by Webb, Peggy
“I would never underestimate a stylist with a hairpin.”
His chuckle spoils the compliment. If he even meant it as one in the first place.
“Jack Jones, the minute we get stateside, I want divorce papers signed.”
“Yes ma’am. It’s at the top of my list. After we find Lovie.”
Good grief, I ought to be ashamed, talking divorce with my cousin missing. I blame an empty stomach and unwashed hair.
“Morgan admitted he took her,” I tell Jack. “He has partners. At least two of them.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“No. I think one is female.” I tell him my suspicions about the Farkles, then Juanita and Rosita, leaving out a few details. Like how I went snooping. “We’ve got to find Lovie and Elvis fast before the other kidnappers panic over Morgan’s capture and do something horrible.”
“How did you happen to come up with that particular set of suspects?” This is not an idle question. Those aren’t in Jack’s vocabulary.
The guest cottage is just ahead. If I wait long enough to answer Jack, maybe Mama or Uncle Charlie will rush out to greet me and Jack will forget about putting me in the hot seat.
But I pride myself on being a thrifty, independent woman. If you don’t count shoes. And all that dog and cat food I have to buy for Elvis and my rescues.
Oh, well. “Would you believe the ceremony of the jade-green skirts?”
“We’ll discuss skirts later. Right now, let’s get you fed and bathed.”
“I’ll take care of that all by myself, thank you very much. And you leave my skirts out of this. You have better things to do.”
Mama and Fayrene are the first to spot us. Screaming, “My baby!” Mama lifts the hem of her hibiscus pink caftan, races my way, and nearly bowls me over with a hug.
Fayrene is not far behind. Both are clinging to me as if I’ve been gone for years. Over the top of their heads I see Jack watching me.
“Cal, I have urgent things to do. But nothing better.” He winks, then strolls off.
“What was that all about?” Leave it to Mama. Where Jack’s and my private business is concerned, she never misses a beat.
“Mama, can I bathe and eat first? I’m grungy and I’m starving.”
Chapter 17
Bad Blood, Bat Blood, and True Blood
It’s not until I’m safely back inside the guest cottage that I notice both Mama and Fayrene are wearing feathers in their hair.
“Mama, what in the world? Are you going native?”
“Shhh. I don’t want Charlie to hear.”
While we are in the kitchen Uncle Charlie is somewhere down the hall, casing and debugging the joint, as Lovie would say.
“Don’t you think he’s already noticed? Holy cow, Mama, you’re wearing buzzard feathers.”
“These are erotic feathers,” Fayrene chimes in.
“For Lovie?”
“No, for you,” Fayrene says. Mama tries to shush her, but she keeps on prattling. “If we can find the blood of a bat, we’re going to do a reunion ceremony.”
If I were “at myself,” as Fayrene would say, I’d try to talk them out of another ceremony. So far, their native rituals have produced nothing but disaster. That I am grateful just goes to show the subtle shifts that take place in the psyche when you’re kidnapped. Even if it’s for only a short while.
I shudder to think about the Lovie and the Elvis I’ll be getting back.
Uncle Charlie comes into the kitchen and puts his arm around me. “Take your time getting cleaned up and changed. When you show up for breakfast, act natural and don’t mention a thing about Morgan. I want to see some unguarded reactions.”
Uncle Charlie explains the situation in great detail, and I’m glad. If I had my choice, I wouldn’t want my fate—and Lovie’s—hanging on the chance that these two would keep their mouths shut.
And I mean that in the best of ways. I love Mama and Fayrene, but the mambo murders in Memphis proved my point. Enough said.
“Where’s Jack?” I ask.
“He and Rocky are making sure the Mexican authorities find out where Morgan has hidden Lovie.” Uncle Charlie kisses my cheek. “Take your time, dear heart. You’ve been through a lot.”
After he leaves, Mama says, “For Pete’s sake, Fayrene, I told Charlie my feathers were a frivolous fashion accessory. I thought I was going to have to muzzle you.”
“You and which army?”
Oh, Lord. “I need a bath.”
