by Nic Saint
The duck farmer frowned. “Elvis ain’t dead. Elvis lives and he just killed me.”
“But if Elvis lives he would be, what, in his eighties now?” I asked.
“So?”
“So was the man who shot you an octogenarian?”
He gave me an indulgent look. “Honey, Elvis is a very rich man, and very rich men have ways of delaying the aging process. I’m sure he spent a few years in a cryogenic tank. And he’s probably got the world’s best plastic surgeons at his disposal. Even if he’s a senior citizen by now, he will still look exactly the same as he always did. No, look no further. I was killed by the King himself.” He heaved a reverent sigh. “It actually is sort of an honor, really, for an Elvis Tribute Artist to be shot by the King himself.”
“Don’t you think that perhaps a duck farmer killed you?” I asked, remembering Virgil’s theory.
“A duck farmer?”
“Yeah, like a competing duck farmer? Someone who wanted you out of the way?”
He laughed. “What do you think this is? The mafia? Nobody gets into duck farming anymore, darling,” he said, reminding me of my response to Virgil. “There’s no money in duck farming these days. In fact I was going to sell the farm and move to Las Vegas myself. Be a full-time tribute artist.”
“What did your wife think about that?” I asked.
“My wife?” He darted a look at Dorritt. “I hadn’t told my wife yet.”
“Why not?” asked Fee.
“Because she would have killed me.”
Chapter 6
“I think we need to talk to Dorritt,” said Fee.
“I think you’re right,” I said. “Mr. Pender—” But when I turned around, I saw that the farmer had disappeared into thin air. “Is he gone? Where did he go?”
“I think he fled the scene,” said Fee, quite unnecessarily.
“Gone already? But he can’t be. We haven’t caught his killer yet.”
“He knows who killed him, remember? The King killed him.”
“That’s just rubbish. Anybody can dress up to look like Elvis.”
“And apparently someone did and killed the duck farmer,” said Fee.
And that’s when I heard it. The sound of powerful engines drawing closer. The sound seemed to come from the road, and when I looked over, I saw a sight that lifted my spirits: three Mini Coopers came racing across the road in a plume of dust. One yellow, one red, one blue, the ladies of the neighborhood watch were coming to the rescue.
“Here comes the watch,” I said.
“And not a moment too soon,” Fee said.
The cops didn’t seem to share our enthusiasm, for I heard loud snickers and sneers, and even Rock was shaking his head in disapproval. The only one who seemed glad at the approaching cars was Virgil, but that was probably because he was an honorary member of the watch himself.
“Did you call them?” I asked.
“No, I totally forgot, actually,” said Fee.
But then Virgil came galloping up, like a young stallion in heat, and eagerly said, “I called Mother. She dropped everything and came right over. Isn’t she great?”
“Yes, she certainly is,” I admitted. “Great and just a little intimidating.” Like all three ladies of the watch.
The cars came to a stop in a cloud of smoke and dust, and three women emerged. One was tall and thin, with a face like a horse. One was short and stout, with overly large, horn-rimmed glasses. And one was tall and round, with a strikingly high gray perm that looked like it could cleave rock. Marjorie Scattering, Mabel Stokely, and Bettina Bell (née Flummox), also known as the Holy Trinity, had arrived on the scene, and when they moved towards the flock of cops, they parted like the Red Sea before Moses.
“Hello ladies,” said Fee with a wide grin.
“So what’s going on here?” asked Marjorie. “Virgil told me Banning’s been shot? Is he dead?” She caught sight of the body beneath the sheet. “Oh. Looks like he is.”
“He’s been murdered,” said Fee excitedly.
“What did he tell you?” asked Virgil. “I saw you were talking to his ghost just now.”
Fee shrugged. “He seems to think Elvis killed him.”
“What, the real Elvis? But that’s impossible,” said Virgil with a laugh. “The real Elvis is dead, right? Isn’t the real Elvis dead, Mother?”
“Of course he’s dead,” snapped Marjorie. “He’s been dead for ages.”
