Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

Kenny frowned, which did not budge his hairline a centimeter. "Why would you come over here to check out a problem on a work site all the way over at the Crystal Phoenix?"

“The disruption was apparently an Elvis sighting."

“Whoo, boy! There's a few of those in town right now, and I bet that's always happening." He nodded at the suit. "Wow. This thing has been laid out, excuse the expression, in the position of a chalk body outline from a crime show on TV. D'you suppose the suit was out for an unauthorized walk, got attacked at the Phoenix, and made it back here before collapsing?"

“Anything is possible," Temple said, meaning it.

Standing here talking to a five-feet-six Elvis clone (the real one had been around six feet, she guessed) with a sixties Priscilla Presley looking on was more than a trip down memory lane, it was a trip, period. And trips like that, Temple had supposed, were mostly of seventies vintage, when LSD was the operating system of choice.

Quincey must have decided that too, because she sat down and returned to arranging her layers of false eyelashes in the mirror, using a straight pin to strip the excess mascara off each one. There was a lot of excess mascara to lose.

Kenny shook his head sadly at the dead jumpsuit. "I'm glad it isn't one of mine. Bet it wasn't insured either. We put a lot of time and heart and soul into our acts, but we put our cash into the jumpsuits. And the hair." He pointed upward, as if anyone could miss the Hair.

“So word about the ruined jumpsuit is getting around," Temple said, encouraging further confidences.

She wanted to figure out if there was any reason an Elvis imitator would make an unscheduled appearance at the Jersey Joe Jackson Mine Ride-in-progress. Or if anyone might have a motive for laying someone's expensive costume low. Anything that touched the Crystal Phoenix was her business.

Kenny pulled out a wooden chair, flipped it around and sat so he could cradle his forearms on the back. He was a bantam Elvis, chunky, with overdeveloped muscles rather than fat, his high hair like a brunet coxcomb. Despite his rounded features, no one would mistake him for a high-schooler. Temple guessed that he was a decade older than she.

“Word gets around," Kenny admitted. "We all watch what the others are doing."

“Paranoid?"

“Naw, eager to learn. After all, there's no one like us, right?"

“How many are running around the hotel?"

“Gosh, maybe a hundred."

“A hundred?"

“This is the biggest Elvis-impersonator competition ever. Everybody's here from the Grand Old Men who invented the art to the rawest new kids on the block."

“And where do you rank?"

“Somewhere in the middle." Kenny grinned. "But anything can happen. It's a competition, right?"

“Competitive enough for somebody to ice somebody else's jumpsuit?'

“Gee, Elvis was red, white, and blue suede shoes. I'd hate to think someone would get petty in his name. None of us would be doing this if we didn't revere the man's talent and what he stood for. So, no, I can't imagine one of us sinking that low. Besides, any competition's a crapshoot. It'd be better to attack the judges than some poor innocent jumpsuit."

“This looks like a pretty spectacular one. I'd hate to duplicate it on short notice.”

Kenny shook his head mournfully. "I couldn't feel worse seeing that destroyed there, other than seein' some guy in it. God, I put in every spare minute and nickel for the past three years to get myself here. When I first started performing at karaoke clubs around Philly, I got laughed off the stage until I got good enough to laugh back. Someone who'd ruin any Elvis imitator's mainstay deserves to be stabbed in the back too."

“But your suits are safe."

“Better be. I got two. A lot of guys only got one and they put all their hopes and dreams and their best buddies' cash into it. Families, friends, they gotta support your Elvis habit, or you wouldn't make it this far.”

Temple was actually starting to choke up over the ruined jumpsuit.

For an Elvis impersonator, she saw, a jumpsuit was a costly second skin. Designing and underwriting one was the single biggest commitment he made to his avocation. Whoever had thrust the gaudy dagger through the rhinestone stallion had also stabbed a metaphorical blow into the owner's heart.

Malicious mischief wasn't quite strong enough to describe the ruin wreaked here.

“It could be dirty tricks before the competition," she said.

Kenny nodded. "Or it could be someone who hates the King, in any form.""That would mean you all were in danger.”

Kenny's bright blue eyes squinted almost closed. "He did get a lot of death threats when he was alive. You'd sorta hope that would stop when he was dead."

“I thought he was still showing up here and there reg- ularly."

“So the tabloids say. That's always been the big joke."

“What?"

“That Elvis faked his own death because he was tired of all the hoopla. That he's out here somewhere, masquerading as an Elvis imitator."

“He'd be . . . how old?"

“Almost retirement age. Sixty-four."