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Authors: Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley

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BOOK: Daniel Klein
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“Could be one little problem though,” Billy said. “Miss Spinelli is white, I imagine. And it's going to take more than a few hundred Northern kids to change the way they do business in Atlanta. I'm not sure how welcome a black man is going to be in a white woman's beauty salon. I'm willing to try, though.”
“That's all any of us can do,” Elvis said. “Try and try again.”
“So tell me, Mr. P., does this mean you're back in the detective business again?” Billy laughed.
“Just playing at it,” Elvis said, feeling a tinge of embarrassment. “You know, Billy, one time when I was feeling awful foolish about snooping around those fan-club murders, I told Selma that the worst thing about doing detective work was that it made me feel so good.
So alive, you know. And Selma said to me that working for you made her feel good for the same reason. Because doing things for other people has a way of getting you outside yourself, and the more outside yourself you get, the more alive you feel inside. I've never forgotten that.”
“She was one wise woman,” Billy said. “God bless her.”
“I miss her terrible, friend,” Elvis said softly.
“I know that, Elvis. But tell me honestly, how are you doing otherwise?”
For some reason, tears welled up in Elvis's eyes again. He had to wait a couple of seconds before answering.
“I'll tell you, Billy, it's not just Selma's sweetness I miss,” Elvis said quietly. “It's the sweetness in my own soul. Sometimes … sometimes I think it's all dried up on me.”
“I know that feeling,” Billy said, and then, “Say, you want to hear a song?”
“A song?”
“Yup, a new one to me. Heard it in church last Sunday.”
“When did you start going to church, Billy?”
“I just go for the music,” Billy said, laughing.
“Let's hear that song,” Elvis said.
Billy cleared his throat. Then, in his spring-clear tenor he began to sing a gospel song:
“
There's a dark place, Lord,
A hidden place no light can reach,
No sound can breach,
No preacher preach.
There's a dark place, Lord,
A hidden place so deep in my heart,
In the deepest part,
In the saddest part.
Shine on me!
O Shine on me!
O Shine on me!
O Shine on me!”
Elvis was crying full out now, the tears streaming down his face. “Thank you, brother,” he said.
“You take care of yourself, Elvis,” Billy said. And they hung up.
The Stuntman's Mistress
I
t took a good ten minutes for all the tears to flow out of him. Where did all that sorrow came from? Missing Selma? Missing his mother? His lost twin, Jesse? Or was it something else too, a hidden place in his soul desperately seeking light.
Finally, Elvis stood up, went to the sink and splashed his face with cold water. He took a deep breath and let it out, then took another and another. He looked at his watch: almost four o'clock. Priscilla would be high over the Midwest by now. There was no denying he was relieved that she was going back to Memphis. The film was now completely finished and he would join her soon. But not yet. No, not just yet.
Elvis dialed the MGM operator again. “I'm looking for a woman named Nancy Pollard,” Elvis said. “What department would she be in?”
“Miss Pollard? Why, she's head of development, Mr. Presley.”
“Would you connect me to her, ma'am?”
The extension rang just once before it was picked up and a bubbly voice said, “Development. Miss Aronson speaking.”
“Hello, Miss Aronson. This is Elvis Presley and I'm looking for Miss Pollard.”
“Why,
hello
, Mr. Presley,” Aronson gushed. “Nancy, uh, Miss Pollard, was wondering if you would call. I must say, I didn't think you would.”
“She was expecting to hear from me?” Elvis asked warily.
“She was indeed,” Aronson bubbled on.
“Why would that be, ma'am?”
“Because of the search you're on, of course,” Aronson said.
What the devil was going on here? He had only seen Littlejon last night and Clifford this morning—how could word already be out that he was looking into the case? Who had blabbed? Warden Reardon? One of the prison guards? Madge Dickerson, in spite of her riff on the makeup artists' honor code? Or maybe the MGM operator had been listening in on his calls—that would explain it. When it came to gossip, Los Angeles was about the size of Tupelo.
“What exactly do you know about my search?” Elvis asked tersely.
“Just what I read in the papers,” Aronson said. “That you're looking for a story with some real substance. A script that can reach way down and inspire. A
quality
film.”
It was all Elvis could do to keep from bursting out laughing. “That's right, Miss Aronson,” he said. “That's why I want to talk with Miss Pollard.”
“Well, I don't want to step on anybody's toes,” Aronson said in an intimate whisper, “but personally I have some marvelous properties that would be just perfect for you. Serious things. James Dean kind of things.”
