Killer Sweet Tooth

Chapter

Four




JUANITA AND I looked at Myra and then at each other with a mixture of alarm and amazement. Myra was wearing tight black cigarette pants and a bright red low-cut sweater that can only be described as va-va-va-voom. She had on a curly strawberry-blond shoulder-length wig. In addition, I think she’d had someone at a mall cosmetic counter do her makeup because it had obviously been applied with the intent to sell her one of everything in the cosmetic case. She’d been given “smoky cat’s eyes,” bright red lips, and contoured cheeks. But what really concerned me were the scarlet, strappy stilettos.

“Do I look like a sex kitten?” she asked, clawing the air in what I imagine she saw as a catlike gesture.

When Juanita and I merely continued to gape at her, she asked, “Don’t you see? I’m Ann-Margret!” She smiled and tottered around in a circle.

“You’re going to hurt yourself in those shoes,” I said.

“Nonsense.” She lifted her chin. “I believe the Bible, and it says, ‘He will make me walk on my high heels.’ New King James version.”

“Myra, they didn’t have high heels in biblical times,” I said.

“It’s the last verse in Habakkuk.” She nodded smugly. “If you don’t believe me, look it up.”

I cannot simply let a challenge like that slide. I went into the bedroom, got my New King James–version Bible, and returned to the kitchen. I fumbled around until I finally had to look Habakkuk up in the table of contents. Then I flipped to the last verse and read aloud:

The Lord God is my strength;

He will make my feet like deer’s feet,

And He will make me walk on my high hills.


“It says hills,” I said, placing the Bible on the table so both Myra and Juanita could read the verse for themselves. “High hills . . . like little mountains.”

Myra huffed. “Look down at my dear feet. If these shoes ain’t little mountains, I don’t know what are.”

Juanita pursed her lips. “She’s got you there.”

“Are you ready to go?” Myra asked.

“I am. Juanita, are you?”

“Yes, I am ready,” she said.

“Good,” Myra said. “If China will come on, we can get there in time to get a good seat.” She considered Juanita and me for a moment. “You two probably have time to glam up a little bit if you’d like to. This is a live performance, you know. And you can bet those Elvises will be dressed to the nines.”

Juanita had on jeans and an ivory fisherman’s sweater. She looked lovely in a natural way.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I believe you’re glammed up enough for all of us.”

“Yes, so do I,” Juanita said. “You look lovely. . . . Very . . . Priscilla, did you say?”

“Ann-Margret,” Myra said. “She and Elvis were in love before he married Priscilla. Ann-Margret is the one who got away.” She looked wistful. “But tonight, maybe he’ll get a second chance.”

I shook my head ever so slightly at Juanita. There was no point in reiterating to Myra that she was not Ann-Margret and that the real Elvis Presley was dead. Myra was in her own little fantasy world at this point.

And when China showed up, she appeared to be in a fantasy world of her own. She’d left her silvery hair unbraided, and it was hanging in loose waves nearly to her waist. She’d also traded in her blue jeans and man’s flannel shirt for a lavender wrap dress. She wore flat-soled boots and carried a black wool trench coat over her arm.

“China,” I said when I found my voice, “you look incredible.”

“Thanks,” she said. “They were able to work me in down at Tanya’s—she’s not usually open on Sunday, you know, but she made an exception today with everybody wanting to go to the concert. And I thought I might as well fix up a tad . . . you know, put on a dress, smear on some lipstick.”

Tanya’s is the informal name for Tanya’s Tremendous Tress-Taming Salon.

“You do look nice,” Myra said, looking at me from the corners of her eyes.

“And isn’t Myra something?” I asked.

“She sure is,” China said with a shake of her head. “Y’all want to get started?”

“We’d better, if we’re going to get a decent seat,” Myra said. “And, no offense, Daphne, but I don’t believe we’ll all fit comfortably in that little drawn-up car of yours. That’s why I brought my Buick.”

I chuckled. “We should’ve rented a Cadillac for this special occasion.”

“Yeah, well,” Myra said, “I can’t think of everything myself.”

Juanita and I got into the backseat of Myra’s huge white Buick and, through a series of shared looks, communicated our acknowledgment that she and I were the only sane people in this car and could possibly wind up being the only sane people at this concert.

“Say, Juanita,” Myra said, glancing into her rearview mirror at us, “weren’t you a patient of Dr. Bainsworth?”

