by Webb, Peggy
She struggles halfway upright and swings her bound legs over the edge of the cot. “See if you can’t gnaw these ropes off, Elvis. If I had my baseball bat, I’d beat the living tar out of the devil who did this.”
Now she’s talking. I sink my teeth into the ropes at her ankles and start gnawing. In case you’re thinking this is easy for a dog with my teeth and talent, think again. I don’t know where this hemp has been before it ended up wrapped around Lovie’s legs. But trust me, it smells like Jack’s old socks after they’ve been tossed behind the dirty clothes hamper and forgotten so long you could find a cure for disease growing among the folds.
One of the many reasons he ought to take Callie for a stroll around the Mooreville Truck Stop like I did my cute Frenchie. With that kind of romantic ambience, he could sweet-talk her into coming back to him. When he was living with Callie, every one of his socks smelled like Bounce dryer sheets.
Not that clean socks ought to be the main reason he makes up with my human mom. All I’m saying is hygiene matters. And Callie improves Jack’s exponentially.
I lift my head from the ropes to keep from being asphyxiated.
“Hurry, Elvis. He might come back any minute.”
Who does she think I am? Houdini? It’s going to take me more than a few minutes to overcome the smell enough to set her free and keep down my last snack of Pup-Peroni.
Speaking of which, I haven’t had a bite to eat in so long, that stupid monkey outside is starting to look tasty.
“Once we get out of here, I know you can track my kidnapper, can’t you, Elvis?”
You bet your “Fame and Fortune.” When I had women around the world throwing their panties at me and fainting at my feet, I had a cadre of people to find anything I wanted. I guess that’s why I got sent back as a basset. With this famous nose, I don’t have to rely on anybody else. I can sniff out everything from a hot-to-trot French poodle to a fresh shipment of pickled pigs’ lips over at Gas, Grits, and Guts.
Lovie tries to work her feet loose, but the ropes are still holding tight.
“That’s okay, Elvis. We’ll get free. And when we do, that sorry piece of trash is going to wish he’d never messed with Lovie Valentine and Elvis.”
There’s a loud racket outside the door and we freeze.
“Quick, Elvis. Hide.”
With Lovie sprawled on the cot, it’s sagging so low I couldn’t get underneath if I gave up Pup-Peroni for two years, and there’s nowhere else in this room to hide. “Where Could I Go But to the Lord?” A frightening prospect. What if I got sent back as a cat?
Lovie and I hold our breaths, waiting for what happens next.
With an unholy screech, that dratted monkey jumps into the room, scaring me out of one of my incarnations.
I’m all set to show the jungle animal some Mississippi muscle when he cocks his silly little head and stares at me like he knows me.
Of course, everybody knows the King.
“Is that a monkey, Elvis?” I whack my tail against Lovie’s leg, a definitive yes. “He’s got fingers. See if you can coax him over here to work on these ropes. You can talk animal talk, can’t you?”
I can talk anybody’s talk. Doesn’t Lovie know? Music is the universal language.
I hum a few bars of “I’m Counting on You,” and bless’a my soul if the little primate doesn’t take a step toward us.
Who knows? Maybe he’s the reincarnation of my pet monkey, Scatter, from my other life in Graceland.
Even better, maybe he’s Abraham Lincoln, come to emancipate us.
Chapter 8
Ghastly Visions, Lost Tombs, and Grisly Discoveries
By the time we get to Tulum, it’s too dark to traipse into the jungle and conduct a search. Still, I can hardly bear the thought of Lovie being out there somewhere. It’s like having part of myself missing. That’s how close we are.
And poor Elvis. Though he likes to pretend he’s up to every challenge, I picture my little Mississippi basset hound trying to cope with the Yucatan jungle.
Obviously, everybody in the Valentine party feels the same sense of loss and foreboding. As we trudge into the complex, I’ve never heard this group so quiet. Especially Mama and Fayrene. I haven’t heard a single wisecrack from Mama nor any malapropisms from Fayrene.
With the dense jungles of Quintana Roo behind them, the ruins of Tulum look forbidding in the dark. Forget romance under a Mayan moon. I’ll be glad to get inside the little guest cottage and pull the sheet over my head.
