Elvis Takes a Back Seat (12 page)

He props his seventies-style boots on the edge of his desk. “What ever happened to you? Ol' Joe Dixon and I were tossing back a few beers not too long ago, reminiscing 'bout old times, and he asked, ‘Whatever happened to Rae Picard?'”

“Not too much,” she says. “I've lived a quiet life.”

Howie laughs, a full-blown belly laugh. “You, quiet?”

I feel the urge to laugh with him. My aunt is anything but quiet. She walks into a room and draws attention without even speaking a word. She lives life in a big, bold way.

“I changed,” she says softly. “Do you think you can help us? We're—”

He waves away her question with the flick of his wrist. Flecks of cigar ashes fall on the desk. The acrid smoke chokes me, and I swallow a cough. “You ever marry? Have kids, 'sides that one—”

“No,” she says, her tone icier than normal. “I never married.”

“I bet you had a few offers though.” He chuckles and looks to me. “She could wrap a man around her little finger in a heartbeat. But she was always aloof. Hard to get. But which one of us didn't try? The boss woulda married you. We all thought so. After you left, we were all lookin' for you.”

“Howie,” she interrupts his wandering comments, “we're looking for infor—”

“Oh, sure, sure. You in trouble, darlin'? Need some money?” He plops his feet on the floor and leans forward to grab his wallet out of his back pocket. “I'm a bit low at the moment. You know how things are in the biz—flowing one minute then dry as a nun's—” He stops himself, coughs, and turns a watermelon red. “You can have what I got here.”

Rae puts out a hand to stop him. “No, Howie. I don't need your money.”

“Howie,” I attempt, “we don't need any money, although you're very generous to offer. We simply need some information.”

“This is a very delicate matter.”

“Oh!” His bushy eyebrows rise. He rests his forearms on the desk. “So tell me.”

“It has to do with Elvis,” I venture.

“What doesn't around here?”

“We've … ,” I decide it's best not to divulge all our secrets, “there's some memorabilia that we're trying to—”

“Yeah? When did it go missing?”

“Around 1987.”

He frowns. “Well, I don't know nothin'—”

“Of course you wouldn't.”

His head jerks to the side, then gives Rae a broad wink. “You wantin' to sell some memorabilia? Some pretties the boss give you? I don't handle that stuff. But I always have my ear to the ground. I know a fellow—”

“Could he tell us the value?” Rae ask.

“Oh, sure. He's honest as they come.”

I squelch a laugh. Dealing with red-hot Elvis artifacts, Howie's friend couldn't be too honest.

“You 'member Baldy, Rae?”

“I don't think so.”

He leans back in his chair, making it squeak and groan in protest. “Matt Franklin ring a bell?”

She makes an inarticulate sound that neither confirms nor denies.

“Well, no never mind. He's got a place across town. Here I'll write the directions.”

I notice how he knows it off the top of his head. He scribbles notes onto the back of his business card that boasts five shows a day at Double Takes. “You tell him I sent you. He'll take care of you right fine. Just takin' care of business; right, doll?”

Rae takes the card. “Thank you. For everything. Especially your discretion.”

“'Course. No problem. You need anything else, just come see Howie.” He coughs. “Howard,” he corrects himself. “It's Howard now. Roxanne thinks it makes me sound more professional. Come on in for a show anytime.” He stands and rocks back on his heels, his Elvis-sized belly protruding. “I got a new Elvis comin' next week. And he's better than ol' Rance. Reminds me of the boss back in the fifties. He's young and can swivel them hips like there ain't no tomorrow.” Howie does his own version of free-wheeling hips. “I'll give you both a free drink.”

“It's a tempting offer.” Rae gives him a quick hug and a kiss on his cheek.

He keeps an arm around Rae's waist. “The boss was upset when you left.” His voice turns soft. “I figured he missed you. But I hadn't heard you'd …” He glances at me, then back to Rae. “Well, no never mind. Now you wanna sell some of his stuff? That's cool. A girl's gotta take what she can get. Believe me, my ex-wife took what she wanted. But whatever you got, Rae, you deserved more. You be careful, Devil.”

“I'm always careful. Thank you for your discretion. Take care of yourself, Howie.”

“Oh, sure, sure. Roxanne doin' a fine job of that.” He pats his rounded belly. “Makes me biscuits and gravy every mornin'.”

Rae gives him a gentle smile.

“Where you livin' nowadays? You ain't back in Memphis now, are you?”

“No,” Rae and I say simultaneously. We glance at each
other and smile sheepishly. By the time we hit the alleyway again, we're laughing, our arms interlinked. She hugs me as the door closes behind us and laughs until her eyes glitter.

“I can't believe you knew that guy,” I say.

“I've known a few characters,” she says, walking beside me.

“But Howie. What a trip.”

