Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders (12 page)

W
e don't catch up with Mama and Uncle Charlie until we board the bus. I introduce Jill, and they take this unexpected guest in stride.

She is immediately charmed with them. And why not? My uncle is the perfect Southern gentleman, and Mama can be a world-class ambassador when she tries.

“Can you join us tonight for ribs at the Rendezvous?” Uncle Charlie asks Jill.

“Thank you. I will.”

Tonight is open night, which means the dancers are free to practice for tomorrow's finals. The dance floor in the Peabody's lovely Venetian Room is the designated practice area. It might be worth checking out to see if I can learn anything that will break this case. If I can get up enough energy.

I collapse into my seat and scan the boarding passengers for Victor, bracing myself to deal with him again. Oddly, he's not on the bus.

Neither is polecat hair, a.k.a Carolyn Mims. Who knows what they're up to? Maybe Jill knows something about the mysterious Carolyn, especially after getting cozy with Grayson.

Now is not the time to ask, though. I lean my head against the back of my seat and the next thing I know, Lovie is saying, “Wake up. We're here.”

I shake my head to get the cotton out. For once, I'm grateful to lag and let somebody else take charge. Still groggy, I let Lovie herd me into the lobby.

Fayrene jumps out at us, shouting, “Lord, I'm all agag.”

I'm agog, too, and jolted awake. In neon green with bright pink flowers, she looks like a fuchsia plant bursting over the pot. Of course, I mean that in the best way. I hang fuchsia on my porch every summer.

“What's wrong, Fayrene?” Mama asks. “Where's Jarvetis?”

“He had car trouble in Holly Springs, but he'll be here any minute. I'm so excited, I'm liable to make a pubic display.”

I hope she means public, but the state she's in, I can't be certain.

“Fayrene, I want you to meet Jill,” I say, and after the introductions, Mama asks if Fayrene has any news from Mr. Whitenton.

“He's back in his room, chock full of pain killers.”

“Is his leg broken?”

“Don't worry, Ruby Nell. You just bruised and battered him.”

Uncle Charlie listens to all this, poker faced. You can never tell what he's thinking unless he wants you to.

The three of them head to Mallards to wait for Jarvetis, while the rest of the motley crew board the elevator. Thank goodness, it's empty. I lean against the wall, and even Elvis seems tuckered out. Serves him right for getting me up in the middle of the night.

When Jill gets off on the third floor to retrieve her belongings, Lovie hands her a key to our room and offers to go with her.

“Thank you, but no. If Victor tries anything, I'll punch his lights out.” Jill pumps her fist into the air, laughing.

It looks like this little kitten has claws.

“You go, girl,” Lovie tells her.

The way Jill swishes out, you'd never know she was the same woman who sobbed her story to strangers in the public restroom at Graceland. That's the beauty of female friendships. Girl power. Go-get-'em-tiger attitude. Laughter. Most of all, the laughter.

“I like her, Callie.”

“So do I. I've removed her from the suspect list.”

“I have a great idea. I'll steal a maid's uniform for her, then I can ride the cleaning cart and she can push.”

“Hush, Lovie. I'm too tired to laugh.”

The elevator deposits us on the fourth floor. Lovie retrieves the
Commercial Appeal
halfway under our door, and Elvis makes a beeline for his pillow. No wonder. He's used to snoozing off and on all day.

I spot the purloined purse, jerk it up, and throw it in a drawer. And while I'm at it, I clean out a drawer for Jill. She seems like a wonderful woman, but who knows what she'd do if she recognized Babs' purse. I'm not planning to find out, and I'm certainly not ready to confess that I was the maid who saw her in Grayson's room.

Lovie's standing there with her hands on her hips, watching me.

“What?” I'm too tired to read body language.

“I wondered what you were thinking, inviting her here. With Thomas in his bed and Jill in ours, how are we going to get into his room? Not to mention the latest victim's.”

“Maybe the Memphis PD will catch the killer. Shoot, maybe Jack will. If he ever gets here.”

Lovie lounges in the corner chair with the paper while I kick off my shoes, plop on the bed, and pray I'm back home before the plane from China arrives. I can't deal with Jack right now, especially after what Uncle Charlie told me about The Company.

“Besides, Lovie. ‘Tomorrow is another day.'”

“Thank you, Miss Scarlett.”

Sometimes I wonder if Lovie and I are turning into Uncle Charlie, a quote for every occasion—though he sticks to lofty literature by Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson while we go with G
one with the Wind
and film noir. I could do Shakespeare if I wanted, but I'm too tired to be lofty.

I'm just drifting off when Lovie's shout jerks me upright.

