Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story
Chapter Twelve
He wanted to follow her to work. He wanted to sit in her office while she did her sessions then sit across from her at lunch while she ate her sandwich then chauffeur her safely home at the end of the day. He wanted to keep her in arm's reach, out of harm's way, always in sight. But he knew that wasn't happening; she wouldn't allow it. There was a moment though, his head still on the pillow, when he considered calling in sick and being her shadow – she wouldn't have to know. Later, dressed and sitting at the table drinking coffee, the sun-drenched day already promising hot, it seemed a bit obsessive. Still, Tim fidgeted, arguing silently with his anxieties.
"What?" Miljana said finally.
"You could stay home today. No one would think any the less of you." He wouldn't look at her.
"That's one word for Miljana and two for Tim." She leaned toward him and pulled him toward her at the same time, touched her forehead to his. "I'm going to work. It'll be better for me to get back at it, and better for you not to indulge your morbid fantasies."
"I have other fantasies we could indulge."
"Do they involve powder blue pumps?"
Tim stared at her, confused. "What?"
She chuckled. "I have to buy another dress. She said it could be anything as long as it matches the shoes."
"What shoes?"
"I love you. I have to go or I'll be late. Remember, the bachelor party's tomorrow night."
"It's still on?"
"…"
"Seriously?"
"…"
"And they still want me there?"
"…"
Defeated, Tim sighed. "For fuck's sake. After everything that…? What does a guy have to do to get uninvited?"
"Arrest the groom?"
Tim considered the idea. "You want me to run his name?"
"No! Just pick me up after work if you can. My car's ready."
He slowed his truck to a crawl nearing her office, eyes surveying the street, searching faces and windows and passing cars. Even after he'd put the truck in park he continued to scan the area methodically and she waited. She waited until he noticed that she was waiting then she leaned over and kissed him.
"I'm fine. Go to work. Don't worry. I'm not worried. It's a rare thing what happened and you know it. I have no crazed creepers after me – well, except maybe you."
"I'm sure John Lennon wasn't worried either."
"Tim, where's Raylan?" Art leaned out of his office, eyes wandering the bullpen.
Tim had just finished calling Miljana, third time that morning, and was sorting through files on his desk, didn't bother looking up. "I'd have a better chance of knowing where Michael Jackson is."
"Michael Jackson's dead and buried."
"Not according to some of his fans." Tim carelessly dropped the file he was holding, squinted at Art. "Hey, maybe if I find Michael Jackson, I'll find Elvis with him."
"Just find Raylan, will you? I've got the preliminary report on the outhouse murder for him. They didn't have any trouble IDing the body. He had a wallet in his pants, which, according to this very thorough report, were down around his ankles. Raylan's right – it wasn't Elvis."
"Let me see." Tim wiggled his fingers at the end of his reach.
"Please…"
"Please, let me see."
Art was feeling relaxed today – no Feds had shown up yet – so he obligingly walked to Tim's desk and handed over the file.
Tim skimmed through it quickly, most of it he and Raylan had already guessed at anyway, but the ballistics summary stopped him cold.
"Shit."
"What?"
".500 magnums – huge fucking pistol ammo." He exaggerated their size, stretched his arms as wide as they could go and his eyes with them.
"Who carries a gun that big?"
"Old ladies, apparently – Smith and Wesson. I gotta find Raylan."
"Gee, what a good idea. Wish I'd thought of it." Art watched as Tim gathered his wallet and phone and headed for the door. "Have fun," he called out, silly little wave, but Tim didn't stop, marched into the hallway texting.
Skipping two at a time, he took the stairs to the basement and walked to the garage. He put on the brakes when he saw Raylan's Town Car. His phone pinged.
Courtroom B. What?
So Tim turned around and took the steps two at a time back to the main floor, jogged to Courtroom B. Raylan was sitting in the back watching a hearing for a man he'd hunted down and brought in the week before. Tim slid onto the bench beside him, opened the file to the ballistics report and pointed at the paragraph that listed the ammunition.
"Shit," Raylan whispered, leaning over to read it. "You think the old lady shot him?"
Tim shrugged.
"Maybe," said Raylan, doubtful. "More likely Elvis has her gun."
"Elvis refuses to carry a gun."
"What? Why?"
"It's in his file. He's a pacifist – self-proclaimed."
"Huh, really. The things you don't know."
"You'd know if you read the file."
Raylan ignored the jab. "You interested in a drive?"
"That's why I'm here."
"Look at you all keen all the sudden."
"I just want another cookie."
"Gentlemen!"
Raylan and Tim looked up, school boys in the back of class. Judge Reardon had halted proceedings and was glaring at them from his seat. "I hope this is official Marshal business that's interrupting my court. Take it outside before I find you both in contempt!"
"Yessir," Tim mumbled, stood to leave.