“He was not quite so humorous back in the old days. Mostly he was a good friend when I needed one.”

“And now he thinks you stole stuff from Elvis?”

She shrugs. “An easy assumption. Many did. But I know the truth. As you do. That's all that matters.”

* * *

IT'S GETTING LATE, later than I anticipated, when we arrive back at the Heartbreak Hotel. The lobby is like a graveyard, and I wonder if Elvis's contemporaries and fans are too old now to stay up late and party. Together Rae and I ride up in the elevator to our floor. I push the plastic key into the door, and we enter the darkened hotel suite. The noise of the television greets us. Elvis lights up the screen. He's in black leather, sitting in the midst of a screaming group of women. A few of his band sit with him on a small circular stage. He's singing “That's All Right, Mama.” But Ivy isn't in the main sitting room.

“Ivy?” I call out, assuming she's in her room or bathroom. “We're back!”

“I don't know if it's safe,” I say as soft as I can, so as not to disturb Ivy, “for her to go with us tomorrow. I mean this could be another club or some kind of a racket. If this
guy … Baldy is dealing with stolen items, then it might not be safe. And I'm responsible for Ivy.”

“Matt's harmless,” she says. “No trouble there.”

“How do you know?”

“I know him.”

“You do? But I thought you told Howie—”

“It's best not to reveal too much.”

“I suppose. So is this his house, you think? A club? Warehouse? What?”

“If I know Matt, then it's safe. I should have thought to go to him first. I regret I didn't. Howie will be telling everyone he knows that he saw me.”

“It's okay,” I say. “There is no way he could know about our problem.”
My
problem. I jab my thumb in the direction of Elvis who sits on the table in the living area. My stomach coils in a hard knot. I'd expected Ivy to be watching television or talking on her phone, not sleeping. I hope she's not sick again. “I better check on Ivy.”

Rae nods. “It wouldn't hurt.”

I notice a red light blinking on the phone. “I think we have a message.”

Sitting on the sofa, I dial into the hotel phone system to retrieve it.

“You girls having a hunka, hunka burnin' night?” Ben's voice comes through the phone. “Tried calling Ivy on her cell but couldn't get her. Just wanted to know how things are going on your search. Hope you got Elvis returned to sender.” He laughs at his own joke. “Call me back.”

Shaking my head at his attempts at humor, I place the receiver back on the phone's base. “Hmm.”

“What's wrong?”

“Ivy didn't answer when her dad called.”

“You know teenagers. The last person they want to talk to is their father.”

“I guess. I just worry about her. You know?”

“Have you checked her bathroom,” she lowers her voice, “for drugs?”

“No, I didn't want to be intrusive. But maybe I should.”

“There's time.”

I place my hands on my knees, reluctant to go snooping around like a concerned parent. I'd rather be Ivy's friend. “So when do you think we should go tomorrow? Do you think Baldy … Matt has regular business hours?”

“Always takin' care of business,” Rae says in a thick imitation of Howie's accent.”

“You're sure?”

“We can ask for directions from the concierge.”

“Okay.” I stand and walk to the closed door leading to Ivy's bedroom. I decide to hold off searching the bathroom. It feels too dishonest. “I better let her know what our plans are.”

“I'm going to bed,” Rae turns toward her own room. “Good night.”

“Rae?”

She turns back toward me.

“Thank you for your help today.”

“Of course.”

“I don't know if we're any closer to solving this mystery, but I had fun.”

“Me, too.” She looks at me for a long moment, and I feel something I don't understand. If for no other reason than
it's brought us closer together, I decide this trip has been good. I understand her better. And my mother as well. Yet at the same time I'm not sure I understand either of them completely. She turns and enters her bedroom, softly closing the door behind her.

Turning back toward Ivy's room, I knock on the door. I wait but there's no response. I knock again. Then louder.

Rae comes out of her bedroom. “Is there a problem?”

“I don't know.” Cautiously, I open the door to Ivy's room and peer into the darkness. After my eyes adjust, I realize the bed is empty, the covers rumpled where she lay on it earlier. “Ivy?”

There's no answer.

“Ivy?” I call louder.

Rae touches my back. “She's not here?”

“Apparently not.” I feel my spine stiffen as my heart slides down it, landing with a heavy thud in the pit of my stomach. “Where could she have gone?”

“Let's check the bathroom,” Rae says. “No reason to panic.”

But Ivy isn't in the bathroom or anywhere else in the hotel suite. And neither, we discover, is her suitcase.

What do we do now?” A ball of panic surges up from my heart and wedges itself in my throat.

“Maybe she was hungry and went to eat.” Rae's voice is a calm, soothing source of reason to hold onto. “Or to work out or swim.”