“We’ll find them, Cal.” Jack looms up suddenly beside me.
I’d be telling a lie if I said I wasn’t glad to see him. It’s like being watched over by some powerful Mayan deity.
Up ahead, Uncle Charlie comes to a halt. “Let’s stow our bags, then meet on the steps of El Castillo in twenty minutes.”
El Castillo is the major structure of Tulum, a small temple perched on the edge of the cliff overlooking the Caribbean. It’s easy to find because it’s the focal point of the ancient Mayan ruins.
As we enter the cottage, Mama and Fayrene head to their room and Uncle Charlie goes to his. Jack plucks my suitcase from my hand.
“I’ll take care of this for you.”
“I don’t want you taking care of anything that belongs to me, Jack Jones.”
I try to grab my bag from him, which is the equivalent of a wren trying to steal a breadcrumb from a crafty cat.
All I can do is follow along behind while Jack stalks through the cottage like he owns it. A modest stucco building, the four cubicles we call bedrooms are arranged along a narrow hallway. Two of the doors are already shut, and I can hear the steady drone of voices in Mama and Fayrene’s room.
In the room across the hall, I hear Uncle Charlie moving around. Beyond is the tiny bathroom, then two other guest rooms. Mine and Jack’s. Too close for comfort.
I don’t have time to think about that now.
“Here we are.” I stop in front of the room I occupied only yesterday.
Jack sets my suitcase inside the door and then scorches my skin with the most predatory look outside the jungle.
“Don’t you even think about parking yourself in here, Jack. We’re getting a divorce.”
He doesn’t say anything for such a long time I can feel my unused eggs dying. Finally he says, “You’ll get the divorce, Cal. As soon as we’re stateside again.”
“Is that a promise?”
He’s already halfway out the door. I’m certain he heard me, but I’m equally certain he’s finished with the subject. Men are like that. They can shove a painful subject aside and then go about their business as if nothing happened.
Thank goodness I don’t have time to dwell on the demise of my marriage. That combined with the kidnapping of Lovie and Elvis is almost more than I can bear to think about. I change into a cute pair of pink Steve Madden moccasins, throw on a pink sweater against the night breeze, then set out toward the central temple.
Flashlight beams puncture the darkness up ahead, and voices float toward me.
“I can’t believe we beat Charlie here.”
“I don’t know why not, Ruby Nell. You were in such a hurry, you didn’t even give me time to unpack my handcrocheted African.”
I’m glad poor Rocky isn’t around to hear. He’s already torn all to pieces over Lovie’s disappearance. Fayrene’s shocking malapropism could be his undoing.
The beams of light bobble as Fayrene and Mama circle behind the temple. There’s a full moon out tonight. I guess they’ve decided to take a look at the Caribbean in the moonlight.
Lovie and Elvis could be somewhere out there in the dark. I pick my way to the edge of the jungle, cup my hands around my mouth, and call my dog. Dogs can pick up sounds humans can’t possibly hear. If Elvis is out there somewhere, maybe the sound of my voice will guide him back.
I call him again, listen to the echoing silence of the jungle, then make my way back to the temple where I sit on the front steps to wait for the men.
I need to come up with a plan. Usually this is easy for me. I’m a logical person. When Lovie and I were chasing killers in the Bubbles Caper and the Memphis murders, I was always the one to devise a viable plan.
Since Lovie was last seen on the ferry heading toward Tulum, I’m hoping Elvis is with her. The surrounding jungle is the logical place to start looking. I can hardly wait for daylight so we can get started.
And don’t think for a minute I’m going to let Jack and Uncle Charlie leave me behind. Nothing’s going to stop me. Not even jungle snakes.
High-pitched screams pierce the night.
“Mama!” I bolt up, race around El Castillo, and almost collide with them. “What in the world is wrong?”
“Ghosts.” Mama points toward the sea. “They’re throwing human sacrifices off the cliffs.”
“Holy cow! You’re hysterical.”
“She’s telling the truth.” Fayrene is so out of breath, she’s panting. “The haints tried to grab me. If I weren’t so swift on my feet, I’d be their latest victim and Ruby Nell would be delivering my urology.”