Mama and Fayrene follow me to the bathroom, then stand guard outside the door. Though I protest that I can do this myself, I don’t need bodyguards, I have to say this is one time I’m glad Mama doesn’t listen to me. I’m feeling so skittish I don’t want to be anywhere alone.
How that’s going to translate when I get ready for bed and Jack’s across the hall (I hope), I don’t even want to think about.
There’s a tap on the door. “You all right in there?” Mama calls.
“I’m fine.” This is only partially true. I still feel like I’m back at the shack worrying about walking with a peg leg and dreaming about taking a bath. I worry I might wake up any minute and it will be Morgan outside my door.
While I turn on the water, step into the tub, and soak myself, I can hear Mama and Fayrene outside the door arguing about who said what and the best place to obtain the blood of a bat.
Though I’m certain Uncle Charlie was thorough in his search, I glance around for unwanted visitors. I don’t trust snakes. The two-legged kind or any other kind. You never know. One could be lurking to bite off the body parts still intact thanks to old man Morgan’s unfortunate morning.
Another tap on the door. “Cal, it’s Mama. Are you okay?”
I don’t tell her this is the fifth time she’s asked. I’m just grateful. “Yes,” I say, then consider myself lucky to have family and friends who care. When I get Elvis and Lovie back, I’m going to make a long list of all the reasons I have to be thankful.
I guess I can start by being grateful I’m alive. Even so, after I patch my scrapes and scratches with ointment and Band-Aids, I look like the unfortunate Bride of Frankenstein.
Mama and Fayrene follow me down the hall and into my bedroom, where Mama proceeds to plop onto my bed and Fayrene proceeds to search my closet.
“Do you mind?” I tell them. “I’d like to get dressed.”
“I’ve seen it all,” Mama says. “Who do you think changed your diapers? Fairies?”
Deep in the bowels of my closet, Fayrene says, “You can never take anything for granite, Callie. There’s no telling who could be hiding in here.”
I give up. And I confess—I’m secretly pleased.
“Since you’re already in my closet, toss me out some clothes. I’d like to eat breakfast in something besides a bath towel.”
Fayrene emerges with a pair of blue-jean shorts and a white tee shirt, then joins Mama on my bed. I would have chosen a perkier color—probably yellow—but at least this one matches my bandages.
After I dress, the three of us head toward the main cottage, just in time for breakfast.
“Mama, remember what Uncle Charlie told us. Fayrene, you, too.”
“For Pete’s sake, Carolina, we have sense enough to keep our mouths shut.”
“Don’t worry about me. I understand the elephant of surprise.”
For once, Fayrene got it right. If there were ever a moment when the element of surprise could become an elephant, this would be it. Everybody at the dig knows I’ve been missing. The question is, who wanted me to vanish and who will be upset by my sudden reappearance?
Now that Morgan’s been turned over to the authorities, the cold case is solved. But there are still at least two people hanging around Tulum who will do anything to sabotage Rocky’s dig.
Or are they on the island at the undertakers’ convention?
With their arms looped around my waist, Mama and Fayrene flank me. I guess they’re afraid if they aren’t touching me
, I’ll get carried off by the ghosts of Tulum. Believe me, I have no intention of getting bushwhacked again, by Morgan or anybody else. From now on, I’m keeping hairpins in my pocket and adopting Lovie’s don’t mess with me attitude.
We don’t encounter a soul on the path to the main cottage. I find that odd, since Juanita is always around with an armload of sheets. Has she already found out Morgan’s been arrested? Is she holed up somewhere with Morgan’s other silent partner wondering what their next move will be?
Only two people are in the courtyard when we arrive: Uncle Charlie and Rocky’s second-in-command, Seth Alford.
“Good morning.” I smile like I’m on a commercial for whitening toothpaste.
Seth looks slightly shell-shocked. Guilt or relief? He recovers quickly and comes running over to sweep me into a tight hug.
“Callie, I’m so glad to see you. We were frantic looking for you.”
I ease out of his grip. He’s treating me like a long-lost favorite relative. His reaction not only seems excessive but also makes me uncomfortable.
