Suspicious Mimes

by Virginia Brown

  A sudden chill raked down her spine and she didn’t know why. Hair rose on the nape of her neck, and her muscles tensed.

  Nothing looked amiss. Fans were still weeping and singing, candles still flickered, and the air was still heady with fragrance from flowery wreaths. Red and white roses, carnations, gladiolas, and even tulips flanked the graves. Teddy bears and handwritten notes were tucked among the flowers.

  Harley edged toward the shadows, hoping the undercover guys noticed her. If the killer was here, he was being very cautious. Maybe temptation would draw him out. Guards focused on the fans to make certain they kept behind the ropes.

  Sometimes an overeager mourner tried to slip beneath the ropes to place a tribute directly on the graves, but the guards discouraged that. If they didn’t, the graves would disappear under a mound of stuffed animals, letters, and whatever other tributes the fans thought appropriate.

  As Amazing Grace ended, Yogi segued into another Elvis song. Beside him, Preston Hughes looked furious. Harley smiled. Hughes probably felt like Yogi had stolen his thunder, but if he’d taken the lead Yogi wouldn’t have been able to. Anyway, Yogi hadn’t intended any insult by it. It wasn’t in his nature to be malicious. He was probably just so swept away by the vigil festivities he couldn’t help himself.

  There was no sign of Williams, and she wondered if he was present at all. There was something going on between those two, she just couldn’t figure out what. Hughes still seemed the most likely to kill, and Lydia would have known him from previous contests. Of course, she’d have known Williams as well. That gave both of them a good reason to kill her, if there was such a thing as a good reason to kill anyone. Motives for killing Elvis impersonators, however, were known only to the murderer.

  But why kill me? Harley mused. I obviously can’t identify him or he’d already be in jail.

  The only identification she could make would be if he popped up looking like a mime or stuffed into a giant Redbird costume.

  Or if he still wore that strong, unpleasant aftershave. She wondered if he knew how distinctive it was, or if he even realized that he smelled like he’d bathed in a vat of it.

  A lot of things went through her mind as she waited for terror to strike, most of it things she’d rather not think about at all. An hour passed, then two, and then a string of unbearably boring hours as she watched Elvis mourners file past. Of the finalists, only Yogi remained under the gentle curve of concrete.

  He always stayed until the last, and had always come home bleary-eyed and exhausted but exhilarated. Yogi liked to wring every drop of emotion from his annual bout of grief and adulation. Diva had better sense. She’d gone home a long time ago.

  So had Preston Hughes.

  A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped, heart in her throat. When she whirled around she bumped into a uniformed guard. He caught her and said, “We think you should stand over there, ma’am, out of the way.” He indicated the shadows beyond the ropes with a glance in that direction.

  “In the dark? Can you still see me?”

  “Yes. I’ll check on you. Don’t worry.”

  The trouble with undercover cops was that she could never pick them out of the crowds. A uniformed guard should have been easy to recognize, but she’d never thought the police would do that. She’d thought the undercover guys would be disguised as fans, but maybe this made better sense. Who’d suspect one of the guards? It was too obvious.

  Harley waited a few moments, so as not to make it too obvious she’d been directed to go to a different spot. The crowd had thinned out, though more fans still moved in the slow, steady procession.

  It was rather comforting to know the police were so thorough and close by. Even if she was wired, there were too many things that could happen if left on her own. A sidewalk led to the back of the mansion and to the recording studio where awards filled every available space on the high walls. To discourage tourists wandering away from the vigil, the lights were off and it was dark as she ambled casually toward the shadows behind the mansion.

  A cool breeze eased the night’s heat, and hungry mosquitoes had her slapping at her arms and face. Even with bug spray, the damn things found her irresistible. If only the rest of the world felt that way.

  The guard had disappeared, but she thought she saw an undercover cop she recognized. It had to be the guy Morgan called Chainsaw. She didn’t know what his real name was, and since it made her a little queasy to even think about how he might have gotten that nickname, she’d never asked.

  Chainsaw, or his twin, looked in her direction. Like Morgan, he sported a beard, but he was easy to recognize because of his size. He was about the width of a side-by-side refrigerator, and a little taller. A little beyond him stood Tootsie, looking definitely out of place in his disguise as Priscilla. He kept tugging at the back of his skirt, and she had a momentary fear he’d brought along a weapon of some kind. Then she realized he was adjusting his thong underwear. He’d been complaining about it earlier, grumbling that the damn panties rode up and chafed him where he was the tenderest. She’d tried not to roll her eyes, but failed.

  A sense of the ridiculous had always had the power to amuse her, and the sudden thought that no stranger would believe it if she told them she was waiting in the shadows for an Elvis impersonator to kill her, while a man dressed up as Priscilla Presley was one of her bodyguards and her father wore a white jumpsuit studded with fake gems and wept by the grave of a man dead over thirty years. It sounded pretty odd. Preposterous, a stranger unacquainted with her would say, and she’d have to admit that they were right.

  Still, the reality of it struck her as quite funny, and she couldn’t hold back a bubble of laughter, even though that seemed strange, too, standing alone in the shadows and cackling wildly to herself. The police listening to her must be wondering if she’d cracked under the pressure.

