by Diane Moody
“‘All staged,’ he shot back, ‘As for the funeral? Those folks at Madame Tussaud’s did a good job, don’t you think? The papers all said I looked waxy, but what corpse doesn’t? My makeup guys did an amazing job. Fooled you, didn’t he?’ Then he just sat there and smiled. I noticed he had that same lopsided smile Elvis always had, but of course that was likely just another of his affectations for the gig.
“Then he said, ‘If you really want to know, I’ll tell you. And I’d make you promise not to tell anyone, but I figure you won’t believe me anyway. Which is part of the fun—no one ever does! And I’m not really worried about you telling anyone else because even if you did, they wouldn’t believe it either.’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Genius. Pure genius. I never dreamed it would work out so well.’
“‘Anyway, I’m sure you probably heard all the conspiracy stories about me faking my own death. Well, I’m here to tell you they’re true. We did fake my death. We worked on it for more than two years to put the plan in motion. Only a handful of my closest associates were in on it. And trust me, they’re all living off the high price tag of keeping the secret. Not that anyone would believe them if they spilled the beans. Course, Dr. Nick had to jump a few hurdles and lost his license for a while, but he didn’t need it anyway. He’ll never want for anything for the rest of his life. He’s got a house not far from mine here. We play racquetball several times a week.’
“Tucker and I sat there spellbound. Neither of us said a word. He continued telling his story.
“‘C’mon, my life was a mess. I had no life. Couldn’t go anywhere. Never had a normal relationship— aside from Priscilla, of course.’
“‘Does she know?’ I heard myself asking.
“‘Oh sure,’ he said. ‘She and Lisa Marie fly over to see me a couple times a year. They’ve even stopped by to see my show. The tourists and locals love it. They’re clueless, of course, but they love it. Lisa Marie and I always do a few duets together. That really wows them, and I love singin’ with my baby girl.’
“Tucker and I looked at each other, each trying to figure out how it was possible, but slowly beginning to wonder . . . Then, even as those thoughts rolled through my mind, I noticed he pushed up his sleeve and there it was again. That turquoise watch.”
Chip’s jaw hung somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, and he looked a little glassy-eyed, but I continued.
“Finally, Tucker couldn’t hold it in anymore and said, ‘But why? Why here? Why like this?’
“‘Oh, that part’s easy,’ he answered. ‘First of all, I’ve always loved these islands. Ever since I made Blue Hawaii, I knew some day I’d live here. Then it all got so crazy, and I couldn’t do it anymore. I needed to get my health back, needed to get my life back. And one day it just hit me—what better place to hide than playing an Elvis impersonator? Heck, I even do some of the competitions in Vegas. Haven’t come close to winning!’ With that he roared with laughter, throwing his head back.”
I looked over, watching Chip Carouther’s expression morph into disbelief. I couldn’t help but smile. Sandra and Trevor had the same reaction when we told them upon our return from Hawaii.
Finally, he rubbed his hand roughly over his face. “With all due respect, Mrs. Thompson—”
“Oh, I know. Trust me. I know. It’s quite unbelievable.”
He blew out a lungful of air. “Exactly. I mean, it makes for a great story. One of the best I’ve ever heard.”
“Doesn’t it?” I said.
“But let’s be honest. With no viable proof, that’s all it is—a great story.”
“Oh, yes, I totally agree.” I leaned forward and opened a small leather box sitting on my coffee table. “Of course, seeing is believing.” I handed him the photograph taken that night at the little restaurant in Maui. Elvis had asked one of the waitresses to snap a picture of us with him there at the club.
He found it hilarious to provide us proof we’d been together, knowing full well no one would ever believe it was really him.
“I’ll say this much,” I finished, “he has a great laugh. Elvis has a great laugh.”
Chip stared at the photograph, studying it for a moment or two. I could tell he was holding his breath. Then suddenly, he blew it out. “Nah. That could be one of a million impersonators. Sorry.”
