Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders Read Free Page B

partner (as well as Fayrene’s) is Bobby Huckabee, Uncle Charlie’s new assistant in the funeral home. Actually he’s been with us since this summer’s Elvis impersonator caper (as we now call it), but we still call him new.
    It takes more than a few months to know the complicated Valentines, even if you do have a psychic eye. (Bobby has mismatched eyes and claims the blue one is psychic, though I’ve yet to see definitive proof.)
    I’m still toweling Elvis dry when Lovie emerges from the shower. Without asking, I grab a hair dryer and start fluffing her hair while she jiggles into a green feathered and sequined costume. Feathers fly every which way.
    â€œI look like a molting jungle parrot. Whoever picked out this costume?”
    â€œYou did. Hold still before I scorch your feathers.”
    She jiggles some more and fabric tears. The side slit intended to show a bit of leg becomes an open doorway to paradise. As if we weren’t up to our necks in trouble already. I grab some safety pins and set to work.
    â€œJust let it go, Callie. I want the judges to be so busy looking at me, they don’t notice my partner can’t dance worth a flitter.”
    Poor Bobby. I’m going to clap very loud for him.
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    With Elvis in pink bowtie and securely on his leash, we finally head to the Tennessee Exhibition Hall. Also known as Peabody Alley and directly connected to the hotel mezzanine, it has a huge ballroom on the second floor. The Memphis Ballroom is already teeming with dancers ranging in age from twenty to eighty-five.
    The first dance is an open invitation, which means you can dance even if you didn’t enter the competition.
    Currently Elvis is behaving (meaning he’s being petted and admired) but I’m not about to leave him for one minute, even if a nice-looking man named something-or-other Mims—I didn’t quite catch his first name—is asking me to dance.
    â€œThank you, but no.” The words are hardly out of my mouth before a pretty blond-haired woman drags him off. She’s wearing a wedding ring, a pink dress, and red lipstick that clashes. He calls her Babs honey in a wheedling sort of way while she pouts. I wonder if she’s his wife and how their marriage came to this.
    I get a funny feeling up under my breastbone. They’re about my age, and a terrible reminder that the fairy tale version of things can be dead wrong.
    Fayrene, in a frilly green dress that makes her look like a head of romaine lettuce, joins me. Fortunately, I like salad. Though Mama says anything she wants, she taught me to always say nice things about people.
    â€œThat’s a lovely shade of green, Fayrene.”
    â€œThanks, Callie.” Fayrene plops into the chair beside me. “I deflowered so much roast beef I thought I wasn’t going to get it zipped.”
    Babs honey and her partner are dancing by and do a double take. I want to stop them and explain she meant devoured but I don’t get a chance. The Mimses—if they are Mr. and Mrs.—will just have to spend the rest of the evening wondering about Fayrene’s relationship to her rump roast.
    â€œAre you entered in tonight’s competition, Fayrene?”
    â€œNo. I don’t feel right doing Latin dances without Jarvetis. But do you think I can get him to budge? Oh no, he wants to stay down there sulking because I’m gone. Didn’t even fix himself any lunch. Just sat there and ate Fruit of the Looms.”
    Thinking I’ll have to clarify that she meant Fruit Loops, I look for the Mims couple, but they’re on the other side of the floor.
    The free dance ends, and twenty-five couples entered in the mambo competition take the floor. Mama and Mr. Whitenton are number twenty-two.
    â€œThere they are.” Fayrene punches me as if I could look anywhere else.
    Mama simply shines, and it’s not merely from the gold dress. If I weren’t so busy watching to see where