Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders Read Free

Fayrene?”
    â€œThat’s my business.”
    I’d beg to differ since I’m the one subsidizing her trip, but I’m partial to peace. I just take out my natural bristle brush and start brushing her hair.
    The upside is that Mama’s dancing habit is much cheaper than her gambling habit. At the rate I’m saving money, I can hire a manicurist, at least part time. The only problem is finding somebody to fit smoothly into Mooreville society. Translated, that’s my beauty shop, Mooreville Feed and Seed, the video store, and Gas, Grits, and Guts—our one and only convenience store, owned by Fayrene and her husband, Jarvetis Johnson.
    Another reason I don’t confront Mama about the telltale connecting door is that I really would like a peaceful weekend. I need to sit back and breathe, relax, and think about which direction I’m going.
    It’s funny how I can be so certain of the future of Hair.Net (first a manicurist, then a tanning bed and spa) and so uncertain of my personal future. I know what I want: a home, a husband and children to love. The problem is, I don’t know how I’m going to achieve that ideal.
    A part of me wants to go backward and try to fix whatever went wrong with Jack. (How do you forget seven years of marriage?) But another part wants to move forward with Champ. He’s uncomplicated and totally reliable and very good looking in a burnished blond sort of way. All the things Jack is not.
    Not that Jack’s not handsome. He is, but in a dark, dangerous way.
    You’d think the choice would be simple. But it appears I’m the kind of woman who can’t resist putting her hand in the fire.
    â€œCallie, do you think this color makes me look younger?” Mama fluffs her hair and turns to view herself in the mirror.
    I’m relieved to be jerked out of my problems and into Mama’s vanities.
    â€œAt least fifteen years,” I tell her, which is no lie.
    Mama hugs me, and I figure you can’t get a better start to a relaxing weekend than that. After wishing her good luck at tonight’s dance competition, I head toward the elevator to join Lovie and Elvis in the lobby. If I’m lucky I might catch the tail end of the duck parade.
    I’m just getting in the elevator when my cell phone rings. It’s Lovie.
    â€œCallie, come quick. Elvis is in the fountain.”
    â€œIs he hurt?”
    â€œNo, it looks like he’s trying to steal the show from the Peabody ducks. But hurry. He’s creating a sensation and I can’t get him out.”
    So much for my quiet weekend. When you think about it, though, tranquility is highly overrated.

Chapter 2
Memorable Performances, Mama’s Mambo, and Murder
    I hurry from the elevator hoping to get Elvis out of the fountain before the manager notices and throws us all out. A huge crowd hampers my progress. Fortunately I’m tall enough to see over many of them, especially in my red Kate Spade sling-back heels.
    Listen, just because I’ve been traveling is no reason to let beauty and style slip. I’m in an elegant, historic national landmark as well as one of the ritziest hotels in the South—Tennessee’s answer to the Paris Ritz and the London Savoy. I’m not about to let anybody say folks from Mooreville, Mississippi, population 651 and suburb of the King’s Tupelo birthplace, don’t know style from a cow patty.
    Craning my neck, I search for Lovie. She’s usually easy to spot. A hundred-and-ninety-pound bombshell with abundant red hair, she stands out. Not today, though. In this milling, chattering crowd, my dearest friend and cohort in everything that matters is nowhere to be seen.
    She’s probably bending over the fountain trying to coax my dog to come out. If I were the kind of woman to ignore manners, I’d barge through, stepping on toes without even apologizing.
    While I’m saying Pardon me, I’m sorry for the fifteenth time,