Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders (13 page)

B
y the time we leave the Rendezvous, it's nearly ten o'clock. Our party walks out into a balmy night under one of those brilliant October skies you'd like to press between the pages of a memory album. Murder has no place in a night like this.

When Mama says, “Charlie, it's too pretty to go inside. Let's stroll to the river and watch the stars,” I know she's thinking about Daddy.

I used to sneak out of bed and hunker down by the window to watch them on the front porch swing, holding hands while Daddy pointed out the constellations. His favorite was Orion the Hunter. One night I overheard him say, “Ruby Nell, when I die I'm going to become a star in Orion's belt. All you have to do is look up, and you'll see me.”

I like to believe he did. As she and Uncle Charlie head toward the river, I like to imagine she'll look up and see Daddy shining over the water, watching over her still.

Fayrene and Jarvetis head to Mallards for a nightcap while Lovie, Bobby, Jill, and I make plans to enjoy a night on the town, but only in places that will allow dogs. Elvis needs a break.

They wait for me in the lobby while I catch the elevator. This time of evening it's packed, but I'm not about to start trying to figure out if one of the crowd is the Peabody murderer. I need a break, too.

Elvis is curled in the middle of Jill's bed, never mind that he has his own pillow.

“Get down from there, Elvis. You'll get dog hair on the covers.”

He shows absolutely no remorse. When he clambers down, he takes so much time I could jog to Texas and back. Any longer, and you can add Mexico.

“We're going outside, boy. Sightseeing.”

Don't tell me dogs don't understand when we talk to them as if they're people. By the time we return to the lobby, Elvis is prancing like the King he thinks he is.

As the five of us head into the neon lights, pulsating beats, and howling rhythms of Beale Street, Lovie punches me.

“Somebody's following us.”

“A crowd's out tonight, Lovie. That's all.”

“No. It's Victor.”

I glance behind and, sure enough, Jill's husband darts behind two women I recognize as
Beige Housecoat
and
Foam Rollers.
What are they doing out at this time of night? They look so tired they ought to be bundled in afghans in front of the TV.

I put my finger over my lips so Lovie won't blurt out the name of our stalker. No need to ruin Jill's evening. Besides, we have Elvis and Bobby Huckabee. What can go wrong?

Our first destination is Handy Park on the corner of Beale and Third. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder to see if Victor is still following. What can he do in this crowd?

Unless he's the killer, of course, who has a record of picking off his victims in crowds. I don't see him now, but as we enter the park, Bobby says, “There's danger all around.”

I get the shivers and Jill jerks like she's been shot.

“What? What did you say?”

“He said there's dancing all around,” I tell Jill. Which is not a complete lie.

Music pours from every club, the kind of blues that won't let your feet stand still. Overcome by the rhythm, some couples are swaying in the streets.

Or maybe they're just overcome with Long Island Ice Tea. Handy Park is across the street from the Rum Boogie Café, and that potent five-liquor drink is their specialty.

Bobby shakes his head like a man coming out of a trance. “We're standing on the very street where Martin Luther King Jr. made his last march. The vibes are so powerful here I feel like my bones are shaking in two.”

Jill's getting spooked. Lovie sees this, too, and takes her arm.

“What we need is a drink.” She waves to Bobby and me. “You two go on and let Elvis do his business. I'm taking Jill to Rum Boogie.”

They head across the street to the old brick building with its primitive mural on the outside wall. “Barrelhouse, Boogie and the Blues” it proclaims, and a happy, painted couple gyrates to the rhythms rocking through the door. After Jill and Lovie leave, I tell Bobby to be careful of his predictions around Jill.

“She's going through a rough time right now, and we're trying to help her forget her problems.”

“I'm sorry, Callie. Really. I never do think.” He shakes his head and looks so despairing that I pat his arm.

“That's okay, Bobby.”

“I guess you've wondered why a man of my looks and position doesn't have a girl.”

I'm glad Lovie's not here. I'd have to punch her black and blue to hold her mirth. Poor Bobby. I'm glad his mirror lies.

“Well,” I say, and then I can't think of anything else.

“It's my psychic eye. It scares everybody off. I guess I'm just hopeless.”

“Absolutely not, Bobby. The right woman hasn't come along, that's all. Who knows? You might meet her tomorrow.”

“I hope she likes Vanna White.”

“I hope so, too, Bobby.” What else is there to say?

We join a large group of tourists and music lovers in the park to pay homage to W.C. Handy. Not to be outshone by the Father of the Blues or any of the luminaries whose influence still reigns on Beale—B.B. King, Al Green, Howlin' Wolf, Carl Perkins, Isaac Hayes—Elvis starts marking bushes and trying to give autographs. (I swear, that's what it looks like.) He keeps prancing up to strangers, shaking his head so his mismatched ears flop, and extending his paw.

