by Webb, Peggy
A few whisks of mascara, a strategic sweep of blush, and Lulu Farkle looks better than she ever has.
I release her and she pops up, looking ready to claw my eyes out. The audience bursts into applause, which takes her by surprise.
While she’s still sitting on the gurney, undecided about whether to run or to turn me over to hotel security, I clamp my hands on her shoulders from behind, then lean in as if I’m going to kiss her cheek.
“Did Alvin take my cousin?”
“He wouldn’t take her back if she begged.” The audience is still giving us a standing ovation. “As far as we’re concerned, she can take Eternal Rest and stick it where it doesn’t show.”
“Charming.” I smile at the audience.
“Likewise, I’m sure.” She takes a bow.
While she’s clamboring off the gurney, taking another bow, I slip toward the back and ease out the door. Within seconds, I disappear (I hope) into the crowd trying to get to the coffee urns and cookies in the mezzanine.
Now I know why the Farkles hate Lovie. Lulu was bound to be telling the truth. Nobody could come up with such a fantastic tale on such short notice. Especially under the circumstances.
Obviously, Alvin needed Uncle Charlie’s reputation—and probably money—to launch his plan. As one of the senior undertakers and a past president of funeral directors on both the state and national levels, Uncle Charlie commands the respect of his colleagues all over the U.S.
I can just imagine why Lovie never told me about the proposed chain of Farkle Funeral Homes. She wouldn’t have been able to quit laughing long enough.
I’m fixing to call Uncle Charlie to report my findings, when my cell phone rings. It’s Fayrene.
“Callie, come quick.”
“What’s up?”
“Ruby Nell’s been hijacked.”
Holy cow! I try to get a grip on myself. Morgan’s in jail, Uncle Charlie’s on the island, and undertakers are everywhere. How could Mama vanish in the midst of all that?
Besides, Fayrene tends to overreact and exaggerate, and that’s putting it mildly.
“You’ve got to hurry, Callie. I’m about prostate with worry.”
“Where are you?”
“Right here where Ruby Nell said.”
“I can’t find you unless you’re more specific, Fayrene.”
“At the bar on the beach, having a Tropical Double Trouble.”
Holy cow! That’s the near same spot where Lovie vanished.
Grabbing two cookies off one of the refreshment tables scattered about, I hurry through the mezzanine while trying to look nonchalant.
Listen, just because I got by with that stunt in Salon B, I’m not home free yet. Any minute now, Lulu Farkle could descend on me with a security guard.
Or worse. Her brother. Alvin Farkle. Who might have taken Lovie, and now Mama. All on account of the unfortunate Farkle Funeral Home chain.
Hysterical laughter bubbles up. I wonder if I’m falling apart.
Elvis’ Opinion # 14 on Silly Lyrics, Silk Scarves, and Rescue the Perishing
Well, bless’a my soul. Now that I’ve got the attention of the natives with my rendition of “King of the Whole Wide World,” I’ve got to do a follow-up.
They leave behind their traps and nets and ropes and come storming toward me like a bunch of frenzied females from one of my Las Vegas concerts, looking for one of my sweat-soaked scarves.
I take a bow and treat the natives to a curled lip. Thank you, thank you very much.
Though I’m an icon who can steal the stage from anybody, I’ve got sense enough to know a few bows won’t satisfy my Mayan fans for long. I do a quick turn that makes my mismatched ears spin, then strike a flattering pose before I launch into “I’ll Never Let You Go (Little Darlin’).”
Before you start thinking that’s a weird song choice, let me explain a thing or two. Number one, these dudes don’t speak English. Number two, there’s nothing to this phrase I’m singing to confuse the natives. All I’m saying is “well’a, well’a, well’a,” which with my drawl—sounds like walla, walla, walla. I got a big laugh when I explained that to my audience at the June 1975 concert in Dallas, Texas.
I’m getting the same laughs now. Plus, applause and the usual imitators. Natives start spinning and swirling every which way, some of them picking up the chant, “Well’a, well’a, well’a.”