Juanita lowered her head. “I was for a while, yes, but then I transferred to Dr. Farmer.”

“Why’s that?” Myra asked.

“I just wanted to,” Juanita said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, you’ve probably heard that Daphne and I are the ones who found the dentist’s body,” Myra said, turning her attention to the road. “I’m asking people all over town about him because we need to figure out who killed him before the cops try to frame us. I mean, we were the ones who found him.”

“Yeah, and even though the Chronicle didn’t mention our names, everybody seemed to know it was us,” I said.

“And, of course, this is not the first dead body Daphne’s ever found,” Myra reminded us. “Nor is it the first time she’s been investigated for murder.”

“Thanks for pointing that out.” I wondered if she’d catch my sarcasm this time. She usually didn’t. “I talked with Ben about suspects last night too. He told me the police are going through Dr. Bainsworth’s files and are talking with his staff and patients. If anybody had a reason to kill him, they’ll find it. I hope.”

“They’re going through his files?” Juanita asked. “But why? I mean, what would someone’s dental records have to do with the dentist’s death?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “After Ben gave me some of the gory details about Dr. Bainsworth’s divorce, I thought the killer might be his ex-wife. Violet doesn’t think so, though. She likes Angela and doesn’t think the woman would fly into a rage at this stage of their divorce.”

“I agree with Violet,” China said. “I believe Angela was smart enough to put the whole mess behind her and start all over . . . kind of like you, Daphne. Anyway, the salon was buzzing with dentist talk today.”

“What did everybody there have to say?” Myra asked.

“The general consensus is that Dr. Bainsworth fooled around with the wrong patient and that the girlfriend—or more likely, her husband—got fed up with the dentist’s frisky behavior and confronted him,” China said. She took a deep breath. “I have to tell you, though, some officers came into the salon while I was there. They were asking questions about Dr. Bainsworth . . . and they were asking us questions about the two of you.”

“What kind of questions?” I asked.

“Pretty general stuff,” China said. “They wanted to know if any of us knew you—and of course, we did—if either of you had a beef with Dr. Bainsworth or had been romantically linked with him, what type of people you are . . . that sort of thing.”

“I hope you put in a good word for us,” Myra said.

“I did.” China huffed. “I told them you were both nice as pie and that I didn’t think either of you had it in for Dr. Bains-worth.”

“Thank you. I hope they’ll leave Daphne and me alone and follow other leads. I heard there’s a woman who works the night shift at the Sunoco claiming a man came in there with blood on the sleeve of his jacket just as the police went roaring by on their way to Dr. Bainsworth’s office,” Myra said. “Ivy, who works at the post office, was telling me about it. The Sunoco woman asked the man if he’d hurt himself, and she said he’d acted surprised. She pointed out the stain on his sleeve, and then he said, ‘Oh, no, I was with a buddy whose nose started to bleed.’ That sounds awfully suspicious, if you want my opinion.”

“I agree. What did the man buy at the Sunoco?” I asked.

“Just a bottle of pop,” Myra said.

“What sort of car was he driving?” China asked.

“Ivy said the Sunoco woman didn’t see a car,” Myra said. “She said the man was acting like he was looking for somebody. She didn’t know if he’d parked out back or was waiting for a ride or what.”

“Or if he was looking to see if the police were after him,” I said. “The Sunoco is only a few yards away from Dr. Bainsworth’s office. If the police could take a look at their security video—”

“I don’t know whether or not that would be of much help,” Myra said, interrupting. “The man was dressed as Elvis.”


DESPITE THE FACT that a crowd had already gathered by the time we reached the hotel, we had a table near the left side of the stage thanks to Juanita’s boyfriend. He’d reserved it for her and had even left her a single red rose.

I had no idea what to expect from this concert. I was under the impression that most Elvis impersonators worked alone, came out and did a set of Elvis songs, maybe handed out sweaty scarves, and then everyone went home. I was apparently somewhat correct in my assumption because when the announcer came out to introduce the EIEIO members, he called the concert “unprecedented.”

The lights dimmed and in a hushed, reverential voice, the announcer introduced the Elvis Impersonators’ Evangelical Interdenominational Outreach. A blue spotlight shone on an Elvis who was standing in the center of the stage.

“One for the money,” he sang.

A red spotlight shone on an Elvis to his right. “Two for the show.”

The Elvis to the left was spotlighted in white. He picked up the next line.

