Viva Lost Vegas

by Melanie Jackson

  It was too bad that the bags were muslin and wouldn’t take prints. I’d like to know who besides Dana had been touching them. The sequin hadn’t come from his shop, of that I was certain.

  “Can I see your outfit?” I asked Elvis, too tired and too inebriated to be subtle.

  “Why sure,” he said, unzipping his bag and displaying his black, Biker Elvis costume. It had no sequins, just studs.

  “It’s handsome. Dana did you proud.”

  “He surely did,” Elvis agreed. “This is just a damned shame. First Herbie and now Dana. It’s enough to make a man depressed.”

  * * *

  “Chief.” I sniffed into the phone.

  “Oh no. Another broken neck?”

  “Yes. The Sheriff is calling it suicide.”

  “Any chance it was suicide?”

  “No. A man does not deliver a bunch of costumes, then destroy every remaining Elvis outfit he has in stock and then hang himself with a feather boa. Dana was fastidious. He cared about his looks. He would never have hanged himself with anything so tacky.”

  “I don’t suppose you and Alex would consider leaving town? Tonight?”

  I paused.

  “No. The wedding is Friday. I have my dress and a cake and flowers…” I gulped and tried to get a grip on myself. “It was Dana Carroll who died. The man who made my dress. And all the Elvis costumes for the competition. I can’t imagine he had a criminal past, but I guess we should check. In case he was hiding from the mob too.”

  The chief sighed but didn’t argue.

  “Don’t blubber, Boston, unless— is the dress okay? Did he finish in time?”

  “It seems to be.” I hadn’t tried it on, just checked the bag for sequins. That would be the first thing I did after I got off the phone though. And I’d try on the shoes he’d sent. Hopefully they fit. I didn’t have time for shoe shopping.

  “Okay, then it’s sad but not a complete tragedy. Buck up.”

  “You sound like my mother,” I said and then giggled a little, which is what The Chief had been aiming for.

  “Listen, the marshals hit town tomorrow. At least one. Alistair Macpherson. He may be undercover, but I’m sure you’ll spot him. The guy has a reputation for being smart and a closer but a bit independent-minded, so…”

  Law enforcement has a lot of people with more brains than imagination and plus size egos when they get crossed. And then there are those like Sheriff Darrow, who have ego but no brains. Whoever this guy was, he’d be an improvement on what we had.

  “I’ll watch myself.”

  “Be careful, Boston. Alex too. And check in with me daily, okay? There are too many broken necks going around.”

  “Okay. Bye.” But the Chief had hung up.

  I looked at Alex as I folded my phone.

  “You know, I’m sad. But more than that, I am really pissed off. And Sheriff Darrow is a horse’s ass. I’m glad the Feds are coming. They may be of some help.”

  “So, we are going to work the case?” Alex wasn’t enthused. We were no longer looking at a whacky alien-abduction puzzle. This was murder, deliberate, pre-meditated murder— no matter what the sheriff called it.

  “As much as I can without stepping on the marshal’s toes. What I really need is access to all the rooms so I can search them.”

  “But… all the rooms?” He was aghast.

  “Just the ones with Elvises. There are too many silver sequins lying about at the crime scenes. There shouldn’t have been any on Elvis’s bag. Dana didn’t believe in them and didn’t have them at the shop. I am betting that Sequin Elvis is our guy.”

  “But why? It just seems so crazy.”

  “Don’t know yet. This one time when I have a who before the why. One thing though, this guy is clearly unreasonable, but he is still reasoning, if you follow me.” I frowned. “I wonder if I can bribe Gretchen into letting me help her with her rounds. She’s probably scared that she’ll find more bodies.”

  “No way,” Alex said flatly. “You aren’t going anywhere near any of these fake Elvis’s rooms. One of them is probably a mass murderer.”