I reached back in the box and tossed a stack of Christmas cards on the table, all tied up in a blue ribbon. “Then I guess you probably think these are fake as well.”
He pulled them out, one by one, each signed EP, postmarked from Hawaii, year after year after year. Each with a personal note.
I chuckled quietly as I watched Chip frantically shuffling faster and faster through the cards. He held the last one in his hand, carefully studying the personal message written and signed by Elvis.
Suddenly, he stopped and slowly looked up at me. A momentary hint of possibility flashed across his eyes as a slight smile took form.
I knew what he was thinking . . . “Everyone knows Elvis left the building.”
Or did he?
For your reading pleasure we’ve included the prologue and first chapter of Diane Moody’s latest novel, The Demise – A Mystery after the Author Page at the end of this book.
For a Preview of her other novels click HERE
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Acknowledgments
Without the help of my friends and family, my stories would lack their sparkle. I’m so grateful to be surrounded by such willing hearts who always help make my literary babies shine.
To Glenn Hale, my faithful “Eagle Eye” who always spots my typos and then some. The fact that you actually enjoyed this story makes it even better. What would I do without you? Love you, Dad.
To Sally Wilson, my fellow author and forever friend who helps put the final spit and polish on my stories. Thanks for blazing the trail on this unique path to publication. I never would’ve dipped my big toe into these waters had it not been for you. Love you, missy.
To John “Sockmonkey” Robinson and Joy DeKok, two of my favorite sounding boards. Thanks for all your feedback and advice, but most of all your friendship. One of these days we must get together—preferably in the same city! Wouldn’t that be a switch?
To Jessi Hill, CRNA, my go-to source for all things anesthesiology. I’m so grateful for the time you spent answering my questions and educating me about your special world. I take full credit for any mis-statements coming out of Tucker’s mouth.
To my good friend Veronica Beard who I met at First Baptist Church of Indian Rocks, Florida back in the ‘90s. Veronica was born in Chili and has the most beautiful accent, especially when she refers to her husband’s “Yaguar” (that would be Jaguar to the rest of us.) Veronica, thanks so much for all your help with Sandra’s Spanish. I just hope I got it right. Oh, and keep an eye out for that case of popsicles I’ve sent you. Your favorite kind, of course!
To Don Riddle, my inspiration for Donnie Rogers. I’ve known Don since Tulsa Memorial High School days when we discovered how difficult it was to mark time while giggling. Oh, the trouble we got into . . . And yes, we did indeed work together at a taco establishment which shall remain nameless. I’m not sure anyone on the planet has made me laugh as hard as Don. Like Donnie, Don has heart problems, but he’s currently doing fine, still terrorizing the greater Houston area from what I understand. Don, I loved spending time with you via Donnie’s character. Thank you for giving me so much material to work with. Love you, buddy!
To Sandra Perez Graham, my favorite Puerto Rican who still holds such a special place in my heart. We met on my first day at Baptist Memorial Hospital, became the best of friends and eventually roommates. Sandra, I couldn’t possibly write your character using a different name, so I hope you’ll forgive any potential embarrassment I may cause you. Thanks for all the precious memories of our time in Memphis! Te quiero, Sandra!
To all my fellow hostesses who shared that tiny office on the first floor of the Madison wing and ministered to eve
ry floor of our beloved hospital. My characters may be fictional, but each of you played an important role in the memories I tried to put on paper. Wherever you are, may God richly bless you!
And last but never least, to my amazing husband and best friend, Ken. Thanks for all those brainstorming sessions and your phenomenal patience with me through the process of giving birth to this story. I quite literally could not write my stories without you. Thanks for being such a huge part of the dream I’m living, but most of all, thanks for always being there for me. Have I told you today how much I love you?