“What? What?”

“Listen to this. ‘Local former exotic dancer, Fifi Galant, is preparing for the wedding of the season at the Peabody Hotel.'”

“You woke me to talk about a wedding?”

Ignoring me, Lovie keeps reading. “‘Ms. Galant has performed exotic dances at various clubs in Memphis including the Jade Belly…'”

“Holy cow, Lovie. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Wait. I'm coming to the best part. ‘Fifi says she got her start at Hot Tips in Las Vegas.' Hot Tips, Cal. I wonder if she was there when I made my debut.”

Trust Lovie to call her one and only performance a debut. Forget that we were in Hot Tips under deep cover. Except that Lovie's feathered costume barely even covered Christmas.

“Even if she was, Lovie, I don't see how Fifi Galant has a single thing to do with
anything.
”

“Maybe she does and maybe she doesn't. Remember that stage makeup we found in Gloria's room? What if there's a connection between Fifi and Gloria? Maybe Latoya, too, since she and Gloria were friends.”

I groan and punch my pillow, but Lovie's on a roll.

“Besides, her wedding is at the Peabody. That's two connections, Cal. You know there's no such thing as coincidence.”

I can see there will be no catnap for me. Besides Lovie's insistence on discussing the wedding of somebody I never heard of and don't want to know, something is niggling at me. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

“If you're right, every clue we've uncovered could lead us to a dead end. The killer could be somebody not even connected to this hotel or the dance competition.”

“Exactly.”

“If that's true, we'd have to cover all of Memphis and Shelby County to find the killer.”

The lock clicks and we both shut up. Jill puts the night latch against the door frame to keep the door open, then fills her arms with bags from the hall and backs into the room.

“Ta-da! I'm back.” Her cheeks are flushed and she looks like she just won a Maytag washer and dryer.

I leap up, feeling guilty. I don't know why. Maybe it's a Southern hospitality thing—the hostess caught wallowing in the guest's bed.

“Here. This bed is yours, and I've cleaned out a drawer for your things.”

“How'd it go?” Lovie says.

“Victor was there. We had a come-to-Jesus meeting.”

Lovie and I don't have to ask what that is. Anybody born in the Bible Belt knows. Serious business is afoot, and the choice you make rewards you with glory or dooms you to becoming pit barbecue for Old Scratch himself.

“I told Victor in no uncertain terms I'm leaving him.”

Jill kicks her tiny pink shoes onto the floor and curls up in the middle of her bed with her legs tucked, yoga style. Lovie digs into our snack stash and comes up with chips and Hershey's chocolate, and we settle in for a let-down-your-hair girl session.

It turns out Jill had high ambitions before she met Victor. She had just been crowned Miss Paris (Tennessee, not France) and planned to use the scholarship money to study medicine. Then Victor came along, freshly jilted and tragically romantic. He took one look and rushed her to the altar.

“Little did I know I'd be competing with
three
girlfriends
and
his ex-wife. And it will get worse now that Babs has become a dead saint.”

She's only halfway kidding. The Valentine family sees this phenomenon almost every day: the bereaved marching into the funeral home, sanctifying the dead.

“You should go back to school, get your medical degree,” I tell her. “It's never too late.”

“That's exactly what I plan to do. And use a big old fat divorce settlement to pay for it.”

I pride myself on being a wonderful judge of character. If Jill's a killer, I'm Shamu the whale. Emboldened by Jill's frankness, I plunge right into the subject of murder.

“Do you think Grayson killed Babs?”

“He certainly had reason. He told me she was spending him into the poorhouse and I know from the things Victor has said that Grayson was insanely jealous of him and anybody else who looked at Babs. If you can believe my idiot husband.”

Jill takes off her headband and tries to shake out her hair, but she's wearing too much hairspray. When I finish finding out what she knows about murder, I'm giving her some hair advice. In a constructive way, of course.

“But I wouldn't have gone to his room,” she adds, “if I thought he was the killer.”

“What about that other Mims woman?” Lovie asks. “Who is she and why did she show up out of the blue?”

“Carolyn? That's Grayson's sister.”

“Did she have any reason to hate Babs?” I figure anybody with hair that bad is bound to have other horrible qualities, even if it's just poor fashion taste.

“I don't know her that well, but I do remember one thing. Last Christmas, Babs had the balls to call my house. I picked up the extension and overheard her telling Victor she'd finally cut ‘that rotten lowlife sister' out of Grayson's life and convinced him to take her to New York for the holidays.”

Jill nibbles a piece of chocolate the size of a black-eyed pea. All that discipline, I can see why she was Miss Paris.

