Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (50 page)

Best let the authorities, however many and however
much
in competition, fight for their turf without her.

She
eased into the hall, missed by no one. Electra was
upholding the distraught girl with a motherly fortitude
far beyond
Temple's experience.

“
What happened?" Oversized Elvis asked in real
con
cern.

“The
Priscilla wedding gown was trashed. Pretty completely."

“
What a shame. Miss Quincey really liked that cos
tume."

“
Guess this sets the rehearsal back a bit."
Temple
fought her way through a
clucking group of sympathetic
Elvi to
the stairwell leading to the stage. "I don't know
what to
think," she told whatever Elvi followed her.

“
We don't blame you." Karate, downcast, shook
his
full head of dark hair, reminding
her of Elvis gearing up
to render one of his more poignant ballads.
"Maybe you should sit down."

“Where?"

“Good
question."

“
Don't worry about me," Temple told them.
"You
guys stay here and keep an eye on what the officials,
and unofficials, are up to. I'm going upstairs to
think in
peace and quiet."

“That's
it, Elvi! Back to the admiring throngs below."
Temple smiled faintly at Cape-and-Cane. She found
his air of
urbane authority soothing.

So she retraced her steps up to the stage. Theaters also
had a soothing effect on her. The dark vortex of an empty
stage, the mathematical repetition of rows of
empty seats, the becomingness of it all, the silent poten
tial,
reminded her of well-designed churches.

She loved to hear her footsteps echo in an empty the
ater.

She walked onto the dark-painted boards, so different
from the warm honey color of most theater floors. This
was Vegas. You wanted drama, not hominess. You got
Elvis
on his knees, not ballet troupes in flying leaps.

She was surprised to see something walking toward
her
over the ebony boards, not making a sound.

She
was completely astonished to recognize Midnight

Chapter 48

Tiger Man

(Sung in concert, usually in medley with
"Mystery
Train")

I
am always reluctant to be the bearer of bad
tidings, and particularly on this occasion.

I
can
see that my Miss Temple is both weary and puz
zled, and not looking around as alertly as she usually is.

Naturally, when
I
heard
the screams from the belly of the beast I avoided doing the obvious. It is the
nature of
my breed to do whatever is
opposite to what the common
herd is doing.

So there I stay in my humble position of unseen ob
server behind the assemblage of drums onstage.

I do not like drums normally. They are needlessly
noisy
and are the original blunt instruments, bereft of
finesse.

However, though the stage floor is black and excellent
camouflage for me, I did feel the need of a better
barrier,
so established myself behind the percussion section.

The only reason I am here in the first place is to try to
figure out what this hillbilly cat has got that
no one will let
the
poor dude rest in peace. This Elvis character is the
only human dude I have ever seen—or not seen—to
manage something approximating nine lives. Well,
maybe
five lives going on six. He is only human, after all.

Still, I had hoped to learn somewhat of the Elvis phe
nomenon from my onstage watching post. Would that I
had thought to cram some cotton into my supersensitive
ears. That Tutti Frutti guy could have raised the dead
with
his high Cs.

Even I did not realize at the time that what was going on
was not raising the dead, but laying the living low.

So it is my sad duty to meet my Miss Temple and es
cort
her to the unavoidable conclusion.

“Louie?"
she says.

She always acts surprised to see me, when she should
know by now that I am expert at being where I am least
expected.

But I merely look wise and sad, a habit of my kind, and
turn
to lead her to the crux of the matter.

I am glad that we are alone. I would not want the world
at large to know how much leading my Miss Temple re
quires in certain matters. Certainly, I do not need the
credit. I am noted for being a primo predator by my own
self. It is nothing new for me to be presenting a
recently
live prey to my
charming roommate.

I only wish that it was something that might make her
scream
and faint, like a mouse or a lizard.

I am sorry that it is a guy this time, and one that she
has
met recently.

He is lying on the floor by the deserted instruments in a
most undignified position. In fact, were he
still
upright,
the position would not be unlike the late King's more con
voluted contortions on the balls of his feet, as we just
saw
demonstrated
so recently by the newest Elvis candidate.

To put it shortly, the dead guy is twisted like a salted
pretzel, and his
face is growing red and dark and will soon
blacken. I think it is due to the long white silk scarf twined around
his throat.

He surely will not sing "Love Me Tender" now.

Miss Temple has obediently followed me over to the
latest
corpse.

