Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble

by Webb, Peggy

Movement on one of the monitors catches my eye. It’s Juanita hurrying out of the guest cottage. What’s she doing there at this time of night? Getting more sheets for Morgan’s ghostly invasions of Tulum? Or does she plan to do some haunting herself?

  Outside the cottage, she bumps into Mama and Fayrene, still in costume. All three women scream.

  “Question her, Mama. Find out what she’s doing there.”

  I make no pretense of being quiet. I’ve already sassed old man Morgan and kicked him where it hurts most. No need to start acting meek at this late date. He’d never believe it.

  Figuring I don’t have much to lose, I yell at him, “I could use a cup of coffee in here.” No response. What did I expect?

  On the monitors, Mama and Fayrene go inside the cottage, congratulating each other on the success of their latest native ceremony.

  “That ghost won’t dare set his foot in Tulum again,” Mama says.

  “Just think, Ruby Nell. We can have inner animal ceremonies in our new séance room at Gas, Grits, and Guts.”

  “I can see what a hit that would be with Jarvetis.”

  So can I. If it weren’t for Jarvetis’ upright Baptist reputation and Uncle Charlie’s intervention, Mama and Fayrene would already be the talk of Mooreville with their Friday afternoons in the back room at Gas, Grits, and Guts—gambling plus sweet tea laced with whatever spirits they happen to have. I’m not sure they could quell the gossip if the two of them go native.

  “Watching a little TV?” To my surprise, old man Morgan appears in the doorway in a jovial mood. He’s also carrying two cups of coffee. I guess thinking about his secret weapon has improved his spirits. Either that or he’s put poison in my cup.

  Holding one of them just out of my reach, he tells me, “Say please.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “I never figured you for the feisty kind.” He waves the coffee under my nose, and I nearly pass out from caffeine desire. “If you’re thinking I’ve put something in it, you’re wrong. We’re not through with you yet.”

  To my great surprise, he hands over a cup of steaming coffee that smells and tastes like Starbucks. When you live alone, one of the few pleasures you have is great coffee, so you learn to make the best.

  Maybe there’s enough of the human left in Morgan that given half a chance and a few years of intense therapy, he can turn over a new leaf. Listen, call me sappy, but I’m a great believer in second chances. For other people, that is.

  Or is this new line of thinking a sign that my captor is winning me over to his side? That a subtle brainwashing is taking place that will steal whatever it is that makes me Callie Valentine Jones and send me away—if I ever get away—as somebody in the same body but with a whole ’nother set of sensibilities?

  To steel myself against such a possibility, I conjure up the horrors that Morgan has put me through. Let alone Lovie and Elvis.

  While he straddles a chair a few feet from me, facing the monitors, I shore up my defenses and savor the brew.

  “Keep digging, you fool,” he says to the monitor showing Rocky slaving away at his dig. Then he turns to face me.

  “I knew that redheaded cousin of yours would be a wildcat from the get-go. But you’ve surprised me. I guess you got it from your mama. Danged if she didn’t nearly expose me as the ghost tonight.”

  “Too bad she didn’t.” I lift the coffee cup. “Your hospitality notwithstanding, I’m ready to leave.”

  “It’s not happening unless you’re Houdini.”

  “What do you plan to do with me? Kill me like you did your wife?”

  “Who said I killed her?”

  “What happened?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Morgan enjoys playing cat-and-mouse games. Listen, when it comes to reading people, I’ll put a hairstylist up against a psychologist any day.

  “Oh, I’ll know, all right. With Jack on the cold case, it won’t be long before the entire world knows.”

  “Cold case, my left foot. He left on a wild goose chase in Cozumel.”

  I get this sinking feeling that I hope doesn’t show.

  “Jack’s on the island?”

  “Yep. My partners planted stuff from your purse all over the island. That ought to keep him out of my hair for a while.”

  I picture myself withering away in this shack for years, finally emerging like somebody from a time capsule, aged and changed so much that no one knows me.

  “Jack won’t be fooled for long. He’ll be back.”

  “Maybe I’ll ship him a little present.” He walks over, grabs my left hand, and inspects the engagement and wedding rings I should have taken off long ago but didn’t; don’t ask me why.