“He's a ham,” Bobby says.

“He thinks he's the King of Rock 'n' Roll.”

“Is he?”

“I don't know. He could be.”

I pride myself on an open mind, even regarding Bobby's psychic eye. Everybody in Mooreville knows it. That's one of the reasons my beauty shop is so popular. My customers know they can tell me any crazy notion that pops into their heads and I'll give it the same serious consideration Thomas Jefferson put into penning the Declaration of Independence.

After Elvis finishes his business, we head back across the street to join Lovie and Jill. They've found a sidewalk table and, thank goodness, it's backed up to an outside wall. I'll see everybody who approaches, including Victor. Though what would I do if he did? Hit him over the head with my designer shoes?

“What took you so long? We got a head start.” Lovie indicates two glasses on the table, already empty.

Bobby and I each order a Long Island Ice Tea, then I sit back to enjoy some down and dirty Delta blues spilling onto the sidewalk. A gravel-voiced singer is inside belting out “3 O'Clock in the Morning Blues”—which just about says it all.

Don't get me started on Jack.

When my drink comes, I take a sip and nearly fall out of my chair. There's enough tequila and vodka and rum and I don't know what else in this concoction to fell a horse. Another sip and my lips go numb.

Listen, Long Island Ice Tea just might be the best idea Lovie has had the entire trip. One more sip and I'll be imagining myself as Lady Godiva reincarnated. Who knows? Somebody around here is bound to have a horse. Everything else would fade in comparison to riding sidesaddle down the street naked.

Except maybe Jack.

I reach for my drink. And this time I take a slug.

Lovie orders another round of drinks, then out of the blue, she says, “Jill and I have decided to get tattoos.”

“Doggone.” I slap my thigh. “Why not?”

When we finally leave, it takes us a while (Southernese for anything from ten minutes to ten days) to walk two blocks to the parlor. All those conniving cracks in the sidewalk, not to mention the prankster light poles that keep getting in the way.

Two years later (to say the least) we walk into a little shop that smells like sandalwood and sage. Everything's a blur after that. All I remember is having to take a cab back to the Peabody.

 

I'm happy to wake up at a decent hour, which means Elvis didn't drag me out for a pre-dawn pee and nobody murdered Mama. Or Jill. Or Lovie. Or me.

Or did they? I've either died and gone the wrong way or I have a hangover the size of Montana.

Ordinarily, I'd turn on the TV and listen to the news. Lovie's such a sound sleeper, she could sleep through a level-five hurricane.

But I don't want my head to explode. Plus Jill's curled into a little snoozing ball on the other bed, and I don't want to risk disturbing her. She's going to need every ounce of energy to keep her plan intact after she drives back to Paris and two dozen Tennessee relatives start telling her what to do.

Maybe some fresh air will help. I wince when I slide into sweats. What in the world is going on?

Tiptoeing into the bathroom, I back up to the full length mirror and take a peek. Holy cow! A unicorn's staring back at me. From a place where the sun doesn't shine.

A
unicorn,
of all things. My pet name for Jack. Our secret love code. I think I will dig a little hole behind the Peabody, crawl in, and pull the dirt over my head.

Or maybe I'll just go for a run.

I put on my Air Nikes, then grab Elvis' leash and we head for the park.

Last night as we left the Rendezvous, Uncle Charlie took me aside and said Jack will be in Memphis today. At 2
P.M
. if his plane is on time and
who knows when
if it's not.

In spite of knowing what I know about The Company, I don't have any idea what I'm going to say to him. Which is awful. You'd think by this time, I could either say, “Jack, sign the papers, it's over” or, “Jack, I've made a foolish mistake, come home.”

Right now, though, all I'm thinking is, Lord, please don't let him find my unicorn.

When I'm stressed out, a hard run helps.

Ignoring the occasional stab in my hip, I unsnap Elvis' leash and the two of us run until I'm covered with sweat and his tongue is hanging out. He sinks onto the grass; I sink onto a bench.

Rule number two for beating the blues: take action. As long as you don't get a tattoo.

If you're surrounded by events beyond your control, it makes you feel infinitely better to do something you can control. Unless it's a tattoo.

Before I can change my mind, I whip out my cell phone and dial. I get right to the point.

“Champ? This is really a bad time for us to have a weekend getaway. Can I take a rain check?”

“Absolutely. I don't want to rush you, Callie. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.”

When I hang up, I'm breathing easier. The second call I make is to Atlanta.

“Darlene, this is Callie Valentine Jones.” No need to elaborate. She knows who I am and what I do. For once, I'm grateful for Fayrene's habit of telling everything she knows.

