Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“But he sure isn't." A workman with a hook gazed on the snagged jumpsuit. "No point in even trying CPR. This guy's been floating here long enough to turn colors. Don't look, ladies!”

Temple and Electra stared avidly toward the pool, but Crawford Buchanan averted his face, pushing his sunglasses more firmly onto his nose.

“So he's been dead for some time?" Temple asked. "And how long could the snake float? Swim? Hang out?"

“The police coming?" the workman asked, ignoring Temple. "We can't hold this guy against the side forever, and I guess they won't want us bringing him out of the pool."

“What about Trojan?" a workman across the pool asked plaintively. "I don't want him getting contaminated by any, uh, decayed stuff."

“That chlorine would purify a cesspool," a Mafioso suggested.

“Oh, God," wailed the Crawf. "I can't believe what I might have inhaled. I'm going to puke.”

Temple minced back, leaving Crawf to the disgusted mercies of the Memphis Mafia.

Electra had retreated to a curved concrete bench from which one could contemplate the glorious luciteentombed suits, so Temple joined her.

“I guess we're witnesses." Electra couldn't conceal a slight tone of pride.

“Yeah. Also suspects."

“Oh. I hadn't thought of that. Why did that foolish man blunder into the pool like that?"

“I don't know, other than 'fools rush in,' and Crawford Buchanan is certainly one not to suffer gladly, in both the passive and active grammatical sense. What I'd like to know was why dear old 'C. B.' was lurking around here."

“Also the snake."

“That is so bizarre. Elvisdom can embrace almost any eccentricity, but I don't see why massive South American serpents would be among them."

“It's the other exhibit." A brown-jumpsuited attendant who was not busy holding something against the pool wall with a hook had overheard them, and now approached. He lit a cigarette.

“Better not do that: contaminating the crime scene," Temple warned.

“Who are you? The coroner?"

“No, but unless you don't want the police to think that you were lurking here smoking cigarettes until your victim showed up and you pushed him into the pool with the snake you had brought in, I wouldn't smoke around here.”

This was obviously a guy born to trample Don't walk on the grass signs. "I'll take my butt with me when I leave," he said with a sneer.

Temple didn't point out that everybody usually did that, and other people took their heads with them too. "You'll leave ashes, trace DNA maybe, who knows what? The police love that sort of high-tech evidence nowadays; saves them from doing a lot of legwork finding the perp. Now, what 'other exhibit'?”

The man, busy jamming his cigarette back into a half-empty pack, jerked his head to the left. "Over there. It's not open yet. 'The Animal Elvis,' " he declaimed sarcastically. "Duplicates of the horses at Graceland: Rising Sun, the palomino horse he rode. Priscilla's Domino. Then there's Elvis's chow-chow. And Priscilla's poodle."

“And an anaconda named Trojan?" Temple prompted. "How does that fit into the Elvis bestiary?"

“Wow, lady. Elvis was into a lot of strange things, but I didn't hear he was into that."

“Never mind," Temple said. "I'm asking how the snake fits into the Animal Elvis exhibit."

“I just handle the stock. Must have some connection. Maybe Elvis dated a belly dancer."

“They don't work with snakes."

“I don't know. All I know is that scaly mother is gonna be a truss-buster to fish out of that water. Whoever got it here didn't work alone.”

Temple allowed the information to sink in. An interesting observation. But who would go to all this snake-toting trouble to off an Elvis impersonator? A jealous rival, or several? A crazed fan, or several? Animal rights activists? And why the snake? Such a cumbersome set dressing. Or was it the murder weapon? Or, if it was just set dressing, what was the message? A twenty-foot-long anaconda named Trojan.

Oh.

Temple finally got one message.

Why the anaconda was named Trojan.

And that gave her one connection to the King right there. As Electra had just pointed out, Elvis had loved puns.

Was Somebody Up There laughing at them? Or was Somebody Not Up There who should be?

Chapter 32

I'm Gonna Sit Right

Down and Cry

(Over You)

(One of the first songs Elvis recorded for RCA in early 1956)

Crawford Buchanan was shaking like a willow in a windstorm.

He looked worse than a drowned rat, huddling under the "Kingdome" decorative blanket that had been rushed in from the hotel gift shop.

He sat alone on his own Medication Garden bench, teeth chattering too much to talk. Thank goodness, Temple thought.

She preferred the bench she and Electra occupied outside of Crawford's talking range, where she could catch phrases of officialese when the interior air-conditioning drafts were right.

“. .. least it wasn't one of the damn display jumpsuits," a Mafioso muttered.

“Bet they'll be checking the Elvis impersonator roster," another speculated.