Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble

by Webb, Peggy

  “Callie’s not like that.” Mama says, defending me. I don’t know why, but this makes me feel better.

  “Well, Darlene would have been mad enough to chomp ten-penny nails about missing out on the voodoo shop in Cozumel.”

  They’ve been shopping?

  “Let’s stow our costumes in our room so we can hide the ceremonial stuff at the temple before the men get back.”

  Holy cow! Mama and Fayrene are in the guest cottage. Which means the kidnappers have planted bugs all over Tulum. That explains why I heard voices and whistles earlier.

  It also means that whoever did the kidnapping has unlimited access not only to Tulum but to all the buildings used by the team of archeologists. Plus, whoever planted the bugs had a better than passing knowledge of electronics.

  When Lovie was dating Farkle, didn’t I hear her say his sister used to be some kind of surveillance expert?

  There’s the sound of rustling followed by footsteps. Electronic, not real. Then, silence. I wait awhile, but hear nothing more.

  When will Mama discover I’m missing? And why isn’t she worried?

  If Archie told them the same thing he told me, then obviously Uncle Charlie met Mama and Fayrene in Cozumel, and Lovie is okay. But if she’s okay, why are the men still in the jungle? And why are Mama and Fayrene planning a ceremony that involves costumes and no-telling-what-all?

  Or maybe Archie Morgan didn’t send Fayrene and Mama to the island. Maybe they evaded his watchful eye and went on their own. But why would they go without telling me?

  The more I try to untangle the mystery, the more twisted it becomes.

  My stomach growls and my bladder sends distress signals. I don’t know which will happen first—I’ll die of hunger or I’ll explode.

  Either way, if I don’t take some desperate measures, I’m destined to become a tragic Marilyn Monroe figure, cut down in my prime, leaving Champ to yearly pilgrimages to put roses on my crypt and Jack to repent of buying a Harley Screamin’ Eagle with heated seats instead of a baby cradle.

  I should have listened to Bobby Huckabee. The next time he predicts danger from a dark-eyed stranger, I won’t be caught without my gun.

  Or at least an extra large can of Sebastian Shaper Plus.

  Elvis’ Opinion # 10 on Pregnancy, Pup-Peroni, and Jungle Protocol

  Well, bless’a my soul. What do I discover but Lovie sitting on her jungle throne, still half-crocked, while a bevy of pregnant natives bow at her feet. They’re chanting something, but even with my famous ears, it takes me awhile to figure it out.

  “Ixchel, Ixchel.”

  An ordinary dog wouldn’t have a clue what that means, but you’re dealing with the King. When I was so famous I couldn’t go anywhere without being mobbed, I spent a lot of time holed up in my bedroom reading. After I’d gone through every novel that caught my fancy, I started in on the encyclopedia. Read every volume from A to Z.

  And I still remember it all. What did you expect from a musical genius who in his other life could hear a song one time, then sit down at the piano and sing it back, word for word and note for note?

  These women believe Lovie is the Earth and Moon goddess. What they want from Ixchel/Lovie is anybody’s guess.

  If it’s help birthing their babies, I’ve got news for them. Unless they stop giving their new goddess that native potion powerful enough to knock a bull elephant off its feet, they’re going to have to depend on somebody else to bring all those little Mayan babies into this world.

  I just hope it’s not yours truly. But if it is, the King is up to any challenge. My manager’s brother-in-law once said the secret to being Elvis was always being polite and appreciative. That was true in my other life, and it’s still true now. Every time Callie gives me some Pup-Peroni, I lick her hands.

  But the real secret to being Elvis is a generosity of spirit that flows from me straight into the hearts of everybody around me.

  Listen, if any one of these little pregnant girls needs a long lipped god to help her bring her baby into the world, then I’m just the dog to “Take Good Care of Her.”

  The mommies-to-be haven’t noticed me yet, so I sneak into the corner where I can watch, unobserved. If these natives see me, they’ll rush over and transfer their loyalties to the long lipped god who knows how to teach them to move a “Heart of Stone.”

  I understand jungle protocol. Let every god have his day.

