by Webb, Peggy
I may have to slap that old man, but Uncle Charlie looks like he’s about to beat me to the punch.
“That’s enough of that kind of talk. Tomorrow, Jack will work with the Mexican authorities on the cold case as well as coordinating the search for Lovie. Meanwhile, I want our own search teams in the jungle. We’ll leave at first light. We’ll debunk the ghost theory, and we will find my daughter.”
Uncle Charlie visibly collects himself before he looks directly at old man Morgan. “We’ll need every available man.”
“I don’t know how many will be left after tonight’s ghost scare,” Archie Morgan says. “And Rocky’s going to need some of them to find the lost tomb.”
“What’s a lost tomb compared to a lost treasure?” Mama jumps off the couch, grabs Fayrene’s arm, and motions to me. “Come on, Callie.”
“Ruby Nell, where are you going?”
“Charlie Valentine, since when did you think you could leave the women out of the search?” She prances by my chair and jerks me up. “We’re going to solve this mystery, Mooreville style. And don’t you even think about trying to stop us.”
For once I agree with Mama. This is my dog and my cousin. I’m not fixing to be left behind. Listen, Lovie and I have come up with some sleuthing plans that are doozies. I’m up to anything Mama wants to do. I just hope it doesn’t involve tequila and cannibals.
Elvis’ Opinion #6 on Ghosts, Tarantulas, and Being a Tasty Dog
I reckon I’m going to have to “Patch It Up” with the jungle monkey. Instead of calling him silly, I’m going to have to call him my new best friend. Before I can do a little “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” he’s got Lovie untied.
She rips off her blindfold and comes off that cot in a “Fever.”
“When I find that jackass who did this to me, there won’t be anything left of him but a greasy spot.”
You go girl. I start sniffing around the shack to catch his trail while she storms around looking for clues. She snatches up her purse, discovers the scoundrel has run off with her cell phone and her ID, then lets out a yell that can be heard clear to Mississippi.
Meanwhile, our liberator, the little primate I’m now calling Abraham Lincoln—Abe for short—sits on a perch in the rafters twisting his head from side to side, watching us like we’re specimens from another planet.
I wonder what he’s thinking. Contrary to what I told Lovie, the only language I have in common with him is the universal one—music. Now, there’s something everybody understands and loves. How do you think I became a household name in my other life as the world’s sexiest man in sequins? I didn’t just sing the songs and swivel my hips. I touched the heart and soul of my fans. I trapped them in the laser beams of my blue eyes and transported them into a world where you could believe in “Love Me Tender” and “Promised Land,” cut loose with “Hound Dog,” and weep with “Peace in the Valley” and “Heartbreak Hotel.”
Lovie storms around the shack one last time. It’s empty except for the cot, a rickety chair, and the smelly ropes.
“If that fool thinks I’m going to stand around here and starve to death, he doesn’t know Lovie Valentine.” She snatches up her purse. “Come on, Elvis. Let’s get out of this rathole.”
I trot over and she pats my head. “You can track your way out of the jungle, can’t you?”
I howl a few bars of “Reconsider Baby,” hoping she’ll see that it’s pitch-black out there and it would be foolhardy for two Mississippi treasures to go tromping through a Mexican jungle. But Lovie ignores my opinion.
When I was packing the house in Las Vegas and throwing sweat-drenched scarves to women swooning at my feet, I was a god and my opinion was gospel. These days I’m lucky if I can get that silly cocker spaniel Callie calls Hoyt (in honor of one of my drummers) to part with his ham bone.
But never let it be said that Elvis Valentine Jones is missing backbone. I trot into that twisted jungle like I’m Tarzan of the Apes fixing to wrestle an alligator.
And speaking of apes, that silly little monkey scampers off his perch and follows us, swinging from tree to tree. If envy were in my nature, I’d be green. I’d much rather be up in the trees than down here with the pythons and tarantulas and anything else with the ability to suck the life out of me in one bite.
It’s dark and dangerous out here. Bobby Huckabee would be predicting death around every bush. The moon is no help. Every five minutes, it disappears into the clouds, leaving us to stumble through the jungle.
