Blue Like Elvis (31 page)

“‘Here you go, let me help you—’

“I slapped his hand away. ‘Don’t touch me! Who ARE you? And why
are you doing this? How do you know—’

“‘Okay, now, let’s just get you back in that chair,’ he said,
motioning for Tucker to help me sit back down.

“Tucker said, ‘Look, buddy, I don’t know who you are, but you
need to cut the act. It was fun while it lasted, but can you just drop the
façade and explain how you know what you just said?’

“‘Sure, sure,’ he said, busying himself as he wiped the
remains of my mahi-mahi off his bell bottoms. I wanted to apologize for it but
couldn’t find a breath in me. Finally he took a seat in his director’s chair.

“He said, ‘Well, I could’ve spent half an hour trying to
convince you who I was, but you wouldn’t have believed me. So I figured I’d
just cut to the chase.’ He looked down at Tucker. ‘See, one night I snuck into
the hospital to visit my good friend Tommy Love. And after they let me see him,
I just wanted to be alone and pray. So I went to the prayer room on that floor
and slipped onto the back row.’

“Chip, I have to tell you—as he talked, I kept thinking over
and over to myself—
this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening. What did they
put in our drinks out there? Who could have told him about that night? Who’s
playing this elaborate joke on us and why?

“But it just got worse. He went on and on, spilling out every
detail of that night, including the name of the hymn he sang, and the fact he
gave me his handkerchief to dry my tears. By then, I was no longer sick, but
pretty sure I would pass out.

“That’s when Tucker jumped in again. ‘Nice try, buddy. But
what you
don’t
know—I was in the ER the day Elvis died. I’m a doctor.
And I saw his dead blue body. So why don’t you give it up and tell us who put
you up to this? Was it Trevor? Or Shelby’s brother, Jimmy?’

“‘All staged,’ he shot back, ‘As for the funeral? Those folks
at Madame Tussaud’s did a good job, don’t you think? The papers all said I
looked waxy, but what corpse doesn’t? My makeup guys did an amazing job. Fooled
you, didn’t he?’ Then he just sat there and smiled. I noticed he had that same
lopsided smile Elvis always had, but of course that was likely just another of
his affectations for the gig.

“Then he said, ‘If you really want to know, I’ll tell you. And
I’d make you promise not to tell anyone, but I figure you won’t believe me
anyway. Which is part of the fun—no one ever does! And I’m not really worried
about you telling anyone else because even if you did, they wouldn’t believe it
either.’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Genius. Pure genius. I never
dreamed it would work out so well.’

“‘Anyway, I’m sure you probably heard all the conspiracy
stories about me faking my own death. Well, I’m here to tell you they’re true.
We
did
fake my death. We worked on it for more than two years to put the
plan in motion. Only a handful of my closest associates were in on it. And
trust me, they’re all living off the high price tag of keeping the secret. Not
that anyone would believe them if they spilled the beans. Course, Dr. Nick had
to jump a few hurdles and lost his license for a while, but he didn’t need it
anyway. He’ll never want for anything for the rest of his life. He’s got a
house not far from mine here. We play racquetball several times a week.’

“Tucker and I sat there spellbound. Neither of us said a
word. He continued telling his story.

“‘C’mon, my life was a mess. I
had
no life. Couldn’t
go anywhere. Never had a normal relationship— aside from Priscilla, of course.’

“‘Does she know?’ I heard myself asking.

“‘Oh sure,’ he said. ‘She and Lisa Marie fly over to see me a
couple times a year. They’ve even stopped by to see my show. The tourists and
locals love it. They’re clueless, of course, but they love it. Lisa Marie and I
always do a few duets together. That really wows them, and I love singin’ with
my baby girl.’

“Tucker and I looked at each other, each trying to figure out
how it was possible, but slowly beginning to wonder . . . Then,
even as those thoughts rolled through my mind, I noticed he pushed up his
sleeve and there it was again. That turquoise watch.”

Chip’s jaw hung somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, and
he looked a little glassy-eyed, but I continued.

“Finally, Tucker couldn’t hold it in anymore and said, ‘But
why? Why here? Why like this?’

“‘Oh, that part’s easy,’ he answered. ‘First of all, I’ve always
loved these islands. Ever since I made
Blue Hawaii,
I knew some day I’d
live here. Then it all got so crazy, and I couldn’t do it anymore. I needed to
get my health back, needed to get my
life
back. And one day it just hit
me—what better place to hide than playing an Elvis impersonator? Heck, I even
do some of the competitions in Vegas. Haven’t come close to winning!’ With that
he roared with laughter, throwing his head back.”

I looked over, watching Chip Carouther’s expression morph
into disbelief. I couldn’t help but smile. Sandra and Trevor had the same
reaction when we told them upon our return from Hawaii.

Finally, he rubbed his hand roughly over his face. “With all
due respect, Mrs. Thompson—”

“Oh, I know. Trust me. I know. It’s quite unbelievable.”

He blew out a lungful of air. “Exactly. I mean, it makes for
a
great
story. One of the best I’ve ever heard.”

“Doesn’t it?” I said.

“But let’s be honest. With no viable proof, that’s
all
it is—a great story.”

