Suspicious Mimes

by Virginia Brown

  “Horton could have had a partner in crime, maybe, and just didn’t rat him out. Maybe it’s his partner who’s doing this.”

  “What would he gain?”

  “Revenge.”

  “By killing innocent people? That’s pretty sick.”

  “As you’ve said a few times, there’s no shortage of sickos in the world.”

  “Lord knows I’ve met my share of them,” Tootsie muttered. “Still, it’s impossible for Horton to be behind this. Prisons usually monitor prisoners’ mail pretty closely, and honestly I just don’t think he’s slick enough to carry it off. Vengeful enough, maybe, but not the kind who could sit in a van full of tourists and stick a knife in one of them.”

  “But if he has a partner?”

  Tootsie shook his head. “No evidence of one. Besides, Horton’s too greedy to share.”

  “Maybe he figured better some than none.”

  “Not Horton. He made less than $40,000 a year, but he had a huge house in Countrywood, a couple of really expensive cars, and his kid went to the best private schools. MTT didn’t make enough to support that life-style and share it with anyone else.”

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me. It’s not him. Bobby says it’s not Hughes, so unless it’s just a wacko out to rid the world of Elvis impersonators, it has to be the ogre’s son. How old is he?”

  “Twenty-eight. I’ve got a photo of him somewhere.” He rummaged in the desk drawers then pulled out a folder of photos. “Company picnic. He’s standing beside Penney.”

  Harley stared at the photo with interest. “I didn’t know the ogre could smile. Good thing he doesn’t do it too often. It looks strange.”

  Larry Penney stared unsmiling at the camera. He looked to be near six feet and pretty thin. Maybe it was the drugs. “It could be him,” she said slowly, “he’s about the right build.”

  “I don’t think it’s him. He’s in and out of rehab too much to spend time plotting murders.”

  “Who’s this guy?” She tapped her finger against the photo.

  Tootsie peered at it. “That’s Horton. His youngest son is right beside him.”

  “How old was he in this picture?”

  “Somewhere around twelve, I think.”

  “Maybe he’s the one.”

  “I doubt it. He moved to Hawaii with his mother.”

  “He could have come back, you know.”

  “From Hawaii?” Tootsie stared at her in disbelief. “Who’d want to move from Hawaii?”

  Exasperated, she put her hands on her hips. “Then we’re all out of suspects.”

  “So it seems. Aren’t you relieved? Now you can stay home tonight.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re as bad as Bobby. Pretending we’re out of suspects isn’t a good enough reason not to go all-out to catch this guy.”

  “I see you won’t be swayed. I’ll pick you up at six.”

  “Remember, wear something discreet.”

  “Darling, I told you, I’ll be the very soul of discretion.”

  Harley stared at Tootsie. “You call this discreet?”

  Unruffled, he gave an elegant shrug of one shoulder. “Don’t you like it?”

  “Who are you supposed to be?”

  “Priscilla Presley, of course.”

  “Ah. Now I see it. Who else would it be?”

  Tootsie wore a wig, the light brown bobbed hair liberally streaked with maroon, looking very much like Elvis’s ex-wife now wore her hair. From what Harley could tell, he also wore a black leather miniskirt, a gorgeous luminous bronze silk blouse and expensive Prada heels.

  “A bit much with the heels, don’t you think?” she asked, but he shook his head.

  “Not at all. Priscilla has style.”

  Harley slid into the buttery-soft leather seat and closed the car door. “I feel underdressed. You should have told me you’d be in disguise tonight.”

  “Girlfriend, you’re always underdressed. And someone has to be in disguise, since you’ve decided to paint a bulls-eye on your back.”

  “Surely you’re not talking about my shirt.”

  Snorting, Tootsie put the Acura in gear and took off from the curb outside her building. As he sped off, Harley looked back, and to her surprise, saw Sarah Simon peering out her living room window. Wow. That was a rare sighting, rather like Punxsutawney Phil. If Sarah was seen, there was sure to be six more weeks of Elvis festivities.

