“Yes,” she said, “very ugly.”
Harley hesitated. Maybe she shouldn’t ask her any questions. She looked pretty rattled. It could wait.
But then Charlsie turned to look at her, eyes a little glazed as if she was seeing something horrible, and said in a whisper, “I thought he was asleep. I went to wake him ... I touched him on the shoulder and he ... he just fell forward. Then I looked at my hand. There was all this blood on it, so bright red and sticky ... like my little girl’s fingerpaint. I didn’t know what it was at first, and then I realized...”
She began shaking again and Harley put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay. You’ll be fine. Has anyone notified your husband?”
Charlsie nodded. “David’s on his way.”
Harley waited with Charlsie until her husband arrived, and the look on his face when he saw his wife was a mix of panic and relief. They held on to each other for a few moments before he let her go, and even then, he kept an arm around her shoulders.
Looking at Harley, he asked, “Can she leave now?”
“You’ll have to clear that with the police. If she’s given her statement, I imagine they’ll let her leave.”
When they left, Harley found Tootsie. He stood talking to the police, not far from one of the smaller vans. If this kept up, they wouldn’t have any vehicles left. Two vans and a bus were out of commission until the police ended their evidence gathering. It put a cramp in scheduling tours during their busiest month. Though cancellations were cutting into that.
One bright spot was Bobby’s absence. He must be on another case. Thank God. She didn’t think she could deal with him right now. He’d ask questions she didn’t want to answer, and he knew her well enough to know when she was lying or evading. That was never good.
Finally, Tootsie came to stand beside her. He looked stressed. “You okay?” she asked.
“No. Three vehicles from our fleet are temporarily sidelined. Even if I get back the van you were driving, I’ll be two short next week, during the busiest season. Not to mention the bad publicity, with all these guys getting killed on our buses. Fifty thousand people will be here soon, all probably using other tour companies.”
“Let Mr. Penney worry about that. Besides, this is only temporary. You’ve got friends at the TV stations and the paper. Get them to put a different spin on it, how Tour Tyme has taken extra security measures to ensure the safety of their clients during the festivities or something. I’ve got a friend in the security business. I’ll ask Butch to give us cheap rates.”
For a moment Tootsie just stared at her. Then he nodded, though he didn’t look less stressed. “That’d be great. Security. It might help. Then again, it might backfire. What if tourists think it’s too dangerous to come to Memphis?”
“It’s too dangerous to cross the street anywhere these days. That doesn’t stop anyone.”
“True.” Tootsie looked a little relieved. “It might even work.”
“See? You feel better already.”
“I’ll feel better when I see a healthy bottom line after all this is over.”
“Sometimes I just can’t figure you out. I know job security is important, but why should you get so upset about profit and loss?”
“Think of it this way, baby. A healthy profit means a healthy payroll. Besides, you don’t have to work close to Lester Penney every day, and I do.”
“Ah. There is that to consider. It pays to keep the ogre happy.”
“A logical conclusion.”
“Speaking of logical conclusions, I know I’ve said this before,” she said as they headed toward Tootsie’s car, “but it’s just not logical for someone to take such a big risk killing these guys on tour vans. Why not kill them at the concerts? In the bathrooms, or outside diners, or in alleyways, at home? Somewhere it’s not so crowded. Why stab Elvises right in the middle of a group of tourists sitting on a tour bus?”
“Why stab them at all? Why kill just Elvis impersonators?”
“I take it this last death is—”
“An Elvis impersonator. Last seat in the back row, stabbed right in the heart.”
“While the other people were singing Great Balls of Fire.” When Tootsie gave her a strange look she said, “I talked to Charlsie. She told me they were singing. I’m sure it helps hide any, uh, noise.”
Once in the car, Tootsie said, “I’m beginning to think these victims aren’t random, but specifically chosen. Maybe there’s a connection between them that we’re missing.”
“I used library records to check everything I know to check—work, family, friends, even looked up their old schools all the way back to kindergarten to see if they might have known each other. Nothing.” In the pause, she pulled out the two Elvis postcards from her backpack. “Except these. Both victims were sent these postcards directing them to take a Memphis Tour Tyme bus and ask for Claude Williams when they reached the concert.”
“Who’s Claude Williams?”
“I thought you might know, but it’s definitely something we need to find out.”
“Have you informed the police about this yet?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. I don’t want to talk to Bobby. He can be such a jerk.”
“Maybe you should talk to Morgan, give him the evidence.”
“Even worse. Besides, if I call him, he’s liable to think I just want to see him, and I don’t want him to think I’m chasing him.”