“Oh, yes, I totally agree.” I leaned forward and opened a
small leather box sitting on my coffee table. “Of course,
seeing
is
believing.” I handed him the photograph taken that night at the little restaurant
in Maui. Elvis had asked one of the waitresses to snap a picture of us with him
there at the club.
He found it hilarious to provide us
proof we’d been together, knowing full well no one would ever believe it was
really him.

“I’ll say this much,” I finished, “he has a great laugh.
Elvis has a
great
laugh.”

Chip stared at the photograph, studying it for a moment or
two. I could tell he was holding his breath. Then suddenly, he blew it out. “Nah.
That could be one of a million impersonators. Sorry.”

I reached back in the box and tossed a stack of Christmas
cards on the table, all tied up in a blue ribbon. “Then I guess you probably
think these are fake as well.”

He pulled them out, one by one, each signed
EP
,
postmarked from Hawaii, year after year after year. Each with a personal note.

I chuckled quietly as I watched Chip frantically shuffling
faster and faster through the cards. He held the last one in his hand,
carefully studying the personal message written and signed by
Elvis.

Suddenly, he stopped and slowly looked up at me. A momentary
hint of possibility flashed across his eyes as a slight smile took form.

I knew what he was
thinking . . .
“Everyone knows Elvis left the building.”

Or did he?

For your reading pleasure we’ve included
the prologue and first chapter of Diane Moody’s latest novel,
The Demise
– A Mystery
after the Author Page at the end of this book.

For a
Preview
of her other novels click
HERE

.

Acknowledgments

Without the help
of my friends and family, my stories would lack their sparkle. I’m so grateful
to be surrounded by such willing hearts who always help make my literary babies
shine.

To Glenn Hale, my faithful “Eagle
Eye” who always spots my typos and then some. The fact that you actually
enjoyed this story makes it even better. What would I do without you? Love you,
Dad.

To Sally Wilson, my fellow author
and forever friend who helps put the final spit and polish on my stories.
Thanks for blazing the trail on this unique path to publication. I never
would’ve dipped my big toe into these waters had it not been for you. Love you,
missy.

To John “Sockmonkey” Robinson and
Joy DeKok, two of my favorite sounding boards. Thanks for all your feedback and
advice, but most of all your friendship. One of these days we must get
together—preferably in the same city! Wouldn’t that be a switch?

To Jessi Hill, CRNA, my go-to
source for all things anesthesiology. I’m so grateful for the time you spent
answering my questions and educating me about your special world. I take full
credit for any mis-statements coming out of Tucker’s mouth.

To my good friend Veronica Beard
who I met at First Baptist Church of Indian Rocks, Florida back in the ‘90s.
Veronica was born in Chili and has the most beautiful accent, especially when
she refers to her husband’s “Yaguar” (that would be Jaguar to the rest of us.)
Veronica, thanks so much for all your help with Sandra’s Spanish. I just hope I
got it right. Oh, and keep an eye out for that case of popsicles I’ve sent you.
Your favorite kind, of course!

To Don Riddle, my inspiration for
Donnie Rogers. I’ve known Don since Tulsa Memorial High School days when we
discovered how difficult it was to mark time while giggling. Oh, the trouble we
got into . . . And yes, we did indeed work together at a taco
establishment which shall remain nameless. I’m not sure anyone on the planet
has made me laugh as hard as Don. Like Donnie, Don has heart problems, but he’s
currently doing fine, still terrorizing the greater Houston area from what I
understand. Don, I loved spending time with you via Donnie’s character. Thank
you for giving me so much material to work with. Love you, buddy!

To Sandra Perez Graham, my favorite
Puerto Rican who still holds such a special place in my heart. We met on my
first day at Baptist Memorial Hospital, became the best of friends and
eventually roommates. Sandra, I couldn’t possibly write your character using a
different name, so I hope you’ll forgive any potential embarrassment I may
cause you. Thanks for all the precious memories of our time in Memphis! Te
quiero, Sandra!

To all my fellow hostesses who
shared that tiny office on the first floor of the Madison wing and ministered
to every floor of our beloved hospital. My characters may be fictional, but
each of you played an important role in the memories I tried to put on paper.
Wherever you are, may God richly bless you!

And last but never least, to my
amazing husband and best friend, Ken. Thanks for all those brainstorming
sessions and your phenomenal patience with me through the process of giving
birth to this story. I quite literally could not write my stories without you.
Thanks for being such a huge part of the dream I’m living, but most of all,
thanks for always being there for me. Have I told you today how much I love
you?

About the Author

Born in Texas and raised in Oklahoma, Diane Hale Moody is a
graduate of Oklahoma State University. She lives with her husband Ken in the
rolling hills just outside of Nashville. They are the proud parents of two
grown and extraordinary children, Hannah and Ben.

Just after
moving to Tennessee in 1999, Diane felt the tug of a long-neglected passion to
write again. Since then, she's written a column for her local newspaper,
feature articles for various magazines and curriculum, and several novels with
a dozen more stories eagerly vying for her attention.

When she's
not reading or writing, Diane enjoys an eclectic taste in music and movies,
great coffee, the company of good friends, and the adoration of a peculiar
little pooch named Darby.