Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis (43 page)

Despite silent reassurances that everything would be fine, Harley’s stomach knotted and her heart thumped an escalated beat against her ribs. When they walked into the hotel lobby, Yogi saw her and Tootsie immediately. He came toward them through the crowd, his eyes a little wide when he looked at Tootsie.

“You look just like Priscilla,” he said.

Apparently, he was right, because people stared at them and whispered, and a few clutched autograph books a little tighter, as if poised to advance.

“Except for the Adam’s apple,” Harley pointed out. “And he’s taller.”

“Small details,” Tootsie said with a smile. “You should have come as Lisa Marie.”

“Then how would the killer recognize me?”

“Good point.”

“Is, uh, everyone here?” Harley asked her father.

He said Eric couldn’t come. “A music gig tonight. Train crash music.”

Harley looked at her mother. Diva smiled. “The cards say you’ll be fine.”

“Great.” She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. She’d never had much faith in the cards. It just seemed preposterous that painted card stock could tell the future. Harley had decided that Diva really used tarot as props for her own uncanny abilities. Years of experience should have convinced her that Diva possessed a sixth sense, but pragmatism always interfered. Maybe it was she who was different, not her mother.

But what if Diva was wrong? It could happen.

Still, Harley felt much better when she finally spied Morgan. He drifted through the crowd aimlessly, never looking their way. The dark beard and mustache wouldn’t fool anyone who knew him well, but maybe the killer would be too focused on her to notice.

That thought made her stomach jump again.

“It’s about to start,” Yogi said excitedly, and Harley turned to see Claude Williams at the hotel doors, escorting Preston Hughes and the finalists toward a waiting van.

Williams gave a start when he saw Harley and Tootsie, his eyes going big as goose eggs at the Priscilla look-alike.

“You ... you’re not Priscilla,” he said, after examining Tootsie.

“Tonight I am.” Tootsie smiled and batted his fake eyelashes. “Make-up magic.”

A fan rushed forward and held out a notebook. “Ms. Presley, will you please sign this for me?” she asked. “It’s such an honor to meet you!”

Tootsie gave Williams a wickedly impish glance and said “Of course. What’s your name?”

“Emma Rutherford.”

He took the pen and book she held out and signed with a flourish, then gave it back to her. “There you go, Emma. Thank you for coming to honor Elvis and his contributions to music.”

“You’ll get arrested for impersonating her,” Williams said angrily when the happy fan went back to join her friends, and Tootsie shook his head.

“No, I won’t. Not only is she a public figure, but I signed my own name. If Emma looks close enough, she’ll be able to tell the difference, but I used lots of curls so it’ll take a while.”

Harley looked at him. “You’re always surprising me. I never realized how entertaining you are.”

“Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

“That I believe.”

Once on the van, a little crowded with the impersonators and some of their families, it took longer than usual to cross Elvis Presley Boulevard because of the crowds. With dark closing in, everyone lit their candles as they waited at the iron gates with the musical notes on them. A few guards held back the fans as the gates opened and the van cruised slowly through, continuing up the gently curved driveway to stop in front of the mansion. An air of solemnity marked their descent from the van, as if they were at a funeral instead of a candlelight vigil for a man dead since 1977.

Several people were already there, the usual guards positioned for crowd control, ropes set up in front of the graves to guide people around so it didn’t get too chaotic, and lights gleaming on the tombstones. Flowers, teddy bears, letters, cards, and even a sheet cake frosted with Elvis’s likeness and dates of his birth and death, were placed around the markers. Three graves: Elvis in the center, his parents on each side of him. Behind the graves on one side was the pool, on the other the half-shell-shaped memorial where people often sat on the steps to meditate.

“Just act normal,” Harley murmured to Tootsie, “and don’t let on to Yogi that we expect anything to happen. You know how he is. He’d be sure to say or do something weird and blow it for us.”

Tootsie patted the ends of his bobbed wig with one hand, his long fingernails painted blood red. “All we need is your Nana here to make things really interesting.”

“Please. I’m nervous enough without the reminder of her hauling around a loaded pistol.”

“Don’t worry, you’re wired for sound and there’s bound to be enough cops here to pounce on the guy.”

“I’m not really nervous. Honest.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Does it show?”