  It’s Lovie’s turn. Besides, it’s time to quit messing around enjoying the glory of god-dom and figure out if she’s their goddess sacrifice or their goddess oracle.

  If Lovie’s an intended sacrifice, I’ve got to have “Just a Little Talk with Jesus.” Then I’ve got to have a plan.

  Chapter 13

  Complications, Hot Tempers, and Prohibition Punch

  Right before I pass out from trying to keep from embarrassing myself, one of my captors comes back, unshackles me, unties my legs, pokes a gun into my ribs and says, “Move. And don’t think about trying anything.”

  His voice is muffled. He’s probably wearing a mask or a cloth over his mouth. I don’t know whether he’s disguising his voice because he’s somebody I know, or whether this is a simple precaution.

  After a few steps, he pulls open a door with squeaky hinges. “Bathroom. You’ve got five seconds and I’ve got a gun.”

  I’m so relieved, I couldn’t execute an escape plan even if I had one. I lift my blindfold, then wish I hadn’t. If I found a public restroom this dirty back home, I’d leave and suggest Scrubbing Bubbles to the management. Plus, there’s no window in it.

  I finish my business as fast as I can, pull my blindfold back into place, then hand myself back over to my kidnapper. I briefly consider lifting my head to see if I can catch a glimpse of him from underneath the bottom of the blindfold, but quickly discard the foolhardy notion. If he knows I can identify him, I’m dead. And I’d really rather live out the rest of my life dispensing New York hairdos to Mooreville’s glitterati and rescuing stray cats and dogs than die in a dirty jungle shack that smells like oysters.

  We march back to the bed where he shackles my hands to the bedpost.

  “Try getting out of that, Houdini.”

  My captor walks off, leaving my legs unbound. Thank goodness.

  Did he forget or are my kidnappers so confident I can’t escape that it doesn’t matter? The door slams behind him and I am alone. Except for that creepy, crawly thing in my bed, which I’m not even going to think about.

  It must be evening by now. Earlier, I tried to keep track of time by counting, but my unexpected nap threw me off. Still, my hunger alone tells me I’ve been here for hours.

  Also, the kidnapper who took me to the bathroom sounded like the same one who brought me here. That probably means he lives or is staying nearby. Either in Tulum or on the island. Which brings me back to the Farkles. Or old man Morgan, who seems to be at the center of everything.

  Suddenly, I hear Fayrene’s voice again.

  “Ruby Nell, do you think the chicken blood is enough?”

  Enough for what? I’m wondering.

  “It’ll have to do. We don’t have time to go out into the jungle and hunt down a wild pig.”

  “I couldn’t suffice a pig, anyhow. I don’t even eat bacon.”

  Holy cow! Mama and Fayrene are planning a clandestine sacrifice. That must mean Lovie and Elvis are still missing. Or they’ve discovered I’m missing. If so, why is Mama not hysterical?

  Suddenly the bugs pick up all kinds of commotion—footsteps, male voices all talking at once, Mama and Fayrene saying something I don’t quite catch. The hubbub builds, then subsides. There are more footsteps and I hear Uncle Charlie.

  “Is everybody here?”

  “Seth’s still at the dig checking on the remnants of my crew.” Rocky sounds tired and sad, like he’s barely hanging on. “Let’s go ahead without him. I can bring him up to speed later.”

  “Where’s Callie?” Jack. I can picture him, head and should
ers above everybody else, scanning the group for me.

  Obviously, the main cottage is also bugged, since that’s the gathering place of choice for the Valentine summits.

  “She wasn’t in the guest cottage.” Mama, sounding a bit worried. “I thought she’d be here.”

  For a while I can’t hear anything. Then Jack says, “She doesn’t answer her phone. When did you last see her, Ruby Nell?”

  He’s got that hard edge in his voice, which is the only outward sign that he’s disturbed.

  I can almost see Mama’s wheels turning. She’s probably trying to figure out how to tell Jack where she last saw me without revealing what we were up to.

  “I believe it was at the Temple of the Frescoes, sometime this morning.”

  “What time?” Jack again.

  “Let’s see. I think it was around tenish or so. Do you remember, Fayrene?”

  “I remember exactly. I have a pornographic memory. It was twenty-five minutes after ten.”

