Elvis Purrsley Has Left the Building: Elvis Purrsley Mysteries, #1

By C. Love

Welcome to Yesteryear, the small tourist town where every day is still 1950 or 1960-something. Poodle skirts are in, the sounds of Elvis Presley and The Supremes fill the air, everyone is kind, and bad things never happen... or at least that's what the brochure says.

 

I wasn't looking for trouble when I returned to Yesteryear for my great-aunt's funeral, but I certainly came to the right place.

My first surprise was that I'd inherited Aunt Della's beloved cat, Elvis Purrsley.

My second surprise was that she left Yesteryear to the cat... but only if her murder is solved within thirty days, which brings me to the third surprise: Aunt Della was murdered, or at least that's what she claimed in the video she left behind.

Most of the family thinks Della was crazy to believe the psychic who foretold her death, not to mention leaving the town she founded and most of her estate to a cat and threatening to sell off the town if her murderer wasn't caught before the month was out, but then someone tried to kill again...

If no one else is going to take the case seriously, it's up to me and Elvis Purrsley to find the murderer and save the town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spirit Blizzard Press
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223277705

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I still can’t believe she died in her bed, peacefully, like a normal woman, my mother, Bethany Land, said as the limo continued up the hill toward my great-aunt Della’s estate.

How did you expect her to die? my grandmother Gwendolyn, affectionately known as Granny Gwen, asked, her gaze focused on the passing scenery outside the window.

I don’t know. While being shot out of a cannon or walking a tightrope over the Grand Canyon? my mother replied. That woman was crazier than a bedbug.

That woman was my sister, Granny Gwen said with just enough hint of reprimand to cause my mother to blissfully seal her rosy pink lips into a straight line and glance away, every bone in her thin body rigid. Della Mae may have been wilder than a goose with a spur up its behind, but crazy she was not. A crazy woman could not have built all of this.

By all of this, my grandmother meant the town of Yesteryear, my great-aunt Della’s pride and joy. The small town with all of its quaint little shops and restaurants reminiscent of days gone by, nestled on the edge of Kentucky, just outside of Virginia, had been just a great big stretch of nothing before Della purchased the land and built the town from the ground up, turning it into a lucrative tourist spot. The stores, restaurants, inns, and other attractions with names and themes inspired by the musicians and actors of the fifties through the early seventies drew in music and old movie fans from all over, and those who just longed for the days when you could turn on the television set and not see half-naked people or listen to music without having to cover your children’s ears.

Even crazy people can luck out sometimes, my mother muttered, folding her arms under her small bosom as she stared out the opposite window.

I studied the two, noting the differences, and wondered, not for the first time, how my rigid, all-business all the time mother had come out of my fun-loving grandmother’s womb, or how I, a laid-back daydreamer with absolutely no direction in life had come out of my mother’s.

Granny Gwen had been a bright-eyed bubbly blonde for most of her life before letting her hair go gray, then bright white in the last few years. The soft, fluffy curls haloed around her head like a cloud, framing her rosy cheeks and a friendly face that didn’t have nearly as many lines as one would expect on a woman of sixty-five years of age. Her blue eyes were just as bright and clear behind her thick-rimmed glasses and all her abundant curves remained, although the rest of her had thickened over the years, but there was still plenty of va va in her voom, as she liked to say, much to my mother’s embarrassment. Dressed in black capri leggings, a black tunic with pearls beaded in a swirly design over her ample chest and black flats, she looked the perfect mix of mourning and comfortable to me, but my mother had given the outfit her trademark look of disapproval the moment Granny Gwen had met us in the airport.

