Officer Elvis (13 page)

The Beaumont Inn was by far the nicest bed-and-breakfast in Jackson. It was a large two-story, spanking-white antebellum mansion with four three-story Corinthian columns. A set of eight-foot-tall double doors led guests into a mahogany-paneled foyer, with a marble floor and a spiral staircase. The Beaumont was famous for its collection of Civil War memorabilia, its lavish bedding, and its slow-cooked grits—“heaven in a bowl,” said a New York food critic.
Travel International
had voted the Beaumont Inn America's finest inn—the only thing in Jackson to be recognized as the finest anything. Now it would be famous for something besides grits and big beds.

Somewhere around fifty vehicles, a half dozen of them cop cars, had clogged up Beaumont Lane in the few minutes it took Darla and Rita to get there. The lush front lawn of the inn was cordoned off, but reporters, TV crews, and neighbors were lined up two deep, and pressing against the police tape like it was a rope line at a political rally and the Republican candidate for president was about to walk by.

A Jackson PD patrolman manning the barricade recognized Darla's vehicle and waved her through. Darla parked her Prius in one of the side lots. She and Rita used the back entrance to avoid the mob out front and took the stairs to the third floor.

As they reached the second-floor landing, an auburn-haired woman in a scanty green kimono, carrying an empty ice bucket, met them.

“Kendall?” said Darla.

“Well, ah, hey there, tall girl,” said Kendall. She looked over at Rita. “And you must be Darla's new partner. I'm Kendall Goodhew.”

“Detective Rita Gibbons,” Rita said.

This is weird,
thought Darla. She turned to Rita. “You go on up. I'll be up in a minute.”

“Right,” said Rita, looking thoroughly confused as she moved past Kendall and continued up the stairs.

“What are you doing here, Kendall?” asked Darla.

Kendall held up the empty ice bucket. “What does it look like I'm doing? The ice machine is out on the second floor. I was going to fill my bucket downstairs. What are you doing here?”

“You don't know? There's been a murder,” said Darla.

Kendall with a coy smile. “I guess I've been preoccupied. What murder?” Where?”

Darla looked at Kendall, incredulous. “The third floor. A bomb went off when Pastor Jumbo Peterson lay down on his bed, less than a half hour ago.”

“Well, I thought I felt the earth move, but I guess it was Pastor Jumbo.” Kendall started cracking up at her own joke, but quickly stopped herself. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't joke about something like that.”

“Kendall, you're in the wrong place at the wrong time. If this is just an afternoon screw, you need to fess up right now.”

Kendall hesitated. “Promise not to say anything to Lulu. She'll be furious if she finds out I told you before I told her.”

Darla gave Kendall her cop look.

“All right,” said Kendall. “You know that website, Ashley Madison? Where married women go to cheat on their husbands? Well, I joined a couple months back. It was something I did for myself, like getting a spa treatment, or driving down to New Orleans for a weekend of nonstop eating.”

Darla shook her head in disbelief. “You're not married, Kendall. You've been legally divorced for four years.”

“But see, that's the great part. The men think I'm married. I mean, really Darla, these days, no man wants anything to do with a forty-year-old divorced woman, especially if she'd got kids. They're terrified. The same woman, if she's married and they can kind of sneak around, it's irresistible to men.”

“How often do you do this?”

“Just once a week,” said Kendall. “Well, okay, twice a week. One week it was four times. But it's only in the afternoons. So I have my nights and weekends and holidays free to be with my kids. If you look at it a certain way, it's responsible parenting.”

“This is Mississippi, Kendall. Eventually, everybody will know what you're doing.”

“No, see, I got it all worked out. I only see men who live out of state. They drive over from Alabama, Arkansas, or Louisiana. One of them flew down from Cincinnati. Anyway, they're all single, or say they are.”

“Will wonders never cease?” said Darla.

“That's the only reason I'm here, girl. Ask Mr. Watkins, the manager, if you don't believe me. Here at the inn I go by the name of Mrs. Scarlett.” Kendall laughed. “Isn't that the best?”

Darla looked at Kendall and shrugged her shoulders. “Well, you're not a suspect at this point, so don't let me keep you.”

