Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis (9 page)

“So is that it? That’s all the Elvis tributes are, just contests and a little prize money?”

Yogi sighed. “After all these years, you’d think you’d have paid more attention.”

“You would, wouldn’t you? It’s not that I’m not interested in you. It’s just that I’ve never been that interested in all the fuss made about Elvis every year. Sorry.”

Yogi looked sad. “There’s never been another one like him, never will be. He created an era all on his own, a poor boy from Mississippi with only his talent and determination. Now he’s known worldwide, and most of the rock music today is here only because of him. I don’t mean that stuff your brother plays, that’s just noise. A waste of talent.”

“We certainly agree on that. And it’s not that I don’t admire Elvis, because how could I not? Every week I tell tourists about how he started out in a two room house in Tupelo before his talent got him to Graceland. And sometimes I tell them that because of my father, I’ve listened to Elvis’s music all my life.”

That pleased Yogi. “You do?”

“Sure. And sometimes I tell tourists about one of the times Diva met Elvis, and how he often got so lonely he’d walk down the highway from Graceland to visit with the night attendant at the Shell gas station. Almost everybody knows about how he had to rent amusement parks and movie theaters to be able to go out and not be mobbed by fans, but not many realize just how lonely he got at times.”

Yogi nodded. “There’s a muffler shop at that Shell station now. My dad worked there a long time ago, when it was still a Shell station. He was a mechanic. The night attendant, Clyde, would tell him how he and Elvis talked sometimes, maybe shared a nip or two, and told dirty jokes. People forget that at heart Elvis was still a small-town boy from Tupelo stuck in a big-time world with too many boundaries. Talent made him, but it ruined him, too. Nobody ever thinks about how much he gave up sharing that talent.”

Now her father looked so sad Harley had to change the subject to cheer him up. “Hey, want to go to McDonald’s while Diva isn’t here?”

That did the trick. As a closet carnivore living in a vegetarian household, the occasional cheeseburger or Big Mac was a guilty pleasure for Yogi. No doubt Diva knew about his lapses, but chose not to make an issue of it.

So Yogi, Harley, and despite her halfhearted protests, King, got into her car and drove to the McDonald’s on Highland, only a few blocks away. She bought her father a Big Mac and King a cheeseburger, and herself a fried pie. All three of them were blissful with grease.

“You know you’re going to have to do extra jogging to work that off,” she said to Yogi as they left the parking lot, and he nodded.

“It’s worth it. Got any breath mints? I don’t want your mother to smell McDonald’s on my breath.”

“For you, but King will have to wing it. You can always claim he got in the neighbor’s garbage again. That’s usually true anyway.”

“He’s been doing much better. Except for yesterday, when he got in Sadie’s flowerbeds. I have to replace two azalea bushes and some kind of orangey flowers. He was digging for moles. I told Sadie those humps in her lawn were mole trails, but she didn’t listen.”

“How did he dig up two bushes? Those were pretty big.”

“Oh, he didn’t dig those up, he ate them. Or chewed on them, anyway.”

Harley glanced in her rearview mirror. The culprit didn’t look at all ashamed. He had his nose pressed against the back window as he surveyed the passing panorama of neat houses, the neighborhood head shop that sold bongs and other drug paraphernalia, a tattoo parlor, the St. Ann’s Catholic school Harley had attended, and a music store.

Businesses and residents changed through the years, but some things always remained the same.

“Well,” Harley said, “Mrs. Shipley doesn’t get mad about that sort of thing as long as you replace them. For a busybody and neighborhood gossip, she’s really pretty nice.”

“She’s been a good neighbor,” Yogi agreed, and wiped his mouth with a napkin to scrub away any remaining traces of McDonald’s as they got close to home. Eating meat was his biggest crime to date lately, and he and Diva hadn’t been arrested for protests in a while. Maybe they were growing out of that stage at last.

Really, as frustrating as they could be at times, Harley decided, she needed to stop complaining about her parents. She could have been stuck with a horror of a mother like that Patty Jenkins. No wonder Leroy left her. Too bad he didn’t take the kids with him.

“Hey,” she said as an idea occurred to her, “when is your next Elvis-fest?”

“A concert Friday night at Dad’s Place on Brooks. Why?”

“I thought I’d tag along if you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” Yogi grinned so big his eyes looked like slits. “I’d love it. You can give me a few pointers, maybe. The big competition is way too soon and I want to be at my best.”

“I’ll be there.” It would give her an excellent chance to scope out the contestants and see which one of them might be a killer.

Chapter Five

“
Why
are we here again?” Cami looked around the huge room filled with Elvises and noise.

“To find a killer.”

Cami winced. “Arrest that guy over there. He’s killing Don’t Be Cruel.”

“I can’t make an arrest, Cami. Even for murdering a song. The judges will have to do that. I just want to scope out these guys and see if any of them look familiar. The killer was on my van, so I should be able to spot him.”

“Wasn’t he dressed as Elvis?”

She sighed. “Yeah. That might make it a little more difficult.”

“I’ll say. And anyway, even if you see the guy who killed the Elvis on your van, there’s no guarantee he’s the same guy who killed the Elvis on the other bus.”

“That may be true, but there’s got to be a connection. Two dead Elvises in two days? Say, do you know if the plural of Elvis is Elvises, or Elvi?”