Maybe they’ve let our recent bout in Memphis with the Peabody killer go to their heads, or maybe they really did see something. In any event, I can’t afford to stand around and do nothing. Lovie’s gone and Mama might be next.
“Stay put.” As I race in the direction Mama pointed, I hear pounding footsteps heading toward El Castillo. The men, I hope.
Pouring on a burst of speed, I round the building and almost lose my footing. Even in the moonlight, it’s hard to see the rocks underfoot.
Suddenly an unholy howl sends chills over me. It’s coming from my right. Jerking around I see a wisp of white disappearing over the wall and into the lethal-looking jungle growth.
“Stop!” I sprint after the glob of white.
Listen, just because I occasionally burn white candles and chant under the moon doesn’t mean I believe in the moaning, groaning brand of ghost. I prefer to think of myself as openminded and moderately mystical.
Putting on an extra burst of speed, I’m gaining on the so-called spirit when another appears out of left field and knocks me flat. No ghost I ever heard of is that solid.
Jack rounds the temple and scoops me off the ground. “Cal, are you okay?” I nod and he tells me, “Stay here.” Then he’s off in pursuit of the ghostly intruders.
Rocky lopes by and heads after him. They leap over the wall and vanish into the jungle. I’m torn between remaining there and trying to see or hear something that will give me a clue about the ghost chase, or hurrying back to check on Mama and Fayrene.
Suddenly a male voice yells, “They went that way,” and El Castillo becomes chaos. Men appear out of nowhere, running in all directions, screaming to each other in languages I don’t recognize. Well, Spanish, I can make out, but the others stump me. Apparently the ghostly visitors have spooked Rocky’s entire archeological crew.
“Come, dear heart. Jack can handle it.” Uncle Charlie is suddenly beside me, leading me back to Mama and Fayrene.
I expected to find them huddled together taking courage from each other. They’re in a huddle, all right, but not the scared kind.
“I say we take the ferry to Cozumel tomorrow, bring back some floodlights, and flush those cowards out of their sheets,” Mama says.
“I’m with you, Ruby Nell.” Fayrene’s face is no longer the color of her sweater. “If we don’t do something fast, those haints are going to have their testicles all over the place.”
Well, goodness gracious. Tentacles, I hope.
Obviously, Uncle Charlie managed to do the impossible— talk them out of abject terror and into hard-core revenge in two seconds flat.
Men are still zipping past us with no apparent destination in mind. Occasionally, I hear bits and pieces of English—ghosts, evil spirits, and grisly sacrifices.
The moon vanishes behind a cloud, leaving us in pitch darkness, and I sense rather than see someone else approaching. If I were Elvis, my hackles would be up.
“Rocky’s back from ghost chasing.” The voice is male and gravely, one I don’t recognize. “He’s gone to calm down the men, but he said we should get away from this cliff and back to the main cottage.”
“That’s a good idea,” Uncle Charlie says. “Thanks, Archie.”
This must be Archie Morgan, Rocky’s caretaker, if I remember correctly. The moon is still hiding, and I can’t see much in the dark except that he’s about three inches shorter than me.
“What about Jack?” My question is instinctive, and reveals more of myself than I want anybody to know, particularly Mama. I can feel her I told you he’s the one for you look.
“He’s still out there,” Archie says.
Uncle Charlie puts his arm around me. “Don’t worry, Callie. Jack’s the best.”
“He most certainly is.” Mama has no idea that she and Uncle Charlie are talking about two different things—Company undercover agent versus lover/husband.
All of us head toward the main cottage.
It’s slightly larger than ours. For one thing, it has a living room, if you can call it that—six straight-backed chairs, a huge desk strewn with maps and Mayan artifacts, and one lumpylooking brown couch (genuine Naugahyde, as Mama would say). The couch looks like it’s not even conducive to sitting, let alone cuddling.
Two doors are open off the living room. Through one I see Rocky’s hat on the bedpost and a dressing table that still holds Lovie’s silver-handled brush. The sight of the brush almost makes me cry.
I quickly glance away through the other door. It leads to a short hallway with a small dining room (in case of bad weather, I guess) beyond. A serving bar connects the dining room to the kitchen, which is barely visible. I know from endless phone conversations with Lovie that there’s a small room beyond the kitchen where Juanita and Rosita sleep. She always hated that they were so close by.