“Well, he seems to have returned from the dead to kill one of his many impersonators,” I said.
“Impersonator? Oh, you mean those pathetic little men trying to look like the King,” said Mabel with a disapproving scowl. “I’ve always hated that sort of thing. Pathetic little copycats, the whole damn lot of them.”
“Some of them are quite good,” said Bettina. “Some of them even manage to sound better than the original product.”
“Product?” asked Marjorie. “Elvis wasn’t a product. He was a human being, so don’t go around pretending he was a product.”
“I’m just saying, Marjorie,” said Bettina, “that the way people are going on about Elvis these days, it’s almost as if he were a product and not a real person.”
“Well, he was a person. And I should know. I was in the first row of one of his concerts once and I still have the sweat-soaked scarf to prove it.”
We all stared at the librarian. “Wait, you were an Elvis fan?” asked Fee, astonished.
Marjorie whipped her head around so fast I thought I could hear the vertebrae pop. “And why not? Elvis was a great singer, and a very charismatic man. Not like those two-bit pop singers you have nowadays. Most of them can’t even carry a tune.”
“He did have a great voice,” Mabel admitted. “Though I’m more a Sinatra fan myself, of course.”
“I like Harry Styles,” I said defiantly, Marjorie’s comment about two-bit pop singers having stung. “And for your information, Harry can sing. Harry can sing like an angel.”
Marjorie made a harrumphing sound and clutched at her purse, almost as if she had Elvis’s sweat-soaked scarf tucked away in there and was afraid I’d snatch it away from her. “At least you’re not a Bieber fan,” she said. “Now there’s a young man who uses the term singer very loosely.”
“I think he’s great,” said Bettina. “I’m actually a big fan of the Bieber.”
“Of course you are,” said Marjorie with a disdainful snort.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” asked Bettina, stung to the quick.
“Look, we can talk about singers all day,” I said, “but we have more important things to discuss. Namely, who killed Banning Pender and why.”
“Right,” said Marjorie with a sniff. “I think I can help you with that. I don’t know who killed him, exactly, but I certainly know why.”
“Oh, you mean the money?” asked Mabel.
“What money?” I asked.
“The money Pender hid on his farm,” Bettina said.
“I always thought that was just a hoax,” said Virgil.
“No, it’s not,” said Marjorie. “That money is around here somewhere, and whoever killed Banning Pender was probably after it.”
“Could you start from the beginning?” I asked. “What money?”
“Yes,” Fee echoed. “I would like to know, too.”
I stared at my friend. Once again she was pretty pale around the nostrils, and looked like she was going to throw up any second now.
The others had noticed the same thing, for they produced sounds of worry. “Oh, my, Fee,” said Bettina, placing a hand on her niece’s arm, “maybe you better sit down for a moment. You look positively haggard.”
“It’s all these dead bodies,” Marjorie sniffed. “Place is absolutely infested with them.”
“Where?” asked Virgil, looking around. “Where are the other bodies?”
“It’s just a manner of speech, Virgil,” his mother snapped.
“I’m fine,” said Fee, waving away her aunt Bettina
. “You don’t have to fuss over me.”
We shared a look that said: ‘Should we tell them?’ Then again, if the Holy Trinity knew, the whole town knew, and since maybe this was a false alarm, it was probably better if they didn’t. Fee seemed to agree, for she gave me a curt shake of the head.
“Right,” I said. “So what’s all this about money buried on the farm?”
“Well, over the years Banning made a great deal of money,” Bettina began, with a worried look at Fee. “Some say he made millions.”
“That seems unlikely for a duck farmer,” said Mabel. “I’ve heard he made hundreds of thousands.”
“And I’ve heard he inherited a huge fortune from his old man,” said Marjorie, “which he had transferred into gold bars and buried on the farm.”
“But why buried?” I asked.
“Yeah, why not put it in the bank?” asked Fee.
“Well, you know that Banning and Dorritt’s marriage spawned three sons, right?” asked Marjorie.
