Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders (9 page)

T
he news divides Mama's room into two camps: the hysterics (Mama, Fayrene, and Bobby) and the rest of us. While the hysterics talk about the funeral they almost had to plan and the grief they almost had to bear, the rest of us discuss the latest murder and its ramifications.

For one thing, Uncle Charlie wants to know who the third victim is and whether she has a connection to the other two. Fortunately I recall the conversation I overheard in the lobby in the wee hours this morning about Gloria's friend with the strange name.

“Could
Lalique
and Latoya LaBelle be the same person?” I ask.

“If so, then the two latest victims were connected,” Lovie says.

Uncle Charlie agrees. “The larger question, though, is who knew all three and who had motive to kill them?” He glances toward the threesome on the bed, now in a huddle about the most flattering color for Fayrene to wear in the casket. She's holding out for her usual green, Mama is arguing it will make her face look pallid, and Bobby is insisting that Ruby Nell is the one in danger.

“Good grief.” I'm almost ready to join the hysterics myself. There are too many people in this room and I haven't had enough sleep, a good bath, a substantial meal. Besides, I do makeup for the dead. Mama knows good and well I can fix a pallid face.

I'm about ready to march over there and tell her when Uncle Charlie pats my hand. “It's going to be okay, dear heart.” He stands up, commanding attention without a single word. He waits until all eyes are on him before he speaks.

“Let's all go downstairs to Dux and finish this discussion over lunch. My treat.”

Bobby says he's going to tour Sun Studios,
thank you anyway
, and Fayrene says she has to report her near demise to Jarvetis,
thank you very much
.

After they leave, Mama says, “You three go ahead. I'm staying here to take my bath. Alone.”

If Uncle Charlie were the type, he'd say,
Over my dead body.
Instead he replies, “I'm not leaving. Here, Lovie. Use this.” He passes his credit card to her.

“Charlie Valentine,” Mama says, “if you don't get out of here, I won't be responsible for what I'll do.”

He shakes his head no.

“I'll stay,” I volunteer reluctantly. When Mama says
alone
, that's what she means.

“Callie, you are not my keeper. Leave Elvis if you think I need a watchdog. And Lovie, get your baseball bat. If the killer comes in here, I'll make him wish he hadn't.”

With her hands on her hips, she marches over and stands toe to toe with Uncle Charlie.

“Satisfied?”

“No.”

“You might as well give up, Charlie. I have only one compromise in me, and that was it for today.”

Mama wins and we head to Dux. It's a duck-themed restaurant (what else?) in the lobby, a bit more upscale than Mallards, but not as posh as Chez Philippe across the hall. While Lovie gets her baseball bat, Uncle Charlie and I sit in padded rattan chairs at a secluded table in the far corner studying menus which feature award-winning items she'll approve of. For one thing, they serve grilled slabs of Black Angus beef. She says it's the best, that you can tell the difference.

“Jack heard about the murders,” Uncle Charlie says, and my mind flies completely off Black Angus beef. But it does linger a bit over the term
the best
, and I'm not fixing to feel guilty. “He's flying to Memphis.”

I hope my face is not turning pink. Though I dread putting my willpower to the test in such a romantic old hotel, I can't say I'm sorry Jack's coming. He has a way (mostly irritating, but sometimes wonderful) of making everything seem all right.

“From where?”

“China.”

“Holy cow!”

I glance toward the doorway to see if Lovie is back, but there's no sign of her. It might be a while before I ever get another opportunity like this.

“Uncle Charlie. I've been meaning to ask you. Why are you and Jack so close?”

He knows every move my almost-ex makes, and I don't believe in coincidence. I believe in destiny and fate and star-guided paths and soul mates. Well, I believe in unicorns, too, but that's a whole 'nother story.

When I ask my question, the change in Uncle Charlie is subtle. Only a niece who loves him would notice. He has gone from inviting and gentle to inscrutable and steely.

“I like Jack.”

“I think there's more.”

“Don't think about it, dear heart.”

I reach across the table and squeeze his hands. “Please, Uncle Charlie. I need to know.”

