Unknown - Douglas_Carole_Nelson_Cat_in_a_Jeweled_Jumpsuit_Bo

“And an anaconda named Trojan?” Temple prompted. “How does that fit into the Elvis bestiary?”

“Wow, lady. Elvis was into a lot of strange things, but I didn’t hear he was into that.”

“Never mind,” Temple said. “I’m asking how the snake fits into the Animal Elvis exhibit.”

“I just handle the stock. Must have some connection. Maybe Elvis dated a belly dancer.”

“They don’t work with snakes.”

“I don’t know. All I know is that scaly mother is gonna be a truss-buster to fish out of that water. Whoever got it here didn’t work alone.”

Temple allowed the information to sink in. An interesting observation. But who would go to all this snake-toting trouble to off an Elvis impersonator? A jealous rival, or several? A crazed fan, or several? Animal rights activists? And why the snake? Such a cumbersome set dressing. Or was it the murder weapon? Or, if it was just set dressing, what was the message? A twenty-foot-long anaconda named Trojan.

Oh.

Temple finally got one message.

Why the anaconda was named Trojan.

And that gave her one connection to the King right there. As Electra had just pointed out, Elvis had loved puns.

Was Somebody Up There laughing at them? Or was Somebody Not Up There who should be?

Chapter 32

I’m Gonna Sit Right

Down and Cry

(Over You)

(One of the first songs Elvis recorded for RCA in early 1956)

Crawford Buchanan was shaking like a willow in a windstorm.

He looked worse than a drowned rat, huddling under the “Kingdome” decorative blanket that had been rushed in from the hotel gift shop.

He sat alone on his own Medication Garden bench, teeth chattering too much to talk. Thank goodness, Temple thought.

She preferred the bench she and Electra occupied outside of Crawford’s talking range, where she could catch phrases of officialese when the interior air-conditioning drafts were right.

“. .. least it wasn’t one of the damn display jumpsuits,” a Mafioso muttered.

“Bet they’ll be checking the Elvis impersonator roster,” another speculated.

The body lay by the pool edge, clothed in a garbagebag-green body bag. Temple wondered why that deep black-green color was considered appropriate for disposal of everything from orange rinds to corpses, and who decided such things.

Perhaps it wasn’t quite as chilling as dead black.

The site now teemed with uniformed Las Vegas Metropolitan police officers, latex-gloved evidence technicians and video camera operators, some plainclothes detectives scouring the scene, and the gathered hordes of early arrivals. None of them looked remotely familiar, and for that Temple was grateful.

Eventually, the inevitable happened. A man ambled over to them, laminated police ID clipped to his suit coat lapel, and flipped open a notebook. He rested a foot on the empty end of their bench and took down their names, addresses, and phone numbers.

“You two found the body?” he finally asked.

“Not so much ‘found’ as turned around and noticed,” Electra said quickly.

“You mean you had been here a few minutes before you noticed it?”

“Yes,” Temple said, having learned through her dealings with Lieutenant Molina that interrogation sessions were like a dance class: it was better to let the police lead and the witness follow.

“I understand this part of the hotel wasn’t open yet.” Temple and Electra nodded in tandem.

“You two don’t look like scofflaws.”

“Thank you,” Electra interjected.

The detective was not interested in bestowing compliments; he just wanted to know the why and wherefore. “I’ve … been involved with the Elvis pageant,” Tem-ple said. “Electra was, is, an Elvis fan and was curious about how the hotel was going to evoke the Meditation Garden. We figured we wouldn’t hurt anything if we took a look.”

He nodded and took notes, allowing Temple to take her own mental notes: nice-looking in a bland way, probably a family man with two kids and a wife and a minivan. Quietly intelligent, preferred pencils to pens, maybe an artistic streak… .

“What did you think when you first saw the body?”

“That it wasn’t a body,” Electra blurted out. “Well, we’d been looking at all these Elvis jumpsuits around here, out in the dome and in these display cases here, and then there was that murdered jumpsuit in the dressing room the other day.”

“Murdered jumpsuit?”

Electra, cow-eyed, glanced toward Temple. It occurred to her too late that she might have said too much.

Temple answered. “An Elvis jumpsuit was found with some red nail polish splashed on the back and a dagger pushed through it.”

“Was this reported?”

“I was told that hotel security was alerted and that the police would be keeping an eye on things, but that was just hearsay.”

“Hearsay.” The yellow pencil was held poised over the pad like a strike-threatening snake. “You a lawyer, ma’ am?”

“No way. I’m just saying what I heard. You’d have to check with the hotel and the police department to find out exactly what was reported and what was done about it.”

“What is your occupation?” he persisted.

“I’m a public relations specialist. Freelance.”

He glanced to the knots of people strung around the pool. “In your professional opinion, is this good, or bad, publicity for the hotel?”

“Sudden death is always bad publicity for a hotel.” “Sudden death of a guy in an Elvis suit?”

Temple sighed. “That’s iffy. Some people can’t get enough of Elvis, alive or dead, living or dying.” “Could it have been a publicity stunt gone bad?”

“I don’t see how. If the area was open to the public, maybe. You know: see Elvis wrestle an anaconda in the Graceland pool … but that doesn’t make any sense! Aside from his Jungle Room, Elvis didn’t have anything to do with snakes. Unless it was some of the people who surrounded him.”

“Oh?”

“I didn’t have any particular snakes in mind; just the general show-business variety.”

“What about that Buchanan guy?”

“You noticed the affinity.”

“You know him?”

“Only as much as I have to. He’s a local writer, I suppose you’d have to call him. For the Las Vegas Scoop.”

The detective nodded with that patented noncommittal expression they must go to police academy to master. “And why do you suppose he was here?”

“I have no idea. He just came barreling out of the bushes and rushed straight into the pool. He claimed he tripped over something.”

The detective flipped his notebook back a couple of pages. ” ‘Some kind of animal, low and furred, like a weasel.’ The brownsuits say that there’s no weasel in the Animal Elvis exhibit.”

“The only animal we’ve seen here,” Electra put in, “is that awful snake. Did they finally take it away?”

“Yes, ma’am. Quite a struggle I hear. Too bad a snake doesn’t leave tread marks.”

Electra shuddered at the implication.

The detective slapped his notebook shut and took his foot off the bench. “Thanks for the cooperation.”

“Like we were gonna take the Fifth,” Electra muttered as he left. “Can we go now?”

Temple looked around. “I guess so.” She frowned at Buchanan, still shivering on his bench. “Apparently they’re hanging the Crawf out to dry. You know, keeping him waiting until he cracks and comes up with a good excuse for being here. I’d almost feel sorry for him if I didn’t know his biggest regret is not being able to get back to the Scoop to break the story.”

“Temple, control yourself! Everything you’ve told me about him makes him the most venal, obnoxious man in Las Vegas, and that’s a hard title to earn here.”