Authors: Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective
Daniel Klein (9 page)
“But you went to college. Became a lawyer,” Elvis said.
“After a fashion,” Regis replied. “That part still amazes me. Maybe it's genetic. My father was a lawyer and a judge, and his father before him. Naturally, they went to Stanford and Harvard Law. I, myself, took a slightly different route. Sent myself through night
school by tending bar. Took me almost ten years, but here I am, Counselor Regis Clifford, Attorney at Law.”
school by tending bar. Took me almost ten years, but here I am, Counselor Regis Clifford, Attorney at Law.”
“And LeRoy?”
“It took over a year for LeRoy to heal,” Regis said. “They did some reconstructive surgery on him, put in the glass eye, but it never completely worked. He'd look fairly decent for a few months, but then the right side of his face would simply cave in.”
“Awful.”
“Yes, awful,” Regis said. “That's what LeRoy sees every day when he looks in the mirror. And, when he looks at me, he sees the face he should have had.”
“But he became a lawyer too,” Elvis said.
“That's right. Stanford, Harvard, Assistant District Attorney, and now he's got the family seat on the state supreme court. I saved the powers that be a lot of trouble by eliminating myself from the competition for the Clifford judgeship.”
Elvis shook his head slowly. “So, when you look at LeRoy, you see the man
you
could have been.”
you
could have been.”
Regis chortled. “You know, Elvis, for a rock and roll singer, you have one hell of a dangerous mind.”
“Maybe that's what it takes,” Elvis answered, smiling. “Danger is one of the universal themes of rock and roll, don't ya know?”
Both men laughed, then Regis stood, yawning.
“We'll have to continue this seminar some other time, Elvis,” he said. “Unless you feel like having me for a bedmate.”
“You're not my type, Regis,” Elvis said, grinning.
“Well, you sure are a good-looking fella, but you're not mine either.” Regis started to extend his hand to Elvis, but then his hand abruptly took a detour and picked up the bottle of painkillers off of the bed table. He brought it up to his eyes. “Codeine, eh? Marvelous stuff.”
“It's for my ankle,” Elvis said.
“Oh, it kills the pain all right.
All
of it. Now there's an idea for a song, Elvisâwhat a man's willing to do to feel no pain.” Regis set the bottle back down and straightened up. He looked solemnly
at Elvis for a moment before he went on. “You know that business about there not being any accidents?”
All
of it. Now there's an idea for a song, Elvisâwhat a man's willing to do to feel no pain.” Regis set the bottle back down and straightened up. He looked solemnly
at Elvis for a moment before he went on. “You know that business about there not being any accidents?”
Elvis nodded.
“I believe it,” Regis said quietly. “Deep down, I believe it.”
After Regis had gone, Elvis sat very still in his bed for several minutes. A distressing thought was tugging at his consciousnessânot a fully-formed thought, just the embryo of one. He reached for the bottle of painkillers and popped another tablet in his mouth. It was not long before he heard that siren song again.
Blue Suede Schmooze
T
he sleep of the blessedâthat's what Mamma used to call it. One of those deep-down slumbers that is not even interrupted by a dream. It was almost eleven when Elvis woke, and his first thought was that there was something to be said for sleeping alone. This had been the first night that week that he hadn't slept with Priscilla at his side. Even in his sleep, he had known she was there, tempting him, troubling him.
he sleep of the blessedâthat's what Mamma used to call it. One of those deep-down slumbers that is not even interrupted by a dream. It was almost eleven when Elvis woke, and his first thought was that there was something to be said for sleeping alone. This had been the first night that week that he hadn't slept with Priscilla at his side. Even in his sleep, he had known she was there, tempting him, troubling him.
Instead of Priscilla, on the pillow next to his was that paper-wrapped package Colonel had left for him. The string slipped off easily. Inside was the Jodie Tatum blond wig and a piece of notepaper. Elvis unfolded it:
Dear Mr. Presley,
I kannut tell you how bad I feel about today. I respek you more than any other man and I shuda known better. I got things to tell you, important things. Doin a rodeo out near Reno tomorow and the nex day. But maybe we kin talk after.
Respekly, Will Cathcart
P.S. You dropt this.
P.P.S. It weren't no accident.
P.P.S. It weren't no accident.
Elvis tossed the wig to the end of his bed. No, Will, it wasn't an accident. There
are
no accidents.
are
no accidents.
Elvis swung his legs over the side of the bed, setting his left foot down lightly. The ankle still hurt plenty, a tingling sensation now added to the throbbing. For a moment, he considered taking another one of the painkillers, but that wouldn't do. He had places to go and things to do.
He rang up Joanie on the intercom and asked her to bring up some coffee and a piece of toast. He didn't have much of a hunger this morningâmaybe because those White Tower two-bites were still taking up so much space. He also asked Joanie if she could bring up those crutches that the MGM doctor had given him.
“You aren't getting up today?” Joanie said. It was more of a statement than a question.
“Just a little,” Elvis replied.
“I don't think that's wise, Elvis.”
