Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders (18 page)

W
hen 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.”

M
y 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!”

“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.

“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 is 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.