“Thanks. Lover boy told me not to be gone long. I think he's wanting to have some fun with ice,” said Kendall as she headed down the back stairs, taking two at a time. Looking up over her shoulder at Darla, she added, “I really am sorry about that tub of lard, Pastor Jumbo. Bless his heart.”

And my friends back in Philadelphia think I make this stuff up,
thought Darla.

Pastor Jumbo Peterson's third-floor, two-room suite was at the end of the corridor. It was called “Let Them Eat Cake”—so named because in the early 1990s the room had been rented for a year by a fancy gentleman who produced papers proving that he was a distant relative of Marie Antoinette.

The medical examiner and a team of forensic people were already at work when Darla entered the suite. Looking shell-shocked, the hotel manager, Mears Watkins, leaned against the far wall, his head in his hands. Rita was patting him on the back, comforting him. She stopped when she caught sight of Darla and walked over to her senior officer. “Was that thing in the hallway something I need to know about, Detective?”

“No,” said Darla. “But if it was, I'm not sure I'd know where to start.”

Darla surveyed the scene. There was considerable damage. Amazingly, Pastor Jumbo's bloodied body was still relatively intact. The force of the explosion had shattered his spinal column and catapulted the pastor upward. As a result, several pieces of the room's crystal chandelier were embedded in his forehead.

Darla got the weepy manager's attention. “When was this room reserved for Pastor Peterson, Mr. Watkins?”

“Nearly a month ago,” he said. “Pastor Jumbo always requests this room, even though it's on the third floor and the pastor is required to walk up three flights of stairs. He is, was, of too large a proportion to fit into our tiny elevator. He said the suite's décor was particularly appealing to him.”

“I'll bet he liked the size of the bed, too,” said Rita, staring down at the body.

“That, too,” said Watkins, “A king-extra, the only one of its size in the city, I believe.”

“When was the last time the room was cleaned?” asked Darla, getting back to the investigation.

Watkins checked his iPad. “Three days ago. It hasn't been occupied since then. Of course, the maid checked the room this morning in anticipation of Pastor Jumbo's arrival. She found everything in order.”

“Bet she didn't lay on the bed, did she?” said Rita.

“No, she did not,” said the manager.

“It might not have mattered,” said Darla. “Considering the killer's foul-up at the convention center, he more than likely set the detonator so that the bomb would go off only when someone really heavy sat down on it. We'll send the detonator back to the FBI in Atlanta for analysis.” She turned to Watkins. “I'll need a copy of your registry for the last two days,” she said, “and any tapes from your security cameras. I didn't see cameras in the hallway when I came up.”

“We only have them in the front, back, and side entrances,” said Watkins. “The owners considered installing them in the hallways but rejected the idea. They didn't like the idea of spying on our guests. I must confess we don't do a very good job of monitoring the security cameras that we do have. We haven't had any need to.”

“Check the footage on the cameras, Rita,” said Darla. “But I'm going to guess that the camera on the back entrance isn't functioning.”

Darla's cell rang. It was Uther.

“I have news of the utmost importance, Detective,” he started. “Using the extensive concert footage I spoke of earlier, drawn from standard TV coverage, as well as YouTube postings and visual records from numerous social network outlets, I have discovered one individual who was in attendance at eight different Elvis tribute artist concerts, leading up to the concert at the senior center in Madison where Detective Reylander was murdered.”

“It's the guy from the convention center, the mystery man, isn't it?” said Darla.

“Quite right,” said Uther. “We have enough angles on his face and head to do a laser reproduction.”

“Email the picture to all the relevant law enforcement agencies with a request for a Priority One APB,” said Darla. “We'll call him a person of interest, but this is our man.”

“As you wish, Detective,” said Uther.

“And by the way, I think you have a secret admirer.”

“That sounds intriguing,” said Uther.

Darla disconnected.

Rita was back. “You got it right, Detective. Whoever it was froze the camera aimed at the rear entrance.”

Darla showed Rita the image of the mystery man on her phone. “Uther has a video of this guy at seven of the last eight concerts,” she said.

“I bet he didn't attend Detective Reylander's concert,” said Rita.

