Page 25 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
And by mostly, I mean just me. Charlie has yet to have a supernatural sidekick sent her way. I guess you could say I’m the unlucky one in the family who fate seems to have tapped as a supernatural sleuth.
But there are other ghosts we see on the regular, too—like the happy family of ghosts taking up residence in my mother’s B&B, who apparently enjoy the amenities and don’t mind sharing space with living guests as long as nobody complains about the occasional cold spot or mysterious piano music at three a.m.
“Who are you here for?” I ask directly, keeping my voice low enough that nearby gamblers won’t think I’m conversing with thin air. And let’s be honest, there are two victims at hand.
Ray-Ray’s spectral features shift into a look of paternal pride mixed with sorrow. “I’m here for my baby girl, Jolene Tupowski. Nelson was just her stage name. Tupowski didn’t have the right ring for a baking celebrity, you know? Sounds more like a plumber than a pastry chef.” His transparent chest puffs up with pride that somehow manages to be visible despite his deceased status. “That’s right, sugar cube. I’m Jolene’s daddy, and she was my pride and joy.”
“Jolene was your daughter?” I repeat, genuinely surprised because the family resemblance is somewhat difficult to assess given his current translucent state and elaborate costume. I wasn’t expecting this family connection, though in hindsight, Vegas Elvis impersonators and bakers have to come from somewhere.
“She was the sweetest little songbird a father could ask for,” Ray-Ray confirms, his spectral form flickering slightly with emotion like bad TV reception. “Though we weren’t exactly on speaking terms when my ticker gave out last month.” A mournful expression crosses his face that’s touching even on a dead man in a rhinestone jumpsuit. “I had a heart attack right in the middle of ‘Burnin’ Love.’ At least I went out on a highnote, literally.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say sincerely, realizing how strange that sounds given that he’s the dead one. “Both yours and hers.”
“But wait, there’s more,” Ray-Ray continues, striking another pose that involves hip movement that would certainly prompt medical intervention if attempted by a living person over forty. “I also managed Dirty Joe for nearly thirty years! That thieving copycat stole my best moves.”
“So you’re connected tobothvictims?” Charlie asks, finally finding her voice.
“That’s right, darlin’,” Ray-Ray confirms with a theatrical wink that somehow manages to be charming despite the circumstances. “Ray-Ray Tupowski, father of a star andmakerof stars! Been managing Joe since he was nothin’ but a kid with greasy hair and big dreams of someday being almost as good as the real King.” As if to demonstrate his qualifications, he launches into a hip-swiveling move that could result in workman’s compensation claims.
“Can we focus?” I request kindly because I’ve learned all too well that most supernatural visitors tend to get distracted by their own drama. “Two people are dead, and I’m guessing you’re here to help us find the killer. Or killers. Please tell me it’s not killers, because my plate is already pretty full.”
“Hunters of killers, that’s us,” Charlie adds, still looking slightly shell-shocked. “Minus the badges, legal authority, proper training, and common sense.”
Ray-Ray stops mid-gyration. “That’s right, little darlin’. I’m here to help you find who put my baby girl and my best friend in the ground.” His spectral eyes darken with an intensity that suggests even death hasn’t diminished his protective instincts. “Nobody messes with the Tupowski family and gets away with it. I’ve got some serious TCB style.”
“TCB?” Charlie asks.
“Taking Care of Business,” Ray-Ray explains with another hip swivel that threatens to hypnotize nearby slot machine players—that is, if they could see him. “It’s what the King would have wanted.”
“Great, we’ve got an acronym-spouting ghostly Elvis impersonator. This day just keeps getting better,” Charlie mutters.
“Listen here, honeybun.” Ray-Ray floats closer, his presencecausing the temperature to drop noticeably and probably destroying several laws of thermodynamics. “I may be dead, but I’m still the best darn guide to Vegas you could ask for. I was trying to reconnect with my Jolene before my ticker gave out.” He sighs with the kind of theatrical sorrow that suggests he’s been practicing this speech. “I wanted to make amends, you know? A father shouldn’t leave things unsaid, especially when those things involve apologies and more than a little overdue child support from back in the day.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt her?” I ask gently, trying to keep him focused on the investigation instead of his family regrets.
Ray-Ray opens his mouth to answer, but instead breaks into the first few bars of a song that sounds suspiciously like a famous Elvis hit, complete with hand gestures and hip movements. He catches himself with an apologetic shrug that somehow manages to be sheepish despite his dramatic appearance. “Sorry, sometimes the music just takes over. It’s a curse and a blessing, like being lactose intolerant but really loving ice cream.”
“More curse than blessing from where I’m standing,” Charlie quips below a whisper.
“To answer your question, sugar,” Ray-Ray continues, “my little songbird had more enemies than a cat at a dog show. She wasn’t exactly winning Miss Congeniality backstage, if you catch my drift. She was always too ambitious for her own good.”
“Any enemies in particular you’d like to name?” I press, hoping he can provide actual useful information instead of loose musical interludes.
“Well, there’s that redheaded firecracker she was stealing recipes from. And that slick hotel fella she was—” He stops abruptly, eyes widening. “Well now, that’s interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” Charlie and I ask simultaneously as if we’re a part of some kind of supernatural chorus line.
“I just remembered something important about?—”
Whatever revelation Ray-Ray was about to share is cut short by the amplified voice of Chuck Longnecker, who stands at the front of the room tapping a microphone with the authority of someone who’s used to being listened to and obeyedwithout question.
“Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please? If all competitors could gather, we’d like to begin our morning briefing.”
I’ll admit, morning feels like a wordplay onmourning.
Ray-Ray floats upward slightly, his form beginning to shimmer like heat waves off summer pavement. “I’ll hunt down not just one killer but two! Just you wait, pretty ladies. Ray-Ray’s on the case!” He strikes one final pose, a classic Elvis point-and-wink combo that should probably be trademarked, before dissolving into another spray of stars that sparkle and fade like the world’s most spectacular exit strategy.
“Dramatic exit, much?” Charlie whispers as we make our way toward the gathering crowd.
