Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble

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Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble Page 16

by Webb, Peggy


  I’ve told Ann-Margret I don’t care what they call him, no son of mine is going to be named Spot. It sounds like something spilled on a rug that you’d want to spray with Woolite.

  Over by Lovie’s throne the pregnant girls are grooming Lovie’s hair, festooning it with flowers. This could go on all day.

  I glance around to see what the old woman is up to, but she has vanished. This can’t be good. My dog detective instincts tell me she didn’t go outside to sing “Queenie Wahine’s Papaya.”

  Feigning innocence, I stretch my ample self like I’m doing a little doggie calisthenics, and then I mosey on out of the hut.

  Usually an appearance by the long lipped god spurs a rush of admirers who follow me around imitating my every move. Today, my fans are in clusters around the perimeter of the village, and they’re busier than that silly cocker spaniel when he’s digging up the whole back yard trying to find my hidden stash of ham bones.

  This calls for some skullduggery. I suck in my portly gut and slink from tree to tree, my ears on radar and my nose to the ground.

  I smell “T-R-O-U-B-L-E.” These natives are swinging ropes and nets from every tree in the area, and they’re not building a “Mansion Over the Hilltop.”

  What they’re building are traps.

  A lesser dog would be trembling in his hind legs. But it would be a mistake to underestimate me. I continue to suck up my gut, go into Kid Galahad mode, prance into the middle of the village square, and howl a few bars of “King of the Whole Wide World.”

  Listen, I’m a dog of valor. Act like a scaredy-cat and you end up eating Meow Mix.

  Chapter 18

  Feathers, Ceremonies, and Elvis Sightings

  I know Uncle Charlie well enough to be certain he won’t take Mama’s radical path and beat the truth out of old man Morgan. But the strain of the futile search for Lovie is beginning to show. For one thing, he hasn’t shaved, and for another, he hasn’t quoted a single line of Shakespeare.

  Always when the family is frazzled and threatening to come apart at the seams, Uncle Charlie comes up with some pithy Shakespearean quote that makes us all feel better. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s the way he speaks, ever confident and hopeful.

  My kidnapping only added to his strain. I’ve got to be more careful. And smarter.

  Think, I tell myself. Surely there’s something I’m missing, some small detail about my kidnapping that would solve this case if only I could remember it.

  Suddenly Mama says, “I wonder what’s keeping Seth?”

  “My ESPN tells me he’s up to no good.”

  Fayrene could be onto something. After all, he’s the only man left in Rocky’s crew. Why didn’t he spook and run? Is he hanging around out of loyalty to Rocky or loyalty to old man Morgan? And if so, why? What’s Seth’s connection to Morgan? And to Rosita?

  Fayrene’s right. Something’s up in the kitchen.

  The thought of sneaking back there to find out gives me the shivers. What if one or both were involved in my kidnapping? What if they’re plotting my recapture right this very minute? Or worse, my murder.

  I’m dithering between sleuthing or playing it safe when the matter is taken completely out of my hands.

  “Jack!” Mama rushes toward him as if a fatted calf killed in honor of his return is roasting on the spit.

  Rocky’s with him, his face drawn and his fists clenching and unclenching.

  “I wanted to beat the truth out of Morgan,” Rocky says. “If Jack hadn’t stopped me, I’d have killed him.”

  “The authorities should have turned Jack loose on him,” Mama says. “He’d get at the truth.” She thinks my almost-ex can turn water to wine.

  “I’ve already spent a little quality time with Morgan, Ruby Nell. He’s not talking.”

  You can bet Morgan’s “quality time” with Jack Jones a.k.a. the Black Panther was not something you’d want to talk about with your grandchildren over Christmas dinner. If The Company’s most lethal operative can’t get the truth out of Morgan, nobody can.

  Jack fills his plate at the buffet, comes back to the table, and assesses me like I’m his favorite strawberry jam and he’s fixing to spread me all over his hot toast.

  I thought I was half-dead till he looked at me like that. Leave it to Jack to prove me wrong.

  He winks, then sits down in the chair next to mine and proceeds to attack his food. Jack eats the way he does everything else, with energy and apparent single-minded concentration.

