Virginia Brown Books
Southern Charm Series
About Virginia Brown
She’s named after a motorcycle. Her dad’s an Elvis impersonator.
Her mom talks to spirit guides.
Someone’s kidnapped the family dog – named King, in Elvis’s honor.
There’s a ransom note.
And then things really get weird.
Memphis tour guide, Harley Jean Davidson, is about to enjoy a rare day off when her parents call with news that King, their border collie, has been dognapped. Harley Jean’s mom insists the culprit is Bruno Jett, their next door neighbor. Harley Jean would rather run over her own foot with a motorcycle than talk to him. He’s drop-dead gorgeous – with a dangerous attitude she’d like to avoid.
But King has to be rescued, so she sets off to find him. Harley Jean gets more than she bargains for when she finds a body, as well. Bruno Jett is definitely involved, but how?
The Memphis P.D. wants to pin the murder on Harley Jean’s dad. Now it’s up to her to clear his name . . . and avoid becoming the killer’s next victim.
Suddenly, the bathroom light went out. “Hey! I’m still in here!”
She fumbled with the latch on the stall door, then eased out and felt her way along the tiled wall. She bumped into the sink and ricocheted off the opposite wall. Swearing loudly, she wrenched open the bathroom door and ran right into a solid wall of muscle. A smelly bag was yanked over her head and her arms were pinned in a vise like grip as she was dragged down the hallway and out into the alley.
Whoever had her was trying to force her into a car, and she was just as determined not to go…
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.”
As she lay there looking up at the small, rough rectangle of dim light, it dawned on Harley that she’d fallen into an open grave. Nightmare. Why hadn’t she paid attention to that little voice inside that had told her to stay home tonight? Or to Diva? But no. Now here she was in a grave. And no one around. This was not good.
She wriggled around and tried to move, but her body only wedged tighter into the soft dirt. Spider web threads still clung to her face and snagged on her hands as she sank deeper into the mud and muck at the bottom. This wasn’t doing it. She’d end up here for the entire night if she didn’t figure a way out—and she had to get out.
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