The late dude's dark cloak has parted to reveal
glimpses
of a most original and splendiferous jumpsuit
beneath.
Even I must swallow a lump of emotion. The
suit is emblazoned with
members of the feline kingdom, primarily tigers.

Now
no one will see this marvelous jumpsuit in motion.
The tiger's rippling muscles of gold-and-black gemstones
are
forever stilled.

Miss Temple seems unaware of the jumpsuit as she
stares
down at the darkening face of the dead Elvis.

“Lyle?"
she says, as if expecting that he might still talk
back, despite the choke hold the white silk scarf has on his epiglottis.
'The King of Kings is dead? Then . . . who
is Elvis now?”

She
looks at me. "Louie?”

Do not look at me, babe. He is not me, and I am not
he.

Although
I might look very good in the right jumpsuit.

We must talk to the
A
La Cat people about this, once
there
is no longer a whole lotta shakin' going on in the Kingdome.

Chapter 49

Suspicious Minds

(One of
Elvis's signature songs, beloved by
impersonators; recorded in 1969)

"Why did you
come back up here? All the excitement
was downstairs in the dressing room
area.”

The
detective was in his mid-thirties and had a neat
blond mustache. His name was just as
bland: Stevens.
"That's why I came back
up here," Temple said. "I
wanted
to think. So many bizarre things have been going
on around here
lately—"

“
Two murders are more than bizarre. You
knew the
victim?”

Temple
nodded, settling into the velvet theater seat.
Forensic
technicians were swarming over one corner of
the stage, but otherwise the place was
empty.

From
below came the moans of anxious Elvi, fearful that the murder would postpone,
or even end, the com
petition.

Temple found something uncanny in the fact of an
Elvis
"tribute performer" dying on stage.

“
How did you find the body? With that dark cloak, it
was fairly low-profile, and the lighting was low.”

Temple was not about to
introduce her guiding light, Midnight Louie, who had glided into the shadows
and disappeared as soon as she gave the alarm.

She managed a sheepish
expression. "I used to act in
school
plays. I can't cross a stage without 'treading the
boards' a little.
They all have a different sound."

“
So you walked your way right into the dead man.”

She
nodded.

“Did
you recognize him immediately?"

“
Not
quite. First I just saw he was an Elvis. Then I
saw something
familiar about him. Suddenly I knew it
was Lyle."

“
Lyle Purvis." The detective pursed his lips. "I'm still
not clear what you're doing over here anyway. Are
you
an Elvis fan?"

“
Nope."

“You
and this"—he consulted his notebook—"Electra
Lark were on the site of the last murder too."
"Just
unlucky, I guess."

“
And prone to wandering off
the beaten path." He was
checking his
notes again, or, rather, another detective's
notes. "The Medication Garden where the drowned man
was
found was supposed to be off limits."

“
We trespassed a bit there."

“And
you didn't trespass here?"

“Not
that I know of.”

The
detective shook his head. "You make a lousy sus
pect for anything
worse than jaywalking, but you were
at the discovery scenes of two recent,
connected mur
ders."

“
So the drowned man was
murdered? And the mur
ders are connected?"

“By
you."

“Oh."

“
Frankly,
your being just another crazy fan, that
would explain a lot.”

Temple
couldn't quite cop to that rap, but she could
offer a hint for
her presence. "Well ... to be frank—"
"You haven't been before?"

“
To be fully frank, I'm here because of what's been
happening to Quincey."

“
Quincey." He eyed her with the baffled
suspicion
you'd direct at a
harmless-looking person who kept turn
ing up corpses. "You mean that
old TV show. About the coroner. He was on close terms with corpses too."

“
No. I am not some fannish flake or a media nut!
I'm
just a PR person moonlighting as a
nanny. Quincey is
the girl who is
playing Priscilla Presley for the competition. Her mother was concerned about
the threats she
was getting, so I
said I'd keep an eye on her." Temple
could hardly mention the Elvis
apparition at the Crystal
Phoenix as the
instigating event; then he'd really type
cast her as a flake.

“
'Keeping an eye on Quincey' took you to the Med
ication
Garden and just now on stage?"

“
I ran into those situations in the course of
hanging
out at the contest."

“
The attacks on the girl have been noted. You have
any
insight on that?"

“Not
a clue. Except that this last time, her screams at
discovering the assault on the dress did a pretty good
job of pulling everybody out of the rehearsal
area. Ex
cept for Lyle."