  “What do you think? Should I get Miss Ruby Nell and Mrs. Johnson back to the island and make them disappear, or should I send Jack a little present from you? Maybe this finger? You think he’d recognize the rings?”

  I hold back the scream building in my throat. Haven’t I read the best defense is a tough offense? Briefly, I consider dumping my hot coffee over Morgan.

  “Is that what you did with your wife? Chopped her into little pieces?”

  Something registers on Morgan’s face, but I can’t make out what it is. Fear does that, steals judgment.

  Morgan flings my left hand away, then stomps back to his chair.

  “I didn’t kill Lucille. I loved her.”

  I’m a good listener, a soft touch, and a sucker for a love story. Even if I weren’t the best hairstylist in the state, my compassion alone would make me the most popular woman in Mooreville. Listen, that’s why women flock to Hair.Net even when they don’t have appointments. They love to hang around on my pink vinyl seats and share their latest domestic bliss or troubles, whichever the case may be. If it’s the latter, the Prohibition Punch is only a few feet away.

  I wish I had some now. I’d ply old man Morgan with Lovie’s recipe and we’d cry together. Maybe I could pull off a miracle and he’d have a change of heart. Then we’d hug and promise to send Christmas cards before I waltzed out of here a free woman.

  “Your wife’s disappearance must have devastated you.”

  “She didn’t disappear.”

  “What happened?”

  “We got into a spat that got out of hand. We were tussling, I guess I shoved her a little too hard, and she fell down the Jade goddess’ temple steps.”

  My sudden sympathy takes a powder. “If it was an accident, why did you report her missing?”

  “Use your brain, girlie. A Mexican prison is not the place you’d want to spend the rest of your life. I covered it all up.”

  I don’t ask how. I don’t even watch the grisly scenes in scary movies; I put my hands over my eyes.

  In danger of becoming an accident victim myself, or at least of losing a digit, especially with Jack on a wild goose chase in Cozumel, I don’t want to know what Morgan is capable of.

  But what if he’s lying? About everything. He’s done it before.

  Determined not to let my worries get the best of me, I discreetly study him while we both finish our coffee. He’s the same sly, untrustworthy-looking old man who set my teeth on edge when I first met him. A casting director’s dream if you’re looking for someone to fill the role of the perfect ax murderer. It’s all in his eyes. They’re hard, beady, and shifty.

  My captor looks fully capable of cutting off one of my body parts and sending it to Jack in a box. If I don’t want to lose my ring finger—or worse—I’d better put some magic on my hairpin.

  Finally Morgan yawns and stretches. Then he gets out of his chair and rocks back on his heels. A sign of cockiness. A sure signal he’s planning to say something that will give me nightmares.

  “Maybe I’ll send a foot instead of a finger.” Morgan’s statement ratchets up my stress level a hundred percent. “Give it some thought tonight, girlie. You can let me know in the morning.”

  How did he know that one of my greatest simple pleasures is wearing design
er shoes? The idea of one shoe and a peg leg takes all the glamour out of cute shoes.

  With his latest zinger reducing me to a woman holding back hysteria, Morgan heads toward the back of the shack, where I assume he has another bed as flimsy and filthy as this one. I hope it’s filled with tarantulas with a taste for mean old men’s tough feet. Maybe then Morgan won’t be so eager to deprive me of one of mine.

  For a while I hear him moving around back there. As soon as all movement stops, I retrieve my loose hairpin from under my left hip and set to work as if I have only hours left with my very own feet.

  Which could just turn out to be the awful truth.

  Elvis’ Opinion # 12 on Jungle Fauna, Bad Booze, and Burnin’ Love

  Neck deep in jungle flora, I decide it’s time to hotfoot back to the village. I just hope I don’t encounter any jungle fauna. My basset suit’s not sequined, but I’m partial to it. I don’t hanker to get it mauled by sharp teeth and sullied with poisoned fangs.

  “Any Day Now” is my escape mantra as well as my song du jour. By the time I’ve howled one verse, I’m back at the village and scuttling into the hut to see what fresh hell awaits.

