Free Murder Boogies With Elvis by Anne George

“Bo Mitchell came to investigate and told us that the Mooncloth guy was probably stabbed with a switchblade knife.”
    Fred was interested enough to turn down the volume. “From the back? What did it do? Hit a kidney?”
    “Bo said he wouldn’t have died as quickly as he did if it hadn’t hit something like his aorta.”
    “From the back? What about ribs? Wouldn’t the blade have been deflected?”
    I clasped an imaginary switchblade and held my hand slightly sideways. “Put the side of your hand beside the spine, turn it, click the knife, in, up, and jiggle a little sideways. If the blade is long enough you get the aorta.”
    “And there’s blood everywhere. We didn’t see any blood.”
    “He’s bleeding inside. The knife makes a small entrance slit.”
    “Did the police find the knife?”
    “No. Whoever did it probably snatched it out, closed it, and put it in his pocket.”
    Fred tapped his chin thoughtfully with here’s-the-church hands. “There still had to be blood on the knife, maybe not much, but some, and that lets all of those Elvises in the white suits out.”
    “Probably,” I agreed.
    Fred nodded and turned the volume back up on Wheel of Fortune. Then he turned it down again. “What’s Tammy Sue’s husband’s name?”
    “Larry Ludmiller. Why?”
    “I’ll bet he had some blood on his arm, and I’ll bet the fellow on the other side did, too. You know how they had their arms around each other in that line.”
    “Probably. But you know, they didn’t form that line until the end. They were doing those individual dances and then they all came together in the line facing the audience. That had to be when it happened. The Mooncloth guy wouldn’t have been dancing around with a stuck aorta.”
    Fred looked over at me. “Don’t you get involved in this, Patricia Anne.”
    “What?” I was startled. “Why should I get involved?”
    “I don’t know. I just have a feeling.”
    “Well, you can forget it. There’s no reason for me to get involved.”
    Vanna turned over an N.
    “You got any idea what that is?” Fred asked, pointing toward the TV.
    “The Princess of Wales.” I really do need to get on that show. Not only can I solve all the puzzles, I’m so short I would make Pat Sajak look tall.
    The pleasant evening continued. Fred dozed in his chair. Woofer got up and went to the back door, wanting out.
    When I opened it, I realized the choo-chooing of rain had slowed down some. Woofer ambled over to his favorite tree, marked it, and headed for his igloo.
    “Night, night,” I called. He wagged his tail and disappeared into his warm igloo, one of the best buys I ever made.
    I covered Fred with an afghan and curled up on the sofa with Muffin to watch Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, another show that I needed to get on with my trivia-clogged brain. A man was stuck on the $125,000 question and I was telling him to quit, fool, take your $64,000 and run, when I heard a knock on the back door.
    “Fred,” I said, “someone’s at the back door.”
    He pulled the afghan higher around his shoulders and gave a little sigh.
    The next knock was more insistent. Probably Mary Alice, I thought. She was like the post office. Neither rain, sleet, nor snow could keep her from her appointed rounds—and, God knows, I was one of her appointed rounds.
    I got up just as the man on TV came to his sensesand took his money. Good. I went into the kitchen and turned on the back light. A tall, black-hooded figure stood at the door, hand raised to knock again. My heart skipped a couple of beats.
    “Aunt Pat, it’s me!”
    I opened the door. “My Lord, Marilyn, all you needed was a scythe in your hand.”
    “What?”
    “Never mind, darling. I just didn’t know who you were for a minute. Come in. You’re soaking.”
    There was an awkward moment of trying to hug each other and keep the wet raincoat out of the way. We ended up laughing, with Marilyn leaning down to kiss me on the head. Like her mother, she