Officer Elvis

by Gary Gusick

  “How’s Rita getting on?” asked Shelby. “She knows her Elvis, don’t she?”

  “She’s got good police instincts, too,” said Darla.

  “Well, my instincts tell me it’s time for another visit to the scotch stand,” Shelby said, and ended the call.

  —

  Darla and Rita spent the next four hours hanging around the lobby of the Beaumont Inn, staying out of the forensic team’s way and hoping they’d find something useful. It didn’t happen. The room was clean. The killer had used gloves and left without a trace.

  It was almost eight o’clock. Rita had just gotten off the phone with Collins Duckworth. “The event director still refuses to cancel,” she said. “He claims it would be like canceling Christmas.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” said Darla. “Well, it may will be a ‘Blue Christmas.’ ”

  Rita smirked. “There’s some good news. The city of Tupelo has found some money for additional officers.” Her ringtone went off. At this time in the evening, this was not a good sign.

  She listened briefly, thanked the caller, and hung up. “You ain’t going to like this, Detective.”

  “Not another murder?” asked Darla.

  “No, ma’am, thank the good Lord,” said Rita. “There was a problem at Sun Records. Up in Memphis where Elvis did his first recordings. Sun Records is a museum now.”

  “Rita, please, what happened?” asked Darla.

  “I guess the Sun Records people heard the rumor ’cause they called the Homeland Security in Memphis. They sent in one of them bomb-finding dogs and he sniffed out a bomb.”

  Darla phoned Henry Jendlin to bring him up to date. “I’m afraid Graceland might be next,” she said.

  “Graceland has their own security,” said Jendlin. “The FBI can also send five or six additional officers. And you’ll be glad to know I’ve found another six officers for the Ultimate Elvis finals.”

  “Thanks, Henry,” she said, and ended the call.

  “What’s next?” asked Rita.

  “We’re going home,” said Darla, “unless you have a better idea.”

  Rita smiled shyly. “You know what a Hail Mary is, Detective?”

  “Please,” said Darla. “I was raised Catholic and was married to a wide receiver.”

  “There’s this one fella that might be able to help us. Only he’s a little peculiar.”

  “What kind of a peculiar?”

  “The Elvis kind. His name is Eap Harris.”

  “Let me guess,” said Darla. “EAP stands for Elvis Aaron Presley.”

  “He lives up near Mistletoe Hills, about forty-five minutes south of Tupelo,” said Rita. “He runs a museum. Well, it’s more of a firetrap. It’s called Presleyville. He says he’s got over one hundred thousand Elvis collectibles but then other times he says it is over a million. People say he’s got a photographic memory. If the killer is obsessed with Elvis, he’s probably visited the most famous Elvis sites. So maybe Eap has met this guy, whoever he is. He may have talked to him. If he has, he’ll sure remember him.”

  “Mistletoe is what, close to two and a half hours away?” asked Darla. “We wouldn’t get there until nearly eleven. You sure it will be open?”

  “Positive,” said Rita. “Presleyville, it don’t ever close. They’re open twenty-four/seven. Eap, he gives guided tours around the clock, and sleeps in between visitors.”

  “Do you have the phone number?” asked Darla.

  “There ain’t no phone,” said Rita. “There was at one time, but Eap never answered it.”

  “Okay,” said Darla. “What else have we got? We’ll drive up tonight and question him.”

  “That might be a problem,” said Rita.

  “You mean won’t answer my questions?”

  “Meaning he might not stop talking long enough for you to ask,” said Rita. “Like I said, he’s on the peculiar side. ’Course, then, so are a lot of folks in Mississippi.”

  “You think?” said Darla.

  Chapter 19

  Candlelight

  SOMEWHERE AROUND NINE

  PETUNIA’S CAFÉ

  The waitress was wearing a name tag tonight. “Charlotte,” it said. Charlotte, Daniels remembered from somewhere, was a kind of cake. Chocolate, wasn’t it? The name didn’t suit her. He preferred to think of her as Ginger. She was bare-legged again, black uniform this time, but the same three inches above the knee.

