by Peggy Webb
She swing dances around the room singing “La Cucaracha.” I can picture her swooping through the jungle, sending cockroaches and every other living thing running, captivating everybody she sees. Especially Rocky. Oh, I do hope she captivates the only man who has ever realized she’s a treasure.
“I’m so happy for you, Lovie.”
“You can come, too. Rocky won’t mind.”
See, that’s what I mean. Generous hearted to a fault. They don’t make Lovies anymore.
“Thanks, but I think three would ruin the effect of moonlight over Mayan ruins.” I finish dressing, then grab my purse and Elvis’ leash. “We’d better hurry.”
Uncle Charlie and Mama are waiting for us. Bobby had errands and Fayrene decided to wait at the hotel for Jarvetis. Apparently their fight over the séance room at Gas, Grits, and Guts is over. According to Mama, “Jarvetis came to his senses when he realized he nearly lost Fayrene.”
Uncle Charlie leads us to the back of the bus (naturally, so he can sit with his back to the wall) and I study everybody who gets on. When Victor enters with his wife, I punch Lovie. I wonder if Victor knows his wife was consorting with Grayson Mims.
If we can escape Uncle Charlie’s watchful eye, we might get a chance to do some sleuthing.
Right behind the Mabrys is the woman with the polecat hair we saw this morning on Beale Street. And she’s heading this way. I nudge Lovie, who gives me a dark look.
“I’m not blind.”
“You’re hissing, Lovie.”
“Stop punching and I’ll stop hissing.”
“Okay.”
Polecat hair stands in the aisle and asks the gentleman in front of us, “Is this seat taken?” He shakes his head and she slides in, then extends her hand. “I’m Carolyn Mims.”
Mims? Grayson’s ex-wife? Sister? Sister-in-law? That rules out “lover,” as in, Grayson and his lover conspired to kill his wife, Babs. As soon as Lovie and I can find a private spot, we’ll have to discuss what to do about this new twist.
The bus heads south on I-55 and within minutes we’re in the parking lot on Elvis Presley Boulevard across from the Music Gates of Graceland. Fans are already pouring through and up the driveway to the mansion that was Elvis’ Tennessee home. It should be easy to get lost in this crowd.
All the dancers (I use the term loosely, because all of these people are amateurs and many are Mama’s age, to boot) pile off the bus and pour into a 1970s-era airport terminal to see Elvis’ private custom jets. All, that is, except Victor and his Barbie-doll wife. They’re heading toward the Music Gates.
I think up the only excuse Uncle Charlie will buy. “I’ll catch up later. I have to go to the bathroom.”
I scoop up Elvis, give Lovie the look, and she trots along beside me.
“This is not the way to the bathroom,” she says, “so where are we headed?”
“Tailing suspects.”
I nod toward Victor and Stepford wife number two, who is color-coordinated from the pink rhinestone-studded headband in her super-coiffed, over-sprayed blond pageboy to the cute pair of pink wedge heels on her tiny feet.
They start fighting the minute they’re clear of the rest of the tour group. I step up my pace.
“Hurry, Lovie.”
From the body language and the sound of angry voices, it looks as if one of the Mabrys is going to be the next victim.
Chapter 14
Jilting, Jiving, and Jail
We race across the street trying to look as if we’re here to see the Meditation Garden instead of what the Mabrys are up to. Trouble, it looks like.
It’s one of those beautiful, still October days when conversations float around like kites, landing in the hands (and ears) of the unintended.
“But Carolyn caught you coming out of his room, Jill.”
Carolyn? Mims? The room Victor’s talking about is obviously Grayson’s because we caught her going in. This has suddenly become a don’t-miss, murder-connected conversation.
“I was just being sympathetic, Victor.”
“Bull.”
“What if I wasn’t? You have no right to judge. You’d still be carrying a torch for Babs if she weren’t dead.”
Victor retreats into screaming silence.
Was Jill jealous of Babs because Victor still loved her? Or was she jealous because Babs had Grayson and she wanted him? Either way, this little picture-postcard wife has a powerful motive for the first murder.
