Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery) Read online

  “That one was Priscilla’s,” I heard Vernon say from behind me.

  “It’s beautiful.” I meant it. Looking at the curves and sweeps of the body and the gleam of the chrome was like looking at art.

  “Start it up,” she told me. “Keys are in it.”

  I walked around to the driver’s side of the car, trailing my fingers over the hood as I went. The heavy steel door opened without a creak and I sat down on the soft leather.

  I double-checked to make sure the car was in park and the brake was on, reached down to the side of the steering column, and turned over the ignition. The big block V8 roared to life. Vernon walked around and put her hand on my shoulder and smiled as we listened to the engine music.

  Idling the car was only delaying the inevitable, though. Buddy didn’t bring me here to play with toys. I turned the ignition off and handed her the packet of photos. “Buddy said these are for you. I’m guessing the guy with the Camaro is your husband?”

  “That’s right,” Vernon said tightly.

  “Do you want to see them, or do you want me to tell you what’s on them?” I asked.

  “I’ll look.”

  Vernon took the envelope and walked over to a small desk in the corner. She dropped down into a black leather chair and spread the photos out onto the blotter. Her face was expressionless as she looked through them.

  I wanted to give Vernon some space and turned my attention to the glass cases on the walls. I moved closer to read one of the small brass plaques. White Nail Jumpsuit, 1973. I’d seen pictures of this one from his Vegas shows. The next one read Smoking Jacket, 1961—Memphis Concert. In February of that year Elvis was honored for the annual donations he made to Memphis charities. Tennessee governor Buford Ellington even declared it Elvis Presley Day. This was the jacket he wore at the concert that evening. I wanted to ask Vernon where she’d gotten it, but she was still looking through the photos.

  I know from experience there is no right thing to say after a jilted spouse has seen photographic evidence of adultery. It doesn’t matter that they already suspected. They feel like they just got punched in the gut and want to know details like how long, or how many times. The victim wants to lash out and I’m the only one standing there. About the only thing a P.I. can do that won’t get a book, or something harder, thrown in his general direction is to wait quietly for the inevitable questions.

  “Have you ever been to Kresge, Wyoming?” Vernon asked.

  That wasn’t normally one of the inevitable questions. “I’ve never even heard of Kresge.”

  Vernon’s face revealed no hint of what she was feeling. She got up from her desk and stood before a glass case containing a mounted karate robe, complete with black belt. It took me a second to recognize it as a set that Buddy had me buy for him eight or nine years ago. It had been a race to get it, between me and Cougar Watts, a finder for an Elvis memorabilia broker named Anton Sebastian Bergstrom. Bergstrom is Buddy’s archnemesis, for lack of a better word. He doesn’t have any respect for the King beyond how he can make a buck. Glancing quickly around the room, I spotted a number of other Elvis artifacts I’d been sent to acquire.

  “Did you know that when Priscilla left Graceland, Elvis threw himself into the martial arts?” Vernon asked.

  I did, actually. It’s what inspired me to take up Judo, although I’d never be as good at it as Elvis was at karate. But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t think Vernon was really looking for an answer.

  She reached out a finger to the glass and traced the belt’s course before turning to me to say, “That’s when he earned his black belt. I can understand why he might have needed to punch things.”

  “Vernon—”

  “It’s okay. Buddy never approved of Roger. My husband. Said he was a gold digger. And not the good-hearted, happy-ending, Dianne-Carter type.”

  “You and Buddy must be pretty close, you taking care of him like this,” I said.

  “He’s my godfather. When my dad passed, Buddy came out to stay with me a while and got the estate in order. That’s when he told me about your picture, the one from his story. ‘Do what’s right for you, as long as it don’t hurt no one.’ That made sense to me.”

  “So he talks to you about me?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Telling stories about you and him on the road makes him happy.”

  “Why hasn’t Buddy ever mentioned you to me?”

  “I told him not to,” she said plainly.

  “Why?”

