with it, but Ruby Nell called her anyway. To top it off, Fayrene and Bobby fluttered in and began flouncing around.

This room looks like a three-ring Barnum and Bailey circus. There's nothing I can do now except wait for my human mom. My stalwart presence and reassuring manner will hold her together. That will have to do till I can get her back home and sit on her lap in the front porch swing and help her fall into the soothing rhythms of my beating heart.

I
arrive at Mama's room at the same time as the Memphis Police Department. By now I'm on a first name basis with the one I privately call Baby Face. When he says, “You again,” I just shrug.

“What can I say? ‘I love this dinky town.'”

He looks at me like I've gone crazy. Obviously he never saw Burt Lancaster in
Sweet Smell of Success.
I flash a big smile I don't feel and he leaves me alone to seek out somebody sane. Translated: Uncle Charlie over by the window, obviously in charge.

What was I going to do? Lie down and cry? Throw a pity party and invite myself to be the guest of honor? Though I feel like doing all those things, that's not my style.

Elvis rubs against my legs and I lean down for some contact with reality. When you're running into dead bodies and attempted murder everywhere you turn, it feels good to ground yourself with a dog. Their rules are simple: eat, sleep, roll in the grass, wag your tail, wait for treats.

While I pet Elvis, I survey the scene. Fayrene, Bobby, and Mama are hovered around the bed. I ease over to the left to see what the attraction is. Wouldn't you know it's Mr. Whitenton? He's lying there with a sheet draped haphazardly over his skinny bones, moaning and carrying on like he's dying. From the look of things, he's not wearing many clothes.

This is more of Thomas Whitenton than I ever wanted to know. I can't look away fast enough. Glancing across the room, I check the connecting door. Just as I suspected: it's wide open.

Mama's rubbing his face with a wet washcloth, but when she sees me she abandons him (thank goodness, and I don't say that to be mean). She rushes over, purple caftan flying and Fayrene riding her tailwinds.

“Mama, what happened?”

“The killer got in here, that's what. If it hadn't been for Elvis, I'd be dead.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. He was wearing a mask.”

“What kind of mask, Mama?”

“Woody Woodpecker.”

A strange choice for a killer, but when you consider the power of a woodpecker's beak and the strength it took to heave Babs over the balustrade and the Amazonian Gloria into the fountain, maybe the mask is symbolic.

“If this keeps on,” Fayrene says, “he's going to get one of us.”

When she gets home, she'll retell the story at Gas, Grits, and Guts with so many embellishments, she and Mama will become legend.

“If he was wearing a mask, how do you know it was a man?”

I think it was the man lying on the bed, but I want confirmation from Mama that I'm on the right track.

“Because I heard him speak.”

“What did he say?”

“‘Die, hoochie mama.'”

I have to sit down. Until now I wanted to believe that Mr. Whitenton wouldn't really kill Mama. Or that she exaggerated the attacks to put herself at the center of the drama playing out at the Peabody.

Lovie sweeps in with a bag from the beauty shop, takes one look, and strides over to me. “What are you doing on the floor?”

“Resting.” I reach for her hand. “Help me up.”

“What's going on here, Aunt Ruby Nell?”

“I know who the killer is.”

“You didn't tell me that, Mama.”

“I was waiting for you to get off the floor.”

“Well?” Sometimes Mama carries her dramatic pauses too far. “Who is it?”

“I don't know his name, but he speaks with a lisp. He actually said, ‘hoothie mama.'”

“Do the police and Uncle Charlie know?”

“Do I look like I was born yesterday?” She motions to Fayrene. “Come on, we've got to get Thomas to a doctor.”

Uncle Charlie blocks Mama's headlong rush to the afflicted. “The police have taken care of that, Ruby Nell. Paramedics are on the way.”

As if he's choreographed their moves, the cops file by with their notepads and badges and guns. And paramedics rush in to haul Mr. Whitenton off on a gurney.