A root the size of Texas leaps up to waylay Lovie, and she goes down with a thud. Abe screeches like he’s just witnessed the Second Coming while I scamper backward to keep from being crushed in the fall. If there were any creepy, crawly things under Lovie, they’re now toast.
She says a word that will get her permanently banned from the Pearly Gates, then she struggles upward.
“Elvis, are you sure you know where you’re going?”
I do a little “It’s Impossible,” hoping she’ll backtrack to the safety of the shack. Listen, I may be a hound dog with a tracking nose, but even this famous nose is not made to uncover a nonexistent trail in the middle of a tangled jungle. I’m as lost as one of the Lost Tribes of Israel. (I know my biblical history. In my other life as a young boy from the wrong side of the tracks, I learned to sing in a country church, which, by the way, was recently moved lock, stock, and wooden pews to the grounds of my Tupelo birthplace.)
As for this jungle adventure, personally, I’d rather take my chances with the kidnapper than with the tarantula I’ve just spotted. He’s bigger than my mismatched ears.
If this were an ordinary spider back home in Mooreville, I’d swat him with my handy tail. But this is a Yucatan jungle we’re talking about. Although I’m pure hero from my talented lips down to my sexy hips, I don’t hanker after rash actions that could make me end up a poisoned pooch.
Lovie stops to assess our chances of getting out of here alive (bleak), says another word straight from a truck-stop bathroom wall, and then sets off at a brisk pace that says she’s a woman it won’t do to mess with.
A lesser basset would have complained that his legs are too short, but the King is up to any challenge. I hum a few bars of my hit, “We’re Gonna Move.”
Take note, you canine judges. Any fool watching me trot would give me a “Best of Show” award instead of pointing out that my back leg is slightly crooked.
An unholy howl stops Lovie in her tracks and puts my hackles on full alert.
“What was that?” she whispers.
But the jungle is eerily quiet. Even with my laser ears, I can’t tell where the sound was coming from.
When it starts up again, the sound is multiplied a thousand times and coming from every direction. Lovie is no faint heart and I have the courage of a lion, but we wrap ourselves around each other like we’ve just heard Gabriel’s trumpet announce the Second Coming.
Listen, whoever is out there is “Playing for Keeps.”
“You’d better stop right there,” Lovie yells. “I’ve got a gun and I’ll shoot.”
I growl to show we mean business.
Unfortunately, her threat is idle and I’m unarmed.
The howling, screeching, and caterwauling get closer, and all we can do is wait to see what happens next. It sounds like an army out there. Fisticuffs are out of the question.
Maybe negotiations will work. I howl a little “Peace in the Valley,” but judging by the thrashing and screaming that’s getting closer every minute, the natives are in no mood for a truce. Lovie and I have jumped out of the kidnapper’s hands and straight into the lap of the devil.
Chapter 9
Mooreville Gossip, Half-Baked Plans, and More Trouble than the Law Allows
I feel a bit guilty about leaving Uncle Charlie alone with old man Morgan, but I have no other choice. In the first place, there’s no telling what kind of trouble Mama and Fayrene will get into if I don’t ride shotgun. And in the second, I’m not going to sit still
while my cousin and my dog are missing.
Sometimes I wish I’d been born with a smaller conscience and a bigger attitude. Like Lovie. And I mean that in the nicest way. Shoot, if I were the one missing, she’d already be out there stomping around in the jungle with her baseball bat. Regardless of what anybody told her to do.
Mama and I trot toward the guest cottage like we’re in the Barnes Crossing Mall back home, on the hunt for bargains. Fayrene keeps looking over her shoulder as if she expects a “cannonball” to reach out and eat her on the spot.
Suddenly she yelps and points. “Something’s out there.”
“It’s your imagination, Fayrene,” Mama says, but she’s wrong. I see a wisp of white disappearing around the corner of our guest cottage. Not a ghost, I’m certain, but something even worse. A real, live person out to do us harm.
“What we need is some of Lovie’s Prohibition Punch.” I lead the way into the cottage then head to the little kitchen nook where all three of us fill generous-size mugs with our Southern comfort of choice.