“Spawned? Strange way to talk about kids,” said Mabel disapprovingly. “Almost as if you’re talking about fish or something.”
“It’s the right word,” said Marjorie. “Look it up in the dictionary if you don’t believe me.”
“Oh, I believe you, all right,” said Mabel. “But I’m not sure I like it.”
“Who cares? It’s the English language. You don’t have to like it to use it correctly, like I am doing now,” said the inveterate librarian.
“So the marriage of Banning and Dorritt produced three sons?” asked Fee, just to get the conversation on the right track again.
“It spawned three sons,” said Marjorie with a challenging look at Mable, who, fortunately, decided not to take the bait this time.
“But there was never much love lost between father and sons,” Bettina continued. “Banning had hoped they would one day take over the farm, but none of them was especially interested in raising fowl for fun and profit.”
“And then there’s the fact that the Pender boys were always in need of money,” Mabel said. “Daddy’s money, which he eventually refused to give them. Carney Pender is an insurance agent whose agency is pretty much under water, financially. Kelley Pender owns a car dealership that’s on the verge of bankruptcy. And Jack Pender is the proud owner of Jack’s Joint—”
“Oh, I love that place!” I cried. “It’s my favorite place in town.” My face fell. “Don’t tell me it’s on the verge of bankruptcy as well.”
“It’s not,” Mabel assured me. “Though Jack is in need of a big cash injection, as he has plans to take Jack’s Joint national.”
“He wants to start a franchise,” Bettina explained. “And he needs a lot of money.”
“Which he doesn’t have and which the banks won’t give him,” Mabel said.
“And neither does his father—or did,” Marjorie added as she directed another disdainful look at the body beneath the sheet.
“So old man Pender buried his money on his farm?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s exactly what he did,” said Marjorie.
“At least if the rumors are true,” Mabel added.
“The rumors are always true, Mabel,” said Bettina.
“At least when we tell them,” Marjorie cut in.
“I don’t get it. Banning buried his money around here somewhere? But then why would anyone kill him and just take his Elvis belt buckle?”
Marjorie shrugged. “No idea. All I know is that there’s a lot of money buried here, and his three sons were dying to lay their hands on it.”
“And so was his wife,” said Mabel, directing a pointed look at Dorritt, who was talking to Rock now.
“I think the wife did it,” said Fee suddenly.
“And why is that?” asked Marjorie.
“Well, Banning told us he wanted to quit duck farming, sell the place and move to Vegas to be a professional Elvis tribute artist. And that if his wife ever found out she would kill him. So maybe she did find out. And maybe she did kill him.”
“But he was killed by Elvis,” I pointed out. “Or at least someone who looked like Elvis.”
“So why not his wife? She could have dressed up as Elvis.”
“Don’t you think he would have recognized his own wife?”
She gave me a ponderous look. “Mh. You might be right.”
“It might be someone paid by the wife,” said Mabel.
“A hit man!” Bettina cried. “I’ve read about those. You pay them enough money, they’ll kill anyone.”
“But why would she kill him before she got her hands on all the money that’s buried here?” I asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Unless she knew where the money was buried,” said Marjorie.
We all thought about this for a moment.
“I think Elvis did it,” Virgil suddenly cried. “He came back from the dead and now he’s killing all those horrible impersonators who are ruining his reputation and his music!”
I smiled and patted the stringy cop on the back. “You know, Virgil? You just might be right.”
His face lit up with a smile. “Do you really think so, Alice?”
“Of course. It makes perfect sense. Elvis came back from the dead to kill all his tribute artists. It sounds very plausible. I think you better go and tell Rock Walker so he can arrest Elvis before anyone else gets hurt.”
Virgil cast a dubious look at Rock. “I don’t think Rock will buy it.”
“No, I don’t think so either,” said Fee with a laugh.
“You know what we should do?” asked Bettina. “We should dig up that money ourselves.”
“Why would we do that?” asked Mabel.
“Well, somebody has to do it,” she pointed out.
