Tales of Tinfoil: Stories of Paranoia and Conspiracy

by David Gatewood (ed)

  Dolores stopped abruptly and stared at the man.

  “You know dear, maybe it is time to get off the island,” she said slowly.

  Anna opened her mouth, then closed it. She would not ask what spurred Dolores’s change of heart. They should go home. Someone was potentially following them, and she needed to pack for her trip to Norway.

  Saying yes to Stephen had been the right thing to do. Of course, she was conditioned to say yes to Stephen. One more lap, ten more squats, shave two more minutes off her freestyle time, fly to Norway to be a wax whiz. Yes, yes, yes, yes.

  But maybe she could make a career out of being the team wax technician. It would be her fresh start. A bit of a boring fresh start, but a fresh start nonetheless. She would put Nick out of her mind. Who was Nick anyway? Just a local opening act and a boat operator.

  Going home early was the right thing to do. Nevertheless, Anna had to admit that she experienced a strange but small fragment of disappointment at the prospect.

  Dolores insisted on changing the tickets through a travel agent, so they proceeded into Hamilton where Dolores found a small travel shop. She sent Anna for coffees while she changed their flights, and by the time Anna had fought her way to the front of the line in the busy coffee shop and returned to the agency, Dolores was already outside waiting with their tickets, her emerald pantsuit shimmering in the morning sun.

  * * *

  They spent the remainder of the afternoon soaking up the sun by the pool, then rose early the next morning to head to the airport. Dolores checked them in while Anna corralled Dolores’s multiple bags.

  On their way to security, Anna tried to find a comfortable position for the giant carry-on bag in which Dolores had stowed their warm clothes, including two changes of underwear, because apparently Dolores never flew without two pairs of underwear in her carry-on.

  “Did you call Gramps last night and tell him when to pick us up at the airport?”

  Dolores gave a noncommittal harrumph. “I’ll call him in New York. We’ll have plenty of time.”

  Dolores scuttled through security, leaving Anna to try to maneuver the large bag onto the x-ray conveyor belt. She glanced down at her boarding cards before she handed them over to the airport security guy.

  “St. George’s to New York. New York to Ottawa,” the card read.

  Ottawa.

  Dolores stood wearing an insouciant expression on the other side of the scanner, as if she hoped Anna wouldn’t notice their destination until they disembarked and Anna saw the Bienvenue au Canada sign.

  Anna joined her after collecting her bag and shoes.

  “Ottawa, Dolores?”

  “There have been multiple Elvis sightings in Ottawa, dear. They even have a street named Elvis Lives Lane. Harold and I went there in ’97. I knew as soon as I saw the man holding the sign outside Pritchard Boat Tours yesterday morning. I called Ron this morning while you were in the shower to confirm, and I was right. Nick flew to Ottawa two days ago. One of the neighbors told Ron he’s going to see the Fraternity.” Dolores paused and looked both ways up and down the concourse. Then she spoke in an undertone. “The Fraternity was the criminal group that Elvis and his dad busted; the one that Elvis had to escape by going in to hiding. And there’s a listing under the name of Yelserp in the Ottawa phone book. This is it. I know it is.”

  Anna wondered if she should mention that the Fraternity was also a band, and that Nick had bought Fraternity tickets a few days ago. “Dolores, did you even tell Gramps what you were doing? I’m supposed to be flying to Norway in four days.”

  “We have to go,” Dolores insisted with a sunny smile, as if she hadn’t even heard Anna. She turned and started to set a brisk pace to the gate, her white silk dress flowing behind her.

  Anna limp-hopped after her. “No, we don’t. I have to be in Salt Lake City by Friday. I have a job.”

  “Don’t you want to see Nick again?”

  “Yes, but I’m not going to stalk him. Dolores, this is crazy.”

  “I understand, dear, if you feel you need to go to Norway.”

  “I don’t need to go. It’s just that the team needs me. You go ahead to the gate. I just want to take five and think about this and call Gramps.”