  “Yes,” Tootsie said, turning onto Poplar, “I’m talking about your tee shirt. Could it be any more noticeable?”

  “You’re one to talk, Priscilla. Besides, green is a good color for me.”

  “Neon green? You look like a leprechaun puked on you.”

  “Since you’re kind enough to worry if I get killed, I’ll refrain from mentioning your black leather miniskirt, even if I do think you’d be right at home on the back of a hog with some guy named Mad Dog or Killer.”

  “As intriguing as that sounds, I’ll blend right in tonight. I predict I’ll even be asked to sign autographs.”

  “Modesty dies a quick death in your company, I see.” Harley leaned her head back against the seat. “Besides, this tee shirt is loose and hides the wire I’m wearing. A police woman wired me up, but I got this shirt in New Orleans. A rather pithy motto, I think.”

  “You shuck ’em, I’ll suck ’em refers to crawfish or oysters, I presume.”

  “Well, of course. Not that I will, though. I don’t like either. I just like this tee shirt.”

  Sunlight glinted off the Acura’s hood and into her eyes, and she lowered the visor. “Damn. I forgot my sunglasses.”

  “We don’t really have time to go back. I think I have an extra pair in the glove box.”

  Harley found a pair of bright red cat-eye sunglasses crusted with rhinestones. She put them on and turned to look at him. “Look at me. I’m Elton John.”

  “Sir Elton John.” He glanced at her. “Come to think of it, there is a strong resemblance.”

  She said something quite rude and sat back. “I can’t believe I forgot my sunglasses. I lost track of time while I was hunting for Sam, I guess.”

  “Still no sign of him?”

  She shook her head. “No. He’s probably at the zoo teasing the lions and standing in line for his cut of their dinner.”

  “Sam’s too selfish to share. He also likes his creature comforts. He’ll be back.”

  “Unless he’s gotten lost, or hurt, or . . . ” She didn’t want to think about the implications. “We’re supposed to meet Yogi and the other finalists at the Heartbreak Hotel, and then take a van from there up to the Perpetual Garden.”

  “If it wasn’t for the killer lying in wait to slaughter us all, I’d be excited about this. I’ve never been to Graceland.”

  “What? You’ve never been to Graceland? As many times as you’ve booked tours, given the spiel, even driven the vans, you’ve never been in the mansion?”

  “Not once. I did go around back one time looking for a lost German and found him sitting in one of the cars—EPE was polite about it, but not at all understanding, I might add—but other than that, I’ve never crossed the threshold.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Isn’t it? Tonight will be another adventure for me.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all it is.”

  Tootsie looked over at her, and she knew they were both thinking the same thing. Tonight it was going to be “do or die trying.”

  Yogi and Diva were waiting for them at the Heartbreak Hotel. The large pink structure sat just across the street from Graceland, convenient to tourists and much safer than walking the area at night. Sad to say, this neighborhood of nice homes and quiet living had gradually turned into a collage of car lots, Elvis-related tourist traps, and high-traffi
c that lured more than just people who came to honor their idol. When Elvis was still alive, it’d been an upscale neighborhood called Graceland, the white mansion being just one more nice house among several big houses set back on wooded lots from Highway 51. The mansion had been named for the neighborhood. Who knew that one day it’d be an icon recognized around the world? After his mother died and Vernon wed again, Elvis bought his father and his new wife a house on the next street and put a gate through the back fence for easy access. Vernon Presley died after Elvis, and the gate no longer existed.

  Despite silent reassurances that everything would be fine, Harley’s stomach knotted and her heart thumped an escalated beat against her ribs. When they walked into the hotel lobby, Yogi saw her and Tootsie immediately. He came toward them through the crowd, his eyes a little wide when he looked at Tootsie.

  “You look just like Priscilla,” he said.

  Apparently, he was right, because people stared at them and whispered, and a few clutched autograph books a little tighter, as if poised to advance.

  “Except for the Adam’s apple,” Harley pointed out. “And he’s taller.”

  “Small details,” Tootsie said with a smile. “You should have come as Lisa Marie.”