The lights came up, revealing an entire stage full of Elvises. Some were young, some were old; some were skinny, some were fat; some wore black leather, and some wore white jumpsuits with rhinestones and fringe. I tried to pick Scottie Phillips out of the crowd, but I couldn’t. I saw Myra’s point. If an Elvis had committed a crime in Brea Ridge within the past three days, barring a confession, you’d be hard-pressed to figure out which Elvis it was.

The Elvises finished singing “Blue Suede Shoes,” and then one of them stepped forward to explain the EIEIO’s mission. I thought maybe this man was Scottie, but the voice wasn’t quite right.

“The Elvis Impersonators’ Evangelical Interdenominational Outreach, also known as the EIEIO, tours all over the world, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We travel to areas of need. In those desolate places, we use our talent to entertain and to spread love, hope, and happiness to a weary world.” He closed his eyes and dropped his head.

The audience applauded.

The Elvis impersonator raised his head and continued. “Tonight, friends, we’re asking for your help. As you enjoy the performance, ladies and gentlemen, look into your hearts. Realize how very blessed you are. And then, if you’re able to do so, please make a monetary donation to the EIEIO. Please . . . help us help the world.”

Again, the audience applauded. I glanced around at my tablemates. China and Juanita looked solemn and thoughtful. They truly believed the EIEIO organization was doing valuable work. I didn’t see how going places and giving Elvis performances enhanced the world, but maybe there was more to it than that. I personally wanted to see a brochure, especially before I contributed any of my hard-earned money to the cause.

Looking at Myra, I could see she simply wanted this Elvis to hush so the concert could continue. She soon got her wish.

About halfway through the concert, an older Elvis wearing a white jumpsuit and sporting an orange and white lei came onto the stage and began singing “Viva Las Vegas.” He walked down the stairs and into the dining hall. As soon as he noticed Myra/Ann-Margret, he conga-ed over to our table. He held out his hand, and she took it. No big surprise.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Ann-Margret!” he shouted as a spotlight shone on the two of them.

Myra did a little bow and then began to conga with Elvis. Thank goodness, he had his hands on her waist. She did the most wobbly conga I’d ever seen on those “high hills” of hers, and I was happy Elvis was there to keep her from falling and breaking a hip or something. After he’d finished his performance, Elvis led Myra back to our table, took off his lei, and put it around her neck. She beamed—at him, at us, at the audience, and then back at us. That last smile lingering in my direction contained a hint of I-told-you-so triumph. I raised my soda glass in salute.

Later, Juanita’s boyfriend—whose real name, she whispered, was Aaron—came onto the stage. He was a cutie—one of the slimmer, leather-clad Elvises. I wondered what he looked like without the wig. He was fair skinned, and I thought maybe he was a blond.

“I see a lot of beautiful people in this audience tonight,” Aaron said, “but the most beautiful girl in the world to me is sitting right there, friends.” He pointed at Juanita, and a spotlight shone on her.

She covered her blushing face with her hands as the audience cheered and applauded.

He continued as the spotlight turned back to him. “Tonight, I’ll be performing a song that Elvis sang in his last TV appearance just six weeks prior to his death.” He went on to sing “Unchained Melody.”

“Juanita,” I whispered as the applause finally died down after his performance, “he did a fantastic job. What a voice.”

She was still blushing. “I know. Thank you.”

Another Elvis took the stage. “Not many people know this, but ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ was inspired by a suicide note. The note said simply, ‘I walk a lonely street.’ The song became Elvis’s first number one hit on Billboard’s pop chart and earned him his first gold record for sales over one million.”

He went on to sing the song, jumping off the stage and going from table to table crooning to all the ladies, including China, whose hand he kissed. Her cheeks flushed prettily, but she didn’t seem terribly surprised or impressed to be included in the Elvis impersonator’s attentions.

Amidst all the fun, I kept thinking about the woman who worked at the Sunoco and had sold a bloody-sleeved Elvis a bottle of pop. If I was an Elvis impersonator who wanted to commit a crime in Brea Ridge, this was the ideal time to do it. Even if I wasn’t an Elvis impersonator, what better time could there be to dress up as Elvis and commit a crime?

Who robbed the bank? Elvis! Which Elvis?

But then, what motive would an Elvis have to kill a dentist? No, I had to agree with China. Cherchez la femme.

The concert was almost over, and I’d yet to see Scottie Phillips. I hoped he was part of the concert. I’d hate to think my biggest client—okay, my only client—in two weeks would miss my show of support.

