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

by Austin, Terri L.

  THREE

  Jewel-encrusted cloak and dagger

  Security guards shouting into walkie-talkies poured from every corner of the property, all running toward the trophy room.

  I clicked my headphones off and spun on my heel, sprinting after them.

  My inner Lois Lane bounced. The ruckus could be because one of the rowdy kids puked on the Grammy showcase for all I knew, but my gut said there was a story.

  I stopped in front of the costume wall in the awards hall and pulled a notebook and pen from my bag. The guards were clustered around a showcase, and from my spot in the back of the crowd I couldn’t see what was in it, but they were freaked about something. The hairs on my arm pricked at the thought that I might be the only reporter on the scene of a breaking story. Merry Christmas to me. Graceland was a national landmark, Elvis a billion-dollar enterprise. Egg nog and cookies could wait.

  I wriggled to the front of the small crowd gathered around the guards. Between the tight knot they formed and everyone around me talking at once, I had no way to gauge what was going on. I elbowed my way around the outside of their circle and stood as tall as I could, catching a glimpse of an empty display case. About two-by-three, top lit, and between two of Elvis’ most famous stage outfits.

  My stomach flipped. If what belonged in there was missing, that was news. I racked my brain, trying to remember what I’d seen in that case not twenty minutes before, but came up with nothing. Except that I’d have noticed if any of the cases were empty. They were not. But how could something that big go missing in the middle of the day?

  I took a step back when a tall man in a guard uniform and a big hat stepped forward, holding up his hands for quiet. His teeth flashed white against his olive skin when he offered a reassuring smile.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we do apologize for the inconvenience, but I’m afraid the exits to the grounds have been locked for the time being and the Memphis Police will be here shortly. We have a situation. You’re all free to continue to move about the grounds, but we ask that if you see anything suspicious, you alert a member of the security team immediately. Y’all enjoy your day.” He nodded a dismissal and most of the guards disbanded, leaving a group of curious tourists whispering musings in their wake.

  I scribbled notes and fumbled for my Blackberry to text my editor back in Richmond.

  “Something up @ Graceland. Security in an uproar. Looks like something’s missing from the trophy hall. They locked it down. And I’m in here.” I hit send with a shaking finger. God, I hoped he was at the office.

  My phone buzzed a reply less than a minute later: “!!!!!!”

  I found a bench in a corner where I could still see the guards and the empty case, opening an email to Bob:

  Security guards at Elvis Presley’s Graceland mansion put the complex on lockdown just after noon Friday.

  “The Memphis Police will be here shortly,” a guard told a small crowd gathered around an empty display case in the trophy hall behind the mansion. “We have a situation.”

  No further details were given, but tourists were told that they’re free to roam the grounds until the police arrive. A Telegraph reporter is among those locked inside.

  I sent the email and clicked back to my texts. “You have email. I’m on it. I’ll send updates as I have them.”

  I tucked the phone into the back pocket of my jeans and made my way through the crowd, looking for anyone who might know what was happening.

  My backside buzzed a text arrival just as my eyes lit on a petite redhead whose little girl shared her wild curls. The mom was talking to a guard and gesturing between the child and the guards who formed a body wall around the empty case. The guard took notes as he nodded.

  “It’s on the web,” Bob’s text read. “Keep it coming. I’m camped here.”

  “Working on it.”

  I slipped close enough to the guard conducting the interview to eavesdrop.

  “She didn’t do anything to it,” the woman said, her voice escalating in pitch. “She smacked the glass and squealed for me to look. She likes sparkly things.”

  Smacked the glass? No way all this hysteria was over a cracked cabinet. My eyes strayed back to the human barrier around the case, but the effort was futile. I was too far away and they were too tightly meshed at the shoulders for me to see a thing.

  “Ma’am, no one is accusing your little girl of anything,” the smooth drawl came from the guard in the hat as he walked up next to me. I swiveled my eyes to the gold records on the far wall and feigned disinterest, but I’m not sure he even noticed me, he was so focused on the pixieish face behind the tangle of auburn ringlets.

  Kneeling, the officer asked the child her name.

  “Savannah,” she chirped.

  “I’m Dale. Nice to meet you, Miss Savannah.” He held up one hand. “Can I have a high five?”

  She reached a tiny arm up and walloped his palm. He flapped his wrist and dropped his jaw in mock-astonishment. “You’re a mighty strong little lady,” he said, ruffling her hair. “How old are you?”

  “Five.” She giggled, holding up as many fingers and shaking her head when he insisted she had to be at least seven.

  “Can you tell me how many times you hit the glass?”

  “Three? Four?” Savannah hung her head. “I wanted mommy to look.”

  “And what happened when you hit the glass?”

  “A sparkle fell,” she said, her face scrunching as she tightened her arm around her mother’s thigh. “I didn’t mean to break it.”