Logical assumptions. Good. Yes. Let's think logically. For a moment there's a rim of light, then just as quickly it fades and my thoughts remain dark. “With her suitcase?”

“I admit that would be odd.” The lines around her eyes seem deeper, or maybe it's my imagination. “But there's no reason to panic either.”

My nerves snap with irritation. “Because you're not responsible for her. I am.”

I begin pacing, my breath seemingly racing my footsteps in the small sitting area. Rae sits on the sofa, her ankles crossed.

“Let's think this through. We know she didn't take the car. She didn't take Elvis either.”

I glance back at the bust, cloaked in shadows. I'm not sure that's a source of relief. I want to shake the bust until he tells me where Ivy has gone, what he saw and heard while we were away. As ridiculous as that sounds, I feel desperate enough to try it. I wish Stu were here. He'd know what to do. Actually, I stop myself because he wouldn't. He always said, “I don't know how Ben does it with Ivy. I wouldn't have been a good dad. Not like Ben.” Disappointment rises like bile in my throat.

I wonder if Priscilla cursed Elvis for his absence when she was trying to raise Lisa Marie alone. I rub my forehead, pushing against the headache gathering behind my eyes like a storm.

“Maybe she needed more drugs,” Rae suggests.

“You're not making me feel any better.”

“Sorry.”

“You think she'd know who to contact for something like that? I mean, a drug dealer?”

“They're not difficult to find.”

I'm not sure that would be the case for me, although I have to admit I've never tried to find one. Ivy doesn't seem as inept as I am, which only pushes my concerns closer to the edge of fear.

“Or she—”

“Cell phone! I bet she took hers.” I race across the room to my purse. Pushing aside the Memphis map and Graceland brochure, I fumble with a tube of lipstick, half of a leftover apple tart, a pack of gum. My hands shake. Finally, I dump the contents out on the sofa and paw through the pile until
I locate my cell phone. I arrow down the keypad where I plugged in Ben's number along with Ivy's, just in case.

Doubt gives me pause. Should I call Ben first? But what if there's a simple explanation? Tightness seizes my chest. What if there isn't? What if Ivy started to feel worse and went to the hospital? But what if she's down the hall getting ice? Taking her suitcase along? My thoughts zigzag to different possibilities. I feel trapped in indecision and confusion, fear and panic. I don't want to cause Ben worry for nothing. But I also don't want to delay seeking help when every minute might be crucial. Drawing a shaky breath, I release it with a pathetic huff of frustration.

Cursing myself for going against my better judgment and leaving Ivy in the room alone, I dial her cell phone number then wait, tapping my finger against the ear piece.

“Well?” Rae stands next to me, crossing her arms over her chest.

One ring. Two. Three. I glance toward the bathroom, closet, bedroom, hoping, wishing, praying she'll appear suddenly, mysteriously, miraculously. Four. Five. Six. Then over the line comes, “It's me.” I recognize her overtly perky voice, which is not her everyday tone. “Leave a message and I'll call you back. Maybe.”

Maybe
.

Would she call me back? I suck in a break, hoping for the courage I lack. “Hi, Ivy,” I say into the phone as cool and casual as I can manage, even though my heart pounds like U-2's drummer. “Rae and I got back from the club.” I attempt a laugh that sounds fake. Rae arches an eyebrow at me. “You should have been there. You would have gotten a kick out of the Elvis impersonator. Anyway, uh, we're
back at the hotel. Where'd you go? We're kind of hungry and thinking of grabbing a bite. So we'll, uh, wait for your call.”

I press the
end
button and snap the phone closed. Now what? Suddenly I'm cold. Very, very cold.

“That's called putting a positive spin on things.”

“We can't leave the room,” I say, my thoughts frantic, my nerves tightening with every second. I chafe my arms. “What if she returns or calls?”

“But what if someone in the lobby saw her?”

“You're right.” I walk toward the door, then back. Crazy, irrational thoughts swoop in on me like vultures. “Okay, you stay here. I'll run down to the front desk and check. See if anyone saw her leave.” I grab my camera, which holds pictures of all of us at Graceland. I can show a picture of Ivy to the person at the front desk. This is good. Movement. Activity. A plan. Good. We'll find her. “Maybe she's at the pool. Or in the Jungle Room bar.” Or not.

Fifteen minutes later I'm back in the suite. When I ask if Ivy has called, Rae answers no, the lines around her mouth definitely deeper and more strained. For the thirty-third time I check my cell phone to be sure I didn't miss her call. Nothing. No calls. No Ivy.

This time I dial her cell again, more determined and more frightened with every unanswered ring.

“Ivy,” my voice quavers and I bite my lip, taste blood, “I really need you to call us. Okay?” My voice gains strength, sharpens with anger. “We need to know you're okay. So call me, okay?” Again, I repeat my cell phone number.

