Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders (8 page)

T
he “William Tell Overture” nearly sends me through the ceiling. Lovie says a word that could get us permanently barred from polite company. It's Uncle Charlie calling.

“Hello, dear heart. I'm in Memphis.”

“I'm relieved, Uncle Charlie. You heard about the murders?”

“Yes, and Ruby Nell's narrow escape.”

“Did Mama call you?”

“No, Jarvetis did. Fayrene told him everything. I'm here to take Ruby Nell home.”

“Good. It's getting dangerous here. With all the threats to Mama, Lovie and I are trying to see what we can find out.”

“You and Lovie be careful. I'll get a report later.”

“Where are you now, Uncle Charlie?”

“Parking. Which room is Ruby Nell's?”

“It's l034. We'll meet you there in case you need a support team. Mama can be stubborn.”

“You're not telling me anything I don't know, dear heart.”

“How are Hoyt and the cats?”

“In good hands. I left them in Champ's care. See you later, dear heart.”

I'm glad to hear that a vet with Champ's credentials and love of animals is looking after my pets. And not just because I care about them. As long as Champ has responsibilities in Mooreville, he won't be driving to Memphis to clip my wings.

Not that he'd want to curb me in any personal way, but I don't think he'd be too happy with my amateur detective activities, especially if he knew the whole truth. He's the kind of man who likes to keep people and animals safe—a wonderful quality in a potential daddy. Unless “safe” means “under your thumb.”

Mama and Uncle Charlie (Daddy, too, from what I remember) let me explore all over the farm without supervision. Never once did they tell me not to climb a tree for fear of falling or investigate a bird's nest for fear of snakes. The only thing they did say was, “Stay out of the lake.”

If Jack had children, he'd be like the Valentines. He'd encourage adventure.

See, that's why I'm in such a dilemma about my future. I have this Champ-versus-Jack daddy-argument with myself all the time. Not that Jack has expressed any interest in being a daddy.

I swear, this internal tug of war is wearing me out.

“Why was Daddy calling?” Lovie asks. I could hug her for sidetracking me. When I tell her, she says, “Aunt Ruby Nell won't go.”

“I don't know. Uncle Charlie can be stubborn, too. Let's change clothes and find out who wins. Besides, I have to get Elvis.”

As I head toward the door, Lovie yells, “Wait.” Reaching into the cart, she retrieves Babs' purse and the photograph.

“I had forgotten about those. Now what?”

“Take evidence now, deal with it later.”

“I don't like it, but you're right. We can't risk going back to Babs's room. Grayson might not be so congenial this time. We'll just have to add another theft to our growing list of crimes.”

Since our uniforms leave no room to hide evidence, Lovie drops the picture in the purse, slings it over her arm, and sashays down the hall acting natural, while I ditch the cart looking furtive. I never was much of a performer, even as a second grade petunia.

We're almost to the elevator when two women see us and yell, “Yoohoo.” I punch the elevator button again, but it's stuck on the fifth floor. And they're coming at a fast trot.

“Busted,” I say, and Lovie says, “Buck up.”

They catch up with us, panting. It's
pink foam rollers
and
beige housecoat,
the two ladies I heard giving evidence after I fished Gloria from the fountain.

Foam Rollers taps my arm. “We need some more shampoo in room 1020.”

Lovie punches me and I grunt. “We're off duty.”

“What would one little shampoo hurt? I saw the cart.”

I punch Lovie and she says, “It's against the rules.”

“If you ask me, there are too many rules in this world and not enough common sense.” Foam Rollers pulls her glasses down and peers over the top. “Say, don't I know you?”

“No ma'am. I don't do your room.”

Fortunately, the elevator arrives. Unfortunately, the two women get on, then stand there expectantly like naughty puppies, waiting their chance to pounce.

I punch Lovie and nod toward the fire exit.

“Aren't you getting on?” Foam Rollers asks. For a minute I think she's going to grab my arm and drag me into the elevator.