  “Then how would the killer recognize me?”

  “Good point.”

  “Is, uh, everyone here?” Harley asked her father.

  He said Eric couldn’t come. “A music gig tonight. Train crash music.”

  Harley looked at her mother. Diva smiled. “The cards say you’ll be fine.”

  “Great.” She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. She’d never had much faith in the cards. It just seemed preposterous that painted card stock could tell the future. Harley had decided that Diva really used tarot as props for her own uncanny abilities. Years of experience should have convinced her that Diva possessed a sixth sense, but pragmatism always interfered. Maybe it was she who was different, not her mother.

  But what if Diva was wrong? It could happen.

  Still, Harley felt much better when she finally spied Morgan. He drifted through the crowd aimlessly, never looking their way. The dark beard and mustache wouldn’t fool anyone who knew him well, but maybe the killer would be too focused on her to notice.

  That thought made her stomach jump again.

  “It’s about to start,” Yogi said excitedly, and Harley turned to see Claude Williams at the hotel doors, escorting Preston Hughes and the finalists toward a waiting van.

  Williams gave a start when he saw Harley and Tootsie, his eyes going big as goose eggs at the Priscilla look-alike.

  “You . . . you’re not Priscilla,” he said, after surveying Tootsie.

  “Tonight I am.” Tootsie smiled and batted his fake eyelashes. “Make-up magic.”

  A fan rushed forward and held out a notebook. “Ms. Presley, will you please sign this for me?” she asked. “It’s such an honor to meet you!”

  Tootsie gave Williams a wickedly impish glance and said “Of course. What’s your name?”

  “Emma Rutherford.”

  He took the pen and book she held out and signed with a flourish, then gave it back to her. “There you go, Emma. Thank you for coming to honor Elvis and his contributions to music.”

  “You’ll get arrested for impersonating her,” Williams said angrily when the happy fan went back to join her friends, and Tootsie shook his head.

  “No, I won’t. Not only is she a public figure, but I signed my own name. If Emma looks close enough, she’ll be able to tell the difference, but I used lots of curls so it’ll take a while.”

  Harley looked at him. “You’re always surprising me. I never realized how entertaining you are.”

  “Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  “That I believe.”

  Once on the van, a little crowded with the impersonators and some of their families, it took longer than usual to cross Elvis Presley Boulevard because of the crowds. With dark closing in, everyone lit their candles as they waited at the iron gates with the musical notes on them. A few guards held back the fans as the gates opened and the van cruised slowly through, continuing up the gently curved driveway to stop in front of the mansion. An air of solemnity marked their descent from the van, as if they were at a funeral instead of a candlelight vigil for a man dead since 1977.

  Several people were already there, the usual guards positioned for crowd control, ropes set up in front of the graves to guide people around so it didn’t get too chaotic, and lights gleaming on the tombstones. Flowers, teddy bears, letters, cards, and even a sheet cake frosted with Elvis’s likeness and dates of his birth and death, were placed around the markers. Three graves: Elvis in the center, his parents on each side of him. Behind the graves on one side was the pool, on the other the half-shell-shaped memorial where people often sat on the steps to meditate.

  “Just act normal,” Harley murmured to Tootsie, “and don’t let on to Yogi that we expect anything to happen. You know how he is. He’d be sure to say or do something weird and blow it for us.”

  Tootsie patted the ends of his bobbed wig with one hand, his long fingernails painted blood red. “All we need is your Nana here to make things really interesting.”

  “Please. I’m nervous enough without the reminder of her hauling around a loaded pistol.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re wired for sound and there’s bound to be enough cops here to pounce on the guy.”

  “I’m not really nervous. Honest.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Does it show?”

  “Your secret is safe.” He patted her arm. “There’s your cue, girlfriend. Step on up. I’m right behind you.”

  There had to be several thousand people in the line that wound like a serpent down the driveway, out the gates onto the sidewalks, and down the street. Elvis Presley Boulevard had been blocked off, a precaution since a car had slammed into tourists a few years back. Only a single lane stayed open, and traffic guards directed the vehicles.