“I can't tell you.”

He gently removes his hands and unfolds his napkin as carefully as if it might contain a poison-tipped knife.

I've never openly challenged Uncle Charlie, never even felt the need. But today, the need to know supersedes all else. I brace myself to butt heads with the surrogate father who apparently has secrets of his own.

“What's The Company?”

Uncle Charlie's visibly rattled, not his usual behavior at all.

“Jack told me.
Please
, Uncle Charlie.”

“Let it drop, dear heart. It's best you don't know.”

The things I know, even if they're bad, don't scare me nearly as much as the unknown. I can prepare for the known. But how do you brace yourself if you don't have a clue whether you're going to be hit by a tornado or swept away in a flood?

“I won't quit until I find out. Can't you see, Uncle Charlie? Because of this secrecy, my marriage is down the tubes, I'm in divorce limbo, and my chances of having a family get slimmer every day. I have to know.”

He's still for a long while, and I pray he's not thinking up some literary quote to smooth things over. If he starts spouting Shakespeare, I'm going to scream.

“All right. If I didn't know you as well as I do…” He heaves a big sigh. “I'm counting on your strength and your intelligence. You have to promise not to ask about this again. I want you to forget you ever heard of The Company. Never mention the name again, even in private. Understood?”

I can only nod. If I open my mouth I'm afraid I'll start upchucking. I tie my napkin in knots, waiting.

“I was retiring when Jack came on board.” Which means Uncle Charlie has been leading a double life for a long time. It also explains my uncle's mysterious fishing trips. “They wanted me to stay long enough to train him.”

“To do what?”

“There are problems that can't be handled through the usual channels.” He gives me a piercing look that causes me to shiver.

“Like what?” When my uncle doesn't answer, I start imagining Jack in the terrifying missions I've seen portrayed in movies and read about in crime thrillers. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “You mean like secret government assassins?” His continued silence is neither denial nor confirmation. “Uncle Charlie, please! Can't you tell me anything else?”

“Just one more thing. If a Company man gets caught, he's on his own. Do you understand?”

Only too well. We're talking deep, deep cover here, and so much danger and intrigue I don't even want to imagine what a Company man does.

Now I know why both Uncle Charlie and Jack always choose secluded corners in restaurants and why they always sit facing the door, backs to the wall. Now I know why Jack never gives me advance notice of his trips and never tells me where he's going or what he's doing.

And at long last, I know why Jack would never and
will never
consent to be a father.

I probably look like a normal person sitting in a chair in a public place. In reality, I'm a shattered-china-cup woman, holding myself together by sheer determination.

Uncle Charlie squeezes my hand. “Jack's the best. He always gets his man.” There's a sense of pride in his voice. “He's going to be okay.”

“After we married, why didn't he just get out?”

“That's not for me to say.”

“You had a family. Why couldn't he?”

When Uncle Charlie comes around the table and wraps his arms around me, saying,” Shhh, shhh,” I know I'm on the edge, drawing attention.

“I'm okay, Uncle Charlie. Really, I am.” When he sits back down, I make myself take a drink of water, will myself to look at the menu until I can quit shaking inside.

“Here comes Lovie. Are you all right, dear heart?”

“Yes.”

“She can't know. Nor Ruby Nell,” Uncle Charlie says.

“I got it.”

I almost wish I didn't. Whoever said ignorance is bliss was on the right track. Being prepared is highly overrated. Sure, you can brace yourself for natural disasters, go to storm shelters, hunker down in the basement with a week's supply of water and canned goods. Get in your car and leave, for goodness sake.

But how can you prepare to send a husband into the unknown, doing the unthinkable, and never hear from him again, never know what happened? How do you brace yourself for fifty years of watching and waiting? How would you keep fear from outstripping hope?

Lovie slides into a chair beside me, and it's like standing in front of a bracing ocean breeze.

“I got Aunt Ruby Nell all squared away with my baseball bat. Where are the drinks?” She signals a waiter. “I want my coffee with a touch of chicory—not strong, just a dollop—and plenty of cream. The real McCoy, not that imitation junk.”

