Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders (19 page)

E
verybody'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.