“You look like you had a bad night,” she said, plopping the leather backpack she used as a purse down atop his desk. “Want me to help out?”
“Grab the phone. Take a name and number and tell them we’ll call back.” He looked up at her, frustration in his eyes. “This time of year is always a bitch.”
“Isn’t it?” She answered the phone for a few minutes, and when it finally stopped ringing, blew out a breath of relief. “I don’t know how you do it. Some of these people are downright rude if they don’t hear what they want to hear.”
Tootsie batted his eyelashes. “I use my Southern charm. Works every time.”
She grinned. “Must be why I’m not very good at it. I failed that class.”
“You just spent too much time in California. It was all that commune living as a child. Southern charm is usually a requirement here.”
“Not for everyone. You do recall my Aunt Darcy and cousins?”
“Ah yes. There are those who don’t show up for class. What’s up?”
She got up from the chair and perched on the edge of his desk while he got back to the computer. “I don’t suppose you’d schedule me for airport runs during the candlelight vigil? Or taking tourists to Beale Street? Or Victorian Village? Or AutoZone, or—”
“I’d be happy to, but Charlsie already put in for the airport, and Jake got Beale Street, and Sharon took Victorian Village. Since your time off, they have seniority. I did have a Dixon Art Gallery run, but you’re still banned from there so I sent Lydia. Sorry, baby.”
Harley sighed. “I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand. Of course, if any of them get sick, I get first chance at their run. Deal?”
“Deal.” Tootsie laughed. “Just don’t get any ideas.”
“You know me so well.” She smiled. Thomas “Tootsie” Rowell was really one of her best friends. He’d hired her immediately when she’d answered the ad in the paper, and they’d gotten along famously ever since. She even attended his shows at times, where he dressed up like Cher or Madonna or Liza Minnelli, or whoever caught his fancy. Hard to admit, but Tootsie was more gorgeous as a woman than most women. He wasn’t much taller than she, only about five seven to her five six, and borrowed her dresses from her corporate days of wining and dining. She hated to admit he looked better in them than she ever had. But then, she was much more comfortable in jeans and a tee shirt anyway. Evening dresses had never been her style, and it probably showed every time she wore one.
She’d been at Memphis Tour Tyme for a year now, and most of the time liked her job as a tour driver and occasional taxi service. That depended on where she was needed most, since the company had recently branched out into offering short runs as well as the regular tours. It’d taken a while to get the licensing and regulations straight, and required more training for the drivers so everyone could get their piece of the financial pie. But more vehicles were added to the fleet and all the drivers qualified. It wasn’t like her former job in corporate banking. If she disliked the clients, she got rid of them at the end of the day, where before she’d had to deal with them on a regular basis. Not to mention several tiers of former bosses, some of whom were nice but most of whom were stereotypical jerks. Maybe she should have finished college, but at the time it hadn’t seemed nearly as important as it did now. Ah, her shallow youth was behind her. She was now entering the halls of maturity. Things could be worse.
Tootsie snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Hello? You in there?”
“Sorry. Just thinking how lucky I am to still have a job.”
“Baby, you just don’t know.”
“Sure I do. You went to bat for me. I’m convinced you’ve got something on the ogre. If you didn’t, I’d have been out the door back in May.”
“Don’t get too comfortable. And for pity’s sake, don’t go around finding any more dead bodies.”
“Which makes me wonder—is there such a thing as finding live bodies?”
Tootsie rolled his eyes. “Sometimes you act so blonde.”
“I am a blonde.”
“I know. But you’re usually a smart blonde. There’s a run you can take this afternoon. I know it’s one you’ll like. Elvis impersonators.”
“A taxi run? I thought I was scheduled for Tupelo.”
“They cancelled at the last minute. Fortunately for you, we have this one.”
She sighed. “I’m in hell.”
“Not until two o’clock, baby.”
By two-thirty, Harley was rethinking the entire tour guide thing. Just getting around town was a feat of luck and persistence. But now her ears hurt as well. All the Elvises sang at the same time—is the plural of Elvis called Elvi? she wondered, then winced at a particularly loud mix of Blue Christmas, Hound Dog, Don’t Be Cruel, and Kentucky Rain. Normally—and separately—she liked those songs. All at the same time, however, they made her want to ram the van into the nearest telephone pole. As soon as she dropped these guys off at the hotel for their contest, she intended to go to the nearest drug store and buy ear plugs.
When she pulled into the covered parking area to unload her passengers, she managed a smile as she told them she’d be back for them at eight, and reminded them that if their schedule changed they were to call her cell phone or the offices at Memphis Tour Tyme.
A rather portly Elvis paused in the door and said, “Thank you, thank you verra much” as he got out. If she had a nickel for every time she’d heard that or would hear that in the coming month, she could retire.
However, she just said, “You’re welcome, Elvis. Good luck.”