“If you don't already have employment plans, I'd like to hire you as manicurist at Hair.Net.”

Darlene asks all the right questions and apparently I give all the right answers because she says yes. I silently shout
yes, yes
while she tells me more about herself.

Afterward, I head back to the hotel to share the good news with Lovie. The TV's on, and she's on the phone with Rocky, sounding like a call girl on a nine hundred number. Jill is nowhere in sight. In no mood to listen to love talk, even if Lovie is my best friend, I go into the bathroom, shut the door, and take a shower, being careful to keep the soap off my unicorn.

Lovie bursts in while I'm in mid-soap. Nobody in this family knocks. When I get back to Mooreville, I'm going to conduct a remedial manners class. Valentines, only.

“I had Rocky going this time.”

“I don't want to hear about Rocky's libido.” I stick my head out of the shower and glare at her. “Why did you let me get a tattoo?”

“I didn't
let
you. You insisted.”

“Yeah, but you knew I was in no condition to be sensible.”

“Live, that's what I say.”

“Yes, but
this
?”

“Turn around. Let me see it.”

I oblige and she's quiet for so long I think she's passed out. Finally she says, “He's even cuter sober than he was drunk.”

“I don't think he was drunk, Lovie. That was you and me.”

“Speak for yourself.” She starts prissing out, and I yell after her.

“Wait a minute. What did
you
get?”

Lovie lifts the hem of her nightshirt and wags her backside at me. Holy cow. Emblazoned across both hips in bold red letters are the words
national treasure.

She turns around, grinning. “Well?”

“You have finally rendered me speechless.”

“Good. Let's hope I have that same effect on Rocky.”

Lovie prances out and I finish my shower. It's already mid-morning and we have dirt to dig and secrets to uncover.

W
hen I reenter the bedroom, Lovie's propped on her pillows eating a bag of corn curls and watching TV.

“I forgot to ask. Where's Jill?”

“Gone home. She wanted to get an early start. Said to tell you thank you and she'd stay in touch.”

“What about Victor?”

A reporter on Channel Five interrupts a game show rerun—as well as Lovie and me—with a late-breaking bulletin on the Peabody killer.

“The police say they are still questioning witnesses but, so far, no suspects have been taken into custody.”

The reporter shoves the microphone at Chief of Police Miller Stewart. “My sources say the MPD will be out in force at today's dance competition finale at the Peabody. Do you expect to make an arrest?”

“Let me assure you, the Memphis Police Department will catch this killer. As for the particulars, no comment.”

I grab a pair of sequined leather Manolo Blahnik heels. If there's a chase, let the MPD do it.

“We never heard a peep from Victor,” Lovie says.

“That can't be good. I wonder what he's up to?”

“We don't have time to discuss it. The competition finale starts in five minutes. They're serving brunch, and I'm starving.”

Lovie tosses the empty snack bag into the garbage, then jerks on a flimsy costume hardly big enough for a midget.

“If you expect me to zip that, you're out of your mind.”

Her costume is gaping two inches. Zipping it will take a miracle on the order of the parting of the Red Sea.

“You're just jealous about my national treasure.”

“Don't make me laugh, Lovie. I'm mad at you.” I grab her zipper and try to haul it upward.

“Pull, Callie.”

“It's stuck. Why don't you wear something else?” Sans dance costume makes sense to me. She's decided not to do the jitterbug competition so she wouldn't be competing against Uncle Charlie.

She says a word that will get her barred from public places, sucks in enough air to propel a clipper ship across the Pacific, and gets the zipper closed. It'll take an act of Congress to get it open again. But I'm not going to worry about that, yet.

For once, Elvis is satisfied to be left alone. I guess he's still tuckered out from his morning run. Not to mention his late night prowl on Beale Street.

We hurry downstairs, making plans as we go. With all the dancers in one room, it's the perfect time to ask questions, then break and enter. I'm not keen on the idea, but we still don't know anything about the third victim. And we certainly need to know what Thomas Whitenton has been up to, besides
no good
with Mama.

The finale is in the Peabody's glorious Continental Ballroom. Enormous crystal chandeliers and Venetian-style frescoes make me feel as if I've stepped back into a more genteel time when women embraced femininity and men practiced courtliness. I'm glad I opted for sequined shoes.

Mama and Uncle Charlie are not here yet, but Fayrene and Jarvetis meet us at the door. Both are holding Elvis masks.

“They're giving them to everybody.” Fayrene puts hers on. “Tonight is tribute night to the King. Be sure to get yours.”

I think I'll get one for Elvis, just for kicks.

