Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis (31 page)

When she saw Cami lugging a big glass aquarium, Harley breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t a crazy relative that Cami was trying to push off on her. It must be a fish. She didn’t mind a fish sleeping over. Fish didn’t make a lot of noise. Fish didn’t require toys and cans of cat food. Fish didn’t make stinky poop.

“Hey,” Harley said, opening her door wider for Cami to get through with the ten gallon tank, “you should have asked for help. I’d have met you at the car.”

“That’s okay. I thought it’d be best if he was already inside when you met Frank.”

Lifted brow time. “Does Frank have problems with strangers?”

“Not often. Strangers sometimes have problems with Frank.”

Cami set the glass aquarium down on the coffee table. It was covered with a light blanket. Odd squeaky sounds came from it. The water filter? Rocks? Loud fish? Piranha?

Panting a little, Cami looked at Harley over her shoulder. “Do you mind putting Sam up for a few minutes? It’ll make Frank feel a lot better if he’s not being stared at by a cat.”

“I can understand that. Unless he’s a piranha, he’s probably not that fond of cats.”

Harley shut an indignant Sam in her bedroom and went back into the living room. Cami had taken the blanket off the aquarium. Squeaking noises had turned to hisses.

“I never knew fish made sounds.”

“They don’t. Did you think this was a fish?”

Harley narrowed her eyes and tried to look around Cami into the aquarium. “It isn’t? What did you bring over here? I’m not keeping another cat. Even kittens. Sam wouldn’t like it. He’s picky about who and what he likes.”

“I know that. But he’s only one cat, and I’ve got so many cats at my house that they really do make Frank nervous.”

“He’s a cat. Get him a mirror. He can get used to it.”

“Uh, he’s not a cat, Harley.”

“A dog? Cami, I don’t have time to walk a dog! I’m not home that much, and Elvis week is coming up. I’ll be gone so long, and—”

“He’s not a dog. Do you think I’d keep a dog in an aquarium? Jeez, Harley, get a grip.”

Harley did a fake feint to the left, and then moved to the right before Cami could block her view. A long, skinny raccoon looked at her, blinking black beady eyes and twitching whiskers.

“I’m not keeping a raccoon!”

“Frank is not a raccoon, Harley. He’s a ferret. Frank Burns. Ferret-face, get it?”

“I got it. He’s not staying. Get it?”

Cami looked frazzled. Her blond hair stuck up at odd angles, the tee shirt she wore had a rip and stains with mysterious origins, and her cutoffs looked more David Duke than Daisy Duke.

“Please, Harley. It’s only for a little while. He’s already been adopted, but she had to go out of town and can’t take him until she gets back. No one else can take him. Everyone I know has too many cats or dogs, and Frank keeps getting loose.”

“Oh, that’s a point in his favor. Don’t you have a cat cage?”

“Of course I do. Frank knows how to unlatch it.”

Harley looked back at the aquarium. Frank twitched his whiskers and put tiny black paws up against the glass. Cedar shavings held some toys and two empty bowls, along with a few tiny dark pellets that she suspected weren’t just decorations. “What next, Cami? A llama?”

“No livestock allowed inside the city limits. They make good guard animals, though. I’ve always thought I’d like to have one.”

Jeez. She actually looked serious when she said that. Harley shook her head.

“I know I’ll regret this, but okay. Only for a few days!”

“Great. I brought some, but in case you run out, here’s a list of foods he eats. You’re the best, Harley. I owe you big-time.”

Harley took the list Cami held out. “Damn straight about that. Wait a minute—what’s this at the bottom of the page?”

She looked up. Cami had the door open.

“Gotta go. Feeding time at the zoo. Call me if you have any questions, okay?” Cami swept out the door and closed it behind her.

“Damn,” Harley said when she reread the bottom of the page, “Cami!”

By the time she got downstairs and outside to the parking area, Cami’s red taillights were at the end of the driveway. Who’d have ever thought Saturn coupes could move so quickly?

Apparently she banged the entrance hall door a little too hard when she went back inside. Sarah Simon opened her door a crack to peer out, one eye visible above the chain lock.

“Sorry,” Harley said, and the door gently shut again. Strange girl. She hid like a groundhog all the time, tucked away in her apartment and only coming out to signal six more weeks of winter.

When she got back upstairs, the aquarium was empty. No sign of Frank. Sam kept up a yowl in the bedroom that sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard, and Harley went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She took out a bottle of wine and didn’t bother pouring any into a glass. After chugging a few swigs, she put the cork back in the top and the bottle back on the shelf and went ferret hunting.

She hoped the last line of Cami’s list wasn’t prophetic: May poop in panty drawer.

Chapter Fourteen

Morning
came too early, as usual. Worse, rain pattered against her window panes, one of those summer rains that cooled Memphis only as long as it hung around. When it stopped, streets would be steaming like a nuclear reactor plant. Rain also brought out the worst in Memphis drivers, increased the workload on police, and made the streets as safe as the Indianapolis 500 home stretch. It was a day to sleep in, not a day to be out hauling tourists, but she got up anyway. When had she become so damned responsible?