"Sorry, your honor. Surprising bit of evidence just popped up, murder case. I got caught up in it." Raylan held up the file folder, wiggled it suggestively, put on a serious Deputy US Marshal face, pushed his jacket back to put a hand on his belt casually revealing his star and his sidearm. It was like a ritual mating dance to the judge. Tim thought he saw him salivate.
"Alright." Official business seemed enough reason to warrant a pardon and Reardon waved them out. "But take it into the hallway."
"Excuse us, your honor. We meant no disrespect."
Raylan smiled; Reardon nodded.
Tim kept his face a blank until the door closed behind them, then he rolled his eyes for Raylan's amusement and said, "What a douche."
Ms. Flynn was baking muffins this time. Munching his way through a second helping with tea, Tim didn't seem to care what was coming out of the oven, checking his phone every two minutes, content to listen while Raylan asked the questions.
"Ms. Flynn, has anyone been around asking for Elvis?"
"Just you two," she said, pouring more tea.
"So no one other than us?"
"Not looking for Elvis," she said coyly, "no."
Raylan smiled and remembered the Feds warning. He was onto something here – definitely warm. "Looking for something or someone else maybe?"
"There was a fellow a few days back. He wasn't very nice. I didn't offer him tea. He was after the money." The kettle was whistling on the stove and she added some boiling water to the pot and then sat again with the Marshals.
"He was after…the money?"
"That's right. But it wasn't his money, so I didn't give it to him." She nodded smartly.
"What money…exactly?"
"Not your money, Marshal. I know all about that. He wanted my boys' money."
Raylan frowned at the mention of the deceased Fred and Ed. "I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am. It'd be hard losing both your sons like that."
She poured more tea, steady hands and steady eyes holding Raylan's. "Thank you, Marshal, but they had it coming. God help them, they were involved in a nasty business. They did a lot worse than Teddy ever did. Those poor girls they kept in that cellar… I kept praying that the Sheriff would catch up with them but it was the fellows they were working with, as I understand it from what the Sheriff said, that finally put a stop to their sinful business. Marshal, I pray every Sunday at church that God might find it in himself to forgive them, but out here before bed I pray they go straight to hell. It's hard being a mother."
Tim gestured at Raylan. "He'd understand. He feels the same way about his father."
"And you don't feel the same way about yours?" Raylan turned the spotlight on Tim.
"Nope. I hope he's miserable in hell. No confusion for me."
"Must be nice."
"Simpler." Tim reached for another muffin. "And I hope it's dry there, the part of hell he's in – no booze, no women and no smoking." He grinned imagining.
"You sound a bit resentful."
"I'm comfortable with that."
The conversation was running fast on a tangent away from the point of the visit and Raylan decided to bring it back. He prompted Ms. Flynn to continue talking.
"So Fred and Ed kept their money on your property and this man knew about it and came looking for it?"
"That's right."
Raylan leaned forward a little. "And I'd guess that was him, the one they found dead in the outhouse?"
She smiled and poured more tea.
Tim had stopped eating and was staring at the woman's hands. "It was you that shot him."
"Like I said, he wasn't very nice."
Raylan wasn't convinced. "It wasn't Elvis?"
She shook her head, smiled smugly.
"You used a .50 caliber handgun and shot him?"
"I didn't think the shotgun would do the job through the wooden boards."
Tim's third muffin was left unfinished on his plate while the two men followed the elderly woman into the yard with her Smith and Wesson Model 500 and watched, mouths gaping, as she put three holes neatly into the trunk of a tree at thirty yards.
"Nice shooting," said Tim, eyes flicking from her to the tree and back. "Can I have a go?"
She eyed him, doubtful. "It kicks. And Edward burned himself not holding it properly even after I warned him. There's a lot of hot gas coming out of that barrel."
"Yes, ma'am, but I'm trained. Seriously, I know what I'm doing." Tim looked eager and she relented and handed it over with a few more cautions and Tim listened patiently and then he aimed and put the last two rounds next to hers. He turned the gun over in his hand, admiring. "That's something."
Raylan didn't look so happy, one hand on his hip, the other up pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight. He opened them and looked up at a hazy blue summer sky and swore, "Dammit."
Tim returned the revolver and walked over. "What?"
"Shit, Tim, I can't call this in. She's ninety-five or something. What's the point?"
"Well, how old was Arlo?"
"That's different."
"I guess."
Both Tim and Raylan turned to assess their criminal, the woman who gunned down an unsuspecting man sitting on a shitter taking a dump. He may have deserved it, but it would be hard to plead self-defense in this case. They watched as she wandered slowly away across the yard to look at the tree they were using as a target, stepping through the long grass carefully, her faded blue-flowered dress hanging loose on her. She stopped and pressed her hand against the tree trunk feeling where the bullets had gone in through the bark, the gun in her other hand lightly held. She was humming to herself. They could just make out a melody drifting faintly.
