by Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley
They were up to “Give us this day our daily bread” when the first mourner spotted Elvis limping toward the grave. She was a frail-looking woman of about forty in what was undoubtedly her Sunday dress and probably had been for a couple decades of Sundays. A neighbor or rodeo wife, Elvis figured. When she saw Elvis, she stopped in mid-prayer and crossed herself like she had just had a vision of the Holy Mother. She nudged the woman next to her, pointed with her eyes, and when this other woman saw Elvis, she stopped praying too, right before she’d been forgiven her trespasses. Then a third mourner spotted Elvis and only few seconds later the preacher was left to finish the Lord’s Prayer on his own, Amen.
Total silence as everyone stared at Elvis and his companions. The color came up in Ned Florbid’s face so fast that he looked like he had acquired an instant sunburn. Miss Aronson winked nervously at Elvis. And Wayne LeFevre did a double take worthy of Buster Keaton.
“Forgive me for coming so late, Miss Jilly-Jo,” Elvis said finally, nodding to the widow.
“Honored you could make it at all, Elvis,” Jilly-Jo responded, nodding back to him.
The preacher, a white-haired, bushy-eyebrowed man in black clerical robes, gave Elvis a flinty stare which said that in the eyes of the Lord, Elvis was just another sinner. Elvis had to agree with that, all right, especially considering what his mission was on this sacred ground.
“Going to sing the hymn for us, Mr. Presley?” It was the poor-looking woman who had first spotted him.
“If that’s what Miss Jilly-Jo and the preacher desire,” Elvis replied softly.
Jilly-Jo looked expectantly at the clergyman who sighed and then said grudgingly, “I guess that would be all right.”
Quickly, Elvis dug into his pocket and slipped Regis his share of the cell-gathering kit. “Go for the teardrops,” he whispered urgently. He closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer, begging the Lord’s forgiveness for the duplicity in what he was about to do, and then he spread his arms wide and began to sing:
On the other side of Jordan
Where the tree of life is blooming
There is rest for the weary
There is rest for me …
It was Elvis’s favorite gospel hymn, full of comfort and redemption, and loaded, too, with memories of that funeral at the colored church in Maury City where he’d first met Billy Jackson. There was no problem singing it pure and from the heart—there never was. But as he sang, and as he watched the soulful strains work their way into even the most hardened hearts of those assembled at Will Cathcart’s grave, Elvis felt a hollowness deep in his soul. If it was a sin to sing a bloodless song in a Hollywood movie, it was surely a worse sin to sing a masterpiece of feeling for the sole purpose of turning heartfelt tears into incriminating evidence.
But that is exactly what he was doing and, by God, it was working. Everyone was now weeping, including LeFevre, even if he was well known for his playacting. Didn’t matter—tears were tears however you produced them.
Through half-opened eyes, Elvis watched as Regis and Murphy approached the woman who had first spotted him. Regis handed her a square of blotting paper like it was some kind of holy sacrament. She hesitated, looking inquiringly at Elvis. Elvis gave her a solemn nod, like a personal benediction, and she took the paper, dabbed her tears, and returned it to Regis’s outstretched hand. Murphy moved in to get her whispered name, jotted it down on a page of his reporter’s notebook, then pressed the little square of tear-damp blotting paper under the name and flipped the page as Regis approached the next mourner. Smooth as silk, like a pair of altar boys who’d been doing this their whole lives.
It was as if he had created a brand new ritual—the ceremonial blotting of the tears—and the folks just accepted it as part of the service. Well, heck, how did any ritual get its start anyway? The wafers and wine, the holy water, the memorial candles? Somebody had to get it going the first time, somebody the congregation trusted to know the right and proper thing to do. Somebody they venerated, like Elvis Presley, the King.
O Lord, it is a fearsome power and I am unworthy of it.