What can I say? The King lives! Satisfied that I’ve put to rest any lingering suspicions about my motives—like, I’m casing this joint so I can get out of here—I take another bow, then sashay my transcendent self back toward the hut.
But let me tell you, the scent I pick up stops me cold. Lifting my famous nose, I take another whiff. I’d know that scent anywhere.
Jack. Not too far away and getting closer by the minute.
He’s most likely armed and he’s definitely dangerous. Trust me. If I know my human daddy—and I most certainly do—he’ll strike with the same stealth and cunning of his code name—Black Panther.
Shagging my ample self into gear, I race into the hut to tell Lovie. The sight I behold halts me in my tracks. This place looks like it’s been bombed with flowers. Big, exotic blooms are everywhere—covering the throne, festooning the support poles, banked around the perimeter, and even piled up on my personal sleeping mat.
But where’s Lovie?
I throw back my handsome basset head and howl, “Hey Little Girl.”
An arm emerges. Then a leg.
“Elvis, stop that racket and help me out of this funeral bouquet.”
Now she’s talking. Listen, in this dog’s life, digging is what I do best.
With Lovie’s muscle and my four good paws, it doesn’t take long before we’ve unearthed the goddess of the Earth and Moon.
I nearly jump out of my dog suit. With her painted-on tigress face and dark, dangerous-looking blooms dripping from every crevice and corner, Lovie’s not somebody you’d want to meet in the dark.
“If I ever get out of here, I’m going to kill somebody. Just about anybody will do.”
I lick her feet to show I couldn’t agree more.
“Tonight, Elvis. I don’t care what’s out there in the jungle. It can’t be as bad as staying cooped up here divining the sex of babies.”
I try to think of the best way to say we’re fixing to spring this joint, but the only song that comes to mind is “Here Comes Santa Claus.”
Clutching an imaginary microphone in my paw, I howl a few bars.
“Elvis, have you lost your mind?”
I do a second verse to show her I’m serious as sin.
Lovie’s not listening. Furthermore, she’s not buying it. Maybe that Mayan brew did some damage I don’t know about.
I’m casting about for a way to tell her, Jack is coming, when outside events render my problem moot. (You didn’t think I knew lawyer talk, did you? Listen, I’m a dog of many talents. You don’t even want to know.)
From the direction of the jungle comes an unholy howling. Natives on the warpath.
And then, Jack’s counterpoint bellow of pure outrage.
“What’s that?” Lovie races out of the hut with me right behind her.
Streaming flowers and bad attitude, we hustle across the compound just in time to see six natives marching into the village bearing their latest prize: Jack Jones on a litter, his right leg shattered by a jaguar trap.
They set him in the middle of the compound, then race off to tell Somebody in Charge. Probably the old lady who speaks English.
All I can think of is a medley of “Hard Luck,” “Hard Knocks,” and “Help Me.”
Looks like if anybody’s going to “Rescue the Perishing,” it’s all up to me.
Chapter 21
High Stakes, Hijinks, and Hardened Criminals
No sooner have I set foot on the beach in front of the hotel than Fayrene spots me and streaks my way.
“Yoohoo! Callie!” Lest I fail to see her, she waves her arms and keeps callin
g as she comes.
In cabbage green pedal pushers with matching blouse and a green Panama hat the size of a bale of hay, she’s impossible to miss. As a matter of fact, half the people on the beach turn to wave at her and call out Yoohoo!
This is nothing new to me. When you’re kin to Mama and friends with Fayrene, daily public displays come with the package.
A breeze has sprung up. If the wind gets under her hat, Fayrene’s liable to sail all the way to Arkansas. I catch her arm as she whizzes by and then lead her to a couple of beach chairs protected from the breeze and nosey beachcombers by a tamale stand.
“When did you last see Mama?”
She consults her watch. “Exactly one hour and fifteen minutes ago.”
“That’s hardly enough time to say someone took her. Did you see any suspicious-looking characters around? Alvin or Lulu Farkle? Rosita?”