“How sixth grade of you.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Tootsie laughed and said, “I’ll call Bobby if you want.”
“Would you? I’d just as soon not get arrested if I can avoid it.”
“Then I’ll be discreet.”
Harley sighed. “He’ll see right through that. He’s almost as good at it as Diva.”
“I think cops develop a sixth sense. At least, the good ones do.”
“Then Bobby must be one of the best. So, what do you think? There has to be some kind of connection between the two cards and the dead Elvises. I’m willing to bet this third victim got a postcard, too.”
“If he did,” Tootsie said grimly, “then we’ve got a serial killer targeting only Elvis impersonators.”
“Yeah, but not randomly. He’s got some kind of devious plan. It must be one of the Elvis contestants trying to knock off the competitors.”
“That makes more sense than anything else.”
“So maybe we need to find out if these victims were any competition, and who’s listed as the favorite this year.”
Glancing at her, Tootsie nodded. “That’s where we’ll start.”
“I’ll ask Yogi who the favorites are. He always knows that kind of stuff.”
* * * *
“Preston Hughes was favored to win this year, but he dropped out of the competition.” Yogi lowered his voice as if they were in public instead of his own living room. “I heard he got disqualified because of an incident last year between him and a few other competitors.”
Harley stared at him. “And you didn’t think it might be important to mention that to me?”
“Why? He’s not in the competitions this year.”
She bit her lip. “Okay. So, who were the guys he got into it with last year?”
Shrugging, Yogi put aside the crystal necklace he’d brought in from his shop. “I don’t know. One of them was Derek something, I think.”
“Derek Wade?”
“Could be. Preston claimed Derek stole part of his act.”
“How can you steal part of an Elvis act? There are only so many songs and so many suits you can wear.”
“Harley.” Yogi looked horrified. “Each act is individual, with certain songs and costumes, the way you move and sing and connect with the audience and judges—it’s what counts the most in a performance. It’s not like just anyone can get up there and sing like Elvis, you know.”
“All right, all right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply it doesn’t take talent.”
Yogi smi
led. “I know you didn’t.”
So forgiving. He rarely held a grudge against an individual, though for the past thirty-six years he’d held a deep-seated resentment and dislike of the U.S. government no one had been able to alter. Only a few had tried. It had something to do with the sixties draft, the Vietnam war, and Orwell. At least he wasn’t discriminating. He hated Republicans and Democrats alike. He also disliked drug companies, huge corporations and their CEOs, and “corrupt journalists.” The list was much longer, but Harley tried not to dwell on it. On the plus side, Yogi loved his family, children, animals, and lost causes, not necessarily in that order.
All in all, she’d begun to discover that her family wasn’t as bad as she’d always thought. Or maybe it was just that they weren’t that much different from other families, in that they had their quirks that didn’t always coincide with societal rules. They just didn’t bother hiding them.
“So,” she said, “who can I ask about the disqualification?”
Yogi thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. The organizers of the event would know, of course, but they’d never discuss it. Maybe you could ask Claude Williams.”
“Claude Williams?” Aha. The man both Elvises were supposed to meet. “Who is he?”
“He’s in charge of publicity.”
That made sense. The victims wouldn’t have questioned a postcard with his name on it. So, that either meant the killer was an impersonator himself, or had intimate knowledge of the way the competitions were run. It was a toss-up. An Elvis or an employee.
“Any idea where I can find Williams?”
Yogi shook his head. “Nope. You might try looking for him at a concert. He’s usually there with a camera.”
The official competitions started soon. Competitors would be coming in from all over the world, and so would people coming to commemorate the day Elvis died. A serial killer on the loose would definitely be bad for the tourist business. Evidently, this serial killer picked on Elvises only, so he had to be a part of the competition, and Preston Hughes was beginning to look like a prime suspect.
“When’s the next concert?” she asked her father, and Yogi smiled.
“Tonight. We’ve been having them every night, sort of a warm-up to the Super Bowl. Gives us all a chance to try out our acts, work on what needs to be changed.”
“So you think this Claude Williams will be there tonight?”
“It’s possible. He’s been coming to a lot of them. Seems nice enough, I guess. Diva says he’s greedy.”
“Why did she say that?”
Yogi shrugged. “You know your mother. She’s always saying things. Half the time I don’t know what she means.”
“I have complete empathy. So, maybe I should show up tonight and talk to him.”
Yogi frowned. “Wait a minute—I’m not sure I like you doing all this kind of stuff. It always seems to involve danger. Do you have any idea how that scares us? How scared we are for you every time you get mixed up in this kind of stuff? For God’s sake, Harley, you just got stabbed!”
