“Oh.”
“Oh—I won’t go to the fight, or Oh—I can’t be here?”
Taking a step back, he answered.
“You know so much more about all that crap honey, and you have such good taste …”
“Kenneth Luke Marvin, I swear …”
“No fair using middle names! My mother does that, and I hate it.” He edged toward the door. “Just make sure you get the Elvis in that white rhinestone outfit, the one with the eagles and the cool collar.”
“Just give me the checkbook and get out of here!”
“Put it on the Visa.”
“What happened to ‘If we can’t pay cash, we do without’?”
“I’ll explain later.” He jumped to avoid the flying hairbrush as he slipped out the door.
Amanda’s father called, asking her to check in on her mother while he and the boys were at the fight. So much for male leadership in a crisis. When the wedding advisor arrived, she found it very easy to plan things without Ken there to contradict her wishes. She chose the hunky, younger black-clad Elvis for her own reasons, singing “Love Me Tender” and “Teddy Bear,” and the reception afterwards would serve mint juleps, fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and little White Castle cheeseburgers. No wonder the King died of a coronary.
They would be picked up in the legendary pink Cadillac with chrome-edged fins, driven to the chapel and back, with a complete series of pictures and a video of the ceremony. She and her mother would both get to dance with Elvis. If they wanted flowers, they would have to make those arrangements themselves.
Amanda signed the papers, and handed over the Visa, her first official charge as Mrs. Kenneth Marvin.
With that done, she called Carol Ann and told her to meet her at her mother’s room. A rather subdued, pale Sylvia greeted them, and they convinced her to go down to Olives for a late lunch on the terrace overlooking Lake Bellagio.
Next, they walked to the beauty salon and each had their hair done. The girls finished before Sylvia who had decided on shimmering gold highlights to perk her up a bit. They passed the time browsing through shampoos, gels and fingernail polishes. Amanda tried on a black wig, and Carol Ann grabbed a long red one, howling at their image in the mirror.
“There you girls are!” Sylvia had finished her appointment and looked restored to her former polished self. She suggested they each have a hot rock massage, and then insisted on picking up the tab for their beauty enhancements. They returned to their rooms around four o’clock.
Amanda laid down on the bed, relaxed from the massage, her skin glowing and softened from the aroma oils they had used. She planned to just close her eyes for a minute, but awoke when Ken returned at six.
“I thought I was late! I just knew you’d be all ready,” he said, ripping his T-shirt over his head and heading for the shower.
She slipped into her pale lavender georgette dress, already regretting the choice as it clung to her skin. After painting her nails and answering the phone three times, she stood at the window watching the last rays of the setting sun extinguish themselves on the Eiffel Tower across the street.
Twilight stalked the day like evil conquering good, culminating in those few brief moments during dawn and dusk when there is still plenty of light, but you can’t see anything clearly. A time when God, if He wanted to, could reach down and snatch a soul from this world unnoticed. She felt a shiver run through her.
Ken emerged from the bathroom in a traditional black tuxedo, freshly shaven with his dark hair slicked back. She smiled and walked toward him.
“Now I remember why we’re here,” she said as she touched a small nick on his left cheek. “A little nervous, are we?”
“Just a little.”
He bent to kiss her, and after a few seconds, she pulled away.
“Any more of that and we’ll miss our own wedding! Come on. We need to meet the others down in the lobby in five minutes.”
“Did my folks call?”
“Yes, they just landed. They’ll meet us at the chapel.”
When they arrived in the lobby, the other four were already there.
“You look gorgeous, honey!” George told her. “Your mother has something for you.”
He stepped aside, and Sylvia held out a miniature rose bouquet, white with tiny lavender violets, for her to carry down the aisle.
“Thanks, Mom. I’d totally forgotten about flowers.”
