Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis (26 page)

When Eric wandered in, the house on Douglass was almost like a family reunion. Even Mrs. Shipley from across the street came over with one of her famous Karo pecan pies, and a Key Lime pie for Diva, her favorite.

“You out to catch you a man, Sadie?” Nana asked when the pie was almost gone.

Mrs. Shipley looked startled. “Lord, no. Why?”

“I’ve never seen so much daytime make-up on anyone not in vaudeville.”

Harley gulped, but Mrs. Shipley just laughed.

“I’m just gilding the lily, Anna Mae, just gilding the lily.”

“Looks to me like you tried to drown it. My sister Mary Jean used to put all that crap on her face, too. I never quite got the hang of it. She said I’d do better not to even try.”

“She was probably right. Some people get along better with what the good Lord gave them, and some of us have to give it a little help.”

Harley refrained from pointing out to Mrs. Shipley that she’d given a lot more than a little help, and thankfully, so did Nana. Actually, it was one of Mrs. Shipley’s better days. She must have mislaid the trowel she usually used to apply her make-up. Even her colors were subdued, or what passed for subdued with her. The green capri pants and long top she wore were more pastel than vivid, and she’d left her hair alone and not dyed it to match, though she did wear a bright green ribbon through the red curls atop her crown.

Eric leaned close to Harley. “I can’t decide if she looks like Christmas or something St. Patrick might have thrown up.”

Tootsie obviously heard and started laughing, and since Harley didn’t want to explain to the others why they were amused, she said it was time to start back to Whispering Pines.

“Before they lock me out,” Nana said. “I turn into a pumpkin at seven-thirty.”

After a brief discussion with Mrs. Shipley about the amenities at Whispering Pines, Nana got into the front seat of Tootsie’s Acura and told him to see how fast the car would go on the way home. Fortunately, he didn’t.

Mr. Fraser, the director of Whispering Pines, came out from his office when they entered the front door, smiling. “Looks like you’ve had a big day, Mrs. McMullen,” he said cheerfully.

“Big enough. Now I’m ready for tonight’s poker game. Kaching!”

While Harley stared at Nana and wondered if she could get on some of the meds she had to be on, the director continued, “It was very nice of your granddaughter to provide entertainment, but I thought you’d have wanted to be here, too.”

Entertainment? Harley turned to look at him. “What entertainment?”

“Why, the Elvis impersonator you sent to give us a show. He was unexpected—you really should discuss this with management first—but the guests loved him and he was a big hit. You should have seen the dining room. I thought Mr. Baker was going to snap his new hip out of joint.”

“Uh, why do you think I sent an Elvis here?”

“Oh, because he said you had, and he left you something, too. Wait a moment and I’ll get it for you.”

When the director returned with a postcard, Harley and Tootsie exchanged glances. It was exactly like the cards sent to Derek Wade and Leroy Jenkins. The only difference was on the back, where the invitation read: Soon. My time, my place, my choice.

“Uh oh,” Harley said, and Tootsie nodded. Uh oh, indeed.

Chapter Twelve

“
No
fingerprints at all?”

“Yes,” Bobby said more patiently than usual, “the director’s, yours, and Tootsie’s”

Sitting across from his desk, Harley slumped in the uncomfortable chair. “Bummer.”

Bobby cleared his throat. When she looked up, he had a worried expression. He said, “I knew this would happen. I should lock you in a cell for your own safety.”

“Harsh. I’m being stalked by a killer again and all you can say is ‘I told you so?’ Thanks.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Harley. Now he knows where you’re staying. Maybe you should think about staying somewhere else.”

“That’s what I told Nana. She says I’m safer there than anywhere else, but I don’t want her to get hurt.”

“What? Thinking of someone besides yourself? I’m shocked.”

Harley narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t be an ass. You know I’m not like that.”

“I used to think so. Since you got this new hobby, I’m not so sure.”

“It’s not a hobby. It’s a curse. If you’d tell me who you suspect, maybe I’d be a lot safer. Have you thought of that?”

“If you’d stay inside, you’d be a lot safer. Consider it. And I say that as a warning.”

“You act like I’m the stalker, not the stalkee. I know there’s a lot you’re not telling me, and if you’d just stop treating me as the enemy, we could work together. Couldn’t we?”

“No. You’re an accident waiting to happen. Maybe you don’t mean to be, but you blunder around making things worse and being a total disaster. Stop it. Before you get yourself killed.”

“I’d love to stop ‘being a total disaster,’ but unfortunately, the killer isn’t cooperating at all. It’s not like I’m inviting all this, you know.”

Bobby leaned closer over his desk, his tone intent. “That’s exactly what I mean. You never send trouble engraved invitations. It just finds you.”

“Other than recent events—which were totally unexpected and unwanted—name a time I invited trouble.”

“You had to ask. There was the time you and Cami skipped school and auditioned for roles in Hair at the Playhouse Theater. Sister Mary Rita fainted and hit her head when she found you totally naked on the stage.”

“That little rat Sherry Osborne had to go and tell her where we were, or she’d never have known. Besides, the actors in Hair were supposed to be naked. It was part of the play.”

Bobby shook his head. “Then there was the time you skipped school and fell in a drainage ditch trying to jump across it, and Sister Elizabeth found you wearing nothing but a borrowed towel and washing your clothes at the Laundromat.”

