Who says a Gen X hipster can't solve old-school mysteries? Harley Jean's a failed college student. Her brief career in corporate banking went up in flames. She can't find Mr. Right and might settle for Mr. Wrong. She's twenty-six-years old--staring down the barrel at thirty--and now she works as a tour guide in the whacko land of Elvis. She's named after a motorcycle. Her dad's an Elvis impersonator. Her Mom talks to spirit guides. Someone kidnaps her family's 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. Leaving corporate banking for a job free of stress had been a matter of survival. So here she was, in her late twenties and burned out, but finally in a job she didn't have to take home with her at night. It was a good trade-off--most of the time. At least, when she didn't have to deal with a very sexy possible murderer . . . The basement door opened. Looking up, she saw Jett through the cracks in the wooden stairs. For a moment he just stood on the top step, the door propped open with his foot, then he let it close softly behind him but remained still and silent. He knew someone was here. The lights . . . she'd left the lights on. She barely breathed, just shallow breaths to keep from passing out, afraid he'd hear her. Bruno Magli shoes descended to the second riser. She briefly closed her eyes, thoughts of O.J. and his infamous shoes reverberating ominously in her brain. Surely, it was coincidence. The shoes descended another step, then another, and she held her breath until her ears rang and her lungs ached. The shoes stopped on the second from the bottom stair. She saw denim though the gaps, dark socks, long legs--she looked up and her gaze locked with dark blue eyes peering at her through the risers. Oh damn. He smiled, but it wasn't a very nice smile. "Well," he said, "I seem to have an uninvited visitor." "I . . . uh, was just looking for you." "And now you've found me." He reached the floor and turned to look at her where she'd edged out from beneath the stairs to feel for an escape route in the concrete block walls. "Why yes," she said, aware she spoke too brightly, "here you are. Now that you're home, I'll just be going." "No, I don't think so." He moved a few steps closer, near enough she could see the cold, dangerous gleam in his eyes. Uh oh. "Oh, I don't mind," she said, "really. I think I hear my mother calling me." "They're not home." She stared at him suspiciously. "And how do you know that?" "Because that obscene, puke green van is gone from the driveway." "Oh." That sounded logical. After all, it had been Bobby's first clue. So maybe Jett hadn't done anything to them or was responsible for them leaving. Maybe. He loomed over her. "I don't like you being here, and I don't like my privacy violated. Usually, I tend to get nasty about things like this." Uh oh. Not at all a promising conversation. Virginia Brown is the author of more than fifty novels, most recently the bestselling Dixie Diva Mysteries and the acclaimed mystery/drama, Dark River Road.