by Nic Saint
When I finally descended the bike and let it drop where it lay, I barely had strength left in my legs to walk to the front door of the Inn. So I staggered to a bench which had conveniently been placed so leaving guests could wait for the taxi to take them to the airport, and sank down, taking a minute to recuperate. Or ten.
When finally I felt adequately restored, I walked into the Inn and made a beeline for the front desk, where Jack Barnes was smiling his way through his shift. The teenager, who worked at the Inn every summer while on a break from college, drew a hand through his sandy hair and gave me a goofy smile. “Hey, Alice. You look… winded.”
“You should have seen me five minutes ago,” I said. And then I caught sight of myself in a display case where they kept the tourist information, and saw that my hair was plastered to my skull and Lilo & Stitch to my boobs. Ugh. Good thing Rock couldn’t see me like this. He’d think I couldn’t merely see ghosts, but I was a ghost myself.
“So what can I do for you?” Jack asked. Then his smile disappeared. “Don’t tell me there’s been another murder. Or two. Or three or four or five.” A few summers ago the Inn had been the scene of a crime wave, which had taken the lives of the original owners, along with more than a few guests. It had not been a pleasant experience for young Jack.
“No murders,” I assured him. “But I would like to speak to one of your guests.”
“Sure,” he said, his fingers on the keyboard. “What’s the name?”
“I don’t have a name. All I know is that she looks like Priscilla Presley.”
“Ooh. I love her. She was great in those Naked Gun movies, huh? A real hoot!”
“Probably,” I admitted. I’m not much of a movie connoisseur.
“Well, this is your lucky day,” he said with a grin. “The place is full of Priscillas. We’ve got them in all shapes and sizes.”
“I only need the one. This one really looks like Priscilla. Like, the spitting image. And she just arrived by car—a burgundy suburban?”
He frowned. “Um…” Then his face cleared. “I think I know which one. Real pretty lady. Is staying here with her husband, who looks exactly like the King.” He tapped a few keys, and said, “Room 224. Hollie Coutts, though she goes by her husband’s name.” He smiled at me, safe in the knowledge that he’d given excellent service.
“So what is her husband’s name?” I asked, when it became clear no more information was forthcoming.
“Oh. Right. Her husband is…” He stared at the screen. “Merle Perarnau.”
I wondered if I shouldn’t ask Fee to join me, but then decided against it. I didn’t want to risk Mrs. Coutts—or Perarnau—to give me the slip again while I waited. So I gathered my courage and walked up the stairs to the second floor. I met a few more Elvis impersonators on the stairs—the ones giving Banning Pender’s service the slip—and arrived on the landing feeling determined to get to the bottom of this Priscilla affair.
“Mrs. Perarnau!” I cried, giving the door to room 224 a good pounding. “Please open the door.”
The door opened and I found myself face to face with Priscilla.
Chapter 25
The woman appeared ready to close the door in my face, but then seemed to realize the futility of this, as I would simply keep coming back. So she relented.
“Who are you?” she asked. “And why do you keep following me?”
“My name is Alice Whitehouse, Mrs. Perarnau, and I run the neighborhood watch in this town. And right now we’re trying to solve the murder of Banning Pender.”
I thought I saw fear flash in those hazel eyes of hers, but then it was gone. “I still don’t see what that’s got to do with me.”
“Why were you at the Pender Duck Farm yesterday morning? And at Banning’s viewing just now?”
“Why not? I knew Mr. Pender casually—he’s an acquaintance of my husband’s—so when I heard he died, I was naturally upset.”
“Banning and your husband were friends?”
She hesitated. “More like colleagues. My husband is an Elvis Tribute Artist. He’s quite successful.” She darted a quick look along the corridor, then said, “Please come in.”
I stepped past her into the small hotel room—just a bed, closet, door leading off the bedroom into the bathroom, and a very big flatscreen TV bolted into the wall opposite the bed. Everything looked clean and brand new. So the rumors were true. The new owner had given all the rooms a complete overhaul. Nicely done.
