The Elvis impersonators were dead ringers for the King. Very dead.
Harley Jean Davidson’s job as a Memphis tour guide is about to get even stranger than usual.
“Hey,” she called, “last stop for all Elvi. This is it, sir. Sir?”
He didn’t respond, just remained in his seat on the bus, staring out the window. Maybe he’d gotten cold feet about the Elvis contest. With a sigh, Harley walked to the back.
“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. 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, again.
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. The police dispatcher answered quickly.
“Nine-one-one?” Harley said in a voice that sounded a lot calmer than she felt. “We have another dead Elvis.”