Fayrene looks at her watch. “I ought to call Jarvetis.”
“Go ahead,” Mama says. “I’ll be back in ten minutes and we’ll be ready to roll.”
“Mama, where are you going?”
“Just to my room. There’s something I have to get.”
I don’t even want to know. In the last two days, I’ve had enough drama to last me the rest of my life. Sinking onto a stool beside the tiny bar, I sip my punch while Fayrene calls home.
Hearing her talk to Jarvetis about ordering more pickled pigs’ lips and exclaiming over the people who came all the way from Paris (Tennessee, not France) to see their disco ball dance trophy makes me homesick. But I’ve never been a good liar. If I call Champ, he’s sure to sense something is wrong. Then he’d gently prod until I told him the whole nine yards, including our encounter with ghosts.
He’d hop on the next plane, and then I’d really be in a mess. Luke Champion and Jack Jones can’t be in the same city without getting into a male show-off contest. I don’t want to imagine what they’d do if they were in the same guest cottage.
Mama bustles back, puffing away on a cigarette stuck in a 1930s movie star holder. If she’s trying to get my goat, she’s succeeded. For years I’ve tried to get her to quit smoking, but I’m not going to say anything. She says smoking calms her nerves.
Shoot, if I thought tobacco could calm mine, I’d take up smoking Cuban cigars.
Mama pours the last of Lovie’s Prohibition Punch, plops onto the stool beside me, and places her Mayan guide book on the bar.
“It says here that the goddess Chalchiutlicue is called She of the Jade-Green Skirts.”
“My favorite color!” Trust Fayrene.
“Mama, what does that have to do with anything?”
“Hold your horses, Miss Priss, and I’ll tell you.” She deliberately takes her time with her next drag on the movie star holder. “Elvis found the bones of Lucille Morgan near the temple of the goddess Chalchiutlicue.” Big, dramatic pause and another long, drawn-out drag of her cigarette. “The goddess was a glutton for sacrifices. Females only.”
“Holy cow! That awful old man might have been onto something when he talked about sacrifices.”
“Virgin sacrifices?” Fayrene wants to know.
“Lord, no. The guide book says they took the cream of the crop. My niece hasn’t been a virgin since she hit puberty.”
No need to ask how Mama knows. Like all mothers, she has eyes in the back of her head. I just hope my deprived eggs hold on long enough for me to find out if I can grow another set of eyes.
“Mama, you’re scaring me. If the location of the bones is significant and Lovie’s disappearance is linked to that of Lucille Morgan, then we have to work fast.”
“Poor Lovie. Eaten alive.” Fayrene starts crying. “I wonder if they used salt.”
“For Pete’s sake, Fayrene. My niece is too smart to be eaten alive, with or without salt. All we have to do is get out to the temple, tempt the goddess, and draw the kidnappers out of hiding.”
“Mama, you’ve got to be kidding.”
“Do you have a better plan, Callie?”
“Unfortunely, no.” If she’ll care to remember, my plans for questioning the Farkles didn’t go well.
Mama squashes out her cigarette, swigs her last drop of Prohibition Punch, and says, “Then shake a leg.”
“Where are we going?”
“To sacrifice ourselves to a goddess.”
I don’t know why I even asked. The crazy thing is that Mama could be right. If there is a connection between Lovie and Lucille Morgan, the kidnappers are more likely to be locals using Mayan mythology to cover their crimes than an exlover with a bruised ego and his fashion-disaster sister.
If anybody can tempt She of the Jade-Green Skirts, it’s Mama. And she’s already three strides ahead of me, strutting down the hallway, probably imagining herself as the cream of the crop.
Thirty minutes ago in the safety of the guest cottage, tempting a kidnapper/killer/ghost seemed like a pretty good idea. The plan even held water when Mama suggested we all put on some of Fayrene’s green skirts and do a dance on the temple steps to draw the enemy toward the goddess who loves green.
