Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble

by Webb, Peggy

  “There’s no use arguing with Ruby Nell.” Fayrene prances over, plops herself into the empty chair next to Mama, then proceeds to hold her hands out to admire her green nails. “Every time I argue with her, it just irrigates the tar out of her.”

  Nobody raises an eyebrow. Around here, we’re used to Fayrene’s rearrangement of the English language.

  “Still, it’s my job as a hair professional to steer my customers to a flattering color.”

  “Carolina, I’m not a paying customer.” Mama always calls me by my real name when she’s mad, though I can’t think of a thing I’ve done to get on her bad side except continue divorce proceedings with Jack Jones. She thinks he walks on water. “I don’t know if I want to go jet black or raven.”

  The phone rings and I’m relieved to abandon my losing battle over Mama’s disastrous hair choice. Lovie’s name pops up on the caller ID.

  “Callie, is the speaker on?”

  “You don’t have to shout, Lovie. I can hear you. And, no, the speaker’s not on.”

  “Turn it on. I want everybody in Mooreville to know what’s going on down here.”

  “Don’t you even want to know who’s in the shop?”

  “I don’t care. I need some love advice. The more the better.”

  “Hang on.”

  I might as well turn the speaker on. Mama’s leaning over so far trying to eavesdrop, she’s about to fall out of her chair. Plus Fayrene and Darlene are all ears.

  I’m glad I don’t feel the need to spread around my love life, or the lack thereof since Jack walked out. But my cousin enjoys being a one-woman show. She says it’s good for business (she’s the best caterer in the South), but personally I think she’s just trying to cover up that big soft heart of hers, which makes her open her arms—and other body parts I’m too much of a lady to mention—to anybody who needs a dose of “Love Me Tender.”

  That’s one reason I’m pulling so hard for Rocky Malone. He’s the first man who has ever treated my cousin like the treasure she is. Besides, he’s the kind of gentleman who would take good care of a woman. Plus, he’s a very fine archeologist with a good shot at becoming world-renowned if things go well at his Mayan dig.

  I put the phone on speaker. “You can broadcast to the masses now, Lovie.”

  “We’ve got everything down here—romantic sunsets over the water, a lovers’ moon over the Mayan ruins, privacy out the wazoo—and Rocky’s not even close to discovering the national treasure.”

  “I thought he was searching for a lost city,” Fayrene says.

  “It’s the lost tomb of the Nine Lords of the Night,” Lovie tells her.

  Mama chimes in. “The national treasure is my niece’s you know what, Fayrene. She had it tattooed.”

  “Where?” Darlene wants to know.

  “In Memphis,” I tell her, but Lovie says, “On my hips, one word on each. About as close to the Holy Grail as you can get.”

  “The Holy Grail?” Fayrene looks puzzled, and her daughter says, “Mother, don’t ask. I’ll tell you later.”

  “I’ve tried everything,” Lovie says. “When I went skinny dipping, Rocky ran to get me a bathrobe. And the only rise my Dance of the Seven Veils got out of him was to get up and turn down the lights in case somebody was looking in the window.”

  “I think that’s sweet, Lovie,” I tell her. “Rocky’s an old-fashioned gentleman.” Something my almost-ex never was.

  Lovie says a word that should not be broadcast over the speakerphone.

  Here I am doing everything I can to reassure her, when Fayrene pops up with, “Got any cards? I used to play strip poker with Jarvetis.”

  I don’t even want to picture that.

  I’m thinking this whole speakerphone conversation was a bad idea, when little David wanders into the room trailing Elvis. Could it get any worse? Now I’m a party to polluting the mind of the innocent, plus my dog has ice cream all over his muzzle. Thank goodness, Darlene jerks up her son and whisks him to the back room.

  “Flitter, Fayrene,” Mama says. “Anybody can play strip poker. Try a little lap dance, Lovie.”

  I don’t even pretend her suggestion shocks me. Ever since I saw Mama doing the mambo up in Memphis with Mr. Whitenton, nothing shocks me where she’s concerned. Though I’m happy to report that after she found out Thomas Whitenton was not the gentleman we first thought, she hasn’t invited him back to her farm. Or any other place that I know of. Unless she’s keeping secrets. Which she’s perfectly capable of doing.

