Daniel Klein by Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley Page B

me, he sees the face he should have had.”
    â€œBut he became a lawyer too,” Elvis said.
    â€œThat’s right. Stanford, Harvard, Assistant District Attorney, and now he’s got the family seat on the state supreme court. I saved the powers that be a lot of trouble by eliminating myself from the competition for the Clifford judgeship.”
    Elvis shook his head slowly. “So, when you look at LeRoy, you see the man you could have been.”
    Regis chortled. “You know, Elvis, for a rock and roll singer, you have one hell of a dangerous mind.”
    â€œMaybe that’s what it takes,” Elvis answered, smiling. “Danger is one of the universal themes of rock and roll, don’t ya know?”
    Both men laughed, then Regis stood, yawning.
    â€œWe’ll have to continue this seminar some other time, Elvis,” he said. “Unless you feel like having me for a bedmate.”
    â€œYou’re not my type, Regis,” Elvis said, grinning.
    â€œWell, you sure are a good-looking fella, but you’re not mine either.” Regis started to extend his hand to Elvis, but then his hand abruptly took a detour and picked up the bottle of painkillers off of the bed table. He brought it up to his eyes. “Codeine, eh? Marvelous stuff.”
    â€œIt’s for my ankle,” Elvis said.
    â€œOh, it kills the pain all right. All of it. Now there’s an idea for a song, Elvis—what a man’s willing to do to feel no pain.” Regis set the bottle back down and straightened up. He looked solemnly
at Elvis for a moment before he went on. “You know that business about there not being any accidents?”
    Elvis nodded.
    â€œI believe it,” Regis said quietly. “Deep down, I believe it.”
    After Regis had gone, Elvis sat very still in his bed for several minutes. A distressing thought was tugging at his consciousness—not a fully-formed thought, just the embryo of one. He reached for the bottle of painkillers and popped another tablet in his mouth. It was not long before he heard that siren song again.

10
    Blue Suede Schmooze
    T he sleep of the blessed—that’s what Mamma used to call it. One of those deep-down slumbers that is not even interrupted by a dream. It was almost eleven when Elvis woke, and his first thought was that there was something to be said for sleeping alone. This had been the first night that week that he hadn’t slept with Priscilla at his side. Even in his sleep, he had known she was there, tempting him, troubling him.
    Instead of Priscilla, on the pillow next to his was that paper-wrapped package Colonel had left for him. The string slipped off easily. Inside was the Jodie Tatum blond wig and a piece of notepaper. Elvis unfolded it:

    Dear Mr. Presley,
    I kannut tell you how bad I feel about today. I respek you more than any other man and I shuda known better. I got things to tell you, important things. Doin a rodeo out near Reno tomorow and the nex day. But maybe we kin talk after.
    Respekly, Will Cathcart
    P.S. You dropt this.
P.P.S. It weren’t no accident.

    Elvis tossed the wig to the end of his bed. No, Will, it wasn’t an accident. There are no accidents.

    Elvis swung his legs over the side of the bed, setting his left foot down lightly. The ankle still hurt plenty, a tingling sensation now added to the throbbing. For a moment, he considered taking another one of the painkillers, but that wouldn’t do. He had places to go and things to do.
    He rang up Joanie on the intercom and asked her to bring up some coffee and a piece of toast. He didn’t have much of a hunger this morning—maybe because those White Tower two-bites were still taking up so much space. He also asked Joanie if she could bring up those crutches that the MGM doctor had given him.
    â€œYou aren’t getting up today?” Joanie said. It was more of a statement than a question.
    â€œJust a little,” Elvis