Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas) (16 page)

My Blackberry buzzed another text. Bob again: “I can rest when I’m dead. I have Shelby covering a turkey fryer fire while my cops reporter is gallivanting around Tennessee.”

I rolled my eyes. “Always on the lookout for a headline, chief. This place where I’m staying...I may find one,” I tapped back.

Watching Darcy wolf her food down made my stomach rumble. It had been a long time since my chicken salad lunch, but the thought of getting back in my car was less appealing than sleeping with an empty stomach. Man-Margret had mentioned a bar. Maybe it had food.

I put a puppy mat on the floor next to Darcy and went to find out.

Suspicious Minds looked as seedy as it sounded, and I wondered idly how much interesting reading I’d find in the FBI database with a fingerprint kit and ten minutes alone in there. Every table was full, the clientele not shy about their drinking from the way the waitresses—all dressed like starlets from Elvis movies—were running.

The crowd ranged from Elvis wannabes and fans (most of them in t-shirts emblazoned with the King’s face) to a table of large men who looked like they’d be equally at home under a hot rod or in a tattoo parlor.

The bartender had her back to me, a black spaghetti-strapped tank dress showing off chiseled shoulders, topped by a perfectly-pouffed chestnut flip.

“Be right with you,” she said in a voice way too deep for a woman who wasn’t Kathleen Turner.

She turned with a bright smile, and I grinned. “Good evening, Miss Natalie.”

She was a muscular photocopy of Natalie Wood from
All the Fine Young Cannibals
. Which wasn’t an Elvis movie, but I knew my pop history. The King and the actress had a fling back in the day.

She nodded. “Charmed, sugar. What you hankering for tonight?” She had a lisp that disappeared into another dazzling grin.

“Food. And sleep.”

She pushed a menu across the black leather bar. “We do a mean peanut butter and banana sandwich. Pretty good grilled ham and cheese, too.”

Elvis’s love of peanut butter and bananas was legend, and I was a fan. I scanned the menu. “I’ll take a Hunka PB Love and a Diet Coke, please.”

She jotted the order down and pushed it through a window behind her, then poured my soda into a tall glass.

“Where you in from, sugar?” she asked, her accent more deep south than I’d expect in Memphis.

“Richmond. I’m on my way home for Christmas, but I’m stopping by Graceland to grab a gift for my mom on the way through town.”

“First time?”

I nodded. “Mom and I are big Elvis fans. I feel like a kid on her way to Disneyland. I bet I don’t get five minutes of sleep.”

“Enjoy. ‘Scuse me a second.” She turned to a thin man with a pompadour and a flipped-up collar at the end of the bar, and I looked around and sipped my Coke, tapping the heel of one chestnut Louboutin bootie—my latest eBay score—on the leg of the barstool.

At the other end of the bar, in front of the flashing Elvis pinball machine, a large man in an apron and a hairnet leaned on one elbow, deep in conversation with a busty woman with big blond hair, an Elvis Lives crop top, and a Santa hat. I watched them, never sure if my curiosity was an outgrowth of my job or the other way around. Their discussion dissolved to bickering, then she smiled, resting her double-Ds on the bar, and pushed a wad of cash to him. He pulled a small package from under the bar. She palmed it, dropping her hand out of sight. They exchanged a nod and parted ways, him to the kitchen and her to the tattoo-parlor at the corner table.

“Oh, yay. Dealing drugs in plain sight. Nice place,” I muttered, my attention turning back to my stomach when Natalie laid a plate in front of me. I’d seen worse, chasing stories through some questionable establishments. This place thrummed with the junkie-haven vibe.

I smiled a thank you, lifting the sandwich and biting through its perfect honey-gold crust. It was seriously the best thing I’d ever eaten. Or I was really hungry. Either way, I snarfed it up in less than three minutes, drained my Coke, and threw a handful of bills on the bar.

Back upstairs, I heard Darcy yapping from halfway down the hall. Sprinting to the door, I fought with the lock, shushing her. She almost never barked.

