by Webb, Peggy
Or, does she have some connection to Alvin and Lulu Farkle that I don’t know about? Is that why Lulu is here, to confer with Rosita?
I don’t have time to stand around wondering. Rosita’s liable to come into the living room any minute and demand to know what I’m doing on Rocky’s computer. The rest of my life flashes before me. Instead of trying to get Mama out of jail, I’ll be in the hoosegow with her. By the time I get out, my eggs will be dead and I won’t be far behind.
Holding my breath, I shut off the computer and ease down the lid. Rosita is still warbling, but now she’s moving around. Her footsteps echo through the stucco cottage with the finality of a prison cell door slamming shut.
The desk is not in a direct line of sight to the hallway that leads to the kitchen, but by craning my neck I can see her marching this way. With a weapon.
Actually, it’s a broom. But in the hands of hatchet-face, it could take my head off with one blow.
Listen, a broom won’t compare to a can of Sebastian Shaper Plus Hairspray. Aimed just right, it would stop her cold. Alas, my Shaper Plus is in my tote bag in the guest cottage.
“Señor Rocky? Is that you?”
How am I going to explain my presence? Even if I can, will she listen?
Any second now, she’ll come into view and find out it’s not her boss. What would Mama do?
Just as the cook comes into sight, I throw myself on the floor and proceed to have a moaning, writhing, kicking, spitting hissy fit. I’d foam at the mouth if I could, but to pull off that trick, I’d have to have my strawberry scented ultra-foaming shampoo.
Rosita races from the cottage screaming, “Diablo, diablo!”
The devil. Listen, I may not be bilingual, but I saw Romancing the Stone.
I don’t have time to lie on the floor thinking up foreign words. Any minute now Rosita will come back with somebody equipped to deal with the devil. Probably old man Morgan.
Cured of my hissy fit, I get out of there as fast as I can. Thank goodness, I step out of the cottage and into mayhem.
Back at the temple, the teenaged tourists are running wild while the red-faced guides race around tooting their whistles and trying to herd their charges into a circle. I give the milling melee a wide berth as I make my way across the grounds to the guest cottage. The empty guest cottage.
Where could Mama and Fayrene be? I search every room calling their names. Their rooms look untouched since our whirlwind pass through to put on clothes after the snake alarm.
I grab my cell phone out of my pocket and try to call Mama, but she’s apparently out of range. Where did she go? It would be just like her to be off somewhere channeling her inner animal.
Or worse. Kidnapped.
I hurry out of the cottage and toward the cliffs. Every nerve in my body is twanging. What I want to do is run, screaming. But that would alarm everybody in Tulum, including the tourists.
The whole point of our current investigation is secrecy. We don’t want old man Morgan dogging our steps, and I certainly don’t want Jack to know what I’m up to.
It’s okay for him to traipse around the underbelly of the world getting shot at and no-telling-what-all—or, in this case, traipse through the jungle. But he wants to keep me safe. His very words when I used to beg him to tell me what his profession was. “All I want to do, Cal,” he’d say, “is to keep you safe.”
If he could, he’d have me under protective custody.
I can’t think about that right now. I’m standing on the edge of a cliff searching for missing persons. Specifically, Mama and Fayrene.
There’s nothing in sight except a rocky cliff with some occasional scrubby growth, and beyond, an awesome expanse of blue-green water.
I try Mama’s cell number again, then Fayrene’s, and finally give that up as a lost cause. Walking along the edge of the cliff, I end up at the wall that separates Tulum from the jungle.
The wall I once viewed as picturesque and charming now looks dark and forbidding. Even in broad daylight.
Normally, I’m a nature lover. Back home, I can walk the woods on Mama’s farm for hours. But this place makes me want to run and hide under the bed. I don’t know if my aversion is due to the jungle itself, or the fact that somewhere out there, Lovie and Elvis are in big trouble.
Maybe Mama and Fayrene, too. I yell for them again.
“Mama? Fayrene?”
“They’re not here.”
Old man Morgan. I’d know that gravely voice anywhere.