But what’s her connection to victims number two and three?
Victor shakes himself like a man coming out of a bad dream.
“Leave Babs out of this.”
“You wish. You never got over her jilting you for Grayson.”
Jill flounces through the Music Gates and Victor stops right in our path. I almost plow into him, and Lovie does.
“Watch where you’re going,” he yells.
He calls Lovie a name that won’t do to repeat. For a minute, I think she’s fixing to jerk him up, throw him on the ground, and step on him. She’s capable.
And if she doesn’t, I’m so mad, I’m liable to do it myself.
“Chill out, buster,” Lovie says.
When we walk around him, I notice she squashes Victor’s foot with the steel-reinforced heel of her cowboy boot. Deliberately. Lovie’s anything but clumsy.
I give her a high five and we hotfoot it up the winding driveway toward the mansion. With its vaulting Corinthian columns and soft buff-colored brick, Graceland is the epitome of the Old South. You expect to see women in hoop skirts and gentlemen with mint juleps strolling around the lawn.
White wrought-iron benches, white lions on low brick columns, and large white urns planted with impatiens flank the front steps. Boxwood hedges are clipped into meatball shapes and the lawn is laid out with flowerbeds in geometrical Italian garden design. The perfect symmetry outside this mansion is greatly at odds with the man who vaulted to stardom by defying all convention.
The minute I put Elvis down, he heists his leg on a stone lion and looks primed to anoint the other. But Jill is getting away.
“Not now, boy.”
Ahead of us, Jill darts around the house. Lovie races off but I scurry to keep up without upsetting Elvis, who likes to amble. They’re heading toward the sign that says, PUBLIC RESTROOMS. A boon for me. I shine in public toilets, especially in the Deep South where women have a habit of going in to do business and refresh their lipstick, then end up spilling their life stories to rank strangers.
I’m the rank stranger they usually pick. Lovie says it’s because I’m a sucker for sob stories, but I think it’s because I’ve put a welcome mat instead of a keep out sign on my personal space. Besides, I like to help people.
I arrive at the restroom right behind Lovie. At first glance, it appears empty. Then I see the cute pair of wedge heels under the stall door.
If you ask me, that’s a strike in Jill’s favor. Women interested in cute shoes aren’t usually the murdering kind. Unless you count the peroxided, flat-chested teenage wannabe who tried to mow me down at last year’s Labor Day sale.
I motion to Lovie, who glances at Jill’s shoes, then heads into the adjacent stall. I’m afraid of losing Jill, and besides, I don’t have to pee, so I sidle over to the sinks and wash my hands, one eye peeled toward the pink shoes.
For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of running water. When Lovie comes out, Jill is still holed up inside. Not a single sound filters through.
“Do you think she’s dead?” I whisper.
Lovie squares her shoulders and sticks out her chin. I know this look. She’s getting ready to charge through the stall door to the rescue.
“Wait.” I grab hold of her sleeve.
A loud wailing spills from the stall and both tiny pink-clad feet collapse sideways. From this view, Jill’s feet look like those of a dejected child who just dropped her ice cream cone.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
The wailing gets louder. Maybe I should have kept my m
outh shut, waited for her to come out. It’s too late for hindsight now. I knock on Jill’s stall door.
“Can I help you? Are you okay?”
“I’m…” Jill’s words get swallowed up by more intense sobbing. It wouldn’t be polite to jerk open the door. I knock again.
“Do you need assistance? Can I call somebody?”
Finally the sobbing subsides and I hear a big hiccup. Fishing a pretty lace-edged handkerchief from my purse, I pass it over the door.
“Here, this might help.”
“Thank you.”
I revise my opinion about Jill Mabry. Anybody that polite didn’t kill Babs Mabry Mims.
Jill snorts into the handkerchief, then hiccups again. “Nothing can help. It’s all ruined.”
“Maybe it’s not as bad as you think. Just give it time.”
Lovie rolls her eyes. But I’m good at giving advice, and she knows it. Why else would I have people—all with stories to tell—flocking from six counties to get appointments at Hair.Net? I mean, besides the fact that I’m a top-notch stylist?