Both women teared up, and the men, fearing another deluge, were relieved when Elvis walked through the revolving glass doors, causing quite a commotion. Dressed in a sleek black shirt with rolled-up cuffs, pleated trousers, and white buckskin shoes, he required a second glance from almost everyone in the lobby, especially the women. He carried a Martin D-28 acoustic guitar slung lazily across his back. Cameras flashed, and he nodded at all the ladies, his mouth curling into a sexy sneer. Heavily pomaded Clairol-black locks shined blue in the overhead lights. He made his way over to the Duncan party.
“You folks havin’ a wedding?” he asked in a sultry tone.
“That’s us!” said Amanda, feeling her cheeks blush.
“Right this way, ma’am. Your chariot awaits!” He offered her his arm and they led the group out to the glistening pink Cadillac.
Robby, the last one out, turned to address the onlookers.
“Elvis has left the building.” He bowed, and a few women applauded.
George, Sylvia, Carol Ann, and Robby all squished into the back seat, glad for its six-foot width. Amanda slid into the center of the front seat, followed by Ken.
“I thought we had the older, puffy Elvis in the white spiky collar. The one with the cape.”
“He wasn’t available. Now hush.”
The car roared to life with all 325 horses stampeding under the hood. A CD player jerrybuilt through the radio speakers played “Blue Suede Shoes” as they rumbled down the driveway. Once on the street, the Elvis performer crooned along, turning up the volume to attract attention. Sylvia ducked down in the back seat, presumably to save her hairdo. Carol Ann sat on Robby’s lap, ignoring his off-key voice as he sang along.
As they pulled into the chapel parking lot, Ken waved to his parents who were leaning against their Ford Focus rental car. His mother, Peggy, was dressed in her navy polyester travel suit, with a thin strand of pearls to dress it up, and his father, Dwight, had on a rumpled camel sports coat. They both looked hot, and stunned.
Led by Elvis, they filed into the small white church, which reminded Amanda of ones she’d seen in Hawaii, the tiny ones built—often in a row along a beach—by the missionaries from competing denominations. She and Ken remained in back, while the others took seats in the front pews. Peggy sat straight-backed across the aisle from a subdued Sylvia, both shooting stiff smiles and sideways glances at the other. Carol Ann sat with her head bowed.
Elvis appeared from behind, looping his arms through Ken and Amanda’s.
“Now remember, this is your big day. Don’t let anything or anyone ruin it.” Amanda smiled, and quit fidgeting with her bouquet. The photographer snapped a picture. “Now I’m gonna go up there and sing ‘Love Me Tender,’ and when I start the second verse, you two come on down the aisle.” They nodded and he sashayed down the aisle, grabbed the microphone and signaled to a mid-aged Ann-Margret off to the side to start the background tape. When she leaned down to press the button, her hot pants hiked up a little too high on her aging thighs. She wore a tight orange sweater stretched over cone-shaped breasts that required Playtex assistance to remain that close to her chin.
His smooth voice sailed out over the small audience, as smooth as Black Velvet, amazingly like the real Elvis’s. They all stared as he gyrated slowly through well-rehearsed movements, all introduced years ago by the King. Peggy, whose ears seldom heard anything but organ or piano, tried hard not to enjoy it, but the others seemed to. Amanda was so entranced by his performance Ken had to tug her arm to get her started down the aisle. They were up to the front bef
ore anyone even noticed them. Applause broke out for Elvis as he finished.
“Thankyou. Thankyouverymuch,” he mumbled, Elvis style. “You’re a wonderful audience.” He turned and stepped behind a small pulpit, reattaching the mike.
“Dearly Beloved,” he began in a somber tone, “we are gathered here to celebrate the union … Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” He stumbled back, knocking a white trellis covered in dusty silk roses into the wall behind it.
George thought it was part of the show and took a picture, but everyone else looked around to see what had startled Elvis. Ann-Margret scurried forward, peeked under the pulpit, then screamed. Everyone rushed forward, seeing a hand with a chunky gold ring dangling between the curtains that covered the hallow space under the pulpit. Elvis pulled them apart, and they found the body of Mr. Natelli, the whale, stuffed inside. With a moan, Sylvia fainted dead away.