Even with Fayrene and Bobby still here, there's suddenly room to breathe. Uncle Charlie marches over to lock the connecting door while the rest of us mill around like prisoners seeing daylight for the first time in six years. We all find seats, then just sit there, breathing. I nearly topple over asleep.

“From now on, Ruby Nell, that door stays locked.”

“On one condition, Charlie. You deprived me of my dance partner. You take his place.”

“I don't dance anymore. Besides, you're the one who broke his leg with a baseball bat.”

“That's the deal, Charlie. Take it or leave it.”

Mama and Uncle Charlie are both strong-willed people accustomed to winning. I don't know whether to referee, pray, or run.

Finally Uncle Charlie speaks. “Done.”

Lovie and I stare at each other. What is going on here? The relationship between Mama and Uncle Charlie has shifted so many times in the last few hours, I feel as if I'm at the Mississippi–Alabama Fair and Dairy Show, riding an out-of-control tilt-a-whirl. From the way Lovie's mouth is hanging open, I'd say she feels the same way.

“Now.” Uncle Charlie puts his hands in his pockets, looking almost jovial. “There's a special dancers' tour of Graceland leaving from the hotel in thirty minutes. We're all going.”

“I'm staying here. I want to run to the hospital and check on Thomas.” Mama sashays to the bathroom and shuts herself in. Uncle Charlie marches over and doesn't even bother to knock.

“We're all going, Ruby Nell. Especially you. And that's final.” His commanding voice carries through the door.

I don't hear what Mama says, but it makes Uncle Charlie chuckle and that's good enough for me.

Everybody agrees to meet in the lobby in thirty minutes, and Lovie and I hurry toward the elevator. We need to regroup and, frankly, I could use a bath. A nap, too, but that's out of the question.

“Daddy's planning to keep an eye on all of us.”

“I agree, Lovie. He told me to stay out of the investigation.”

“You're not going to let Daddy tell you what to do, are you?”

I punch the elevator button, then watch the floor numbers light up. If I keep racing between floors four and ten, I'm going to need my own private elevator.

“Maybe he's right, Lovie. You could put everything we know about solving crime in a teacup.”

She says a word that stops clocks. “We are
not
giving up. We'll just have to figure a way to get into Thomas' room without Daddy knowing.”

The elevator stops and two women get off, leaving their fragrances behind. I'm getting ready to ask Lovie if she thinks the killer's lisp is real or fake when she sidesteps and I spot the duck master, standing at the back in a bowler hat. He might have looked dashing if he'd been wearing something besides blue jeans and a windbreaker, but at least he's trying.

Lovie and I clam up. No sense talking murder in front of strangers. The duck master spots Elvis and puts his handkerchief over his face.

“Are you allergic to dogs?” I hope he's not, poor man.

He fans his hands in front of his face. “Dog germs.”

I revise my opinion. If I could bench press Elvis, I'd lift him over my head so his thumping tail would knock that silly hat off.

The duck master reaches over and punches the eighth-floor button, though clearly he was headed to the lobby. I can't say I'm sorry to see him go. People who say ugly things about animals don't deserve a nonstop ride. When Elvis growls as he departs, it's just icing on my cake.

When we get to our room, I head straight to the bathroom.

“Lovie, I have to take a bath, no matter what. If I'm not out in fifteen minutes, knock.”

Her cell phone is ringing and she motions me to go ahead. I'd love to fill the tub with bubbles, light candles, put on music, pour a big glass of Lovie's Prohibition Punch, and spend the next hour in bathtub heaven. For one thing, I don't have time. Too, I'd either fall asleep in the tub or start remembering my last long scented soak at the Peabody.

With Jack. Our anniversary. Two years ago. We had the honeymoon suite. Bubbles up to our necks. Candles galore. Buttered lobster, key lime pie, champagne.