She turned from her scrutiny of the bullet grouping, smiled and returned Tim's earlier compliment to her, "Nice shooting. You put your two almost on top of each other," and Tim smiled back.
He wasn't smiling later when the revolver followed the path Elvis took, off the cliff into the Kentucky River. Tim watched it fall sadly, said a few words in memory, "Nice gun," and walked with Raylan back to the house. "A bit impractical though."
Raylan was too busy justifying in his head what they'd just done to comment.
There was a fresh pot of tea waiting for them, and a shotgun laid across the kitchen table next to a plate of muffins.
"I guess you'll be wanting that too?" Ms. Flynn said, pointing at her other firearm.
"No, ma'am." Raylan screwed up his mouth, waved at the weapon helplessly. "You can keep that."
Neither man was particularly fond of tea, but they drank more while Raylan laid out the deal – he threatened to find a doctor to declare her unfit and have her put in a nursing home if she said anything about the handgun or what had transpired that morning. She reassured them that living with Theodore Johnson as long as she had had taught her a thing or two about the law and breaking it and she understood that she was being offered a pass. Their secret would remain her secret too. They sealed the pact with some more tea and Ms. Flynn brought out a jar of moonshine that her neighbor made especially for her, on the sweet side with cherries soaking in it, and they had a taste and admired the craftsmanship. It went down well with the muffins.
"You ever kill anyone before?" Tim thought it a prudent question.
"Not often. I am a Christian woman and the bible says Thou shalt not kill. But sometimes…"
Raylan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, slid his eyes over to Tim who shrugged and wiped his muffin-greasy hands on his jeans. Ms. Flynn got up and got him a paper napkin and Tim grinned sheepishly and said thank you and she pressed a fourth muffin on him.
"Okay," Raylan said after a pause. "But now, I still need to find Elvis."
"Oh, he's long gone. I gave him the bad money to do some good with. He left the state, went back home. He was happy 'cause it's more than enough for him to buy his girl out."
"Buy his girl out?" Another look shared between the Marshals.
"He was heading back to get her. That's what he told me. He's in love, poor boy. But don't you worry, I made him promise that he'd return your $50,000 now that he has his own money. And he'll do it. Elvis is the son I should've had. He's got a good heart."
Raylan and Tim walked to the car, dazed. Raylan wondered if it was the moonshine; Tim wondered if Raylan was going soft in middle age, not having Ms. Flynn arrested for murder – not that he wasn't secretly in agreement, he just thought it odd. Ride the rap – that was Raylan's catch phrase. But maybe it didn't apply to anyone over ninety, a rule adjustment. Tim left it at that, started thinking about Miljana and texted her again. Raylan thought about Mr. Johnson running moonshine down through Harlan, thought about Elvis buying a girl, thought about human trafficking, thought about Ms. Flynn's comment that Elvis was going home, thought about talking to Boyd Crowder.
"So, maybe the Reno mob guys aren't after Elvis. Maybe his being here was just a coincidence."
Tim hit send, said, "What?"
"We're going to Harlan. And before you start complaining, let me tell you, I'd rather go alone but it's too far to go to drop you back at the office."
Tim checked his watch – it was lunchtime. "We gotta stop somewhere for lunch then. I'm starving."
"You just had four muffins."
"That was breakfast."
Raylan huffed. "There's a drive-thru in Corbin."
"I guess that'll have to do."
"I guess it will."
Then Tim got thinking about the Marshals' money. "So Elvis stole the $50,000 to buy himself one of Fred and Ed's girls."
"Looks like."
"I can't decide if that's romantic. Hey, maybe you could buy a girl, too."
"Thank you, no. I'm still paying for my last two."
"I count three."
Raylan frowned. "Three?"
Tim was distracted by a text from Miljana, surfaced again after replying to her. "Reno or Vegas, do you think? It'll be tough finding him there. He'll blend right in. That's Elvis country – they roam wild."
"I think I may have to go to Nevada."
"You could just pass the tip along to the Reno Bureau."
"I could."
"You'll piss off the Feds if you show up there."
"Do I look like I care?"
Tim actually glanced over to check. "You know, that was the same gun Kurt Cobain used to kill himself."
"Which?"
"The shotgun the old lady had on the table – Remington Model 11, twenty gauge."
"Why do you know that?"
"I remember thinking it'd be hard to do, shoot yourself with a gun that long."
"Tim, you worry me."
"That old lady worries me."
Tim reached for the radio, turned it on scanning for some music. It was difficult to get a good signal driving through the hills. He finally settled on a station in the middle of a retro hour, grinned over at Raylan when he recognized the next song and the artist – "Money Honey" by Elvis Presley.
"My buddy used to sing this one too."
"Don't," said Raylan, but Tim started singing along, a few modified lyrics to add some color to the black and white of the 1950s.
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