Regis and Murphy kept passing among the mourners, offering up the little squares of blotting paper to mop their tears and then taking them back. Not to be left out, the preacher himself reached for one of the squares, dabbed his tears, and then, going one better, gave the ritual his personal imprimatur by pressing the blotting paper to his lips before returning it to Regis. Florbid was next, dutifully following the preacher’s example—he was, after all, a company man. But when Murphy approach little Miss Aronson in her Rodeo Drive-mourning suit, the two eyed one another suspiciously before getting on with the ceremonial blotting.
Wayne LeFevre was another story. He smelled a rat and started to back away from the open grave the moment he saw Regis begin his little operation. No ceremonial blotting of the tears for Wayne, especially not with Squirm Littlejon’s attorney as the altar boy. Elvis caught Murphy’s eye and gestured toward LeFevre.
There is rest for the weary
There is rest for the weary
Elvis repeated the chorus as Murphy strode rapidly toward the retreating LeFevre. Elvis’s double spun around and broke into a trot with Murphy now jogging behind him.
There is rest for the weary
There is rest for the weary
Elvis raised both hands, palms out, a regular preacher man blessing his flock as he watched Murphy closing in, his right arm outstretched. He was pointing his tweezers at LeFevre like it was a lethal weapon.
There is rest for the weary
There is rest for the weary
Murphy’s hand shot out to the back of LeFevre’s head, the tweezers gleaming in the midday sun. Suddenly, his hand snapped back and he came to a halt. He raised his tweezers high and grinned at Elvis. Cell specimen No. 16: a strand of Wayne LeFevre’s hair! Wayne yelped a few choice words unbefitting these hallowed grounds and darted across the street.
There is rest for me.
Elvis brought the hymn to a close and the minister immediately handed a shovel to Jilly-Jo to throw the first soil on her husband’s coffin. Next came her children, and now Elvis fell in line with the rest to take his turn. Ned Florbid and the Aronson woman managed to squeeze in just behind him.
“That was beautiful, Elvis,” Aronson whispered, touching Elvis’s sleeve. “Very poignant. Very James Dean. I kept seeing the last scene in ‘Rebel Without a Cause.’ Something for us to think about, eh?”
Elvis starred at her incredulously.
“Good to see you, Elvis,” Florbid was saying. “I didn’t realize Cathcart’s a friend of yours.”
“Was,” Elvis murmured. “Strange Mickey Grieves isn’t here. He was a good friend too, wasn’t he?”
“He’s working today. Monster picture,” Florbid said, then went on quickly, “We really have to talk, Elvis. Maybe we can grab lunch together after this.”
Elvis followed the line a step forward, not responding to Florbid.
“We all want the same thing, you know,” Florbid pressed on. “I mean, the studio is a hundred percent behind you on this Littlejon business. But there must be some way of handling it without causing so much—”
“Please!” Elvis hissed, craning his head down so that his face was just a couple of inches from Florbid’s. “A little respect. We’re at a funeral, for heaven’s sake!”
Later, when they were back on the road, Regis and Murphy in the back seat stuffing little squares of damp blotting paper into the liquid in the test vials and inscribing the labels with their donors’ names, Murphy asked Elvis who the little bleached-blond woman was. Elvis told him that it was Nancy Pollard’s assistant, Aronson. “Why’d you ask?”
“Thought I’d seen her before, but probably not,” Murphy said. “She’s just a type, Hollywood standard issue.”
Elvis then related his encounter with Florbid. When he got to the part where he said, “A little respect. We’re at a funeral, for heaven’s sake!” all three started to
laugh so hard that Elvis had to pull over to the shoulder and wait until they finished lest they spill their precious cargo of tears.
19
Elvis’s Personal Biographer
The latest news out of Tehachapi was not good at all. Dogs had picked up Squirm’s scent in the northeast corner of the mountain range, and now there was talk of bringing in National Guard helicopters, although Governor Brown hadn’t signed off on that yet. The story of Elvis’s claim that the whole thing was a set-up so they could shoot Littlejon had completely evaporated from the airwaves.
“A story like that doesn’t have much staying power,” Mike Murphy explained from the back seat. “If they repeat it too much, it just sounds crazy.”