The instinct I call “angels whispering in my ear” says run. But my rational self turns to face him and act as if I’ve spent the entire morning admiring the many scenic views of Tulum instead of trespassing.
Listen, just because somebody reminds you of those creepy old actors who frequently appear in classic horror films starring Bela Lugosi, that doesn’t mean he’s out to lock you in a dungeon and torture you till you admit your age and weight.
“That’s strange.” I make myself smile at this old man to show him I mean strange funny not strange scary. “We were supposed to meet here before lunch.”
“They won’t be coming. Rocky called and said he and Charlie and Jack wanted to meet the women back at the hotel in Cozumel.”
“They’ve found Lovie and Elvis!” In an instant, Archie Morgan transforms from Lugosi to Matt Damon. Somebody you just want to pat on the head and kiss. Which just goes to show the tricks stress overload can play on you.
“He didn’t say, but it sounded like it. I guess they want to surprise you.”
“This is wonderful. Where are Mama and Fayrene?”
“Waiting for us down at the ferry. Let’s go.”
When he takes hold of my arm, I resist the urge to jerk away. He’s probably just trying to keep me from stumbling over the uneven ground and taking a fall down the cliff, but maybe he’s got a haunted castle around here somewhere and wants to do things to me that involve chains and a hatchet.
A state of panic will benefit no one, least of all me. I force myself to act normal. If there is such a thing. Besides, Jack trusted him enough to put Archie Morgan in charge of watching over us.
Still, I’m not going to just go marching off with a man I don’t even halfway trust.
“Wait. I’ll need my purse.”
“Your mother took care of that. Mighty fine lady, that Miss Ruby Nell.”
It’s just like Mama to have made another conquest behind my back, in spite of murder and kidnapping and unknown suspects. I’ve just barely managed to get Mr. Whitenton, Mama’s so-called dance partner, out of the picture. I hope I don’t have to start all over with old man Morgan.
Out of the blue, I ask, “Do you dance?”
“Never have. Never will.”
“Good.”
Old man Morgan gives me a funny look, but I don’t care. In addition to having babies before my biological clock crashes, my other major goals are taking care of Mama and making sure she doesn’t make a crazy mistake that will jeopardize her happiness and the Valentine family farm.
“We need to hurry if we’re going to catch the ferry,” Morgan says.
Even with his hand on my arm, I begin to relax as we head down the familiar path to the pier. All I have to do is shout and somebody will surely hear. The pier will be crawling with people either unloading to see the ruins of Tulum or waiting to board for the island.
Currently, I see no need to shout except with joy. Now that Lovie and Elvis have been found, we can enjoy Cozumel while Uncle Charlie takes part in the undertakers’ convention.
As we leave sight of the ruins, the noise of tourists and the distant hum from the skeleton crew left on the dig fade into silence.
Now that the danger is over, I’m going to fly home with Elvis so I can make sure Darlene is not running off every client I have at Hair.Net. Just because it took years to build that business doesn’t mean it can’t be destroyed in a few days.
If I hadn’t left it in the hands of somebody I barely know, to travel south
of the border, Elvis never would have been kidnapped. Maybe Lovie wouldn’t, either. If I hadn’t come down here, she might have stayed with Rocky instead of going over to Cozumel for some girl talk with me.
Out of the blue I’m grabbed from behind. Holy cow! In less time than it takes Jack to get me in a compromising position, I’m blindfolded and gagged.
I kick and claw. Judging by the sounds of the grunts and curses, I’m landing some pretty good blows.
The voice muttering off-color words in Lovie’s vocabulary is deep. Male, I think. Of course, I could be wrong. I’m not exactly in the ideal position for thinking.
I haul back and swing again, but before I can do further damage with my fingernails, my hands are bound behind my back, and I’m shoved into a thicket where brambles proceed to mutilate me.
What about Archie Morgan? Is he captive, too, or is he in on the kidnapping?
And what about Mama and Fayrene? Are they waiting at the pier, or have they been kidnapped, too?
