Murder in Vegas

DEATH OF A WHALE IN THE CHURCH OF ELVIS by Linda Kerslake

“I’m not marrying your mother.”

Amanda Duncan whipped her head away from the window, the full force of her icy glare hitting Ken Marvin in the face. He immediately regretted the words, and began concentrating intently on opening his in-flight packet of peanuts.

“She’s been planning a church wedding for me for years,” she explained, “and it’s just easier to go along with her. Our running off to Vegas is killing her. She had such a fit when I told her, I’m surprised she even agreed to come. And please, don’t tell her we’re sharing a room tonight.”

“The mighty Deacon Duncan in Sin City. I’m glad we brought a camera!”

“Ken, stop it! She’s afraid your mother will tell everyone back home about this.”

Both women attended The Mt. Hope Church of the Redeemed, Faith Through Works Synod, where his mother waschoir director and hers served as a deacon. Whenever they met, there was a subtle competition for recognition of good works, or as her father called it, gaudy business.

“Well, my mother will be there too! They’re flying in for the ceremony tomorrow, then on to help Habitat for Humanity in Atlanta.”

“There, you see? She’ll spread the rumor that while she rushed on to house the homeless, Mom stayed to gamble!”

He didn’t see, but he pretended that he did. He munched his peanuts, which were as stale as this conversation was getting to be.

They sat in silence, both staring at the clouds zooming by. The trip to Las Vegas had been his idea. When Amanda’s dad, George Duncan, promised them twenty-five grand for a wedding present, he said they could use it for whatever they wanted: a wedding, the down payment on a house, or the honeymoon. Amanda ran right out to buy the latest issue of Bride’s Magazine. Ken, a financial advisor in a tight market, started house hunting. He wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass them by.

He found a stately ten-year-old brick house in a posh suburb not far from his work with a lap pool, wine cellar, multi-media room/office, total security system-including the grounds, and a five-stall garage. And best of all, it had an impressive circular driveway leading up to a portico with white pillars.

The house screamed success.

He needed this house.

It had been a hard battle, but here they were on their way to the Bellagio for a short, and hopefully sweet, honeymoon. The only problem was the wedding.

“How about the Justice of the Peace?” he asked. “I hear she’s a real character.” More silence.

“The Venetian does that incredibly romantic ceremony in a gondola, on the canal,” countered Amanda, snuggling up against his arm.

He estimated that would cost at least a couple of grand, and quickly rejected the idea.

“What you two need is a rockin’ wedding at the Church of Elvis, like we did.” The voice floated back from the seats in front. A blond-tipped crew-cut head popped up to eye level.“They pick you up in a pink Caddy. Dad would love it, Sis. Who doesn’t like the King? ‘Love Me Tender’? ‘Hawaiian Wedding Song’?” Robby, her brother, and his new wife, Carol Ann, had come along to stand up for them. They had eloped two months ago, causing quite a stir. He’d dropped out of college and so far hadn’t found a job, so she was supporting them with her two-year nursing degree, working the night shift in a nursing home. They’d jumped at a chance for a free trip to Vegas.

“Robby wanted that Viva Las Vegas package, the one with Ann-Margret in those crazy hot pants. It was great!” said Carol Ann, pausing from her knitting.

Amanda thought this over, a smile tickling her lips.

“That would be fun, and Mother adores Elvis.”

Ken sighed and began to relax, winking a thank-you to his future brother-in-law.

The plane landed at Las Vegas International, and Ken and Amanda each grabbed their carry-ons. Robby hurried down the aisle while Carol Ann struggled to get their bag from the overhead compartment. Once off the plane, they rushed through the terminal, drawn to the Mecca of adult pleasures like dieters to chocolate, darting between bug-eyed gamblers leaving, joining the flow of fresh hopefuls arriving. Amanda marveled at the slot machines lining the walls.

“Is nothing sacred here?”

“Nothing,” answered Robby. “I’ve even seen machines in the cans.” He stopped to check his wallet after being jostled by a tanned man carrying no luggage and wearing shades. “Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘nonstop entertainment.’”