Peggy fumbled through her tattered TWA tote bag to find her foldable plastic cup, then rushed out to the drinking fountain for water to revive Sylvia. Elvis left to call the police, and they all returned to their seats. Tears streamed down Amanda’s face as Ken tried to console her. Peggy Marvin quietly helped herself to a mint julep from the reception table.
The police arrived, with the coroner in tow. Wally Deaver, a square-jawed detective with the mottled skin that years in the Nevada desert sun will give a blond, led the way. He asked everyone to sit down until he could get their statements.
“You can’t honestly think we had anything to do with this,” said George.
“Am I to understand that none of you knew the victim?”
Dead silence followed while Sylvia sipped her water, Amanda tried not to look at her mother, and George sweated.
The astute detective said, “Just what I thought.” He moved over to the body. The police photographer was leaving, and the coroner had finished examining the body.
“Looks like somebody smacked him on the back of the head with something flat. We bagged a hymnal with a few hairs on it. Then a puncture wound, possibly with an ice pick, to the brain. Entry wound is through the right ear. Death was probably instantaneous, sometime between four and seven. Doubt he even saw it coming. I’ll know more when I get him back to the Body Shop.”
Wally smiled at the coroner’s pet name for the morgue.
“So, where were each of you from four o’clock on?”
“Well, the boys and I were at the fight, and the girls were back at the hotel,” said George.
“So the men were together the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Except when you went to the can, Dad,” offered Robby.
“And when you went to get more beer,” said Ken.
“Well, that left you totally alone and unaccounted for too, didn’t it, smart-ass?” Robby shot back.
“Okay, okay,” said the detective. “How long was that?”
“I don’t know, about ten minutes I think,” said George.
“More like twenty-five or thirty,” said Ken. “I remember wondering if you’d fallen in.”
“There was a long line!”
“Ladies? How about you?”
“I was asleep. In my room,” said Amanda, looking almost angelic in her bridal dress.
“Same here,” said Sylvia, a tad too quickly.
“I watched a movie,” said Carol Ann. “Pay-per-view, the new salsa dancing one. I’m sure the desk will verify it.”
“Do you know how expensive those are?” complained Robby.
“I thought Ken was paying for it!” she whispered back.
“Just because you ordered it doesn’t mean you stayed to watch it,” commented the detective. He turned to look at Peggy and Dwight next, but Ken intervened.
“The folks just got here in time for the wedding.”
After a few questions about the time their flight landed, he made some notes and told them they could all go for now.
“I’ll be in touch in the morning. Feel free to enjoy the hospitality of our lovely city a little longer, until I clear you to go.”
“But we’re due in Atlanta!” shrieked Peggy. “We’ll miss the dedication by Jimmy Carter!”
After a brief consideration, he gave them permission to go, providing they left phone numbers where they could be reached.
A somber group rode back to the hotel with Elvis. Even his enthusiastic rendition of “Jailhouse Rock” couldn’t bring a smile. They dispersed to their rooms, making no plans to meet for dinner.
A call came from Detective Deaver just before eight o’clock the next morning requesting a meeting at nine. They agreed to meet in Robby’s room, and everyone was waiting when Wally arrived. They had ordered a tray of coffee and breakfast rolls, so the detective helped himself to coffee with cream. He split a fat-free bran muffin open and slathered butter on both sides, then sat in a chair by the window with the morning sun behind him so he could see their faces.
“Found something interesting last night when we got the body to the morgue.”
They sat up, paying attention to every nuance as he spoke.
“Anybody here sign their notes with an ‘L’?”
He scanned the group, his eyes resting on Sylvia. Her face hadn’t moved a muscle, partially due to Botox, but also because she wasn’t breathing. Sweat began to glisten on her forehead.
“Not for years,” she said quietly. “I used to be known as Lucky.”
“Did you write the note, ‘Meet me at the Church of Elvis at five o’clock.’ And sign it ‘L’?”
“Most certainly not! I had no desire to see Tony again!”
“So now it’s Tony?”