A leisurely bath would even remind me of the date I cancelled with Champ because of a summer cold. He came anyway, drew me a hot bath, made chicken soup and hot tea, then later sat on the sofa holding my hand while I leaned against his shoulder. It would have been a lovely, homey evening if Jack hadn't shown up with some old Western DVDs. The three of us spent the rest of the evening watching John Wayne.

No, when I'm feeling vulnerable, it's best not to luxuriate in the bath and wax nostalgic.

Turning the water on full blast, I step in and drench myself, hair and all. Luckily my hair will fall back into place whether I blow-dry it or let it air dry. I can even sleek it with gel and go with the wet-head, sophisticated look.

Feeling like a better person, I emerge and find Lovie jiving around the room.

“Practicing for tomorrow's jitterbug competition?”

“No. I'm not going to compete against Daddy. Besides, I don't need to goad Rocky anymore. He's invited me to Mexico.”

She swing dances around the room singing “La Cucaracha.” I can picture her swooping through the jungle, sending cockroaches and every other living thing running, captivating everybody she sees. Especially Rocky. Oh, I do hope she captivates the only man who has ever realized she's a treasure.

“I'm so happy for you, Lovie.”

“You can come, too. Rocky won't mind.”

See, that's what I mean. Generous hearted to a fault. They don't make Lovies anymore.

“Thanks, but I think three would ruin the effect of moonlight over Mayan ruins.” I finish dressing, then grab my purse and Elvis' leash. “We'd better hurry.”

 

Uncle Charlie and Mama are waiting for us. Bobby had errands and Fayrene decided to wait at the hotel for Jarvetis. Apparently their fight over the séance room at Gas, Grits, and Guts is over. According to Mama, “Jarvetis came to his senses when he realized he nearly lost Fayrene.”

Uncle Charlie leads us to the back of the bus (naturally, so he can sit with his back to the wall) and I study everybody who gets on. When Victor enters with his wife, I punch Lovie. I wonder if Victor knows his wife was consorting with Grayson Mims.

If we can escape Uncle Charlie's watchful eye, we might get a chance to do some sleuthing.

Right behind the Mabrys is the woman with the polecat hair we saw this morning on Beale Street. And she's heading this way. I nudge Lovie, who gives me a dark look.

“I'm not blind.”

“You're hissing, Lovie.”

“Stop punching and I'll stop hissing.”

“
Okay.
”

Polecat hair stands in the aisle and asks the gentleman in front of us, “Is this seat taken?” He shakes his head and she slides in, then extends her hand. “I'm Carolyn Mims.”

Mims? Grayson's ex-wife? Sister? Sister-in-law? That rules out “lover,” as in,
Grayson and his lover conspired to kill his wife, Babs.
As soon as Lovie and I can find a private spot, we'll have to discuss what to do about this new twist.

The bus heads south on I-55 and within minutes we're in the parking lot on Elvis Presley Boulevard across from the Music Gates of Graceland. Fans are already pouring through and up the driveway to the mansion that was Elvis' Tennessee home. It should be easy to get lost in this crowd.

All the dancers (I use the term loosely, because all of these people are amateurs and many are Mama's age, to boot) pile off the bus and pour into a 1970s-era airport terminal to see Elvis' private custom jets. All, that is, except Victor and his Barbie-doll wife. They're heading toward the Music Gates.

I think up the only excuse Uncle Charlie will buy. “I'll catch up later. I have to go to the bathroom.”

I scoop up Elvis, give Lovie the look, and she trots along beside me.

“This is not the way to the bathroom,” she says, “so where are we headed?”

“Tailing suspects.”

I nod toward Victor and Stepford wife number two, who is color-coordinated from the pink rhinestone-studded headband in her super-coiffed, over-sprayed blond pageboy to the cute pair of pink wedge heels on her tiny feet.

They start fighting the minute they're clear of the rest of the tour group. I step up my pace.

“Hurry, Lovie.”

From the body language and the sound of angry voices, it looks as if one of the Mabrys is going to be the next victim.