  He was feeling way more relaxed than at lunch the other day. He’d had a successful mission earlier. The Real King had smiled at him and told him to go ahead, take the night off, party a little, but watch what he said.

  Charlotte swayed over to his table and smiled like last time, but a little more so.

  The stuff he had accomplished earlier was a confidence booster and he returned her smile. “I guess a man has to come back for dinner before he can get to know his waitress on a first-name basis,” he said, glancing at the nameplate on her chest and enjoying the way the buttons pulled at her blouse.

  “Oh, the nameplate,” she said. “I lost the last one. They had to order a replacement.”

  He made himself look up to see her eyes. Crayola blue.

  “It hadn’t come when you were here before,” she said.

  He was enjoying her too much and couldn’t think of anything clever to say.

  She filled in the gap. “You left without saying goodbye,” she said.

  Images filled his mind, like frames of a comic book, or stills from a movie—

  Him standing up and kissing her, right there in the restaurant. The people, turning their heads, seeing who he was, the real him, and stopping their meals to applaud.

  Next frame, him behind the wheel of his car—only not the rental Malibu he’d switched to that afternoon. No, a sports car, a Corvette. Her next to him, leaning in and smothering him with kisses, like she was the luckiest girl in the world.

  More frames. At his apartment, both of them in front of the altar, the photos around the mirror and the news articles—the two of them facing each other, and him saying, “Now you know the truth,” and her saying she always knew.

  Then he was onstage, the lights glaring, but he could make out that she was in the front row and hear her saying, “Will you sing for me?” And then a close-up of his face, and him saying “Baby, it’s what I do.” That was the best part; right there, the “it’s what I do.”

  “Well?” Charlotte said, shaking him back to reality. “Should I ask to see your driver’s license?”

  “What for?” he asked. Was she on to him? How could that be?

  She shifted her weight so that her right hip stuck out and he got that she was just flirting. “Or you could just tell me your name,” she said. “We like to know all our regular customers’ names.”

  She’s covering her tracks, in case I’m not interested, he thought. Better fix that. He gave a smile to let her know he liked how she was acting. “It’s Bill. Bill Daniels.” Even though he’d been using the name since he got into Jackson, it still sounded strange when he said it.

  “Well now, Mr. Bill Daniels,” she said, “would you like to know about our specials?”

  “I already know what’s special,” he said, surprised at his boldness. He really was a new man.

  “I guess you’re not the type to waste time, are you?” she said, looking right in his eyes.

  He looked again for something clever to say, but couldn’t, so he admitted, “I’m not good at all these games. I’m just trying to find a way to ask you out.”

  She looked past him, over his shoulder. He knew she was looking at the kitchen to make sure the owner wasn’t paying attention.

  Her voice got quiet. “We’re about a half hour from closing. I’ll need another fifteen minutes after that. You could meet me at the end of the block in front of where Ray-Ray’s used to be. We’re not supposed to date customers.”

  “How about if I call you Ginger?” he said, his voice quiet like hers.

  “You don’t
like Charlotte?” she asked. “Some old girlfriend’s name? Or your granny’s?”

  “I like the color of your hair,” he said, “plus having a special name for you, that I’m the only one that uses.”

  “You can call me Ginger if you like,” she said. “Are you taking me to someplace nice, Bill?”

  “Don’t be long,” he said to her, still talking almost in a whisper. Then he said in a big voice that he knew the remaining customers would hear, “I changed my mind. It’s getting late. I will come back another time, Charlotte.”

  His face was serious as they looked at each other. Then Charlotte winked.

  —

  The “someplace nice” turned out to be the Music Room, a martini bar in the Fondren area of northeast Jackson. The Music Room had the atmosphere he was after: cozy, soft lighting, nice furniture, the wallpaper with musical notes and scores. Every booth had its own fifties-style jukebox, filled with a variety of music—selections from Mozart, Beethoven, Gershwin, Louis Armstrong, Bing Crosby, the Beatles, Michael Jackson, and other greats from different eras, and of course, this being Mississippi, four Elvis Presley songs.