There’s no way I’m going to fight my way out of this situation. Besides, I need to save my strength for the heavy chains and sharp axes in my immediate future. Maybe even stewpots and cannibals. I don’t want to think about it right now.
I stop my useless struggle and try to learn what I can by listening.
The only sounds I hear are bird calls and the rustling of bushes as I’m half shoved, half dragged wherever my kidnapper is taking me.
If I’m lucky, I’ll end up in the same place as Lovie and Elvis. Listen, whoever this criminal is, he’d better watch out. When I get together with my cousin and my dog, there’s no stopping us. Even unarmed, we’re dangerous.
And I don’t even want to think about what Jack Jones will do when he discovers I’m missing.
Elvis’ Opinion #9 on Gods, Captivity, and Blue Suede Shoes
I could get accustomed to this life as a god. Though I’d still prefer to be a major and more glamorous deity like Quetzal-coatl, I’m discovering more and more advantages to being the long lipped god.
For one thing, nothing is expected of me. I’ve been in this hut all day long lolling on a mat while the natives bring me food. Furthermore, every little move I make is imitated. When I get up to take a piss, the natives trail along behind to do the same thing. When I shake myself all over just to hear the tag on my handsome pink dog collar—a move I’m very fond of because it reminds me of my swivel-hipped days onstage at Las Vegas—everybody in the village gathers round and starts shaking.
The next thing I know, they’ll all show up in my hut wearing the Mayan equivalent of a dog collar.
Except for worrying how Callie is handling my absence, and missing my human mom and dad, I’m faring fine in the jungle.
I wish I could say the same thing about Lovie. I still can’t figure out what they intend to be her fate. Around noon, they started plying her with food, too, but they’re keeping her so drunk on their Mayan version of Long Island Iced Tea, she’s unable to question the one person in this joint who speaks English, sort of.
Even with my radar ears and superior powers of deduction, I’m unable to find out anything because everywhere I go, I have a huge following. If I weren’t still running around in this dog suit, I’d think I was in Las Vegas with fans clamoring just to get near me. One of the best times I ever had was the night I wore my black gypsy outfit and the chain on my thousanddollar belt broke. I just laughed about it and gave pieces of it to my adoring fans. That was also the night I sang “Young and Beautiful,” and somebody in the audience yelled, “Elvis, you’re beautiful.”
I guess I was. I never thought about it. My mama (Gladys) raised me to be humble.
And I guess I still am. In spite of the misinformed opinions of the judges at the dog shows I’ve entered, and my slightly mismatched ears, which you’d hardly notice if you didn’t pick them up and look closely, I’ve seen enough reflections of myself in Callie’s beauty shop mirrors to know that I’m a one-ina-million, over-the-top handsome basset.
Well, judge for yourself. What other basset could end up in the jungle being worshipped by the natives? If I can get them completely caught up in imitating me, maybe I can slip away unnoticed and try to find my way back to Tulum.
I’m sure Charlie’s called in Jack and they’ve got search parties everywhere. But they could use a little help from a highly placed deity. Namely, a basset god.
I stand up, stretch a bit, then do a few of my famous pelvis moves. This really gets the natives going. They’re gyrating all over the place, laughing, and trying to match my every swivel.
Next I launch into a fabulous basset edition of “Blue Suede Shoes.” Instead of being totally transported by my music and my moves, they scratch their heads a bit, then all throw back their heads and start howling.
“That’s All Right Mama.” Obviously the song that made blue suede the most famous footwear in the world is totally wrong for barefoot natives.
“Shake, Rattle and Roll” ought to do the trick. I’m fixing to light into a rousing rendition when I’m cut off from my audience by five women rushing by. And every last one of them is pregnant.
Without pausing to listen to my concert, they rush into the hut where Lovie’s in no condition to do anything except moan.
“Don’t Ask Me Why.” Even in my current god status, I don’t have a clue what’s going on.
But leave it to the King to find out. I bow to my audience and they all bow right back. Then I prance my well-fed self into the hut to find out Lovie’s fate.
Chapter 12
Desperate Measures and Danger from a Dark-Eyed Stranger
In my current condition (bound, gagged, and blindfolded), the only thing I can tell about where I’m going is that it’s back uphill.