  I say apparent because what you see with Jack is not what you get. There’s nothing single-minded about him. A peek into his multitasking, steel-trap, formidable brain would probably scare the average person to death.

  Uncle Charlie and Rocky ease over to the coffeepot, settling for only dark, sugarless brew. If this were a movie, they’d be cast in rolls of the serious but fatherly cop and the grieving young lover.

  When Rocky comes to the table, I watch something deep in Jack unfold. From the look in his eyes, I’d say he’s not fixing to deliver a Christmas package.

  “Rocky, what do you know about Seth Alford?”

  “He’s a good archeologist. Well credentialed and fully capable to take over when I’m not at the dig.”

  “Why would a young, bright archeologist take a back seat and watch you get credit for a historic discovery?”

  Rocky takes off his hat and puts it on his knee. Trying to center himself, it looks like. The hatband is already damp with sweat and has left an indentation in his hair.

  I wish Lovie could see this. I think she’d find it endearing.

  “What are you getting at, Jones?”

  Looks like Jack has met his match. If the Valentine family weren’t in such dire straits, I’d giggle.

  “Your second-in-command keeps trying to take charge of the search for Lovie.”

  Rocky stands up, a big, intimidating man. Anybody but Jack might think twice about crossing him. “Are you implying something, Jones?”

  “Just pointing out the facts.”

  “Seth’s crazy about her. Everybody is. Lovie’s like that. People are drawn to her. Besides, I want him in charge.”

  I wonder if anybody else sees the look that passes between Jack and Uncle Charlie. Probably. But I’m the only one here who knows its significance—two Company men, one former, one current, telepathizing that Seth Alford warrants further investigation.

  But if he were my kidnapper, wouldn’t I have recognized something about him? His size, his voice, his scent, for goodness’ sake. If you pay attention, you can tell one male from another simply by scent.

  As the seed of doubt Jack planted begins to sink in, Rocky looks like a man trying to get his bearings.

  “Seth knows this jungle better than I do.” Rocky sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself.

  “Why?” This from Uncle Charlie.

  “Did I hear someone call my name?” Seth strolls back onto the patio, carrying a map, looking as innocent as the little boy who always gets picked to play a cherub in the Christmas pageant. He plucks an apple turnover from a plate, then straddles a chair. “All’s well in the kitchen. What do you want me to do today, boss? Search for Miss Lovie while you work at the dig?”

  “Forget the lost tomb of the Nine Lords.” Rocky rams his hat back on his head. “We’ve got to find Lovie.”

  “I knew that’s what you’d say.” Seth spreads a map over the table. “I’ve laid out a search pattern.”

  Given Jack’s recent questions regarding Seth’s role in the search, you might expect him to leap up and snatch the map out of Seth’s hands. But leaping is not in Jack’s nature. To the unpracticed eye, he looks like he’s just sitting there taking it all in. Uncle Charlie and I know otherwise. He’s a man holding a keg of dynamite, just waiting for the right moment to light the fuse.

  Seth points to quadrants on the map that show the areas already searched highlighted with yellow, and the vast majority of the map blanketed in pink—unexplored territory.
r />   And somewhere out there are Elvis and Lovie.

  The vast pink area gets to me. I have a hard time keeping myself from breaking down and weeping into my rapidly cooling coffee. This won’t do. I pull myself together by thinking about the revenge I’m going to take on Morgan’s partners.

  If I ever find out their identities. Make that, when. This is Lovie we’re talking about. If I were the one missing in the jungle, she’d be tearing through the trees armed with a baseball bat and no-telling-what-all till she found me.

  “Rocky, you and I will take this section.” Seth points to an area of pink west of the compound. “Charlie, you and Jack search here.” His finger moves to a spot north.

  Uncle Charlie nods, and if you didn’t know him, you’d think he was agreeing to everything Seth Alford said.

  On the other hand, who knows what Jack’s thinking? He might as well be an oak tree for all the good it does to try to figure him out.

  “Thanks, Seth,” Uncle Charlie says, and Rocky gives him a skeptical look.

  Poor guy. He’s got a lot to learn about the Valentine family.

  “That’s settled then.” Seth folds the map and stuffs it in his pocket. “You ready, Rocky?”

