Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis

by Virginia Brown

  “Desperation seems to be contagious lately.”

  “Look, let the police handle it. Don’t risk more trouble. It’s not worth it.”

  Harley looked at him. “Then I guess those bags under your eyes are the newest fashion? It’s worth it, girlfriend. If for no other reason, so you won’t keep looking like a reject from a Salvation Army sale.”

  Tootsie’s gasp of horror as he put a hand to his mouth made her immediately feel guilty. His eyes got big, and his lips quivered. “Salvation Army?” he echoed in a high voice.

  “No, no, not really,” she said hastily, “I used the wrong words. You just don’t look like your usual snazzy self, that’s all. It’s nothing a good night’s sleep and peace of mind wouldn’t fix quick enough. I swear it.” She got up to put an arm around him, patting his shoulder to soothe his ruffled nerves.

  He put his face in his palms. His voice was muffled. “I can’t sleep. All I can think about are those dead men and some vicious beast running amok on our vans. It’s not just business I’m worried about, it’s the danger to our clients. Is it just our company that’s the target? Why is it happening only to us?”

  The last came out in a kind of wail, and Harley didn’t know quite how to react. This was a Tootsie she wasn’t used to seeing. She kept patting his shoulders, covered by a wrinkled blue silk shirt. This was so unlike him and indicative of his distress.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally, “but I intend to find out. Maybe it’s just coincidence it’s always Tour Tyme vans, or maybe there’s a reason for it. Look, I know the police are a lot better than I am at doing this kind of thing, but I can talk to people who might not talk so freely to the cops. If it’s okay with you, I’ll keep on asking questions and digging around. All right?”

  “You’d do that?” Tootsie looked up at her, spreading his fingers across his face to stretch away the weariness and doubts. “And you’ll be careful?”

  “You bet. So don’t keep stressing about it. The MPD is one of the best in the country at tracking down criminals, and hey—they’ve got me to help.”

  “Oh God.” Tootsie laughed a little shakily. “Don’t tell them that. I have a feeling it wouldn’t be in your best interest.”

  “And I have a feeling you’re right. Now here.” Harley dug in her backpack and pulled out a new tube of lipstick. “Estée Lauder. I was saving it for a special occasion, and I think this qualifies.”

  Tootsie opened the box and pulled out the tube. “Ooh, scarlet red! You sure you don’t want this?”

  “It’s not my color. Actually, I got it for you anyway. Free with my purchase of mascara. It’s you. Really.”

  The phone console lit up with a call, and saved her from any further lying. Happier now, Tootsie answered the phone with his Memphis Tour Tyme spiel and took down a message. As another call came in, he handed it to Harley. “Put this on Rhett’s desk for me, will you? He should be back soon.”

  “Ah, the charming Retch Sandler. Has he found his missing personality yet?”

  “Still missing. But he’s a good accountant and hasn’t stolen anything yet, so don’t make him mad, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best. As long as he still hands out the paychecks, anyway.”

  Harley went down the hall and put the pink message slip in the middle of Rhett’s desk, on top of a neatly stacked set of ledgers that sat atop a spotless desk, in a small office that was more like a hospital room than most hospital rooms. Sanitary, hygienic, and sparse. Just like Rhett. No personal photos, no sports souvenirs, no plants. Just stacks of ledgers and a computer. It looked a lot newer than the one Tootsie had at his desk. Sandler had a new computer to use in his work, while Tootsie still used an older computer. It was most likely a thorn in Tootsie’s side that he didn’t have a new one at the office, but he did have a state-of-the-art computer at home.

  Sandler’s computer hummed, the monitor still on. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, Harley said to herself, and took a peek at the screen. Accounting had never been her forté. Even though she’d worked for the bank, it had been in the marketing department, where creativity counted a lot more than spread sheets. They’d been about to outsource all the marketing when she’d decided she couldn’t stand another minute of her bosses, and a transfer to one of the branches was her idea of hell. Thus began her sojourn into the world of tourism.

  And murder. Who would have thought it?

  Now she reflected that she should have paid more attention to the accounting class she’d taken at Ole Miss, because all this looked like hieroglyphics to her. A few things stood out, not the numbers but the initials. LOP. TAR. What on earth were those for? Tar she could figure out, probably something to do with repaving the parking lot, but LOP? What was a lop and why did it cost so much?

  Footsteps slogged down the hallway, and she headed for his office door. Sandler met her in the hall, his eyes narrowing a little when he saw her come out of his office. He was the kind of man you’d never really notice, ordinary, with sandy hair he kept short, slight build, and regular features. He always wore a suit, black in the winter, tan in the summer, and bow ties that still didn’t hide his prominent Adam’s apple.

  Black glasses with thick lenses balanced on the bridge of his quite ordinary nose. His only distinguishing feature was a mustache that he clipped short and curved, so that when he talked it looked like a brown caterpillar riding his upper lip.

  “May I help you?” He spoke in a nasal monotone, like the guy on TV who did the commercials for eye drops.