  “Aunt Ruby Nell, when are you and Daddy flying down?”

  “Day after tomorrow, Lovie. Charlie wants to have plenty of time to tour Rocky’s dig at Tulum before the undertakers’ convention.”

  “That’s great. Callie, why don’t you come?”

  I’m just getting ready to say I can’t leave Hair.Net when Mama says, “Fayrene’s coming, too. By the time we get there, we’ll have a seduction strategy.”

  Holy cow! This trip has disaster written all over it. When it comes to a choice between taking care of business in Mooreville and preventing Lovie from implementing Mama’s seduction strategy in the Yucatan, there’s no contest.

  “I’ll be there, Lovie.”

  My dog prances by, looking miffed. I swear, he acts like he thinks I ought to buy him a ticket, too. Which is perfectly ridiculous.

  On the other hand, Tulum is filled with the bones of antiquity. And Elvis loves old bones.

  Chapter 2

  Suitcases, Studs, and Traveling Dogs

  Mama is the last customer to leave the shop. She exits with raven hair—which I have to say looks good on her, thanks to yours truly—and more than half my shoe budget. The minute she jumps into her convertible for the short drive to her farm, I set about preparing for my departure to tropical climes.

  Leaving home for a few days is not as easy as it sounds. First, I have to reschedule my hair appointments. Next, I explain to Darlene that my customers like to congregate at Hair.Net, whether they have an appointment or not.

  “They love to just lounge around on my pink vinyl loveseats and discuss the latest doings in Mooreville.”

  “In other words, gossip.”

  I can tell by Darlene’s face and tone of voice she’s not being mean. If she was, I just wouldn’t leave her in charge. Period.

  “Around here we consider it selfish not to share the news.” I motion Darlene to follow me into the break room where I open the refrigerator door and point out a big pitcher of punch. “This is Lovie’s Prohibition Punch. The recipe is tacked to the wall by the sink. Make sure the pitcher is filled at all times. My customers like to refresh themselves when they come here.”

  Darlene leans over the pitcher and takes a whiff. “In other words, drink.”

  I’m beginning to think she has a droll sense of humor.

  “Let’s just say they like to get happy. While I’m gone, continue to be your cheerful self and make everybody welcome.”

  “I can do that with one hand tied behind my back.”

  Darlene’s a chip off her mama’s block. Next to Mama, Fayrene is the bossiest, most take-charge woman I know.

  Still, I’ve never left Hair.Net in anybody else’s hands. I’ve always just shut down the shop when I’m leaving town.

  The thought of not being here to personally handle every little thing makes me want to pour myself a big glass of Prohibition Punch. Plus, between Mama’s loan and Lovie’s crusade to discover and rev up Rocky’s libido, this has turned out to be a stressful day. I’m reaching for two glasses, one for me, one for Darlene, when my cell phone rings.

  It’s Jack.

  “Callie, I’m coming by to see you.” Since when has my almost-ex ever issued a warning? This must be serious. “Are you at the shop?”

  I can picture it now. Jack roaring up on his Harley making me go limp in front of my newly hired manicurist.

  “I’m just leaving,” I tell him.

  “I’ll see you at the house, then.”

&
nbsp; Thank goodness, he no longer has a key. I’ve had the locks changed. Still, a little thing like that never stopped Jack Jones.

  Darlene leaves with David and William while I make sure everything is shipshape at the shop. Satisfied, I snap on Elvis’ leash, and then lock up and head home. Which just happens to be only three minutes away.

  My house is the most charming in all of Lee County; I don’t care if I do say so myself. It’s a white clapboard cottage with wraparound front porch. My inviting front porch alone makes the house worth its price—old brick floors, rocking chairs, chrysanthemums in fall colors blooming in pots all over the place. And, best of all, a porch swing screams sit a spell, relax.

  Who should be sitting there but Jack Jones. Elvis runs over for a huge portion of petting, then races into the back yard to terrorize the cats and poor, gullible Hoyt, my cocker spaniel rescue. Jack just sits there watching me.