  “You mean you haven’t seen Callie all day?”

  “Jack, let me handle this.” Uncle Charlie, trying to calm Jack down. “Ruby Nell, if Callie left Tulum, you have to tell us.”

  “She wouldn’t know.” I’m almost positive that voice belongs to old man Morgan. “Miss Ruby Nell and Mrs. Johnson have been gone most of the day.”

  “You were supposed to keep an eye on the women here.” Uncle Charlie sounds ready to shoot somebody.

  “They did a big favor for me today,” Archie says. “Between the ghosts and the search for Miss Lovie, we’re shorthanded around here. Miss Ruby Nell and Mrs. Johnson kindly agreed to pick up some supplies for dinner in Cozumel.”

  Shivers run over me. Archie Morgan’s the kidnapper. If not the main one, then he’s certainly in on it.

  His announcement creates chaos. Everybody starts talking at once—angry voices, some shouting. I can’t make out a thing.

  Morgan’s machinations would explain why Mama was not upset when she and Fayrene returned from Cozumel this afternoon. He got them out of the way, then lied to me so I would leave Tulum with him.

  He was probably responsible for Lovie’s kidnapping, too. But why? And who are his cohorts?

  My money is still on the Farkles. At least Alvin. The female accomplice could be that weird maid who changes sheets in the middle of the night. Juanita. But how are they all connected?

  Fayrene’s voice blares through the hidden microphones. “Jarvetis, everybody’s getting hijacked right and left down here.” She must be standing next to a hidden bug, calling home. “First Lovie and Elvis and now Callie. I could be next. I’m just in a state of constitution.”

  Well, I guess she is in a state of consternation. Mama, too, who suddenly screams, “Jack, you find my baby!”

  “Don’t worry, Ruby Nell. I’ll find her. Whoever took Cal had better wish he were dead.”

  From Jack Jones, that’s not a threat, that’s a promise. I wonder who else heard him. If old man Morgan is still in the main cottage, I hope he’s having second thoughts. I hope he’s planning to come to this dingy shack—wherever it is—and turn me loose.

  There’s another long stretch of chaotic, indecipherable sounds and then silence. Jack’s not going to wait to see if I turn up or bother depending on the authorities. If I know him—and I blush to think how well I do—he’s storming around Tulum right this minute searching for clues to my disappearance.

  I’d guess it’s dark now, and that will hamper him, but it won’t stop him. Jack will find me.

  If I don’t figure a way out of here myself first.

  The door bangs against the wall and one of my captors stomps across the room. It doesn’t take me long to find out who.

  “I guess you heard the show. If you’re smart, you’ve already put two and two together and come up with me.”

  Old man Morgan rips off my blindfold and then my gag. Let me tell you, if you thought my screams over the snakes were loud, you ought to hear me now.

  Archie Morgan’s laugh makes my skin crawl. “Be my guest. Scream your head off. Nobody can hear you.”

  “Why not, you backside of a barnyard animal?” Lovie would have been more specific. “Did you take my cousin, too? Is she alive?”

  “Let me see now. That’s three questions. Which one should I answer first?” His cackle reminds me of the evil stepmother from Snow White. Listen, I’ll admit it. I still love Walt Disney.

  “I just can’t figure it out,” Archie adds, “so I won’t answer any of them.”

  “Wait till my husband finds you.” I blame the shackles for my small slip of the tongue. “You’ll be a greasy spot in the road.”

  “I’m shaking in my boots.” Archie Morgan marches out of the room, whistling, obviously pleased with himself.

  “Come back here, you piece of toad snot. I’m not through with you. Why can’t anybody hear me?”

  Even if Archie Morgan left the main cottage before Fayrene called Jarvetis, it still took him only a few minutes to get here. Which means I’m probably in the caretaker’s shack. I remember seeing it on a rocky bluff overlooking Tulum. Close enough for somebody to hear.

  I scream again, but nobody comes rushing to my rescue. Morgan’s probably got this thing soundproofed. Which means he’d been planning Lovie’s kidnapping for a long time or he’s done this before.

  I’m not the kind of woman who wastes time engaging in useless behavior. I climb off my screaming high horse and settle down to use my brain.