“Darcy! What’s gotten into you?” I hissed as I flipped on the light, much more politely than the gruff chorus of “shut up, mutt!” echoing in the hallway. She snarled and pawed at the air vent next to her bed.

“Rattly furnace,” I sighed, snatching her up and scratching her ears, then moving her bed. She disliked the one in my nineteen-twenty-four craftsman back in Richmond, too.

By the time I took the dog out to tinkle and scrubbed my face in the closet that passed for a “deluxe bathroom,” even the vomit-colored sheets looked inviting. I did get more than five minutes of sleep, and I ended up needing every second.

TWO

Visiting the King

I bounced in my seat as the bus turned through the famous musical gates that led to Elvis’ mansion, staring at the front of the house as it came into view.

“It’s so close to the street,” I said to no one in particular, and the lady in the seat in front of me laughed.

“I said that the first time I came here, too,” she said in a thick Brooklyn accent. “I love seeing young people who appreciate good music.”

I grinned. “I’m a big fan.”

The bus stopped and I popped to my feet, hoping Darcy was content to stay quiet with her food and potty pad in the motel room. Not that dog pee was the worst thing to ever happen to that carpet, but still.

“I’m Teresa,” the woman said when she stood, turning to show off a Comeback ’68 shirt she’d likely purchased during the original tour. She stuck a hand out for me to shake. “Where are you from?”

“Richmond,” I said, wondering when that had become my default answer, instead of Dallas. “How about you? New York?”

She nodded. “I moved to Miami about ten years ago. The older I get, the more I despise the cold.”

“I’m not fond of it either, but I like coats and boots better than blistering heat and bugs the size of birds,” I said. “I grew up in Texas. Not too different from Florida.”

She shrugged. “I’m a Brooklyn broad. If New York rats don’t scare me, I can handle palmetto bugs.”

“I guess so,” I said, fiddling with the headset they’d given me at the ticket office. “I’m going to Texas, actually. I stopped to see the sights and grab a souvenir for my mom.”

“Well, they have plenty to choose from. I’ve been here every Christmas since my Murray died in nineteen-ninety-eight, and they get more stuff every year.” She patted a shoulder bag emblazoned with an Andy Warhol-style picture of Elvis. “I’m choosy, after all this time. I have my own towel the King wiped his face on at Madison Square Garden in nineteen-sixty-nine. Never been washed.”

Um, gross.

“This year, I’m collecting coins,” she said over her shoulder as we filed off the bus. “Got three on my Elvis wall so far. Good investment and souvenir in one.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” I smiled and turned on my headset, following the crowd up the steps to the house. It was gorgeous, and impeccably maintained, with the Christmas decorations making it grander. I had to admit, though, a few episodes of
Celebrity Cribs
had left me expecting Elvis’s home to be much bigger. Not that it was anything to sneeze at, but Dennis Rodman had twice as much square footage, and he was no king of rock ’n roll.

I walked through the front doors, following the honey-voiced narrator in my headset, who took turns with Priscilla Presley describing rooms and telling stories. Marveling at the timeless snowy decor in the living room, I pictured Elvis sitting by the tree strumming a guitar. Just looking at the piano was enough to make me hold my breath for a moment of silence. It was a borderline religious experience, standing in the space that had once been home to such amazing music. An older couple in front of me in the foyer cracked me up, her bouncing and swatting at his arm over every little thing, and him feigning interest. Poorly, though she either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

The kitchen was flashback fabulous, with amber glass in the cabinets, Tiffany hanging lamps, and crazy-patterned flooring—and also surprisingly cozy, unlike some of the industrial-looking kitchens I saw in high-dollar homes on TV. I could see myself perching on the barstool and sipping coffee.

People moved through the rooms at different speeds. I noticed uniformed guards in the corners, trying to blend in with the decor. It was probably funny to see all the silent tourists, listening closely to their headphones, wandering around the house.

Cringing, I watched a pair of small boys dart around the china-set dining table. Their mother waved half-hearted objections toward them, which they ignored. I snapped a photo and scooted out before the children could break anything.