  Then two things happened at once. A woman began yelling that her purse had been stolen and someone grabbed Harley from behind and clapped a hand over her mouth. Just before the gloved hand covered her nose as well, she recognized the strong smell of aftershave.

  Struggling didn’t do her much good. His arm around her ribs and chest held her too tight. She clawed at the hand over her mouth, desperate to breathe. Blood pounded loud in her ears, and little lights exploded in front of her eyes, while candle flames and spotlights did a weird dance. It felt as if her lungs were bursting. Pinwheels of light whirled faster and faster until they turned into a single light that smothered the shadows. Then a buzz sounded and a shock went through her. All her muscles turned to jelly. Abruptly, darkness swallowed the light.

  Then . . . nothing.

  Nineteen

  Harley woke with a start. It was dark and her head hurt. So did her throat. She tried to speak, to ask where the hell she was, but it came out as a smothered croak.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” a voice crooned, and she blinked her eyes in an attempt to make sense of the shadows.

  Tape covered her mouth, but thankfully not her nose. She could breathe, but it was obvious he didn’t want conversation. Something bound her hands behind her, and her feet were tied so tightly her circulation was cut off. So she glared in the direction of the voice to show her contempt.

  He chuckled. “Still defiant, are you? You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble, you know. Not like the others. They were quick, easy, foolish. You, though. You’ve been a challenge. I like games. I always win, but you’ve been quite a test of my abilities.”

  Leaning forward, he was a black silhouette against the faint glow of lights behind him. She blinked to clear her vision, heart pounding so hard in her chest he had to hear it.

  Harley swallowed hard, hoping the guys listening to the wire heard his confession, as well as figured out where he’d taken her. It had better be soon, or she was going to be his next victim.

  Surpris
ingly, he ran the back of his fingers over her cheek, chuckling again when she flinched. “Do you think I’m going to kill you? Not here. After the last time, I want to make sure nothing can go wrong. Besides, I’m enjoying myself.”

  She glared at him, but he found that amusing, too. “I like that you’re not going to make it easy for me. I noticed you on the van, you know, how confident you were, like nothing in your life had ever gone wrong. Like you’d never been left stranded, alone, with the important things in your life jerked away so fast you hit the ground hard. It leaves you stunned, hopeless. Furious.”

  He leaned closer, so she could see his eyes behind the Elvis mask. They were dark and glittering, with an almost fanatical light so evil that she couldn’t help a shudder.

  Another chuckle came from behind the mask. “I’m enjoying this too much. Vengeance is sweet.”

  Then he stood up and went to stand beside what she could now see was a door with blinds that blocked out most of the light. Faint light revealed some kind of uniform. He eased aside two of the slats to peer out.

  “They haven’t noticed you’re missing. I think it’s time.”

  Harley realized they were in what had been Elvis’s office. Now it was a tourist spot, and during regular hours had a running video of Elvis being interviewed on a TV behind the desk, talking about his stint in the Army. It was an old black and white film that flickered, but Elvis was so young and handsome and shy that it was one of the best interviews of him she’d ever seen.

  If only she could get some of the duct tape off her mouth, she could mutter where they were so the cops listening to her wire would know she was in deep trouble. She wiggled next to the desk and scraped her face against the side. It didn’t seem to help much. Keeping one eye on the killer looking out the window, she rubbed against the edge of the desk until her cheek burned. When the Elvis looked around, she stopped.

  Another chuckle came from his direction. “The first thing I did was get rid of that wire. It’s in the bushes where the cops can’t see it, but it’s still recording the vigil so they won’t realize you’re missing for a little while longer. I’m missing a chance to get rid of that pervert in the leather skirt, though. This would be a perfect opportunity to kill him as well, but he’s still standing too close to the crowd. Everyone’s looking at him in that ridiculous getup, and the risk’s too great. But tonight you were easy enough.”

  Harley just stared at him. Her wire was gone. Damn, damn, damn! Real fear oozed through her veins. No one had missed her, which meant no one was looking for her. Once he got her away from Graceland she was doomed. Of course, if he got too panicky he might kill her right here and leave her body on the cold floor. It’d be easy enough. He still wore the guard’s uniform.

  He couldn’t be the one who’d asked her to move back a little bit, because she hadn’t smelled that awful aftershave. Were there two killers? Maybe this guy and Hughes?

  They both had motives, insane as they were. One for vengeance, the other for triumph. It couldn’t be for money. There’d been no demands made and nothing that she could see to gain, unless Rhett Sandler had come up with something about the payroll computer being hacked.

  A burst of noise made the fake Elvis turn back to look out the window again. Harley worked at the restraints on her wrists while rubbing her face against the corner of the desk. She finally got a corner of the duct tape over her mouth free. She scrubbed harder at the corner of the tape until it only covered half her mouth.

  Her head still throbbed and her stomach sat at the bottom of her throat. The Elvis had turned to look outside again, and she sensed his growing tension. One of her Catholic school prayers came to mind, the Our Father whirling round and round in her head. If she was going to die, it wouldn’t hurt to remind God that she tried to be good. Most of the time. Some of the time.