Listen, I know Lovie and I are warm and friendly, prone to quick hugs and air kisses with people we’ve just met while reapplying passion pink lipstick in a public bathroom, but I’ve never been in a public bathroom with Seth Alford.
Of course, he did have breakfast with me while I was wearing baby doll pajamas. That sort of thing could cause a false sense of intimacy. Besides, I can’t picture this bright, openfaced young man as anything but sincere.
Lovie says I rationalize too much. Based on that first look on Seth’s face, she’d be ready to march him off and throttle him with her baseball bat. Or sit on him till he squealed the truth. The poor young man she flattened in Las Vegas during the Bubbles Caper probably still can’t catch a painless breath.
Grabbing my plate, I walk to the buffet, where Mama and Fayrene close ranks again. I wonder how long it will take before Mama loses interest in being my watchdog and moves on to more exciting pursuits (probably involving war paint and feathers or a hefty chunk from my bank account).
There’s not as much food as usual on the table. Does that mean Rosita knew I was in the caretaker’s cottage and wouldn’t be here for breakfast?
Of course, slim pickings at breakfast are not enough to make her a suspect. With Jack and Uncle Charlie turning this place upside down, plus Mama and Fayrene doing no-telling-what-all, everybody on staff knew I was missing. Including the cook.
I take two of everything and pour myself a huge glass of orange juice, and then head back to the table.
“Where’s Rosita?” Uncle Charlie and I seem to be thinking along the same lines.
“I’ll check on her,” Seth says. “She needs to be out here hustling things along so we can start searching for Lovie.”
He rushes off, and Mama pulls out her Hollywood cigarette holder, a sign somebody’s in big trouble. I’m just glad it’s not me.
“What was that all about, Charlie?”
“Jack called before you got here. Morgan denies having partners and claims to know nothing of Lovie’s whereabouts.”
“But he confessed to me, Uncle Charlie. He talked about his partners.”
“It’s your word against his, dear heart, and he knows that.”
“They believed that lying rat, didn’t they, Charlie?” Mama’s blowing smoke rings, now, and her feathers are quivering. Not a good sign. Listen, smoke rings mean there’s bad blood between Mama and somebody. Currently, that somebody would be Archie Morgan.
“I’m afraid the authorities did, Ruby Nell.”
“You get out there and take Morgan down. Make him talk, Charlie. Nobody messes with a Valentine and gets away with it.”
Elvis’ Opinion # 13 on Babies, Names, and Destiny
Lovie’s groaning brings me out of doggie dreamland. She sits up, holding her head.
“Where in the devil am I?”
I’m so happy to see her coming back around, I cut loose with a little “Welcome to My World.”
“Elvis?” She gives me a bleary-eyed look, then proceeds to inspect herself, feathers, war paint, and all. “What is this shit? I look like a molting turkey.”
Doesn’t she remember? I do a clever rendition of “Too Much Monkey Business,” which turns out to be brilliant thinking on my part. Lovie shakes herself all over, clearing out the cobwebs, and then she rises to her feet, all magnificent hundred ninety pounds of her.
Outside our hut, the natives are stirring. Lovie watches them awhile, trying to get the lay of the land, then she stomps over and sits on her throne.
“If they’d meant to kill us, they’d have already done it. What do you think, boy?”
She may look a bit shaky on her feet, but at least she’s no longer calling me dog. I take that as a very good sign.
I march over to my pottery bowls and nose them around to show Lovie I’ve been well-fed. Then I do a swivel-hipped version of “Treat Me Nice.”
Lovie’s smart. She gets the picture. Inspecting her paint and feathers again, she begins to chuckle. The only sound I can think of more wonderful than Lovie’s full-blown laughter is my sweet Frenchie in the throes of heat.
“Looks like the natives are treating us like gods. Well, much as I appreciate being a goddess, I’m fixing to get the heck out of Dodge.”
Lovie goes from laughter to flinty-eyed determination. If you’ve never seen a steel magnolia on the warpath, you’ve missed one of the world’s greatest wonders.
“We’re getting out of here tonight, Elvis. I’ve got some unfinished business in Tulum.”
Lovie’s my kind of gal. Trouble is her middle name and kicking some serious butt is her game. This is one show I don’t want to miss.