Cami gave her a skeptical look. “You’ve really lost your mind, haven’t you. I think it started back in May, but now you’re past help.”

“We’ve already discussed this. My insanity began at puberty. I’ve just refined it.”

“Bobby’s right. You’re dangerous. I can’t believe I let you talk me into coming here with you. Where’s Yogi? And how soon do we get to leave?”

“Don’t listen to anything Bobby says about me. Yogi and Diva are here somewhere. I said we’d meet them at the bar when it’s over. Have I told you how good you look tonight? Your diet has really paid off.”

“Atkins was right. Low-carb works. I’m a size four, but I’d kill for a loaf of French bread or a box of Krispy Kremes. Maybe that’s what set off the guy who’s killing Elvises. A case of Diet Derangement.”

“No excuse. There aren’t any carbs in gin or vodka.”

“Good point. I’m headed for the bar. You’ll find me with a Diet 7-Up and Absolut.”

“Good thing I’m driving,” Harley called as Cami walked away. She really did look great, but almost too skinny. That’s what fooling around with a man did for women. Turned them into sticks or cat ladies. Harley wasn’t sure which one she qualified for, probably both. Her jeans had gotten loose and now she slept with a cat every night. Things were not looking up.

Not that she didn’t look nice tonight. She’d worn a thin-strapped top with a low neckline edged with a broad band of glittery embroidery, a new short, flared purple skirt, and sandals with heels. She almost never wore skirts, much less heels, but she had tonight. And she’d blown her hair dry instead of gelling it into spikes, so it feathered around her face in wispy strands. It was a disguise. Her own parents wouldn’t recognize her. Cami’s mouth had dropped open when she’d seen her.

“I forgot you could look like that,” she’d exclaimed, and Harley had told her to shut up and never mention it again. Cami had just laughed.

Harley got a Coke and wandered around the crowded room, peering at Elvises over the top of her glass, looking as nonchalant as possible. On the bandstand, different impersonators sang their hearts out, songs ranging from early Elvis to gospel. Some were really good, and some were ludicrous. Now she understood Yogi’s determination not to mar the memory of his favorite performer. A really fat Elvis with a bad wig attempted to reenact one of the Las Vegas shows, but split his pants when he went down to one knee. Or maybe that was part of the impersonation.

She knew it wasn’t going to be as easy to recognize the guy from her van as she’d hoped. While dressed in different Elvis eras ranging from fifties to seventies, they all blended together, it seemed. Except for physical size, the faces were nearly indistinguishable, save for the black and Hispanic impersonators. This definitely wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe not even possible.

Leaning up against the wall, Harley watched the crowd. She didn’t see Cami. Maybe she had run off with an Elvis or taken Harley’s advice to find a one-night stand. The latter was not at all probable, and the first was impossible. Cami’s musical preferences drifted more toward the David Lee Roth, Jon Bon Jovi type. But she hadn’t been exposed as much to the eclectic music of Harley’s childhood.

The announcer at the mike said a familiar name that grabbed her attention, and Harley looked at the slightly raised stage against the far wall as he introduced her father. Yogi came on stage with a flourish, swirling his white jeweled cape in over-the-top Elvis imitation. He belted out a favorite hit, His Latest Flame, that brought a round of applause and seemed to impress the crowd. It was the best she’d ever heard him sing. The applause verified it.

Just as Yogi left the stage, someone grabbed her arm and said, “Don’t blow my cover.”

She’d been taking a drink of her Coke, and barely kept from spilling it. She looked up angrily. Then she choked, spraying the Elvis with Coke. Coughing and spluttering, she suffered a few blows on the back before recovering enough to say, “Morgan? What the hell are you doing?”

Dressed in black leather pants, his dark hair styled in Elvis of sixty-eight, he narrowed his eyes while he brushed recycled Coke from his black leather jacket. “What does it look like?”

“You’re an Elvis impersonator? Dear God—why didn’t I know about this dark side of your personality?”

“Let’s go over here where we won’t be overheard.”

Harley allowed him to guide her into the carpeted corridor outside the room, where she stood looking at him in the dim overhead lights. He even had a gold TCB necklace around his neck. Damn, for an Elvis impersonator, he really looked good.

“I’m working a case,” he said softly, “so don’t blow my cover, okay?”

“You mean gang-bangers and drug lords dress up like Elvis, too? Or are gunrunners smuggling weapons inside their jeweled capes and pink Cadillacs?”

Mike’s mouth thinned. “Very funny.”

“No, what’s funny is seeing you like this. Are you wearing make-up?” She couldn’t help it. She had to laugh. And the more she laughed, the more he scowled, but she couldn’t seem to control it.

Mike leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “Believe me, it wasn’t my idea. I didn’t volunteer, that’s for sure.”

Finally able to talk without giggling, Harley wiped her eyes. “I believe you. I can’t imagine what kind of case you’d be working that would require dressing as Elvis, but—”

She stopped. He looked at her and she looked at him. Even though she knew he’d never admit it, she said, “You’re working the dead Elvises case, aren’t you. The police know the killer is another Elvis or someone connected to these competitions, don’t they? I knew I was on the right track.”

“And just what the hell do you mean by that? Harley, if you’re messing around in that case—”

“I never said I was.” Instant irritation set in. “Yogi is performing tonight, remember? I’ve got as much right to be here as anyone else. I just figured it had to involve an Elvis impersonator after the last murder, that’s all.”