“Glad to hear that,” Elvis said. “But I'd like to meet with Miss Pollard. May I speak with her?”
“Oh, she's still out at lunch,” Aronson said. Four o'clock and still at lunch—Nancy Pollard certainly had come up in the world since she was Nanette Poulette. “I could set something up for tomorrow though. Are you free for lunch?”
“I guess I am,” Elvis said. “But I don't much like eating out in this town, if that's okay.”
“I'll order in,” Aronson said. “You like baby back ribs, if I'm not mistaken.”
“When they're done right,” Elvis said reluctantly. He didn't add that the few times he'd tried ribs in California restaurants they had
tasted more like Swiss steak out of a pressure cooker than the real, smoked thing.
“One o'clock then. All right, Mr. Presley?”
“I'm looking forward to it,” Elvis said.
He set down the phone and walked to the window. Out on the lot, an entire battalion of extras in World War I infantry uniforms was ambling by. Several had bloody-looking bandages bound around their heads; one was naked to the waist with a half-dozen simulated bullet holes in his chest; another was on wooden crutches with one pant leg pinned up to the knee. A one-legged man could probably make a decent career as an extra in Hollywood. Like Squirm said, Everybody's got a God-given, special talent, but it's only the lucky ones who figure out what it is.
Elvis took the stairs down to the first floor and was strolling on the lot before he realized that he was still wearing Jodie Tatum's hillbilly costume and blond wig. Not that it mattered. One good thing about life in this dream factory was that no one took any notice of you whatever you were wearing or not wearing, or whoever you were. It was an unwritten rule on the lot that nobody could approach you for an autograph or a handshake. Actually, the extras and chorus girls and boys seemed to like that rule: for at least a few minutes each day, it put them on equal footing with the stars.
Elvis figured it for the stunt shack the minute he saw the small building at the far end of the lot. It looked a lot like a moonshine hut back home—no windows, low on one side and high on the other where the still would be—and leaning against the side wall were all manner of weapons: muskets, machine guns, lances, Samurai swords. But the telltale clue was the mini trampoline in front. A rangy, unshaven man in a cowboy shirt, leather vest, dungarees and chaps was bouncing up and down on it in stocking feet, effecting a half turn while drawing two six-guns from hip holsters on every other upward vault. It was a marvel to behold. The man had the easy grace of a dancer, but the weathered face and muscular build of a Green Beret. Elvis watched until the stuntman finished up with an airborne somersault
and landed on his feet, right in front of Elvis, his six-guns pointing straight at him.
“You've got yourself a real talent there,” Elvis said.
“I've heard the same about you, Mr. Presley,” the man replied with a sly grin. He holstered both guns and extended his hand. “Name's Cathcart. Will Cathcart.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Will,” Elvis said, shaking his hand.
“Pleasures all mine,” Cathcart said. “You just poking around or is there something I can do you for?”
Up close, Cathcart looked no more than nineteen or twenty. He had only appeared older because his skin had taken a real beating from the sun, but underneath the leathery tan and the stubble was a lingering case of acne that neither could camouflage. He was not a good-looking boy, but it didn't much matter in his line of work—you were never supposed to see the stuntman's face.
“Just poking,” Elvis replied. “I've never been out this way before. I always wondered where you guys hung out.”
“Want me to show you around?”
“I'd be obliged.”
Elvis had to stoop to follow the young stuntman through the door into the low end of the shack. Save for the daylight streaming in through the open door, it remained dark as a cellar in there until Cathcart snapped on the overhead lights. The place looked like a toy and sport store gone crazy, every inch of space covered with beach balls, harnesses, lariats, padded vests, padded overalls, Stetson hats, horse whips, snorkeling gear, a staircase that went up four steps then stopped in mid-air, boots with rappelling cleats, ropes, hooks, a couple of fire extinguishers, and clothes racks loaded down with everything from togas to astronaut suits to fancy ball gowns. There were at least a dozen other items that Elvis could not identify—a rubber bodysuit with feathers fastened to the front and back like some kind of giant sea bird, long-handled objects with loops or hooks or long steel blades at their ends, Rube Goldberg—like hook and pulley apparatuses. The tools of the stunt trade. Rubber tubing was an integral part of at least half of these items.
Directly to Elvis's right was an interior curtain that was drawn closed. “Storage?” he said, pointing to it.
“Bunk room,” Cathcart replied. “Just a couple of cots.”
“Mind if I take a gander?”
“Not much to see,” the young man said, pulling back the curtain.