As always, she glanced back to make sure everyone was out before she left, and only one guy remained in the van. He was in the very back on the last seat.
“Hey,” she called, “last stop for all Elvi. This is it, sir. Sir?”
He didn’t respond, just remained in his seat staring out the window. Maybe he’d gotten cold feet. She didn’t blame him. Grown men dressed up like Elvis and sweating on a stage had to be daunting. She should know. After all, Yogi went every year. It was his only brand of religion, other than his government conspiracy theories. The last she understood, but the first she found inexplicable.
“Sir? Hey, Elvis?”
He still sat there staring out the window, and with a sigh, Harley got out of the van and went around. She’d get him out with a can opener if she had to, but dammit, he was getting out. She deserved someplace quiet for a while before she had to deal with the ride back to their hotels.
“Hey, buddy,” she said when she reached his seat, “we’re here. Time to go on stage and sing your heart out. Knock ’em dead.”
When he still didn’t respond, Harley put a hand on his shoulder to give him a slight shake out of his trance. He slumped forward, his head hit the back of the seat in front of him, and she jumped into the aisle. The hilt of a knife protruded from his back. She froze. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him, not to her.
Maybe it was a mistake. A bizarre, cruel joke. She leaned closer, and the rusty smell of blood made her stomach lurch. Backing slowly away, she fumbled at her waist for the cell phone that she now kept tethered to her with a chain, and hit speed dial. They answered quickly.
“Nine-one-one?” she said in a voice that sounded a lot calmer than she felt. “We have another dead Elvis.
Chapter Two
“Give me a description of all the other passengers.”
Harley stared at the uniformed officer. “Black hair, long sideburns, white jumpsuits—you’re kidding, right? They all looked like Elvis.”
This was crazy. She had twelve passengers listed on her schedule of pickups, but there had been thirteen on board. None of the twelve remaining passengers on her list of pickups knew the extra, or so they said. Somehow, he’d slipped in on her. She should have counted heads as they boarded. Then maybe she’d have noticed an extra passenger.
Shivering despite the afternoon’s heat, Harley once more gave the officer a run-down of her sched
ule. The white crime scene unit van and a van from the morgue had arrived, and the area swarmed with police cars. Yellow tape screened off her MTT van, flashing blue lights cordoned off the parking lot, and there she stood in the middle of it all. It was just too familiar.
“Dammit, Harley.”
She sighed. That was familiar, too. Unfortunately. She turned, managing a smile as Bobby Baroni approached. As a homicide detective, he always found things out too quickly. As a childhood friend who’d been party to—and often instigator of—one too many pranks in their old neighborhood, he knew her too well. Not only that, Bobby had that Italian macho thing going on, where he always had to be right. Or maybe that was just a male thing.
Even in the heat, he had on a suit and tie, a world’s difference from the clothes he’d worn as a teenager. Somehow, the suit made him seem more remote, almost like a stranger instead of a guy she’d hung around with all through junior high and high school. College really did change some people. Or maybe life did the changing.
When he reached her, she tried to sound casual and asked, “Hi, Bobby. How’s it going?”
He shook a cigarette out of a pack he took from his pocket, lit it, and squinted at her through the smoke. “Funny you should ask. I was sitting at my desk, happy I’d gone nearly two months without you being involved in a murder, and then came the phone call. I should have known better.”
“Really, Bobby. I’m not involved. I’m just the unlucky—and I’d like to point out unwilling—witness.”
“Yet here you are. With a dead man in the back of your van. How do you explain that?”
“You have such a suspicious nature. Does your mother know you’re smoking again?”
“I get paid to be suspicious. And there are things my mother is better off not knowing. Can you tell me how the vic got stabbed in a van full of people without anyone noticing?”
“A bomb could have gone off and no one would have noticed. They were singing. All at the same time, and all different songs. It was horrible.” She shuddered again. This time it wasn’t because of the singing, but the memory of the dead Elvis slumped in the back seat of the van.
Bobby looked at her a little more closely. His family was Sicilian, a long line of shopkeepers and merchants who’d immigrated to America for a better life some time in the middle of the nineteenth century. It was entirely possible her Irish ancestors had done business with them way back then, since many of the early Italian and Irish immigrants to Memphis had first settled along the river front. Her Irish ancestors had branched out to become farmers, and his family had done well with grocery markets and liquor stores. Both had no doubt dabbled in bootlegging. It’d been quite profitable during Prohibition.
“You okay?” Bobby asked, and she shrugged.
“I should be getting used to dead bodies by now, but somehow, I’m not.”
Bobby nodded, took a last puff off his cigarette, then dropped it and ground it into the hot pavement. “Don’t leave town,” he said as he walked off to interview the other passengers.
Maybe she should leave town. Bad things seemed to happen to people in her vicinity. It was as if she was a murder magnet lately. She’d gone nearly thirty years with no trouble at all, and suddenly poof! Bodies began popping up everywhere around her. It was crazy.