“We don't do imitation.” The waiter drips blue-blood breeding, something he probably learned in intense haughty waiter training.

“Good. Now wiggle your cute butt. If I don't get a shot of caffeine tout de suite, you might as well go ahead and call out the paddy wagon.”

She snatches up her menu and goes straight for the beef.

“Have you two ordered?”

“Not yet.” Uncle Charlie has to do the talking. I still don't trust myself to speak.

“Good. I don't like anybody to get a head start on me.”

The waiter appears with her coffee, then hovers while she takes a sip and pronounces it just right. Lovie and Uncle Charlie order the Angus T-bone, rare. I order a salad and wonder how I'm going to eat a bite.

“Okay,” Lovie says. “Have you two solved the murder?”

“I think it's best to let Jack handle it.”

“Since when?” Lovie looks at her daddy like he's gone mad. “He can't handle his libido, much less murder from afar.”

Uncle Charlie says, “Now, now, dear heart,” and I say, “Jack's heading this way.”

“Well, hotty totty for him. I hope he's not expecting you to roll out the welcome mat. You've got bigger fish to fry.”

Lovie's fond of clichés. And while she's also fond of Jack, she's not rooting for him the way Mama and Uncle Charlie are. She waits for no man, and expects me to do the same. I wish I had her ability to forget about the past and keep moving forward.

“Lovie, why don't you take Callie sightseeing this afternoon?”

I see through my uncle. He's trying to take my mind off Jack and keep us out of trouble at the same time.

“With murder afoot? Are you kidding me, Daddy?”

Uncle Charlie sighs. “All right. I know you're going to defy me. All I ask is that you stay out of trouble.”

“Avoiding trouble is my middle name.”

Uncle Charlie just shakes his head, hurries through his meal, then hurries off, saying he has some business to take care of before he checks on Mama—who certainly needs lots of checking on. And I don't even want to know Uncle Charlie's business, especially if it involves Jack.

Lovie refuses to rush through food and, frankly, I'm glad for the chance to sit and think. Not that I'm going to get it around my whirlwind cousin.

“Daddy always wished I was a boy.”

“He loves you.”

“Maybe. But he still wishes I'd been born with dangling body parts.”

Lovie adds more cream to her coffee, and while she appears nonchalant, I know better. Sometimes I think most of her outrageous behavior is a bid to capture Uncle Charlie's attention. I wish she could understand that in his understated, steady way he does love her.

To give her credit, she's probably remembering his outright adoration of her mother and figuring she falls short. I know her. Maybe better than I know myself.

“I got another telegram from Rocky.”

“What did he say?”

“I've been replaced by the Principal Bird Deity and the Long-lipped God.”

“I doubt you've been replaced by Mayan deities, Lovie. At least you know where he is and what he's doing.”

She gives me a sharp look. “What's that all about?”

“Forget it. Let's pay the check and get out of here.” I signal the waiter. “We've got to find wigs and then we've got to figure out a way to get into Mr. Whitenton's room without Mama knowing.”

“Or Daddy.” Lovie whips out his card, and the stiff-backed waiter marches off. “You forget, he's going to be right next door with Aunt Ruby Nell.”

That complicates things. But it doesn't make them impossible. I refuse to accept defeat and I'm certainly not going to sit around and let Jack handle things.

Sure, it has been nice to have him charge to the rescue a few times, but I'm not the wilting-flower kind. I can take care of myself.

In light of what I know, I may never let Jack handle anything again. Especially my bedroom activities.

We head to the hotel's beauty salon, which, it turns out, has a pretty nice collection of wigs. While Lovie debates the merits of a black pageboy versus a bleached blond shag, I check out the competition. The chairs are filled with clients getting cut, colored, and touched up. I'm happy to report Memphis doesn't have a thing over Mooreville. In fact, I'd say Hair.Net is on the cutting edge of style and beauty.

While I'm standing there watching a botched haircut and itching to get my hands on the scissors, the “William Tell Overture” jangles and I nearly jump out of my shoes. I'm beginning to wish Lovie had brought some of her Prohibition Punch.