“Quite frankly,” she adds, “Babs is the one who gives me the creeps. I might have killed her myself if somebody else hadn't beat me to it.”

Lovie and I exchange a look and Jill says, “Just kidding.”

Holy cow! What have I gotten us into? If I'm wrong about Jill, we're liable to wake up dead.

“If you don't mind, I need to take a bath before dinner.”

She hops off the bed and hugs me, then Lovie.

“I can't thank you enough. You've given me the courage to follow through this time. And I promise I'll only be here just one night.”

“You're welcome to stay as long as you like,” I tell her.

“I'm going home tomorrow. Victor can fly home or walk or crawl, for all I care. I want to take action before anybody tries to talk some sense into me.”

I know exactly what she means. Mama has never given up hope that I will reconcile with Jack. If she'd write all her bad advice down, she'd have two volumes of
How to Drive Your Daughter Crazy During Divorce.

And speaking of Mama, my cell phone rings and her number pops up.

“Are you coming? We're already at the Rendezvous.”

“So early?” It will be at least thirty minutes before we can get there, and then only with some of Fayrene's divine invention.

“There's a line a mile long. Charlie's put our name on the waiting list.”

“Just save us a seat, Mama. And don't wait to order.”

“Flitter. Who do you think I am? Mabel Moffett?” That's the biggest insult Mama can think of. Mabel has a reputation all over Mooreville for bad social graces. Most of it deserved, but still…

“Now, Mama,” is all I say.

I do Mabel's hair. I'm not about to say anything ugly.

C
harlie Vergos' popular restaurant is just across the street. Though it's early, a line of hungry diners already snakes through the alley and down the stairs. We'll be here for hours.

Back in 1948, the Rendezvous was a modest eatery serving ham sandwiches. Then Charlie discovered a smokestack in his basement, fired up a barbecue pit, and put Memphis on the culinary map.

Mama and the gang are already downstairs, not far from the front of the line. She spots us and waves, purple sleeves billowing and bangles clanking every which way. She even calls “yoohoo!” which is Southernese for “over here.”

We weave through the crowd and I see polecat hair. With none other than Victor Mabry. Jill sees them, too.

“What's your husband doing with Carolyn Mims?” Since we've already had a soul-baring session, this is not an impolite question. I pride myself on manners.

“Digging for dirt, and she's only too happy to dish it.” Jill turns her back on them. “She's the prissy butt who tattled about me being in Grayson's room.”

Victor notices his wife and barrels our way, but Uncle Charlie cuts him off. I'd give a thirty-dollar haircut to know what they're saying. From the thunderous look on Victor's face, it's not pretty.

Uncle Charlie rejoins our group and offers his arm to Jill. “Don't worry, my dear. He won't bother you this evening.”

I'm glad, though it's not Victor's manners I'm thinking about; it's his connection to Carolyn Mims. Or more precisely, hers to him. Listen, if I had a sister-in-law who cut off ties to my family, I'd be in a killing mood. (If I were that type, which of course, I'm not.) Maybe it wasn't Grayson she consorted with to murder Babs. Maybe it was Victor.

The next chance I get, I'm asking Jill if Victor or Carolyn had any connection to Gloria Divine or Latoya LaBelle. Too, I'm going to find out if extreme stress makes Victor speak with a lisp. Why not? Stress is a factor in nearly every malady you can name.

My cell phone rings and Champ's number pops up. I hope nothing has happened to Hoyt and the cats. I open the phone and say hello, but the din is too loud.

“Champ, can you hear me? Hold on. I'm going outside.”

It takes me a while to weave through the crowd. Even the stairs are packed with barbecue lovers trying to get down. Finally I reach the alley outside and the relative quiet of street traffic.

“Champ, I'm back. What's up?”

“I miss you.”

If I had time to have a life, I might miss him, too. If Jack would sign divorce papers. If I were free to indulge in those emotions. If I could get my heart to agree with my head.

So many
ifs.
I wish I could replace them with a whole string of definites.

“Callie? Are you there?”

“I'm here. Bad connection.” I cross my fingers behind my back so the little white lie won't count.

“Do you want me to hang up and call back?”

“No, it's better now. How are the animals?”

“They're all doing great, but that's not why I called. If you can stay an extra day at the Peabody, I'll come up when Charlie gets back and we can have a brief getaway.”

That's a polite way of putting it. Jack would have put it another way.

All of a sudden I feel like crying. Don't ask me why.

“Callie? Say yes.”

“Let me think about it. A lot's going on up here.”

“Yeah. I heard about the Peabody murders. If Charlie weren't there, I would be.”