  She ordered a Cosmo, smiling at him. He smiled back knowing that a Cosmo was the drink those women had on Sex and the City, especially the blonde that was always going on about all the guys she was screwing and blowing. The redhead in the series was hot, too, but she was stuck-up and the woman who played her turned out to be a lesbian in real life. He told himself to stop overthinking everything.

  When it was his turn, he ordered a banana daiquiri.

  “Really?” she asked. “I thought you’d be more like the single-malt scotch type. Boy, was that dumb. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

  “I’m usually a Maker’s Mark man,” he said, “but I thought I’d have a banana daiquiri. It’s kind of symbolic. In honor of something I did recently of a professional nature.” He remembered to watch his words. “It’s a long story,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it sometime.”

  The waiter confirmed their orders.

  He picked a song on the jukebox to see how she’d react. “What do you think of the recording?” he said when it was over.

  “It’s nice,” she said.

  He was about to say something more but the drinks arrived. She went right at her Cosmo, licking her tongue over her lips between the first and second sips. Big sips they were. She paused, like she was letting the alcohol do its job. She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve never really been that into that kind of music. I like country. Kenny Chesney, Dwight Yoakam, that type.”

  “Country is good,” he said, “especially if you go back a ways, like the Grand Ole Opry in the earlyish days.”

  “Like Patsy Cline? Loretta Lynn?”

  “I was thinking more of the male vocalists.”

  “Some of them were pretty good, I guess. Johnny Cash. I saw the movie of his life story. That actor with the harelip played him. But I don’t think Johnny Cash had a harelip in real life.”

  She was dancing around it, circling the flame. He had an urge to just blurt it out, but held off. It was important to him that she made the discovery on her own. It was just that he wanted her to be the first.

  He took a gulp of his drink, which wasn’t any good, but he liked that it reminded him of Everson chomping the sandwich. He took another gulp, followed by the rest of what was in the glass.

  She’d finished her drink, too. When the waiter came, he ordered them another, switching his to a Maker’s Mark.

  The drinks came and they clinked glasses. “To the future,” he said.

  She looked at him inquisitively. “You’re not from around here, are you, Bill? As good-looking as you are, I think I’d have remembered your face.”

  She’s the one, he thought. I know she is. “I’d like to take you to my apartment,” he said. “There’s something there…”

  “Your etchings?” she asked, and laughed.

  It took him a few seconds to realize that she was kidding him.

  “It won’t take long,” he said.

  “That’s not something a girl wants to hear.”

  This time he got the joke and smiled. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,” he said, signaling to the waiter that he’d like the check.

  On the way to his apartment, he leaned over from the driver’s side and kissed her on the side of her mouth.

  “We don’t want to have an accident,” she said, but stroked his cheek and let her fingers brush against his ear.

  The Saint James Apartments, where he had his furnished one-bedroom, wasn’t one of those posh places with a swimming pool and tennis courts, but it wasn’t run-down, either. Lit up at night, it didn’t look half bad. He could sense Charlotte was okay with it.

  As they were walking up the stairs, he said, “Really and truly, you don’t recognize me?”

  She slipped her arms through his. “Are you fishing for a compliment? I told you I remembered you from the first time you came in.”

  That wasn’t what he meant, but they were already at the door and he got caught up in what he hoped was going to happen.

  He opened the door for her and led her by the hand into the living room. He took her in his arms and kissed her. She started to end it a little too soon, and he pulled back to let her get just as hungry for him as he was for her. She stroked the back of his neck and kissed him this time. When they parted, their eyes met and she said, “Umm.” He pressed her head against this chest, but then caught sight of the bedroom out of the corner of his eye. On the dresser was the shrine with the mirror above, and photos around the edges of the mirror. There was also the candle that he kept lit twenty-four hours a day.

