Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders by Peggy Webb

them?”
    â€œOh. These?” He sticks his hands in his bathrobe pockets. “The attacker must have scratched me in the scuffle.”
    â€œWhat scuffle?”
    Why didn’t he mention it before? Was he lying when he said the attacker ran out when he walked in. Or is he lying now? I don’t ask for fear of putting him on the defensive. You learn more if people think you trust them.
    â€œThere was so much commotion going on, I guess I forgot.”
    â€œI should call Daddy,” Lovie says.
    â€œDon’t you dare call Charlie.” Mama practically leaps out of the bed. “The day I need somebody keeping tabs on me is the day you can put me in a nursing home.”
    Mama’s performance is interrupted by the arrival of the police. Unfortunately it’s the sugar coated baby cop, and his tough as nails partner, who want to know what I’m doing at the scene of another attack.
    They look skeptical when I explain, but I’m not about to be intimidated. I stick around for their questions. Unfortunately, I don’t learn a new thing.
    It’s nearly dawn when Lovie and I leave, and my stomach is starting to rumble.
    â€œI can’t sleep,” I tell Lovie. “Let’s get out of this hotel. Someplace quiet. Besides, Elvis needs some real exercise.”
    â€œThe river,” she says.
    I don’t even take time to change clothes. They’re almost dry and who’s going to see me anyway? We grab a bag of his dog food, some doughnuts from Lovie’s stash, and coffee made in the room, then head to the riverside park.
    In the damp chill of dawn, we sit on benches with the rising sun at our backs, loading up on carbs and sugar. The play of color and light across the water is spectacular. Of one accord (Lovie and I can practically read each other’s mind), we don’t talk. Awe leaves no room for murder.
    Until today “the mighty Mississippi” was merely a term I’ve heard since grade school. Now it’s a visceral feeling, a bone-deep affirmation.
    â€œIt makes you feel like you ought to sing,” Lovie says.
    Why not? Maybe it will bring some sanity into chaos. Lovie and I sing duets at Wildwood Chapel all the time. When I start “How Great Thou Art” in a clear, high soprano, she joins in with a dusky-voiced alto.
    Naturally Elvis prances up, throws back his head, and howls. It was one of his alter ego’s biggest hits and his favorite song, to boot.
    But music can’t compete with murder, and the song peters out. My dog trots off to pee on an oak tree, and I start putting two and two together.
    â€œI think Mr. Whitenton might have killed Gloria Divine,” I tell Lovie. “And maybe even Babs Mabry Mims.”
    â€œWhat makes you think that? The scratches?”
    â€œThat, plus his early-morning taxi ride.” I tell her about seeing him outside the hotel.
    â€œBut what was his motive? I think Babs’ husband is the likeliest suspect.”
    â€œWhich one? The first one or the second one?”
    â€œThe current. H. Grayson Mims.”
    â€œWe have two dead bodies that are totally unrelated, Lovie. We need to broaden our investigation beyond next of kin. Besides, what else was Mr. Whitenton doing out at that time of night?”
    â€œCatting around?”
    â€œGet serious. At his age?”
    â€œLet’s hope so. If ‘geriatric’ means ‘dead libido,’ I’m not planning to celebrate another birthday after fifty.”
    She probably won’t, either. I look around to see if my dog is staying out of trouble. He’s over by a magnolia tree digging a hole.
    â€œDid you notice Mr. Whitenton’s aftershave?” I ask.
    â€œIt was very faint. I think it was English Leather. But even if it was Old Spice, why would he attack Aunt Ruby Nell?”
    â€œI don’t know, but anybody as colorful as Mama is bound to have given dozens of people multiple reasons to do her in. I