Unknown - Douglas_Carole_Nelson_Cat_in_a_Jeweled_Jumpsuit_Bo

“Maybe lightning bugs,” she suggested pointedly. “I’m not sure I can go on,” he sniveled.

Yes, Crawford Buchanan sniveled as well as sneered and leered. He belonged in a bad melodrama, as if there were any good ones.

“You’ll live,” she said shortly, moving toward the dressing room door.

“No, I don’t mean I can’t go ‘on’ on. I mean I don’t know if I can go on stage tomorrow night. For the competition. It’s not only too soon after Elvis’s death”—Temple rolled her eyes and found herself exchanging exasperated glances with a big fat spider on the ceiling; how appropriate; even the insect world had no use for C. B—“but it’s dangerous out there. Someone could kill me by mistake.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can’t ever see it happening that someone would kill you by mistake.”

“What if the Elvis-killer is another impersonator, mad to win? Or a deranged fan afraid a rediscovered King wouldn’t live up to his old image? It could be anybody.” “That’s absolutely right.” Temple folded her arms over her chest, which even in his extremity of emotion was attracting too much notice from Crawford Buchanan. “Okay. I can provide you with bodyguards, but that’s all.”

“I need a Priscilla to share the stage. It’s a great part, T. B. —Temple.”

“Oh, sure. Stand around in the background like an albino Christmas tree and then sling some humongous, heavy belt to the guy who wins, all the time wearing shredding organza and unraveling seed pearls. And maybe while I’m at it, a deranged fan/killer/maniac can rush out and strangle me with a guitar string. Bodyguards.”

“Who can you get for that?”

“Experts. That’s all you need to know.”

“There are enough guys running around here in those funeral-director suits already. They haven’t been able to stop a thing.”

“Those aren’t my bodyguards.”

“Who are they then?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then how do I know if they exist and are doing their jobs?”

“You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

He frowned and squinted, trying to squeeze out a fresh glaze of liquid to his eyes. Apparently he was done crying for the King. He only managed to look constipated, which was also appropriate.

Temple turned to leave.

“Please! I need a Priscilla tomorrow night.”

“Rent a department store mannequin, then, and drape what’s left of the wedding gown on it; I’m sure no one in the audience will notice. Now.” She pointed a forefinger. “Out.”

He slunk away like a whipped weimaraner.

Temple sat on the vacated chair, feeling virtuous about heeding Matt’s advice to take the sane and stable road of noninvolvement.

He had been right. How satisfying it was to turn C. B.

down cold, although it might have been fun to masquerade as Priscilla. If the dress hadn’t been trashed, she might have tried it, but no dress, no Priscilla, and one less Presley persona to worry about.

She glanced again at the many accoutrements necessary for recreating a late sixties woman, including almost-white lipstick. Ick! How had they brainwashed women into these universal “looks” back then? Temple liked to skim a fashion magazine occasionally, and occasionally went after a way-out nail color or a certain article of clothing, but she was mostly immune to the color palette of the season or the next weird Hollywood hair thing.

The soft scrape of a shoe on cement made her look up.

A man in black’s silhouette filled the doorway. As she watched, puzzled, he stepped into the room, drawing the door closed behind him.

Maybe the impenetrable sunglass lenses spooked her. They were as shiny and opaque as the bug-eyes on those shrimpy albino aliens who were the official poster beings of the UFO set.

Whatever, the visitor was a tall, impassive guy, born to be typecast as either a mob enforcer or an IRS agent. Temple theorized that they moonlighted as each other a lot more often than people realized.

Whatever his affiliation, government, crime, or out of this world, his presence radiated authority and force, and had Temple absolutely cornered.

She stood and backed up, nervously, feeling her throat tingle and her stomach tighten.

“Why do I get the impression,” she asked, “that you’re not hotel security?”

He pulled off the sunglasses by one ear bow. “Good instincts?” He smiled slightly, but she had already recognized him.

“You’re … Bucek. Matt’s Father Frank.” She didn’t relax one bit. “You’re FBI.”

“Thanks for saving me digging out my ID. Now you can do me another favor.”

“Favor?”

He nodded, pulled out the chair she had abandoned, turning it toward her.

“I’ ll stand.” Temple fanned her fingertips on the countertop for balance. Her knees were still knocking slightly from the adrenaline rush of finding herself alone with a strange—and strange looking—man.

Bucek shrugged and sat himself, holding his shades loosely in the hand he balanced on one knee.

“I heard you tell Buchanan that you wouldn’t step in as Priscilla Presley in tomorrow’s Elvis competition.”

“That’s right. Two men are dead, and the girl who played Priscilla has endured harassment and even personal attack. I have no business taking such risks because ‘the show must go on.’ I’m just an innocent bystander.”

“Excellent decision. I’m sure Matt Devine would be very happy to hear that.”

“How nice for him, but I came to this conclusion all by myself. So you don’t have to worry about my ‘meddling’ in this case. I’m outa here.”

He smiled again, to himself.

“I am outa here, aren’t I? You aren’t going to arrest me, or anything sinister? I didn’t do it, honest.”

“No, I’m not going to detain you at all, but there is that favor …”

“I’m leaving, this very instant. I’ll be out of your hair forever.” Temple pushed herself away from the support of the countertop in demonstration of her imminent departure.

Bucek shook his head. “I’m afraid we’re both about to disappoint Matt. I want you to stay.”

“Here? Now?”

“I want you to stay for whatever time it takes to enact Priscilla Presley tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to get yourself another bride of Elvis. I’m absolutely determined to keep out of it.”

“Again, an admirable decision, and pretty atypical, from what I’ve heard from Lieutenant Molina, but you’re here. You know the setting, the actors, the costume. We don’t have enough time to prep a female agent and get her into place this fast. I don’t like it, either, but you’ll have the agency’s full protection.”

“Hah! That didn’t help Lyle Purvis much.”

Bucek sat forward, alert. “You knew he was a target?” “It was pretty obvious after I found him dead.” “You knew we were here?”

“The Memphis Mafia security crew make a great cover for G-men, but there were a few dozen too many of you running around.”

Bucek’s smooth features suddenly roughened with a new insight. “And you had the fabulous, flying Fontana brothers to point out dramatis personae to you.”

“They did mention the Mob, and the feds. And they knew that the first victim, Clint Westwood, was a minor crime figure. Where do the bozos get these names?”

Bucek chuckled. “In their own self-dramatizing imaginations. Even the bad guys want to see themselves as good guys.”

“Maybe especially.”

He nodded slowly and puckered his lips. “Career criminals are just that: upwardly mobile working stiffs trying to climb the ladder. Whoever hit Lyle will expect a promotion.”

“And it’s the same person who harassed Quincey. Why?”

Bucek tilted back on the wooden chair’s fragile legs, making Temple even more nervous. She hadn’t relaxed for a second since he’d entered the room, though she was finding the information he was sharing fascinating. Why, he was almost talking to her like a colleague … or a patsy.