Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders (5 page)

“That, plus his early-morning taxi ride.” I tell her about seeing him outside the hotel.

“But what was his motive? I think Babs' husband is the likeliest suspect.”

“Which one? The first one or the second one?”

“The current. H. Grayson Mims.”

“We have two dead bodies that are totally unrelated, Lovie. We need to broaden our investigation beyond next of kin. Besides, what else was Mr. Whitenton doing out at that time of night?”

“Catting around?”

“Get serious. At his age?”

“Let's hope so. If ‘geriatric' means ‘dead libido,' I'm not planning to celebrate another birthday after fifty.”

She probably won't, either. I look around to see if my dog is staying out of trouble. He's over by a magnolia tree digging a hole.

“Did you notice Mr. Whitenton's aftershave?” I ask.

“It was very faint. I think it was English Leather. But even if it was Old Spice, why would he attack Aunt Ruby Nell?”

“I don't know, but anybody as colorful as Mama is bound to have given dozens of people multiple reasons to do her in. I just want to catch the killer before he makes Mama his next victim.”

“Does this mean I get to wear a disguise?”

“No disguises, Lovie. And no clambering around in high places.”

Who can forget Lovie in feathers mooning half of Las Vegas in what we now refer to as the Bubbles Caper? Us teetering on a rickety balcony in a monsoon as we tried to find out who was killing Elvis impersonators? And don't get me started on the hot air balloon.

“Agreed?”

“Of course not.” Lovie stands up and dusts the powdered sugar off her pink tee shirt. You'd think the color would clash with her hair, but on her it looks great. “What's the use of doing anything if you can't have fun?”

T
his is what happens when you're the hottest, biggest box office star the world has ever seen and you die and get sent back in a dog suit: nobody asks your opinion about anything anymore. I once had minions hanging on my every word. One and a half billion people saw my telecast from Hawaii, and reporters were lined around the block to talk to me. Now I can't even get one person (my human mom, to be exact) to ask me what I know about Gloria Divine.

A lot, that's what. Of course, it was in my other life. I had a close business connection to her after I got back from Germany.

For your information, I'm a patriotic dog. I'd have joined the army anyway if they hadn't drafted me. I remember it well: 1958. The year after I bought Graceland.

I've had dealings behind closed doors with Gloria's girlfriend, too.
Lalique,
my mismatched ears. Her name is Latoya LaBelle, and she's a luscious fifty-nine and holding. Gloria was sixty-two and still stacked.

And that's all I'm saying on the subject. Listen, I may be a dog of character, but I've got a few skeletons rattling around in my past just like anybody else. The difference between me and the general public (besides talent and looks, of course) is that I know how to keep my mouth shut.

Bless'a my soul, what's this I see? A genuine American sternwheel steamboat cruising down the river. I sidle closer to the water to get a better look.

It's the Mississippi Queen, newly refurbished, I've heard, and looking like a riverboat gambler might step onto the deck at any minute. If I could get Ann-Margret and the pups up here, we'd take a family vacation on the river.

I've always wanted to go on a sternwheeler.

Back when I was starring in one movie after the other out in Hollywood, the Delta Queen still reigned. I used to hole up in the Knickerbocker Hotel and dream of ways I could get out of the glare of fame long enough to board that grand old lady (now retired) and cruise from Memphis down to New Orleans.

But no matter what disguise I thought up, my fans still recognized me. I couldn't go anywhere without causing a riot. I can still cause riots, but that's a whole 'nother story—and the price of fame.

Now all I'm trying to do is sneak down to the water's edge and give the tourists a thrill without Callie noticing. I trot toward a massive magnolia tree and when she looks up to check on me I pretend to be digging a hole.

Satisfied, she gets back to planning a murder investigation with Lovie. I dart behind the trunk and perk up my radar ears to see if the coast is still clear. It is, so I hotfoot it toward the river.

“Elvis! Come back here. You'll fall in the water.”

Foiled.
What does she think? I can't swim?

Still, I don't like to worry her so I waltz my ample backside up the bank, but I take my time about it. Next, I sit at her feet looking cute and perky so she'll scratch my ears.

Listen, you have to work these humans. You should never let them think they have the upper hand. That means you don't come directly when they call and you don't show remorse over anything, even if they catch you red-pawed.