  Sure enough, Lovie is stuffing herself with something that looks like fried dried flowers and quaffing bad booze like there’s no tomorrow. Which there won’t be if I don’t get her sober enough to shag her national treasure out of here.

  Doing my best “Tiger Man” performance, I barrel across the mean hut and knock her cup to the ground. She says a word that would make hardened criminals quake. I kindly remind her that “True Love Travels on a Gravel Road.”

  Some call it tough love.

  Listen, I’ve got news for Lovie. I’ll knock over every drink the natives bring in here. If we’re going to survive a jungle escape, it’s going to take both of us with our fully functioning wits.

  Unfortunately, Lovie doesn’t get the picture. She lurches from her makeshift throne and staggers toward the door muttering, “I’m parched.” If she gets outside, floundering around in the dark in her condition, there’s no telling what will happen.

  I beat her to the door, plant my ample self in her way and reveal my plans by humming a few bars of “It’s Nice to Go Traveling.”

  “Move, dog.”

  Obviously, she did not get the hint.

  Even worse, calling me dog is an insult tantamount to calling me a Lhasa apso. Listen, Lovie loves me like a brother. She’s never insulted me. Which just goes to show her advanced state of inebriation.

  I try nudging her back inside, which ought to get me nominated as Brave Dog of the Year. Lovie’s no small person. A hundred ninety pounds of “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” to hear her tell it. It takes courage to risk getting flattened by that “Hunk’a Burnin’ Love.”

  She tries to finesse her way out through an opening on the left. But finesse and booze are incompatible. She topples and I barely escape with my swivel intact.

  I sniff my way around her prone body to see if there’s any damage. Let me tell you, my nose is a better diagnostician than some vets I know (who shall remain nameless). I’m a dog of principle.

  Satisfied Lovie went down limp and didn’t break bones or tear cartilage, I lie down and cuddle up beside her. I’m beat. And, as Miss Scarlett would say, “Tomorrow is another day.”

  Listen, I’m a dog of letters. I’ve read the book. What Southerner worth his salt hasn’t? (Or at least seen the movie.)

  Speaking of which . . . I doze off dreaming of Love Me Tender, which is not only one of my many box office smashes in Tinseltown, plus a smash hit single, but also my modus operandi with my foxy French poodle.

  Chapter 16

  Hairpins, Secret Partners, and Kinky Moves

  Spurred by visions of myself with only one foot while Lovie and Elvis are lost forever in the jungle, I work in the dark with Rocky to keep me company. Not in person, of course. On the monitors, his cohort at his side, digging to find the lost tomb of the Nine Lords. And apparently a bunch of jade treasures, to boot.

  Pushing my hairpin into the lock, I whisper, Come on, come on. I guess I’m praying for a miracle. The pin shoots out of my left hand and lands beyond the reach of my restraints. To my overwrought ears, it sounds like a cat being thrown against the wall.

  I hold my breath, but all I hear from Morgan’s room is the sound of snorting, hissing snores. Pulling another hairpin from my bedraggled French twist, I tackle the lock with renewed vigor.

  Since the universe seems to be fresh out of miracles, I’m on my own.

  Or maybe come on is not the right prayer when you’re scheduled for dismemberment in an ancient Mayan ruin. “Please, please,” I whisper.

  The pin slides into the lock, then meets resistance, bends sharply, and shoots toward the ceiling.

  I will not cry. Until I get safely back to Mooreville. And then I might start bawling and never stop.

  A faint band of light seeping around the thick shutters on the window tells me it’s almost morning.

  Soon Morgan will come in here with a sharp knife to cut off my finger. Or my foot. Who knows what body part he’ll think of next?

  I’m down to my last hope and my last hairpin. When I pull it from my French twist, my hair tumbles around my face in tangles. I feel sour and sweaty.

  If my clients could see me now, I’d be out of a job. I pride myself on being my own best advertisement.

  Of the many indignities of being a captive, one of the most insidious is not being able to maintain even minimum hygiene and beauty. I wonder about the state poor Lovie must be in, being held for days in the jungle.