A few Elvises later, I would live to regret that sentiment.

Once again, the lights dimmed dramatically. A single trumpet played “Taps” softly in the background as a yet-unseen person spoke softly from the stage.

“This next song’s origins date back to the American Civil War. The tune ‘Aura Lee’ was published in 1861. Elvis released the single ‘Love Me Tender’ to this tune in September of 1956.”

“Taps” faded, the lights came up, and there stood Scottie Phillips as Elvis, dressed head to toe in black leather.

“This is the ultimate love song . . . a song where the singer pours his heart out . . . asking for a chance at love.” Scottie looked over at me, and I gave him a little wave.

Scottie walked slowly down the steps of the stage to the main floor. “I have a confession to make.” He gazed around the room. “I’m asking for that chance at love tonight myself, ladies and gentlemen.”

Like everyone else in the hushed room, I began looking around to see who Scottie wanted to have a chance at love with.

He walked toward our table. “Daphne, my little confectionery queen, come here.” He held out his hand. “Please.”

Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, I merely sat there.

Scottie smiled at the audience. “I think my lady is a little overcome, folks. Please give her your encouragement. Won’t you?”

As the audience erupted in applause and wolf whistles, Scottie put his arm around me and led me to the stage.

“Come on, help me out here,” he whispered to me. “It’s part of my act.”

While Scottie had been wooing me out of my seat, someone had put a straight-backed wooden chair in the center of the stage. Scottie ushered me onto the chair. He sank to his knees in front of me and began singing ‘Love Me Tender’ as if he meant every word.

Halfway through the song, he took my hands and pulled me to my feet. There was an instrumental interlude. Scottie pushed the chair aside with his boot and waltzed me around the stage. After the instrumental section, we stopped dancing back at center stage. Scottie held me in one arm and held the microphone in the other. He sang the rest of the song and then sang the last verse again.

By the time he’d finished that last verse, we were standing face-to-face. And he was close. You couldn’t have slid a playing card between us without it bending. He put the arm holding the microphone around me too.

“What did you think?” he asked in a husky voice.

“Um . . . that was . . . a great performance,” I whispered.

That’s when he kissed me. Not a simple peck on the cheek this time, but a Scarlett-Rhett-curl-your-toes kind of kiss. Onstage. In front of all those people. And all those people started cheering and whistling and clapping.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Scottie was a showman, and I’d been given a starring role in his latest performance. He laughed too.

Keeping one arm around me, he turned to the audience. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

I looked out at the audience too. I was surprised to see that many of the women were actually crying. They’d bought Scottie’s entire song and dance. They really believed this was a man pouring his heart out to a woman he loved.

“Take a bow, Daphne,” he said.

I did a quick bow. This was kind of fun, but now I was ready to go back to my little table in the corner and hide.

Scottie winked at me and started to lead me off the stage. But I pulled up short. Ben was standing at the back of the room. Scottie followed my gaze. Then, instead of continuing to lead me off the stage, he swept me up into his arms and carried me backstage. Once again, the audience went crazy.

“Get ’er done, Elvis!” one male audience member yelled. I was 99 percent sure that male audience member was not Ben.

Scottie sat me down backstage. “That was pretty awesome, huh?”

“I need to go explain this to Ben,” I said.

“Why?” Scottie asked. “You don’t think he loves you enough to come and get you?”

“I’m not sure he loves me at all . . . especially after this,” I said.

He grinned. “Well, then, lucky me.”

“I have to get out there,” I said.

“I’ll send a note to your table to let your friends know where you are. Go out back and meet them at the car,” Scottie said.

“But—”

“If you don’t, those women will mob you when you go back out there. They’ll want to know how we met, how long we’ve been seeing each other, when the wedding will be. . . .”

“I’m not the first woman you’ve ‘loved tender,’ am I?” I asked.

He chuckled. “No, but you’re my favorite . . . and you could be the last if you play your cards right.”

“Right. I haven’t even been dealt a hand in this game. Which way do I go to get out of here?” I asked.

He led me to the backstage door. “Thanks, Daph.”

“You owe me,” I said.

“After that kiss? Don’t I know it,” he said with a grin. “Good night.”

I hurried over to Myra’s car. She, China, and Juanita hadn’t come out yet. I walked around the parking lot hoping to spot Ben. I needed to tell him that things weren’t what they’d looked like.

I didn’t get a chance, though. I saw his Jeep speeding away.