Officer Elvis

Book 2: Darla Cavannah

by Gary Gusick

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

In the vein of Harlan Coben and Lisa Gardner, Gary Gusick takes readers on an explosive ride-along with Mississippi detective Darla Cavannah, a Yankee transplant making her name in the Deep South.
 
After performing at a local old-folks home, off-duty police officer and part-time Elvis impersonator Tommy Reylander smoothes out his pompadour, climbs into his pink Caddy, and gets all shook up—fatally so, when a bomb explodes. Whether he was killed for his police work or bad singing is a mystery that detective Darla Cavannah is determined to solve.
 
Though it’s been several years since Darla (reluctantly) partnered up with Tommy, she convinces her boss to let her lead the murder investigation. As the new regional director of the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation, Shelby Mitchell can think of better uses for his star detective’s time, but not even the most hardened good ole boy can resist Darla’s smart, savvy persuasions. She soon embarks on a roller coaster ride through the world of Elvis tribute artists while tracking down one of the most bizarre serial killers in the history of the Magnolia State. Aiding her pursuit of the killer is recently reprimanded officer Rita Gibbons, fresh from the trailer park and described by Shelby as “half a licorice stick short in the manners department.” But Rita’s plenty smart, even when this case takes their suspicious minds in an entirely unexpected direction.

Praise for Officer Elvis
 
“With its comical Down South style and its wide variety of sequined, pompadoured characters, Officer Elvis is an intriguing mystery with more than its share of quirks. Even if you’re not a fan of the King, you’re sure to get plenty of laughs out of this rockin’ and rollin’ whodunit.”—Kristin Dreyer Kramer, NPR’s Shelf Discovery
 
“An absolute hoot from beginning to end . . . Be prepared to be all shook up by the ending.”—Reading Reality
 
“If you are a fan of Elvis, murder mysteries and could use a few good laughs at the same time, pick up this book and give it a read. You won’t be sorry.”—Open Book Society
 
“The region and societal habits are so present, the setting is like an additional character to the story. I stayed up an hour past my self-imposed bedtime to read more.”—Lilac Reviews

Release date: April 21, 2015

Publisher: Alibi

Print pages: 202

Sample

Chapter 1
The Chariot

The poster at the entrance of the multipurpose room at the Clarion Hills Senior Residence Center displayed a full-length photo of a portly man in his late thirties. His dark hair was slicked into a pompadour, with the sides combed back. The look was completed with four-inch razor-cut muttonchops that covered most of his round face. He was dressed in a white silk jumpsuit and cape, studded with red, blue, and yellow rhinestones in a wave pattern.
The words officer elvis tonight appeared above the photo, hand stenciled in gold letters.

Standing backstage, Tommy Reylander pulled the entertainment director, Otis Dupree, close to him and whispered in the man’s ear, using his tough-guy voice: “For the record, it ain’t Officer Elvis. Officer is what you call somebody who rides in a patrol car and wears a uniform, giving out traffic tickets, and pinching your drunk drivers; in other words, a low-level law enforcement type. That ain’t me. I’ve been a detective with the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department for four years now. I earned that designation by putting my life on the line for the state of Mississippi. I deserve to be recognized for my accomplishment.” It had taken Tommy Reylander ten long years to make the grade of detective. Okay, it was the slowest ascent in the history of the department. But why add that part? Tommy looked Otis in the eye. “From now on, it’s Detective Elvis. Understood?” Tommy palmed him an Abraham to seal the deal.

Otis looked down at the bill. “Whatever,” he said, seeing it was a fiver, then frowning like he had been expecting more.

Tommy took his place behind the curtain as Otis switched on the backstage mic. “And now,” Otis’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Live on our stage, from the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department, Tommy ‘Detective Elvis’ Reylander!”

Tommy reached up and pulled a spit curl down over his forehead, adjusted the Spanx he wore under the jumpsuit for maximum slimming effect, and stepped from behind the curtain.

The audience, all sixty-five of them, cheered and hooted like it was the King of Rock and Roll himself. One silver-haired lady let loose a wolf whistle.

Tommy snarled his upper lip and said the line he knew they were waiting to hear. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

That set off a second round of applause. When it had swelled to a crescendo, Tommy launched into his opening number, “All Shook Up.” The accompanying music was fed from his iMac, operated by an orderly that Tommy had to pay ten dollars from his paltry take.

Feeling every inch of his Elvisness, Tommy bounced and gyrated the entire song, holding and caressing the mic like it was the woman of his dreams. He finished with a fist pump for punctuation.

The residents, the ones who weren’t wheelchair-bound, jumped to their feet and cheered like it was the midnight show at the MGM Grand.