My mother had, of course, opted to wear one of her many pantsuits, along with designer heels that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. She must have had hundreds of the pantsuits, all in dark colors, because they never looked worn. All of them were straight and without curves, much like my mother, and didn’t dare wrinkle. Again, much like my mother, who had amazing skin for a forty-five-year-old woman who rarely smiled. Her espresso-brown hair, which hung to just below her shoulders, was twisted up into a fancy-looking chignon with a pearl clip that matched the pearl studs in her ears. She wore minimal makeup in neutral colors, the dusty pink on her lips as vivacious as she ever got, and her fingernails were short, perfectly straight, and tipped with white crescents as she tapped them along the armrest. Her hazel eyes stared out her side of the limo while Granny Gwen stared out of her side. The friction between the two women served as an invisible partition between them.

And then there was me. Grace Lynn Land. Despite my mother’s disapproval of anything untraditional or even mildly kooky or fun, she had, in fact, given me a name that had pleased the aunt she thought of as a crazy old lady to no end. My great-aunt Della had to be the world’s biggest Elvis Presley fan, and I was pretty sure her favorite thing about me had been my name. Grace Land. Even though most people called me Gracie Lynn, I was still legally Grace Land. As in Graceland, the home of Elvis Presley.

My mother would never forgive my father for insisting I be given his mother’s middle name as my first, and I would forever be grateful neither of them had given me the woman’s first name: Putrice. I’d take Graceland any day over that one.

In addition to the name that was either ridiculous or adorable, depending on who you asked, I had inherited my mother’s thin, barely-a-curve-there frame and short stature. Unlike her, I didn’t increase my five feet, four inches with heels, preferring tennis shoes or hiking boots. I also did the occasional cowboy boot, but even those heels didn’t add a lot of height. My hair was a sandy blonde courtesy of Granny Gwen and my father, and I’d inherited their blue eyes. I liked to think I’d inherited some of Granny Gwen’s personality as well, and my father’s. He’d been a police officer before he’d gone out on the call that had ended his life, but he wasn’t the strict, uptight type of man some cops were. He’d been fun-loving and kind, and I liked to think that at some point my mother had been too. But losing a husband at a young age and having to raise a child on one’s own could turn any woman into a stressed-out workaholic, so I tried to cut her some slack, even if she didn’t treat me to the same courtesy.

I noticed Granny Gwen’s eyes glistening and craned my neck so I could see out the window. Just like that, tears formed in my eyes too. I bit my cheek while sucking in a breath, willing them to stay right where they were and not turn me into a blubbering mess as Great-Aunt Della’s estate came into view.

I wasn’t sure exactly how Della had made all her money. I knew there were investments and a string of husbands, each one richer than the one before, but she’d spent that money well, investing in the town and her home, which had been built according to her specifications, modeled after Graceland, complete with music note gates. It wasn’t an exact replica. She would be the first to tell you she wasn’t one of those crazy, obsessed, stalkerish nut-jobs despite all of the Elvis memorabilia she owned, the fact she’d built an entire town that paid homage to the man and other well-known figures of the period he’d lived, and all of the cats she’d owned named Elvis Purrsley, but it was close enough to remind you of the King’s home, despite its soft yellow color. And seeing it brought a flood of memories to me as I remembered playing on the grounds and spending time with the wonderfully wacky lady who, eccentric or not, had loved me and accepted me in a way my mother never had.

Who in the world will buy this monstrosity? my mother muttered as the gates swung open for us, the automatic sensor triggered. Maybe someone will buy it for the land or turn that ridiculous house into a museum. It’s tacky enough for such nonsense.

Bite your tongue, Granny Gwen said. Della will leave it to family, of course.

Ugh, I hope she doesn’t leave it to me and stick me with having to sell it off.

Don’t be silly, dear, Granny Gwen said, patting my mother’s hand without looking her way. Della would never leave something so generous to an uptight snoot-butt like you. She’ll leave it to someone considerate enough to let her body cool before thinking about what they’re going to get out of her death.