  If I told you what the swing was screaming now, I’d be blushing down to the tips of my red Jimmy Choo stilettos.

  “Do those rosy cheeks mean you’re glad to see me?”

  Well, shoot. It looks like I’ve got a long way to go before I can make no my middle name.

  “For your information, my flush has nothing to do with you. If you’ll care to remember, Friday is my big day at Hair.Net. I’ve been working hard. That’s all.”

  Jack moves—swift, silent, and deadly as his code name (Black Panther, which I only found out a few weeks ago in Memphis). One minute he’s on the swing, the next he’s standing so close you couldn’t get a straw between us.

  “I wish you’d quit looking at me like that.”

  His grin is positively wicked. “Like what?”

  “You know.” I back toward the front door. “Since you’re here, you might as well come in and have something cool to drink.”

  He follows me inside where I discover my lemonade half gone and a glass on the table that I know good and well I didn’t leave there. I’m a neat person, and never leave my house with the china out of place.

  I’m not even going to ask how he got in. Instead, I pour myself a glass without even offering one to him.

  I wish I could act cool and collected, but I reckon I’m the kind of woman who lets every little emotion show. Currently, my chief one is a Titanic-size ambivalence.

  While I gulp down my drink, Jack stands in the doorway and watches my throat work. Finally, I finish my drink and hold the cool, damp glass against my hot cheek.

  He stalks over, takes the glass, then puts his hand over the damp spot I’ve left on my cheek.

  “Cal . . .” I wish he wouldn’t call me that. It makes me want to light candles, then climb into a big bubble bath. With him. “I know I promised to sign the divorce papers . . .”

  “Don’t you dare tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

  “Are you that anxious to hook up with Luke Champion?”

  “What I do or do not do with Champ is none of your business.”

  “Do not do? That’s an interesting choice of words.”

  I don’t know whether to show him the door or show him the bed. That’s how crazy Jack Jones makes me.

  “For your information, Champ wants to give me an engagement ring.”

  “And you’ve said no.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You also didn’t say, ‘he’s giving me a ring’ or ‘I’m getting engaged.’”

  I turn my back to him, march over to the sink, and start washing the glasses. Two is so much cozier than one. Two glasses on the table, two toothbrushes in the bathroom, two heads on the pillow.

  Jack comes up behind me, and I just stand there with my hands wrapped around his glass, hoping he doesn’t touch me.

  “Cal. I didn’t come to fight.” Thank goodness, he’s not touching.

  “Why did you come?”

  “To tell you I’m leaving tonight. Company business.”

  There’s no need to ask where. He won’t tell. The Company won’t let him tell. I guess not knowing is a good thing. When we were still living under the same roof, I used to lie awake at night wondering where he was and what he was doing.

  Now that I’ve found out he works undercover, is considered one of The Company’s most lethal operatives, and nobody who knows the particulars of what he’s doing is safe, I still lie awake at night. But now, I’m no longer wondering where he is or what he’s doing: I’m wondering if he’ll come back home alive or in a body bag.

  I turn around to face him. “So you’re not signing the divorce papers?”

  “I will when I get back, Cal.”

  “Promise me, Jack.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.” He grins like it’s all a big joke, then leans down, kisses my cheek, and walks out the door.

  I’m still standing at the sink when Elvis sashays through the doggie door. He comes up and presses his cool nose against my legs. It’s almost as if he’s sniffing out my internal landscape, trying to determine whether to thump his tail and look cute and happy or to press his chunky, warm body against me and offer comfort.

  I sit cross-legged on the floor and cuddle his big, square head onto my lap.

  “I guess you know your daddy stayed for a while.” He licks my hands. “I’m surprised you didn’t come back inside to visit.”

  Elvis gives me his knowing look, the one that says, Are you kidding? I know when to leave two people alone.

  “Okay. I get it. You’re on Jack’s side. But you’ll have to agree, Champ’s a really nice guy.”

  Most folks would consider talking to a dog to be a sign of something. I don’t know what. Probably something unflattering. But dogs are much more highly evolved than you’d think.

