Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders (14 page)

D
o you think I'd be stuck in this room if I didn't want to be? Naturally I pretended to be sulking about not going to the dance finale. I didn't want Callie to get suspicious.

Listen, I have big plans that go way beyond who killed the three dancers. This is my town. I plan to figure a way to escape while Callie and Lovie are gone.

My public is waiting. I got a taste of them last night at the park named for that other musician whose fame does not even approach my iconic status.

Now I'm all fired up to sashay down the street in my pink bowtie and cut another record at Sun Studios. Maybe sign a few paw prints on the way. Then I want to mosey back up to Beale Street and sit in on a gut-bucket blues jam session, recapture the good old days, bask in the accolades, feel my sap running high.

Maybe I'll even pay a visit to the gift shop, see if I can scare up a Lansky, then see about having a bell-bottom jumpsuit made. Of course, it would feature four legs, but who cares. If anybody can make four legs all the rage, it's me.

I prance over to the door, cock my mismatched ears, and listen for sounds of the maid. The first little sign of activity in the hallway and I plan to set up such a howl, somebody will come running and open the door.

That'll be all she wrote. I'll be outta here, baby. Adios. Sayonara. Toot, toot, tootsie, good-bye.

Naturally, I'll be back. I'd never permanently run away. Callie needs me. Especially now that she's hired a new woman for Hair.Net.

I'm not saying a manicurist is a bad thing. In fact, it's a smart entrepreneurial move. Even Darlene is not a bad choice. The only thing wrong with her is the entourage that comes along with her.

Don't think I didn't hear both ends of the phone conversation at the river. I can live with a little boy in the beauty shop. In fact, I plan to teach him a few tricks. How to dig a hole to China. How to bury treasure all over the backyard. I might even teach him how to spit.

What I can't deal with is Darlene's cat.
Mal,
she calls him. What kind of name is that? It's too short. Lacking class. Without character. It's bound to stand for something else. Probably Malicious. Malevolent. Malcontent. Maladjusted. Maladroit.

Heck, for all I know, it stands for Malarkey. Whatever it stands for, it can't be good.

Hair.Net's not big enough for me and a cat. One of us will have to go. And I can guarantee you, it won't be me.

Guess what's right across the street from Gas, Grits, and Guts in beautiful downtown Mooreville? A fireworks place.

Have you ever seen what a few firecrackers tied to a cat's tail will do? Let me put it this way: Mal will be lucky if he stops running before he gets to the Alabama state line.

Hold your horses. Is that the sound of little rubber wheels in the hallway? I hunker down with my ears perked up. It looks like I'm going to get my chance to blow this joint.

I
don't know why I said, “Quick.” If I'd known I'd be running all over the place, I would never have worn four-inch heels.

By the time Lovie and I halt our momentum enough to reverse direction and turn the corner, the cops are leading the suspect off.

“Wait!” I yell.

The prime suspect turns his head, sans mask. Alas, the man in cuffs is not Thomas; it's Victor.

I'm sorry to say I'm disappointed, which means I have a lot of work to do on myself in the milk-of-human-kindness department. It looks like I'll stoop to all kinds of vengeful thinking to get what I want—Mr. Whitenton out of Mama's life.

One of the cops separates himself from the group and heads our way. Fortunately, it's a grandfatherly looking gray-haired man and not the baby cop who already has me on his pain-in-the-neck list.

Lovie says a word that could get us both arrested while I try to act as if I'm not going all over the Peabody interfering in police business.

“Do you ladies have something to tell me?”

“Is that the Peabody killer?” I ask.

“Names?” The cop whips out his notebook and Lovie punches me. Hard.

“She's just scared, that's all. So many dancers dying.” Lovie fakes a convincing shiver that sets every sequin on her costume aquiver. The cop smiles. A good sign. “We were headed to the bathroom.”

Now she's prancing up and down like she can barely hold her water. Sometimes I think Lovie's in the wrong profession. I can see her on Broadway or filling the silver screen in a B-grade movie. Shoot, with Lovie, it could even be A-list. After all, she is a national treasure.

“The ladies' room's that way.” He nods his head in the direction of the restrooms, starts to leave, then turns back. “Didn't I see you in the restroom earlier?”

“Yes, but we were just there to touch up our lipstick.” Lovie was always quick on her feet, but I don't think she has fooled the man in uniform.

“You ladies stay out of trouble.” He pockets his notebook and rejoins the police who are escorting Victor out the door.

“They'll probably book Victor for felony,” Lovie says.

“I don't know if being a peeping Tom is a felony.”

There's a lot I don't know. And not just about this case. For instance, I don't know what I'll do when Jack arrives.

My phone rings, rattling the last nerve I have left. It's Mama.

“Where are you? The jitterbug competition's about to start and Bobby's looking for Lovie.”

“She's not going to compete against Uncle Charlie.”

“Flitter. Fayrene and Jarvetis are competing against us.”

“She's dancing? After what happened in the ladies' room?”