Elvis gazed inside. The scene of Holly McDougal's murder looked like nothing so much as a high school kid's slovenly bedroom—two unmade cots, clothing and shoes strewn all over the floor, girly calendars on the wall, and here and there plaques and chrome-plated cups that appeared to be varsity football awards but on closer inspection turned out to be rodeo trophies. From his experience with the fan club murders, Elvis knew that the scene of a horrendous crime usually turned out to be the most ordinary of places—a bedroom, a kitchen—but nonetheless he was struck by the sheer innocence of this little coop.
Elvis stepped into the room. According to Clifford, one of the pieces of circumstantial evidence that had convicted Littlejon was the fact that his street clothes were found on the floor next to McDougal's body. That surely had to be pretty slim evidence if the floor looked anything like this on a regular basis. On the other hand, the eyewitness who had declared that Littlejon and McDougal were alone in here that afternoon only needed to have a clear view of the front door to make his claim—it was the sole entrance and exit and there were no windows.
Elvis gazed at the young man's face. Cathcart had not seemed at all nervous about showing him the bunk room. “You been at this work for long?” Elvis asked.
“Not very,” Cathcart said. “I'm rodeo, you know. But that doesn't put much food on the table, and I've got three and a half mouths to feed. Wife's got a little one cooking in the oven right now.”
Elvis smiled. He had noticed that the boy had the bowed legs and curved spine of a veteran rodeo rider. “So you just do this parttime?”
“I do whatever comes up,” Cathcart said. “But these days if I gotta choose between a rodeo gig and a stunt gig, I go for the stunt.
Three times the money. And most folks don't believe it, but it's a whole lot safer jumping off a trampoline with your clothes on fire than being thrown by a bull who's got his balls in a slipknot.”
“So when'd you start stunt work?” Elvis asked.
“Last year,” the boy said. “Had to wait until I turned eighteen. Otherwise the insurance don't cover you.”
That put Cathcart here well after the murder.
“Ever hear about a girl named Holly McDougal?” Elvis asked.
“Nope,” the boy said. “She a singer?”
“Actress,” Elvis said. “At least she was. She's dead.”
“Sorry to hear that. She a friend of yours?”
“Kind of,” Elvis said.
“Well, the good Lord takes 'em all, don't He? I lost my best buddy just this year. Kicked in the head by a crazy pony and never came to.”
“I'm sorry,” Elvis said.
Cathcart shrugged. “Over here's the fun house,” he said, gesturing to the end of the shack where the ceiling abruptly shot up another ten or twelve feet. “Want to take a look-see?”
“Sure do,” Elvis said.
This end of the shack was as clean and uncluttered as the other side was a pig sty. Not a thing on the floor except wall-to-wall gym mats which extended a couple of yards up the wall as well. The centerpiece was a nylon cable which hung down from a beam at the apex of the A-frame ceiling. Swaying from the bottom of the cable was a leather chest and shoulder harness, a formidable-looking crosshatch of belts and buckles that laced up in the back like an old-fashioned corset.
“This here's Nelly, the stuntman's mistress,” Cathcart laughed, giving the harness a push that sent it in a wide arc which grazed the wall. “Gotta treat her sweet or she'll drop you faster than a lead balloon.”
Elvis grabbed the harness as it swung toward him. “Use it for jumping?”
“Mostly for climbing,” Cathcart said. “Say you're scaling the side
of a building or up a stony ledge. Like one of the old-timers was in a picture where this guy had to climb up George Washington's face on Mount Rushmore. They brought a crane up there, hung a cable from the end, and attached it to old Nelly strapped under his shirt. I seen the movie. You can spot the cable if you know where to look, even though they tried to fool you by painting it sky blue.” He grinned at Elvis. “Want to take her for a spin?”
Elvis hesitated. Only a few weeks back he'd told the Colonel that he'd like to do some of his own stunts in his next picture. He thought it might help keep his interest up if he was going to do anymore sleepwalkers like
Kissin'
Cousins. Of course, the Colonel had said absolutely not. “Son, you've got a face like a Botticelli angel,” Parker had said. “We can't be jeopardizing a thing like that.”
“Sure, why not?” Elvis said to Will Cathcart.
Elvis removed his shirt and put on a T-shirt that Cathcart picked randomly off the floor on the other side of the shack. It was a bit snug, especially across his mid-section, but Elvis barely noticed after the kid buckled and laced him into the stuntman's mistress; the harness itself was so tight it chafed against his ribs with every inhale.
“I'm going to take you up a couple feet, okay, Mr. Presley?”
“What do I do?”

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