“We need a new story then,” Elvis said, turning onto the West Hollywood exit. “Something else to make them think twice before they go ahead and shoot Squirm. Probably shouldn’t have my name attached to it this time, you think? I’m getting the reputation as an unreliable source, as you folks say.”
“Can’t help you there, Elvis,” Murphy said. “You can’t just make something up and put it on the news, you know.”
“Why not?” Regis chortled. “Half the stuff you hear on the news is the figment of somebody’s imagination. Usually some politician’s.”
Elvis hung a right onto Sunset Boulevard.
“How about something about the FBI coming up with a new suspect in the McDougal murder?” Elvis suddenly said excitedly. “Hot on his trail and all. That might do it. What do you think?”
“I think I’d better get back to my office and see if I still have a job,” Murphy said soberly.
“I’m serious, Murphy, that’s not bad, right? Folks respect the FBI.”
“Forget it, Elvis,” Murphy said.
“You can use the old ‘anonymous sources’ bit,” Regis piped up. “Fits perfectly. Everybody knows the FBI is ultra secretive.”
“He’s right,” Elvis said. “Your paper had that anonymous source’s fella telling stories about me only yesterday.”
“Let me out at the next corner, Elvis,” Murphy said resolutely. “I’ve paid my dues to you already, thank you.”
“You sure have, Mr. Murphy,” Elvis said. “Especially over there in Maywood. Man, you’ve got the fastest tweezers in the West.”
Murphy had to laugh in spite of himself.
“I’m sorry, Elvis,” he said. “This has been terrific. A day to tell my grandchildren about. But I’m a journalist and we have an ethical code.”
“Yup, that ethical code had me holed up in a hotel room in London with Ann-Margret just last night,” Elvis said.
“Can’t do it, Elvis,” Murphy said. “Sorry.”
They drove in silence for a few moments before Elvis said quietly, “I’ve been thinking of doing my biography, you know? My life as I see it. I’d need a writer, of course.”
For several minutes no one said anything. Then Murphy burst out with, “Jesus, Elvis! You drive one hell of bargain!”
“I just happen to like you, Murphy,” Elvis replied, grinning. “Now how about that? There’s a phone booth right on the corner there.”
He pulled the Eldorado up to the curb right beside a phone booth. He looked in the rearview mirror: in the back seat, Mike Murphy was kneading his long forehead, a look of panic on his freckled face.
“I’m engaged,” Murphy mumbled. “Getting married next month.”
“Congratulations,” Elvis said. “She’ll be real proud of you. You’re doing the right thing.”
Regis leaned across Murphy and pushed open the car door.
“Do I get my name on the cover?” Murphy asked.
“In blue suede,” Elvis said. “Bigger than mine if you like.”
Murphy got out and entered the phone booth, leaving the door to it partially open. Elvis rolled down all the car windows and listened. Murphy had to give some kind of code word proving his identify to the editor on the other end, then launched into his story about the anonymous source who confirmed that the FBI had a new suspect in the McDougal murder case. Apparently the editor was more than a little skeptical.
“Can’t give you his name, Doug,” Murphy was saying. “Protected source. The guy could lose his job, you know.”
Pause.
“No, it’s not Littlejon. They’re clear on that.”
Pause.
“They won’t say, Doug. Don’t want to tip him off that they’re hot on his trail. They shouldn’t have told me as much as they did, believe me.”
Pause.
“A bulletin, right. On the wire immediately.”
Pause.
“You bet, Doug. As soon as I hear anything else.”
Murphy hung up. He remained in the booth for several seconds, then came stumbling out to the curb where he bent over and spewed up his breakfast. Poor devil. Truth to tell, it was kind of reassuring to see that some people still got sick when they told a lie. Elvis sure wouldn’t have guessed Murphy to be one of them. Murphy probably really was a good choice for his biographer.
“You done good,” Elvis said when Murphy got back into the car.
“I bet you could use a drink,” Regis said, producing his flask, but Murphy waved it off. Elvis scowled at Regis in the mirror and Regis put away the flask without a nip.
