apple.
Black glasses with thick lenses balanced on the bridge of his quite ordinary nose. His only distinguishing feature was a mustache that he clipped short and curved, so that when he talked it looked like a brown caterpillar riding his upper lip.
“May I help you?” He spoke in a nasal monotone, like the guy on TV who did the commercials for eye drops.
“Just leaving a message on your desk. That’s all.” She gave him a bright smile and a little wave of her fingers as she passed by, certain he suspected of her snooping. She didn’t mind. She had been snooping, so it seemed fair.
Tootsie was on another call, speaking persuasively into the headset he wore over his right ear. It was a skinny piece of plastic that curved around to his mouth, and every so often he’d reach up to adjust it, like the person on the other end just wasn’t understanding him.
“Yes, I know,” he said calmly, “but the police are working on it. There’s no indication this is anything other than sheer coincidence, perhaps a personal grudge between two of the—I see. Of course, I understand that this is just business, but with it so close to the anniversary date, I think you’ll find it quite difficult to book—you have? I agree your first responsibility is to your clients, but Memphis Tour Tyme has an impeccable record of service and reliability. This is just an aberration—I understand. Certainly. Perhaps next year.”
He pushed a button and sat for a moment with his shoulders hunched, then looked up at her. “Fifth cancellation in two days. Not just the hotel groups we get, but agencies that book well in advance.” Slowly, he bent forward until his forehead rested against the desk surface. “We’re ruined,” he said in a moan. “Ruined.”
“No, not yet. People are just nervous. They get that way around dead bodies and murder. Just as soon as the guy who’s doing this is caught, business will pick up again. Hey, there’s no shortage of tourists who want to see Graceland and Jerry Lee’s house, not to mention Victorian Village and Beale Street. It’ll work out. Besides, the taxi and limo service are still going strong.”
Tootsie perked up. “We have had increased business with Elvis week so close. Too bad we didn’t get our licenses in time for prom season. We could have made a killing. Oh. Bad term to use, I guess.”
Harley gave him a pat on the arm. “See? It’s going to be just fine. I’ll do what I can, and you know the MPD is doing what they can. Two murders so close together have put them into high gear.”
“I know. Steve’s working long hours.”
“Ah, the mythical Steve. In a year, I’ve seen no sign of him. Are you sure he’s not a ghost or figment of your imagination?”
Pursing his lips, Tootsie gave her a sly glance. “Anything but, darling, anything but.”
With Tootsie in a much better mood, Harley took off for the main library down Poplar Avenue. The bank of computers there came with help, and she didn’t have to waste Tootsie’s time or listen to his exasperated comments about her being technologically deficient. Here, they expected it and had a couple of geeks to help out.
The main library had recently moved to Poplar from its longtime location at Peabody and McLean, the old brick building demolished to make way for high-priced condos. This library was modern and sleek, with lots of glass, concrete, and a wide-open spaciousness to it. Somehow Harley missed the former one even though it’d seemed dark and dusty and had that scent peculiar to old wood and years of use. It’d had character. As beautiful and efficient as this one was, it felt cold and impersonal.
At first she tried finding out information that would connect Leroy Jenkins and Derek Wade. Hours of Internet research didn’t indicate any connection between the two victims. She’d hoped to find something on the Internet site for the Elvis competitions, but
Black glasses with thick lenses balanced on the bridge of his quite ordinary nose. His only distinguishing feature was a mustache that he clipped short and curved, so that when he talked it looked like a brown caterpillar riding his upper lip.
“May I help you?” He spoke in a nasal monotone, like the guy on TV who did the commercials for eye drops.
“Just leaving a message on your desk. That’s all.” She gave him a bright smile and a little wave of her fingers as she passed by, certain he suspected of her snooping. She didn’t mind. She had been snooping, so it seemed fair.
Tootsie was on another call, speaking persuasively into the headset he wore over his right ear. It was a skinny piece of plastic that curved around to his mouth, and every so often he’d reach up to adjust it, like the person on the other end just wasn’t understanding him.
“Yes, I know,” he said calmly, “but the police are working on it. There’s no indication this is anything other than sheer coincidence, perhaps a personal grudge between two of the—I see. Of course, I understand that this is just business, but with it so close to the anniversary date, I think you’ll find it quite difficult to book—you have? I agree your first responsibility is to your clients, but Memphis Tour Tyme has an impeccable record of service and reliability. This is just an aberration—I understand. Certainly. Perhaps next year.”
He pushed a button and sat for a moment with his shoulders hunched, then looked up at her. “Fifth cancellation in two days. Not just the hotel groups we get, but agencies that book well in advance.” Slowly, he bent forward until his forehead rested against the desk surface. “We’re ruined,” he said in a moan. “Ruined.”
“No, not yet. People are just nervous. They get that way around dead bodies and murder. Just as soon as the guy who’s doing this is caught, business will pick up again. Hey, there’s no shortage of tourists who want to see Graceland and Jerry Lee’s house, not to mention Victorian Village and Beale Street. It’ll work out. Besides, the taxi and limo service are still going strong.”
Tootsie perked up. “We have had increased business with Elvis week so close. Too bad we didn’t get our licenses in time for prom season. We could have made a killing. Oh. Bad term to use, I guess.”
Harley gave him a pat on the arm. “See? It’s going to be just fine. I’ll do what I can, and you know the MPD is doing what they can. Two murders so close together have put them into high gear.”
“I know. Steve’s working long hours.”
“Ah, the mythical Steve. In a year, I’ve seen no sign of him. Are you sure he’s not a ghost or figment of your imagination?”
Pursing his lips, Tootsie gave her a sly glance. “Anything but, darling, anything but.”
With Tootsie in a much better mood, Harley took off for the main library down Poplar Avenue. The bank of computers there came with help, and she didn’t have to waste Tootsie’s time or listen to his exasperated comments about her being technologically deficient. Here, they expected it and had a couple of geeks to help out.
The main library had recently moved to Poplar from its longtime location at Peabody and McLean, the old brick building demolished to make way for high-priced condos. This library was modern and sleek, with lots of glass, concrete, and a wide-open spaciousness to it. Somehow Harley missed the former one even though it’d seemed dark and dusty and had that scent peculiar to old wood and years of use. It’d had character. As beautiful and efficient as this one was, it felt cold and impersonal.
At first she tried finding out information that would connect Leroy Jenkins and Derek Wade. Hours of Internet research didn’t indicate any connection between the two victims. She’d hoped to find something on the Internet site for the Elvis competitions, but
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