I fought my grin as my mother glared at Granny Gwen, despite the pain in my heart. I loved that wonderful old lady and wished I had spent more time with her in recent years. Yes, she had been seventy-five years old, but I thought I’d have more time with her. Della had never slowed down, not from what I could remember, and despite that big number, she’d never seemed like a frail old lady to me. My mother may have been condescending in her statement that she couldn’t believe Della had died peacefully in her own bed, but I felt the same way. Not because I thought she was wild or crazy, but because she’d always been so full of life, and I suppose some foolish, child-like part of me had really expected her to live forever. If only because Heaven wouldn’t know what to do with her once she tracked down Elvis up there, I thought with a smile.

The limo came to a stop in front of the house, where the replica steps and white benches, so like the ones at Graceland, greeted us. Instead of white lion statues, Della had chosen to memorialize her furry beloved companions. Two white cat statues sat upon the stone columns bracketing the base of the steps and beneath them were plaques engraved with the years each of her previous cats had lived with her.

Absolutely ridiculous, my mother muttered as we exited the limo, flicking a disapproving glance at the statues before she opened her purse to gather a tip for the driver.

I think it’s precious, Granny Gwen said, running a hand over one of the cats.

I looked at the plaques, noting the current Elvis Purrsley was only a couple years old based on the birth year and dash next to his name. From what I quickly counted, he was the twentieth Elvis Purrsley.

Do you think she named them all Elvis Purrsley because that made it seem like she never lost any of them? I asked.

I think she named them all Elvis Purrsley because she was off her rocker, my mother answered snippily as she finished tipping the driver and passed us. Stop lollygagging. Let’s get this over with.

Why did we invite her again? Granny Gwen whispered as we followed her up the steps, our driver toting and pulling our luggage behind us. I would have helped the man, but knew doing so would get me a reprimand from my snobby mother.

Della invited her.

I wonder if it’s too late to put her up for adoption.

I elbowed Granny Gwen in the ribs while biting my bottom lip. Stop that. This is a somber occasion. We shouldn’t be joking.

Oh, honey, please. You know Della herself is looking down at us all right now, cracking jokes and laughing her fanny off. Or maybe she’s looking up. Either way, I’m sure she’s already made new friends, met up with some old ones, and is having a good time.

Granny Gwen! Don’t say that. You don’t really think Della would end up in Hell, do you? Not with all the charitable work she did.

Honey, I think she went wherever Elvis went, regardless of where she’d been originally assigned. In fact, the world can finally put to rest the rumor that he faked his death and is still alive because there’s no way my sister would have left this world if that man were still in it.

I laughed, chuckling harder when my mother looked back at me with a dark scowl. Oh, come on. She loved her first husband more than she ever loved anyone, even her cats. You know she’d go wherever he went.

She did love Garrett something fierce, but she never got to meet Elvis and I don’t think even death could take that dream away from her. Don’t worry though; Garrett was a smart man. He probably found Elvis himself just to make sure he’d see Della again in the great beyond.

Cut it out, you two, my mother snapped as Granny Gwen and I erupted into belly-aching laughter. Showing up laughing is not how to show respect to the recently departed.

Says the nag who can’t talk about the recently departed without rolling her eyes or calling the woman crazy, Granny Gwen muttered as we reached the front door.

My mother flicked an annoyed glance our way, but kept any commentary she might have to herself as she pressed the guitar-shaped doorbell and groaned at the sound of music ringing through the house.

What is that? I asked, knowing the melody was an Elvis song, but I couldn’t immediately place it.

I believe that’s ‘Trouble,’ Granny Gwen said.

Once I knew the title, the first few lines of the song registered in my brain, and I laughed out loud. The last time I was here it was ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ but I think ‘Trouble’ is a much more fitting song to welcome us to Della’s home. I quickly sobered. I’m going to miss that woman.

I know, dear. Granny Gwen grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. I’m going to miss her too.

I’m going to miss my sanity if no one answers this door before that song starts over, my mother muttered just before the door swung open.

A young woman with a peaches and cream complexion, bright green eyes, and chestnut hair pulled back into a high, curled ponytail stood before us. I’d never seen her before, but she wore the standard uniform every maid my great-aunt had ever hired wore, which meant she was dressed in a pink poodle skirt, a short-sleeved white button-down blouse with Yesteryear embroidered over her left breast, white bobbie socks with little pink poodles embroidered on the ankle, and black and white saddle shoes.