“I forgot my toothbrush.”

The doors shish shut on two puzzled eyewitnesses.

“For Pete's sake, Callie. Your toothbrush?”

“I don't function well under stress. Speaking of which…I'm going to have a heart attack if we don't get out of here.”

I dash toward the stairwell and take the stairs two at a time with Lovie puffing along behind me. She's saying words I don't want to ever hear again.

“It's only six floors, Lovie, and it's all downhill.”

“I don't care if it's two and the stairs are slicked with pig grease. If I wet my pants before we get to the room, it's all your fault.”

Lovie's all bark and no bite. If she thought anybody was placing blame on me (whether it belonged or not), she'd be the first to pick up her baseball bat and threaten a walloping.

“Why didn't you go in Gloria's bathroom?”

“Hush up, Callie. I can't talk and hold it in at the same time.”

We make it back to our room on the fourth floor without encountering anybody else, which is a very good thing. Judging by the “forgot my toothbrush” remark, I've used up my last good lie.

Lovie bursts toward the bathroom while I shed my maid getup and change into a pair of Audrey Hepburn skinny pants, a cute pair of Michael Kors ballerina flats, and my favorite yellow cotton turtleneck that brings out the highlights in my brown, shoulder-length bob.

Trust Lovie to get into a pair of outrageous cowboy boots and her usual low-cut getup that bares a mind-boggling amount of cleavage. She flops onto the bed, boots and all.

“We have to go, Lovie.”

“Why?”

“Because…”

Elvis needs me? Mama needs me? I've spread myself all over everybody's needs today except my own. Kicking off my shoes, I plop onto the covers beside Lovie.

“You're right. Uncle Charlie's here. Let him take care of everybody for a while.”

“I wish I had some potato chips.”

“You've got enough in the closet to feed a small third world country.”

“Yeah, but I'm too tired to get them.” Lovie gives me a smile nobody can resist. “Pretty please?”

I unfold my long legs and go over to rake through her stash of junk food in the closet.

“Barbecue or plain?”

“Both.”

I toss her two bags, then get one for myself. Ordinarily I snack on carrots and apples and strawberries and yogurt. Since I've started sleuthing, I've developed an appetite for food that is not good for me. Or maybe the craving developed about the time Jack left.

“Lovie, do you think I'm making a mistake with Jack?”

“You mean divorcing him or still sleeping with him?”

“Both, I guess.”

“No, on both counts.”

“Yeah, but shouldn't a woman planning to divorce a man not have these urges?”

“Cut yourself some slack, Callie. The day I don't have those urges, you can put me six feet under.”

“I need you to be serious, Lovie. My personal life is so chaotic it's driving me crazy.”

Lovie sits straight up, cross-legged, her boots making a wild red statement against the bedspread. She wraps her hands around mine, and I feel like a baby bird being enveloped in its mother's wing. This is the thing I love most about Lovie. When it really counts, she always comes to your rescue.

“You listen to me, Cal, and you listen good. Nobody is perfect. Nobody makes the right decisions all the time. But if you listen with your heart instead of your brain, nine times out of ten, everything will turn out okay.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

The way Lovie says it, I believe her. We lean against the pillows, finish our chips, and breathe. Simply breathe.

Without saying a word, we both know when it's time to go. We get off the bed, dust off the crumbs, and head to the door.

“I feel like a better human being,” Lovie says.

“I do, too.”

“Potato chips will do it every time.”

Trust Lovie to make light of her part in smoothing balm on a wounded cousin.

By the time we arrive at Mama's room on the tenth floor, the fireworks have already begun. The sound of angry words between Mama and Uncle Charlie halts us in our tracks.

We stand outside the door like little children caught with our hands in the cookie jar. And we don't even need a glass at the door to hear every word.

“I'm taking you home, Ruby Nell.”

“Over my dead body, Charlie Valentine.”

