Free Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis by Virginia Brown Page A

got to be a connection. Two dead Elvises in two days? Say, do you know if the plural of Elvis is Elvises, or Elvi?”
     
    Cami gave her a skeptical look. “You’ve really lost your mind, haven’t you. I think it started back in May, but now you’re past help.”
     
    “We’ve already discussed this. My insanity began at puberty. I’ve just refined it.”
     
    “Bobby’s right. You’re dangerous. I can’t believe I let you talk me into coming here with you. Where’s Yogi? And how soon do we get to leave?”
     
    “Don’t listen to anything Bobby says about me. Yogi and Diva are here somewhere. I said we’d meet them at the bar when it’s over. Have I told you how good you look tonight? Your diet has really paid off.”
     
    “Atkins was right. Low-carb works. I’m a size four, but I’d kill for a loaf of French bread or a box of Krispy Kremes. Maybe that’s what set off the guy who’s killing Elvises. A case of Diet Derangement.”
     
    “No excuse. There aren’t any carbs in gin or vodka.”
     
    “Good point. I’m headed for the bar. You’ll find me with a Diet 7-Up and Absolut.”
     
    “Good thing I’m driving,” Harley called as Cami walked away. She really did look great, but almost too skinny. That’s what fooling around with a man did for women. Turned them into sticks or cat ladies. Harley wasn’t sure which one she qualified for, probably both. Her jeans had gotten loose and now she slept with a cat every night. Things were not looking up.
     
    Not that she didn’t look nice tonight. She’d worn a thin-strapped top with a low neckline edged with a broad band of glittery embroidery, a new short, flared purple skirt, and sandals with heels. She almost never wore skirts, much less heels, but she had tonight. And she’d blown her hair dry instead of gelling it into spikes, so it feathered around her face in wispy strands. It was a disguise. Her own parents wouldn’t recognize her. Cami’s mouth had dropped open when she’d seen her.
     
    “I forgot you could look like that,” she’d exclaimed, and Harley had told her to shut up and never mention it again. Cami had just laughed.
     
    Harley got a Coke and wandered around the crowded room, peering at Elvises over the top of her glass, looking as nonchalant as possible. On the bandstand, different impersonators sang their hearts out, songs ranging from early Elvis to gospel. Some were really good, and some were ludicrous. Now she understood Yogi’s determination not to mar the memory of his favorite performer. A really fat Elvis with a bad wig attempted to reenact one of the Las Vegas shows, but split his pants when he went down to one knee. Or maybe that was part of the impersonation.
     
    She knew it wasn’t going to be as easy to recognize the guy from her van as she’d hoped. While dressed in different Elvis eras ranging from fifties to seventies, they all blended together, it seemed. Except for physical size, the faces were nearly indistinguishable, save for the black and Hispanic impersonators. This definitely wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe not even possible.
     
    Leaning up against the wall, Harley watched the crowd. She didn’t see Cami. Maybe she had run off with an Elvis or taken Harley’s advice to find a one-night stand. The latter was not at all probable, and the first was impossible. Cami’s musical preferences drifted more toward the David Lee Roth, Jon Bon Jovi type. But she hadn’t been exposed as much to the eclectic music of Harley’s childhood.
     
    The announcer at the mike said a familiar name that grabbed her attention, and Harley looked at the slightly raised stage against the far wall as he introduced her father. Yogi came on stage with a flourish, swirling his white jeweled cape in over-the-top Elvis imitation. He belted out a favorite hit, His Latest Flame, that brought a round of applause and seemed to impress the crowd. It was the best she’d ever heard him sing. The applause verified