  And I had almost been killed before. He didn’t say it out loud but it was there. Clearly I either had to immediately promise Alex not to do anything risky or start shooting him up with elephant tranquilizers.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “But tomorrow we tell Elvis King what we think is going on. We need all these Elvis’s real names and we can’t count on the sheriff to investigate and the marshal will need time to get up to speed. I wish we could warn the others to take care but…”

  “But it would be taking a risk if one of them is a killer. I don’t want you drawing attention your way.”

  “I know. There is one other thing I can do. The marshal probably won’t like that we’re here and possibly interfering, but I’m going to tell him what we think and turn the evidence over to him. Maybe he can do more with it than we can.”

  Alex nodded enthusiastically.

  “That’s a great plan.”

  “In the meantime, you need to dig and dig hard. We have to know if Dana had some ties to the mob. I don’t think there are any, but that would at least give us something to hang a rational theory on.”

  “You got it,” Alex promised, willing to do any amount of snooping as long as we weren’t in physical jeopardy. “But first, what do you say we go to bed? We are still a little short of sleep.”

  “Sleep, huh?”

  “Eventually.”

  Chapter 7

  We came down to the lobby the next morning and found Hawaiian Elvis checking in. We had to dodge the latest busload of hungry bodies headed to the buffet to get a better look. I started to smile and nudged Alex who was in a pre-coffee stupor. He had worked late into the night but found little in the way of material on the costumer.

  “Look.”

  “What? At Magnum?” he asked. Then more alertly: “It can’t be.”

  But his eyes went to the faint outline of a slim holster under the new Elvis’s left arm.

  “Sure it can. And I can’t wait to meet him. I think this could be someone we can work with. Do you think he can actually sing?”

  “I hope so or Friday night will be a disaster.”

  “I’m just glad the marshals sent someone with an imagination.”

  We headed for the dining room and ended up behind Living Dead Elvis at the buffet. This was the female impersonator and she looked a bit like she had been made up in Satan’s beauty parlor. Her hair had been sculpted into mock sideburns and she was barbecued in a tanning bed to a strange shade of brown. She also smelled of smoke, but I think it was cigarettes and not brimstone. I wasn’t too surprised to hear her humming Burning Love in a pleasant baritone.

  Could this be our killer? I didn’t think so. Herbie had been small, but Dana wasn’t. She didn’t look strong enough to string up a body. Still, we had to begin somewhere.

  “Hi,” I said, edging closer. “I’m Chloe and this is Alex. I should have introduced myself yesterday instead of just asking everyone to the wedding like that. I just got so excited when I saw my dress that I forgot my manners.” I held out my hand.

  The heavily mascaraed eyes studied me and the flicked to Alex and then over his shoulder. I didn’t turn around but had the feeling Hawaiian Elvis (aka Marshal MacPherson) had joined us in the chow line.

  “I’m Edwina Moorcock.” Her voice was soft and husky. I had the feeling that she would prefer to be left alone. Poor thing. It wasn’t her lucky day.

  “It’s nice that they are letting a woman compete,” I said doing my impersonation of a chipper morning person, which I am not.

  She nodded.

  “Many won’t. But Archie Mobley— he set up the competition— he said he didn’t mind at all.”

  We finally shook hands. She and Alex shook hands. Then I turned and smiled at Hawaii.

  “We saw you checking. You’re here for the competition?” I asked pleasantly, still in Chatty Cathy mode. Being known as a t
alker would let me ask all kinds of nosy questions without arousing suspicion.

  “Yes, David Jones,” he lied and offered his own hand. It was full of calluses and very strong, though he was careful not to squeeze hard. I was glad. He had a black belt in everything and could break all twenty-seven bones in my hand without trying.

  “I’m Chloe Boston and this is Alex Lincoln,” I said, giving our full names and making direct eye contact. He did not appear amused or bemused by my height. That raised him in my estimation. “We are getting married on Friday and have asked all the Elvises to join us. We hope you can come too.”

  He paused, but finally said: “I’d be honored.”

  “I sure hope you don’t need any costume work done. Dana Carroll died last night.” I sounded slightly gossipy but my expression was somber. And probably angry. I didn’t bother to alter my countenance since Living Dead couldn’t see my face. “If you do need any buttons sewn on or anything small I can do that much, so don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thanks.” The tiniest of frowns appeared between his brows and I was betting he’d be running a check on us right after breakfast. That was okay with me. The sooner he figured out who was who the happier I would be.