  I catch a glimpse of something out the corner of my eye, and quickly turn to see Rosita scuttling back toward the kitchen as if she’s been up to no good.

  “Did you see her, Uncle Charlie?”

  “I did.”

  “It looked like she was eavesdropping.”

  “Probably waiting for us to finish so she can clear the dishes.”

  Suddenly Jack uncoils. “Charlie, take the women back to the hotel on the island. Track Morgan’s connections to all suspects.”

  “What are you going to do, Jack?” I ask.

  When he turns to look down at me, I wish I were standing up. Towering over me while I sit wilted and patched up in my chair, he seems about ten feet tall. And I don’t know whether I’m glad about that or mad.

  “I’m going to bring Lovie and Elvis back.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You’re going with Charlie.”

  “She’s my cousin and Elvis is my dog.”

  “The first is true, the second is debatable.”

  “I’m going, Jack, and that’s final.”

  He gets quiet and I can’t tell if he’s marshalling further arguments or getting ready to issue commands. When he leans down and puts his hands on my shoulders, gentle-like, tears spring to my eyes. Sometimes, unexpected tenderness unravels me. There is so little of it in this world.

  “Cal, I know you would love to go. But you would only slow me down. With one kidnapper caught and the others loose and forewarned, we can’t risk losing time.”

  He’s right and I know it. Still, I have my pride. And a stubborn streak, too.

  “All right, Jack. You go into that jungle by yourself, but you’d better bring them back.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  I lift my chin. I’m not finished yet.

  “And don’t you dare tell Uncle Charlie to keep the women safe and out of trouble. Mama and Fayrene and I have plenty of sense. We’re not going to sit in our rooms in Cozumel like three lumps on a log. We’re going to help Uncle Charlie get the truth out of the Farkles.”

  He lets go of my shoulders, all business. “Give her a gun, Charlie. She knows how to use it.”

  That’s stretching things, but I don’t let on. Particularly to Jack, who spent hours on the farm trying to teach me to use a firearm.

  When he turns on his heels and hurries off, I’m so flabbergasted I can’t even move. Who’d have thought? Maybe I impressed him with my hairpin.

  “Well, Lord, Callie,” Fayrene says. “If you can use a gun, why didn’t you get rid of the critters that are eating Ruby Nell’s Canadians?”

  I think she means caladiums, unless Mama has some foreign men stashed about. Which would be just like her.

  I laugh till tears roll down my cheeks. Comic relief will do that to you. A person can take only so much drama. The pressure builds inside, and you have to let it out, one way or the other. The Southern way is laughter through tears.

  Within an hour, Fayrene, Mama, Uncle Charlie, and I are all packed and on the ferry heading back to Cozumel. It’s a relief to be heading back to civilization, even if we will be in the middle of a bunch of undertakers.

  If we can get to the bottom of the Farkle connection, I might even get a chance to slip into the seminar on making up the dead. Not that I need any lessons on makeup for the Glory Land bound. On the contrary, I could teach the rest of them a thing or two.

  I’m so good at fixing up the dearly departed at Uncle Charlie’s Eternal Rest Funeral Home, I have a stack of requests from my geriatric clients at Hair. Net. The most interesting is from Junie Mae Getty, who drives all the way from Tupelo so I can do her hair.

  “Callie, when I go,” she told me, “make me up to look like Marilyn Monroe. For once in his life, I want to take the limelight away from Robert Earl.”

  Robert Earl’s the mayor of Tupelo, and his wife Junie Mae stands so far back in his shadow, most folks don’t even see her. About the only thing we’ve ever heard her say in public, is Hon, it’s working, her way of telling Robert Earl to quit tapping the microphone, it’s on.

  I promised Junie Mae I’d fix her so even the most diehard fans wouldn’t be able to say she wasn’t Marilyn, right down to the mole on her left cheek.

  Uncle Charlie is standing at the railing between Mama and Fayrene. I wander close enough to catch a drift of the conversation and satisfy myself that no fresh horror is afoot.

  He’s silent, but Mama and Fayrene are discussing feathers. I don’t even want to know.