Soft snuffling sounds come from the other side of the door. I tap lightly.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
There’s a big silence and the little pink shoes under the door shift sideways. I can picture Jill changing to a more comfortable position on the toilet seat.
I’m about to give up when she says, “My husband was in love with a dead woman.” She sniffs again. “Well, she wasn’t dead till we got here, but still…Now she’s perfect, the immortal dead.”
I get shivers. Did Victor kill his first wife because he couldn’t have her, and then accuse Grayson as revenge for stealing her?
“Maybe you just thought your husband was in love with her,” I say.
“No. He called her two or three times a day.”
Lovie opens her mouth, but I motion her to be quiet. Another voice might scare Jill off.
Apparently Jill interprets my silence for disbelief.
“I checked his cell phone.”
She has the shamed voice of a little girl who lied about how many Girl Scout cookies she sold. My mothering instincts race to the forefront.
“That’s okay. Under certain circumstances, a woman has to do whatever it takes.”
Jill surprises me by giggling. “The devil made me do it.”
“What did you do?”
“I slept with Grayson Mims.”
Her confession shocks even Lovie. I can tell she’s thinking the same thing I am. If Grayson slept with another woman the day after his wife’s murder, then he’s right back at the top of the suspect list.
“Well, not really, but almost. I just meant to comfort him and I guess he thought I was leading him on.” Jill starts crying again. “And now they both hate meeeeeee.”
I assume she’s talking about Victor and Grayson. We wait for the crying to stop, but she’s on a jag.
“Is she going to stay in there all day?” Lovie whispers.
“Shhh. She’ll hear.”
Sure enough, Jill says, “Is somebody out there besides you?”
“Yes, my best friend. But you can trust her absolutely. One hundred percent.”
Jill is so quiet I wonder if Lovie has blown it. And I wanted to find out if Jill knows polecat hair and what her connection is to the other two victims.
“I have an idea,” Lovie says. “Why don’t you come out of the stall and tour around Graceland with us? There’s nothing like three sassy women swinging into the Jungle Room.”
“Really? You’d let me tag along?”
“Tag along, my big fat attitude.” I’ll grant you, Lovie has plenty of that. “We’ll roar into the Jungle Room like the wildest cats in the jungle.”
The door swings open and Jill emerges, mascara streaked to her chin and eyes puffy.
“Wait.” She stares at me. “Don’t I know you?”
Holy cow. She remembers me from Grayson’s room, impersonating a housekeeper.
“Probably.”
I take her arm and lead her toward the bank of washbasins. She hands me the wadded up, wilted-looking handkerchief.
“Just keep it.” I turn on the water. “We’re here with Mama for the dance competition. And this is my dog, Elvis.” He prances over and licks her ankles. He’s a sucker for pretty women. “We were the ones making all the ruckus in the lobby early this morning.”
“Oh, Lord, he’s so cuuuute.”
Elvis is lapping up the attention. The ham.
My cell phone rings, causing all of us to jump. Lovie takes over with Jill while I answer.
“Where are you?”
It’s Mama, checking up. Not that I mind. Sometimes it’s inconvenient, but mostly it’s comforting. It means there’s one person in the world who loves me enough to want to know my whereabouts at all times. Granted, she’s a bit nosey, too, but love far outweighs that.
“Lovie and I decided to skip the planes and cars. We’re on the grounds, getting ready to check out the mansion.”
“That poor old Carolyn Mims is following us around like a lost chicken and Charlie’s driving me crazy. He won’t let me out of sight. I can’t even go to the bathroom.”
“Hang in there, Mama. You’re more than his match.”
Mama loves flattery. Satisfied, she hangs up. With my mind eased over Mama’s safety, I can continue mining this goldfield named Jill Mabry.
It’s remarkable what a splash of water and a little lipstick can do for the young. You’d never know Jill had been crying.