“Mrs. Perarnau,” I began, resisting the urge to call her Priscilla.
“Hollie,” she said, taking a seat at the foot of the bed and inviting me to take a chair.
“There’s a very persistent rumor that Banning was having an affair…” I gave her a knowing look, and she shook her head, uttering a startled laugh.
“Oh, you think I was Banning Pender’s lover? You’re quite mistaken, Miss Whitehouse.”
“Alice.”
“I’m not—I wasn’t—like I said, I didn’t know Mr. Pender at all. He was merely a colleague of my husband, so…” She raised her hands helplessly. “I really don’t see why I would have to get involved in all of this. Even the police haven’t visited me, so…”
“The police haven’t seen you at the Pender farm,” I reminded her. When she shook her head, I decided to change tack, as it was obvious I wasn’t getting anywhere. “The thing is, Banning Pender was one my uncle’s best friends. And Uncle Charlie—he’s the one who runs the funeral home—has asked me to find his friend’s killer. According to the information I have managed to gather so far, whoever killed Banning also stole his belt buckle. A very precious, very expensive buckle, reportedly worth millions.”
“Oh, no,” said Hollie, clasping her hand to her face.
“So you see, anything you might be able to tell me that will lead me to Banning’s killer is much appreciated. And I promise you absolute discretion. Nobody needs to know that you and Banning…”
She was shaking her head again, looking absolutely distraught. “If my husband ever finds out,” she murmured, idly playing with her wedding band. It was an ornate one, I saw, with a huge rock at the center.
“Your husband will never find out. Not from me,” I promised her.
“I don’t know…”
“Do you want Banning’s killer caught?” I asked.
She looked up. “Of course.”
“Then please help me.”
She wavered, then glanced off through the window into the distance. “I met Banning in Vegas, of course, at one of those Elvis rallies, where ETAs from all around the world meet to compete for the laurels of best Elvis impersonator.” She produced a wistful smile. “He was the most horrible Elvis I had ever heard. Worst voice bar none. But he was nice. A good man. Kind and decent. And deeply unhappy in his marriage.”
“Just like you,” I surmised.
She glanced at me and opened her mouth to respond, when the door of the room suddenly opened and a man strode in. His presence instantly filled the room, and as he stared at me, I suddenly felt like a slug being inspected by a particularly hungry bird of prey. The man was large, dressed in the usual Elvis outfit, his fleshy face a scowl.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, after breathing noisily for a few beats.
“This is Alice Whitehouse,” said Hollie, producing a brave smile. “She’s…”
She looked at me helplessly, so I quickly said, “I’m a reporter for the Happy Bays Gazette. We’re doing a story on the Elvis convention and I wanted to get the Priscilla angle on the whole Elvis phenomenon.”
Hollie gave me a grateful nod, but my story didn’t seem to appease her husband, who growled, “And who gave you permission to harass my wife?”
“Honey…” Hollie began, but her husband held up his meaty paw.
“I wanted to interview the wives of the best ETAs,” I said pacifically.
“Oh.” This seemed to give him pause. “So you heard of me, huh?”
“Of course,” I said. �
��Who hasn’t heard of Merle Perarnau? You, sir, are a living legend.”
Pride was warring with pique in the man’s bosom as he rubbed his sizable sideburns. Finally, as with most men, ego won out. “Of course I am. So why haven’t you interviewed me yet?”
“I’m just a freelance reporter,” I said. “The Gazette’s editor is reserving the singular pleasure of interviewing you for himself. I’m sure he’ll be in touch to set up the interview very soon.”
“Tell him to hurry up,” he grunted. “I won’t be here forever, you know.”
“I will tell him,” I said, getting up. I turned to Hollie. “Thank you so much for the interview, Mrs. Perarnau. Our readers will be inspired. Especially with your recipe for the peanut butter and banana sandwich. I’m sure they’ll be delighted with the treat.”
“Don’t give away all your secrets, hon,” said Merle with a chuckle.
