Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble (10 page)

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Authors: Peggy Webb

BOOK: Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble
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“We’re tempting the goddess of the Jade-Green Skirts.” Fayrene puts her goggles back on. I guess the better to view Jack’s muscles.
“Any luck?” He’s acting like a man carrying on a conversation around a Sunday dinner table instead of one who’s been in the jungle chasing heaven only knows what.
“Not yet,” Mama says. “But we’re fully prepared.”
“Good. I want you to stay that way.” He unfolds himself and drapes an arm over Mama’s shoulders. “Allow me to escort three beautiful ladies inside.”
“Next time maybe we’ll sacrifice a chicken,” Mama says.
“Next time, call me. You never know when you’re going to need a lethal weapon.”
I don’t miss the wicked look Jack gives me. His weapon is lethal, all right, but if I let myself start thinking about that right now, there’s no telling where it would lead.
“By the way, Ruby Nell, I enjoyed the dance,” he says to Mama. “When we get back home, you’ll have to do a repeat performance.”
I see through Jack Jones. While he makes small talk, he’s herding us back to the safety of the guest cottage. The path is narrow, plus the moon has vanished again. Permanently, it seems. We head upward single file, first me, then Mama, Fayrene, and Jack.
There’s a sound ahead of me, and I sense rather than see that we are not alone. I stop so suddenly, Mama and Fayrene bump into me.
“Stop right there. Identify yourself.” Jack’s command is a welcome reminder that we have an escort who is more than capable of defending us.
“Juanita, señor. I was taking clean sheets to the cottage.”
At this time of night? Why doesn’t Jack challenge her? Especially in light of events. If Mayan magic is being used in Lovie’s kidnapping, then the Farkles—or whoever the culprit is—had to have some inside help, somebody close enough to Tulum to pull off the ghost stunts.
Maybe Juanita wasn’t delivering clean sheets. Maybe she was grabbing some for her nightly rounds as the ghost of Tulum.
Jack lets her pass without a word. Still, I’d hate to be in her shoes. Silence from Jack Jones does not mean you’re off the hook. About anything.
Once we’re inside, Jack tells us to stay at the door, then he goes through every room in the cottage. I don’t want to even imagine what he’s looking for. Another missing person’s bones? A body? Lovie’s body? Fear feels like ice water in my veins.
“Where’s Uncle Charlie.”
Suddenly Jack is back.
“Consulting Rocky. Don’t worry. Everything’s okay.” He slides his arm around me. I’m so grateful for the body heat, I don’t protest.
“Good night, Jack.” Mama stands on tiptoe and kisses his cheek.
“’Night, Ruby Nell, Fayrene. Lock your doors and don’t come back out till morning.”
“That sounds omnibus.”
“It is.” He manages to interpret
ominous
from Fayrene’s garbled English. After she and Mama are behind closed doors, he leads me down the hallway, which has suddenly become six hundred miles long.
I try a little small talk of my own.
“Did you find anything in the jungle?”
“No.”
“Are you telling me the truth or just trying to protect me?”
Instead of answering, he pins me against my very own door.
“Cal, I want you to promise me the three of you won’t go out again at night by yourselves.”
“Give me one good reason I should listen to you.”
“How about this? If you don’t behave yourself, I’m going to be the one getting into your jade-green skirt.”
He opens my door, scoops me up, deposits me on my bed, then stands there looking at me like I’m the sacrifice and he’s the hungry god.
Callie no-is-my-middle-name, becomes Callie who-can’t-say-no. If Jack makes one move, I’m a goner.
Fortunately, he marches out and shuts the door. I listen to his footsteps as he goes back down the hall.
From now on, he’s going to be watching every move Mama, Fayrene, and I make. If we want to locate Lovie before she becomes a sacrifice “with salt,” as Fayrene says, we’ve got to keep our plans a deep, dark secret from Jack Jones.
Elvis’ Opinion #7 on Dignity, Enemies, and Unsavory Stew
T
he enemy is closing in. With wild banshee howling, the thundering mob heads our way. In the dark, they sound like tens of thousands. Even if there are only two of them, Lovie and I are outnumbered.
“Run, Elvis!”
Like I need any encouragement. But where is there to run? The “Big Boss Man” is coming, and I don’t see any “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”
We streak off, running full tilt till an elephant-size tree rears up in our path.
“Don’t worry, Elvis. We’re making great progress.”
I wonder if all those drinks with the tiny umbrellas impaired Lovie’s ability to measure distance. My idea of great progress is more than three yards.
“Which way, Elvis?”
My preference would be up. I’d howl a little “Swing Down Sweet Chariot” but I don’t think they send down heavenly escape buggies to rapture folks who’ve led the checkered lives Lovie and I like to brag about.