About the Author
Born in Texas and raised in Oklahoma, Diane Hale Moody is a graduate of Oklahoma State University. She lives with her husband Ken in the rolling hills just outside of Nashville. They are the proud parents of two grown and extraordinary children, Hannah and Ben.
Just after moving to Tennessee in 1999, Diane felt the tug of a long-neglected passion to write again. Since then, she's written a column for her local newspaper, feature articles for various magazines and curriculum, and several novels with a dozen more stories eagerly vying for her attention.
When she's not reading or writing, Diane enjoys an eclectic taste in music and movies, great coffee, the company of good friends, and the adoration of a peculiar little pooch named Darby.
Prologue
He stepped out onto the ledge, his knuckles clenched tight on the smooth metal railing behind him. He took one last look—first to his right, then his left, then far down below, making certain he was all alone and no one near. The warm evening breeze whipped his hair in a wild dance across his damp forehead, urging him ever closer to his destination.
Just one step more.
Peter Lanham closed his eyes, drinking in the strange exhilaration of the moment. In his mind, he focused on the dive before him. He pictured the high perch on the majestic cliffs of Acapulco jutting out over the narrow finger of the brilliant blue Pacific. How many times had he sipped tropical drinks from the terrace of the Mirador Hotel, watching the brave La Quebradas make their fearless dives into the crashing waves below?
Now it was his turn. He took a deep breath, ragged at first, then another. And then, at last, a long, slow calming breath . . .
I can do this.
With that, he straightened his back, opened his eyes, and sprung off the edge, executing a flawless swan dive.
The rush of the wind sailing past him brought tears to his eyes. He blinked, finally clearing his vision just as the scene below came into focus.
No blue Pacific waters waited to catch him.
No wild applause from hotel spectators.
No pounding surf to mask the roar of his scream.
Only the harsh, gray pavement at the base of the water tower.
Chapter 1
Julie stared at her image in the bathroom mirror. She blinked, hoping the scary blonde looking back at her would morph into one of those airbrushed stars on the cover of People magazine. No such luck. She arched her brows, thinking the gesture would lift the bags that sagged beneath her eyes. Again, no such luck.
“The cast party didn’t end until 2:00 this morning. What did you expect after four hours of sleep—Reese Witherspoon?”
A lazy yawn unfurled her arms in a long stretch toward the ceiling. “Back to the real world, girlfriend,” she told the sad reflection. Moments later, the shower’s soothing stream of warm water awoke her senses and welcomed the heavenly lavender scent of her shampoo and body wash. With a final blast of cold water snapping her wide awake, she watched the remnants of her fatigue flow down the drain with the last of the fragrant suds.
“Coffee’s ready, Jules.”
Wrapping the pink cotton robe around her damp body, she answered. “Be right there, Gev. Pour me a cup, will you? Did the paper come yet?”
“On the table as we speak.”
Julie dashed a brush through her wet hair then threw open the bathroom door. “So? What did it say? Is it good? No—don’t tell me.”
As she padded into the kitchen, her brother peeked over the sports page, his spiky brown hair still glistening from an early morning shower.
“Say about what?” he asked.
Julie adored her older brother. She loved his free spirit and wonky sense of humor, and knew him to be the only guy she’d ever known who was completely comfortable in his own skin. With Gevin Parker, it was take it or leave it. A couple of years ago when she graduated from community college, he’d invited her to share the spacious loft apartment above his photography studio. The decision was a no-brainer.
Julie pinched his shoulder as she dashed around him to her place at the table. “You know what. The review for the play. Did you read it?” She licked her forefinger and flipped through the pages of the local paper.
“Oh, that.”
She squashed his paper to make eye contact. “Oh that? Gevin, you know how important this is to me.”
“Calm down, sis. I was just teasing.” He popped the paper back to its original form. “I’m your biggest fan, remember?”
Julie’s her heart pounded against her chest. This isn’t just any day. This isn’t just any review. Today is different. Today holds all my tomorrow’s in the balance . . .