All I can say is the kidnapper doesn’t stand a chance.
Suddenly my nose starts twitching and my mismatched ears pick up sounds. I scurry outside just in time to catch a glimpse of somebody disappearing around the side of the hut. A woman, it looks like. Was it the old woman who speaks English? Did she overhear our escape plans?
I don’t have time to ponder because another parade of pregnant native girls is heading our way. I hurry back inside and give Lovie a heads-up by howling a few bars of “This Is Our Dance.”
Quick on the draw, Lovie slouches in her makeshift throne and relaxes her face so she appears to be in a glassy-eyed stupor.
The giggling gaggle of girls come inside and approach her, offering a cup of native brew, all chattering at once.
A lesser dog would get caught up in their party mood, but a dog with mismatched ears for trouble and a keen detective mind, to boot, is not about to lose sight of the fact that we’re in the midst of the enemy.
My finely tuned instincts are confirmed when I feel a shadow fall over me. I glance up to see the one-and-only Englishspeaking woman gliding into the hut. Tightlipped and silent, she’s as impassive as the shell of an English walnut. But let me tell you, I don’t read faces—I read auras. And hers is black as the tar Tinseltown reviewers use on entertainers who can’t sing.
I try to warn Lovie, but she’s too busy being a goddess to notice.
She waves the cup away, and then surprises the heck out of the natives by lifting her hands and saying, “State your wishes. I am the goddess of the sun, the moon, the stars. I am the goddess of all things fertile and good.”
She sounds so ethereal and goddess-like, she nearly fools me.
Still expressionless, the old woman interprets, and the girls fall onto their knees in front of Lovie’s throne. Some of them even kiss her feet.
Well, bless’a my soul. From the looks of things, it wouldn’t take much more of this adulation to win Lovie over to the notion that she could be a Mayan goddess forever. When we get home I’ll have to have a heart-to-howl chat with her about the pitfalls of being a celebrity.
In the background, I try some serious body language to tell her to suck it up and pull out of it. Listen, Dorothy, we’re no longer in Kansas.
Finally Lovie pulls herse
lf together. “Rise,” she intones, and one by one the native girls stand up to present their big bare bellies to her.
“Tell baby sex and name,” the old woman commands. “Bestow blessing.”
Lovie never misses a beat. She puts her hand on the first belly and acts like she’s vanished into the netherworld of wise goddess gurus. If she had my talent and savoir faire, she’d throw in a little hip swiveling and some well-placed sneers.
“Boy,” she intones. “His name is Stalking Panther. He will have the strength of warriors.”
To the next two, she says, “Girl, her name is Dancing Moon. Great beauty is her gift.” And then, “Boy, his name is Tall Trees. He will be filled with wisdom and courage.”
It’s all I can do to keep from rolling around on my mat laughing. From her throne, Lovie steamrolls ahead.
“Boy, his name is Wide Waters. He’s deep as the sea, smart and bright. Girl, her name is Yellow Bird. She will run so fast it seems she’s flying.”
My human mom says Lovie always got the lead in school plays, and every Halloween, Fayrene sets her up in the back room at Gas, Grits, and Guts with a gypsy costume and a crystal ball. It wouldn’t be Halloween in Mooreville without Lovie telling fortunes.
Trey, Jarvetis’ best redbone hound and my best friend, says they sell more pickled pigs’ lips on Allhallows Eve than any other time of the year. He credits Lovie.
I sit on my royal haunches and enjoy the rest of Lovie’s show. She seems so good at divining the sex of unborn babies, even I start to wonder if she has a gift.
Listen, never underestimate the link between a child’s name and his destiny. Take me, for instance. Mention my given name, and everybody in the world knows you’re talking about a King.
Maybe when my sweet Frenchie comes around again, I’ll take her to Lovie to find out if we’re going to get lucky and have three handsome basset boys instead of only one, like we did last time.
Ann-Margret’s human mom is calling the boy Spot, of all the insulting things. I’d have gone with DJ in honor of DJ Fontana, one of my best backups ever. Plus, DJ has a nice strong ring to it.