Good afternoon, the young woman said, curtsying slightly. May I ask who is calling?

My mother blinked at the woman a few times before shaking off what I imagined to be a barrage of scathing commentary on how absurd she thought my great-aunt’s idea of a maid’s uniform had been, and replied, Bethany and Gracie Lynn Land, and Gwendolyn Morrow. We are Della’s family.

Yes, I recognize the names from the invitation, the maid said, instantly brightening before seeming to remember what we were there for. She took on a somber air just as quickly and stepped aside, opening the door wider to allow us entrance. Reporters and other meddling types have been sneaking over the gates and some bolder ones have been ringing the doorbell. The deputies finally shooed them off for good, I hope, but I have to make sure I don’t let anyone like that in. I’m Sarah Jane. May I take your purses and bags?

My mother shoved her purse under her armpit. I’ll keep my purse, thank you, and the driver will leave our bags here. Please make sure they are handled with care.

With that, she stepped past the maid, her nose high in the air. I mouthed a sorry in poor Sarah Jane’s direction as I followed my mother inside, hating the way she talked to anyone she deemed beneath her. Especially since she’d started out as a hotel maid herself, so I had no clue where her sense of superiority came from. I looked around and let it all soak in.

It had been quite a few years since I’d been inside the house, but the entryway hadn’t changed a bit. A white grand staircase stretched up to the second floor, lined on the left by a mirrored wall, and a large, framed picture of Elvis Presley hung near the base. It wasn’t the same one that hung next to the staircase at Graceland, Della preferring to place a gorgeous oil painting of Elvis she’d been gifted there, but it was in the same location as the first Elvis portrait one would see upon entering Presley’s home. Above us hung a beautiful chandelier that Della had paid a ridiculous sum to have crafted in the exact likeness of the one that hung in the same location at Graceland.

Through the high, wide archway on the left, you could see the oval dining table with the blue-upholstered dining chairs sitting atop the large square of black marble flooring, very similar to the dining room at Graceland, as well as heavy blue drapes lining the windows, and another custom-made chandelier hanging over the dining table.

To the right was another tall, wide archway revealing the sitting room with its long white sectional similar to the sofa that could be found at Graceland, a long glass coffee table, a fireplace, and two matching white chairs that rested just before the next archway, this one framed by stained glass and revealing a white baby grand piano, the focal point of the music room just beyond.

All similar to Graceland, but not exactly, because Della had more framed portraits and paintings of Elvis than the man had had hanging of himself, and her curios, cabinets, mantels, and tables displayed Elvis dolls, music boxes, records, collector’s plates, and other trinkets. She also had a white Christmas tree in the sitting room that stayed up year-round, covered in Elvis ornaments, and instead of peacocks adorning the stained-glass portion of the archway to her music room, hers featured the image of a young Elvis Presley swiveling his hips in front of his microphone stand.

Something else Della’s sitting room had that Elvis’s didn’t, was my family. My great-aunt Irene perched on the sectional, her lips pinched together as her shrewd eyes gave us new arrivals a once-over. The slight wrinkling of her pointed nose once her gaze settled on Granny Gwen showed no love lost between the two. She wore a simple black turtleneck dress with a strand of pearls and matching earrings, a black pillbox hat, and makeup more minimal than my mother’s. My sniveling, snooty cousin, Chadwick, stood in the archway, scowling in my direction. To say I’d never gotten along well with the beady-eyed little ferret would be an understatement, but to my knowledge, no one had ever really liked Chadwick. Now thirty years old, he hadn’t filled out much with age, still as narrow-shouldered and fragile-looking as I remembered. His chestnut hair was still cut in the same short style he’d worn in his prep school days and he still wore thick-rimmed glasses and dressed in what I was sure was an expensive suit, overcompensating for what he lacked in the looks department.