They exited the terminal just as a sleek white limousine slid to a stop at the curb. George Duncan lumbered out the rear door, his hulking frame squishing through the opening and expanding to full size just as he enveloped his daughter in a hug.

“Princess!”

“Daddy!”

Ken stared at the limo, hoping it wasn’t coming out of his windfall. He’d already agreed to put everyone up for two nights at the Bellagio. Carol Ann found him a great rate on the Internetbecause it was the slow season, but he didn’t want things to get out of hand.

“A limo?” she asked, eyeing her father.

“Nothing’s too good for my little girl!” He clapped Ken on the back with his pawlike hand, causing him to lurch forward, then ushered Amanda toward the car. The driver took the bags and stowed them in the trunk. Climbing in, she found her mother, Sylvia, sitting pristinely in a cool aqua shantung silk pantsuit, unwrinkled even in the desert heat. She wore Chanel sunglasses, the new pearlized ones, that obscured her eyes. Amanda smoothed her own rumpled shift, wondering how the salesclerk could have sold it to her as ‘the new-carefree-linen’ with a straight face.

“Mother, how are you?” asked Amanda as Ken slid in beside her.

“Fine, dear. How was your flight?”

“Fine. Just fine.”

Ken nodded to his soon-to-be mother-in-law. He found himself tongue-tied in her presence, awed by her ageless beauty. She was kind to him, and generous to a fault, but she had a cool demeanor that discouraged close contact. He’d never seen her hug anyone, only be hugged by George.

As soon as they were all in, George opened the refrigerator and uncorked a bottle of Dom Perignon. Beads of sweat popped out on Ken’s forehead, not entirely from the warm desert air. As if reading his mind, George smacked him on the knee.

“This one is on me, tiger!” The cork popped out, rebounding off the window and landing in Sylvia’s lap. She flicked it off, and Amanda reached over and blotted the champagne droplets with a wadded-up Kleenex from her pocket.

Glasses were passed around while Carol Ann raided the snack tray, twisting open ajar of green olives. Everyone except Sylvia and Carol Ann took a glass of champagne. George made a toast to the couple.

“Driver, take the Strip in. We want to see the lights.”

As they turned from Tropicana onto the Strip, Ken stared at the realistic skyline of Manhattan displayed at the New York, New York Casino. A screaming group of tourists flashed by, belted into the roller-coaster seats.

The Strip glittered like jewels in the navel of a giant bellydancer, sucking up enough power to run a third world country for days. People milled around in shorts, jeans, and little black dresses that had cost someone a small fortune. You could smell the money on the warm, desert breeze.

Amanda pointed back to the castlelike structure of the Excal-ibur, but Ken was noting the location of the Denny’s up ahead, hoping several meals could be eaten there.

His eyes bolted forward to the Aladdin, and Amanda gasped as the fountains in front of the Bellagio burst into life. Colored lights played against the sprays of water that danced to classical music, throwing a welcome mist on the dazzled onlookers gathered at the water’s edge.

They turned down the drive to the Bellagio, and a bell captain rushed forward as the limo stopped.

“This way,” he said, ushering them into a private entrance, away from the main one. Their bags were swiftly unloaded and they were shown to a special desk for check in. Ken fumbled through his duffle bag, looking for the Expedia confirmation of their reservations.

“See the treatment you get when they think you’ve got bucks?” beamed George.

A gush of warm air behind them announced the arrival of another guest. He was dressed in a matte gray silk suit cut to perfection for his formidable frame. Gold glinted from his cuff links and the ring on his right hand. Brushing past them, he moved with the air of someone accustomed to preferential treatment. Startled, they stood aside and gave him a wide berth.

“Natelli? I think you have a suite for me.”

Amanda thought she heard a small gasp from her mother. When she turned to look, Sylvia stood with her back to them. She had slipped her sunglasses back on. She was studying an Italian oil painting that Amanda prayed was a copy, because if it wasn’t, they could never afford this place.