But now, stumbling through the dark behind Mama and Fayrene, I’m wondering how I let myself be conned into such a half-baked plan. I don’t know which is likely to happen first: Fayrene’s big green skirt will fall off my skinny frame, killer ghosts will drag the three of us into the jungle to do no-telling-what-all, or Fayrene will run into a tree in her night-vision goggles.
Who else would pack night-vision goggles for a trip to an undertakers’ convention? When I asked why, she said, “In case of immersions.”
I think she meant emergencies, but unless our off-the-wall plan succeeds, every last one of us will be up to our necks in hot water.
Somewhere in the dark, something moans. Or somebody.
“Mama, did you hear that? Somebody’s out there.”
“Of course. Why do you think I suggested we all pack heat?”
“Mama, a brass lamp base is not heat.”
“It’s better than nothing. Besides, when we scream, Charlie will come running.”
“You didn’t mention anything about screaming.”
“If I had, do you think Fayrene would have come?”
Up ahead, Fayrene looks like some kind of zombie in her night-vision goggles. She’s marching forward stiff legged with her hands held out in front of her.
“How’re you doing up there, Fayrene?” Mama yells.
“If a ghost is out here, I can spot him a mile.” She plows in to the side of the temple, which she couldn’t even spot three inches ahead. Or else the temple leaped out of the dark to waylay her. “It ought to be against the law to move buildings around.”
I don’t ask her how that happened. I’m afraid her explanation would make sense.
We assemble at the base of the temple, which looks imposing and mysterious, even a bit scary. What if old man Morgan is right? What if cannibals are lurking in the dark to sacrifice a female to the goddess of the Jade-Green Skirts? I wish I was wearing red.
Shoot, I wish I were in Mooreville with Elvis and Hoyt and the seven cats. I wish I had nothing more important on my mind than keeping Jack Jones from waylaying me in my own bed.
Mama tries to take charge. As usual.
“Okay. Callie, you and Fayrene climb to the top and start dancing.”
“What are you going to do, Mama?”
“Stand guard with my brass lamp.”
“You can’t hit the side of a barn, Ruby Nell. How do you think you’re going to hit a ghost?”
“Shut up and dance, Fayrene. Leave the rough stuff to me.”
“Mama, there’s not going to be any rough stuff. If we actually do draw the kidnapper out of hiding, we’re going to scream and run to get Uncle Charlie.” I don’t even mention cannibals for fear of spooking She of the Night-Visi
on Goggles.
“Who do you think raised you, Carolina Valentine Jones? Fairies?”
“Mama, I don’t think child rearing prepares you to subdue a killer.”
“Wait till you and Jack have kids.”
“If you’ll care to remember, we’re getting a divorce.”
“Ha.”
“Ha is not a word.”
This is getting us nowhere fast. We might as well be in Mooreville discussing hairdos and nail colors instead of in the Yucatan trying to solve a mystery.
“Okay, truce, Mama. Let’s get this show on the road and smoke out the villain.”
I just hope we only smoke out one. We might stand a chance, three against one. Or two and a half against one, if you count that Fayrene is still wearing her goggles and can’t see a building, let alone a villain.
“Let’s all make a circle and hold hands,” Mama says.
Apparently she has changed her mind about standing guard. I guarantee the decision was entirely about her and had nothing to do with my arguments. Mama sets the lamp base down within easy reaching distance and grabs my hand.
“I’ll summon the spirits.” Fayrene joins hands with us and completes the circle. “I’ve been practicing.”
“For what?” Mama wants to know.
“For when we finish the séance room at Gas, Grits, and Guts.”
Fayrene starts chanting in a high-pitched, ethereal voice that would probably alert dogs for miles around. I’m not so sure about ghosts.
Still, she’s creating a rhythm, and we all fall into it. I wonder if you can fool Mayan goddesses. From where I’m stomping and swirling, it looks more like we’re circling the wagons than attracting She of the Jade-Green Skirts. Besides, the sight of Fayrene in her goggles is likely to scare spirits off. Plus, her weird wailing sounds like she’s doing inventory at Gas, Grits, and Guts.
“Beanspeascorn, pea-nut but-ter. Mustardketsup, to-ma-to soup. Salt,pepper, cu-cum-bers.”