  “You didn’t break anything, sugar. Don’t you worry.” The first guard scribbled more while the one with the hat—I guessed he was in charge—straightened and nodded at the mother. “If you wouldn’t mind giving Calvin here your contact information, ma’am, we’d sure appreciate it. But please don’t worry about anything. Y’all have happened into the middle of something much bigger than a—” he touched Savannah’s arm and winked, “—‘falling sparkle.’ You watch that right hook, killer.”

  He turned back toward the empty case and I followed a few paces behind, still admiring his technique with the little kid. What were the odds he’d talk to me? Without a connection, probably not good.

  He had a short conference with the guards that I didn’t dare creep close enough to overhear, then glanced at his iPhone and walked back outside toward the main house.

  I turned back to Savannah and her mother, who were standing alone about halfway down the hallway, looking at a jumpsuit.

  I fished my pad and pen back out as I wandered toward them. The woman glanced at me and I smiled.

  “Interesting day,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Not at all what I had in mind when my momma said she wanted to come to Graceland.” She gestured to an older woman who was snapping photos of every gold record on the opposite wall.

  I offered a hand. “I’m Nichelle,” I said. “I’m a reporter. Who’s supposed to be on vacation, so I can relate. What was all that about, if you don’t mind me asking?” I waved toward the guards.

  She shook my hand. “Bonnie. Bonnie McCracken. It was the craziest thing. Savannah banged the glass on that display case to get me to look down, and alarms started going off and security came out of the woodwork and hustled everyone back and took the belt out of there.”

  “Belt?” I jotted notes as she talked.

  “One of the big gold and jeweled ones he wore onstage,” Bonnie said. “One of the jewels fell off when Savannah hit the glass, and the whole place went bat-shit. Er, crazy.”

  I grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t mean to break it,” Savannah said in a small voice, and I knelt down.

  “You didn’t,” I said, smiling at her. “More than that, I’m sure you’re not in trouble.”

  “Santa will
still come to see me?” she threw a glance at her mom, who patted her shoulder.

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t miss it, sweetie,” I said, standing up.

  My brain sped through the possibilities for a lockdown because of a broken costume piece and came up with exactly bupkis. Which meant there was more to the story.

  I thanked Bonnie for her time and patted Savannah’s head when she smiled up at me, jotting down their hometown before I tucked my notepad back in my bag.

  My Blackberry buzzed again.

  “I’m working on it, chief,” I sighed, clicking it on.

  “Merry Christmas, beautiful,” the text read. I smiled. Not Bob. Joey. It was still a little weird to get text messages from my sexy Mafia boss friend. And weirder still to feel electricity shoot from my neck to my toes just seeing his name on my phone screen. I wasn’t sure what Joey and I were doing. It wasn’t like I could settle down and pick out china with Mr. Mystery. But he sure was a good kisser, and he wasn’t asking for a commitment.

  “Merry Christmas, indeed,” I tapped. “I’m locked in at Graceland with a breaking story. I must’ve been a good girl this year.”

  While I was at it, I shot my mom a text to tell her I was running late. I left off the “criminals present” part so she wouldn’t worry.

  Shoving the phone back into my pocket, I walked out into the sunshine, looking for Dale the security guard, and mentally rehearsing an introduction that might not get me stonewalled—or worse, tossed out.

  FOUR

  Stonewall

  After a trip through the garden and one lap through the main floor of the house, I finally spotted Dale talking to a woman in a housekeeping uniform. She was gesturing wildly, and he was nodding and taking notes. I hung back and waited for them to finish, wishing I could hear what she was saying, but not wanting to annoy him just before I asked him for a comment.

  When he dismissed her and pushed his little notepad back into his pocket, I stepped into his line of sight and smiled.

  “Excuse me,” I said, putting out one hand. “I know you’re busy, and I know you don’t know me, but I’m a reporter, and I’m wondering if I might be able to ask you a couple of questions about what’s going on here?”

  His smile faded, and he stared at my hand for a second before he shook it. “A reporter?” He gave me a once-over. “For who? I don’t recognize you from the TV. And how did you get in here?”

  “I cover cops and courts for the Richmond Telegraph,” I said, handing him my press credentials. “I’m on vacation, actually, and stopped to see the mansion on my way home for Christmas. Or, I was on vacation. I seem to be unable to get away from the news.”

  “That’s unfortunate timing,” he muttered, drumming his fingers on his thigh.

  “Listen, ma’am, I can appreciate that you’re trying to do your job, but I also have to do mine. Elvis Presley is more than an icon. And we have very strict policies about security and media folks here.”

  I grinned. “Mostly that you don’t talk to us, right? No one likes bad PR, and I get that. But so far, whatever this is doesn’t sound to me like anything that’s going to make the mansion look bad.”

  He smiled back, though he looked like he didn’t really want to. “That’s not for me to decide, and my boss is on vacation this week,” he said. “I’m going to have to follow policy and say ‘no comment.’”

  I nodded, clicking out my pen. “Can I get your name and title to go with that ‘no comment,’ officer?”

  “Dale. Dale Leonard. I’m acting head of security this week.”