“Your secret is safe.” He patted her arm. “There’s your cue, girlfriend. Step on up. I’m right behind you.”

There had to be several thousand people in the line that wound like a serpent down the driveway, out the gates onto the sidewalks, and down the street. Elvis Presley Boulevard had been blocked off, a precaution since a car had slammed into tourists a few years back. Only a single lane stayed open, and traffic guards directed the vehicles.

The gates swung slowly open and fans began the procession, walking solemnly up the hill. An eerie hush fell over the crowd.

Harley took a deep breath. “All right, Priscilla,” she whispered. “Showtime!”

Butterflies square-danced in her stomach as she lit her candle, following her father and the other finalists. Preston Hughes headed the line, dressed in black leather. No one said anything as they walked slowly between the pool and the gravesites enclosed by black iron pickets.

It got so quiet Harley heard the thundering rush of blood in her ears as it raced to keep up with her rapid heartbeat. Every shadow beyond the lights looked sinister. Tall trees made black silhouettes against floodlights. If she tried to see past them, all she could make out were the bright spots in front of her eyes. Just as well.

Six Elvises stood ceremoniously in front of the graves, their lit candles wavering ellipses that illuminated their faces. Yogi stood right beside Preston Hughes, and as always, silent tears slid down his cheeks. He wasn’t alone. Others had tears in their eyes. A magnificent tribute, she supposed, to a man who’d been a legend even in his own time.

Yogi stood a little straighter, and in his clear baritone began to sing, “Amazing Grace,” the hymn that had been one of Elvis’s favorites rising heavenward past the tall oaks. Others began to sing, too, a swelling crescendo that would have been more moving if Harley wasn’t so scared.

She tried to focus on her candle, but her peripheral vision kept waiting for a maniac to burst out of the trees or crowd to attack her. Rationality told her he’d wait until she was more accessible, but nerves stretched a little too tightly insisted that he’d succeeded in plain sight before and could do it again before anyone realized what was happening.

“Steady, girlfriend,” Tootsie murmured when her candle began to shake a little too hard. “You’re covered.”

She kept her head down as if focused on the candle and graves. It’d be nice if she could spot at least one of the undercover cops, but maybe that was the point. If she could find them, so could the Killer Elvis.

Everyone started singing, and Tootsie nudged her with his elbow. “Participate. Sing.”

“You’ve never heard me sing,” she muttered to her candle. “I frighten crows.”

“No one will notice. Just move your lips.”

The Elvises began to move around the graves, up the steps to stand with their candles on the top step of the colonnaded half-shell. Harley saw Yogi wipe his eyes. She looked toward her mother. Diva remained on the fringes of the crowd, standing by a tall planter, but if she’d been trying to hide, she failed. Diva always stood out in a crowd. Not just because she wore long skirts with bells and tie-dyed tunic tops, but because she still looked as young and beautiful as she must have looked back in the seventies.

A slight breeze lifted long strands of Diva’s blond hair, and tiny bells tinkled as she lifted her arm to push it behind her ear. Harley couldn’t hear the bells, but she saw them shimmy and knew from long experience the sound they made.

While her mother moved to stand below Yogi and the other impersonators, fans filed past in what seemed to be an unending line. Ellipses of light flickered in the cool breeze that made the night bearable, faces mostly sober and reflective as they passed by the graves.

Harley and Tootsie stood to one side, Harley with her back next to the planter and not far from the concrete shell occupied by impersonators and EPE employees. Somewhere in this crowd were undercover cops, and it was both comforting and unnerving that she had no idea who they might be. She’d tested her wire before leaving home and knew it was in good working order. The police already knew the range and were in position. All she had to do was bait the killer.

With that in mind, she eased away from Tootsie to amble along the edge of the concrete walkway. The grounds of Graceland were a river of light. The well-lit highway and shops across the street were mostly hidden by the trees and a high stone fence. To her right was the mansion, lit up as if Elvis was home. Behind that was the old office, the building dark now that no tourists were visiting. Next to it was the studio where Elvis had spent many nights singing with the Jordanaires. A three-rail fence separated the backyard from the pasture where a few horses still grazed. At night, subdivision lights glowed beyond the pasture and high fieldstone fence that surrounded the property. The horses were only black silhouettes against the streetlights.

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.