Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

Still, I had hoped to learn somewhat of the Elvis phenomenon from my onstage watching post. Would that I had thought to cram some cotton into my supersensitive ears. That Tutti Frutti guy could have raised the dead with his high Cs.

Even I did not realize at the time that what was going on was not raising the dead, but laying the living low.

So it is my sad duty to meet my Miss Temple and escort her to the unavoidable conclusion.

“Louie?" she says.

She always acts surprised to see me, when she should know by now that I am expert at being where I am least expected.

But I merely look wise and sad, a habit of my kind, and turn to lead her to the crux of the matter.

I am glad that we are alone. I would not want the world at large to know how much leading my Miss Temple requires in certain matters. Certainly, I do not need the credit. I am noted for being a primo predator by my own self. It is nothing new for me to be presenting a recently live prey to my charming roommate.

I only wish that it was something that might make her scream and faint, like a mouse or a lizard.

I am sorry that it is a guy this time, and one that she has met recently.

He is lying on the floor by the deserted instruments in a most undignified position. In fact, were he still upright, the position would not be unlike the late King's more convoluted contortions on the balls of his feet, as we just saw demonstrated so recently by the newest Elvis candidate.

To put it shortly, the dead guy is twisted like a salted pretzel, and his face is growing red and dark and will soon blacken. I think it is due to the long white silk scarf twined around his throat.

He surely will not sing "Love Me Tender" now.

Miss Temple has obediently followed me over to the latest corpse.

The late dude's dark cloak has parted to reveal glimpses of a most original and splendiferous jumpsuit beneath. Even I must swallow a lump of emotion. The suit is emblazoned with members of the feline kingdom, primarily tigers.

Now no one will see this marvelous jumpsuit in motion. The tiger's rippling muscles of gold-and-black gemstones are forever stilled.

Miss Temple seems unaware of the jumpsuit as she stares down at the darkening face of the dead Elvis.

“Lyle?" she says, as if expecting that he might still talk back, despite the choke hold the white silk scarf has on his epiglottis. 'The King of Kings is dead? Then . . . who is Elvis now?”

She looks at me. "Louie?”

Do not look at me, babe. He is not me, and I am not he.

Although I might look very good in the right jumpsuit.

We must talk to the A La Cat people about this, once there is no longer a whole lotta shakin' going on in the Kingdome.

Chapter 49

Suspicious Minds

(One of Elvis's signature songs, beloved by impersonators; recorded in 1969)

"Why did you come back up here? All the excitement was downstairs in the dressing room area.”

The detective was in his mid-thirties and had a neat blond mustache. His name was just as bland: Stevens. "That's why I came back up here," Temple said. "I wanted to think. So many bizarre things have been going on around here lately—"

“Two murders are more than bizarre. You knew the victim?”

Temple nodded, settling into the velvet theater seat. Forensic technicians were swarming over one corner of the stage, but otherwise the place was empty.

From below came the moans of anxious Elvi, fearful that the murder would postpone, or even end, the competition.

Temple found something uncanny in the fact of an Elvis "tribute performer" dying on stage.

“How did you find the body? With that dark cloak, it was fairly low-profile, and the lighting was low.”

Temple was not about to introduce her guiding light, Midnight Louie, who had glided into the shadows and disappeared as soon as she gave the alarm.

She managed a sheepish expression. "I used to act in school plays. I can't cross a stage without 'treading the boards' a little. They all have a different sound."

“So you walked your way right into the dead man.”

She nodded.

“Did you recognize him immediately?"

“Not quite. First I just saw he was an Elvis. Then I saw something familiar about him. Suddenly I knew it was Lyle."

“Lyle Purvis." The detective pursed his lips. "I'm still not clear what you're doing over here anyway. Are you an Elvis fan?"

“Nope."

“You and this"—he consulted his notebook—"Electra Lark were on the site of the last murder too." "Just unlucky, I guess."

“And prone to wandering off the beaten path." He was checking his notes again, or, rather, another detective's notes. "The Medication Garden where the drowned man was found was supposed to be off limits."

“We trespassed a bit there."

“And you didn't trespass here?"

“Not that I know of.”

The detective shook his head. "You make a lousy suspect for anything worse than jaywalking, but you were at the discovery scenes of two recent, connected murders."

“So the drowned man was murdered? And the murders are connected?"

“By you."

“Oh."

“Frankly, your being just another crazy fan, that would explain a lot.”