  Leaving them behind, I find a relatively secluded spot on the ferry and call Darlene to check on things at my shop.

  The first thing Darlene says is, “Have you found Lovie and Elvis,” proving that Mooreville’s grapevine is alive and well.

  “Not yet, but we’re hopeful today will be the day. How are things at Hair.Net?”

  “Business is booming,” she tells me, which is good news I can use. “Everybody in Mooreville’s trying to help Trixie Moffett plan her wedding to Roy Jessup.”

  “There’s no such thing as a private affair in Mooreville.”

  “I talked Trixie into a blue wedding gown.”

  “Blue? It’s her first wedding.”

  “Yeah, but her horoscope said she should take a chance and reach for the sky. In my book, that spells blue. Besides, Bobby said Trixie was in danger from white.”

  “Bobby? Uncle Charlie’s assistant?”

  “I met him at the funeral home. Claude Akers passed, and he called here asking for you to do the makeup. I went in to pinch-hit.”

  “Well, thanks.” I hope. Listen, I’m a stickler about making the deceased look their very best for the hereafter. I just hope Darlene’s work held up to my standards.

  “He’s a neat guy,” Darlene says.

  “Who? Akers?”

  “No. Bobby.”

  “Huckabee?”

  “Yeah.”

  Neat is not the word that comes to mind when I think of Bobby. He’s clumsy and socially inept and he tries too hard to please. Plus, his psychic blue eye is a bit unsettling.

  But I can see how a woman who won’t do my clients’ nail colors without consulting a horoscope first would be attracted to him. And I’m glad. Really, I am.

  “That’s great, Darlene,” I tell her, and I really mean it. “I’m glad you two are becoming friends.”

  I pocket my cell phone, then stroll to the railing to join my group. Uncle Charlie is nowhere in sight, and Mama is plucking feathers from her hair, casting them on the water.

  “Mama, what’s going on?”

  “Shhh.” Fayrene puts her hands over her lips. “We’re doing a come on home ceremony.”

  “Lovie, come back.” Mama intones as she casts a shiny black feather toward the sea. It floats over the wate
r awhile and then settles into the waves.

  Fayrene chants, “Kumquats, melons, can-ta-loupe.”

  A few people nearby turn to look at us in a funny way. Which is nothing new. Even in Mooreville, the Valentine entourage attracts attention, which is good both for business and for gossip. I have to say, my family and friends are the backbone of Mooreville’s entire social structure.

  Another feather flies out of Mama’s hand and rises up on a breeze that has sprung up over the Caribbean.

  “Oranges, pineapple, man-goes.” Fayrene sways while she names off her erotic fruits. I can almost hear her thinking how she’ll use these so-called native techniques in the back room of Gas, Grits, and Guts.

  “We’re waiting for you,” Mama chants in an ethereal voice, then lets fly another feather. “Come back to us, Elvis.”

  Nearby, a sixtyish woman in tank top and shorts printed in a purple hibiscus that emphasizes her varicose veins goes into some kind of swoon. An aging man with his shorts’ waistband hiked over his large belly by suspenders mops her face with his handkerchief.

  “Get away from me, you old fool.” The woman shoves him and straightens her tank top. “Elvis is on this boat and I intend to find him.”

  Chapter 19

  Voodoo, Film Noir, and the Final Journey to Glory Land

  When we get off the ferry, we leave behind mild bedlam (nothing new for us) and rumors of Elvis sightings (a more than thirty-year phenomenon that seems to still be going strong).

  On the ride to the Cozumel Palace, Mama tries to crank up a discussion of our sleuthing plans, but Uncle Charlie shakes his head and changes the subject.

  “The undertakers’ convention is probably in full swing,” he says.

  Mama’s smart. She immediately rises to the challenge. “It won’t take me long to catch up, Charlie. I’m in a par-tee moood.”

  “Woo-hoo!” Even Fayrene gets in on the act.

  The fact is, we don’t know who is in on the kidnappings. The best thing we can do is act as if everybody we see is the enemy. And that includes the taxi driver. Who, by the way, bears a striking resemblance to Rosita—hatchet face, dark hovering eyebrows, facial expression that says I’d as soon rip you apart as look at you.

 

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