“It'll take more than somebody hiding behind an Elvis mask to stop Fayrene. Besides, Jarvetis hasn't danced since 1989. She's not about to let this chance get away. Hurry.”

I pocket my cell phone. “We have our marching orders.” I repeat Mama's conversation to Lovie.

“I wanted to see Daddy dance anyway.”

“So do I. Besides, it will give us a chance to see who's there and who's not. I still want to get into Thomas' room.”

“So do I.”

“Shoot, Lovie. I thought you believed the cops had caught the killer.”

“I just want another chance to check out the reaction to my maid's outfit. You never know. It could come in handy down in Mexico.”

If anybody can mix archeology and kinkiness, it's Lovie. As we head toward the Continental Ballroom, I send a silent prayer into the universe that Lovie's trip to visit Rocky will be everything she wants it to be.

The buffet tables have been cleared, the jitterbug competition is already in full swing, and Bobby Huckabee meets us at the door.

“Ruby Nell said to watch for you.”

I spot Mama and Uncle Charlie doing a tight, pitch-perfect jitterbug near the center of the dance floor. Fayrene and Jarvetis are nearby. Gyrating every which way, they almost knock over the barrier separating the judges' stand from the dance floor. They correct their direction so fast they barely miss knocking over a geriatric couple shimmying at snail speed. (What they lack in skill, they make up for in enthusiasm.)

“Looks like Fayrene and Jarvetis are giving Daddy and Aunt Ruby Nell a run for their money.”

“I wouldn't go so far as to say that, Lovie.”

Naturally, I'm prejudiced, but I think Mama and Uncle Charlie are surefire winners. They look like they've been dancing together for years. And who knows? Maybe they have. They're pros at keeping secrets.

Who would have believed my uncle had been leading a double life? Mama, too. I didn't find out till the Bubbles Caper that she smokes. She could also have been a deep cover agent in The Company, and I'd never know.

“I've got seats saved,” Bobby says.

He barrels ahead, reeking hair gel and moving so fast even Lovie has a hard time keeping up. I can see why he doesn't have a girlfriend. He has the style and social grace of a toad. As soon as we get back to Mooreville, I'm going to offer him a few pointers. In a kind way, of course. Nobody wants to think of himself as lacking charm.

As we trail along in his wake, I scan the crowd for Thomas Whitenton. Lovie's doing the same thing. People are milling about, which makes it hard to find him. To complicate matters, many of them are already wearing Elvis masks in spite of the fact that the competition will last the rest of the day and the Elvis tribute dance won't start till evening.

“I guess I could go around snatching off masks.” Lovie would do it, too, if she thought it would help her family.

“We have all day, Lovie. Be patient.”

Bobby is waiting for us in the third row. I sit next to him, trying to keep my ulterior motives from showing. You never know. If Bobby really does have an all-seeing blue eye, he'd sniff out my intent to go snooping in the maid's uniform.

“Have you seen Thomas?”

Bobby doesn't react like a suspicious man, which casts serious doubts on his psychic abilities.

“He's here,” Bobby says.

“Where?”

Bobby glances around the ballroom, perplexed. “Well. He was here a minute ago.”

“Oh, great.” Lovie rolls her eyes.

“Yeah. How about that?” Bobby says. “And him with a bandaged leg.”

Strike two for the psychic eye. Lovie's irony whizzes right over Bobby. But it's not him I'm worried about: it's unmasking Thomas Whitenton before he kills my mother.

The jitterbug competition is winding down, and time is running out. Lovie and I need to leave before the dance is over. If we don't, we'll have a hard time escaping Mama and Uncle Charlie. She's already miffed about being left out of
all the fun
and he's already warned me to lie low and let Jack handle things.

That's the last thing I need. Every time I let Jack handle my things, I end up between the sheets in my house or backed up against the rinse sinks at Hair.Net.

If Lovie and I don't get into Thomas Whitenton's room before my almost-ex gets in from China, we might as well forget it. Skirting around the senior Valentines is one thing; skirting around Jack Jones is a whole 'nother ball game.

Suddenly Lovie elbows me and nods toward the door. Thomas has appeared with two cups of punch, probably one for him, one for Mama. He's certainly not bringing Uncle Charlie something cool to drink, especially after the twin humiliations of being flogged and being beat out of a chance to show his stuff on the dance floor with Ruby Nell Valentine.

Lovie nudges me again. Hard. I'm going to get her for this.

“Oh my goodness! I almost forgot.” I glance at my watch, feigning panic. “Lovie, if we don't hurry, we'll miss our spa appointment.”

As we stand up to leave, Bobby says, “If you'll leave your key, I'll check on Elvis after the competition.” He winks at me. “While you snoop.”

We stop dead in our tracks. When we turn around to face Bobby again, Lovie's mouth is hanging open. I guess mine is, too, because it takes me a while to say anything.

“How did you know?”

“Psychic eye.” He winks again.

“What's it telling you about the Peabody killer?”

