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

out of their holsters.
    Holy cow. I’m going to end up shot in the fountain. Probably in the head, too.

Chapter 5
Dancing Bodies, Wacky Witnesses, and Pepto-Bismol
    â€œD on’t move. Hands in the air, lady.”
    I wish everybody would quit calling me “lady.” “I found her like this.”
    It’s hard to talk when you’re slipping and sliding in duck gunk and your hands are over your head. Besides, I’m wet up to my thighs and shaking with chill.
    Why doesn’t the night manager speak up? Ken Peacock, his badge reads. Is everything fowl in this hotel?
    â€œI was trying to save her. Ask him.”
    Thankfully a seasoned-looking cop pulls Peacock aside, and I hear the night manager say he didn’t see or hear a thing until I yelled for help. A fresh-faced freckled cop helps me from the fountain, and somebody throws a blanket over my shoulders.
    The young cop takes my name and asks what I was doing out at this time of night.
    â€œElvis had to take care of business.”
    He looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. I have tennis shoes older than this cop. No wonder he doesn’t understand how people are still naming their dogs and cats and birds and babies after a man who has been dead more than thirty-five years. Listen, Elvis not only changed the face of music but is still beloved the world around.
    â€œHe’s a basset hound,” I explain.
    â€œNot in this town, lady.” Unsmiling, he jots something in his notebook. Probably, Get the net.
    Leave it to me to get a cop without a sense of humor. If it weren’t for the bit of powdered sugar on his shirt, I’d think he wasn’t even human. He was probably having doughnuts and coffee when he got the call.
    â€œWhere’s the dog?”
    Good grief. In all the commotion, Elvis has disappeared. I clap my hands and try to whistle, but it comes out more of a squeak. “Here, boy, come here, Elvis.” He’s nowhere in sight.
    â€œI thought you had a dog, lady.”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œMaybe he’s not Elvis. Maybe he’s Houdini.”
    Ignoring that crack, I whistle and call some more. When Elvis finally pokes his cold nose between my legs, I scoop him up and hide my face in his fur so this young cop won’t see how close I am to tears.
    Always attuned to my moods, Elvis turns on the charm. Which is considerable, might I add.
    At last I get lucky. This boyish cop is a dog lover. He scratches Elvis’ ears while he asks me if I knew the deceased. By the time I tell him about seeing Gloria only briefly on the rooftop and he tells me not to leave town, I’m getting a motherly urge to reach over and brush the sugar off his shirt.
    Still, I know this score only too well. I’m on the list now. A witness and possibly a suspect.
    For somebody who wanted to avoid murder at all costs, I’m smack dab in the middle of it.
    A team from the coroner’s office rushes by with the gurney, making this nightmare all too real. I’d like to go to my room and pretend all this has nothing to do with me, but I’m trapped now. I might as well learn what I can.
    Keeping Elvis on a short leash and trying to be inconspicuous, I weave through the crowd. Though how I can remain anonymous looking like a rag mop fresh from a dirty kitchen floor, I have no idea. Not to mention the fact that everybody saw the cops grilling me.
    Maybe if I slump…I ease as close as I dare to a middle-age woman claiming to be a witness. She’s wearing a beige housecoat that washes out her complexion. Somebody ought to steer her toward pink.
    â€œI registered the dancers,” she’s telling the cops. I remember her now. She was wearing red lipstick, a much more flattering color for her type. “Gloria Divine was entered in the waltz competition.”
    â€œWhat do you know about her, ma’am?” Though this cop looks no more than fifty, he’s asking questions with the jaded