Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders

by Peggy Webb

  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!

  Chapter 17

  Long Island Ice Tea, Bad Decisions, and Unicorns

  By 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?”