  Saying a little prayer for Lovie and Elvis, I insert my lone remaining means of escape into the lock at my right wrist. For a breathless moment, I feel resistance, then a slight twist, an indrawn breath . . . and the handcuff swings open. I catch it before it falls to the floor and wakes old man Morgan. Now that I have the hang of it, I use one quick flick of the wrist to jimmy the lock on my leg irons.

  And I am free!

  The front door is about five feet away. I’m there in seconds, moving quietly, holding my breath. Alas, it’s a deadbolt, requiring a key.

  Guess who has it.

  The only other means of escape is the window, and it’s shuttered and nailed down. I refuse to be daunted. I’ll simply have to overpower old man Morgan, take his keys, and let myself out. And I’m not about to scare myself into timidity by dwelling on my earlier failure to secure the keys.

  I stuff the hairpin into my pocket and tiptoe around the room, searching for anything I can use as a weapon. I could club him with the bed if I were seven feet tall and benchpressed Texas for fun. Or I could hide in the closet and fell him with a bull’s-eye hit with one of the two mothballs I see on the floor. Alternatively, I might throw the “hopeful” wool coat over his head and smother him into submission. (I say hopeful because why would you keep a wool coat in the jungle unless you hoped to someday leave the heat and snakes and crocodiles behind and end up in New York watching Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade?)

  The only possible weapons in this room are the monitors on the wall and Morgan’s straight-backed chair.

  I sink into the chair, and my empty stomach gives such a vigorous protest it’s a wonder I don’t wake the Mayan mummies.

  “Well, look’a here.”

  Holy cow! Morgan is standing in the doorway leering at me. The only good thing I can say is he’s carrying neither gun nor cutlery.

  The bad thing is that while I’m sitting here in shock, he’s heading my way.

  I leap up, grab the chair, and swing. The brunt of the blow lands with a satisfying thwack in his groin. Morgan goes down on his knees, clutching himself, screaming.

  Taking aim, I bring the chair down onto the back of his head. Still scrambling on the floor, he yells words that would shock even Lovie.

  Why won’t this man go down? I leap onto his back and grab him by the hair.

  “Hand over the keys or lose body parts.”

&nb
sp; “How do you plan to do that, girlie?”

  He tries to buck me off, but I hang on. Listen, he’s dealing with a farm girl. In my youth, I rode my share of horses and even bucking yearling calves.

  I whip my hairpin out of my pocket and press the tip against Morgan’s throat.

  “Do you want me to give you a new windpipe first or would you rather lose an eyeball?”

  With a horrific crash the door is kicked from its hinges and Jack Jones roars into the room. Relieved doesn’t begin to cover my feelings. All I can say is somebody ought to name a building after him. Maybe even a whole town.

  Bleary-eyed, disheveled, and dangerously coiled, he looks more demon than human. I wouldn’t want to be Morgan.

  “Kinky, Callie. Now, move back.”

  I’ll argue later. For now, common sense takes precedence over independence. I jump off Morgan’s back and out of Jack’s way. Before Morgan can get off all fours, Jack jerks him up and dangles him in the air.

  “Did he touch you, Cal?”

  “No.”

  “This is your lucky day, Morgan.”

  With that, Jack knocks him senseless, then cuffs him to the bed with the shackles I no longer need.

  “Get the key,” I yell, but Jack’s half a step ahead of me.

  If I were a vindictive and violent woman, I’d march over there and kick old man Morgan. As it is I feel sorry for him. By the time he serves his sentence in Mexico for covering up his wife’s death and kidnapping two U.S. citizens, not to mention my dog, he’ll wish he was resting peacefully in the fabled tomb of the Nine Lords.

  “You okay, Cal?” I nod, and Jack pulls out his cell phone.

  While he gives Uncle Charlie a quick recap, I race through the caretaker’s shack looking for my own cell phone. I find it on Morgan’s bedside table.

  Snatching it up, I march back to the front room where Jack drapes his arm around me and leads me to the door.

  “Let’s get you out of here. You look like death warmed over. It’s a good thing I got here when I did.”

  “If you’ll care to remember, I had already rescued myself.”

  I’ll think about the sins of pride later. Right now, I just can’t let my almost-ex think I can’t make it without him.