  Dolores turned back and fluttered her eyelids dramatically as if she was about to say something, but then she just nodded her head as if filled with a great sorrow and continued on to the gate.

  Anna walked over to one of the big windows that overlooked the glittery turquoise water, and withdrew her phone.

  Gramps answered on the third ring.

  “Anna, is everything okay?”

  “Yes, aside from making a side trip to Ottawa.”

  “You’re in Ottawa?”

  “No, not yet. But Dolores has us booked on a flight. And we’re at the airport.”

  “But you’re okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Is Dolores happy?” Gramps asked.

  “Isn’t Dolores always happy?”

  “She does have a generally optimistic outlook, yes. And what about you? Are you over the weasel?”

  “Gramps!” She had been about to mention the trip to Norway, but she had a feeling Gramps would have some strong opinions with regard to her plan—and her general association with weasels.

  “All right, all right. Have you found yourself yet, then?”

  “I’m not really sure where to start looking.”

  “Fair enough. Look, if you’re having an okay time and Dolores wants to go to Ottawa, why don’t you look for yourself in Ottawa? You’ve done nothing but train for ten years. Don’t even think of it as finding yourself. Just think of it as a holiday. You need a break. I won the Tri-City Bowling Senior’s Division championship last night. A thousand bucks. Can you believe it? It’ll pay for your trip. Just pick me up some maple syrup and a beaver shirt.”

  Anna hesitated. She should tell Gramps about the man in chinos and the note that someone had left in their room… and that she was going to Norway.

  Just as she opened her mouth, the man in chinos walked through security, wearing jeans. When he saw her, he stopped, tilted his head, and squinted as if surprised. Then he made a beeline directly for her.

  “Gramps, I gotta go.” Anna hung up the phone and started walking quickly down the terminal hallway.

  The man was soon beside her, his carry-on laptop case banging against his hip.

  “I saw you in Nick Pritchard’s yard,” he said.

  She sped up, which was kind of pointless because with her limp, he was easily faster, and the end of the small terminal building and Dolores’s white silk dress were in sight.

  “What do you want with me?” she hissed.

  He halted abruptly, and a slightly confused look crossed his handsome but bland face. “Well, nothing. Who are you? Are you a friend of Nick’s?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Brian Goldstein. I’m a reporter. We heard there was an Elvis sighting in Bermuda. I was checking things out. Someone told me about Pritchard, who of course has a certain resemblance to the King, so I was investigating. The sighting was a dead end, but I find Pritchard interesting. And now he’s skipped town.”

  “What were you doing in his yard?”

  The man offered a faint smile at this. “I could ask the same of you, Red. I came up from the beach. It seemed like there was a trail and it didn’t say private property. I ended up on Pritchard’s deck by accident. That was quite the Jet Li move, vaulting over the fence, especially considering…” He dropped a glance to her knee brace.

  Anna narrowed her eyes at him. “And the night before, where were you?”

  Brian winked. “You’re quite the questioner, Red. I went to the Black Velvet. I heard Pritchard performs there. But the show was sold out. So I waited around to see if he would come out. He didn’t, and I got tired of waiting. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “So do you know him?”

  Anna shook her head.

/>   “Then what were you doing in his yard?”

  “We went on one of his boat tours. I left my sweater on board. We went to Nick’s to see if he had it, and then when we couldn’t get in the gate, I climbed the fence to go knock on the door.”

  “You must really like that sweater.”

  “It’s my favorite,” she shot back tartly.

  Brian flipped a card out of his pocket. “Look, if you do know Pritchard, tell him to call me. We can make it worth his while. We know he was adopted. Perhaps he remembers seeing Elvis leaning over his cradle or something. We’re happy to take conjecture and the memories of a toddler.”

  Anna took the card and glanced at it. “The National Sun, huh?”

  Brian shrugged. “We do more serious reporting than you probably think.”

  Dolores had emerged from the gate and was now looking down the terminal hall at them, wearing a mystified expression. Anna ignored her. But Dolores gave a little wave, the morning sun illuminating her hair in a brilliant halo of silver.

