Unknown - Douglas_Carole_Nelson_Cat_in_a_Jeweled_Jumpsuit_Bo

“Of course he’s allowed in.” An elderly man for whom the phrase “old coot” had been invented, down to the handlebar mustache, leaned out to hold the door open for man, woman, and cat. “Come on, Miss Temple Barr. We owe you lunch on the house.”

“I can’t think what for. We wanted to add to the restaurant’s customer base.”

“And this fellow is—?”

“Matt Devine, one of Electra’s most valued tenants.” “After yourself,” the guy said with a bow.

“This is Wild Blue Pike, one of the restaurant owners.”

Matt, gloveless again, shook a gnarled hand that gave no quarter.

“Cold hands, warm heart,” Wild Blue commented, shaking his fingers gingerly.

“Sorry. We motorcyled out. I guess my fingers are too cold to know their own strength.”

“No problem. I like a hearty shake, and a hearty lunch. You ready for a Louieburger, Miss Temple?”

“A Louieburger! What’s that?”

“Sourdough bun, almost a pound of prime lean beef with jalapeno cheese, Worcestershire sauce, and cayenne-peppered onion rings.”

“Wow. Lead us to it.”

The tables were wood with inset tiles, the chairs heavy to match, and sported woven-rush seats and backs.

Wild Blue led them to a corner near a roaring mesquite-wood fireplace.

“This is neat,” Temple said as she sat in the chair Wild Blue held out for her, and then pushed way under the table, as if for a child. “I can’t believe I saw this place in the making, a sawdust palace.”

“All good things gotta start with a pile of elbow grease,” Wild Blue said, slapping plastic encased menus before them.

“Forget the menu. It’s a Louieburger for me.” “Me, too,” Matt said.

“All the trimmings?”

“The full Louie,” Temple responded. “And the brownest beer you have.”

Wild Blue frowned. “You like dark ale?”

“No, but I’m suited up and ready to ride.”

After Wild Blue left, Matt regarded her. “You’re in a feisty mood.”

“I’m probably in the same state you are: my brain is weary and my spirit is wilted. Desperate times take desperate measures. Bad-for-you food is the answer!”

“I never thought of advising that over the radio. These guys should buy a spot on the Midnight Hour.”

“Tell ‘em.”

“That’s not my job.”

“It’s your show.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s his.”

“His? Ohhh, your guest celebrity.”

“I think he’s made his last appearance.”

“Really? Why?”

“We had a real go-round the night before last. I pushed him on all the issues. I feel bad about that.” “You were too hard on him?”

Matt shrugged out of his jacket. The fire was hot. “No. I feel sad about it, that’s all. We … he reached a kind of closure. I think he’s … gone for good this time.”

“Really?”

“You keep saying ‘really,’ in that noncommittal tone. Like everything you say has a double meaning.”

“It could,” she said seriously, drawing back while Wild Blue plopped a condensation-dewed bottle of dark beer before each of them.

“Should have asked for a glass.”

“Easy riders don’t ask for glasses.”

“Sorry.” She sipped, then sighed. “I’ve been feeling kinda blue too. One of the neatest Elvis impersonatorsoops, we say ‘tribute performers’ nowadays—died yesterday. He was really, really good. Might even have passed as the real thing, if you were inclined to think that way. Had a great chance of winning the competition. I did it again: found the body, thanks to Midnight Louie.”

Matt only noticed then that Three O’Clock had settled on the brick skirt of the fireplace and was watching them through slitted eyes.

Despite the half-full dining room, he felt that here even the cats had ears, and lowered his voice. “That’s the second guy to die at the Kingdome.”

“Don’t I know it. The first wasn’t a real tribute performer, just some petty crook in a cheapo costume. Not a truly cheap costume, but not up to what Elvis had ever worn. That guy was drowned, as far as the police are saying. Lyle was killed onstage, strangled with a white silk scarf.”

“Aren’t women usually killed by strangling?”

“True. Maybe because they’re easier to overwhelm from behind. That’s what bothers me about this murder. Lyle wasn’t quite as big as Oversized Elvis, but he was no bantamweight. It would take a lot of force to bring him down with one silk scarf.”

“Bizarre. And this happened—?”

“Yesterday.”

“The night Elvis didn’t call. The night after our big on-air showdown. I hope I didn’t drive the guy away to do something foolish. I assume you haven’t been following my nightly channeling sessions.”

“Not recently.”

“I could leave a set of tapes at your door. You think—?”

“I think what you think: something awfully close to Elvis has been going on here. After all those jokes about Elvis playing one of his own impersonators. I must say that Lyle was an impressive Elvis impersonator. He looked closer to fifty than to sixty-four, but plastic surgery nowadays can make even a Savannah Ashleigh look fifteen to twenty years younger. Elvis had already had a facelift when he died, although his associates said he really hadn’t needed it. Poor guy, age and prescription abuse were catching up with him and he was trying to stem the tide—he really was a great-looking man, almost to the end. It must have hurt to see that sliding away.”

Matt nodded. “You could come to take it for granted.”

“Oh?”

He found Temple regarding him with interest and realized that he had never before spoken as if his own good looks were a given. Maybe the midnight groupies had converted him. Maybe he was making as much progress in self-acceptance as the call-in Elvis had been.

“What can you do about this man’s death?” Matt asked. “You’re not really involved. You should stay away from that Kingdome place. And what was Louie doing there?”

“I don’t know. He tends to tail me, excuse the expression.”

Matt glanced at Three O’Clock, his forefeet tucked under him like a Chinese mandarin’s hands slid into his sleeves. The posture made the venerable cat into a feline sage.

“These cats have a way of looking like they know as much—or more than we do. I don’t know if I could live with that. I like dogs; at least they look a lot more anxious and dependent.”

“Can’t take an equal animal, huh? I love the way Louie seems to get one step ahead of me sometimes. I know I’m reading things into simple feline behavior, but it’s fun to pretend.”

“Finding corpses should not be fun, Temple,” Matt lectured. “What about what got you to the Kingdome? Anything new on the Elvis apparition at the Crystal Phoenix?”

“Not a word.” She took a disgruntled swig of beer. “But I feel responsible for Quincey, especially now that her Priscilla wedding gown has been trashed.”

“You should get out of the picture. You and Louie should get back to the Phoenix and to harassing goldfish and the ghost of Jersey Joe Jackson. I’d feel a lot better if you did.”

“So you think your gorgeous, intelligent, pleading brown eyes are gonna cut it with a cat person?”

Matt shook his head. “Nope. I know your weakness for the aloof and mysterious feline and that, against that competition, I ain’t nothing but a hound dog, cryin’ all the time. It’s just that advice is my business nowadays. I may have exorcized my Elvis forever. Time you exorcized yours.”

“Don’t be cruel,” she answered with a mock pout. “We could go on forever in Elvis-ese.”

“There is an Elvis for every occasion.”

“Even murder, apparently. I mean it, Temple. I’ve only had to deal with Elvis long-distance. You’ve gotten much too up close and personal. Time to pull back.”