If I sit here long enough, maybe Callie will bring me into the investigation. But
no,
she just keeps on acting like she and Lovie will do it all.

What does my human mom think I was doing in the hotel lobby this morning? Whistling “Don't Be Cruel?” I was sniffing out clues. Callie thinks she learned a lot when she overheard the police questioning Victor and Jill Mabry. (Listen, she doesn't even know Victor's wife's name.) If I told her what I know, she'd probably take me to the alley across Union and reward me with a little smackerel of pork barbecue from the Rendezvous.

You talk about great Southern cooking—I'd hold their ribs right up there with the ones we had at Graceland. The only difference is the Rendezvous uses a dry sauce and ours were wet. Of course, ribs don't compare with fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, but I'm just a country dog at heart. Always have been, always will be.

But back to murder…. The second Mrs. Victor Mabry was spitting fire when I overheard her, and all because Victor said he was devastated over Babs' death. Let me tell you, she was mad enough to have killed Babs herself.

If you want my opinion, Jill Mabry is capable of having killed Gloria, too, but I've yet to sniff out their connection.

I'm being hustled off the riverbank now, but I have a plan. As soon as we get back to the Peabody, I'll start working all the angles of this murder. And while I'm at it, I'll be trying to find an escape hatch. The security is so tight around me you'd think I was wearing a spangled jumpsuit and still making a news headline like the one in 1974 that proclaimed, “Elvis for President.”

I've got to find a way to slip out so I can pay homage to my fans at Graceland.

F
irst wag your tail and sidle up to Callie, humming “Stuck on You.” If she doesn't succumb to flattery, paw the cabinet door open and knock over the tomato sauce and the chili powder.

Next, offer to squeeze the lemons to show you're helpful (indispensable, too, but she already knows that). She'll decline, of course. My human mom is something of a control freak. One of the things I have to teach her is how to let go. Relax. Forget the details and enjoy the big picture.

By now she's in the swing of lip-smacking good Southern ribs. Sit back, layer it on thick with a few bars of “Earth Angel” while she shakes, rattles, and rolls with red pepper, vinegar, pickling spice, and dried mustard.

Segue into “Sweet Sweet Spirit,” a little reminder to dump in honey and brown sugar. Keep singing while she coats the ribs and socks them in the oven.

Bless'a my soul, the smell alone is enough to send you dancing through the doggie door in search of a spot to bury the bones. Gnawing the meat off first is optional. Personally, I'm partial to a bit of Mississippi red clay on my cuisine.

A
s we hurry back to the hotel, I try not to think what I'm getting myself into. I try not to dwell on all the reasons why I should send Mama back to Mooreville, then hole up in the Peabody and let the police sort everything out. Right now all I want is a good hot bath.

We're just crossing the lobby when I spot the recently widowed H. Grayson Mims III leaving the hotel looking anything but bereaved. With him is a strange-looking woman I haven't seen among the dance competitors. He just jumped to the top of the suspect list.

“Lovie, quick. Follow him.”

“Who?”

You can hear her all the way to New York. H. Grayson Mims glances back and I jerk Lovie behind the player piano.

“It's Babs' husband,” I whisper. “With another woman.”

I won't repeat what she says. Suffice it to say, if Grayson heard, he'd fear for his prized body parts. Unfortunately an older woman who is passing by hears every word. She takes one disdainful look and indicts us on the spot.

“Riffraff,” she sniffs. “Nowadays, there's no accounting who they let in this hotel.”

Well, no wonder. My hair is uncombed, I'm wearing no makeup, and I'm still in sweats that got dragged through the fountain and other unmentionable debris. Lovie's not much better in her favorite lounge-about jeans that look like they came over on the Mayflower, and a baggy tee shirt with a slogan across the front that says
KEEP AMERICA BEAUTIFUL, STAY IN BED
.

Still, the snooty woman's no icon of fashion herself. I could tell her that painted-on eyebrows and hair teased to look like a football helmet went out of style in the seventies, but I won't stoop to her level.

Lovie has no such compunctions.

“Listen, you heifer. For your information, we're famous musicians.” She plops on the piano stool and hits a few blues licks.

She could fool anybody. She's so good, she could even play on Beale Street. Aunt Minrose (may she rest in peace) was a concert pianist, and Lovie got every bit of her mother's talent.

“Come on.” I tap her shoulder. “The suspect is getting away.”