She stumbled into the kitchen, fed Sam, checked his litter box, and made coffee. In that order. Any other order drew loud complaints from the feline quarter. Frank Burns was once more shut in the aquarium. He didn’t look happy about it, but she’d finally found a use for that two-volume set of Shakespeare on her bookshelves. Wire mesh gave him plenty of air, she’d put a grape, a few ferret nuggets, and fresh water in his bowls before bedtime, and when she came home she’d check the pellet level in the cedar shavings. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Except that Sam seemed to view their guest as a threat. He growled low in his throat. He hissed at the glass. He hid under her bed. The last she didn’t mind at all.

Since the weather promised a sauna effect guaranteed to melt make-up and gum up hair gel, she opted for the simple look. As usual. A brush of mascara over her lashes, a swipe of cherry flavored lip balm, and the “just laid” look for her hair.

Tee shirt, khaki walking shorts, sports socks and white tennis shoes completed the professional yet comfortable attire of a tour guide.

“Y’all be good now,” she said to the hiding cat and sulking ferret. “I’ll be back.”

Fortified with two cups of coffee and the cold end of a leftover bean burrito, she grabbed her leather backpack and headed out for the day. First stop—Claude Williams.

She found Williams at his office off Mendenhall, one of those three-story bland buildings a stone’s throw from Poplar Avenue. Expensive new cars filled most of the slots. Her Toyota with the bashed in front and rear fenders looked a little out of place. Good thing she had insurance.

Williams’s office was on the second floor overlooking the parking lot and Belmont Café. A young woman who looked almost old enough to vote greeted her at the front desk. She had light brown hair that swung loosely around her face, fingernails painted in three different colors, a short skirt, and canvas shoes that tied around her ankles. The desk was glass, with only a telephone, a pen set, a lamp, and a laptop on it. Very modern.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

“I hope so, but I think I’m in the wrong office. Is Claude Williams here?”

“Your name please?”

“Miss Davidson.” Always best not to give her first name. It saved time and the usual remarks she’d already heard a few thousand times.

Miss Jailbait punched a few buttons on the telephone console with her long curved nails, and in a few moments, Claude Williams came from the back to greet her.

“Miss Davidson, what a surprise to see you here.”

She smiled. “I hate to bother you at work, but I have a few questions. Just clearing up some confusion.”

“Certainly. We can talk in my office.”

The floors were light polished wood, the walls a creamy white, and furniture minimal. It looked efficient but not at all welcoming. Williams’s office had a few plaques on the walls, a few framed pictures on a light oak bookcase, and a potted plant in the corner. His laptop hummed atop his desk.

“So what’s this about Preston Hughes being back in the contest?” she asked when he’d shut the door. Williams didn’t look at her but went to stand behind his desk and fiddle with a pen.

“His request for reconsideration before the board was approved,” he said, not quite able to meet her eyes. “After all, Derek Wade isn’t in the competition this year, so there shouldn’t be any conflict.”

Harley frowned.

“Derek Wade isn’t in the competition this year because Hughes murdered him,” she said.

“That hasn’t been proven.”

“Not yet. The police have a different idea. Does Hughes know he’s eligible to be in this year’s competition?”

Williams nodded. “I told him the same night we had our discussion. After all, no one can say for sure who started the argument, and a man can’t be disqualified just because he has ... uh ... an unpleasant personality.”

That still didn’t mean he hadn’t murdered three Elvises. Or Lydia. Or had been stalking her. It just meant it’d paid off for him.

“So the squeaky wheel gets the grease, right?” she said. “Never mind. It seems he won’t be in the competition this year anyway since he’s in jail.”

Williams’s eyes narrowed a little. “He hasn’t been charged and they can only keep him for forty-eight hours without charging him. In the meantime, perhaps it’d be best if your comments and questions didn’t border on libel. You might find yourself on the wrong side of a lawsuit.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Good heavens, no.” Williams spread his hands out to his sides, and the genial smile was back. “Just expressing a friendly concern. Hughes hasn’t been proven guilty.”

“Uh hunh. I didn’t know you two were so close.”

Williams’s smile stiffened.

Maybe she’d been wrong to take Williams off her list, Harley thought when she left. The possibility of a team effort wasn’t too much of a stretch. And Williams had been on her short list once. But what motive? What advantage could there possibly be to winning the competition that’d be enough to kill four people? Was the trophy filled with gold? The cash winnings weren’t that much, not for two successful businessmen like Hughes and Williams. They might not be CEOs, but they made a lot more money than the cash prize offered. It just didn’t make sense.

She mentioned that to Tootsie when she got to work. Plopping her backpack down on his desk, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him. “Well? What do you think?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Honey, I think it’s time you stopped worrying about it. The police have Hughes in custody, and life can get back to normal. I’ve already booked four tourist groups this morning. My friend at the paper did a great write-up for us.” He shoved the morning paper toward her. “You’re a hero again.”

“Heroine. Don’t you care that Williams may be getting away with complicity in murder?”