“There's danger from a dark-eyed stranger.”

Holy cow! I should have known better than to believe in his psychic eye.

“It's not what you're thinking,” he says. “The dark-eyed stranger of this vision is somebody you know, somebody who could rain hellfire and brimstone on the head of the killer.”

That would be only one person. Jack Jones.

Fishing in my purse, I find my room key and hand it to Bobby.

“Thanks for looking after Elvis. I'll call you after we've finished our…” What's the nice way to put what we're planning to do?

“Snooping,” Lovie says, winking at him, then we hightail it out of the ballroom.

We race as fast as we dare without calling attention to ourselves. We're making good progress till Lovie suddenly vanishes. One minute she's beside me, the next she's gone.

“What on earth?”

“Shhh.” Her hiss is coming from behind a potted palm. She reaches out and snatches me behind the scraggly tree so fast I nearly break the heel of my Manolo Blahniks. “Somebody's after us.”

“What do you mean,
after us
?”

“I distinctly heard somebody behind me whisper, ‘Die, hoothie mama.'”

“Hoothie?”

“
Hoochie,
Callie. Has your mind taken a leave of absence?”

I don't generally take exception to Lovie's remarks because I know she has my best interests at heart. But I'm full of frazzled nerves and plane-from-China anxiety, and I'm lucky to remember my own name. I'm fixing to take exception.

“I wouldn't cast aspersions on my mind if I'd picked the scrawniest palm in the entire room to hide behind. Good grief, Lovie. It's the width of a swizzle stick.”

In her sequined dress, Lovie is the approximate size of Arkansas. She's shining through the branches like sunrise over the Pacific. But I stop short of telling her all that. I pride myself on being nice to everybody, even when I'm mad.

Lovie says that's one of my major faults. Actually what she always tells me is, “Get some backbone, show some spunk.” Maybe she's right. Maybe after all this is over, I'll work on the assertive side of my personality.

“Sarcasm doesn't become you, Callie.”

“You use it all the time.”

“It suits me.” She cranes her neck around the palm. “All clear. Let's hustle.”

When we get to the fourth floor, Elvis is nowhere to be seen. He doesn't even come when I call, but that's not unusual. Elvis has a take it or leave it attitude about obedience. Mostly, he leaves it.

When that happens I do what every smart dog owner does, I resort to bribery. This time it's a Milk-Bone treat.

“Elvis, want a cookie?”

Lovie snorts. “If you want a male to come, give him something worth coming over.” She digs into her stash for a doughnut. “Doughnut, Elvis. Get your fat butt out here.”

He waddles out, snatches the doughnut, then retreats back into the closet without even coming by to lick my ankles. I swear, when I get back to Mooreville, I'm putting him in obedience school.

Right now, though, I have to change. And fast.

Lovie and I start shucking clothes. Correction. I shuck, she's stuck. I grab her zipper and tug while she says words that ought to make the Guinness Book of Bad Language.

“Suck in, Lovie.”

“I'm sucking. They're not making size twelve as big as they used to.”

Holy cow! No wonder I'm going to have to rip seams and break the zipper. If she's a twelve, I'm Donald Trump.

Two ripped seams and a broken fingernail later, Lovie and her dress part company. We get in maid disguise, then race toward the elevators, hightailing it from a room that looks like somebody slaughtered a sequined goose.

For once the gods of wacky women are with us. The only person on the elevator is a petite blue-haired woman wearing a hearing aid and glasses with Coke-bottle lenses. Squinting up at Lovie, she says, “Young woman, that's a nice hat you're wearing.”

“Wig's on backward,” I whisper.

Lovie flips it back around, fluffs it up, and winks at the woman. “I like the feathers in front.”

“I must say, it does look better.”

The elevator inches upward, and though it stops at every floor, nobody else gets on. The bantam-size, nearsighted woman probably pushed every button.

She gets off on the tenth and totters down the hall. If she goes any slower, she won't make it to her room till Thanksgiving. There's no way we can break and enter while she's in sight.

“I could yell fire,” Lovie says.

The mood I'm in, I'm about ready to let her. Which just goes to show the levels you'll sink to when murder enters the picture.

The poor little woman finally makes it to her room. I'm about to say
the coast is clear
when I spot the back of the most delicious man God ever put in the path of a Valentine woman.

“Quick, Lovie. Hide. The stairs.”

Thank goodness she doesn't ask questions till we're inside the stairwell.

“Is it the cops?”

“Worse. Jack.”

“You're sure?”

“Even if my eyes deceive me, my libido never does.”

Let me come within yelling distance of Jack Jones and you can hear my motor revving all the way to the Mississippi River.

Lovie says a word that could bring down the roof. “At the rate we're going, we'll never get into Thomas' room.”

My sentiments exactly. But I don't tell Lovie that. I pride myself on acting optimistic, even when I'm feeling exactly the opposite.

Which is why I'm going to face Jack head-on this time. Look him in the face and say: I want a life. I want a child. I want a divorce.