Torn between standing guard like an unwanted mutt or tracking down the thugs from last night, Hank hesitated. His cop sense had all of the hairs on his forearm reaching for the sky. Everything looked normal. Everyone acted normal. Everything should feel normal, but it didn't. Something was off.
Listening to his gut, he marched toward the conference room. Through the open door, he saw Beth sitting behind a long table at the front of the room fiddling with some papers in front of her. A crowd of attorneys filed into the lecture hall through the other door to sit in the several hundred empty seats. Folks from her firm buzzed around the dais.
Fine. Everything was fine.
Damn, he couldn’t afford to overreact to every twingy feeling. Nothing would happen to her in a room full of hundreds of people. Time to go make Elvis sing.
The Little Elvis Wedding Chapel didn't look any better in the light of day. It looked a hell of a lot worse.
In a town full of tacky, this velvet-and-gold shrine to a man who’d died on his toilet stood in a class of its own. A six foot tall papier-mâché Elvis in a well-filled-out white jumpsuit with a suspicious eye stood next to a large hand-printed sign urging the marriage-inclined not to spill their drinks as they walked down the aisle.
While Hank waited for Little Elvis to finish a phone call in his office, he flipped through the velvet (of course) covered scrapbook on the reception counter. No matter what people may think of Elvis impersonators, this one was damn good at his job. The man was the spitting image of Elvis—a fat, short Elvis, sure, but Elvis all the same.
Someone coughed so
ftly behind him. Hank glanced over his shoulder to find Little Elvis, dressed in jeans and a red-and-blue striped golf shirt but with his hair in the young Elvis pompadour, standing behind him.
“How may I help you, sir?” he asked in a clipped British accent.
Startled, it took Hank a minute to confirm the voice really did come from the man standing in the open doorway of the office. Who'da thought? Chalking it up to all the weird things life threw at you, Hank strode to Little Elvis and stuck out his hand.
“Thank you for seeing me. I'm Dry Creek County Sheriff Hank Layton and I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
The man glanced at the extended hand, then crossed his arms over his chest. “And where exactly is Dry Creek County?”
Lowering his hand, Hank's best aw-shucks grin tightened. “Nebraska.”
“You're out of your jurisdiction, Sheriff.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
That earned him a quirked eyebrow. The man gave him a considering look and his small green eyes stayed locked on Hank's face. “You were here last night. I believe you barged in on the nuptials of a Georgia and Franklin Beauchamp.”
“Yep, that was me alright, and that's why I need to ask you a favor.”
“Mmm-hmmm. It’s always good to have law enforcement owe you a favor, even if he's from as far away as… Nebraska, I believe you said?”
Hank nodded.
“Alright then, sheriff, I'm Alistair Armstrong. Please join me in my office where we can chat in peace.”
Following Armstrong into the office, he stopped dead as soon as he crossed the threshold. The room was as understated as the lobby was garish. Cool blue paint covered the walls, punctuated with a crisp white trim. Large black-and-white candid photos of Elvis backstage preparing for concerts decorated the walls in the few spots where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves didn't take up all the space. The only available seat was a dark-blue wingback chair.
Armstrong walked behind a large oak desk, took a few steps upward and sat down on a full-size black chair. He must have noticed a quizzical look on Hank's face because a slight flush deepened the pink of his round cheeks.
“It's a step stool. The small things make life more convenient, don't you think, Sheriff?”
Hank settled into the wingback chair. “That I do.”
“So, how can I assist you?”
“I'd like a copy of your surveillance video from last night.”
“Really?” He steepled his fingers and tapped them on his chin. “What makes you think I videotape my customers?”
“The right eye of the craft-project Elvis in your lobby looks an awful lot like a camera lens.”
Armstrong chuckled and leaned back in his seat. “Score one for the hick sheriff. Okay, I videotape my customers, for my own protection of course.”