Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas) (19 page)

SIX

Doors and dogs

Suddenly very mindful of the cameras dotting the ceiling, I made my way back to the “staff only” door in the basement. One of several reasons I’d make a lousy criminal: I’m way too nervous about getting caught, which is the kind of thing that usually gets people caught.

I reached behind my head and unfastened the clip in my hair, letting the thick waves fall around my face. I wasn’t sure how much good that did, but it made me feel disguised, anyway. Leaning on the door, I tried to remember if I’d seen the little camera eyes in the staff hallway before, but couldn’t.

National feed. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, pushing on the door handle and slipping through.

Dear Santa,

All I want for Christmas is to stay out of jail.

Love, Nichelle

I held the door so it whispered closed behind me, scanning the acoustic ceiling tiles for surveillance. I didn’t see any. But just because the hallway wasn’t monitored didn’t mean the rooms weren’t. I strode to the second door, where I’d heard the bickering, and eased it open. No camera that I could see. I slipped inside, thanking Santa for early Christmas gifts.

This wasn’t a cleaning room. It looked like an employee locker room. Damn. All that told me was that the women I’d overheard worked here, which I had already assumed. I looked around at the shiny banks of lockers, wondering if the missing belt was hidden in one. That seemed an obvious place to hide it, but would security think to look there? Since I had no way to get past a hundred padlocks, I would have to hope they did. I started to turn back for the hallway before I spied a trash can in the corner. Evidence often turns up in the trash, and security had been awfully busy running interference with tourists. Maybe they hadn’t gotten around to examining the garbage. Since this wasn’t a public area, chances were the trash was only emptied every few days.

I put an ear to the door, not hearing anyone in the hallway.

Striding to the trash can, I pulled the lid off and set it on the floor behind me. The can was about three-quarters full of a jumble of coffee cups and empty soda cans.

I pushed my sweater sleeve up and reached inside, sifting through the refuse and reminding myself that the sloshing liquid was just old coffee. Which was the most interesting thing I found.

I washed my hands in the corner sink and slumped on a bench. Where else could I look? I ticked through the pieces of my puzzle again, letting my head fall back and sighing. The ceiling was acoustic tile, the speckled kind that lifts in and out of a grid. My eyes wandered to an abnormality in the one on my right. It had a blank chunk in one corner, with no speckles. But the longer I stared, the more it looked like something covering the tile. I threw a glance at the door and climbed up on the bench, stretching on tiptoe and thanking God for my height as I pushed the square up and pulled a piece of folded paper from behind it.

Hopping down, I unfolded it.

It was a diagram of some sort, printed front and back on a piece of computer paper. Studying it for a minute, I figured out it was a schematic for plumbing and ductwork.

I eyed the large vent overhead. Could the belt be hidden in the heating ducts? There were probably miles of them in the house, which certainly made it smart for someone who knew the layout. But I couldn’t just go crawling through the ductwork because one: that’s a lot more dangerous than it looks on TV, and two: Dale the security chief, who might be the crook, knew I was a reporter.

I folded the diagram carefully and slid it into my bag. It was worth hanging onto until the cops showed up, just in case.

I peeked back out into the hallway and dropped the door closed again when I saw two women in housekeeping uniforms headed for the main house. When I heard the heavy door at the end of the hall close, I tried again. All clear.

Since I hadn’t seen a camera (or another person) yet, I figured my “I got lost” defense might still fly, and the paper hidden in the ceiling had given me an idea. I turned back to the main part of the house to check out vent covers. I wasn’t playing Bruce Willis comes to Graceland, but maybe I could tip off Detective Pierce if any of them looked like they’d been tampered with.

My Blackberry buzzed just as I reached for the door handle at the trophy hall (always start at the scene of the crime), and I snatched it up, hoping Detective Pierce was calling to say the cavalry was coming.

Not the same number I’d called, but a Memphis area code.

“Clarke,” I said, pressing it to my ear.

“Miss Clarke, this is Man-Margret, out here at the Heartache Motel?”

Okay. “Hey, Margret. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I’ve had a couple of calls this morning about your dog,” she said. “Are you still in the hotel?”

“I am not,” I said, Darcy’s uncharacteristic yipping from the night before flashing through my thoughts. “Crap, is she barking again?”

“She’s being a little mouthy this morning, which is her right as a female, but it’s disturbing some of the other guests.”

“Damn. I’m so, so sorry. I’m locked in at Graceland. There’s been a theft here and they’re not letting anyone in or out right now.”