  “No matter what Buddy said, I didn’t know if I could trust you. A lot of people tried to get a piece of the business when I took over. Or a piece of me. It’s easier to run a pork rind business if everyone thinks you’re a man.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but about that...”

  Vernon closed her eyes and sighed, as if this were a question she had to answer too often.

  “Daddy only married my mom because she told him she was having a boy. He didn’t find out I was a girl until she ran off with his money when I was four.”

  “Oh,” I said uncomfortably. What else is there to say to that? I decided to change the subject.

  “Buddy said he has two things left to do...”

  “Convincing me that Roger is a rotten, cheating bastard was one of them,” she said.

  I suppose I could have chosen a better subject. “And the second?”

  “I think you already know. Before he dies, Buddy wants you to find Jon Burrows.”

  I did know it. But hearing her say it brought back the sick feeling in my gut.

  “I’m not sure I even believe Elvis is alive,” I said.

  Vernon shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Buddy does and he thinks you can find him.”

  “I’ve tried. Believe me. You don’t really expect me to go off on a Burrows hunt while Buddy lays dying, do you?”

  “Yes. I do. And you will,” Vernon said. “Ever wonder where Buddy found the money to send you looking for Elvis?”

  Actually, I had. Quite a few times.

  “I’ve been bankrolling your Burrows hunts, Floyd,” Vernon told me. “I don’t know where Buddy gets his information, but he gets good tips and I pay to follow them up. It’s the least I can do for him.”

  Over the past ten, twelve years, Buddy had picked up lines on Burrows’s travels and sent me to every corner of the country hound-dogging them. I’d always arrived days, weeks, even years, in the most recent case, too late. And there was absolutely no proof that the Jon Burrows I was tracking was actually Elvis.

  “Buddy got a new tip that Burrows is in Kresge. Right now. You’re going to go find him.”

  Vernon went back to her desk and pulled a roll of cash and some keys out of a drawer.

  “Why is this Burrows hunt any different than the last one?” I asked.

  “Because we heard that Bergstrom sent Cougar Watts to Kresge two, maybe three weeks ago,” she said.

  If Watts was in Kresge, then there was definitely something worth looking into. But not something more valuable than spending time with Buddy.

  “That doesn’t change anything,” I protested. “I’m not going.”

  “I figured you’d say that. I don’t want to fight, so I’m going to make it easy for you. Buddy wants you to find Burrows, so that means I want you to find Burrows. Be on the road by sunset or I’ll have you thrown out. Either way, you won’t be sticking around my ranch. Understand?”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” I said.

  “Yes. I would.”

  If this is the way Vernon handles people who aren’t trying to get something from her, she didn’t really need to worry about people knowing she’s a she.

  “Why? He could be dead before I get back.”

  Vernon cocked her head to the side and gave me a condescending look.

 
“Buddy has spent two decades helping people find their inner Elvis. He wants his idol to know what an impact he’s made.”

  “If he is alive, seems like all the impersonators and commemorative plates would give him an idea.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” Vernon chided.

  She was right. Living like Elvis would want you to is not the same thing as buying crap from the Franklin Mint.

  “Fine. I’ll go. But if I don’t find something quickly, I come back and you let me see Buddy.”

  “Deal,” she said. “How’s that car of yours running, Floyd? It looks like a junker.”

  “Don’t worry. It will get me there,” I assured her.

  Vernon put the keys and money she was holding into my hand.

  “Some traveling cash,” she said. “You should be driving in style. I’ve signed the title of the Camaro over to you. Roger just had it washed and waxed.”

  Vernon excused herself, so I went back to Buddy’s room and waited by his bed until he woke up. We spent a good hour together, just talking. What we said wasn’t important to either one of us. The simple act of spending time together was what counted. My last words to him before hitting the road were that I would find Jon Burrows and prove he was Elvis.

  I doubted that the two men were one and the same, or that the Jon Burrows from Buddy’s guitar shop in Boise could really be found in Kresge, Wyoming. But I’d try anyway. One last Burrows hunt.