  “It’s time,” he said.

  “Maybe it is,” she said, with a smile.

  “I want to show you something,” he said, taking her by the hand into the bedroom. “Close your eyes and don’t open them until I say.”

  “Okay,” she said, but he could hear a bit of apprehension in her voice.

  He led her to the altar. She was facing the mirror, him right behind her, his face just to the left of hers.

  “Open sesame,” he said.

  They were both looking in the mirror, his eyes trained on hers, as she looked from one place to another on the mirror, taking in the photos that he had arranged in three concentric circles—a couple dozen of them. Her eyes darted back and forth between the photos and his reflection in the mirror.

  He smiled at her reflection, hoping she’d understand.

  She bit her lip. Not scared, but perplexed. “It’s you?” she asked. “They’re you? Right?”

  His smile became a Cheshire grin. “They are what they are,” he said. “I am who I am.”

  “But they’re old, all of them. Like from way back when,” she said, befuddled.

  “I’m back. I wanted you to be the first to know. I’m going to be bigger than ever.” He turned her, so that they were facing side by side in front of the mirror. He took her hands in his. He had in mind to go down on one knee and ask her to be his, not marry him exactly, but join him in his mission. But she tensed up, and he let his hands fall from her waist.

  “I’m really, I’m really not sure what you’re talking about, Bill,” Charlotte said, “but I think things might be moving a bit too fast. Maybe we should just cool it for the night.”

  “I want you to be part of this,” he said, trying to stay calm. “I want us to do this together.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “You’re really cute, and I don’t care if you’ve had a little work done. It ain’t that.”

  He felt like she was about to bolt. “You don’t understand. I’m just trying to get back what’s mine.”

  She backed up a step. Then another. “I gotta go,” she said. “Please take me home. Now, okay?”

  He saw the fear in her eyes, the panic. She was failing the final test.

  “You know what? I’ll just get myself home,” she said, turning to look at the door, like
she was wondering if she could get away if he tried to stop her.

  “No!” he shouted, and then regretted it. He got ahold of himself and made sure the next thing he said came out calm. “Please, please stay, for just a little longer,” he said. “Then I’ll take you home. I promise.”

  She thought for a second, and said: “Okay, sure, but could you get me a glass of water? I’m really thirsty.”

  “Okay, one glass of water coming right up,” he said, trying to calm her down. “But first I want you to sit down, there on the bed.”

  That’s what she did, walking backward until she reached the bed, her eyes never leaving him. The back of her legs touched the bed. She sat down and managed a weak smile.

  He backed up in the other direction, toward the living room. I’m all in now, he thought, even if I shouldn’t have brought her here. When he reached the living room, he turned and walked toward the kitchen. I’ll tell her my name, he thought. I have to. She won’t understand any other way. As he turned off the faucet, he heard the apartment door close.

  Rushing back to the bedroom he took his revolver, a Glock, out of the top dresser drawer and went after her.

  She was down the two flights of stairs and running toward the street by the time he made it to the stairs.

  She was in short heels, but she must have been used to running because she had already reached the end of the parking lot before he got to the ground floor.

  He went after her. She was fast but he was faster. He was gaining on her. She was maybe twenty yards away and hadn’t looked back once.

  He stopped, two-handed his Glock, and sighted her. He’d been an expert marksman in the army and figured he was still accurate with a handgun up to thirty yards. He could take her out. Do it, he told himself. But he hesitated. Go on, he cajoled. But he couldn’t pull the trigger. “Shit,” he said, letting his arm fall to his side. “I ain’t that kind.”

  He stuffed the Glock under his belt in back, and buttoned his shirt. Then he just stood there and watched her run. When she reached Old Hinds Road, a major thoroughfare a half block away, he saw her stop and look back. He waved that she should come back. She pointed like he should go back to the apartment. Then she turned tail and headed in the direction of the busier part of town.