  Okay, infrequently, but most of her sins were venial ones. Surely He’d take that into account? Then, just to be on the safe side, she reminded the Earth Mother that she didn’t litter or defile the earth. Diva would be so proud. She firmly believed that Native American respect for the earth and environment went hand in hand with a strong belief in a Higher Power.

  Then the deadly Elvis turned back to stride toward her, and all thought went completely out of her head. Fear took over, a thudding apprehension making her numb. She strained at the stuff binding her wrists. It didn’t loosen. Then instinct took over. When Elvis leaned over her, she did the only thing she could. She hit him squarely in the crotch with both feet. It worked.

  He went down like a sack of potatoes, bent over and retching. Harley knew she’d only disabled him temporarily. When he recovered, he’d most likely be in a nasty mood.

  She skidded across the floor like an inchworm until she reached the door. Miraculously, she somehow got to her feet. Behind her, Elvis groaned, but the retching had stopped. She had to do something quick. So she banged her head against the glass window of the door, buffered a little by the blinds. It didn’t break. She hit it again, harder this time. Her eyes crossed but the window burst with a loud sound. An alarm immediately blared with a whoop whoop sound.

  Sticking her head close to the gaping hole, she hollered as loud as she could, “Help! Help! Fire! Fire!” The last came from the safety course Mr. Penney had insisted the employees take. The reasoning was that people often ignored the cry for help, but usually responded pretty fast to the Fire! thing. Not that anyone would hear her over the shrieking alarm. Thankfully, someone did. Not the undercover cops she expected, but Yogi. He hit the door with his shoulder, but the deadlock held. Panicked now, Harley bent to try to turn the little knob with her chin. That didn’t work. Elvis’s gasping had stopped. She turned her head sideways and used her teeth. That worked. Yogi burst into the office.

  “Are you all right?” he asked as he brushed past her.

  Harley had seen murder in his eyes, and she said Yes as fast as she could with her teeth and mouth still smarting.

  Yogi barely listened. He bore down on the Elvis, knocked him back to his knees and kicked him. Hard. Elvis grunted and tried to get up, but Yogi kept kicking him in the stomach, the face, his rib cage.

  This is a pacifist? Yogi? Harley yelled at him to stop before he killed him, but Yogi ignored her. He kept making growling sounds deep in his throat, sounding like King when he cornered one of those big leathery rawhide toys he liked to chew into a soggy lump.

  She hopped on her bound feet toward her father. Maybe she could distract him from killing the guy, though it did seem rather justified. From long experience, however, she knew the cops wouldn’t agree. They usually looked askance at that sort of thing.

  “Yogi!” she hollered again, as close to his ear as she could get since he kept kicking the Elvis sprawled on the floor. “Stop or you’ll kill him!”

  Panting, Yogi said, “Sounds good to me.”

  “Agh!” she said back.

  About that time, the cavalry arrived. The first thing they did was pull Yogi away from the bloody thing on the floor.

  Someone turned on the lights, and she tried to see who the Elvis was since his mask had come off. He looked vaguely familiar, though it was hard to tell because of the swelling, blood, and shoe imprints on his face.

  Cops got busy, hauling the Elvis to his feet, slapping handcuffs on his wrists and reading him his rights. If not for Morgan, they may well have taken Yogi in, too. Assault and attempted murder charges wouldn’t help her father’s life-style. After convincing his fellow officers that Yogi had only acted in defense of his daughter, Morgan turned to look at her.

  “Hi there,” she said through swollen lips. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Why do you always go for the crotch?” He didn’t sound really mad about it. He must have been thinking of their first encounter, when she’d kicked him in the crotch, too.

  “It just seems the right thing to do,�
� she said.

  He smiled. “Rules according to Harley.”

  “Yep. Always seems to work.”

  “You know, I may just leave you tied up. It’s kind of sexy.”

  She lifted an eye brow. “I’m not really into the bondage thing.”

  “The longer I know you, the more it seems appropriate. Insurance against your uncanny ability to get in trouble.”

  Rather indignant, she said, “Trouble always finds me, I don’t go looking for it, you know.”

  “It’s the same thing. By the way, you’ve just been rescued again.”

  “Well, if I had to depend on my guards, I wouldn’t have gotten rescued at all! Breaking the window is what helped. That I did all by myself.”

  “So you did. Guess I’ll untie you, though it’s against my better judgment.”

  She tried to blow a raspberry but her lips didn’t cooperate. She settled for a glare instead.

  Just as Morgan got her wrists and ankles loose, a loud noise came from outside the door. “I’m one of her bodyguards and I’m going in! Move out of my way or I’ll have to get ugly.”

  One of the cops stuck his head into the office. “There’s a woman—or guy—out here who says she’s—he’s?—a bodyguard. Looks like Priscilla Presley.”

  “Let Priscilla in.” Morgan sounded amused.

  Tootsie burst into the room. His wig was askew, and he clattered across the floor on high heels. “Are you all right?” He looked anxious.