Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders Read online

  “Hello, dear hearts.” When Uncle Charlie comes over to Lovie and me, it’s like hugging a ticking bomb. If I didn’t know better, I’d say my uncle was a dangerous man.

  “What did you find out?” he asks, and Mama jumps out of her chair.

  “What do you mean, what did you find out?” Mama’s question is strictly rhetorical. She’s too smart not to guess what we’ve been up to, and she’s flashing fire. “Carolina Valentine Jones, the next time you sneak off to have fun without me, I’m marking you off my Sunday dinner list.”

  “I wasn’t off having fun. I’m trying to protect you, Mama.”

  “Flitter! I was taking care of myself before you were born. If I want to be mollycoddled, I’ll hire a cute young man in tights and a red cape.”

  “Way to go, Aunt Ruby Nell.” Lovie picks up Mama’s fingernail polish. “I like this color. Do you mind if I use it?”

  “Help yourself.”

  As the only man in our small Valentine circle (and I don’t even want to think about why), Uncle Charlie is used to dealing with a room full of estrogen. But he has not endured this latest exchange with his usual calm. There’s a look about him of a man with too much on his mind and a deep reluctance to express it.

  “Mama, I was going to tell you anyway.”

  “After the fact,” she says.

  “Ruby Nell.” Uncle Charlie speaks quietly—without adding dear heart. A look passes between them and Mama shrugs, then takes a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and lights up. She never smokes unless she’s mad and wants to make her point, mainly that she’s her own boss.

  I’ve learned to curb my fears of blackened lungs and massive strokes and putting my mother in an early grave in favor of not arguing with her about her small defiant gesture. This so-called dance competition has been such a trying time, I’m about ready to take up bad habits myself.

  I pick up my dog and sit on the edge of the bed. Telling bad news is easier if you’re holding onto somebody who loves you. I know, I know. Most folks would say “but he’s just a dog.” Listen, he’s a living, breathing creature, a miracle of this universe just like the rest of us. Best of all, his heart is loyal, something you don’t find every day.

  “I found a picture of Thomas Whitenton,” I tell them. “With Babs and another woman.”

  Mama blows a puff of smoke my way, but for once she doesn’t defend him.

  “Was the other woman anybody you know?” Uncle Charlie asks.

  “No, but I just got a quick glimpse. She looked about Babs’ age.” I start trying to describe her, and Lovie pulls the picture out of her purse. Why didn’t I think of bringing it? She never ceases to amaze me.

  Mama snatches the photo from Lovie and puffs away while she studies it. We can hardly see her for the fog of smoke. I think she’s doing it deliberately.

  All of us watch her and not even Uncle Charlie dares ask if she knows the other woman.

  Finally she says, “Flitter,” which could mean anything, then walks to the window and turns her back to us. I know this ploy. She knows something we don’t, but she’s going to make us work for the information.

  Uncle Charlie is the one who comes to the rescue.

  “Do you know her, Ruby Nell?”

  “If I had been in on all the fun, I could have told you in the first place.”

  “Holy cow, Mama. Just tell us who it is.”

  “Thomas’ niece.”

  “You never mentioned a niece. Did she, Lovie?”

  Lovie lifts her right foot and admires her freshly painted toenails from all angles. Probably giving herself time to come up with an answer that will placate me and not get her on Mama’s bad side.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t recall. My memory’s not what it used to be.” Lovie picks up a Vogue magazine Mama brought and proceeds to fan her toenails.

  I’m so mad I hope she puts her boots on before her polish dries. “Why didn’t he mention a niece when we had Sunday dinner together?” I ask. “Are you sure she’s his niece, Mama?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Carolina. You sound like the Gestapo. Thomas’ friends and relatives are nobody’s business.”

  “Murder is everybody’s business, Ruby Nell.” Uncle Charlie retrieves the photo and sticks it in his pocket.

  Now what? Lovie and I were planning to sneak the picture as well as the purse back to Babs’ room before Grayson Mims put out an alarm for stolen property.

  “Oh, all right, Charlie. Have it your way.” Mama stubs her cigarette out and I grab another of Mama’s magazines to fan out the smoke. “Thomas’ niece went to Memphis State with Babs. They were in the same sorority. When Babs and his niece get together, Thomas sometimes sees them.”

  “Not anymore,” Lovie drawls. I guess she’s trying to make up for not taking my side with Mama. It works, too. When she puts her boots back on, I cross my fingers that she won’t smear her fresh polish.

  “Thomas wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Mama fiddles around in her purse for another cigarette, then changes her mind, thank goodness. “I may be prejudiced but I’m no bad judge of character. If you want to find the killer, you’d better look somewhere besides the room next to mine.”

  She flounces around, snatching up her robe and shower cap. “Now, everybody get out of here so I can take a bath.”

  “Do what you want, Ruby Nell. I’m staying. You can shut the bathroom door.” Uncle Charlie plants himself in the room’s only wing chair like an oak tree putting down roots.

  The mood Mama’s in, I’m relieved to let him deal with her. Besides, Lovie and I have plans. If we’re going on another fact-finding foray, we’ll need wigs. I want Lovie’s memorable hair covered because I have no intention of pushing her around again in a housekeeping cart.

  I’m just about to consult Uncle Charlie about our plans when there’s a huge ruckus at the door—pounding and screeching and stomping. Uncle Charlie bolts across the room to check it out.

  “Fayrene and Bobby,” he tells us. Then he opens the door and they tumble into the room.

  “Lord, Ruby Nell.” Fayrene flies into the room trailing enough green scarves to do a dance of the seven veils. She presses her hand over her heart and flops onto Mama’s bed. “My blood pressure’s so high you might have to call an avalanche.”

  Now what? If Mooreville’s answer to Mrs. Malaprop is calling for an ambulance, this can’t be good. She swoons while Bobby jumps around her like a cricket on a hot sidewalk.

  I’d be running for a wet washcloth, but I can tell she’s faking it. Like Mama, Fayrene is partial to the dramatic gesture.

  “What happened?” Uncle Charlie says.

  “Somebody tried to strangle me, that’s what. Tell them, Bobby. I’m too upset to talk.”

  “We were standing there watching the duck parade and Fayrene was making a big commotion, like Lovie told us to.”

  I’m hanging on to my splintered nerves, hoping he’ll get to the point, when Fayrene recovers enough to sit up and steal his show.

  “I was ransacking my purse. Complaining real loud. Acting like I couldn’t find my cell phone and was fixing to haul off and pitch a hissy fit. All of a sudden…”

  She jumps off the bed and begins prancing around the room, waving her arms and grimacing. There are rumors floating around Mooreville that she would have gone into show business if she hadn’t married a man who loved birddogs more than Broadway. I wonder if the stories are true.

  “…somebody comes at me from behind. I feel my own scarves tightening around my neck, choking the life out of me. Lord, I thought Jarvetis was going to have to plan my urology.”

  “Are you saying you think somebody tried to kill you?” Fayrene’s ramblings always bother Uncle Charlie. He likes order and precision, clear-cut speech and logical behavior.

  “I don’t think. I know. If it hadn’t been for my strong consternation, I’d be dead.”

  I don’t know about Fayrene’s constitution, but mine has about had it. I’m just getting ready to signal Lovie whe
n Bobby drops the real bomb.

  “A woman named Latoya LaBelle’s dead. Strangled during the duck parade with her own scarf.”

  Chapter 12

  Mocha, Madness, and Missives from Afar

  The 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 sen
se 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.