“A theft? From the King’s home?”

“A belt he wore on stage. From the trophy room.”

“My stars.”

I switched back to Darcy. I didn’t want her up there annoying people, and I had less than no way to address that.

“Margret, I don’t suppose you would consider going into my room and checking on Darcy for me?” I asked. “She almost never barks. The furnace rattling seemed to be bugging her last night, and that might be it.”

“Sure thing. I’ll call you back if anything’s wrong. Get a picture of the Christmas tree for me.”

“I’ll do it. Thank you.”

I stuck the phone back into my pocket, wondering what was wrong with my dog. However, right then I had more important things to ponder.

I pulled open the door to the trophy room, hoping Margret would take good care of my little furry princess.

The trophy hall was still packed, the wall of guards standing sentry at the empty case.

I scanned the ceiling for air vents and found them spaced about every six feet along the top of the perimeter wall. I walked along, studying awards and gold records and sneaking peeks at each vent cover, trying not to be too conspicuous. The first four obviously hadn’t been touched in years, with even a bit of rust on the screws that held them in place.

The fifth one had no rust. And new paint over the screws. I stepped closer, standing on tiptoe and peering up into the vent.

A pin-dot red light winked. I tottered closer—walking on pointe in stilettos verges on circus-worthy.

A tiny red light with a tiny lens next to it. Holy shit. It was a bitty video camera that no one who wasn’t looking for it would ever notice. I’d seen my colleagues in TV journalism use them for investigative stories.

Santa Claus is coming to town, indeed. Pieces of my puzzle rained into place.

I spun around, already sure the camera in the vent was trained on the case the belt had been in. That’s how the video feed was spliced. Check.

I reached for the schematic I’d found and then thought better of it, turning to go back outside and away from the crook’s camera before I checked it. My fingers itched to call Detective Pierce back.

Teresa was talking to one of the guards in front of the display case, and she smiled and waved.

“Hey there, Richmond,” she said, crossing the floor to meet me. “How are you liking Graceland? I’ll say this: it’s usually not this exciting around here.”

“I was going for the regular tourist experience,” I said, stepping out of the camera’s line of sight. “But this is good, too.”

She looked around. “It’s been ninety minutes already. I wonder how much longer it will be before people get mad about being kept in here?”

“About when they start to get hungry, I imagine,” I said. “I hear the police are on their way.”

“Well, I can tell you that a big gold and jeweled belt goes in that case they’re standing in front of. It’s one of my favorite pieces. And it’s not there. But how in God’s name they think anyone could have gotten it out without breaking the case is beyond me. Can you believe one of these people could be a thief?” She gestured to the crowd.

Wait. I hadn’t considered the possibility that the culprit was a tourist, because what I knew pointed to someone on the staff. But what if this was all going down today because of someone else who was here? Maybe someone who was supposed to help the staff member smuggle the belt off the property while the fake sat in the case?

“How would a tourist get the thing out of there, though?” I wondered aloud.

Teresa considered that. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I guess that’s why I’m not a thief. Can you imagine how much a person would have to love Elvis to want something like that?”

“A person would just have to love money,” I said. “Imagine how much that belt would be worth to the right collector.” I scrunched my nose with distaste. Even if the house was a museum, it felt akin to grave robbing, which oozes squicky criminal factor.

I thought about her Elvis wall, wondering.

“Hey Teresa, you don’t happen to have a photo of that belt back home, do you?” I asked. Without knowing which one I was looking for, I hadn’t bothered to search online. If she had a neighbor who could send her a copy of a photo, art to go with the story confirming the theft would be a big plus for wire feed.

“Only about twenty,” she said. “I even took one with my new camera this morning.”

My breath stopped. “You what?”

She opened her fanny pack and fished out a small silver Nikon digital. It beeped when she powered it up, and she flicked through pictures for a few seconds, then handed it to me.

I tossed Santa another quick mental thank you, trying to figure out how I could get the image to my photo editor back in Richmond. “I don’t suppose there’s any way for us to get an older picture to put next to this one, is there?”

“All mine are in a shoebox on my Elvis wall in Florida,” she said. “But there are a dozen books in the gift shop about the mansion. Surely there’s one in there.”

I resisted the urge to kiss her brightly-rouged cheek. “You, Teresa, are a genius.”