“Probably not,” Elvis said. “Put a little jam on that toast, would you, Joanie?”
Elvis ate and dressed quickly. He tried to put a shoe on his left foot, but between the swelling and the bandaging it wouldn't go on, so he just slipped a second sock over the first. Then he called Joe and asked him to bring the car around frontâhe had a meeting at MGM in twenty minutes. The crutches were more hindrance than help negotiating the stairs, so Elvis just hung on to the banister with both hands and hopped down sideways. Joanie watched him, wagging her head like a Tennessee nanny.
“No need to look so grim, girl,” Elvis said, smiling. “Just call me Hopalong Presley.”
Their car had scarcely made the turn onto Sepulveda Boulevard when Elvis saw a blue Volkswagen Beetle cut in just behind them. He had first spotted that Beetle in his side mirror back by Holmby Park, weaving in and out behind them. Now he turned in his seat and looked back through the rear window at the car. A gaunt man with a gray beard and a black knit cap was driving, and he glared back at Elvis with a mean-looking squint.
“Think we're being followed,” Elvis said, turning forward again.
“Autograph seeker?” Joe said, glancing in his rearview mirror.
“Don't think so.”
“What then?”
“Don't know, Joe. But let's lose him, okay?”
Joe screwed up his face. “What the heck for, Elvis?”
“Just do it!” Elvis snapped.
Joe shook his head a couple of times, then gunned it. He jerked the Eldorado into the left lane, then gunned it more. They were flying. A mile later, Joe slipped back into the right lane, then cut off sharply onto the access road to the Mountaingate Country Club. There, he slowed down to thirty. Elvis looked in the side mirror. No Beetle in sight. He reached over and touched Joe's sleeve.
“Sorry I spoke harshly,” he said.
“You're just twitchy from your accident,” Joe said.
“That's right, Joey.”
Elvis hobbled on his crutches into Nancy Pollard's office almost an hour late. Her assistant, Miss Aronson, a petite bleached blonde of indeterminate ageâsomewhere between twenty-five and fortyâgreeted him at the door with a bubbly, “I put the ribs on the hot plate to keep them warm.”
“Forgive me for being so late, ma'am,” Elvis said.
“We're glad you made it at all, considering your awful accident.” This from a willowy redhead in a tailored pink silk pants suit as she strode from her office with her hand extended. “Nancy Pollard. It's a great honor to meet you, Mr. Presley.”
Elvis managed to shake her hand with the crutch still tucked under his right shoulder. “So you heard about my little fall,” Elvis said.
“Of course, Mr. Presley,” Pollard said. “It's the talk of the campus.” She leaned her pert face close to his and smiled coquettishly. “There's even talk that you are going to sue us for gazillions of dollars for neglect or something.”
“Not likely,” Elvis said.
Pollard led Elvis into her office where Aronson was already busily portioning out baby back ribs, little squares of corn bread, and
mounds of coleslaw onto gold-flecked French bone china. The ribs looked like beef jerky. The china looked downright embarrassed.
mounds of coleslaw onto gold-flecked French bone china. The ribs looked like beef jerky. The china looked downright embarrassed.
“Well, I cannot tell you how privileged I feel,” Pollard said, tucking a linen napkin onto her lap. “It isn't often we're able to go right to the source. Skip the middlemen with all their preconceived ideas and work with the one person who knows what's best for him. For
you,
Mr. Presley.”
you,
Mr. Presley.”
It was obviously a prepared little speech, but Pollard delivered it well, complete with sincere nods and a modest smile. Then again, she had put in time as an actress, including one consummate performance on the witness stand.
Elvis poked at a rib with his fork. If it had been at all moist before being rewarmed on the hot plate, it now had the consistency of a horse whip. He moved his fork over to the coleslaw. What in tarnation were those ant-looking things swimming around in it?
“Caraway seeds,” Aronson piped up behind him. She had remained standing, the attentive waitress anticipating his every question. “It's a California touch.”
Elvis nodded. He set down his fork.
“Let me tell you what I've been thinking about, Miss Pollard,” he began. “I want to dig into a drama that has universal themes. Say, love and betrayal.”
“Interesting,” Pollard said.
“Yes, very,” Aronson echoed.
“Like, what if I was this fella who was happily married,” Elvis continued. “A regular guy with a regular job. And a nice-looking woman for a wife, but regular too.”
“Tuesday Weld,” Aronson murmured.
“Perhaps,” Pollard said.
“Well, a Tuesday Weld type,” Aronson countered.
“And then, one day, Iâthis fellaâgets into some kind of trouble,” Elvis went on. “Maybe with the law or something like that. But my wife, this woman I have loved and cherished with all my heart, she suddenly turns against me.”
Pollard set down her fork and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.
“How?” she asked. “How does she turn against you?”
“Well, maybe she decides on her own that I am guilty of this trouble I got into, whatever it is,” Elvis said, looking directly into Pollard's pale eyes. “And not only that, she, like, goes to the police and tells them she's got evidence to prove I'm guilty.”