Suddenly we’re surrounded and there’s no way out. From the looks of those spears they’re carrying, I’d say this is not the welcoming committee. The moon shows itself long enough for me to see that we’re in the clutches of savages with the kind of painted-up faces you see when you leave off a good dream of chasing rabbits and end up having your worst nightmare.
In a last-ditch effort, Lovie turns on her famous charm.
“Listen, fellows, let’s talk about this. I’m just a sweet little old lady out for a walk with Elvis. You know Elvis? ‘Blue Suede Shoes’?”
Lovie launches into one of my biggest hits. She has a good alto voice, but she’s picked the wrong song. She’s the only one in this crowd wearing shoes.
Besides, I don’t think these men are music lovers. Two bars into the song, they break ranks and grab us. Our new captors are each hardly bigger than a border collie. I could take them down in two minutes flat except for one thing: they’re carrying real spears. And I don’t hanker to become known as the famous dog who got sliced into tasty bits in less time than it takes to howl “I’m Gonna Walk Dem Golden Stairs.”
Lovie yells, “Stop it. You can’t do that. We’re U.S. citizens. Call the embassy. Call the White House.”
Lovie’s barking up the wrong tree. These savages probably don’t even know what a house is, let alone the White House.
After they truss us up tighter than a Thanksgiving turkey, our captors launch into a heated discussion. Probably about our fate.
“What are you saying? What are you going to do with us? I demand answers. Tell them, Elvis.”
Listen, I’m a musical genius, not a linguistics professor. How do I even know what they’re saying?
Finally we set off again. Unfortunately, it’s not golden stairs Lovie and I walk, but eighty-five thousand miles of jungle, and every treacherous mile of it out to do us in.
Unless we get skewered first by the tip of a lethal spear.
The indignity of it all. I’m glad Hoyt and Callie’s seven silly cats aren’t here to see me. Don’t these savages know who they’re dealing with? In 1970, I was a personal guest of President Richard Nixon. Listen, the capture of a famous dog like me could cause an international incident.
The minute I get free, I’m writing the current administration. I’m demanding apologies.
Of course, if these painted-up, raging maniacs are cannibals with a taste for a tasty dog, Lovie and I are going to end up in hot water. And I’m talking more than trouble. I’m talking stewpot.
Chapter 10
Secrets, Searches, and Diabolical Twists
A
t the crack of dawn, I’m jerked out of a fitful dream of ghosts by pounding on my door. Before I can even say,
Come on in,
Mama prances inside, plops onto my bed, and proceeds to make herself right at home.
She’s wearing a blinding orange nightshirt featuring an embroidered gold crown on the front plus the slogan
WHO DIED AND MADE YOU QUEEN
? And she’s still in her take-charge mood. Thank goodness she’s not puffing on that ridiculous movie star cigarette holder, polluting my eggs with nicotine before they ever have a chance to get fertilized.
“I’ve consulted Bobby.”
“Holy cow, Mama. Bobby’s a nice guy, but he’s a fake.”
“His blue eye is psychic.”
“If Bobby really has a psychic eye, I’d have called him, myself.”
“He said we’re surrounded by danger.”
“He always says that. For goodness’ sake, Mama. Lovie and Elvis are missing, and Rocky’s up to his neck in Mexican authorities conducting a murder investigation.”
“Flitter, what do they know? I’ve consulted my guide book. I think we were on the wrong track trying to appease She of the Jade-Green Skirts.”
“Now you’re talking some sense. I think Juanita is in on it. She could be in cahoots with that creepy old man Archie Morgan. Or maybe she is Alvin and Lulu Farkle’s inside contact.”
“She wouldn’t say boo to a cat. And I’m not convinced Archie Morgan or the Farkles had a thing to do with the kidnapping.”
“Mama, it’s too early to rule anybody out. If the ghost sightings are connected, we know that at least two people are in on this. Maybe more. I saw at least two ghosts.”
“Flitter, you didn’t see any ghosts.”
“Okay. People in bedsheets. And what was Juanita doing heading to our cottage so late last night?”
“Forget about the maid. The thing we’ve got to do is have a ceremony in the light of Venus so we can channel our inner animal.”
So much for sense. Mama’s outrageous new plan makes me wonder if I was left on her doorstep by traveling gypsies.
How can I possibly share the same DNA as somebody so totally off the wall? Of course, there was the time I deliberately got into a hot air balloon with a suspected Elvis killer. And the time in Memphis when I nearly got arrested breaking and entering in a maid’s uniform.
Okay. I’ll admit it. I have more in common with Mama than first meets the eye. Still, channeling my inner animal is not high on my list of priorities.