Why hadn’t I thought to check out the gift shop earlier? The coin scam was going on there, right? I wanted a look at the coins. Hopefully, I’d find a picture of the missing belt to go with this one I hoped was of the fake. And maybe I could find a lead on catching the thief while I was at it.

SEVEN

Gift shop blues

I crossed another walkway to the little building where Graceland Gifts was located, smiling at the Christmas homage to Elvis in the front window (which included a cutout of him in a Santa suit driving the black Cadillac from
It’s Christmastime, Pretty Baby
) as I walked into the shop.

“Welcome to Graceland,” the clerk behind the counter said. “You looking for anything special today?”

Yes. But I didn’t want to talk to him about that just yet.

“Just browsing.”

He returned his attention to an open magazine on the counter. I eyeballed him. A little over six feet with a slight build and slicked-back hair, this guy probably hadn’t been alive at the same time as Elvis, but his hair and lip curl said he idolized the King. Could he be the thief? Eh. Maybe. He worked here in the gift shop, where the thefts had started. But that wasn’t a reason to break out the handcuffs.

I spied a bookshelf in the corner and hurried to it through the crowd of bored tourists, pulling out a book about the house. I flipped through it, but couldn’t find a picture of anything that looked like the belt I’d seen in Teresa’s photo.

My interest was in how careful the fake was. Not that I really knew what I’d do with that information, but it could be handy to have.

I went through three more books before I found one with a chapter on costumes, and I flipped eagerly to the first page. Right square in the middle of it, under the chapter heading, was a large leather belt glittering with gold and jewels. The text told me Elvis hadn’t worn real diamonds around his torso. But the gold, the book said, was real. I looked around the shop, suddenly wondering about those coins.

I pulled out my phone and opened my eBay app. I was pretty practiced at finding stuff there, because it was where most of my designer shoe collection had come from. I searched for “Elvis coin” and came up with several hundred hits. Pierce said the stolen ones didn’t have a fencing report, though. So either the cops hadn’t found them, which seemed unlikely if I could do it with a simple search, or these silver Franklin Mint ones weren’t what they were looking for.

My shoe money was on the latter.

I found the display in a locked glass case on the back wall. And I was right: they weren’t just any limited-edition coins featuring Elvis’ face.

They were gold coins.

I opened my web browser and looked up the price of gold.

Better than twelve hundred dollars an ounce and climbing.

That was more than “Christmas money,” unless Santa was feeling very generous this year. Or unless the bickering mystery women were splitting it several ways.

“Would you like to see something from inside the case?” The clerk’s voice came from behind me, and made me flinch with surprise.

“What kind of gold are these coins made of?” I smiled. “And where did they come from? I’m looking for a Christmas gift for my mom.”

“Depends. Some of them are pure 24-karat, some are plated,” he said. “We don’t mint them, if that’s what you’re asking. They’re imported. People overseas went nutters when he died, made all kinds of limited-edition valuable things.”

“Can I see a few of them?” I asked, swallowing hard. I had a feeling I’d just found the common thread in the thefts—gold—which meant they were very likely the work of the same person or people.

He pulled three out and laid them on top of the case.

I picked up the first one, inspecting the gleaming finish under the plastic casing. The face of it was imprinted with Elvis’ head, the back with music notes and “The King of Rock ‘n Roll.” I weighed it in my hand. It was heavy.

“Is this one solid gold?” I asked.

“Good eye.” He grinned. “It is.”

“Do you have certificates or something for them?”

“Of course.” He picked up a portable file and opened it, laying a thick, orange and gold rimmed paper on the counter. It claimed the coin I was holding was number sixty-four of two hundred fifty made in Australia in 1993.

“Are these the only collectible coins you sell here?”

“Yep.”

“And they’re always locked in this case?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His eyebrow went up a little.

So whoever was switching them had a key. Or was handy with a lock picking kit.

I stared at the coin, wondering if it was the real thing. And how the thieves were making the fake ones the detective had described. The answer was in finding out who took that belt, I was sure.

“How much?” I asked, sticking a hand into my bag.

“Depends on what you want,” he said. “The solid gold ones are fifteen hundred, and the plated ones are between three-fifty and five hundred.”

“I’m going to have to think about it,” I said, handing the coin back. “But thanks for your help.”

He laid them carefully back in the glass case and locked it.

“Just come back by if you change your mind,” he said.

I smiled and strode out of the shop, pretty sure I knew why the coins had just disappeared instead of being fenced. I pulled out my phone and dialed Detective Pierce.