She’s been hurt enough today. I hope she doesn’t suspect Lovie and I have ulterior motives for our kindness. Though, to tell the truth, we’d have done it anyway. Nothing bonds women like a good cry and some timely sympathy.
The three of us link arms and head out the restroom door like lifelong friends. That’s one of the things I love about women. You can form these fast bonds in less time than it takes most folks to order a McDonald’s hamburger.
I stay away from the subject of murder, and Lovie follows my lead. It’s best to let Jill get comfortable with us, laugh a bit, give her time to let down her guard.
By the time we enter the mansion, she’s beginning to relax. She stands in front of the twin stained-glass panels in Elvis’ living room admiring the opulent colors of the peacocks’ tails.
“I just love peacocks,” she says.
“I have a dress that shade of blue-green,” Lovie tells her.
“Oh, that must be lovely with your beautiful blue eyes.”
See what I mean about Jill? A woman that generous hearted couldn’t possibly be a killer.
I linger in front of the panels, watching the stream of tourists for a glimpse of polecat hair. I guess I ought to think of her as Carolyn now that I know her name, but first impressions are hard to shake.
Too, I’m giving the other tourists time to move to other parts of the house. If you let other people hear your private conversations, they’ll come up with all sorts of silly surmises.
Last summer, Mabel Moffett heard me asking for an early-pregnancy testing kit in Walgreens and it got out all over Mooreville that I was pregnant—and they didn’t know who the father was since Jack had moved out.
When Mama heard the rumors she got so mad she told everybody the kit was for her. Furthermore, she said it in such a way that nobody dared laugh.
See what I’m talking about? Love like that is worth the little bit of aggravation.
There’s no sign of the mysterious Mims woman, so I give Lovie the signal and we both herd Jill toward the Jungle Room. She’s moving along with a swing in her steps—a tribute to the resilience of youth—when Victor bursts through the front door.
He immediately spots his wife and storms our way. This can’t be good. Jill goes pale, ducks behind Lovie.
“Jill, what do you think you’re doing?”
Victor’s so mad he’s speaking through gritted teeth. He looks angry enough to hit something—probably Lovie.
When he g
rabs for his wife, Lovie spreads her arms wide and blocks his move.
“Try that again, hotshot, and you’re going to draw back a nub.”
“That’s my wife. And she’s coming with me.”
Jill peers around Lovie. “Go away, Victor. I’m not coming with you.”
For a horrible minute I think Lovie and I are going to be in the center of a marital brawl in Graceland. We’ll be headline news. Our pictures will be splashed on every paper in the country. (From behind bars.)
Much to my relief, Victor shrugs and stomps off. Then this little-girl-lost voice comes from behind Lovie.
“I can’t stay with that man tonight. What am I going to do?”
I put my arm around her. “You’ll stay with us, of course.”
Lovie gives me our secret-signal look, but I ignore her. What does she expect me to do? Leave this poor, stray kitten in the room with a man who might have killed his first wife and apparently is now bent on killing his second?
Elvis’ Opinion #7 on Pink Cadillacs, Pecan Pie, and Bleeding Hearts
I could have told you my human mom would pick up this stray babe-in-the-woods. Callie’s a true bleeding heart. The next thing you know, she’ll be decorating one of the spare rooms of my Mooreville house in Pepto-Bismol pink and trying to adopt Jill Mabry.
At least I’d have somebody else in the house partial to pink. Listen, if I can seize the opportunity to sneak off, I’m liable to hot-wire my 1955 pink Cadillac and go joyriding through the streets of Memphis. It would feel good to have my ears blowing in the wind and everybody screaming, “Elvis! Elvis!” I might even mosey over to Sun Studios and cut another record. Wouldn’t that make headline news!
“Elvis lives” rumors have been floating around for years.
You’re doggone tootin’, he lives. Everybody around Mooreville knows it, but I’d like to let the rest of the world in on the secret.
I’ve been working on this song. Well, my human daddy and I have been working on it together. Still, I’m the one with the pipes to turn it into a hit. It’s called “Cats Can’t Wear Blue Suede Shoes.” Jack has another name for it, but what does he know about the music business?