“Oh, you mean we dig it up and then we give it to Dorritt?” I asked.
“Or we keep it,” she said.
“Keep it!” Marjorie cried.
“We can’t keep it,” Mabel added. “We’re not thieves.”
“Oh, all right,” Bettina grunted. “It was just a suggestion.”
“You can’t go around stealing other people’s money, Bettina,” Marjorie said. “That’s not very nice.”
“Yes, we’re the neighborhood watch, not the neighborhood bandits,” said Mabel.
“All right—fine!” Bettina cried. “So we won’t dig up the money.”
While the women argued back and forth about the money Banning Pender supposedly buried, I suddenly thought I saw a movement from the corner of my eye. When I turned, I saw that a woman was studying me, half hidden behind the same willow tree Banning had been hiding behind only moments before. She was completely dressed in black, and with a shock of recognition I suddenly knew who she was. Priscilla Presley.
Chapter 7
When I walked towards the woman she suddenly fled.
“Hey!” I called out. “I would like to talk to you, Mrs… Priscilla!”
But evidently the mystery woman didn’t want to talk to me, for she hurried down the lane, which must have been quite a difficult proposition as she was wearing heels. She was dressed in a black dress, a black hat and even a black veil obscuring part of her face. And what part was visible was covered by a pair of sunglasses. Before I could reach the woman she’d gotten into her car—a nice burgundy suburban—put it in gear and was hauling ass down the lane, spraying grit and leaving a trail of dust.
I placed one hand on my hip and the other shielding my eyes from the sun as I stared after her. Now what would Priscilla be doing here? If she was Priscilla, of course, which I was pretty sure she wasn’t. For one thing, Priscilla probably didn’t look like Priscilla anymore these days, and with all the Elvis impersonators floating around, was it so hard to contemplate that women might be induced to dress up like Priscilla? Maybe there was an entire cottage industry of Priscilla impersonators, though as far as I knew Priscilla wasn’t a singer but an actress, so what these Priscilla tribute artists would occupy their time with I did not know.
When I returned to the others, I was gratified to see that they were interviewing Dorritt Pender, so I joined them. Rock, who’d apparently been edged out of the way by the ladies of the watch, was staring at the scene with barely concealed disapproval. He probably considered Dorritt his star witness, as she was the one who’d found the body, and having her suddenly crowded by a bunch of rabid women didn’t appear to please him.
“So when you heard the sound of those gunshots, didn’t you stop to think what was wrong?” Mabel was asking.
Dorritt wrung her hands. She seemed on the verge of tears. “I just figured it was a car exhaust, you know. Backfiring in the road.”
“And when the second shot was fired?” asked Marjorie.
“Same thing. I thought maybe Banning had left to get supplies in town. It was only when I walked out to see if we still had enough feed that I saw…” Her voice faltered. “That I saw Banning… lying there,” she managed.
Bettina placed a comforting arm around her shoulder. “There, there, Dorritt. It’s almost over. Just a few more questions and we’ll be out of your hair.”
Dorritt gave her a grateful look. “I’m so glad you decided to get involved,” she said, sniffling. “I don’t trust the police, but I trust you ladies.”
Well, that was a first. Most people didn’t like the watch to get involved in their affairs. “Why, thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said.
She smiled through her tears. “We Happy Baysians have to take care of our own. If I had the strength, I’d volunteer to join you. What you do is simply great.”
“Thanks,” I repeated with a beaming smile. Now this was exactly the kind of thing I liked to hear, and the reason I’d started the watch in the first place. Happy Baysians helping other Happy Baysians keep the peace in our beloved little town.
“Do you have any idea who might have done this?” asked Mabel.
She shook her head. “I have no idea, Mabel.”
“Banning didn’t have any enemies that you know of?” asked Fee.
“Not that I was aware of.”
“Nobody threatened your husband?” I asked. “Like…” I darted a quick look at Virgil, who stood awkwardly watching the improvised interview. “Like a competing duck farmer perhaps?”