“My early childhood encouraged a lack of inhibition. I’m much more civilized now,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “But I get your point. You’re just being very uncooperative.”

“I’m glad you noticed. Go away.”

“All right. Since we’re still meandering down Memory Lane, I remember the time you taught your five-year-old sister Angela a new cheer for the Little League Football team, and she got up in front of everyone with her pom-poms and shouted, ‘Two, four, six, eight, everyone likes to masturba—’“

“What do you want, Harley?” Bobby cut in before she could finish, although she could hardly hear him over the detective at the next desk who was laughing so loud heads turned to look in their direction.

She smiled. “Just a heads-up on any new info you can share without breaking any police rules.”

Bobby sighed. “Fine. Where can I reach you if I need you?”

“My cell phone. But if you mean where do I intend to stay until I find another place, I’ll be at Whispering Pines.”

“Maybe Nana McMullen is right. Maybe you’re safer there than anywhere else. At least you’re locked in after seven-thirty at night.”

“I was thinking more along the line of others being locked out.”

Bobby stood up. “Keep your cell phone charged. Do you have any pepper spray?”

“A brand new can of it. And an attack cat and a baseball bat. Nana believes in being well-prepared.” She decided it’d be best not to remind him about Nana’s .38. Bobby had a tendency to get a little jumpy about some things, and he might jump to the conclusion Nana had more guns tucked away.

“But you’ll check out Preston Hughes?” she asked from the doorway, and he nodded.

“We’ll check him out. If it was him playing Elvis for the elderly yesterday, we’ll know about it.”

She hoped he was right. Hughes hadn’t looked at all friendly when he’d left Williams’s house, and now he knew about Nana. Her imagination had conjured up all kinds of reasons for his visit to Whispering Pines, none of them pleasant.

Nana, however, seemed unfazed. “Come on,” she said when Harley flopped down on the couch after returning from the police station. “Get dressed. It’s almost time to go.”

“Go where?” Harley opened one eye. Nana wore a striped dress with a belt and Peter Pan collar, white socks and tennis shoes, and instead of one of those flowery hats she favored, she had a Memphis Redbirds baseball cap atop her head. Sudden dread seized Harley. “A baseball game?”

Nana was almost dancing with excitement. “Yep! Memphis Redbirds at AutoZone park. It’s Seniors’ Day or some kind of crap like that. We got free tickets. The van will be out front in a few minutes. Hurry up and get dressed. Wear something cooler than jeans and a tee shirt. I’d loan you one of my skirts if you weren’t so much taller. Don’t you have any shorts?”

“I do, but the afternoon sun shining off my white legs would blind the outfielders. I’ll just stay here.”

“The hell you will. You need to relax. Safety in numbers. Now hurry up.”

“I don’t qualify as a senior. Give my ticket to someone else.”

Harley might as well have been talking to a wall. Any argument with Nana usually ended in her grandmother’s favor.

Before Harley knew quite how it had happened, she sat in the third row of a crowded bus with thirty-odd seniors all singing Hinky, dinky, parley-voo at the top of their lungs. They all wore wrist bands like hunting dogs’ collars, a way to track them if they got separated from the chaperones. Except for Harley. Maybe she could sneak away and fall into a beer keg at the concession stand.

“Isn’t this fun?” Nana yelled over the others, who’d begun singing
Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?
in quavering voices. Rod Stewart would be so proud.

“A blast.”

The lie pleased Nana. She smiled and bobbed her head. Harley wasn’t sure if she was more amazed by the fact the seniors knew all the words to a Rod Stewart song, or that she was the only one who wanted to take a nap. What happened to all that rest seniors were supposed to need?

The new AutoZone baseball stadium at Third and Union replaced the old one out at the Memphis Fairgrounds where the Memphis Chicks had once played. A gigantic metal figure in a baseball uniform greeted visitors at the entrance, with his bat drawn back in a swing. The tiled courtyard had ticket stands and pots of flowers. Tempting smells of popcorn, nachos, hot dogs and barbecue lured crowds to the concessions. Picnic tables covered by brightly colored metal canopies were bolted to concrete. A broad expanse of green grass for families with energetic kids looked over the outfield. Their comped seats were in a tier easily accessible by wheelchairs, the elderly, and vendors.

“It’s the bee’s knees, isn’t it?” one of the men observed. A small man shrunken by time and arthritis, he squinted at players warming up on the field. “Is Mickey Mantle playing today?”

“Not today,” an attendant replied with the tone of someone accustomed to questions from a different era. While all the elderly Whispering Pine residents wore electronic bracelets in case they got separated, accompanying attendants still hovered cautiously, like prison trustees watching over a senior chain gang.

Harley stopped worrying and started to enjoy the day. It was sunny but with a cool enough breeze that she didn’t get too hot in her tee shirt and jeans. The usual smells and sounds that went with a baseball game even prompted her to join in when the seniors yelled “Batter-batter-batter-batter!” at the other team. It didn’t matter who was playing or who won, it was just relaxing. As much as she hated admitting it, Nana was right. This was fun.

The mascot, a big giant redbird made of red and black felt and a few feathers, pranced along the edge of the field by the dugouts, waving at the fans up in the stands, and pretending to catch a foul ball. The HotShots cheerleaders dressed in red costumes danced energetically to Take Me Out to the Ballgame, then segued into Walking in Memphis. Some of the seniors started to dance.