  Morgan’s liable to take a notion to blindfold me again, so the first thing I do is look around. There are monitors hanging all over the walls, all showing views of Tulum. I can see every room in the guest and the main cottages, plus every structure in the ruins, inside and out. There are even several viewpoints of Rocky’s dig. Morgan and his cohorts have been thorough.

  I can hear him moving around in the next room, still whistling.

  “Who’s helping you?” I yell.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “I already do.”

  “Then why’d you ask.”

  He has a point. I blame lack of food for my brain malfunction.

  “Did you bring Lulu and Alvin Farkle in on the kidnapping, or did they enlist you?”

  “Keep up that smartmouth talk and you won’t get any supper.”

  Supper is a distinctly Southern term. Know your enemy. That’s my new motto.

  “What part of the South are you from?”

  Morgan doesn’t answer. I can’t remember whether Rocky mentioned Morgan’s origins. If he did, it would have been before the caretaker mattered.

  Suddenly I spot Mama and Fayrene on one of the monitors, entering the guest cottage.

  “I can’t believe it! My daughter, taken!”

  “Lord, Ruby Nell. Are you fixing to have a prostration attack?”

  “No! I’ve got things to do. Get me some of Lovie’s Prohibition Punch.”

  Fayrene goes to the refrigerator. “It’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, it’s gone? Don’t tell me they’ve kidnapped Lovie’s punch, too!”

  “If pornographic memory serves, you drank the last drop, Ruby Nell.”

  “Well, make some more.”

  “I don’t know the recipe.”

  Mama storms to the refrigerator and grabs a bottle of vodka. “Brew some tea, Fayrene. This will do.”

  Watching them go about the ordinary ritual of making tea, then the uniquely Mama and Fayrene ritual of adding vodka, I get teary-eyed. If I were there, we’d be arguing over whatever plans Mama has for the chicken blood. Good-naturedly, of course. Mama and I have never really been mad at each other. She blusters and I bluff, but deep down, we’re each other’s best friend. Which is what mothers and daughters ought to be.

  I wonder if I’ll live to find out what that’s like.

  In the next room, Morgan is making all kinds of sounds—chairs scraping the floor, feet stomping around, drawers opening and slamming shut, cutlery rattling.<
br />
  That doesn’t sound like supper preparations to me. I’d shout back there and ask him, but I think you can push these bad guys only so far before they turn really vicious.

  Until lately, my contact with bad guys was limited mostly to watching late-night TV classics with Lovie. But since my cousin and I have been turning up corpses with some regularity recently, I’m coming to learn more about walking on the wild side than I ever wanted to know.

  Based on my recent experience with murder in Memphis, I shudder to think what Morgan’s skullduggery back there with the cutlery is all about. Did he kill his wife, then cut her into small pieces and bury her bones in Tulum? Holy cow, am I his next victim?

  Elvis’ Opinion # 11 on Clever Plans, Escape Route, and the Church of Lovie

  I still can’t figure out what’s going on. The only person in this village who speaks English has left our hut, and the little pregnant women are doing “What Every Woman Lives For.” They’re over there by Lovie’s throne conducting a beauty ritual.

  When they filed in here, I didn’t know what was in those tiny pots they were holding. Makeup, what else? They’ve smeared it all over Lovie. She now looks so much like a jungle tigress that you could have fooled me—that is, if I were a silly shih tzu, or a ridiculous Lhasa apso who thinks he’s the Dalai Lama.

  This must be phase two of whatever ritual the natives have in mind. They’re either readying her for the stewpot or getting ready to worship at the church of Lovie.

  I’d worship there, myself. Fat, sugar, and alcohol—the food and drink of choice—and live large, the only commandment.

  Still, if this is a stewpot prelude, I’d better shake my slightly crooked hind leg and launch into phase one of my own plan.

  If “We’re Gonna Move” out of here, I’ve got to shag my long lipped godly self out of here and stake out an escape route through the jungle. The mothers-to-be are so busy decking Lovie out in a feathered headdress and a costume that reveals more flesh than even Lovie is comfortable showing, they’ll never know I’ve gone.