His wife, the pretentious Diana Arroyo-Sniggleton, perched atop one of the white chairs in a white dress that fit her hourglass figure so well, I wasn’t sure how she managed to sit in it and still be able to breathe. Her silky near-black hair fell over her shoulders in glossy waves and there was nothing minimal about her smoky dark eyes or ruby red lips, or the four-inch heels on her feet. A tall, lean, balding man who appeared to be somewhere in his late sixties to early seventies sat in the chair next to hers. His suit was as nice as Chadwick’s but he wore his without the air of snobbery and the pale eyes behind his thin-wired glasses were far less arrogant.

Iris couldn’t make it? Granny Gwen asked, knowing Irene’s daughter was a hot-button subject for the cranky old woman.

Worry about your own affairs, Gwendolyn, Irene snapped, turning her nose up. I believe all who were invited and decided to come have now arrived. Can we get this spectacle over with now?

Ah. The older man I didn’t recognize stood from his seat and smiled. I didn’t see you come in, Gwen. And this must be your Bethany and Gracie Lynn. Della Mae sure did glow when she talked about her little Graceland.

I felt myself blush at the same time my chest ached. As much as I may have been teased over my name during my childhood, and despite how many times I’d longed for something a little more normal, I would miss Della calling me her little Graceland. I would miss her stories, listening to Elvis records with her, watching old movies, and playing with her cats. Speaking of which, I looked around for the current Elvis Purrsley, but didn’t see a ball of black fur anywhere.

For those who haven’t met me yet, I am Della Mae’s longtime friend, neighbor, and attorney, Rutherford Barnes. You may be wondering why the insistence of meeting here today prior to the wake and burial, and why the reading of the will is being done in this manner.

Yes, a simple email or telephone call to any parties receiving anything would have sufficed, Irene muttered, but if I know my sister at all, she’d find a way to make a big hoopla out of every last thing.

Mr. Barnes shot a perturbed look Irene’s way before taking a deep breath, and continued. Della Mae wanted to tell her loved ones goodbye and inform them of her wishes herself, so she left a video. Now that all the required parties who accepted the invitation are here, if you’ll just gather where you can see, we can let Della Mae give her final wishes.

Unlike Elvis’s sitting room, Della’s had a flatscreen television over the fireplace. The others joined Irene on the sofa, except for Chadwick, who remained where he’d been standing, still scowling. I moved over to the sofa but remained standing next to it.

As the attorney fiddled with the remote, I scanned the room, looking for Della’s cat, but didn’t see or hear the critter anywhere. I did, however, see someone I hadn’t expected to see at all. Bobby Gates, the boy who’d lived down the street from me while growing up one town over, who I’d hung out with nearly every day while growing up there and every time I’d visited Della since I’d moved away, and Bobby had grown up quite a bit since I’d last seen him. He’d also become a sheriff’s deputy, judging by the uniform that fit him just right.

He stood in the archway between the foyer and the sitting room, his thumbs tucked into his belt as his gaze roved over the room’s inhabitants. His coffee-colored eyes warmed when they landed on me and the corner of his mouth lifted, but before an actual smile formed, his jaw popped and he shifted his gaze over to the attorney, his body straightening into a rigid line that said he was on duty and all business.

I wondered what that was about…and why he was present. He’d run errands for Della and she’d even mentioned him a time or two the few times I’d spoken with her since I’d been gone making the biggest mistake of my life. I supposed it wouldn’t be the craziest thing if Della had left him something, but more than likely, given his uniform, he was there for official business. I’d noticed people outside the gate when we’d arrived, but they hadn’t seemed harmful, and I couldn’t imagine any reason we would need a deputy on site for a will reading.