This place could use a woman’s touch. No wonder Lovie’s having such a hard time getting Rocky to discover her national treasure. When we find her, the first thing I’m going to do is whack the kidnapper senseless with my Jimmy Choo stilettos. Then I’m going to help her spiffy up this place with candles and a few pretty Mayan textiles.
Mama and Fayrene sit down and proceed to take up the whole couch, so I sit on one of the uncomfortable straight-backed chairs. Uncle Charlie remains standing and so does Archie Morgan.
This man gives me the creeps. I don’t know why. He’s perfectly ordinary looking—thin gray hair, crooked nose, faded blue eyes, leathery skin that shows he has spent the last thirty-five years in the sun.
Even Fayrene seems uncomfortable around him. If Lovie were here we’d discuss why. Then she’d probably pick the lock of the caretaker’s cottage, a little trick she learned from her brief fling with the hapless Slick Fingers Johnson, who is now doing time.
She wanted to teach me, but I asked her why she thought I’d ever need such a skill. Now I’m kicking myself for being so shortsighted.
And I’m missing my cousin the way you’d miss a leg or an arm. Why did I leave her on that beach in her condition? If I ever get her back, I’ll never be careless with my best friend again.
As soon as we’re all seated, Uncle Charlie takes charge, which always makes me feel better. I was a child when Daddy died, and in every major crisis of my life, I’ve turned to my uncle. Well, Mama, too, but while Uncle Charlie’s support is solid and his advice reasonable, she tends more toward the Lovie kind of comfort—chocolate and hugs and warm sweaters.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence,” Uncle Charlie says, and I echo, “Amen.” Archie Morgan looks at me like I’ve lost my last marble, but Mama and Fayrene are right at home with my “front pew of the country Baptist Church” response.
“Ruby Nell, tell us exactly what you saw on the cliff tonight.”
“Somebody was out there moaning and carrying on and trying to make me think he was a ghost.”
“Only one?” Uncle Charlie asks.
“Not exactly, Miss Ruby Nell.” Archie Morgan shuffles to the center of the room. When he turns his insipid smile on Mama, I get the urge to knock it off his face. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I’ve been on this cliff a long time, and I’ve seen things that would raise the hair on your head.”
“Are you fixing to stand there and tell me I don’t know what I saw?” Like Elvis, Mama is quick to get her hackles up. Old man Morgan doesn’t take offense. I’d feel better if he did. Mama can make a conquest without even trying. I don’t even want to think about having Sunday dinner with this creepy old man.
“You saw something, all right, Miss Ruby Nell, but I think it was the real deal.” Archie Morgan turns to me. “Your dog’s discovery of my dearly departed Lucille’s bones confirms what I’ve suspected for a long time. There’s a Mayan tribe somewhere in the jungle still practicing the ancient rites of human sacrifice.”
“Lord help us.” Fayrene leaps off the couch. “Those cannonballs are going to eat Lovie and Elvis.”
“Flitter,” Mama says. “If there are cannibals in the jungle, they’d have gone after you and me.”
“Ruby Nell Valentine, have you gone insane?”
“Think about it, Fayrene. We’re tough old birds. Their meal would last much longer if we were the main dish.”
“Good grief, Mama.” I know she’s trying to lift our spirits, especially after what old man Morgan just said, but I’m in no mood for frivolity. “Uncle Charlie’s trying to find a connection between Lovie’s disappearance and our ghostly visitors.”
“Mrs. Johnson got it right,” Archie Morgan says. “The cannibals are grooming Miss Lovie for their next sacrifice.”
“There is no record of cannibalistic tribes in the jungle. My daughter is not going to be anybody’s sacrifice. At first light, we’ll have search helicopters in the air,” Uncle Charlie says.
“They won’t find anything. The jungle’s too thick for choppers.” Archie Morgan turns to Uncle Charlie. “No harm meant, sir, but your daughter looks a lot like my poor dead wife.” He glances at a framed photograph of Lovie on Rocky’s desk. “A goddess. The Mayans have conjured up ghosts to chase us off so we won’t interfere with their grisly rites.”