Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery)

by Ricardo Sanchez

  “Sorry to hear that. Kinda throws a wrench into your comeback, huh?”

  “That band sucked. No energy.” Morrison stretched. “Hey, I’m the one that should be sorry. I didn’t warn you about Goliath. I still can’t believe you managed to tap him.”

  “People keep saying that.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t know Goliath. His family was this traveling midget group called the ‘Fighting Goliaths’ that criss-crossed the country, daring people to get into a ring with ’em. To win, you had to stay in the ring for three minutes, with three of the Fighting Goliaths. Suckers would pay a day’s salary for a chance at the big prize. Not one person collected on that, man.”

  “So how did Goliath end up here in Kresge?”

  “That, friend Floyd, is a better question for the sheriff, who I believe you’ve met. And if I’m wrong, this is your opportunity. She just walked in.”

  Turning, I saw Sheriff Kresge standing just inside the door by Sheila. She was silhouetted in sunlight. The corona accentuated every curve and lit up her beard like an upside-down halo.

  Morrison noticed I was looking at her a little longer than necessary.

  “Huh. Be careful with Wanda or you’ll be singing some jailhouse rock of your own.”

  The sheriff finally spotted me and picked a path through the tables and chairs between us.

  “Man is an intelligence in servitude to his organs, friend.” Morrison said, standing. He picked up his drink and moseyed away toward the restrooms in time to avoid needing to acknowledge the sheriff’s arrival.

  “I see you made it back okay, Floyd. Mind if I join you?”

  She sat without waiting for a reply. “Now about the case you’re going to work on for me—”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I decide what cases I take, even under threat of jail.”

  “I never threatened you, Floyd.” The sheriff put on a mildly hurt expression that might have been sincere. “I was just offering you the assistance of the Kresge Police Department on your own case in exchange for your help with one of ours.”

  I didn’t really believe her, but the curl of her pouting lips, shrouded in gentle red fuzz, made me want to.

  “First, why don’t you tell me why you have the same name as the town.”

  She smiled.

  I smiled back. I felt warm inside and hoped it was the drink.

  “Sure. Kresge is named after my great-grandmother. She settled the town.”

  I waited for her to continue. She didn’t.

  “There must be more...”

  “Well, my great-grandmother, Red Beard Kresge, owned The Amazing Kresge Circus and Carnival. This was back when all the traveling circus groups were being bought up either by Ringling Brothers or Barnum & Bailey.”

  A giant hand attached to a miniature arm reached up over the side of the table with a bottle of Glenfiddich 20. A glass followed.

  “Thanks, Goliath.” The sheriff poured out a finger of the Scotch and continued. “The circus train broke down about three miles from where we’re sitting, so my great-grandmother gave up the road and started a town. The circus folk who made up the acts loved that old lady, so they pitched in to build Kresge.”

  She paused to take a sip of her Scotch.

  “Goliath’s family was one of them. Old Kresge is the part of town where the circus people built their homes and shops. Most of the original families in town still live over there.”

  “I’m confused. I thought this town was founded by some Danish people,” I said.

  “The source of my troubles,” she said, grimacing. “When my great-grandma founded Kresge, she didn’t know there was another town a few miles down the road. Oksvang. It was founded by a bunch of naïve Danish settlers who bought the land, sight unseen, when they got off a boat in San Francisco. They were expecting rolling green hills or something.”

  She poured a touch more Scotch while she spoke.

  “They built a nice little town but had no idea how to make a living from the land here. Our town grew, theirs didn’t. About thirty years ago, Kresge annexed Oksvang.”

  “A little Danish girl I met on my way into town didn’t seem too happy about the situation.”

  “Like I said, the source of my troubles,” she grumbled. “Some of them aren’t very happy being part of our little community and have conveniently forgotten it was the Oksvang town council that asked to be annexed in the first place. There have been agitators chafing at their so-called oppression by the ‘circus people’ since they were incorporated.”

  The sheriff leaned in closer. I would have had a revealing look at what she’d accused me of staring at in the hospital, but her beard obscured the view.

  “That’s why I need your help, Floyd,” she said.

  The barely functioning detective part of my brain knew she was playing me. The sad thing is, I wanted her to play me and would have been disappointed if she’d stopped.

  Sheriff Kresge scooted her chair a few inches closer and rested one hand on my arm.

  “An out-of-state land developer has a proposal in front of the town council right now to create a Denmark of the West,” she continued. “A big tourist attraction for the Airstream set that makes pilgrimages to Yellowstone every summer.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I asked.

  “We’d have to rename the town Oksvang, for one,” she said, pulling away angrily. “After everything my family did to build this place, I won’t let that happen. Old Oksvang would have been condemned decades ago if it weren’t for Kresge’s economic success.”

  Wanda—I was starting to think of her as Wanda by this point—was visibly disturbed.

  “But the worst part is, the developer wants to demolish the Old Kresge neighborhoods to make way for Denmarkland. They want to knock down our homes to put up windmills!”

  She filled up her drink and poured some Scotch into my whiskey glass.