  “Just leaving a message on your desk. That’s all.” She gave him a bright smile and a little wave of her fingers as she passed by, certain he suspected of her snooping. She didn’t mind. She had been snooping, so it seemed fair.

  Tootsie was on another call, speaking persuasively into the headset he wore over his right ear. It was a skinny piece of plastic that curved around to his mouth, and every so often he’d reach up to adjust it, like the person on the other end just wasn’t understanding him.

  “Yes, I know,” he said calmly, “but the police are working on it. There’s no indication this is anything other than sheer coincidence, perhaps a personal grudge between two of the—I see. Of course, I understand that this is just business, but with it so close to the anniversary date, I think you’ll find it quite difficult to book—you have? I agree your first responsibility is to your clients, but Memphis Tour Tyme has an impeccable record of service and reliability. This is just an aberration—I understand. Certainly. Perhaps next year.”

  He pushed a button and sat for a moment with his shoulders hunched, then looked up at her. “Fifth cancellation in two days. Not just the hotel groups we get, but agencies that book well in advance.” Slowly, he bent forward until his forehead rested against the desk surface. “We’re ruined,” he said in a moan. “Ruined.”

  “No, not yet. People are just nervous. They get that way around dead bodies and murder. Just as soon as the guy who’s doing this is caught, business will pick up again. Hey, there’s no shortage of tourists who want to see Graceland and Jerry Lee’s house, not to mention Victorian Village and Beale Street. It’ll work out. Besides, the taxi and limo service are still going strong.”

  Tootsie perked up. “We have had increased business with Elvis week so close. Too bad we didn’t get our licenses in time for prom season. We could have made a killing. Oh. Bad term to use, I guess.”

  Harley gave him a pat on the arm. “See? It’s going to be just fine. I’ll do what I can, and you know the MPD is doing what they can. Two murders so close together have put them into high gear.”

  “I know. Steve’s working long hours.”

  “Ah, the mythical Steve. In a year, I’ve seen no sign of him. Are you sure he’s not a ghost or figment of your imagination?”

  Pursing his lips, Tootsie gave her a sly glance. “Anything but, darling, anything but.”

  With Tootsie in a much better mood, Harley took off for the main library down Popl
ar Avenue. The bank of computers there came with help, and she didn’t have to waste Tootsie’s time or listen to his exasperated comments about her being technologically deficient. Here, they expected it and had a couple of geeks to help out.

  The main library had recently moved to Poplar from its longtime location at Peabody and McLean, the old brick building demolished to make way for high-priced condos. This library was modern and sleek, with lots of glass, concrete, and a wide-open spaciousness to it. Somehow Harley missed the former one even though it’d seemed dark and dusty and had that scent peculiar to old wood and years of use. It’d had character. As beautiful and efficient as this one was, it felt cold and impersonal.

  At first she tried finding out information that would connect Leroy Jenkins and Derek Wade. Hours of Internet research didn’t indicate any connection between the two victims. She’d hoped to find something on the Internet site for the Elvis competitions, but all she found were photos and mentions of winners and runners up for the past few years. There was a photo of Yogi, too, a serious look on his face as he struck a pose for the camera. She smiled. As crazy as her parents made her at times, she wouldn’t trade them. Curbing some of their tendencies toward protests in public places and flaunting of the laws would be nice, though.

  So much for the easy way out. She’d just have to put some mileage on her car and shoe leather, it seemed.

  Harley attended another Elvis concert and interviewed Yogi and other Elvis contestants, careful not to imply police involvement or cross any lines that might get her arrested. Bobby had been serious. She’d heard that tone in his voice before. Spending time in a cell at 201 Poplar didn’t appeal to her, and spending time with jail inmates dressed in orange jumpsuits had never seemed that attractive anyway.

  None of the contestants were helpful. Most of them were a little puzzled at best, suspicious at worst. So far, all she’d learned that she didn’t already know was that there were fierce rivalries among a few, but for the most part all the contestants viewed one another as extended family with the same shared interest in Elvis. Annual contests were often more of a reunion than any kind of rivalry. She’d narrowed the list down to a handful of those who didn’t view the contests as a good-natured competition. Getting their names had been a real struggle. Most of the contestants were reluctant to speak badly about others. Their wives and girlfriends, however, had been a lot more talkative. She had a nice list of names, both professional and personal. Those were the ones she’d check out first.

  Plopping her leather backpack down on Tootsie’s desk Monday afternoon, right before the office closed for the evening, she gave him a bright smile. He looked back at her a little warily.

  “Should I ask what’s up?”

  “I have a list of names. The only way to check them out is a little one-on-one, so that’s my next step.” She held up her hand, palm out, when he started to speak. “As I’ve been advised not to take any risks or I’ll face severe penalties, I’ve chosen a bodyguard to go with me.”

  “Excellent idea. I approve. Who?”

  She tilted her head. “You.”

  “Me?” Aghast, he stared at her. “Do you have a death wish? I weigh less than you do. Together, we might hit two hundred pounds. Hardly an intimidating team.”