“In that case…” We hear a big clatter that sounds like bricks being chunked against the floor. “…I'm staying.”

“The hotel's booked.”

“I'll stay here.”

“Not in this room, you don't.”

“I promised my brother I'd take care of you, and nobody's going to stop me.”

“You're a stubborn old jackass.”

“You think you can get around me with sweet talk?”

Holy cow! What has happened to my family? First Jack leaves, then true love comes to Lovie and she's too stubborn to see it, and now this.

Until Mama took up with Mr. Whitenton, Uncle Charlie and Mama rarely argued. Even when they did, it was more like an exchange you'd see on a TV sitcom, a mild-mannered disagreement you knew would turn out all right in the end. She'd pout and he'd say, “Now, now, dear heart,” and she'd end up doing things her way anyhow and then inviting him to a reconciliation Sunday dinner of fried chicken.

I'd like things to be the way they were, but I guess change comes whether you want it or not. The trick to survival is to be resilient enough to bend with the winds and swim with the tides.

“It sounds like Armageddon in there, Lovie. What are we going to do?”

“You tell me. I've never heard Daddy like this. He never gets upset at me, even when I give him good cause.”

“We'd better get in there.”

My hand is already lifted to knock when Mama and Uncle Charlie start laughing.

I can't take much more of this roller coaster Memphis visit. If things get any more complicated, I may have to jump off the top of the Peabody.

T
hings were getting boring around here till Charlie showed up and chunked his bags into Ruby Nell's closet. She was painting her toenails and I was trying to think up a way I could finagle my way off the floor and into the middle of her comfy bed when he burst in.
Bursting in
is not Charlie Valentine's usual style. He's the laid-back type who strolls and quotes Shakespeare and builds bridges over everybody else's troubled waters. (Listen, I know my Simon and Garfunkel. Talented guys, but they couldn't hold a candle to me.)

Turns out, Charlie heard about the murders on TV and he was trying to decide whether to drive to Memphis. Then Jarvetis called to report Fayrene's version of her brush with death as well as the attack on Ruby Nell, and Charlie charged north like General Robert E. Lee.

There's nothing like the power of gossip to stir things up.

Ruby Nell acts like she's not happy to see him, but don't let her blustery act fool you. He's been her anchor ever since Michael Valentine went to that big Graceland in the Sky. (I was there myself before they sent me back in this suave dog suit.)

If Ruby Nell would ever sit still long enough for a little self-examination, she might be surprised at what she'd discover.

Big changes are afoot with this family, and I'm not talking about Luke Champion. Don't get me wrong. I like him. He's a good vet and he's going beyond the call of duty to keep Callie's silly strays, especially Hoyt. But if he wants me to put in a good word for him, he'd best be finding ways to keep that dumb cocker spaniel in Mantachie. Permanently.

If Callie had her way, every stray cat and dog in Mooreville would end up on little satin doggie-and-cat pillows beside her bed. She can't say no to anybody, including the women who sit in her beauty shop chair, spill their sob stories, and walk out the door with fresh haircuts and interest-free loans.

One of my missions in life is to keep the coast clear of free-loaders and animal riffraff so I can work in peace. Listen, I'm here for a lofty purpose—to teach my human mom to love herself. It's all well and good to be Mooreville's answer to Mother Teresa and Oprah, but Callie's got to learn to draw the line so she can make room for her own dreams.

I know it looks hopeless right now, but that's where yours truly comes in.

I sashay over and plop my philosophical self right in front of Ruby Nell's door. When Callie comes in, she'll see me first. I'll do a few “Hound Dog” moves and she'll smile and scratch behind my ears.

And for a little while, my human mom will experience the sheer joy of a true heart connection. Listen, I know it's just a connection with her soul dog, but you have to start somewhere.

W
hen Lovie and I walk in, Uncle Charlie's bags are in Mama's closet and he's turning down her other bed. I'm glad to see he's staying here. Believe me, as long as Charles Sebastian Valentine is in this room, Mr. Whitenton won't get within ten feet of Mama.

