Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 11 (8 page)

"What about that sick boy?" Ruby Bee asked Estelle as they started for the footpath.

Estelle increased her pace. "The only thing that might kill him is his fiancee. Do you want to have something to eat before we go to Graceland?"

They were trying to decide as they went inside the visitors center and stopped to take stock of the possibilities. Estelle had been worried about long lines to buy tickets, but the room was less crowded than the second night of a tent revival.

Ruby Bee grumbled as they shelled out eighteen dollars for the complete package, but quieted down once they went outside to wait for a shuttle bus to whisk them across Elvis Presley Boulevard. Elvis's voice could be heard courtesy of speakers somewhere above them; he sounded as sad and gray as the water trickling alongside the curb.

"Can you believe we're going to Graceland?" whispered Estelle. "My heart is pounding, and my mouth is so dry I can't hardly swallow."

"It's too bad Arly wouldn't come with us," Ruby Bee said, looking down at the pavement. "When I suggested it, she liked to have laughed so hard she fell off the barstool. I don't know what gets into her, Estelle. Sometimes she's moodier than Seezer Buchanon -- and everybody knows to stay out of
her
way when she comes charging down the aisle at the supermarket. I was there when she couldn't find the tomato paste, and I thought she was going to chew Kevin up and spit out the pieces." She looked up. "Seezer, not Arly. Arly would never spit."

An elderly couple came outside, both looking a little bewildered. Seconds later, three solemn-faced girls wearing massive backpacks joined the line. They were speaking some funny language, but Ruby Bee didn't seem to notice and Estelle couldn't make out what it was. Next to appear were Cherri Lucinda and Stormy.

Cherri Lucinda waved at Estelle. "Isn't this exciting?"

"I was just telling Ruby Bee how my heart's doing the jitterbug," said Estelle. "Where are Taylor and Todd?"

Stormy made a face. "He bolted into the men's room as soon as they got to the visitors center. She said they'd catch up with us later. The professor went to see if there was some special new biography in the souvenir shop. I mean, how's anybody gonna write something new about a person who's been dead this long? It's not like he's making headlines these days."

"
If
he's dead," Cherri Lucinda said, then flinched as she received sharp looks from the foreigners. "My niece's roommate's boss saw him in Minneapolis not that long ago. I think Elvis must have learned something terrible about the mob in Las Vegas so the FBI faked his death and put him in that witness protection thing where they give you a new name and identity. They probably wanted him to have plastic surgery, but he would have refused because he didn't want to dishonor his mama. Elvis was real attached to his mama. Now you got to admit that makes perfect sense, don't you?"

The foreigners took refuge behind a trash bin. The elderly couple gazed blankly at her. Stormy tugged at the wisps of black hair along the back of her neck. Estelle was trying to find a response when a shuttle bus pulled up to the curb and the doors whooshed open.

"Next stop, Graceland," said the driver.

Minutes later they were crowding into the foyer of the sacred site, all too dumbfounded to speak as they gaped at the rooms on either side of them. The tour guide, who was petulant and pudgy rather than perky and petite, rattled off rules about staying together, not wandering off, and most certainly not touching anything, then turned her attention to a room with the longest sofa Estelle had ever seen in her entire life. Swirly blue stained-glass peacocks guarded a room at the rear that contained a black piano and a whole wall of golden curtains.

Estelle nudged Ruby Bee. "Isn't this awesome?"

"I suppose so, but I'd hate to see the bill from the upholstery store. And imagine what it must have cost to keep that white carpet clean."

Her disposition did not improve as they were herded past the dining room, paneled kitchen, down a mirrored staircase to admire the two rooms in the basement, and back up to the fabled Jungle Room, complete with a stone waterfall and gnarly furniture reminiscent of a rain forest.

"Would you look at this!" Estelle said, so dumbstruck she could barely get out the words. When she received no response from Ruby Bee, she cut behind the elderly couple and joined Cherri Lucinda, who at least had the common courtesy to look impressed. "Doncha love it?"