My eye fell on the big man’s belt buckle. It sparkled in the sunlight streaming in through the window. “Oh, my. That’s a fine-looking belt, Mr. Perarnau.”
“Thanks. It’s the pride of my collection,” he said, giving it a good yank.
“Are those… real diamonds?” I asked, pointing at the sparkly stones.
He chuckled again. “I wish. Just colored glass, honey. Not worth a dime.”
“Is it true that there’s an Elvis belt that’s worth millions?” I asked, fully embracing my role of nosy reporter.
The question didn’t seem to please him, for his smile disappeared. “No idea. If it exists, I’ve never seen it.”
“Banning Pender was supposed to possess a belt buckle like that,” I said, studying the man’s response carefully.
But he merely shrugged. “Banning Pender was a big, old liar. He told everyone he was a millionaire, but how you can become a millionaire from duck farming is beyond me. The guy was full of it if you ask me. And now if you could please leave? I have to get ready for my show. I’m headlining.”
Hollie got up quickly and ushered me out before I could get in another question. Just before she closed the door, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I hope you find Banning’s killer,” and then I was standing out in the corridor, facing a closed door.
So I’d finally had my interview with ‘Priscilla,’ and I still wasn’t any closer to the truth. One thing was for sure, though. Merle Perarnau was not a very nice man.
And I’d just arrived in the lobby when my phone chimed, and so did every other phone in the room. I took out my phone and frowned at the display. This could only mean one thing: Venganza Mierda had struck again. Had he uploaded whatever footage he’d shot last night? I waited with bated breath while the video loaded. To my surprise—and relief—the person on the bed this time wasn’t me, or even Bettina, the only person of the watch who hadn’t been caught with her proverbial knickers down, but a man who looked a lot like Elvis. This Elvis was old, skinny, and completely bald, apart from a pair of sideburns. He was also wearing an Elvis Presley jumpsuit, embroidered with a peanut-and-banana motif, and was sucking his thumb.
Chuckles sounded all around me, and one Elvis cried, “That’s Frank Opossum! Look, you guys. It’s Frank Opossum! I knew those sideburns were the real deal!”
Just then, a message appeared on the screen, replacing Mr. Opossum’s sleeping form. It read, ‘Hail to the real King! Stop all the fake Kings! There can be only one!’
There were loud cheers from the Elvises, who seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious.
I stepped into the bar, where more Elvises were glued to their smartphones, watching the scene play out. They, too, seemed to think watching a fellow Elvis being roasted was just big fun. I shook my head as I took a seat at the bar. Looked like Mrs. Evergreen’s nephew had changed his MO. Perhaps my visit to his aunt that morning had had something to do with that. Or perhaps the close call last night, when I’d almost caught the little rascal.
I ordered a drink—a Coke Light—and spent the next hour or so talking to several Elvises, asking what they knew about Merle Perarnau. It appeared that the man wasn’t very popular amongst his peers, and that was putting it mildly. And as a picture slowly formed in my mind about Mr. Perarnau, I knew I’d found myself another likely suspect.
Chapter 26
I decided to return to the Pender Duck Farm. I still was nowhere near finding out who had killed Banning, but I was definitely moving in the right direction. Perhaps a visit to Banning would give me the confirmation I needed. I’d actually hoped to see him at the service, as most ghosts stick close to their bodies. Banning was different, though. He was one of those ghosts that stay close to the place where they breathed their last breath.
I couldn’t rely on Fee to drive me all the way to the farm, so it was my trusty steel steed that took me out there. By the time I arrived, I’d probably lost another few pounds from the exertion. I didn’t mind. When you’re best friends with a baker—and live with her—it’s important to find a way to work off those extra calories.
I dropped my bike and wandered over to where the ducks were peacefully quacking. “Banning?” I called out. “Where are you?”
Suddenly, Banning materialized out of thin air. He was sitting on an overturned bucket in the middle of his flock of fowl. “Hey, Alice,” he said. “Back so soon?”
“Yeah, I can’t keep away,” I said. “How are you holding up?”