“Let’s say you’re right,” Murphy said seriously as Elvis started up the car again. “Let’s say Littlejon is innocent, like your Spanish doctor insists. And let’s say his escape really is a set-up so they can shoot him. If all that’s true, we aren’t just up against some stuntman, Elvis. It’s got to be bigger than that. Mickey Grieves can lie on the stand and string you up in the stunt shack, but he can’t pull strings in the California prison system. No way in hell Grieves can do that. He may be a cog in it, just like Warden Reardon, but he’s not running the machine.”
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Elvis said. “But that’s where I get stuck. Who’s got that kind of pull?”
“Politicians and movie stars,” Regis said. “People like you.”
“Baloney,” Elvis said. “You don’t think I could’ve called up Reardon and told him to turn Littlejon loose, do you?”
“Maybe,” Regis said. “If he thought that would get ‘The Singing Warden’ into production, I can see him doing something like that.”
“Never,” Elvis said.
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Elvis,” Murphy said. “I’m here to tell you that you’re one hell of persuasive man.”
Elvis laughed.
“Guess I could’ve saved a whole lot of trouble if that’s what I’d done in the first place,” he said. “Had Reardon turn Littlejon loose, but nobody following him with a rifle. Heck, making the warden’s fool movie picture would’ve been worth it. Probably no worse than the movies I been making.”
“You mind if I take notes?” Murphy piped from the back seat, pulling out his notepad.
“Go right ahead,” Elvis said. “Put that in our book. I can’t stand my movies, not a one of them since Wild in the Country. Truth is, I wouldn’t put down a wooden nickel to see any of them myself.”
“You’re kidding me,” Murphy said, scratching away in his pad.
“Hey, would I kid my personal biographer?” Elvis said.
All three of them started to laugh again. Man, it felt good, it felt right. Riding along in a car with a couple of buddies, speaking the honest truth to each other while pulling the wool over everybody else’s eyes. It felt like the old days, tooting around Tennessee with Scotty and Bill, playing little clubs and waiting for the future to happen. Just being yourself.
By the time they pulled up in front of Regis’s office on West Eighth Street, the first bulletin had already hit the air: anonymous source, FBI suspect, Littlejon’s innocence—the whole ball of wax. When it came on the radio, Mike Murphy said he felt sick again, but this time he managed to keep all remaining cookies down.
Rodriguez was waiting for them at the top of the stairs holding up his freshly minted court orde
r complete with letterhead, California state seal, and judge’s elaborate signature.
“A masterpiece,” Rodriguez announced. “It is the best work I ever do.”
Murphy leaned over, peering at the document which designated Elvis Presley as the personal representative of Holly McDougal’s estate.
“Holy Mother,” Murphy murmured. “I’m in with a den of criminals.”
Elvis handed Rodriguez a hundred dollars in twenties, shook his hand, and took the court order.
“Bank closes at two thirty. We don’t have much time,” he said. He told Murphy to stash the tear vials and Wayne’s hair sample in Rodriguez’s refrigerator, then told Regis to get ahold of Holly’s sister and have her meet them immediately at the Los Angeles Savings and Loan with Holly’s safety deposit box key. They were back in the car in five minutes flat.
Mike Murphy had certainly earned his right to hear what Elvis had omitted from his original story, so Elvis and Regis filled him in on Holly McDougal’s private call-girl operation on the MGM lot, along with the stunning total of her late life’s savings.
“It’s undoubtedly one of her johns who murdered her,” Murphy announced from the back seat after they had finished.
“What makes you say that?” Elvis asked.
“I must have covered a dozen call-girl murders when I was on the city desk,” Murphy replied. “And nine times out of ten, it’s either her pimp or one of her johns who did it. Well, it sounds like Miss McDougal was self-employed-no pimp—so that leaves her customers. And by the way, that doesn’t eliminate our friend Littlejon. He may not have been a paying customer, but he was still a john.”
“Why?” Elvis asked. “Why do they do it?”