  Roger was still polishing the Camaro when I closed the screen door to Vernon’s home behind me.

  “That is a beautiful car,” I called out to him, grabbing my bags out of the Ford’s trunk.

  “Cherry,” Roger confirmed before rattling off a bunch of numbers and words about engines and transmissions that I didn’t understand.

  I walked around to the trunk of the Camaro and used the key Vernon had given me to open it.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Roger asked as I tossed my stuff in.

  I shut the trunk with a metallic bang.

  “Taking my new car for a drive,” I answered.

  Roger put himself between me and the door of the car.

  “This is my car,” he said.

  I dangled the keys in front of him.

  “Should have kept it in your pants, pal. Hey, did that blonde at The Mermaid like you or your ride? Maybe I should give her a call?”

  I was baiting him, I know, but the guy was an ass.

  Roger balled his fist and took a shot at me, but swung wide like an amateur. I stepped inside his reach, grabbed his arm, and pulled him forward. I planted my left foot in front of him to put him off balance and let his own momentum send him sprawling in the soapy mud and grass. I love Judo.

  Louisa’s laughter came to me from inside the house. I don’t know whether or not Vernon was watching, but I’d bet a box of pork rinds that this is exactly what she’d hoped would happen. By the time Roger was up on his feet, I had the Camaro started and was pulling away, the setting sun in my rearview.

  Five fill ups later I was slowing my new gas guzzler to 25 just ahead of the green-and-white “Welcome to Kresge, Population 3,452” sign. Travel enough in the West and you learn quickly that nearly every little town has a speed trap right inside the city limits. But it wasn’t a police cruiser waiting for me as I coasted into town, it was a step back in time—to Denmark, circa 1890.

  Chapter Four

  Pastel-colored buildings with gabled roofs and flaring eaves lined both sides of Kresge’s main street. Hand-lettered signs in Gothic script hung on every storefront proclaiming which member of the Better Business Bureau occupied the space. A glance revealed butchers, bakers and candlestick makers. No joke. And then I saw it.

  I pulled the Camaro to the side of the road, put it in park, and stared. For all of my travels, I’d never actually seen a real windmill before, and I sure didn’t expect to find one in the Wyoming boondocks.

  A blonde teenager in pigtails and a white bonnet ducked down to look in my window, startling me.

  “Can I help you, Mister?”

  “Nice windmill.”

  “Your first time in Kresge?”

  “Yep.”

  “Velkommen!” The girl smiled. She leaned forward and said in a slightly lowered voice, “That’s Danish for welcome.”

  “Thanks. Your town is beautiful.”

  At that, the girl’s good mood deflated.

  “Yeah, well. These three blocks are just about all that’s left of the Old Oksvang. My great-grandparents settled here before it got swallowed up whole. The rest of Kresge looks just like all the other dumpy burgs around here.”

  I opened the door to the Camaro and stepped out. The sunlight reflecting off the sequins on my jumpsuit caught the girl’s eye.

  “Hey, you’re not with the circus people, are you?” she asked guardedly.

  “Come again?”

  She screwed up her face as she considered me. It was cute, in a little sister kind of way.

  The consideration quickly became disapproval and she looked like she’d just bitten into a bug. “Your kind isn’t welcome in Old Town. Soon enough you won’t be welcome here at all.”

  She turned with a twirl of her green, blue and black skirt and stormed across the street and into a bakery. Kresge was an interesting place. I could understand why Jon Burrows might want to visit.

  A few blocks later, Main Street became New Main Street, which looked a lot more like the Main Street I was expecting. Hardware store. Pharmacy. Grocery store. And there, at the corner of New Main Street and 2nd, a silver-skinned diner complete with a flashing neon sign. “Eat at Mel’s.”

  I was starved.

  The Camaro glided to an easy stop in the parking lot. I took the three steps up to the door in a single bound, pulled it open and found myself with a new sense of optimism about Kresge.