Sitting glumly on the edge of a concrete planter overflowing with petunias, she had to bite her nails instead of smoke a cigarette, which she really would have preferred. But she’d quit before she’d started her new career as a cadaver dog.
When her cell phone rang, she hesitated. It wasn’t going to be a good conversation, and it didn’t matter who was on the other end. Maybe she shouldn’t answer it. No point in getting even more depressed. But Dixie played louder and louder, so she finally gave in and answered the persistent caller. It was Tootsie.
“Harley, what the hell?”
“I take it you’ve been notified.”
“You could have called to warn me, you know.”
“I could have ... should have ... would have, but it was kind of a shock finding him like that with a knife in his back.”
“Hon, it seems to me you should be used to that sort of thing by now.”
“Well, perhaps, but does anyone ever really get used to finding bodies? Except maybe the coroner? Or the police? Or soldiers, they must be used to it. Oh, and doctors—”
“Focus, baby, you’re sounding a little hysterical.”
Harley took a deep breath. “I’ve bitten my nails down to the first knuckles. I have nubs for fingers. If I don’t stop it soon, I’ll consider bumming a cigarette.”
“Don’t. Too hard to hold with nubs. Listen, I’ll send someone to pick you up as soon as you’re released by the police.”
“What should I do about the other Elvises ... Elvi? What’s the plural? I was wondering about that just before ... before I found a dead one in the back seat.”
“Jesus. You really are a basket case. Don’t worry about the other Elvises. I’ll get someone else to take your return trip. I don’t think you need to be driving right now.”
“I’m just fine.”
“Darling, not even close. Stay there. I’m sending someone to get you.”
Maybe Tootsie was right. Her hands were shaking, and she curled her fingers into her palms. Violent death had no resemblance to peacefully laid out bodies in funeral homes, with the soft music and sweet-smelling flowers, the hushed voices and cushioned furniture. This was ugly, abrupt, and seemed a lot more final than lying in a plush walnut coffin wearing make-up and best clothes. She tried not to think about the Elvis’s face, that vacant, sightless stare into eternity.
Another shiver trickled down her spine. She clasped her hands together, crossed her legs at the ankles and waited for someone to arrive to take her away from death.
Just her luck, Mike Morgan showed up as her ride. What was Tootsie thinking? He should know that Morgan had much the same view on her being in the same vicinity of a body as Bobby had. It was terribly inconvenient and very annoying that they now viewed her as some kind of lure for murder.
Mike was in his own car, a vintage red Corvette that he left parked by one of the squad cars. She watched him saunter over to Bobby Baroni and talk to him for a few minutes, and both of them looked toward her. They were talking about her, of course. She had no desire to know what they were saying. It was never complimentary when this sort of thing happened.
It’d be so much easier if Morgan didn’t make her stomach feel all squishy inside when he looked at her. He had that lean-hipped, dangerous look going on, dressed in a black tee shirt, faded black Levis, and what she called his SWAT boots. Somewhere on his body—close to all the masculine equipment he’d been born with—he had probably stashed a few weapons of the lethal variety. Tools of his trade, he called them. She liked his natural tool best.
When he finally started toward her, she got up from the concrete planter. She put her hands on her hips and watched him walk across the driveway. As did a few other women. She didn’t mind. They couldn’t help it. Morgan seemed to have that effect on women.
The best defense is a good offense, she thought, and said aloud, “Damn, what took you so long? My butt’s asleep from sitting on this concrete for the past three hours, and the only thing I’ve had to eat is my fingernails.”
He didn’t smile. “Are you going to make a habit of this?”
“Biting my nails?”
“No, Harley, finding bodies. Baroni thinks you may be a serial killer.”
“Bobby’s still mad because I told him to stay away from Cami unless he was serious. She takes things to heart and he’s a serial boyfriend.”
“Stay out of Baroni’s love life. Dammit, what the hell is going on with you?”
She stared at him incredulously. “You’re mad at me because some Elvis got stabbed in my van?”
He looked frustrated and angry. “Has it occurred to you that one of these days I’ll show up at a crime scene and find you laid out? Do you ev
er think about that?”
“No,” she said sarcastically, “I’m just always happy to see you, too.”
Blowing out a harsh breath, he looked away from her, raked a hand through his dark hair and obviously struggled for control. When he looked back at her, his voice was reasonable but his eyes were still dark blue with frustration.
“How do you think this looks to the department? Next thing I know, internal affairs is going to be breathing down my neck, wanting to know why I’m seeing someone who leaves behind a trail of bodies wherever she goes.”
“Isn’t that your line of work?”
Morgan said grimly, “Most of my arrests are of live bodies, not dead ones. You’ve found more corpses in four months than I’ve found in four years.”
Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis Page 2