Meanwhile, my two lady friends—imagine seeing them here!—continue to caterwaul.
In Miss Temple’s case, I am sure the appearance of the gigantic reptile is far more responsible for her unusual screaming fit than the mere presence of a dead body floating in the pool. Miss Temple is on familiar terms with dead bodies. Even the fact that this one is so garishly attired should not be sufficient to launch the current hysterics.
On the other hand, that is one big mama of a water snake. No doubt it has done body-double work for Nessie of Scotland fame. Me, I am not afraid of snakes unless they carry concealed poisons. Otherwise, they make charming playthings. I do love how they slide across the floor like a bit of yarn dangled to challenge my mitt-eye coordination by humans hoping to amuse.
Still, despite my high opinion of Miss Temple’s intrepitude, I have never told her of the family of garter snakes that found their way under the French doors while she was gone. Of how I discovered them rooting in her assorted sundries drawer and was forced to herd them off. It took the better part of the afternoon for me to escort them to the patio and then down the palm tree trunk. Since these were mere . what does one call baby snakes? Snakelets? … youngsters, I delicately nipped each one up by the neck and transferred it to the tree trunk, from where it wiggled down into the waiting, er, presence of Mama.
But yonder ophidian is not on quite the same scale, excuse the pun, as a string of garter snakes. I have not seen such a large specimen since the movie Anaconda! came and went faster than a whipsnake.
Yet despite the presence of a snake capable of strangling King Kong and the debilitating weeds contaminating my immediate area, I realize that I have an emergency job of herding to do: my two dear ladies had better shut up and skedaddle before they are caught raw-throated at the scene of a crime.
Ere I can leap from my cover, sneeze for their attention, and drive them out of this wonderland of weirdness, I spy the suspicious character I have been tailing emerging from behind a stained-glass representation of Elvis crucified against a cloak of gold.
The newcomer has not the mythic appeal of Elvis’s concert pose, despite being appropriately dressed in black from fedora to his suede shoes. All I can think of is that the Circle Ritz ladies must not be discovered alone with the corpse, whoever or whatever it is.
The figure in black is headed right toward their unsuspecting backs, so I head right for its unsuspecting feet.
This is what they call a “sacrifice play” in certain sports. I sacrifice my well-being and get a good kick in the ribs, while my opponent plays right into my hands, or feet, and goes tripping toward the edge of the pool without even a pause to doff the sunglasses.
Into the chlorinated drink the thing in black goes, with a yowl that would do a Siamese queen in heat proud.
In one agile move I have accomplished two things: I have distracted the newcomer from the presence of my lady friends, and I have managed to achieve their instant silence.
My distraction thrashes in the water, screeching in panic. This unfortunate shortly realizes that it is sharing a small, artificial body of water with a corpse and a giant snake, not exactly the human’s idea of a picnic. Apparently, it is also howling because of something it knew, and I did not realize. The creature cannot swim. Oops. That snake will owe me one.
Of course all my heroics are for naught. Once the Misses Temple and Electra realize that a live person has joined the bridge mix thrashing up the waters, they go into action.
Miss Temple kicks off her shoes. For a dreadful moment, I fear that she is going to do something utterly foolish like leaping into the feeding frenzy now boiling up bubbles in the water like something from Jaws you really do not want to see up close and personal.
But instead of diving in, she kneels at the pool edge and stretches out her hands, while Miss Electra sits down and grabs her ankles.
I am still recovering from my self-sacrificial loss of breath and cannot lend assistance, although I do not for the life of me see how I can be of any further service. No doubt the individual in the water (the one who is not dead) would agree with me. Certainly the anaconda, or the boa constrictor, or whatever variety of overgrown jungle snake it is, would second that opinion.
I hear grunts, howls, groans, and then coughs.
I also hear the onrush of feet pounding the sodded path. The imitation Memphis Mafia, otherwise known as Kingdome Security, has arrived in a panting pack.
One can only conclude that too many unauthorized personnel are cluttering up this crime scene already. I retreat back into the herbal hothouse, smothering uncontrollable sneezes. Miss Temple will just have to talk herself out of this one without me.
Chapter 31
In the Garden
(Recorded at Elvis’s first session with Felton Jarvis as producer in 1966)
“He’s dead,” Temple sputtered, shaking off the water the rescued drowning victim had shaken on her the moment all three had hauled themselves back from the pool’s edge on hands and knees. “Why did you rush in to rescue him?”
“Ohmigod!” shouted a Memphis Mafioso who had just arrived poolside. “That jumpsuit is ruined. We’re all in the soup.”
Publicity-phobic hotel security staff in Las Vegas always possess a big heart.
Other men in black fedoras and suits were arriving, bearing aluminum pool hooks like lances. They began gingerly hauling the resurfaced suit, and its contents, to the pool’s shallow end. Other men in brown work jumpsuits arrived, bearing bigger metal hooks, and began fish-ing in the deep end for the coiling ropes of agitated serpent.
“I tripped,” the soggy person in their grasp admitted. “I wouldn’t have gone for a dip with that sea monster to save my life.”
“Who are you people?” a disgustingly dry Mafia man asked, looming above them. “And what happened to the man in the suit? Did he fall in?”
“And how did the snake get loose?” another Mafioso demanded.
“The snake is supposed to be here?” Temple asked, amazed.
“Not here. Nearby.”
Electra cleared her throat. “Could you gentlemen lend me a hand to get up? Thanks.” They grunted, whether from effort or acknowledgment of her gratitude it was hard to say.
Temple scrambled up on her own power, despite skidding on the wet pool coping. Her emerald-leather J. Renee sandals were so water-spotted they resembled snakeskin.
She watched the security men lift the thoroughly soaked figure that had dashed into the pool. She was getting an awful feeling that her shoes had been ruined for naught. That choked, water-logged voice had a familiar ring and now she knew why .
“Let me go! I’m all right,” Crawford Buchanan spat, quite literally, so damp was he from head to toe.
“But he sure isn’t.” A workman with a hook gazed on the snagged jumpsuit. “No point in even trying CPR. This guy’s been floating here long enough to turn colors. Don’t look, ladies!”
Temple and Electra stared avidly toward the pool, but Crawford Buchanan averted his face, pushing his sunglasses more firmly onto his nose.
“So he’s been dead for some time?” Temple asked. “And how long could the snake float? Swim? Hang out?”
“The police coming?” the workman asked, ignoring Temple. “We can’t hold this guy against the side forever, and I guess they won’t want us bringing him out of the pool.”
“What about Trojan?” a workman across the pool asked plaintively. “I don’t want him getting contaminated by any, uh, decayed stuff.”
“That chlorine would purify a cesspool,” a Mafioso suggested.
“Oh, God,” wailed the Crawf. “I can’t believe what I might have inhaled. I’m going to puke.”