  I jotted that down and smiled at him. “I’m Nichelle. Thanks for your time. You were good with the little girl out there, too. Nice, getting the high five to see how hard she might have hit the case.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You might not need me to talk to you,” he said, turning toward a back hallway that looked like it led to offices. “But thanks. Sweet kid. I’m sorry she got caught in this.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any idea when we might get out of here?” I asked, stepping back.

  “Not a good one, no.” He tipped his hat and walked away.

  I sighed as I watched him go. He wasn’t an asshole, which was always a consideration when dealing with cops who didn’t know me. But he wasn’t going to be any help, either.

  As I pondered who might be, Teresa’s voice came from my elbow.

  “What in the name of Blue Hawaii is going on here?” she shook her head at me. “I was down in the Jungle Room and some woman came running in and said we’re being kept here. I thought she was crazy, but three other people said the same thing and then the little security guy in the dining room confirmed it. Why on God’s Earth would they lock five hundred people in Graceland Christmas week? Is somebody dead? You see anything, Richmond?”

  “I did, actually,” I said. “The problem is, I don’t know what it means. It doesn’t make any sense, why they’d freak like this over a jewel coming off a belt. No one’s saying anything, really, but that’s what I have so far.”

  “What kind of belt?” she asked.

  “It was in a case out in the trophy hall.” I waved a hand toward the back doors. “The case is empty now. But the lady who saw what happened said they came and took the belt out.”

  “And then locked the place down?” Teresa asked.

  “Seems extreme, right? I don’t have all the pieces to this puzzle yet. I’m trying to find them.”

  “You a cop or something, honey?”

  I laughed. “A reporter. I cover cops, when I’m at home. Turns out, news breaks in the strangest places. But I don’t have a lot on this yet. You come here pretty often. You know of anyone I can talk to?”

  “Hmmmm. Security?”

  “Strikeout.” I shook my head.

  “Housekeeping?”

  Dale had been talking to a woman in a housekeeping uniform. Hmmmm. “You think?”

  She nodded. “Oh, honey. The maids know everything. My sister’s been a maid at the Plaza for thirty-five years. She can tell you which celebrities are all-designer and which wear knockoffs, and who sleeps with who, and who’s on a crazy diet—the trick is getting housekeeping to trust you.”

  I nodded, her words and the memory of another story tickling the back of my brain.

  What if the panic wasn’t over a broken belt?

  What if the belt in the case broke because it was a knockoff? And if so, where was the real one?

  “Teresa, you just gave me a great idea.” I patted her arm. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do, but I’ll talk to you in a little while.”

  “Good luck, doll. I’ll be interested to see what you find out.” She wandered toward the dining room and I went back out into the December sunshine, looking for a place to sit and think. I found a porch off what looked like a basement exit, a little bench along one side. The odor and cigarette butt litter told me it was a smoking porch for the staff. Sitting down, I took out my notes, flipping to a fresh page and writing myself a bullet-pointed list.

  Dale had told Bonnie and Savannah they’d wandered into something much bigger than a “falling sparkle.”

  Dale told me I had “unfortunate timing.” Which could mean he was irritated by my presence. Or, coupled with the other comment, it could mean I’d happened into the middle of a bigger investigation.

  Of what, though?

  The whole place had gone nuts over a broken costume piece. Which seemed stupid. Why would something getting damaged cause a lockdown?

  I underlined that, because I thought I had an answer. It wouldn’t. No way an outfit like Graceland panics paying customers and risks lawsuits or God knows what else over something simple like that. Most of the pieces are around fifty years old, after all. Things break.

  But a stolen one? That could cause this,
especially if Dale and company had reason to believe it was still on the property. My inner Lois Lane chirped I should follow that trail.

  What if someone took a belt that Elvis actually wore, and replaced it with a replica that fell apart when an excited little girl banged on the glass case? I jumped from there to the idea that the lockdown would only happen if security thought the real one was still on the property.

  That was a pretty sexy story. But I needed more than my gut to send it to Bob. How could I get proof when security was freezing me out?

  I tapped the heel of one boot on the concrete, so lost in thought I almost jumped out of my skin when the door to my right opened. My bag dumped onto the ground, and I bent to pick up the jumble of papers, loose change, pens, and lip gloss that bounced across the concrete.

  “Missed one.” The drawl was naggingly familiar. I paused, trying to place it before I met the dark eyes of the man in the coveralls I’d almost run over that morning in the hallway. Still nothing.

  “Thanks.” I smiled, stuffing a lip gloss tube back into my bag.

  “You wander off the tour?”

  “Just looking for a quiet place to think,” I said.

  “Some kind of mess goin’ on here today.” He leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest.

  “There is that,” I said. “I was kind of trying to figure it out.”

  “You a cop or somethin’?” He tilted his head to one side.

  I laughed. “Not in these shoes. I’m a reporter.”

  “You don’t say? Where you from?”

  “Richmond. What about you?”

  “Born and raised in Tupelo.” He flashed a dazzling grin, his angular face lighting up.

  I eyed his gray-green coveralls. “What do you do here?”