Chapter 9 #2
“That’s him! He was all up in her space, whispering something that made her go completely pale, and then she slapped him! Right across his perfect face!” Ainsley’s eyes glow with the memory. “It was like watching a reality show, but with more sequins and better lighting.”
My brain whirs with this new information. Sherry with a death threat. Chuck with a suspicious relationship shift. Pacy with some kind of blackmail material. The suspect list is expanding faster than my waistline did in the last year alone.
I glance across the room and spot Sherry Smoot standing alone near a pillar, her fiery red curls impossible to miss even in a crowd of people who seem to have raided a costume shop.
Her posture suggests someone trying very hard to look unaffected while feeling anything but, like someone who’s just received very bad news and is trying to process it without falling apart in public.
“We should totally compare notes later,” Madison says, pulling my attention back to the conversation, enthusiastic that she just discovered a new hobby.
“We’re doing this whole true crime podcast thing on the side.
Well, we will be. Once we figure out how to do podcasts and get equipment that doesn’t sound like we’re recording underwater. ”
“It’s gonna be called Baking Bad: Crime in the Kitchen,” Ainsley announces proudly.
“Or maybe The Great Vegas Kill-Off,” Madison counters. “We’re still workshopping it.”
Before I can respond to this entrepreneurial venture, both their phones ding with incoming texts. They glance down in perfect synchronicity.
“OMG!” Madison gasps, staring at her screen as if it’s just revealed the secrets of the universe. “Emergency at the Kappa house!”
“Staci used Tara’s limited-edition Korean snail mucus face mask again,” Ainsley explains with the gravity of announcing an international incident. “We have to go mediate before someone gets their extensions ripped out.”
“We’ll catch you later!” Madison promises as they both back away like a couple of paramedics responding to a life-threatening emergency. “We have so much more tea to spill! Like, gallons of it!”
“Looking forward to it,” I say, watching them disappear into the casino crowd with the efficiency of two women on a mission of critical sorority importance. “I really like them.” I turn to Charlie. “That was...”
“Exhausting? Informative? A glimpse into why I’m glad I never went to college and had to navigate the complex social hierarchy of matching outfits and shared skincare products?” Charlie supplies with the wisdom of someone who’s avoided that particularly expensive circle of hell.
“All of the above,” I agree. “But they did give us some good leads, assuming we can filter out the sorority politics.”
I glance back toward Sherry, determined to make her my first—and possibly last—suspect interview, when the air in front of me suddenly sparkles with pink and blue stars materializing like miniature fireworks, dancing in the space between Charlie and me before forming into something that could only be described as spectacularly retro.
A man—or the ghost of one—strikes a pose that would make any Elvis impersonator get all shook up.
His white rhinestone jumpsuit catches the casino lights, sending prismatic reflections across the hideous carpet in a way that somehow makes the pattern even more offensive.
His perfectly coiffed pompadour defies both gravity and death itself, rising toward the ceiling like it’s reaching for the heavens, and the signature Elvis sneer plays at his lips with the confidence of a man who knows he looks fabulous even in death.
“Well, hello there, pretty ladies,” he croons in a voice that’s one part Memphis, two parts Vegas, and three parts theatrical affectation. “Raymond Tupowski at your service, but you can call me Ray-Ray. All the ladies do, and I’ve never met a lady I didn’t like.”
Charlie’s eyes widen to the size of dessert plates. This isn’t her first ghost rodeo, but it’s clear she wasn’t expecting the King himself to make an appearance—or at least a near miss.
It turns out, we’re something called transmundane, further classified as supersensual, which means we can see the dead. But not all the dead, mostly just those the man upstairs sends back to help solve a crime or two.
Mostly.
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 high note, 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 to both victims?” 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 and maker of 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 presence causing 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.