Elvis And The Memphis Mambo Murders by Peggy Webb Page B

call and you don’t show remorse over anything, even if they catch you red-pawed.
    If I sit here long enough, maybe Callie will bring me into the investigation. But no, she just keeps on acting like she and Lovie will do it all.
    What does my human mom think I was doing in the hotel lobby this morning? Whistling “Don’t Be Cruel?” I was sniffing out clues. Callie thinks she learned a lot when she overheard the police questioning Victor and Jill Mabry. (Listen, she doesn’t even know Victor’s wife’s name.) If I told her what I know, she’d probably take me to the alley across Union and reward me with a little smackerel of pork barbecue from the Rendezvous.
    You talk about great Southern cooking—I’d hold their ribs right up there with the ones we had at Graceland. The only difference is the Rendezvous uses a dry sauce and ours were wet. Of course, ribs don’t compare with fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, but I’m just a country dog at heart. Always have been, always will be.
    But back to murder…. The second Mrs. Victor Mabry was spitting fire when I overheard her, and all because Victor said he was devastated over Babs’ death. Let me tell you, she was mad enough to have killed Babs herself.
    If you want my opinion, Jill Mabry is capable of having killed Gloria, too, but I’ve yet to sniff out their connection.
    I’m being hustled off the riverbank now, but I have a plan. As soon as we get back to the Peabody, I’ll start working all the angles of this murder. And while I’m at it, I’ll be trying to find an escape hatch. The security is so tight around me you’d think I was wearing a spangled jumpsuit and still making a news headline like the one in 1974 that proclaimed, “Elvis for President.”
    I’ve got to find a way to slip out so I can pay homage to my fans at Graceland.

Elvis’ Recipe for Wet Barbecue Sauce
    F irst wag your tail and sidle up to Callie, humming “Stuck on You.” If she doesn’t succumb to flattery, paw the cabinet door open and knock over the tomato sauce and the chili powder.
    Next, offer to squeeze the lemons to show you’re helpful (indispensable, too, but she already knows that). She’ll decline, of course. My human mom is something of a control freak. One of the things I have to teach her is how to let go. Relax. Forget the details and enjoy the big picture.
    By now she’s in the swing of lip-smacking good Southern ribs. Sit back, layer it on thick with a few bars of “Earth Angel” while she shakes, rattles, and rolls with red pepper, vinegar, pickling spice, and dried mustard.
    Segue into “Sweet Sweet Spirit,” a little reminder to dump in honey and brown sugar. Keep singing while she coats the ribs and socks them in the oven.
    Bless’a my soul, the smell alone is enough to send you dancing through the doggie door in search of a spot to bury the bones. Gnawing the meat off first is optional. Personally, I’m partial to a bit of Mississippi red clay on my cuisine.

Chapter 6
Wild Goose Chase, Gibson Guitars, and Mojo Hands
    A s we hurry back to the hotel, I try not to think what I’m getting myself into. I try not to dwell on all the reasons why I should send Mama back to Mooreville, then hole up in the Peabody and let the police sort everything out. Right now all I want is a good hot bath.
    We’re just crossing the lobby when I spot the recently widowed H. Grayson Mims III leaving the hotel looking anything but bereaved. With him is a strange-looking woman I haven’t seen among the dance competitors. He just jumped to the top of the suspect list.
    â€œLovie, quick. Follow him.”
    â€œWho?”
    You can hear her all the way to New York. H. Grayson Mims glances back and I jerk Lovie behind the player piano.
    â€œIt’s Babs’ husband,” I whisper. “With another woman.”
    I won’t repeat what she