I followed a short set of steps down to the famous Jungle Room, tucked off the kitchen, and stared at the carpeted walls and ceiling and the rock waterfall, sure I could feel the laughter in the walls as the headset droned about Elvis’s affinity for the space.

The second floor of the house, where all the bedrooms except the one that belonged to Elvis’ parents are located, is off limits. My headphones directed me downstairs. I clicked the tour off while I walked.

I ducked under a low door facing at the bottom of the staircase and stepped into the basement, nearly walking into a tall man in baggy coveralls carrying a large bin out of a side hallway. “I’m sorry,” I said, stepping back and waving him ahead of me.

“My fault. ‘Scuse me, ma’am,” he said in a heavily southern lisp, smiling and dropping his dark eyes to the floor as he backed up. “Ladies first. Where you headed?”

I stared for a second, his voice ringing familiar for a reason I couldn’t place. Talking to so many people each day gave me a good ear for nuances. Then again, with the headphones off it was hard to hear myself think over the people gabbing about various artifacts.  

“Just to the rec room, I think.” I smiled, scooting around him.

“Enjoy,” he said. I spun back, watching as his dark head disappeared up the stairs. Weird.

I turned my headphones back on as I walked into the game room, the headset track telling a story about the nick in the pool table, the product of a wayward bullet fired by a member of Elvis’ “Memphis Mafia” group of friends. 

The TV room was high-tech for the sixties, with three sets enclosed in a cabinet and a huge lightning-bolt “TCB” logo mural on the wall behind the sectional sofa.

I was almost back to the stairs, ready to go out to the old racquetball court that serves as the trophy room to see Elvis’ platinum records, costumes, and awards, when I heard a woman shouting.  I clicked pause on the audio tour.

“I don’t know which one of you is doing it, but if it doesn’t stop today, I’ll fire every last one of you,” a voice bellowed from behind a heavy door on my left. I resisted the urge to open it, but stayed put, feigning interest in the framed photo of Elvis and his mother on the wall. If what didn’t stop? My inner Lois whispered about the possibility of a story, and I shushed her. For all I knew, Bellow McYellerson on the other side of the door was pissed about someone eating her ham on rye.

Murmurs of agreement.

“Good. Get back to work,” she snapped.

See? I shook my head and reminded myself that I was on vacation. Which meant I wasn’t supposed to be looking for a story under every gold record.

Upstairs, I stepped out into the sun, only a little chilly in the warm December weather, detouring to the meditation garden to pay my respects. It was a peaceful resting place, protected, befitting a man who spent half his life trying to hide from his sometimes-rabid fanbase.

From the garden, I passed the small shooting range and stepped into the trophy hall—one wall housed enough gold and platinum to keep a small European country afloat for years. I clicked the recording back on and browsed, surrounded by ogling tourists and beautiful things. I made it back outside, my destination the cars and planes on the other side of Elvis Presley Boulevard, before everything went bonkers.

THREE

Jewel-encrusted cloak and dagger

Security guards shouting into walkie-talkies poured from every corner of the property, all running toward the trophy room.

I clicked my headphones off and spun on my heel, sprinting after them. 

My inner Lois Lane bounced. The ruckus could be because one of the rowdy kids puked on the Grammy showcase for all I knew, but my gut said there was a story.

I stopped in front of the costume wall in the awards hall and pulled a notebook and pen from my bag. The guards were clustered around a showcase, and from my spot in the back of the crowd I couldn’t see what was in it, but they were freaked about something. The hairs on my arm pricked at the thought that I might be the only reporter on the scene of a breaking story. Merry Christmas to me. Graceland was a national landmark, Elvis a billion-dollar enterprise. Egg nog and cookies could wait.

I wriggled to the front of the small crowd gathered around the guards. Between the tight knot they formed and everyone around me talking at once, I had no way to gauge what was going on. I elbowed my way around the outside of their circle and stood as tall as I could, catching a glimpse of an empty display case. About two-by-three, top lit, and between two of Elvis’ most famous stage outfits.