“Tell me about it. This time, though, I’m staying away from anyone who even looks at me wrong.”
Yogi stared at her shoulder, still bandaged although she’d abandoned the clumsy sling. “I don’t think you’re doing such a good job. Why don’t you get Bruno to go with you?”
Harley sighed. “His name is Mike, and he’s working on an undercover case.”
“Then take your brother.”
Looking at the couch where Eric slept with soft snores and green hair, she shook her head. “I don’t think he’d be that helpful. Besides, he probably has a gig of his own.”
“Not tonight. I don’t want you roaming around town when some killer’s out there. Take Eric with you.”
“What could that beanpole do even if I did run into the killer? Offer him a toke?”
Yogi reached over and shook Eric. “He’s wiry. Stronger than he looks. I’ll feel better if he goes with you.”
Appalled, Harley stared at her brother in dismay when he opened sleepy blue eyes and looked up at her. “Hey, dude,” she said with a sigh of resignation.
He blinked. “Hey, cool chick.”
Yogi said, “Get up and go with your sister to protect her.”
Sitting halfway up, Eric yawned. “Where’s she going?”
“To an Elvis concert.”
Eric’s eyes got wide with horror. He looked from Yogi to Harley. “Chiiiick!”
She smiled. Sometimes there were perks in the most unlikely of circumstances.
Chapter Nine
Harley rolled her eyes at her brother. “It’s not like I’m not a little tired of going to Elvis concerts myself. The least you can do is shut up about it. Let me concentrate on my driving, all right?”
“But, chick—Elvis? You know that ain’t my thing. Couldn’t you have gotten someone else to go with you? Diva could have come along instead of me.”
“She has to help Yogi with his costume. You know that.”
“Why not Cami? Or that Bruno guy?”
“Cami’s at work and Mike is, too.”
“I’ve been hijacked by an Elvis terrorist,” he muttered.
“If you don’t shut up, I’ll sign you up to sing Hound Dog.”
“Wouldn’t do you any good,” Eric grumbled, but he finally stopped complaining. He put on his earphones and turned up his CD player. Thank God. He’d whined all the way from the house, and she was about ready to put him out on the corner. Any corner. But in this neighborhood, he’d get mugged. Especially wearing black baggy pants with a dozen zippers and shiny chains, a black Slayer tee shirt, and green hair standing straight up on his scalp that looked like a Bermuda lawn that needed mowing.
“I need to practice saying ‘I love my family’ several times a day,” she said, but Eric didn’t hear her with his music turned up. She could hear his music though, guitar riffs, drums, and bass all mangled together. It sounded like a train wreck.
When they pulled into the hotel parking lot, Eric stopped using her dashboard as a drum set and gave a pained look at all the cars crowded together. “Are there this many weirdoes?”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately, dude?”
Eric flipped her off and she returned the salute with a grin. Some things never changed. After several round trips through the lot she found a parking slot at the very back again. Why did that seem to be the only place she could ever find? She debated not taking it, but the vapor lights had been replaced and it was fairly bright. Besides, it seemed to be the only one left.
“We’re looking for Claude Williams,” she said when they were inside the concert, this one apparently a family night as a few dozen kids ran around screaming and the lights were up.
Eric looked around in dismay. “I’m not a kid person.”
“Really. And you have so much in common. You start asking a few people if he’s here tonight, and get them to point him out. Say you want him to promote your band or something.”
Eric gave her a horrified look. “Chick! You gotta be kidding.”
“So lie. I know you can do it. Remember the gig you’re supposed to have the last night of the Elvis competition? I happen to know your lead singer’s going to be out of town that night. I’ll keep your secret, but you have to cooperate.”
“Chick, you’re not playing fair.”
“Get over it. Take that side of the room. I’ll start here.”
Harley found Williams after only two questions. A middle-aged man with a balding head and thick glasses, he was very cooperative. She showed him her copies of the postcards received by both men, and he shook his head.
“I never sent those, as I told the police just a little while ago. Must be some kind of error on the part of the concert organizers. Any interview would be conducted openly, not secretly. We aren’t affiliated in any way with the actual competition. These concerts are just for the performers to refine their acts, give them a little more stage experience and entertain others who rever
e Elvis and his music.”
“Would you know anyone who might have sent them by mistake?”
“No, we have a small staff for these concerts. Just me and my wife, actually. I can’t imagine who else would send these.”
Well, she’d expected as much. Someone was using his name as a lure to get the victims to take the vans he specified. And it had to be someone who knew about Claude Williams.
“How long have you been doing these concerts, Mr. Williams?”
Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis Page 13