  We moved forward slowly and started dishing up breakfast. Learning from yesterday’s mistakes, I didn’t go for the eggs.

  “Are they as bad as they look?” Hawaii asked Alex as he, too, passed by the scrambled eggs without partaking.

  “Worse. The pancakes are safe though.”

  I think Hawaii had immediately picked Alex out as a brother in blue. I didn’t see any secret cop handshakes, but police of any flavor seem able to scope out others in law enforcement, even retired. Except me. None one ever pegs me for being a real detective.

  As Living Dead moved swiftly away, I said to Hawaii: “Would you like to join Elvis King and us at our table? We need to talk to Elvis about some stuff. He’s our minister. We were a little afraid we’d lose him to the aliens, but we got there in time to prevent a broken neck. He’ll be able to fill you in on what you’ve missed in rehearsals.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “Not really,” I muttered and got an amused look from Alex.

  “Morning, Chloe. Morning, Alex,” Elvis said, smiling as we joined him. He looked expectantly at Hawaii.

  Alex made introductions and then, under the cover of babbling voice and slurped coffee at other tables, he set about explaining to both Elvises our thoughts about what was going on. It involved confessing who we were.

  “You don’t think it was aliens tried to get me that night?” Elvis asked at last, ignoring our confession about being affiliated with police.

  “Doubtful,” I said, and felt the weight of Hawaii’s gaze. I didn’t look up to see if he was appalled or amused. “What we’re trying to figure out is why anyone would want to hurt you guys.”

  “I sure can’t figure it. Why would anyone want to hurt me? Or Herbie? Or Dana?”

  Why indeed. Killers have reasons for what they do, even if it seems crazy to us. I could maybe find standard explanations for the deaths of Herbie and Dana, but Elvis? Money? He had none. Envy? Of what? Alien abduction and mental illness and gumby disease? Unrequited love? Not hardly. At least I couldn’t see him as being anyone la belle guy san merci. No, this had to be some Elvis or performance thing. But could anyone be that desperate to win a competition? Times were hard, but surely no one would commit mass murder for a job.

  I didn’t say any of this out loud. Hawaii and Alex were thinking the same things, being the kinds of guys who read and even listen between the lines, and I saw no need to say the rest to Elvis whose ego was probably fragile enough.

  “We thought maybe you could help by telling us who everyone is— I mean their regular names and what they do. Then we could figure out why someone is doing this.”

  “Okay.”

  “We know that Living Dead Elvis is Edwina Moorcock.”

  “Living dead— oh. She is looking a little worse for wear,” Elvis conceded. Hawaii leaned back, apparently content to let me do the coaxing. “She comes from Tennessee. Got a lot of teasing on the local circuit on account of being a girl Elvis, but she started winning competitions once she headed west. Even got a record deal doing Elvis covers, but it didn’t do much since they didn’t promote her. Does a lot of shows at county fairs now. I think she used to be married but he didn’t take to life on the road and they split about ten years ago.”

  “What about Jailhouse Rock? He seems awfully young to have anyone mad at him.”

  “Marco something. Marco Castro. He’s older than he looks. Former gang member,” Elvis said. “Got himself out before he kilt anyone or got kilt. Mostly does clubs in Reno. He’s won some awards too and got to be on a Mexican TV show once. He has a girl. She dances in a club.”

  A former gang member. Hawaii would like that.

  “Elder Elvis?” I nodded at the man in the doorway.

  “He’s got some fancy truck and trailer name— Waverly Bartlett James, I think. Some kind of pear anyway. He comes from back east somewhere. New Hampshire or Vermont where they have pretty fall leaves. He used to be a preacher but lost his religion when his wife died a decade back. He’s still a good man though.”

  “That’s sad,” I said. “What about Heroin Elvis?”

  Elvis King was warming to his job.