“Quite right. He was probably out in the parking lot wiring Tommy's Caddy while Tommy was singing,” said Darla.

Rita smiled in satisfaction.

Darla took out her cell, phoned Shelby, and told him about Uther's findings.

“You need to come clean to the media about where we are in the investigation, and I need you to release the mystery man's laser image. We've got to get information out about this maniac, whoever he is.”

“The problem is,” said Shelby, “once his photo hits the television, he'll go underground, which cuts down your chances of finding him.”

“Your call,” said Darla. “I understand. But someone must know him. Plus, we'll need to develop a plan for securing Tupelo. Each one of the contestants in the
Ultimate Elvis
will need their own security officer.”

“That's gonna require a lot of manpower,” complained Shelby. “The easiest way is to use highway patrol. I'll call Director Haverty and ask him to issue a directive. This is going to cost me a significant chunk of my dwindling political capital. We pull Mississippi state troopers off the road and there ain't gonna be a lot of speeding tickets given out in Mississippi. Not counting all the other mischief they keep from happening.”

“I suppose you could ask the governor to call in the National Guard,” said Darla.

“Federal troops in Mississippi?” said Shelby. “The governor wouldn't agree to that if it was to escort Jesus into Jackson for the Second Coming. What are you and your protégé planning for the rest of the evening? Dinner and a movie?”

“I thought we'd stick around and see if the FBI's forensic team comes up with anything,” said Darla. “We'll head up to Tupelo tomorrow morning and work with the security forces there.”

“How's Rita getting on?” asked Shelby. “She knows her Elvis, don't she?”

“She's got good police instincts, too,” said Darla.

“Well, my instincts tell me it's time for another visit to the scotch stand,” Shelby said, and ended the call.

Darla and Rita spent the next four hours hanging around the lobby of the Beaumont Inn, staying out of the forensic team's way and hoping they'd find something useful. It didn't happen. The room was clean. The killer had used gloves and left without a trace.

It was almost eight o'clock. Rita had just gotten off the phone with Collins Duckworth. “The event director still refuses to cancel,” she said. “He claims it would be like canceling Christmas.”

“Why am I not surprised?” said Darla. “Well, it may will be a ‘Blue Christmas.' ”

Rita smirked. “There's some good news. The city of Tupelo has found some money for additional officers.” Her ringtone went off. At this time in the evening, this was not a good sign.

She listened briefly, thanked the caller, and hung up. “You ain't going to like this, Detective.”

“Not another murder?” asked Darla.

“No, ma'am, thank the good Lord,” said Rita. “There was a problem at Sun Records. Up in Memphis where Elvis did his first recordings. Sun Records is a museum now.”

“Rita, please, what happened?” asked Darla.

“I guess the Sun Records people heard the rumor 'cause they called the Homeland Security in Memphis. They sent in one of them bomb-finding dogs and he sniffed out a bomb.”

Darla phoned Henry Jendlin to bring him up to date. “I'm afraid Graceland might be next,” she said.

“Graceland has their own security,” said Jendlin. “The FBI can also send five or six additional officers. And you'll be glad to know I've found another six officers for the
Ultimate Elvis
finals.”

“Thanks, Henry,” she said, and ended the call.

“What's next?” asked Rita.

“We're going home,” said Darla, “unless you have a better idea.”

Rita smiled shyly. “You know what a Hail Mary is, Detective?”

“Please,” said Darla. “I was raised Catholic and was married to a wide receiver.”

“There's this one fella that might be able to help us. Only he's a little peculiar.”

“What kind of a peculiar?”

“The Elvis kind. His name is Eap Harris.”

“Let me guess,” said Darla. “EAP stands for Elvis Aaron Presley.”

“He lives up near Mistletoe Hills, about forty-five minutes south of Tupelo,” said Rita. “He runs a museum. Well, it's more of a firetrap. It's called Presleyville
.
He says he's got over one hundred thousand Elvis collectibles but then other times he says it is over a million. People say he's got a photographic memory. If the killer is obsessed with Elvis, he's probably visited the most famous Elvis sites. So maybe Eap has met this guy, whoever he is. He may have talked to him. If he has, he'll sure remember him.”