“Officer, my wife …”
“Detective.”
“Okay, okay, Detective … my wife used to know him but she hasn’t seen him in years.”
“How did you know him?”
“He owned the hotel casino when I danced in the Folies Bergère.”
“Mother!” gasped Amanda.
“Cool!” said Robby. “I always said you had great legs!”
“So all this was a secret?”
She glanced at Ken, who was wise enough to keep a straight face.
“Seems like a motive to me.”
“I never even spoke to the man!”
“Then can you explain why the security camera at the chapel caught you going in just minutes after Mr. Natelli?” He laid the pictures out on the table in sequence: Elvis coming in, Tony Natelli in, Elvis out, Ann-Margret in, another Elvis in, Elvis out, Sylvia in, Sylvia running out. He held up the last picture for her inspection.
“Oh, all right! I was there, but I just went to see about the flowers! He was dead when I got there!” She collapsed against George’s shoulder, crying.
“See here, my wife could no more kill anyone than I could!”
“That brings me to the next bit of evidence, a marker from the Mirage found in the victim’s pocket, with your wife’s name on it, for forty-five grand. Care to tell me about that?”
Sylvia cried louder.
“I tried to see him, just before noon. Sylvia hit the mother lode of losing streaks last night, and when I went to pay the marker, they said Natelli had covered it.”
“Bet that didn’t set too well,” said Wally as he helped himself to the last croissant, flicking a kiwi slice off the top. He refilled his coffee cup, draining the last of the cream into his cup.
“The jerk wouldn’t even discuss it with me, just like before. Said he’d only talk to her.”
“What about before?”
George and Sylvia exchanged glances, and she nodded.
“When Syl worked for him years ago, he was obsessed with her. They dated for a while, but when we met, she tried to break it off. He went nuts, sent around some goons to rough me up and run me out of town. The sleaze wouldn’t talk to me then either. I just wanted to get her out of her contract. So when I left, she came too. We musta moved four, five times that first year to shake the tail he had on us.”
“So what’s
the problem now?”
“Right after she left, he ran afoul of the Nevada Gambling Commission, some drug-related charges. They yanked his gambling license. He blamed it on her—said he’d lost his lucky charm. He’s been trying to find her ever since, his Lady Luck.” He squeezed Sylvia’s hand and went on. “He’s opening a casino in New Jersey next year. Or he was, I should say. I was afraid he’d come after her again, now that he’d seen her. I needed to get that marker paid off and get him out of our lives forever.”
“Congratulations. He’s gone. Now, who else knew he had the marker?”
“No one. Well, I guess I told the boys about it, at the fight.”
Ken and Robby looked worried. The fight arena was a poker chip’s throw from the chapel, and their alibis were canceling each other out.
“So, Robby, you knew this old boyfriend of your mother’s held a forty-five thousand dollar marker over her? That tick you off, son?”
“Sure, but that was Dad’s business. I don’t have that kind of money!”
“Or ever would have, if your Dad had to pay the marker instead of giving us each twenty-five grand!” said Ken, realizing too late that also gave him a motive for murder.
The detective whipped his eyes from Ken’s face to Robby’s and back as they glared at each other.
“I think I’d better take you boys down to the station for a little more questioning. Feel free to consult an attorney, although I’m not officially charging either one of you. Yet.”
Carol Ann wrung her hands, and Amanda noticed she wasn’t knitting like she usually did when she was nervous. Her knitting bag sat in the closet zipped shut.
“Let me see those pictures again,” said Amanda.
Detective Deaver handed her the pictures. She flipped through the sequence until she came to the one of Ann-Margret.
“Mother, where was the body when you walked in?”
“Face down, in front of the pulpit. I thought he’d fainted,” she sobbed.
“So whoever killed him stuffed him in the pulpit after you lest.”
“Why yes, that’s right,” Sylvia said, hope flickering in her eyes.
Amanda stared intently at the picture again, noting Ann-Margret’s tall boots. A perfect hiding place for something long and thin.
Murder in Vegas Page 23