“I told you Babs' husband was the killer.”

Lovie enjoys the last word. As we hurry after Grayson, Elvis trots along. He thinks it's a game and he's hamming it up, flashing his lopsided doggie smile and spreading his stage personality all over Memphis. There's no way to remain unnoticed.

A tired looking young mother tries to stop us so her two rambunctious children can pet him. It breaks my heart to tell her
Sorry, not today,
without even slowing down. I imagine Saint Peter is putting black marks by my name.

“He's headed to Beale Street, Lovie.”

“What's he doing there this time of day?”

“Maybe a rendezvous with a hit man?”

Why else would a man be heading into a historic blues district at a time of morning when the stores aren't even open, the clubs are closed, and the jazzy music that floats from every open doorway is missing?

“But why take another woman?” Lovie has a point.

“Maybe she's in on it.”

She looks the type, short and slinky with a bad dye job. If I weren't trying to nab her for murder, I'd tell her you don't put platinum streaks in black hair unless you want to look like a polecat. (Translation:
skunk.
)

The closer we get to Beale Street, the harder my heart pumps. And it has nothing to do with murder.

Jack and I honeymooned in Memphis. Every moment we didn't spend in our motel room (we couldn't afford the Peabody and stayed at a cheap stucco inn farther from the river), we explored Beale Street. Mr. Handy's Blues Hall and Silky O'Sullivan's, Black Diamond and Club 152, Tater Red's and A. Schwab's Dry Goods Store.

The Gibson Guitar Factory a few blocks away inspired Jack to buy a guitar, though he never did learn to play it with the same heart and soul he pours into the blues harp he always keeps in his pocket.

Don't get me started on Jack's harmonica or I'll end up bawling like a newborn calf.

I force myself to concentrate on Schwab's, which looks very much the way it did when it was built in 1876. You can find anything in there, from swizzle sticks to sweat pants. You can even get voodoo paraphernalia.

Jack bought me some
mojo hands,
lucky roots in oil that smell like dark secrets and night-scented moon flowers. I still have it.

Why
is another question. When I get home, I really ought to clean out my house, get rid of the
mojo hands
and the dried roses from our wedding bouquet, the onyx angel he brought to me from heaven only knows where, the tin candy box with a carousel on top.

Moving on requires leaving behind baggage. At least that's what all the self-help books say. I'm not fully convinced those so-called experts are right. How can you know who you are if you don't remember where you've been? How can you ever learn anything about yourself if you just dump your past in the garbage can and forget about it?

“Quick, Callie.” Lovie jerks me out of my reverie and into a doorway.

On top of everything else, I'm going to have a crick in my neck.

“The mark's stopped.”

The minute we start sleuthing, she starts sounding like Sam Jaffe in
The Asphalt Jungle.
I half expect her to break out with a statement about crime being a cockamamie
form of human endeavor
or some such throwback to old crime movies. (In addition to Westerns, Lovie and I are partial to late night film noir.)

She risks a peek around the doorway. Taller by a good three inches, I peer over her head. Grayson has his arm around his female partner in crime and is talking earnestly to a street vendor.

“What's he saying?” Lovie asks.

“We'll bury him in the turnip patch. Do you know of any laws against that?”

“Thank you, Gloria Swanson.” She's on to me. I've just paraphrased one of our favorites,
Sunset Boulevard.

“How should I know what he's saying, Lovie? I don't have X-ray ears.”

Up and down Beale, shop doors are beginning to open, the sun is climbing and I don't have my sunglasses. I'm beginning to regret my hasty decision to trail H. Grayson Mims. Shoot, I'm even regretting my decision to get out of bed. I should have told Elvis to just hold it.

The woman with H. Grayson opens her purse, takes out a pair of rhinestone-studded dark glasses, then swivels around and stares straight at us.

“Did she see us?” Lovie asks.

“If she did, what's she going to do? Turn us in for hunkering in a doorway? She doesn't even know who we are.”

“I wouldn't count on it. I'm unforgettable.”

Good grief. Here we go again.

“Forget it, Lovie. I don't think she even saw us.”

Suddenly the “William Tell Overture” splits the silence. We might as well have announced our presence with trumpet fanfare.

Grayson and cohort whirl around, and his hand shoots to his pocket. Holy cow. We're fixing to get shot in public (and probably in the heart, too) and my hair's not even combed.