  “I get why you wouldn’t want your childhood homes knocked down for a tourist trap, but I’m still not seeing why you need my help.”

  “The vote is two days from now, on Thursday, and the council is tied, three to three. In the case of a tie, the mayor, my cousin Luca Kresge, would cast the tie-breaking vote. The proposal would fail.”

  “But?”

  “Roman, one of the pro-Kresge council members, has disappeared. Unless he shows up before the council reconvenes, the proposal is going to pass.”

  “I don’t do kidnappings.”

  Wanda gave me a condescending look.

  “Floyd, this is a small town in the middle of Wyoming. We don’t get kidnappings here. He’s just...missing. On a bender or something. Roman is an older newcomer, quirky but everybody loves him. He’s been coming and going here for about eight years. Finally settled in about two years ago.” Wanda inhaled deeply and let it out in a long sigh. “He’s forgetful. I’m sure he just needs to be reminded about the meeting.”

  “How do you know he isn’t planning to come back in time?”

  Wanda paused before she answered. When people pause, it’s because they’re thinking. When people have to think before speaking, it usually means they’re lying.

  “It doesn’t matter. But I know he’s missing, and too much is riding on his vote not to find him,” she finally said.

  There was obviously more, but I let it go for the time being.

  “Why do you think I’ll be more successful finding him than you would be?”

  She answered right away this time. “I won’t get any cooperation from the pro-Oksvang citizens of our fair town. And honestly, I’ve never really looked for a missing person before. Besides, for all of Kresge there’s just me and two deputies, I couldn’t go looking for Roman and take care of everything else.”

  “Everything else?”

 
; “There’s a lot of bored folks with dynamite around here,” Wanda said.

  “I see. You think people will talk to me?”

  “Who wouldn’t talk to a friendly face like yours? Even Goliath likes you.”

  Then Wanda gave her head a coquettish tilt and fluttered her eyelids at me. It was a look full of suggestion. The whiskey and Scotch I’d been drinking must have been strong stuff because I felt myself flushing.

  “You said if I helped you, you’d help me?” I asked, trying to move the conversation to more stable footing.

  “Yes, I will. Morrison said you’re looking for some guy named Burrows?”

  “He’s not just ‘some guy.’” I explained who Jon Burrows was and why it was so important that I find him. “And I’m not the only one looking. There’s a jackass Elvis hunter named Cougar Watts who’s probably already in town. I need to find Burrows first. You think you can help?” I asked.

  “Wow. That’s quite a story,” Wanda said.

  She paused again. It made me doubt her answer.

  “You help me and I’ll help you find Jon Burrows. I’ll use all the resources available to the Kresge Police Department. If Burrows has a driver’s license or a city water bill, I can get his address. And if I run across Watts, maybe I’ll find a reason to let him cool his heels in a holding cell for a day or two. Deal?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t think about it, I’d start doing it. Here’s everything you need to get started.”

  Sheriff Kresge took a key and a photo with an address written on the back out of her pocket and placed them on the table.

  “The key to Roman’s place?” I asked.

  “Yes. We’ve already been there, but maybe you’ll turn up something new.” She was in a hurry to go now. Any pretense of enjoying my company had left the building.

  “Roman his first or last name?”

  “First. Roman Finney.”

  “Any suggestions where I might start looking for Mr. Finney? Friends? Favorite haunts?”

  “I’ve heard he likes a place called Whispers. It opens late, try there. I would have gone myself, but I think you’ll have better luck.”

  Without another word, Sheriff Kresge stood up and strode purposefully towards the door.

  I was hoping she’d hesitate, turn, maybe give me another of her smiles, but all I saw was her red hair disappearing around the corner as the door swung shut behind her.

  Morrison quickly slid back into his seat and reached for the Glenfiddich. Before he could close his fingers around the neck of the bottle, a giant hand attached to a miniature arm shot up from beneath the table and snatched it.

  I’ve known cats that made more noise creeping up on a mouse than Goliath makes.

  “No show, no drink, Morrison,” he said from somewhere below the horizon.

  “I hate that midget,” Morrison told me.

  “Aren’t you afraid he’ll hear you and beat you to death with your own leg?”

  “He’s already back at the bar, man. What did Kresge want?”

  “She gave me a case. A missing town councilman named Roman Finney. You know him?”

  “Never heard of him, but I don’t follow politics anymore. You going to help her?”

  I thought about it for a moment. Burrows hunts are all cold leads and legwork. Elvis was trying to stay out of the public eye, so he wouldn’t be likely to have his home number listed in the white pages. I do check though, just to make sure. The only information Buddy had was that Jon Burrows was living in Kresge right now. Even in a town as small as Kresge, a cooperative police force could speed things up.

  And then there was Watts. Wanda could definitely help me with him.

  “Yes.” I sighed. “Elvis can wait a day. Besides, it might be nice to have a friend on the force.”

  We sat looking at each other quietly, then he perked up and said, “Hey, no band, no show! I have some time now, I’ll help you look!”

  “I don’t need a sidekick.”

  “Partners then!” He grinned. “I’ll split the take fifty-fifty.”