Still, Uncle Charlie has always been a sort of benevolent godfather, protecting Mama and me from a distance with the lines clearly drawn. Now the lines are blurring between him and Mama, and I don't know what to make of it.

The only thing normal about this scene is Elvis waiting for me with his usual sweet doggie grin and his tail thumping. Sometimes, if it weren't for the simple pleasures and uncomplicated connections with my basset and my other dear animals, I think I'd shatter into small pieces.

“Hello, dear hearts.” When Uncle Charlie comes over to Lovie and me, it's like hugging a ticking bomb. If I didn't know better, I'd say my uncle was a dangerous man.

“What did you find out?” he asks, and Mama jumps out of her chair.

“What do you mean,
what did you find out?
” Mama's question is strictly rhetorical. She's too smart not to guess what we've been up to, and she's flashing fire. “Carolina Valentine Jones, the next time you sneak off to have fun without me, I'm marking you off my Sunday dinner list.”

“I wasn't off having fun. I'm trying to protect you, Mama.”

“Flitter! I was taking care of myself before you were born. If I want to be mollycoddled, I'll hire a cute young man in tights and a red cape.”

“Way to go, Aunt Ruby Nell.” Lovie picks up Mama's fingernail polish. “I like this color. Do you mind if I use it?”

“Help yourself.”

As the only man in our small Valentine circle (and I don't even want to think about why), Uncle Charlie is used to dealing with a room full of estrogen. But he has not endured this latest exchange with his usual calm. There's a look about him of a man with too much on his mind and a deep reluctance to express it.

“Mama, I was going to tell you anyway.”

“After the fact,” she says.

“Ruby Nell.” Uncle Charlie speaks quietly—without adding
dear heart.
A look passes between them and Mama shrugs, then takes a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and lights up. She never smokes unless she's mad and wants to make her point, mainly that she's her own boss.

I've learned to curb my fears of blackened lungs and massive strokes and putting my mother in an early grave in favor of not arguing with her about her small defiant gesture. This so-called dance competition has been such a trying time, I'm about ready to take up bad habits myself.

I pick up my dog and sit on the edge of the bed. Telling bad news is easier if you're holding onto somebody who loves you. I know,
I know.
Most folks would say “but he's just a dog.” Listen, he's a living, breathing creature, a miracle of this universe just like the rest of us. Best of all, his heart is loyal, something you don't find every day.

“I found a picture of Thomas Whitenton,” I tell them. “With Babs and another woman.”

Mama blows a puff of smoke my way, but for once she doesn't defend him.

“Was the other woman anybody you know?” Uncle Charlie asks.

“No, but I just got a quick glimpse. She looked about Babs' age.” I start trying to describe her, and Lovie pulls the picture out of her purse. Why didn't I think of bringing it? She never ceases to amaze me.

Mama snatches the photo from Lovie and puffs away while she studies it. We can hardly see her for the fog of smoke. I think she's doing it deliberately.

All of us watch her and not even Uncle Charlie dares ask if she knows the other woman.

Finally she says, “Flitter,” which could mean anything, then walks to the window and turns her back to us. I know this ploy. She knows something we don't, but she's going to make us work for the information.

Uncle Charlie is the one who comes to the rescue.

“Do you know her, Ruby Nell?”

“If I had been in on all the fun, I could have told you in the first place.”

“Holy cow, Mama. Just tell us who it is.”

“Thomas' niece.”

“You never mentioned a niece. Did she, Lovie?”

Lovie lifts her right foot and admires her freshly painted toenails from all angles. Probably giving herself time to come up with an answer that will placate me and not get her on Mama's bad side.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I don't recall. My memory's not what it used to be.” Lovie picks up a
Vogue
magazine Mama brought and proceeds to fan her toenails.