  Brian saw Dolores and raised an eyebrow. He shifted his eyes back to Anna and then back to Dolores, as if trying to place her. But he didn’t seem to recognize Dolores. Maybe he really hadn’t been following them three nights ago.

  “You didn’t by chance happen by the Fern Grotto Beach Resort on Sunday night?” Anna said.

  Brian shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. I walked past a lot of resorts, but that one doesn’t sound familiar. Listen, I have to get to my gate. It was nice to meet you, Red, and think about what I said. We’re pretty generous in our compensation for tips. I know Pritchard is trying to launch a singing career. Some cash would probably come in handy.”

  He turned and headed across the terminal hall to a gate where the red neon sign over the desk read Miami.

  “Wait,” she called.

  He looked back over his shoulder.

  “You don’t really think Elvis is alive, do you?”

  He gave a snort of laughter. “No. But our issues with Elvis on the cover outsell every other issue. We just need to dredge up enough facts to manufacture an Elvis to hang a story off of. Elvis was special. He’s alive in the hearts and loins of little old ladies everywhere, let me tell you that.” He continued over to a seat at the far end of the gate.

  Anna made her way down the terminal hallway to Dolores. Maybe Brian hadn’t been following them three nights ago. But who had left the note in the hotel room?

  Her phone chirped the notification that she had a text. She pulled it back out of her pocket. The number of the sender was unfamiliar.

  < Saw you in the audience at my show. You left before I could catch you. Good luck with your reinvention and don’t settle. The last song was for you. >

  Nick.

  Nick, who had flown to Ottawa.

  Dolores greeted her with an eager smile. “What did Charlie say, dear? Did you know that according to Cheiro’s rules, our flight and seat numbers match Elvis’s birthday? And of course that’s my birthday too. I think that means we’re on the right track, don’t you think?”

  Anna hesitated. Dolores’s grin widened and then faltered slightly. Then her face slipped into a neutral and finally a doleful expression, her slightly furry jowly cheeks drooping.

  At last Anna smiled and nodded. “I think it does, Dolores.”

  The beam that broke across Dolores’s face could have illuminated an entire stadium.

  They settled into their seats at the gate, and Dolores started talking immediately. “You know, some say, dear, that Elvis left his career to join a monastery…”

  Anna tried to concentrate on what Dolores was saying. She should break the news to Dolores that the Fraternity was just a band.

  She would tell her later. In Ottawa.

  Maybe.

  Anna smiled.

  Or maybe she would continue manufacturing Elvis for just a bit longer.

  About the Conspiracy Theory:

  Elvis Presley

  Elvis Presley is one of those iconic figures who live in our minds long after their deaths. History records that Elvis died on August 16, 1977, but a number of strange events and inconsistencies surrounding Elvis’s death and burial (some of which Dolores references in the story) and subsequent “sightings” fuel the belief that Elvis is still among us.

  On the night before he died, Elvis apparently saw the dentist at 10:30 p.m., returned home between 12:30 and 1:30 a.m., and stayed up all night. A mail truck, which was not the usual mail carrier, arrived on the morning of Elvis’s death, and Elvis signed for the package personally. (Some believe this was the signal that prompted a subsequent body exchange.) There were also claims that a helicopter was sighted at Graceland that day, and that Elvis got on the helicopter. Elvis’s girlfriend, Ginger Alden, who was on the premises, allegedly phoned the National Enquirer one to three hours before “finding” Elvis’s body. Some eyewitnesses claimed he was wearing blue pajamas the last time he was seen alive, and yet he was apparently found in blue and gold pajamas—and the medical examiner’s report indicated he was unclothed. There are varying claims regarding the positioning and location of the body, and although rigor mortis and lividity had apparently set in, suggesting he had been dead for some time, the paramedics and Elvis’s doctor performed CPR.