"Yeah," she breathed. "See those telephones? Elvis actually held them in his very own hand. I can almost hear him talking to his mama or telling the cook to fry up a peanut-butter sandwich. I may just pass out."

"It reminds me of my sister's house," Stormy said. "Up till now, I thought she had the worst taste in the entire world, on account of one whole wall in her living room is dedicated to her fishing-tournament trophies. I guess I was wrong."

Cherri Lucinda gasped. "How can you say that? This just proves Elvis was high on imagination."

"High, anyway. Remember the old whale died of a drug overdose."

"I should slap your face!"

Estelle caught Cherri Lucinda's wrist before she could carry through with her threat. "Don't do something that'll get you thrown out of the tour," she said in a low voice. "We haven't even gotten to the Hall of Gold and the Meditation Garden." As soon as she felt Cherri Lucinda's arm go limp, she turned to Stormy. "Now listen and listen hard, missy. If you don't love Elvis, you have no business coming on this pilgrimage and making the rest of us listen to your nasty remarks. You behave yourself or I'll -- I'll make you sorry you ever got on the van in the first place!"

"What are you gonna do -- poke me in the eye with a bobby pin?" Stormy said with a snide smile.

The guide cleared her throat. "Now we're ready to see Vernon Presley's office, where he and his secretarial staff handled Elvis's business affairs, correspondence, fan mail, and daily household management."

Still simmering with anger, Estelle stalked back to Ruby Bee's side. The group obediently trooped out a back door and along a sidewalk to a separate building. As the guide began to point out various items of interest in what appeared to be an ordinary office, Estelle heard a child's giggles. Putting her hand on her heart in case she was having some sort of supernatural experience and was about to see little Lisa Marie come skipping across the yard, she timidly turned around.

The child on the sidewalk was wearing a faded sweatshirt, plaid pants, and cowboy boots; her mouth and chin were stained red from some sort of candy. The woman who came after her looked like she'd be more comfortable in a doublewide than on the white sofa inside Graceland. Seconds later a guide came out the door, followed by another group of visitors, all craning their necks to look up at the back of the house, maybe thinking they'd see Elvis or his grandma Minnie Mae waving from behind a grilled window.

Estelle made sure nobody was up there, then looked back at the group and found herself eyeballing the man she'd seen the night before in the black car in the Starbright Motel parking lot. He was even uglier in daylight, his nose all crumpled and his lips thick and wet.

She spun around, hoping he hadn't seen her even though he'd been staring straight at her. The guide was busily talking about what all was on the walls behind the desks, but Estelle couldn't make sense of the stream of words that seemed to have everybody mesmerized like bullfrogs caught in a spotlight.

"What's wrong with you?" whispered Ruby Bee. "Now you're the one who's paler than a sow's belly. Did you see Elvis's ghost perched on the chimney or something?"

"We got to get out of here," Estelle whispered back. "I'll explain later."

She snatched Ruby Bee's arm and dragged her out of the office, not daring to look at the man on the sidewalk. She figured they couldn't go back through the house without encountering more groups and uppity guides, so she hung on to Ruby Bee and headed across the lawn in the direction of the Meditation Garden. Since it was the final stop on the tour, it seemed likely the shuttle buses would be nearby.

"Let go of me?" Ruby Bee yelped. "That guide's yelling at us to keep off the grass. The last thing I need is to be arrested for trespassing at Graceland. We'd be the laughingstocks of Maggody if somebody caught wind of it, and God only knows what Arly'd say."

Paying her no mind, Estelle kept going until they arrived at the curved brick wall and fountain. More than a dozen folks were lingering in front of the graves, some looking thoughtful and others honking into handkerchiefs and wiping away tears.

She stopped behind a stone column and peeked back at the yard. The bald man was not in sight, although this didn't mean he couldn't be skulking by the shrubs at the corner of the house, or even creeping behind the garden in order to nab them before they reached the circular drive.

Ruby Bee yanked herself free and rubbed her arm. "What's gotten into you, Estelle Oppers? I was looking forward to seeing all of Elvis's glittery costumes and his gold and platinum records. If we go back, that guide'll bawl us out for cutting across the lawn."