  “Peter Paul. He’s a real brawler. Likes his drink. Used to be a hot ticket act but he’s had trouble getting work lately. Too many fight with patrons.”

  “Elvis BB. He seems like hard case too. He was in the costume shop yesterday.”

  “Hard enough. They call him Bad Boy or BB. Rides with a biker gang sometimes. And he sometimes plays criminals in TV shows on account of his tattoos but he hates New York so he doesn’t work that much anymore.”

  “Does he hang with Marco?”

  “Not usually, but they might know each other from TV, I guess, though Marco works in L.A..”

  Alex was taking notes. He would find out if there was a connection.

  “New Millennium in the silver shirt?”

  “I don’t know. He looks a little like an alien. I’ve kept my distance. Says his name is Terry Hunter from New Mexico.”

  I nodded, not arguing his alien status.

  “What about Dana Carroll? I guess he made costumes for you all?”

  “Yeah. He used to work in Vegas. He did a lot of the big shows. But he got in bad with one of the casino owners and left about a year ago.”

  That was also promising, when looked at objectively. My gut wasn’t buying it though. This wasn’t about money. At least not directly.

  “So it sounds like all you guys here are previous champions? Everyone has street cred and ties from way back. No beginners were invited to the competition?” Alex asked.

  “No, Archie Mobley wants to see who is the best of the best of those who are left. You know, he used to do Elvis too. Had an act down in New Orleans. Moved to Vegas but just couldn’t break into the biz. He wasn’t bad but there was always someone better beating him out for a job. Made him kind of bitter for a while. It’s a good thing he went into hotel management. It’s not just anyone who can be The King. In fact, I’m thinking that if I don’t win this time that maybe I will give it. I got an okay side business doing auto repairs. Reckon I could make it pay well enough if I put my mind to it. Much less wear and tear than being on the road and spending nights in smoky clubs.”

  We all nodded. That was certainly the truth.

  “Who’s judging the competition?” I asked.

  “There’s three, a guy named Lionel Murphy— wrote a book about Elvis. Matthew Brody who writes for some music magazine I never heard of, and David Tucker. He’s an investor in the hotel from Chicago. They are supposed to get here on Friday.”

  Chicago again.

  “And you, Hawaii? You spend a lot of time in nightclubs and karaoke bars?” I asked, turning my head. “You have street cred?”

&nb
sp; “As much as I would like to live it down, I actually have an award or two to my name. I wasn’t invited originally, but once we had a suspicious death I sent in a request to join the competition. It’s an okay way to spend vacation.” He was not impolite about the inquisition. Perhaps he had discovered long ago that he had power on his side because of the badge, his body and brain and that he didn’t need to be rude to get the job done.

  “Does anyone here— like Mr. Mobley— know that you have federal affiliations?”

  “I didn’t think so, but apparently someone knows and blabbed,” he said pointedly.

  I smiled.

  “My Chief is plugged in. And Alex can find out pretty much anything if there is documentation or any other kind of paper trail.” I was bragging a little, but it was all true.

  “And you?” Hawaii asked.

  “I know things. See things other people might overlook.”

  “It’s less knowing than jumping- and leaping and bounding- to conclusions that happen to be uncannily accurate. Usually the rest of us are left crawling along behind feeling stupid.” Alex shook his head in mock sorrow.

  “And if I have someone look you up?” The tone was mild.

  “I’m there. Especially on YouTube.” I saw the penny drop. Was there anyone on earth who hadn’t seen the attack in San Francisco? Or— dear Lord in heaven— did he mean Officer Bill in the fountain? “If you really want to know our resume, call Randy Wallace in Hope Falls. Most of the important stuff isn’t in any official reports. Pretty much everyone thinks that I’m just a meter maid and Alex is a web designer. We like it that way.”

  Hawaii grunted.

  “Really she’s mostly a Good Samaritan and I’m an innocent bystander who does good under protest,” Alex joked again and I elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Chloe, you know stuff? Like psychic stuff?” Elvis asked. “Did the aliens get you too?”