Tommy looked around the room, making eye contact here and there, muttering thank you, winking and blowing kisses. An elderly woman in the back row had fainted. Or maybe she’d nodded off. In nursing homes it was kind of hard to tell.

Otis had told him to do just the one set—eight numbers, forty minutes. “That’s about as much excitement as the residents can handle in one night,” he said.

Tommy knew the drill. Almost all of his gigs were at senior places—retirement communities, senior centers, nursing homes. The plus-sixties were his fan base. Tommy always made a point of finishing up before eight thirty, out of respect for his audience’s need for an early lights-out.

He usually came dressed in a jumpsuit and cape, like the older Vegas-style Elvis. The musical selection, though, was mostly Elvis’s early hits—a mix of the hot and sexy stuff—“Hound Dog,” “Blue Suede Shoes,” and “Don’t Be Cruel,” with some of the big ballad hits, like “Love Me Tender” and “Are You Lonesome Tonight.” He threw in “God Bless America” next to last—donning an Elvis army cap and marching in place like a soldier. This was for the men in the audience, many of them vets themselves—’Nam, Korea, and now and then a World War II vet.
Just before the final number, Tommy had his girlfriend stand up. Her real name was Edwina, but Tommy called her Cill. She was seated down front, all dolled up in a 1962 yellow formal outfit Tommy had picked out for her at the Here Today vintage clothing shop on Sather Street in Jackson. To round out the look, he had Loraine’s Beauty Shop bouffant her dark hair—just like Priscilla wore it when she and Elvis were dating during Elvis’s army days in Germany.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tommy said, using his deepest baritone speaking voice, “this here beautiful young woman standing down front is the queen of my heart—tell me, is she the spitting image of Priscilla?” Man, did that get the applause.

Cill remained standing, gazing up adoringly at Tommy through his closing ballad, “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.” Just like always, at the end of the song, Tommy dropped to one knee and blew Cill a kiss. Looking around the room Tommy saw several of the old women tearing up. Young love—or perhaps, younger love—always got to the old biddies.

After the show Tommy and Cill hung around in the lobby while he signed autographs. Like always, Cill joked with a couple of the old girls, saying, “You can look, sister, but you better not touch,” and “Don’t worry, honey, he’s already taken,” and “I hope that isn’t a room key you’re handing him, young lady.”

When the final autograph seeker had been satisfied, Tommy walked out the front door with Cill on his arm, making a show of it, like it was Elvis escorting Priscilla to her high school prom. They paused at the top of the steps, just the way Tommy had it worked out. Both of them turned back and waved their goodbyes to the residents. He could tell it would be a cherished moment for the old folks.

“Standing up there tonight, you looked just like him,” said Cill. “’Course you always do.”

Cill was a good one for saying nice things, the way a woman is supposed to about her man. Naturally Tommy knew that, try as he might, he didn’t look as much like Elvis as some of the other tribute artists, especially the younger ones. But in his heart, his soul, down deep where it counted—for those moments onstage, he was Elvis.

“Would the Queen care to accompany the King to his chariot?” Tommy asked.

Cill reached over and adjusted his collar, which was starting to drop from the weight of all the rhinestones.

“Maybe the Queen should wait here and the King can come and fetch her,” said Cill. “That way everybody can see us ride off into the night in the Elvis-mobile.”

“Great idea,” said Tommy. “I’ll put the top down—give my fans a chance to appreciate the rolled and tucked.”

Might as well. The white Naugahyde interior had set him back a cool three thousand dollars to install. It was the same type of rolled and tucked Naugahyde Elvis had on his pink Caddy. Or that’s what the guy who installed it had said.

Tommy walked across to the gravel parking lot a little unsteady in his white ostrich-skin high-tops, hoping he wouldn’t fall and make a fool out of himself, or worse, soil his costume. The damn thing cost a small fortune to dry-clean. It wasn’t easy being Elvis on a detective’s salary.

His thoughts turned to Cill. He’d finally found a woman who actually got him, who he was. He’d made his mind that he was going to propose to her as soon as he saved enough money for a ring. In the meantime, he’d set up everything else, put all the appropriate paperwork in place.

Reaching the Caddy, he unlocked the door on the driver’s side, opened it, leaned in, reached up, and unfastened the hinge that secured the black canvas top in place. He gave the top a little nudge to help it fold accordion-like into its compartment behind the backseat. He got in the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition but without starting the engine, and rolled down all four windows. Getting out, he opened the trunk, removed the pink leather cover, closed the trunk, and carefully buttoned the cover over the area that housed the retractable top.

He stood back and looked at her for a moment. Even in the dim light of the parking lot, the Elvis-mobile was a thing of beauty—a vehicle worthy for a king and his queen.

He opened the driver’s side door, stepped inside, eased into the seat, turned on the engine, and at the same instant gunned the motor, just to hear his baby roar.