"Stop whining and look at the graves," Estelle said, keeping an eye on the sidewalk. "Afterward, we can go back to the visitors center, have something to eat, and do some shopping. Elsie made me promise to get her one of those paintings on velvet if they don't cost an arm and a leg."

Ruby Bee hesitated, then sighed and said, "I reckon that's okay with me. Let me sit down and catch my breath, then we'll be on our way."

Estelle stopped peeking around the column. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"As sure as Elvis is buried yonder."

Considering Cherri Lucinda's theory about his present whereabouts, Estelle felt a flicker of doubt.

5

Although Reverend Hitebred could divine the persistent presence of satanists from a pink barrette and a couple of rubber bands, it seemed he couldn't tell time worth a damn. I'd been parked in front of his church, watching turkey buzzards drift overhead and listening to a staticky country music station for a good half hour before a car pulled in next to me.

A solidly built woman climbed out of the driver's side and came around to my window. I estimated her age to be somewhere between mine and Ruby Bee's, although closer to the latter's. Her brown hair, coarse and streaked with gray, was pulled back in a ponytail, her face devoid of makeup, and her coat the veteran of many winters. She approached warily, as if she suspected I was a member of a coven.

Somewhat sorry to disappoint her, I rolled down my window and said, "I'm Chief of Police Hanks from Maggody. I was supposed to meet Reverend Hitebred at eleven."

"I'm Martha, his daughter," she said in a flat, almost inflectionless voice. "Old Miz Burnwhistle decided that this is the morning she's going to die, so she called my father to go read the Bible and pray with her. She's been doing this about once a month for the last three years. She usually has a miraculous recovery before her soaps come on at noon, although last month she gurgled and wheezed right up until time for the Oprah show."

"And your father trots to her bedside every time?"

"She's ninety-eight years old and liable to get it right sooner or later. Besides, it gives my father something to do besides flipping over rocks in search of satanists." She gave me a faint smile. "The members of the congregation are all too terrified of him to do much in the way of sinning, and we don't get too many hymnal salesmen out this way."

I got out of the car and leaned against the fender. "What do you think about these purported trespassers?"

"You sound just like one of those cops on television. Do they teach you to talk like that?"

"Not until the second year." I gestured at the door of the church. "Any new evidence turned up in there? More paper clips and cigarette butts, for example?"

Martha shook her head. "No, and my father came over at the crack of dawn this morning to snuffle around on the floor like a bloodhound. I could tell when he sat down at the breakfast table that he hadn't had any luck."

In that she'd failed to answer the more significant question, I tried again. "Do you believe that someone has been entering the church at night?"

"There haven't been any broken windows or scratches on the locks, and my father and I have the only two keys. He keeps his on a ring clipped to his belt. Mine's in a drawer at home except when I'm using it."

"Has either of you ever given your key to a member of the congregation? It only takes a few minutes to have a copy made."

She thought for a moment. "I've never had call to loan mine out, and I can't imagine why my father would. He won't admit it, but he likes the idea that nobody can get into the church without calling on him. He makes 'em wait, too, just so they won't forget it."

"How often is the building used?"

"Services on Sunday mornings and evenings, prayer meetings on Wednesday evenings. Weddings and funerals by reservation only." She looked at the front of the building, and then at the low gray clouds. "My father's hardly competing with Methuselah, but he's getting on in years. The most foolish things have become real important to him. Food has to be cooked just so, shoes have to be lined up on his closet floor, books have to go back on the shelf from the exact place they came from. Otherwise, if you'll excuse the expression, all hell breaks loose."

"Are you saying these satanists are just another of his obsessions?"

"Maybe," she said, shrugging. "Anyway, I don't see what you can do, unless you want to set up a cot in the office and sleep over every night. You can come to the house for breakfast. It wouldn't be any trouble to fix another serving of oatmeal. No coffee, though. We don't believe in artificial stimulants." Again, the faint smile. "I used to sneak into town and buy a bottle of Dr. Pepper from the machine at the gas station. When my father caught me, you'd have thought from the way he carried on that it was whiskey."