“He must be one of those high rollers, a big fish,” whispered Ken. “I think they call them sharks.”

“Whales,” corrected Robby.

The man glanced back at them, smiling absently as if that would excuse his behavior. The receptionist pulled his account up on the computer, then reached for a packet with his nameneatly printed on the outside. She pressed a buzzer, and a man in a maroon jacket with gold braid quickly appeared from behind a sliding panel.

“Here you go, Mr. Natelli. Glad to have you with us, sir. Your suite is on the sixteenth floor, overlooking Lake Bellagio. Antoine will be your personal valet for the duration of your stay.” The young man tipped his head as he was introduced. “If there is anything he can do to make your stay more comfortable, please call him. Anytime, twenty-four/seven.” She tried dazzling him with a sparkling smile, but he failed to notice.

As he turned to follow Antoine, he paused, staring at Sylvia.

“Lucky-is that you?” His tanned face erupted in a smile, and his eyes gleamed with hope.

Time froze for a split second while they all tried to reconcile their image of Sylvia with this saucy nickname.

Amanda giggled, then looked at her mother.

“You must be mistaken. My name is not Lucky,” she said. George moved protectively to her side.

“Sorry,” said Mr. Natelli, “it’s just that you look so much like…”

“You’re wrong,” said George.

Natelli looked directly at him, and George stared back. They were like two bull elk getting ready to battle it out in an ancient rutting ritual. Then Natelli glanced around at the others. Backing up one step, he turned and strode down the hall after his valet.

Ken found their confirmation slip and handed it to the woman. She read it then glanced up at him.

“But your reservations are for our budget rooms… made online.”

“Yes, through Expedia.”

“Then you check-in in the main lobby. Straight down the hall, then veer to the left.” She handed the paper back to him, dismissing him and returning to her work at the computer.

“What? No Antoine for us?” quipped Robby.

They shouldered their bags and proceeded to the lobby, awed by the Fiore di Como, a garden of glass flowers hanging from the ceiling created by Dale Chihuly. Blooms of every shape and size exploded in glorious color overhead.

They made their way to the desk and registered. After receivingkeycards, everyone but Robby headed to their rooms to unpack. He darted into the casino.

After a quick shower, Amanda decided to call her parents to see if they would join them for dinner.

“Ah, honey, that’s not such a good idea. You kids go have some fun. We old folks will just rest up for the big day tomorrow.”

Ken suggested they eat at a nearby casino using a coupon for an all-you-can-eat buffet he found in a tourist guide. They rousted Robby from the craps table, interrupting what appeared to be a whammer of a losing streak, and headed off.

After filling their plates at the buffet, they commandeered a booth and began unloading their trays. The food proved to be unremarkable, except for the quantity. But they were hungry, and ate in silence the first few minutes.

Amanda marveled at the amount Carol Ann was able to eat and still keep her figure, although she looked a little plumper than she had in her wedding pictures. She’d have to make sure she didn’t gain weight after she and Ken were married.

“Did you call the chapel yet?” asked Carol Ann.

“No,” said Amanda. “I haven’t had time. Which one was it you guys use?”

“The Church of Elvis,” announced Robby. “They were awesome.” He sliced into a rubbery prawn. “Hey, think we can score some tickets for that heavyweight bout tomorrow afternoon?” he asked Ken.

“I don’t know; Tyson’s looking pretty hot, and I heard they were all sold out.”

“Dad got tickets,” said Amanda, swallowing a tough bite of prime rib, “but don’t tell him I told you. Act surprised. It’s your bachelor party.”

The men erupted in a hoot and slapped palms across the table while Amanda rolled her eyes.

She suggested the ladies get their hair done while the men were gone, and Carol Ann agreed.

The couples strolled hand-in-hand down the Strip in the direction of the Treasure Island Hotel to catch the evening performance of the swashbuckling pirates doing battle with HRMNavy. Then they returned to their hotel, stopping to watch the fountains soar over a thousand feet in the air, then cascade down through incandescent lighting.