  “The sheriff’s not paying me.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “I’ve got nothing going on here, man. How about if I just tag along?”

  It didn’t seem like Morrison was going to take no for an answer. Maybe he could give me directions around town.

  “Okay. You can come.”

  Morrison’s wide grin broke the surface again.

  “Great! Let’s go, partner!”

  I was probably—no, definitely—going to regret this.

  Chapter Six

  I pulled the Camaro around to the entrance of the club and waited for Morrison while he visited the men’s room. When he stepped through the double doors, his tie neatly put back together, he stopped to take in the car. Throwing his arms wide, he looked up at me and yelled, “I love your ride!”

  Morrison felt up the hood as he crossed in front of the Camaro. Then he opened the passenger side door and settled in, inspecting the interior. “I almost never drove, but I was thinking of getting one of these before I...” Morrison stopped himself, turned to me and said, “Gotta love American cars.”

  “Before you what?” I asked.

  “Hey, isn’t it hard to follow someone with a car like this?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t follow a lot of people,” I lied.

  Yeah, I do follow people a lot. And yes, the car was going to be a problem. But there was no way I was going back to driving the Ford.

  “Here’s the address,” I said, handing Morrison the slip of paper Wanda’d given me. “How do we get there?”

  Morrison studied the address for a moment. “Back down New Main, then turn left at the empty lot.”

  “The sheriff was holding something back when I asked her why she thought Roman might not make it to the vote,” I told Morrison, pulling out of the Bombay’s parking lot and onto New Main. “Any idea what it might be?”

  He didn’t answer right away, which could mean he was either thinking it over or trying to come up with a plausible lie. “Kresge’s a complex little town, Floyd. Hey, I overheard you talking about some guy named Watts. Who’s he?”

  “The competition.”

  “He like you? You know, the Lifestyle thing?” he asked.

  “No. Well, I don’t think so. I’ve never met him. Cougar Watts tracks down goods for a man who sells Elvis memorabilia. He’s good. Beat me to more finds than I can count and does whatever it takes to get what’s to be had.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, Elvis gave his girlfriend Linda Thompson a little white Maltese named Foxhugh. After he died, the dog ended up stuffed, mounted and displayed in a place of honor at the kennel where he was born. Cougar showed up, claimed to be from the Elvis estate, and took the dog. Paid nothing. Bergstrom, his boss, sold it for seventy large.”

  Morrison let that sit for a minute.

  “Yeah, I’ve met this Bergstrom type before. Real parasite,” Morrison said. “What happens if Cougar gets to this Burrows dude first?

  “If he is Elvis, Bergstrom will sell the story to the highest bidder. Probably make a fortune in the process.”

  “And you won’t?”

  “Of course not!” I answered. “This isn’t about money.”

  “There’s the lot,” he said, pointing to a weed-filled slab of concrete. “Turn here.”

  I slowed and turned onto Oak Street.

  “Keep going a few blocks and then turn right on Green,” he said. “I don’t like her much, but the sheriff’s a good lady. And she would do practically anything to protect this backwater town, so if Wanda isn’t telling you something, you probably don’t need to know it.”
>
  I hoped he was right.

  Neither one of us said anything more until I pulled up to a small red brick rancher. No car was outside and there was a pile of newspapers by the front door. I turned off the Camaro and the engine let out a few coughs before it sputtered to a stop.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Morrison said, getting out.

  “If he was home, he wouldn’t be missing,” I told him. “Come on.”

  I walked up the stone paver pathway to the front door and took in the councilman’s place. It was the type of house you would find in any small town from Montana to Southern California. Two-car garage and driveway to the left, bay window and door in the middle, bedrooms on the right. I could guess the floor plan without going inside.

  I knocked on the door and yelled out, “Sheriff’s department!”

  “You’re not a cop,” Morrison said.

  “I’m on police business. Besides, I don’t want to be shot if he’s holed up in there with a rifle or something.” I put the key in the lock and twisted the knob.

  “Grab the papers,” I told Morrison, stepping through the doorway.

  While he was scooping up the Kresge Daily News, I was met by cool, dry air.

  Roman might not be home but he had left the AC on. Most people will turn off the heat or AC if they are planning on an extended trip. It isn’t a foolproof rule, but leaving the air on told me Roman was either away for just a few days or that he’d disappeared under questionable circumstances.

  “Where should I put these, man?” Morrison asked, his arms full.

  I looked around the living room and saw a four-person gaming table to the left and a black leather sectional couch and TV on my right. Beyond the gaming table was an eat-in kitchen that had last been remodeled in ’70s Harvest Gold.

  “On the table’s fine,” I told him, and walked into the kitchen.

  The sink was empty. So was the dishwasher. I went to the phone, hoping for a message machine, but no luck. A small pile of mail was stacked on a telephone stand in a corner, the recipient’s name confirming we were in the right house. Catalogs and magazines reveal a lot about a person. For example, I now knew that Roman liked his ham mailed to him by the pound, he had an interest in dogs and he liked to stay up to date on current events. In other words, nothing useful.