  Black vinyl stools lined Mel’s polished chrome and Formica countertop. A case filled with cherry, apple and pecan pies sat next to an old-fashioned, pushbutton cash register.

  Across from the counter, the booths were filled with lunching customers. It was a pretty homogenous group. A lot of blue jeans and t-shirts and a few Caterpillar and John Deere hats. I braced for one of them to yell out a joke about the Elvis impersonator.

  A few customers looked up, but just as quickly turned backed to their roasted chicken or meatloaf, unfazed by my outfit.

  “Want to see a menu?” the waitress asked.

  My server was in her late 70s, but time had been kind. Her straight, dyed-black hair was cut into bangs that stopped just above mischievously penciled eyebrows. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth had been carved from years of smiles. The name tag on her uniform said Bettie Mae.

  “Sure,” I said, and picked out a stool at the counter. “Do you have bacon cheeseburgers on that menu?”

  “The best in five counties.”

  “One of those and a vanilla shake.”

  Bettie Mae did a half turn, giving me a view of her derrière, and gave a few wiggles. Even her figure defied the decades. The crisp white waitress uniform emphasized feminine curves from bust to hips.

  “Shake, shake, shake!” she said, and giggled.

  I might have blushed.

  “Coming right up, sweetie.”

  Elvis once said, “What’s good for the body ain’t always good for the taste buds.” Elvis loved peanut butter and banana, but I love a good bacon cheeseburger. The only downside was that I’d have to do an extra twenty minutes of Judo poses working it off.

  I swiveled on my stool to get a look at the locals again. Not one of them was paying the least bit of attention to me. This was a first.

  “Here’s your shake, hon.”

  “Thank you, Bettie Mae,” I said, turning back to her

 
“You mind me asking—” she began.

  Finally. It isn’t that I am looking for attention, but the diners’ reaction just wasn’t normal.

  “About the jumpsuit?” I said.

  The smile that had given birth to all those wrinkles broke the surface.

  “Yeah, about the suit. You’re not...him, are you?”

  “Him? You mean Elvis?”

  Bettie Mae looked a little sheepish. “You seem a little young, but you never know...”

  “No, ma’am. Floyd.”

  Her smile returned. “So what’s with the get-up?”

  “Long story. The simple version is I try to live my life the way I think Elvis would if he were me.”

  “That don’t sound so bad,” she said, considering. “I’ll go check on your burger.”

  “Wait a sec...”

  Bettie Mae turned back to me and tilted her head.

  “You wouldn’t have been surprised if I had been Elvis?”

  “Everybody comes through Kresge sooner or later, Floyd,” she said.

  “That’s good to know. Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for a guy named Jon Burrows. He a customer?”

  “Can’t say I know a Burrows.”

  Yeah. That would have been too easy. “How about a good place for me to stay then?” I asked.

  “Go down to the Butterworth Motel at the end of New Main. Best place to stay in Kresge and they’ve got a hunk of a singer who croons the classics in the lounge.”

  The cook rang his bell and Bettie Mae brought me back a pretty ordinary looking burger. After one bite I knew she had lied. It wasn’t good. It was the best bacon cheeseburger I’d ever had.

  I finished my meal, left a big tip, and followed her directions to the Butterworth Motel. The three-story red brick building stood alone in the center of a large gravel parking lot and looked more like a schoolhouse than a motel. A marquee next to the glowing neon MOTEL sign declared that James Morrison was kicking off his comeback tour in the attached Bombay Club.

  The tour’s opening date was nearly fourteen months ago.

  If you want to annoy a small hotel owner, check in before three o’clock. Even when they have vacancies, hoteliers like their guests to arrive after housekeeping has made its appointed rounds. Unless Jon Burrows was staying here, I might be in Kresge a while and would want to make friendly with the hotel staff. I followed the marquee’s arrows to a drab, single-story addition jutting out of the side of the Butterworth.