Ken and Amanda hailed a cab, heading to the Marriage License Bureau. That made one less thing to do tomorrow. Robby and Carol Ann retired to their room.

The phone jarred Amanda awake shortly after dawn.

“Yes?”

“Sweetheart, you’d better come to our room.”

“Now, Dad?”

“Yes, now! And bring everybody else, too.”

She called Carol Ann, who agreed to meet them there after she located Robby, who had returned to the casino last night to recoup his losses and hadn’t come back to the room yet.

They all stumbled through the door to her parent’s room about the same time, Robby looking exhausted and smelling of smoke, the others just dopey from sleep. George was alone, pacing.

“I ordered up some coffee. Grab a cup and have a seat.”

They obliged, sitting in the chairs and on the foot of the bed.

“Dad, where’s Mom?” asked Amanda as she started to sip her coffee.

“That’s the problem. I don’t know!”

Cups halted in mid air.

“You lost Mother?”

“No. Yes! She left sometime during the night. I was asleep.”

Amanda glanced around the room again, noticing several tiny bourbon bottles from the honor bar sitting by a bottle of branch water.

“Were you drinking?”

“Not me, honey. Your mom.”

“Mother doesn’t drink.”

“Correction. Your mother doesn’t start drinking, because she doesn’t stop.”

While Amanda tried to make sense of this, he went on. “Your mother has a drinking problem. And a small one with gambling, too.”

“Stop it! She does not!” Amanda jumped up and paced in front of the window looking out on the mute fountains. “I’ve never seen her take so much as one drink.”

“That’s true. As long as she attends her meetings, she’s fine.”

“What meetings?”

“She’s in AA, the twelve-step program, for drinking and gambling.”

“That’s impossible! When did she have time for that?” Sylvia was always on her way to work or to the church for some committee meeting.

“Let’s just say she doesn’t really drive a bookmobile every afternoon.”

“I can’t believe I never knew about this!”

“She stopped drinking when she found out she was pregnant with you. And then when we got married…”

“You mean she was already pregnant when you got married?”

Ken and Robby stifled grins, but Amanda saw and ordered them out of the room.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” said George. “We need them to help find her.”

Spreading out a map of the Strip, they agreed to start at the closest casino, checking every bar and gambling room until they found her. George would stay in the room by the phone and run command central from there, and he would notify them if she returned. They exchanged cell phone numbers and left.

Amanda headed north to Caesars Palace, covering the west side of the street, and Ken the east, starting at Bally’s. Robby and Carol Ann ran south toward the Monte Carlo and Paris Casinos. They rushed in and out of casinos, which were moderately full at that early hour, glancing in every bar and cafe along the way. The temperature was rising faster than a fish fart, and the sun pelted them with withering rays when they weren’t inside. By nine o’clock they were wilting from heat and hunger.

As Amanda entered the Mirage, she noticed the high roller from the night before, Mr. Natelli, arguing with a woman on a stool whose back was to her. The woman slumped forward, slopping her drink down her blue pantsuit. As she turned, Amanda realized it was her mother.

“Mom! What are you doing here?”

Sylvia tried to focus, wobbling on the stool, her right handglued to the pull handle of the slot machine. Her normally coiffed hair hung limp in her eyes, and she’d outlasted her makeup by hours, revealing how much work it took daily to maintain the facade.

“That’s okay, I’ve got her. You can leave now,” she said, coolly dismissing the man. She was relieved when he let go of her mother’s other arm and walked toward the cage. He spoke with the cashier, signed something and left.

Amanda placed a frantic call to George, who spread the word that Sylvia had been located at the Mirage, compulsively dinging the $500 slot machine, mumbling something about being $45,000 in the hole. They pried her away from the machine as she chugged the last of what was far from her first bourbon and water. George inquired about her debt, but was told the marker had been picked up. He glanced at her diamond ring, relieved to see it glittering from her left hand, knowing it would hardly make bail on that amount.

