Read Online Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders by Peggy Webb - Free Book Online

says. Suffice it to say, if Grayson heard, he’d fear for his prized body parts. Unfortunately an older woman who is passing by hears every word. She takes one disdainful look and indicts us on the spot.
    â€œRiffraff,” she sniffs. “Nowadays, there’s no accounting who they let in this hotel.”
    Well, no wonder. My hair is uncombed, I’m wearing no makeup, and I’m still in sweats that got dragged through the fountain and other unmentionable debris. Lovie’s not much better in her favorite lounge-about jeans that look like they came over on the Mayflower, and a baggy tee shirt with a slogan across the front that says KEEP AMERICA BEAUTIFUL, STAY IN BED .
    Still, the snooty woman’s no icon of fashion herself. I could tell her that painted-on eyebrows and hair teased to look like a football helmet went out of style in the seventies, but I won’t stoop to her level.
    Lovie has no such compunctions.
    â€œListen, you heifer. For your information, we’re famous musicians.” She plops on the piano stool and hits a few blues licks.
    She could fool anybody. She’s so good, she could even play on Beale Street. Aunt Minrose (may she rest in peace) was a concert pianist, and Lovie got every bit of her mother’s talent.
    â€œCome on.” I tap her shoulder. “The suspect is getting away.”
    â€œI told you Babs’ husband was the killer.”
    Lovie enjoys the last word. As we hurry after Grayson, Elvis trots along. He thinks it’s a game and he’s hamming it up, flashing his lopsided doggie smile and spreading his stage personality all over Memphis. There’s no way to remain unnoticed.
    A tired looking young mother tries to stop us so her two rambunctious children can pet him. It breaks my heart to tell her Sorry, not today, without even slowing down. I imagine Saint Peter is putting black marks by my name.
    â€œHe’s headed to Beale Street, Lovie.”
    â€œWhat’s he doing there this time of day?”
    â€œMaybe a rendezvous with a hit man?”
    Why else would a man be heading into a historic blues district at a time of morning when the stores aren’t even open, the clubs are closed, and the jazzy music that floats from every open doorway is missing?
    â€œBut why take another woman?” Lovie has a point.
    â€œMaybe she’s in on it.”
    She looks the type, short and slinky with a bad dye job. If I weren’t trying to nab her for murder, I’d tell her you don’t put platinum streaks in black hair unless you want to look like a polecat. (Translation: skunk. )
    The closer we get to Beale Street, the harder my heart pumps. And it has nothing to do with murder.
    Jack and I honeymooned in Memphis. Every moment we didn’t spend in our motel room (we couldn’t afford the Peabody and stayed at a cheap stucco inn farther from the river), we explored Beale Street. Mr. Handy’s Blues Hall and Silky O’Sullivan’s, Black Diamond and Club 152, Tater Red’s and A. Schwab’s Dry Goods Store.
    The Gibson Guitar Factory a few blocks away inspired Jack to buy a guitar, though he never did learn to play it with the same heart and soul he pours into the blues harp he always keeps in his pocket.
    Don’t get me started on Jack’s harmonica or I’ll end up bawling like a newborn calf.
    I force myself to concentrate on Schwab’s, which looks very much the way it did when it was built in 1876. You can find anything in there, from swizzle sticks to sweat pants. You can even get voodoo paraphernalia.
    Jack bought me some mojo hands, lucky roots in oil that smell like dark secrets and night-scented moon flowers. I still have it.
    Why is another question. When I get home, I really ought to clean out my house, get rid of the mojo hands and the dried roses from our wedding bouquet, the onyx angel he brought to me from heaven only knows where, the tin candy box with a carousel on