“Where is it? Where are the pictures and the review?”
The Braxton Community Theater’s weekend performance of The Sound of Music had been a huge success, attracting record audiences from the greater Nashville area. The right review could be the threshold to finally, finally opening doors for her career as an actor. In her heart of hearts, she knew her dreams were about to come true, which was why the review was important. No—vital!
“Here it is, here it is! Okay, okay,” she muttered, scanning the piece, looking for any mention of her name. Near the bottom of the page, next-to-last paragraph, she found it. Her eyes raced through the lines as she read.
Julie Parker’s portrayal of Liesl von Trapp might best be described as Liesl von Flat. While the lovely Miss Parker— always a crowd pleaser with the locals—certainly looked the part of the attractive young teenage daughter, her rendition of ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’ was simply disappointing. Perhaps she should invest in more singing and dancing lessons instead of wasting her time strolling the fruit and vegetable aisles in all those Lanham’s commercials.
Tears burned her eyes. She dropped the paper onto the table. “Dennis, how could you?!”
Gevin set down his coffee mug. “Uh oh. Dennis wrote that?”
“How could he do this to me?” She stood up, shoving the chair back against the hardwood floor as Gevin reached for the review. “Just because I wouldn’t marry him is no reason to crucify my career.” She paced the floor then planted herself facing him. “That was five years ago! Gevin, how could he be so cruel? How could he do this to me?!”
“Sis, calm down. Nobody cares what he writes. Just calm down.” He took another sip of coffee, still reading the review.
Julie fell back in her chair. “But I was counting on this review. This was my best performance ever. Don’t you get it? I needed a stellar review! If I’m ever going to audition in New York, I need a portfolio bursting at the seams with good reviews.”
She rested her head face-first on the table. “Why did it have to be Dennis? Why?” She bounced her forehead gently against the table.
“Good thing that placemat’s padded or you’d have quite a goose egg on that pretty head of yours.”
She sat up with an exaggerated sigh of anguish, slumping her shoulders.
Gevin reached for a dishtowel and tossed it at her. “C’mon, Jules. You know nobody listens to Dennis. He’s not even a legitimate critic. I mean, c’mon—the guy works at Joe’s Lube Shop.” He tilted his chair back, his thumb and forefinger hooked on the table’s edge. “He only writes these pieces when his mom’s out of town and can’t do it. He’s got no theatrical credentials—unless you count working backstage in all those high school plays. I’m telling you, nobody takes him seriously. You’re getting y
ourself all worked up for nothing.”
Julie wiped her tears and took a deep breath. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Besides, everybody in Braxton knows Dennis still has a thing for me, even though he’s married now. Most folks will see this for what it is, right? It’s not professional—it’s personal. Right?”
“Right. Don’t give it a second thought.”
She took another breath and blew it out, reaching for her coffee. Before she took a sip, she slammed the mug back on the table. “But Gevin, how will I ever get a break if my reviews are written by a jilted boyfriend from high school?”
Gevin stood then carried his empty dishes to the sink. “Look, sis. Forget about it. Forget Dennis. He’s a loser. But it’s like I keep telling you, you’ve got to get out of this town. Braxton’s too small. It’s great having you live here and all, but if you’re ever going to get a break, you’ve got to go where the action is. Hey, wait—don’t you have an audition in Nashville next week?”
“Yes,” she whimpered, wiping her nose against the sleeve of her robe. “For Romeo and Juliet with the Nashville Theater Company.
“Well, there you go! There’s your ticket, Jules. You knock ’em dead at that audition, get the part, then watch and see—you’ll get a killer review from a legitimate critic, and all this will be forgotten. Mark my words.” He gave her a hug and planted a kiss on the top of her head.
“You really think so?”
“Of course, I do. You’re a brilliant actor, sis. I may be prejudiced, but I know talent when I see it. You’ll get your break.” He tugged at a wet tendril of her hair then headed down the hall to his room.