  The original death certificate is believed to have disappeared, and the reissued certificate is dated two months after Elvis’s death. The drugs Elvis was prescribed the day before he died included a large number of narcotic analgesics; Elvis’s staff claimed he took them, but they were not found in his system on autopsy, leading to speculation that the body found was actually that of a man dying of cancer who agreed to serve as “the body” in exchange for financial support for his family.

  The cause of death was never definitively announced. It may have been a heart attack, drug overdose, or suffocation on the carpet. The autopsy team had reportedly ruled out heart failure and was in the middle of testing for drug-related causes (tests that would have taken weeks to complete) when the medical examiner announced to the press that Elvis had had heart problems, and implied that he had died from them. Since the autopsy report belonged to the estate, the autopsy team said nothing further on the matter.

  The autopsy itself was allegedly fraught with errors. There were no photographs made of the body, no fingerprints taken, and no dental impressions made. Elvis’s weight in the autopsy was listed at 170 pounds, even though Elvis was probably closer to 250 pounds. There was also reference to scars from operations that Elvis apparently never had.

  Elvis’s funeral was arranged with amazing speed, and the custom-made coffin was ready for the showing of the body within 21 hours of his death. (Reportedly, the coffin weighed 900 pounds. Some speculate it contained a refrigeration unit to keep a wax replica of Elvis cool.) Elvis’s father refused to allow a flag on his son’s coffin, even though Elvis was an army veteran. Many celebrities were told not to come to the funeral, there were no cameras allowed, and some friends and family members indicated that the corpse did not resemble Elvis at all.

  The strangeness continued beyond Elvis’s funeral. His full name, “Elvis Aron Presley,” was misspelled on his gravestone as “Elvis Aaron Presley.” (His middle name had been meant to match that of his twin, Jesse Garon, who died at birth.) It’s unclear how Elvis’s middle name was spelled on his birth certificate, as claims vary, but he signed his name with a single “A” for most of his life. Some, like Dolores, suggest that the gravestone spelling was due to Elvis’s superstitions regarding the power of names and numbers, which led him to request the misspelling on his gravestone. Others suggest that it was Vernon Presley respecting Elvis’s stated desire to change the spelling of his middle name to “Aaron” that resulted in the misspelling.

  It’s been suggested that Elvis had many potential reasons for faking his own death. The pressures of the performing life were clearly taking a toll on his health. On many occasions, Elvis indicated a desire to live a quieter, more spiritual life and start
a commune or a monastery. Elvis may have suffered from depression, and he wrote out his troubles on a note that he threw away. The note was retrieved by an aide and later sold to Wayne Newton, who incorporated it into his song “The Letter.”

  Operation Fountain Pen was real, and Elvis and his father were scheduled to testify against the con men known as the Fraternity, a group who had swindled them out of millions of dollars in the purchase of three planes, and who had many criminal dealings across the country. Some believe that “hits” had been arranged by the Fraternity in relation to other deals. And although this is not unusual for a celebrity, Elvis and his daughter, Lisa Marie, experienced many death threats in the year before his death. The U.S. Attorney’s office advised the FBI that their office was ready to go before the grand jury in the Operation Fountain Pen case on August 15, 1977, two days before Elvis died. Ultimately, Vernon Presley was left to testify alone against members of the Fraternity a year after Elvis’s death, and the men were eventually convicted.

  Many people close to Elvis claim that he spent the last few months of his life saying goodbye to people and telling them that he loved them. He also told some of them that he would not be going on his next tour, and he apparently made references to a master plan and made frequent allusions to his own death.

  To the true believers, the sightings over the years, particularly in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and Ottawa, Ontario, lend credence to claims that the King is still alive. While many of these were undoubtedly false, two photos in particular—one in the pool house at Graceland, and one with Reverend Jesse Jackson—have stoked the fires of belief. Old friends and lovers claim to have been contacted by Elvis after his death, and an unidentified man arrived at L&S records in 1988 and submitted a recording of a song entitled “Spelling on the Stone,” which makes reference to the legend still being alive and suggests that people check the spelling on the stone (which undoubtedly refers to the gravestone). Some people who listened to the recording maintain that the singer is Elvis.