Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders Read Free Page A

a woman shouts, “Look! She’s in!” There’s a spattering of applause followed by a few catcalls.
    This can’t be good. I burst through the wall of human flesh, then screech to a halt.
    Holy cow! The duck master is wringing his hands, Elvis is paddling around wearing his basset grin, and Lovie is upended in the fountain mooning Memphis. All you can see of her are flailing legs and more black lace than even she would care to show in public.
    â€œHold on, Lovie,” I shout. “I’m coming.”
    No use ruining a pair of Kate Spades. I’m kicking off my shoes when a couple of long, lanky teenage boys step into the fountain and pluck Lovie out. She comes up sputtering and says a word that threatens to shatter every piece of crystal in the Peabody.
    â€œIt’s only water, Lovie.” I hand her a lipstick-smeared tissue from my purse. She looks at it askance, but starts swabbing her face anyhow.
    â€œIf I’d wanted total immersion, I’d have called John the Baptist.”
    Leave it to Lovie to upgrade her shenanigans with religious icons. Still muttering words I hope nobody else hears, she wrings water out of her skirt while I try to coax Elvis from the fountain.
    The crowd on my right parts of its own accord, which can mean only one thing. Somebody important is heading this way. My guess would be the hotel manager. The only thing worse would be Jack Jones, getting ready to seduce me on top of the lobby’s player piano.
    â€œCome on, Elvis. Let’s go. Please.”
    He gives me his daredevil look and swims to the other side of the fountain, sending the Peabody ducks into a frenzy of flapping and squawking and the duck master into near apoplexy. The crowd claps and presses closer to see what will happen next.
    I already know. The Valentine contingent and our dog who thinks he’s famous are going to be tossed out on our collective ear.
    I’m no pushover: I resort to bribery. “Elvis! Pup-Peroni!” He makes a sharp turn, prances down the duck ramp and strolls nonchalantly in my direction. I wish everybody would stop laughing and clapping. It only encourages him.
    Elvis shakes himself, wags his tail, and takes a few bows (I swear, that’s what it looks like) before he lets me scoop him up. I try to blend into the crowd, but Lovie barges ahead of us, dripping water and wet wads of tissue all over the marble floor. She wouldn’t try to blend even if she could.
    Somewhere behind us a deep male voice booms, “What’s going on here?”
    â€œQuick, Lovie. The stairs.” We duck (no pun intended) into the stairwell and hotfoot it to our room on the fourth floor. I slam the door shut behind us, then lean against it and listen for an irate person of importance to show up and demand explanations.
    When somebody does pound on the door, I nearly have a heart attack. What if it’s hotel security? What if they have a key?
    I glance through the peephole and see the top of a head. Male. Longish hair slicked back.
    â€œMa’am?” The intruder hammers away at the door, then shifts so I can see his face, and I reach for the latch.
    â€œDon’t answer it,” Lovie shouts, but I swing the door open.
    â€œYou forgot your shoes.” It’s the boys who rescued Lovie. The taller of the two holds out my Kate Spades.
    â€œHow did you know where to find me?”
    â€œWe followed you up the stairs.”
    Lovie’s already rummaging around for a tip. A twenty-dollar one. From my purse.
    After the boys leave I say, “Couldn’t you have given them a smaller bribe?”
    â€œI didn’t want you to look cheap.”
    She glances at the clock and dives into the shower. It’s only thirty minutes to show time and she’s in this evening’s tango competition. Lovie takes more time gilding her lily than any woman I know. It’s going to take a major miracle to get her out the door on time.
    Her dance