  When I get off the floor and head upstairs to pack, Elvis trots right along with me. I don’t even have to tell him I’ve decided to take him to the Yucatan. When I drag my bag out of the closet and open it on the floor, Elvis prances over to his toy basket and comes back to drop his favorite chew toy into the suitcase. It’s a bedraggled pink dinosaur with both eyes and most of its stuffing missing.

  Maybe it’s his alter ego. Maybe when Elvis is not dreaming he’s the reincarnated King of Rock ’n’ Roll, he’s dreaming he’s a giant brontosaurus that once ruled the earth.

  “Listen, Elvis. I know this trip seems hasty, and the tickets will cost me at least four good pairs of designer shoes, but I need some time away to think.”

  I don’t have to tell him what I’m thinking. He knows. When he leans against my legs, it’s almost like he’s saying, I love you no matter who you choose to be my human daddy.

  Elvis’ Opinion #2 on Old Bones, New Bones, and ’Dem Bones

  For a King used to traveling on his own private jet (the Lisa Marie or Hound Dog II), the flight to the Yucatan was a nightmare akin to bad-movie-review hell. As if starving to death (flying does that to you) and having a bag of stale peanuts tossed at you was not insult enough, try asking for something to wet your whistle. I requested something substantial like Lovie’s Prohibition Punch. Instead, the flight attendant brought me a plastic dish of tepid water. It was enough to make me stand up on my lumpy, uncomfortable seat and howl “Treat Me Nice.”

  I’d have still been howling if Callie hadn’t told me I’d have to ride home in the cargo section if I didn’t behave myself. If she keeps that up, I’m riding home on the plane with Charlie, Ruby Nell, and Fayrene. (They were on the red-eye that was scheduled to arrive in the Yucatan early this morning.)

  Listen, it’s a pure relief to set my paws on terra firma and be greeted by Lovie. Now there’s a woman after my own heart. Fun is her middle name. She’s decked out in black boots with killer heels, a blouse that shows everything she’s got—which is plenty, believe me—and enough bangle bracelets to set off every metal detector in the airport.

  “I can’t wait to show you Rocky’s dig.” While Lovie holds forth on the romantic potential of Tulum, I hum “What Every Woman Lives For,” one of my early hits from 1965.

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sp; Now that was the year to fly. Food galore on the plane and your whole family lined up at your gate to make you feel special. These days, it takes an act of God to get through security, and once you do, you feel like you’ve entered a ghost town filled with robots, everybody hurrying along with briefcases and carry-ons, nobody speaking to anybody else. It’s just weird. Makes me long for the old days when a dog was welcome anywhere and could pee on his neighbor’s bush without starting a lawsuit.

  To get to Tulum, we take a wild taxi ride, then a terrifying journey on the ferry that makes me think I’m going to end up on a Robinson Crusoe adventure, abandoned without silk pillow and Pup-Peroni.

  If I ever get off this ferry alive, I’m fixing to start my own archeological dig. Rocky Malone might think he has the corner on unearthing old bones, but he’s never seen yours truly in action.

  Listen, there’s nothing that can comfort a dog like pawing up a good section of dirt and uncovering a good, well-seasoned bone. I don’t care if it’s an almost-new steak bone or an old ham hock. Just give me some space, let me hum a few bars of “’Dem Bones,” and then stand back and prepare to be amazed.

  Chapter 3

  Ancient Ruins, Buried Secrets, and Murder

  I can see why Lovie calls Tulum “the most romantic spot in the world.” High on a cliff, the ruins of the ancient Mayan city overlook the blue-green waters of the Caribbean. Though the structures are squat and unimposing, they are presided over by impressive figures of great winged gods.

  Rocky, looking like a dusty, oversized version of Harrison Ford in Raiders of the Lost Ark, greets us with bear hugs. Smart man that he is, he has opted for a canvas hat to fend off the beating-down sun instead of Ford’s felt fedora.

  “Callie, welcome to Tulum.” He hangs a possessive arm across Lovie’s shoulders.

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see he’s crazy about her. I wish she’d forget her Holy Grail and be thankful for what she has. The first chance I get, I’m going to tell her so.

  “Let’s stow your luggage and then give you the grand tour.” Rocky takes my suitcase and leads me to a small stucco guest cottage on the perimeter of the ancient Mayan ruins.