“Classic,” Aronson said, breathlessly. “Really, it's like a Greek drama.”
Pollard pushed her plate away and busied herself for several seconds with meticulously folding up her napkin.
“And
are
you guilty?” she asked finally, looking steadily back at Elvis.
are
you guilty?” she asked finally, looking steadily back at Elvis.
“No,” Elvis said. “I am not.”
Pollard leaned across the table toward Elvis, those sincere nods and modest smiles in action again.
“But wouldn't it be more dramatically interesting if you
were
guilty,” she said. “Then your wife would be caught in a fascinating moral dilemma. Should she go with her loyalty to you, the man she loves? Or should she go with honesty? She really struggles with it. I mean, she loves you dearly, but she's a good Christian woman who truly believes in right and wrong. And, in the end, she decides to sacrifice her love for you to this higher good.”
were
guilty,” she said. “Then your wife would be caught in a fascinating moral dilemma. Should she go with her loyalty to you, the man she loves? Or should she go with honesty? She really struggles with it. I mean, she loves you dearly, but she's a good Christian woman who truly believes in right and wrong. And, in the end, she decides to sacrifice her love for you to this higher good.”
“I like that,” Aronson said emphatically. “Lots of texture there.” She had begun clearing the plates off the table; neither Elvis nor Pollard had taken a bite.
“But let's say I'm not guilty,” Elvis said flatly. “And then we've got ourselves a real mystery storyâwho did commit this crime I'm accused of?”
Pollard sat up straight and leaned her head way back, her long red hair hanging dramatically behind her. She was a good-looking woman all right, but Elvis could see why she'd never made it big as an actress: she had a real affinity for the overplayed gesture.
“Motive,” Pollard said softly, staring at the ceiling. “What could
your wife's motive possibly be if you actually are innocent?”
your wife's motive possibly be if you actually are innocent?”
“I don't know,” Elvis said. “Maybe she never really loved me. Maybe she was in love with somebody else the whole time and I just didn't realize it, seeing as I was blinded by my own love for her.”
Pollard shook her head, a simper curling her thin lips. “Forgive me, Mr. Presley, but that sounds a bit trite. More like an afternoon soap opera than a major motion picture.”
“Wait a sec,” Aronson said, halting at the door with the full plates balanced in both hands. “Let's stick with that a moment. Say the wife's in love with somebody else, and she and this guy want to get rid of the husband. So they set him upâframe him for some crime. And
that's
why she goes to the police with the damning evidence.”
that's
why she goes to the police with the damning evidence.”
“That's only been done about a gazillion times,” Pollard said wearily. Then, “But, thank you, Maryjane. Please close the door after you.”
The moment Aronson shut the door, Pollard rose and strode around the table until she was standing next to Elvis's chair. She grasped one of the crutches he had leaned against the table and balanced it on its tip between the two of them, playfully catching it every time it started to topple, then balancing it again.
“I get the impression that there is something you want to say to me, Mr. Presley,” she said finally. “Perhaps of a personal nature.”
Elvis gazed up at Nancy Pollard. “I'm a friend of Freddy Littlejon's,” he said quietly.
Pollard burst into laughterâlouder and more raucously than Elvis could imagine anything that he said deserved. That over-the-top performance again; even Gene Nelson would have reigned that one in.
“I'll be damned,” she said. “So for once Squirm was telling the truth.”
Funny, those were pretty much the same words Warden Reardon had used.
“You broke his heart, you know,” Elvis said, not taking his eyes off her.
“Well, he broke
mine
!” Pollard snapped back.
mine
!” Pollard snapped back.
“By carrying on with that girl?”
“No!” Pollard howled. “By
killing
that girl!”
killing
that girl!”
“And what makes you so sure he did that, Miss Pollard?”
“The same thing that makes everybody else so sure,” Pollard said. “Absolutely everything. For godssake, the man has admitted to being a rapist. A rapist of underage girls.”
“Who did he admit that to?”
“His friends,” Pollard said.
“You mean Mr. Grieves.”
“For one,” Pollard said.
“For one and only, as far as I can tell,” Elvis said. “And what makes you so sure that Grieves is telling the truth?”
Pollard turned, walked slowly back to her chair, and sat down again.
“Look, Mr. Presley,” she said softly. “I cannot tell you how impressed I am with your loyalty to Squirm. It's not often that a man of yourâyour statureâtakes an interest in someone like him. I mean, it's really quite touching. But I think your concern is misplaced. Squirm is a murderer and he only got what he deserved.”
For the first time since he'd limped into Pollard's office, Elvis heard what sounded like genuine sincerity in her voice.
“So what you said at the trial is all true,” Elvis said gently. “About Squirm's, you know, his dress-up games with you at home.”
Nancy Pollard's face blushed that shade of flaming crimson which is reserved for redheads.
“There ⦠There are all kinds of truth, Mr. Presley,” she said.
Elvis stared back at Nancy Pollard, struggling actress turned big-time MGM executive.
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