“Can you believe Grayson is here?” She nods toward the baby grand piano where he's standing with his sister and trying to balance two loaded plates from the buffet. “You'd think he'd be prostate with grief.”

I have a hard time keeping my face straight and Lovie covers her giggle with a cough.

“Maybe he was hungry,” she says. “I certainly am.”

Lovie barrels toward the buffet tables, but I lag behind and try to think of something nice to say.

“Break a leg in the jitterbug competition.”

“Lord, I hope not,” Jarvetis says, and Fayrene pats his hand. “Hon, it's theater jargon for good luck.”

By the time I catch up with Lovie, she's halfway through a plate of cheese grits with shrimp.

“Needs less salt and more cheese.”

The only thing she's picky about is food. She looks on it as a source of hedonistic pleasure while I view it as sustenance. Putting fresh fruit on my plate, I glance around the room. There's a cop in every corner, but still no sign of Mama and Uncle Charlie. I'm wondering whether I need to call one of them when Victor strolls into the ballroom.

“Lovie, look.” I nod toward the door. “You take Grayson and Carolyn, I'll take Victor. Meet you in the ladies' room in fifteen minutes.”

By the time I get across the dance floor, Victor's wearing his Elvis mask. And he's none too happy to see me.

“You!” Victor Mabry has the charm of a squash. No wonder Jill is leaving him.

He turns to leave, but I say, “Wait, I want to talk to you.”

“Meddling again, Ms. Jones?” I guess my surprise shows, and Victor sneers at me. “I make it a point to find out who my enemies are.”

“I'm not your enemy, Victor. I just rescued your wife.”

“If you don't butt out of my business, you're the one who's going to need rescuing.” He stalks off, but I've found out two things I wanted to know: under stress, Victor Mabry does not speak with a lisp, and he's capable of great anger. But is it enough to have killed the woman he loved and lost? And what motive could he possibly have had for killing the other two?

Grabbing a mask for my dog, I head toward the ladies' room. The buffet tables are being cleared, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Lovie refilling her plate. She catches up with me in the hall.

“Standing up ruins my digestion.” She plops into a Queen Anne loveseat while I tell her what I found out. It's not nearly as much as she did, though.

“Grayson was extremely jealous of Victor and any other man who looked at his wife.”

“What about the lisp, Lovie?”

“Not a sign with Grayson, but Carolyn has one. It's slight, but it's there. And she fairly well hated her sister-in-law.”

“Did you smell anything? Old Spice aftershave? A perfume that Mama might have mistaken for that?”

“Yes. But there were so many people standing around I couldn't tell where it was coming from.”

I have a feeling we're getting close. Lovie's reaching for a chocolate covered strawberry when an unholy scream rips the air. We race toward the sound while cops pour out of the ballroom and thunder right behind us toward the restrooms.

A masked man bolts from the ladies' room. Two cops give chase while two more sprint past us and into the restroom.

Lovie and I burst through the doors and Jarvetis roars in right behind us.

The screams are coming from none other than Fayrene, who is attached to the toilet door by her green silk scarves. Red faced and bulgy eyed, she looks as if she's being strangled Isadora Duncan style.

“It's the killer,” she screeches.

“Now, hon.” Jarvetis grabs her scarves and starts untangling. “You just got your scarves caught and you panicked, that's all.”

Apparently he didn't see the man scuttling from the restroom. While the cops take Fayrene's statement, Lovie and I hurry back into the hallway to see what we can find out about the masked mystery man.

Nothing, it looks like. The hallway is empty.

Lovie leans against the wall. “If I run another step I'm going to need oxygen.”

“I wanted to see who that masked man was.”

“It wasn't Thomas. He couldn't have run that fast with a banged-up leg.”

“I distinctly saw him limping.”

“You just want it to be him, Callie. What in the world would be his motive? The only thing we know for sure is that all the killings took place near the ducks.”

“Maybe the ducks did it.” She gives me this look. Usually she's the one making smart-mouth remarks. “Besides, you're forgetting the attempts on Fayrene and Mama.”

“Aunt Ruby Nell's a drama queen and Fayrene's got the biggest imagination in Mooreville.”

“How does that explain Mama clubbing Thomas with the baseball bat?”

“Maybe there are two killers.”

“I hadn't thought of that. It would explain why we've found no connection between Babs' murder and the other two.”

“We're not through yet. Come on.” Lovie grabs my arm and starts hustling me toward the ballroom. Apparently there's nothing like playing detective to give Lovie a second wind.

We're in sight of the ballroom when I spot cops down a side hall. Collaring a man wearing an Elvis mask.

“Lovie, quick. This way.”

If that masked Elvis is Mama's constant companion, I want to be the first to know.