I'm so mad I hope she puts her boots on before her polish dries. “Why didn't he mention a niece when we had Sunday dinner together?” I ask. “Are you sure she's his niece, Mama?”

“For Pete's sake, Carolina. You sound like the Gestapo. Thomas' friends and relatives are nobody's business.”

“Murder is everybody's business, Ruby Nell.” Uncle Charlie retrieves the photo and sticks it in his pocket.

Now what? Lovie and I were planning to sneak the picture as well as the purse back to Babs' room before Grayson Mims put out an alarm for stolen property.

“Oh, all right, Charlie. Have it your way.” Mama stubs her cigarette out and I grab another of Mama's magazines to fan out the smoke. “Thomas' niece went to Memphis State with Babs. They were in the same sorority. When Babs and his niece get together, Thomas sometimes sees them.”

“Not anymore,” Lovie drawls. I guess she's trying to make up for not taking my side with Mama. It works, too. When she puts her boots back on, I cross my fingers that she won't smear her fresh polish.

“Thomas wouldn't hurt a fly.” Mama fiddles around in her purse for another cigarette, then changes her mind, thank goodness. “I may be prejudiced but I'm no bad judge of character. If you want to find the killer, you'd better look somewhere besides the room next to mine.”

She flounces around, snatching up her robe and shower cap. “Now, everybody get out of here so I can take a bath.”

“Do what you want, Ruby Nell. I'm staying. You can shut the bathroom door.” Uncle Charlie plants himself in the room's only wing chair like an oak tree putting down roots.

The mood Mama's in, I'm relieved to let him deal with her. Besides, Lovie and I have plans. If we're going on another fact-finding foray, we'll need wigs. I want Lovie's memorable hair covered because I have no intention of pushing her around again in a housekeeping cart.

I'm just about to consult Uncle Charlie about our plans when there's a huge ruckus at the door—pounding and screeching and stomping. Uncle Charlie bolts across the room to check it out.

“Fayrene and Bobby,” he tells us. Then he opens the door and they tumble into the room.

“Lord, Ruby Nell.” Fayrene flies into the room trailing enough green scarves to do a dance of the seven veils. She presses her hand over her heart and flops onto Mama's bed. “My blood pressure's so high you might have to call an avalanche.”

Now what? If Mooreville's answer to Mrs. Malaprop is calling for an ambulance, this can't be good. She swoons while Bobby jumps around her like a cricket on a hot sidewalk.

I'd be running for a wet washcloth, but I can tell she's faking it. Like Mama, Fayrene is partial to the dramatic gesture.

“What happened?” Uncle Charlie says.

“Somebody tried to strangle me, that's what. Tell them, Bobby. I'm too upset to talk.”

“We were standing there watching the duck parade and Fayrene was making a big commotion, like Lovie told us to.”

I'm hanging on to my splintered nerves, hoping he'll get to the point, when Fayrene recovers enough to sit up and steal his show.

“I was ransacking my purse. Complaining real loud. Acting like I couldn't find my cell phone and was fixing to haul off and pitch a hissy fit. All of a sudden…”

She jumps off the bed and begins prancing around the room, waving her arms and grimacing. There are rumors floating around Mooreville that she would have gone into show business if she hadn't married a man who loved birddogs more than Broadway. I wonder if the stories are true.

“…somebody comes at me from behind. I feel my own scarves tightening around my neck, choking the life out of me. Lord, I thought Jarvetis was going to have to plan my urology.”

“Are you saying you think somebody tried to kill you?” Fayrene's ramblings always bother Uncle Charlie. He likes order and precision, clear-cut speech and logical behavior.

“I don't think. I
know.
If it hadn't been for my strong consternation, I'd be dead.”

I don't know about Fayrene's constitution, but mine has about had it. I'm just getting ready to signal Lovie when Bobby drops the real bomb.

“A woman named Latoya LaBelle's dead. Strangled during the duck parade with her own scarf.”