Between the five of them, they got her through the lobby of the Bellagio, but her feet never touched the ground. While Amanda and Carol Ann helped her into a chilly shower, George had a talk with Ken and Robby.

“I don’t know how to tell you boys this, but I can’t give you the money I promised you. Not yet. I need it to buy back Sylvia’s marker.”

Ken glanced at Robby, wondering how much he was getting, and why.

“That’s fine, sir,” he said, mentally calculating the interest charge on what this weekend would cost him if he had to put it on his Visa.

“Dad, that’s not fair!”

“Son, I had no idea your mother was going to have this trouble. With the market down, I’m in a little bit of a cash flow bind. Construction business has slowed down.”

“Oh, like you’re the only one? I bought that Global.com stock you-know-who recommended.” He glared at Ken.

“Hey, I said I was sorry! The projected earnings were good…”

“Save it. Just don’t ever expect me to ever listen to…”

“Quiet!” admonished George. “The women don’t need to hear about this.”

Amanda and Sylvia shuffled into the room, Sylvia wrapped tightly in the complimentary white terry robe as if it restrained what little dignity she had left. She could not meet their eyes, not yet. After two cups of coffee, she started coming around.

That was when the tears started, both hers and Amanda’s. Carol Ann excused herself and went to their room.

“You kids run on too,” encouraged George. “You’ve got a lot to get ready. This is your big day!” His forced enthusiasm seemed as appropriate as a stripper at a church picnic.

Amanda ran ahead to their room while Ken stayed to talk to Robby. She wanted to throw herself down on the bed and cry her heart out, but there wasn’t time. She pulled herself together and called the Church of Elvis. A wedding consultant agreed to come over at noon to arrange the details for the service and collect the payment. When Ken came in, she was rapidly brushing her fluid, blonde hair.

“So, Robby and I were wondering, do you think your dad will still give us the tickets for the fight?”

“You have got to be kidding! Is that all you can think about?”

“Well, he already paid for them, and we have to know by noon.”

“That’s when the chapel advisor is coming.”

“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 windowwatching 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 offeredher 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 microphoneand 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 before 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 towatch 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.

“This doesn’t look like the older Ann-Margret we had at our ceremony, the one with the pointy bra.” She turned to the detective. “Do you still think an ice pick was used to kill him?”

“Something just a little bigger.”

“Like a number three knitting needle? Hidden in a boot?”

“That would work,” he said. “Who knits?”

All eyes went to Carol Ann.

“Go get your needles,” said Amanda. When Carol Ann didn’t move, Amanda pulled the bag out of the closet, holding out one badly bent needle and the long red wig from the beauty salon.

“Don’t be silly! I can explain. I sat on it! And I didn’t even know we weren’t going to get the money.”

“Yes you did, honey. I told you about the marker when I called from the fight,” offered Robby.

“Shut up, you idiot!” she shouted. “We’re married, you can’t testify against me!”

“You didn’t murder him, did you?” asked Robby, looking younger than his years.

“As a nurse, you’d know just where to aim,” said Amanda, “and you’re used to shifting bodies around.”

“Someone had to stand up to him,” she hissed at Robby, “and it clearly wasn’t you.” She stared at him with loathsome eyes. “We needed that money your dad promised! You lost almost that much in the casino last night, and with the baby coming…”

“What baby?”

“Ours, you dope. Why else do you think I married you?”

He sank back against the bed pillows, his freckles standing out like black pips on white dice.

The detective had heard enough. He escorted Carol Ann out the door, leaving a stunned family to wonder what to do next.

“I’m ruined!” whispered Sylvia. “Now everyone back home will find out about this.”

“They won’t hear about it from me,” said Ken. He looked atAmanda. “Well, should we call and see if the chapel is free? We’ve already paid for it.”

“I’ve been thinking. I don’t think I want to start my married life in Sin City after all. I think we should head home, and Mom and I will start planning a nice, small church wedding. How about that, Mom?”

Sylvia reached out and hugged her daughter, smiling for the first time since she’d arrived back in Las Vegas.