My stomach flipped. If what belonged in there was missing, that was news. I racked my brain, trying to remember what I’d seen in that case not twenty minutes before, but came up with nothing. Except that I’d have noticed if any of the cases were empty. They were not. But how could something that big go missing in the middle of the day?

I took a step back when a tall man in a guard uniform and a big hat stepped forward, holding up his hands for quiet. His teeth flashed white against his olive skin when he offered a reassuring smile.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we do apologize for the inconvenience, but I’m afraid the exits to the grounds have been locked for the time being and the Memphis Police will be here shortly. We have a situation. You’re all free to continue to move about the grounds, but we ask that if you see anything suspicious, you alert a member of the security team immediately. Y’all enjoy your day.” He nodded a dismissal and most of the guards disbanded, leaving a group of curious tourists whispering musings in their wake.

I scribbled notes and fumbled for my Blackberry to text my editor back in Richmond.

“Something up @ Graceland. Security in an uproar. Looks like something’s missing from the trophy hall. They locked it down. And I’m in here.” I hit send with a shaking finger. God, I hoped he was at the office.

My phone buzzed a reply less than a minute later: “!!!!!!”

I found a bench in a corner where I could still see the guards and the empty case, opening an email to Bob:

Security guards at Elvis Presley’s Graceland mansion put the complex on lockdown just after noon Friday.

“The Memphis Police will be here shortly,” a guard told a small crowd gathered around an empty display case in the trophy hall behind the mansion. “We have a situation.”

No further details were given, but tourists were told that they’re free to roam the grounds until the police arrive. A Telegraph reporter is among those locked inside.

I sent the email and clicked back to my texts. “You have email. I’m on it. I’ll send updates as I have them.”

I tucked the phone into the back pocket of my jeans and made my way through the crowd, looking for anyone who might know what was happening.

My backside buzzed a text arrival just as my eyes lit on a petite redhead whose little girl shared her wild curls. The mom was talking to a guard and gesturing between the child and the guards who formed a body wall around the empty case. The guard took notes as he nodded.

“It’s on the web,” Bob’s text read. “Keep it coming. I’m camped here.”

“Working on it.”

I slipped close enough to the guard conducting the interview to eavesdrop.

“She didn’t do anything to it,” the woman said, her voice escalating in pitch. “She smacked the glass and squealed for me to look. She likes sparkly things.”

Smacked the glass? No way all this hysteria was over a cracked cabinet. My eyes strayed back to the human barrier around the case, but the effort was futile. I was too far away and they were too tightly meshed at the shoulders for me to see a thing.

“Ma’am, no one is accusing your little girl of anything,” the smooth drawl came from the guard in the hat as he walked up next to me. I swiveled my eyes to the gold records on the far wall and feigned disinterest, but I’m not sure he even noticed me, he was so focused on the pixieish face behind the tangle of auburn ringlets.

Kneeling, the officer asked the child her name.

“Savannah,” she chirped.

“I’m Dale. Nice to meet you, Miss Savannah.” He held up one hand. “Can I have a high five?”

She reached a tiny arm up and walloped his palm. He flapped his wrist and dropped his jaw in mock-astonishment. “You’re a mighty strong little lady,” he said, ruffling her hair. “How old are you?”

“Five.” She giggled, holding up as many fingers and shaking her head when he insisted she had to be at least seven.

“Can you tell me how many times you hit the glass?”

“Three? Four?” Savannah hung her head. “I wanted mommy to look.”

“And what happened when you hit the glass?”

“A sparkle fell,” she said, her face scrunching as she tightened her arm around her mother’s thigh. “I didn’t mean to break it.”

“You didn’t break anything, sugar. Don’t you worry.” The first guard scribbled more while the one with the hat—I guessed he was in charge—straightened and nodded at the mother. “If you wouldn’t mind giving Calvin here your contact information, ma’am, we’d sure appreciate it. But please don’t worry about anything. Y’all have happened into the middle of something much bigger than a—” he touched Savannah’s arm and winked, “—‘falling sparkle.’ You watch that right hook, killer.”