“Look, you're sweet and thoughtful to call, and I really, really appreciate your taking care of my animals, but my family is waiting downstairs. We're having dinner at the Rendezvous.”

“Enjoy. I'll call back later.”

A conversation like that ought to make me feel good. I don't even want to think about why it doesn't. Tucking the phone in my pocket, I push open the restaurant door. About that time, a jet flies over, low, coming in for a landing at Memphis Airport.

Jack. That's all I think. Just Jack.

I slide through the door and shut out the reminder.

When I get back Mama says, “Who was that?”

“Champ.”

“Charlie says Jack's on the way.”

Where Jack's concerned, Mama's completely transparent. Sometimes I find this annoying, but tonight it comforts me to know she cares enough to meddle.

“He gave me a good report on my animals.”

“Well, if you ask me…”

“Ruby Nell.” That's all Uncle Charlie says, and Mama drops the subject.

Our gang is seated at a long table next to a back wall. (What else? Uncle Charlie is here.) I slide in beside Lovie.

Jill is sitting beside Bobby Huckabee, whose face is blazing red. And if there's an inch of space between Fayrene and Jarvetis, I'd challenge a NASA engineer to find it.

The only one missing from our party is Elvis, who was miffed he couldn't come along. I explained that only guide dogs for the blind are allowed in restaurants, and I'll swear if he didn't nose open my tote bag and get my sunglasses. I guess he thinks all the seeing impaired wear them.

I just hope he's behaving himself.

Uncle Charlie signals the waiter, who comes over to take our orders. Meanwhile, Mama and Fayrene are discussing the murders. I try to think of something else to talk about, anything besides murder and Jack Jones.

“Jarvetis, have you found your redbone hound?”

Trey and Elvis are buddies, and don't tell me dogs don't have best friends.

“Not yet, but ole Trey won't go far. I know my redbone hound dogs.”

Fayrene just twitches her eyebrows. Ordinarily, she'd make a remark such as, “I wish he knew his wife half as well,” but apparently she's still under the spell of her hours-old reconciliation.

“You'll never guess who's coming home,” she says. “Darlene!” Fayrene and Jarvetis' youngest daughter. Twice married. One child. A boy, I think.

And a manicurist. With Atlanta experience. I know the salon where she works and I know its reputation.

“For a visit or to stay?” Mama asks.

“She's staying this time. When she left Earl, she couldn't let her coattail touch her behind till she found somebody else, but she says she's through with marriage.”

“Don't be too sure,” Mama says. “She's a pretty little thing.”

“She takes after me.” Fayrene fans herself with her napkin. “I think she means it, though. She's had more problems with that sorry Wayne Grant than allegories in a swamp.”

Lovie chokes on her water and I kick her under the table. Who knows? Maybe allegories are everywhere, and they're all out to get us.

“When will she be home?” I ask.

“Before Christmas. She's sure of that. Maybe before then.”

The timing would be perfect. A new manicurist for Hair.Net just in time for the holidays. Lots of holiday promotions. Darlene might be the first step in turning my beauty shop into my south-of-Mooreville Riviera. If I can find the money.

Of course, I could be like Mama. Every time she writes a check, she says she's writing fiction. Which would be the truth if I hadn't set up a no-bounce account for her. If she knew, she'd put herself on the fiction bestseller list—and me on Skid Row with a tin cup.

I'm not going to think about any of that right now; I'm taking action, seizing the day.

“Fayrene, does she already have a job lined up?”

“Not yet, hon. But anybody with her talents is bound to have more offers than Jarvetis' hound has ticks.”

“Trey does not have ticks,” Jarvetis says, deadpan.

Judging by the twinkle in his eye, I'd say he knows Fayrene is just kidding. My guess is, he wants to keep her on her toes a while longer, make her work a bit harder at holding her man.

She pats his arm. “Of course, he doesn't, hon. You treat your redbone hound dog as well as you treat your family.”

“Well, I wouldn't go that far. I don't sleep with him.”

Everybody at the table cracks up. Jarvetis is a man of few words. Most of them spoken at Gas, Grits, and Guts. The few social gatherings he attends, he likes to sit quietly and watch Fayrene take the floor.

While I get Darlene's number, the waiter heads our way with two huge platters of ribs. The smell makes my mouth water.

“Dinner's on me,” Jarvetis says, continuing his expansive mood. “Fayrene and I are celebrating. Everybody dig in.”

“Everybody except you.” Fayrene pats her husband's hand. “Remember, hon, your Geritol is high. I'd die if you had to have a heart castration.”

Well,
I guess she would!