by Webb, Peggy
I don’t think Mama’s aware we’re dancing to the tune of a grocery list. She has a rapt look that means she’s tuned out everything around her. Mama’s good at that. She tunes out my opinion every time I have one. If I let that bother me, I would never have a single word to say about anything. And we all know that’s not true.
A sliver of moon peeks from behind the clouds. I take that as a good sign. Listen, I know it doesn’t take much to encourage me, but with the two I love best missing, I’m willing to grab ahold of the least little thing that gives me hope.
Okay, one of them is a dog, but that doesn’t count. Elvis makes a better friend than some people I know.
“Keep going, girls.” Always a good dancer, Mama’s really into the rhythm. “Any minute now, we’re going to rouse the goddess.”
I hear a rustling sound coming from the direction of the jungle. We’ve roused something, all right, but I doubt it’s a goddess. It sounds like something much more sinister.
I peer into the darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of white. Fayrene’s sudden scream scares the moon back into hiding. Mama bumps into her, I bump into Mama, and we all tilt dangerously toward the left.
A big dark figure appears, braces Fayrene, and tilts us all upright again. She rips off her night-vision goggles and starts swinging.
“I’m a ghost hunter, and I’m deadless.”
Mama reaches down to grab her brass lamp base and I go into a karate stance. I’ve never taken a minute of karate lessons, but I’m hoping our assailant won’t know my only instruction in martial arts came from watching The Karate Kid with Lovie.
“Come any closer, and you can kiss your life goodbye.” Mama sounds authentic. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she made her living hunting down vicious criminals.
Out of the dark, somebody chuckles. I’d know that laugh anywhere, and it’s no ghost.
“You can put the lamp down, Ruby Nell.” The moon scuttles out from behind the cloud and Jack Jones materializes out of the shadows. I don’t know whether to hug him or hit him with Fayrene’s night-vision goggles.
I like to think I can take care of myself. But Jack rescues me with a regularity that would be depressing if I let myself dwell on the negative. Which I don’t. I pride myself on being a positive person.
Jack leans against one of the temple’s pillars. His pose looks casual, but I know him too well to be fooled.
“What are you three doing out here?”
Fayrene giggles. She always gets a bit giddy around my almost-ex. I would, too, if I were married to Jarvetis. And I mean that in the kindest way. Fayrene’s husband is a nice man, but nobody would ever mistake him for a hunk. Especially one of Jack’s proportions. Jarvetis looks kind of like a long, tall, skinny basset hound.
“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
The 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
At 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 h
eard 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.