He shrugged. “It’s not much fun being dead,” he admitted. “Watching my wife make love to that horrible Lawton Pacey guy. Not being able to visit my friends.”
“Why aren’t you at the service? Plenty of friends out there.”
“I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s a lot of fun to see myself like that. It was bad enough watching my body being taken away by the coroner.”
“Uncle Charlie did a great job on you,” I said. “Dressed you up in your nicest suit. Made you look really handsome.”
He smiled. “Thank Charlie for me, will you? Now there’s a real friend.”
“You can tell him yourself. I’m sure he’ll be able to hear you.”
He sighed. “Yeah, the thing is, I’m kinda stuck here for some reason. I’ve tried to wander off but each time I find myself back on this old farm. I actually wanted to go down to Vegas—sniff up some of the atmosphere. But I can’t seem to get there.”
“Some ghosts are like that,” I said knowingly. “They’re stuck where they died until their murder is resolved. Then they get unstuck.”
“So have you found my killer yet?” he asked, hopeful. “Cause I sure would like to get out of here. Forty years of duck farming is more than plenty, thank you very much.”
“I haven’t,” I confessed. “I did just talk to your girlfriend, though.” I watched him carefully.
“Girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend,” he insisted.
“Oh, come on, Banning. How can you expect me to find your killer when you won’t level with me? I talked to Hollie and she practically told me you were an item.”
His face lit up, insofar as an old duck farmer’s face can light up. “You saw Hollie?”
“I kept bumping into her and I finally cornered her at the Happy Bays Inn. And she would have told me a lot more if her husband hadn’t walked in.”
“Merle,” he said, his face clouding. “I don’t like that man.”
“Me neither. He didn’t seem very nice.”
“He’s an animal,” he growled. “Treats Hollie like crap.”
“That’s the impression I got. She seems afraid of him.”
“She is.”
“Does he… hit her?”
“No, he doesn’t. If he did, I would have killed him.” He hung his head. “All right. So Hollie and I were seeing each other. Are you happy now? But what that’s got to do with me being shot I don’t know. And it’s none of your business who I was or wasn’t seeing.”
“It might have something to do with your murder,” I said, musing. “If Merle found out about you, he might have wanted to take revenge.”
/> “Merle hadn’t found out. Hollie and I were very discreet. And very careful.”
“Were you… going to get married?”
“Yeah. At least, if Hollie got up the courage to divorce Merle.”
“So you were going to divorce Dorritt,” I said. “You told me before that you weren’t.”
“All this is none of your beeswax,” he muttered, giving me a foul look. “In my day you didn’t share your personal stuff with anyone. I know you kids nowadays like to put everything on the interwebs, from the color of your underwear to that weird-looking mole on your butt, but I don’t—or didn’t—and neither does Hollie.” He was silent for a moment, then looked up, his old eyes searching mine. “How did she look?”
“She looked great,” I said. “Just like Priscilla.”
He smiled. “She does resemble her a lot, doesn’t she?”
“Just like you resemble the King,” I said magnanimously.
“Oh, you’re just full of crap, Alice Whitehouse,” he said with a smile. “I don’t look like the King at all. And I don’t even sing like him. In fact I can’t sing for shit. And don’t think I don’t know that,” he was quick to add when I wanted to contradict him. “I was a lousy singer, a lousy duck farmer and a lousy husband and father. But with Hollie, none of that mattered. She made me feel like a new man. And I know that sounds like a cliché but it’s true.”
“Tell me one thing, Banning. If you were so bad at being Elvis, and at being a duck farmer, how did you manage to amass a fortune?”
“Easy. I inherited it all from my old man, who was a great duck farmer, back when duck farming was still a profitable business. But instead of passing it on to my good-for-nothing kids, I was going to spend it all on Hollie, giving her the kind of life she deserved. Only now that’s not going to happen.” He sank into a moody silence.
Then I got an idea. “Why don’t you tell me where you buried all that money? That way I can give it to Hollie. She can finally divorce that brute of a husband of hers, and she can lead the life you wanted her to lead. What do you say?”