“Mama, forget about inner animals. While the men search for Lovie and Elvis, we’ve got to find out more about old man Morgan and his wife.”
“What could possibly be the connection between a thirty-year-old murder and Lovie’s disappearance?”
“Are you defending that old man?” If she is, I’ve got bigger troubles than I ever imagined.
“I’m just talking sense, Carolina.”
“There’s no need to get huffy, Mama. You know we have to look at every possibility, and that means finding out what we can about Archie Morgan. We’ve also got to see what his connection is to Juanita and the Farkles. There’s no such thing as coincidence.”
“You sound like Charlie.”
Mama tries for gruffness, but I’m beginning to see through her. Underneath all that bluff and bluster is a woman who would die before she’d let harm come to those she loves. And that includes Uncle Charlie and Lovie as well as me.
I’m not like Uncle Charlie, though. While he will rely on common sense and his past experience with The Company, I’ll rely on instinct and incense, signs and stars, and anything else that will lead me to Lovie and my silly, lovable, hipswiveling, lip-curling dog. Well, anything except channeling my inner animal.
“As soon as Fayrene gets up and the men leave,” I tell Mama, “we’re going to sneak into the main cottage and do some serious snooping.”
“Why there?”
I tick the reasons off on my fingers: “Rocky’s files. His computer. He’ll have records of everybody working in Tulum. Besides, the room shared by the maid and the cook are there. I want to find out what Juanita’s up to.”
A blood-curdling scream catapults me off the bed. I race toward the door, never mind that I’m barefoot and barely covered by a pair of retro pink pajamas the fashion magazines call
baby doll.
Mama is right behind me.
“We need a weapon.”
She’s right. As we pass my closet, I grab one of my Jimmy Choo stilettos off the floor. Mama grabs the other. Listen, we may look like silly women speeding to the rescue in our nightclothes wielding designer shoes, but I wouldn’t want to be on the business end of a Jimmy Choo high heel. Why do you think they call these things stilettos?
The screams echo down the hall again. Coming from the bathroom, it sounds like. Judging by the pitch and volume, I’d say whoever is in there is either being hysterical or being salted for the stewpot.
Mama and I are speeding toward the bathroom when the door pops open and Fayrene flies out.
I grab her shoulders to keep her from running all the way to South America. The way she’s flying, she could walk on water. “What’s wrong?”
“Deadless snakes!”
Holy cow! If you think I’m going to get close enough to a snake to bop him over his tiny, lethal head with a Jimmy Choo stiletto, you’re crazy.
Apparently, Mama feels the same way. She’s already running toward the front door, screaming loud enough to be heard in Mooreville.
“Where?” I ask, but Fayrene stands there with her lips quivering. I give her a little shake. “Where are the snakes?”
“Bathtub.” She jerks loose, then races after Mama, her green seersucker gown flapping behind her. Their combined screeching is enough to rouse every dead god and goddess in Tulum.
Now what? I’ve got to come up with a plan. It’ll take those snakes about three seconds to decide there’s nothing in the bathroom worth biting, and then they’ll come slithering out of the tub looking for me. It takes me less than a second to decide Mama’s plan is brilliant.
Besides, three screaming women are better than two. I’m not ashamed to admit I can screech with the best of them. Still clutching my Jimmy Choo heel, I speed down the hall after Mama and Fayrene.
And right into the arms of Jack Jones.
“Nice outfit.” I could be tied to train tracks in the path of a speeding train, and he wouldn’t let the opportunity for a suggestive remark pass. “You okay?” All I can do is nod. “Get out of the cottage, Cal. Go!”
He heads straight toward the bathroom. Obviously Mama and Fayrene have already told him about the snakes. What he’s going to do, I don’t know. I don’t even want to know.
As I race out of the cottage I catch a glimpse of a man and a woman disappearing around the corner. From the back, I can’t tell who the man is, but judging by the woman’s hair—my area of total expertise—I’d swear the female is Rosita.
What’s the cook doing so far away from the kitchen? Especially right at breakfast time.
Besides, if I’d laid bets on who was behind the snakes, I’d have said Juanita of the Clean Sheets.
I don’t stop running till I’m in the courtyard behind the main cottage where Fayrene and Mama are recounting their tale of snake terror to Uncle Charlie. Both talking at the same time.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, then sink into a straight-backed chair at the table. But not before I’ve inspected it for deadly crawling creatures. The first sip fortifies me, and the second makes me feel almost human again.
Listening to Mama and Fayrene tell about our fright this morning, I wouldn’t even recognize it as the event that scared them out of their wits and probably left my poor unused eggs so traumatized they’ll never be fertile again. On the other hand, both of them thrive on drama. To hear them tell it, they would have waded into those snakes and wrung their mean little heads off to protect me.