  “You weigh more than I do, and anyway, it’s not brute force that matters, it’s brains. Or so I was informed recently by someone who likes to dress as Madonna and sing Material Girl.”

  “I didn’t mean it.” Tootsie sat back in his chair and shook his head. “Everything I said was a lie. You just needed cheering up.”

  “Uh hunh. Get up, boss man, and put on your mojo. We’re going to tag team a killer.”

  * * * *

  When Tootsie left his house that evening—one of those older, remodeled Midtown houses worth a fortune now, when once they’d been considered slums—Harley gave him a pained look. “What, you couldn’t find anything more noticeable?”

  “Well excuse me, Vera Wang. I think this is fashionable investigative wear. You don’t like it?”

  “Who’s Vera Wang? And it’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just a bit flashy when we need to blend in without drawing attention.”

  “No wonder your wardrobe consists of jeans and tee shirts.” He opened her car door and slid into the passenger seat, crossing his silk-clad legs with an elegant grace she’d never be able to manage. Black silk pleated pants coupled with a black silk shirt were all right, but the vest he wore sparkled with gemstones and some kind of glittery stuff that caught the light with his every movement.

  “You look like a night light,” she muttered, but let it go. At least he wasn’t wearing a bra and mini skirt.

  When they reached the hotel and nightclub, it was already crowded. Tootsie stared at the rows of cars thoughtfully. “Who’d have thought there were this many Elvis devotees? I think it’s rather nice they’re so loyal after all these years.”

  “Are you an Elvis fan?”

  “I appreciate his music and talent, but my first love is the blues.”

  “Blues? I thought you were a big Madonna and Cher fan.”

  “Oh, I am to a certain extent. I like impersonating them. I don’t think an impersonation of Muddy Waters or Little Laura would be quite the same thing on stage, however.”

  “Probably not.” Another facet of Tootsie’s personality that was new to her. He really was an intriguing person, and despite his often over-the-top penchant for cross-dressing, one of the most stable people she knew.

  That was a depressing thought.

  It was as crowded inside as it was in the parking lot. Harley winced. The noise level hit the decibel range of a jet taking off. She should have brought ear plugs.

  Tootsie leaned close to her ear. “Who should we talk to first?”

  “What?”

  “I said, who should we talk to first?”

  “I heard what you said, I just thought you’d have some idea about that.”

  His brow lifted. “Remember, honey, you’re the brains, I’m the brawn.”

  “Then we’re in deep doo-doo on both counts. Here’s the list. I have it narrowed down to nine. I chose them on grounds of competitiveness and personality, not to mention the nasty things said about them by the wives and girlfriends of the other impersonators.”

  “You’re so thorough.” He took the list and scanned it. “So where do we start?”

  “With the ones who are about six feet tall and a hundred and seventy-five pounds. Rule out any who don’t fit that description, then we’ll go from there.”

  “And we find these guys how? They’re not wearing name-tags.”

  “You’ll think of something. Improvise. Say you’re looking for Sam Doyle, or whoever is on the list. Here. You take the top four, I’ll take the bottom five. I already have your own list for you.”

  “Aren’t you the efficient little thing,” Tootsie muttered, but he didn’t look too unhappy.

  “I have my moments. You take that side of the room, I’ll start over here.”

  An hour later, Harley had eliminated three names from her list, one too short, one too fat, one too female. When had they let women in these things? It seemed self-defeating, seeing as how the point of the competitions was to look and sound as much like Elvis as possible in order to win. But who was she to judge?

  Finding Tootsie was not a challenge. Even in a room full of Elvises dressed in capes and draped in gold, his twinkling vest stood out. He was deep in conversation with an Elvis impersonator that wasn’t even close to six feet tall. Maybe it was a lead. Or a fellow cross-dresser. That thought led to the speculation that no one had ever dressed up as Priscilla Presley to her knowledge, and she wondered why. Did they ever have Lisa Marie impersonators? And if so, did they hang out with the Michael Jackson impersonators?

  “Oh, you found me,” Tootsie said when she nudged him.

  “It’d be impossible not to, with that GPS system you’re wearing.”

  Tootsie ignored her. �
�We were just discussing the blues and how they affected the early years when Elvis was growing up. Gospel, rhythm and blues, all those old spirituals played a vital part in forming his musical talents.”

  “Muddy Waters on the slide guitar, Pinetree Perkins on the piano, had to be his musical base,” the Elvis agreed. “Elvis was happiest when he sang gospel, would stay up all night with the Memphis Mafia, singing his heart out.”

  As much as she appreciated Elvis’s talent, Harley had a mission. “Yes, he was remarkable. There’ll never be another like him.” She leaned close to Tootsie. “Are you ready to go now?”

  “No, but I assume you’re ready. It was very nice talking with you, and I hope we meet again,” Tootsie said to the Elvis, and to Harley as they walked away, “That was rather rude.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. I’ve been told I’m compulsive. What’d you find out?”