Clicking shut the phone, I ask, “Now what are our choices?”

“When can you call the police?”

A shiver ripples through me. “She's a minor, isn't she? I don't know. Yes, yes, she is. Anytime, I suppose. Do you think we should? I mean, do you think she's really missing? Maybe I should call her dad first.

“Oh, God.” I sink into the nearest chair. “He's going to kill me. And I deserve it. What if I upset Ivy talking about her mother?” I brace my head with my hands. I would rather be dead myself than face the possibilities. “Why did I say all that to her? I should have just told Ivy to talk to her dad.”

“You didn't say anything wrong. More than likely Ben's going to kill his daughter for pulling a stunt like this. That is, when we find her.” She puts a warm hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “And we
will
find her.”

“Where could she have gone?”

* * *

AT A QUARTER to eleven, completely out of options, I phone Ben. My nerves are a jumbled knot of possibilities and fears. How can I tell my friend, my boss, that his daughter's gone? I remember calling him the day Stu died. “Ben?” But I couldn't say more. He knew. I thought that was the worst phone call, besides calling Stu's parents. But it wasn't. This is worse. Much worse.

“Had a late night rockin' and rollin'?” Ben asks when he picks up.

“Hi,” I manage before my throat closes. I look to Rae for support.

She sits beside me, takes my hand in hers. “Want me to tell him?”

I give a slight shake of my head. “Uh, Ben … Ivy is, uh …” I can't find the words, much less speak. Tears swell in my throat, choking me.

“She's not giving you a hard time is she?” he asks. When I don't answer, he says, “Put her on, I'll talk to her.”

“When was the last time you did?” I ask.

“What? Talk to her? I don't know. This morning. Before y'all went to Graceland. Why?”

“Because … uh … she's not here.”

“Have her call me when she gets back. Where'd she go?”

“That's the problem.” I try to put my words together logically, follow the time line as I explain the situation to Ben, but things keep getting jumbled in my head. Rae corrects me a couple of times. “Ben, I think we should call the police.”

There's a pause, as what I've told him sinks deep and spreads more fear. I can only hear the pounding of my heart. Ben makes no sound. No breath. No curse word. No reply.

“Ben? Are you there?”

“Okay. Okay. Yes, do that. I've got to make a couple of calls. Friends of Ivy's I want to talk to. See if they know anything. Then I'll catch the next flight to Memphis. Don't worry about picking me up at the airport. I'll rent a car. Call me on my cell when you talk to the police or if you hear from Ivy. I'll be in Memphis as fast as I can.” He rattles off a list of instructions as if somewhere in his brain he's registered this emergency. But having worked for Ben for years, I know it's how he operates. He's a take-charge kind of guy.

“Okay. Um …”

“What?” He sounds as if fear has jump-started him with a blast of energy. My brain can hardly keep up.

“Ben, I'm … I'm sorry.” A sob breaks in my throat. “I really am.”

“It's not your fault.” His tone is flat, serious, but not reassuring either. Nothing could reassure me, make me feel any better at this moment. Guilt resides squarely on my shoulders, weighs me down.

I'm responsible. I knew something was wrong. I should have said something, warned Ben, tried harder to talk to Ivy. I click
end
on my cell phone, go to the bathroom, and vomit.

* * *

THE POLICE PUT out a bulletin on a missing teen, but they don't seem as concerned as we are. Ben's called me about twelve times since the first time I spoke to him, keeping me posted on his flight information and that he's been talking to a friend of Ivy's. He offers to e-mail pictures of his daughter to the police station, but the police have already downloaded pictures off my digital camera.

The police say it happens all the time. There are millions of runaways from one coast to the other. I remember hearing the same thing from others when Stu was diagnosed with cancer.

“It happens all the time,” the doctor said.

“Lots of men get cancer and survive,” a friend said.

“Look at Lance Armstrong,” someone else suggested.

The hope their words instilled had kept me going at first. I had believed. We'd looked into drinking carrot juice
and cod liver oil and envisioning a blue healing light inside Stu's body devouring the cancer cells like Pac-Man one by one. I'd believed as best I could. But maybe I hadn't believed enough; maybe my lack of faith failed Stu. I scrambled for something, anything, to believe. To avoid falling into a depression, I stayed busy. But the months dragged on, first one surgery then another. Stu grew weaker with each chemo treatment, and the doctor's words became more dire. What little hope I had left withered.

So now I find it hard to believe we can find Ivy easily, quickly, safely. It's better to face it from the beginning than to believe, to hope, and be slammed with reality later on. Accept things. Handle it.

But it's harder to control my emotions, knowing I'm at fault.

I stare at Elvis and think of Stu lying in the satin-lined casket, the white roses rounding over the base eliciting a sickly sweet scent, and I picture Ivy there. Too young. Lost forever.