I’ve never had a flair for drama, even as a child. In school plays I was always the kid picked to stand in the back row and be a cabbage. Plus, my eye twitches when I tell a lie.
“First the ghosts and now this.” Mama pours herself some coffee and sits beside me. “Charlie, somebody’s definitely trying to run us off.”
“I think you’re onto something, Mama.”
Whatever Uncle Charlie thinks he’s keeping to himself. Probably, he’s thinking that if he confirms Mama’s suspicions, he’ll add to our stress. His MO is serve and protect.
Listen to me. If I’d said that out loud, I’d sound just like Lovie after she’s watched too many film noir movies.
“Where’s Rosita?” I try to make this question nonchalant. I don’t want Mama and Fayrene any more riled than they already are.
Before anybody can answer, Rocky rushes into the courtyard hatless, disheveled, and frantic. Now what?
“Ghosts prowled Tulum all night and five of my men have run off.” He grabs a doughnut, heads toward the table, sees us practically in our underwear, and does a quick shuffle backward. Ever the perfect gentleman, he even makes a half-turn so his back is to us.
Listen, I don’t approve of our being out here practically naked any more than he does, but I’m not about to barge into a cottage full of snakes just so I can look presentable on the outskirts of a jungle.
“Jack’s on it,” Uncle Charlie tells Rocky. “He’ll find out who’s at the bottom of your problems, and I can guarantee it won’t be ghosts.”
“I appreciate that, Charlie, but I don’t know how I’m going to carry on my archeological work while I oversee a murder investigation and search for Lovie.”
Mama perks up and is all poised to put her two cents in, but I shake my head. Let the men do what they want. The women have a different plan.
“Don’t worry about a thing, boss.” Seth strolls into the courtyard. I didn’t even hear him approach, which is not like me. “Archie can keep the remaining men on task while you and I search the jungle for Miss Lovie.”
Seth proceeds to fill his plate, then plops down at the table ignoring our nightclothes. “Are you ladies having a good morning?”
“Fayrene found snakes in the bathroom this morning,” Mama says.
“I’m about prostate with fear.”
Poor Rocky chokes over Fayrene’s miraculous body part, but Seth is unfazed.
“Around here, they’re a minor nuisance.”
Is he kidding or is he just trying to make light of a bad situation?
Suddenly the air sizzles with a different kind of energy. Jack is standing by the entrance to the courtyard. He might as well be a stick of dynamite. And not only where I’m concerned. Seth gets very quiet, and his shoulder muscles bunch up. I’d never noticed he had so many. Up close, he looks like a contestant for Mr. Atlas.
Jack strolls casually to the table, but there’s nothing casual in the way his black eyes bore into me. Without a word about the snakes, he places a map on the table.
“I’ve laid out the search area in quadrants.”
Overhead, helicopter blades beat the air, a sober reminder of Lovie’s plight.
Seth rallies, then pops up to inspect the map. “Great idea, Jack. Rocky and I will take the north quadrant. You and Charlie start with the east.”
Jack sizes Seth up with a look that turns the brash young man’s face bright red. Then he nods to Uncle Charlie. What’s going on here? More than Jack and Uncle Charlie will ever tell, I’m sure. Even under questioning.
I’m next on Jack’s list of people he can undo with a single look. Sweat rolls down the sides of my face, and if I squeeze my Jimmy Choo shoe any harder, the heel’s going to pop off.
“Cal, the cottage is safe now.” He’s clearly dismissing me. Mama and Fayrene, too, of course.
“What about the snakes?”
“Dispatched.” Jack says this the same way he might tell me he sent his best friend for a three-day vacation to Vicksburg where you can get on a riverboat and gamble on the mighty Mississippi River. Legalizing gambling was another major lapse of judgment by certain politicians, might I add.
I could sit here and play games with Jack and wish I didn’t have gambling practically in my back yard to tempt Mama, but I have other plans. Which I hope will remain undetected by my almost-ex. Plus, I want him in the jungle leading the search for Lovie and Elvis.
I stand up. “Mama, Fayrene, let’s grab breakfast and take it to the Temple of the Frescoes so we can eat by the sea.”
Thank goodness, Mama catches on and doesn’t argue. Fayrene is another story.
“I thought we were going to help solve this mystery before there’s another futility.”
Poor Rocky. It’s hard enough for him to get his mind around the fact that Lovie might be a fatality, much less a futility.
But what’s up with Jack? Why is he not ordering me to stay put? At the breakfast buffet table, I load up a plate with doughnuts. Being around Jack always does that to me. All that energy I have to pour into restraint, I guess.

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