  The gates swung slowly open and fans began the procession, walking solemnly up the hill. An eerie hush fell over the crowd.

  Harley took a deep breath. “All right, Priscilla,” she whispered. “Showtime!”

  Butterflies square-danced in her stomach as she lit her candle, following her father and the other finalists. Preston Hughes headed the line, dressed in black leather. No one said anything as they walked slowly between the pool and the gravesites enclosed by black iron pickets.

  It got so quiet Harley heard the thundering rush of blood in her ears as it raced to keep up with her rapid heartbeat. Every shadow beyond the lights looked sinister. Tall trees made black silhouettes against floodlights. If she tried to see past them, all she could make out were the bright spots in front of her eyes. Just as well.

  Six Elvises stood ceremoniously in front of the graves, their lit candles wavering ellipses that illuminated their faces. Yogi stood right beside Preston Hughes, and as always, silent tears slid down his cheeks. He wasn’t alone. Others had tears in their eyes. A magnificent tribute, she supposed, to a man who’d been a legend even in his own time.

  Yogi stood a little straighter, and in his clear baritone began to sing, “Amazing Grace,” the hymn that had been one of Elvis’s favorites rising heavenward past the tall oaks. Others began to sing, too, a swelling crescendo that would have been more moving if Harley wasn’t so scared.

  She tried to focus on her candle, but her peripheral vision kept waiting for a maniac to burst out of the trees or crowd to attack her. Rationality told her he’d wait until she was more accessible, but nerves stretched a little too tightly insisted that he’d succeeded in plain sight before and could do it again before anyone realized what was happening.

  “Steady, girlfriend,” Tootsie murmured when her candle be
gan to shake a little too hard. “You’re covered.”

  She kept her head down as if focused on the candle and graves. It’d be nice if she could spot at least one of the undercover cops, but maybe that was the point. If she could find them, so could the Killer Elvis.

  Everyone started singing, and Tootsie nudged her with his elbow. “Participate. Sing.”

  “You’ve never heard me sing,” she muttered to her candle. “I frighten crows.”

  “No one will notice. Just move your lips.”

  The Elvises began to move around the graves, up the steps to stand with their candles on the top step of the colonnaded half-shell. Harley saw Yogi wipe his eyes. She looked toward her mother. Diva remained on the fringes of the crowd, standing by a tall planter, but if she’d been trying to hide, she failed. Diva always stood out in a crowd. Not just because she wore long skirts with bells and tie-dyed tunic tops, but because she still looked as young and beautiful as she must have looked back in the seventies.

  A slight breeze lifted long strands of Diva’s blonde hair, and tiny bells tinkled as she lifted her arm to push it behind her ear. Harley couldn’t hear the bells, but she saw them shimmy and knew from long experience the sound they made.

  While her mother moved to stand below Yogi and the other impersonators, fans filed past in what seemed to be an unending line. Ellipses of light flickered in the cool breeze that made the night bearable, faces mostly sober and reflective as they passed by the graves.

  Harley and Tootsie stood to one side, Harley with her back next to the planter and not far from the concrete shell occupied by impersonators and EPE employees. Somewhere in this crowd were undercover cops, and it was both comforting and unnerving that she had no idea who they might be. She’d tested her wire before leaving home and knew it was in good working order. The police already knew the range and were in position. All she had to do was bait the killer.

  With that in mind, she eased away from Tootsie to amble along the edge of the concrete walkway. The grounds of Graceland were a river of light. The well-lit highway and shops across the street were mostly hidden by the trees and a high stone fence. To her right was the mansion, lit up as if Elvis was home. Behind that was the old office, the building dark now that no tourists were visiting. Next to it was the studio where Elvis had spent many nights singing with the Jordanaires. A three-rail fence separated the backyard from the pasture where a few horses still grazed. At night, subdivision lights glowed beyond the pasture and high fieldstone fence that surrounded the property. The horses were only black silhouettes against the streetlights.