Here we go, folks. Mr. Barnes brought up the video, and I noticed him shoot a wary glance Bobby’s way before he pressed the play button and walked over to the archway to join Bobby, as well as Sarah Jane and Jenkins, the elderly man who’d served as Della’s butler and driver for several years, who’d just joined the group. Curiouser and curiouser…

Hey, y’all, Della greeted us from the television screen. She appeared to be sitting in her office, at her desk, and a sleek black cat with yellow eyes stretched out on the desk where he appeared to be enjoying the way Della stroked his back as she addressed us. She didn’t seem to have aged too drastically since the last time I’d seen her. Her skin had good color, her hair was just as black and shiny as ever—because that was the way Elvis liked his women’s hair, she always said—and there was nothing remotely frail or sickly about her. I knew the video had to be made within the past year because she was wearing the Elvis T-shirt I’d sent her the previous Christmas. She didn’t look like what I imagined a woman would look like before dying in her sleep.

If you’re watching this video right now, that means I’m dead. You already know that. What you don’t know is that I was murdered. And one of you is the murderer.

CHAPTER TWO

There was a round of gasps, a moment of stunned silence, then Great-Aunt Irene rose from the sofa, red-faced and rage-eyed. Ridiculous! I expected something circus-worthy from Della Mae, but this? Accusing her own loved ones of—

Sit down and shut up, Irene, Della ordered from the television screen, causing another round of gasps before she leaned forward into the camera and widened one eye. That’s right, little sister, I can see from the great beyond. I’m watching your every move.

Then Della cackled like an evil cartoon villain before erupting into a fit of laughter, followed by a brief coughing spell, and waved her hand dismissively. Just yanking your chain, but Lord knows you’ve probably been griping long before Rutherford pressed the play button on this recording, so sit down and shush. If you’re watching this, then you know I’m already dead and long past caring about what a spectacle some of you may fear this accusation is.

Granny Gwen snorted while Irene sputtered. The older woman’s cheeks flushed bright red until finally, at my mother’s urging, she sat down and fumed in silence. I could tell by the tight set of her jaw that wouldn’t last long. Fortunately, Della didn’t keep us waiting in suspense much longer.

Now, you might ask how I was murdered. Well, honey, if I knew how one of you planned to kill me or who out of you is the one to do it, I wouldn’t be making this video. I’d be burying your body in my garden because I’d kill you myself, you ingrate. There’s not a one of you I haven’t helped and not a one of you I’ve ever hurt. Shut your trap, Irene.

I looked over to see Irene frozen with her mouth open, and my lips twitched in amusement despite the wild accusation Della had just made. My great-aunt knew her sister well. Color continued to climb Irene’s wrinkled neck and flood her face as she snapped her mouth shut and sat back with her arms folded over her bony chest, appearing much like a petulant child.

Honestly, you’d be my first suspect, Irene, Della continued, if I thought you had the brains and the gumption. You sure have the spite, but I never stole anything from you. I couldn’t steal what you never had. Now, back to what I was saying; one of you killed me and if any of you want any of your inheritance, you’re going to have to find out who did it.

The old woman finally lost her last marble, Chadwick muttered. This is ludicrous.

Enough of this foolishness, Diana chimed in. What does the actual will say?

Everyone settle down and listen to the video, Bobby said, stepping forward. His shoulders were set, and his feet were spaced out in an even stance and planted firmly on the floor. As he scanned the room, nailing each boisterous inhabitant with a stern look of warning, I started to suspect he was definitely here in an official capacity.

"One of you invited here today killed me, and one of you will figure out who that person is. Once the murderer has been brought to justice, only then may you access my second and final will and discover what I left to everyone. Until my murder is resolved and my murderer is apprehended, this video will serve as my official last will and testament and I am leaving every single cent, including what comes from any future sales of any of my property, to the Humane Society and to St. Jude, except for what I have set aside for the care of Elvis Purrsley, who I bequeath to Gracie Lynn Land."

There was another set of gasps, and I was among them. I may have been the only one to also have tears spring to my eyes since my gasp had nothing to do with Great-Aunt Della’s money and everything to do with the fact she’d left me the most precious thing to her, regardless of whether her supposed murder case