I try to judge the time by counting silently. By the time my captor shoves me over some kind of threshold, I judge it has taken us about the same length of time to reach this place as it took for me to leave Tulum and walk into this trap.
The place smells of dust motes, dirty clothes, and fried oysters. I sincerely hope that’s not my lunch. If God made a mistake, it was oysters. They have to be the worst, slimiest, most vile-tasting food on this earth. Of course, if anything could make up for the mistake, though, it’s the pearls.
“Move.” That sounds like a female voice. Do I have two captors?
I catch a whiff of faintly familiar perfume. Where have I smelled that before? The undertakers’ convention breakfast? Lulu Farkle?
If the Farkles think Lovie did something outrageous to Alvin, they might want to get revenge on her. But why me?
I am shoved hard and end up on a mattress so thin I can feel the bedsprings poking through. Before I can land a good kick, my legs are trussed together and my hands unbound, then handcuffed to a metal bedpost.
If my current treatment is any indication, I can quit worrying about oysters: I won’t be having lunch today. Maybe not even dinner.
“You’ll be sorry.” My threat loses some power through the gag, but that doesn’t stop me. “Wait till Uncle Charlie and Jack finish with you.”
There’s the sound of laughter. Definitely female.
“Search her.” That male voice again. It sounds familiar but I can’t place it. Probably because my blood sounds like the Pacific surf surging through my ears, rough hands are all over me going through my pockets and jerking out my cell phone, and I’m scared out of my mind.
Then I hear footsteps heading back toward the door. Definitely two people. Maybe more.
What next? One thing’s for sure. I don’t plan to lie still and wait for my kidnappers to turn me into the next set of bones discovered at Tulum.
I work my mouth, trying to loosen the gag so I can scream, but all I achieve is chafing my skin.
“Lovie! Elvis!” This comes through my gag sounding like Mmmmfee, Eeefis.
Wait a minute. Did I hear voices? Straining, I make out what seems to be the distant chatter of children. Are they playing nearby? Can they hear me if I mak
e enough commotion?
I rattle my handcuffs against the metal bedpost and scream muffled bloody murder. Nobody—let alone a group of children—charges to my rescue.
Holy cow! What did I expect? At the rate I’m going, I’ll be hoarse and voiceless in two hours. Not to mention chafed and bruised.
The sounds are still filtering through. I get quiet so I can make them out. The chatter seems to be increasing in volume, but I can’t understand what they’re saying.
Wait a minute. Are those whistles I hear? Suddenly I remember the group touring Tulum, all those milling, unruly teenagers and the two leaders frantically tooting their whistles.
What in the world is going on? The whistles shrill once more, then the chatter fades and ceases.
I wait and wait, but hear nothing more. Sweat rolls from under my thick hair and down my cheeks. I’m thirsty and hungry. Not to mention the fact that I could use a bathroom break, and there’s a creature crawling in this bed that I hope is not a tarantula.
I picture him the size of my front porch rocking chair, getting ready to wrap his hairy legs around me and start gnawing with teeth that look like a crosscut saw. I wonder if overexcitement can kill a person my age. Since I’m not ready to give up and die, childless, I force myself to think about something nice. Mama’s farm. The cool blue lake. The low-hanging oak tree limb Lovie and I used as a childhood swing.
Heat and fear are taking their toll. The last thing I remember is thinking about the way you can play hooky on a quiet Sunday morning, sit on that low-hanging limb of the oak in the pasture on Mama’s farm, and still hear gospel music from the Wildwood Baptist Church just across the little two-lane country Highway 371.
“Callie?” I bolt out of my faint. “Where are you?”
That’s Mama! What in the world’s going on here?
“Yahoo. Callie!” Fayrene’s voice. This is weird. “I guess she got irrigated when she found out we took the ferry without her.”
That’s definitely Fayrene. Sounding as if she’s in the next room. Which is impossible. If they had been kidnapped, they’d be bound and gagged, too. And they certainly wouldn’t be talking as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.