“No, but I know. It’s my ESPN.”
Holy cow! If my last nerve snaps, I won’t be responsible for what I do. At least, though, I can relax about Mama a bit.
“That’s hardly a basis to claim kidnapping.”
“She said she’d meet me here fifteen minutes ago. Ruby Nell is always punctuated.”
Oh, great. Fifteen minutes is even less time to cry foul play.
“What was Mama doing? How’d you two get separated?”
“After she caught up with me, I was changing clothes when that maid came in, that Carmita you said for us to find out about. Well, she and Ruby Nell got to talking . . .”
“Wait a minute. I don’t think Carmita speaks English and I know Mama doesn’t speak Spanish.”
“I don’t know where you got that idea. Ruby Nell’s been practicing Spanish ever since Charlie invited her to the undertakers’ convention, and that Carmita was talking English up a storm.”
“So, what happened?”
“The first thing I know, Ruby Nell said she was heading to the back room with Carmita and she’d meet me at the beach bar in an hour.” Fayrene taps her watch as a witness. “On the dot.”
“The back room? Do you have any idea where that is?”
“I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. Bobby Huckabee told me I was in danger from a dark-eyed señorita, so I stayed behind to man the port.”
The only good thing I can say about all this is that Bobby has upgraded his prediction. After telling Fayrene to call Uncle Charlie with the latest development, then wait for me in her room, I head back to the hotel to discover the whereabouts of “the back room.”
Thanks to corpses that won’t stay put and dead Elvis impersonators and dancers who dive off rooftops, I’m no stranger to sleuthing. If you want to locate a slightly shady back room, you ask a slightly shady character.
Though a few of the undertakers fit the bill, I don’t think HI, I’M BILL FROM CALIFORNIA can help me. Ditto , HI I’M LEON FROM TEXAS.
I’m skulking around the lobby, trying to locate sleazy characters when I notice the cab driver who picked us up at the ferry, parked outside the entrance. Lurking is a better word. There’s something about the way he’s slouched behind the wheel studying the tourists that makes me want to offer him a toothbrush and soap and enroll him in a Dale Carnegie course.
Trying to appear casual, I saunter his way. If I had one of Mama’s cigarettes, I could create the perfect character—a whole lot bored, a little bit wild, and looking for trouble.
“Hi,” I lean in the window. “I’m looking for a little action around here.”
“Move on, lady. All I do is drive a cab.”
Something about his eyes tells another story.
I peel a ten out of my pocket and pass it to him. “I’ve heard the back room is where I want to be.”
“How bad do you want to be there?”
I hand him another ten and he spits out the window. I come up with another ten, my last.
He wads the bills into his pocket, and nods toward the hotel. “Basement. Down the stairs, past the laundry, and turn right. Can’t miss it.”
I’d ask him what’s going on in the back room, but that would be pushing my luck. Ostensibly, I already know. And, in any case, I’ll soon find out.
I start to walk off, then remember who I’m supposed to be and add a swing to my sashay. Lovie would approve. She believes in flaunting your natural assets.
Losing myself in the lobby crowd, I angle toward the stairs and push open the door. The stairwell is poorly lit and creepy. I pat my holster just to reassure myself that I’ve still got a deadly weapon up my skirt.
I try for stealth, but in the concrete and metal enclosure, the echo of my footsteps could wake the dead.
Suddenly I freeze. It sounds like I am not alone.
Listen, the way these last few days have turned out, I wouldn’t be surprised to stumble over a corpse on the stairs or have something half-dead waiting around the corner.
I ease out my gun and hold it in front of me with both hands, just like Jack taught me in my other life as wife to the sexiest man on the planet.
I’m not even going to go there.
Unfortunately, my posturing won’t make up for the fact that I can’t hit the side of a barn, let alone a tin can off Mama’s pasture fence. Creeping down the final few stairs, I step into a narrow hallway and ease toward the sound.
Did the cab driver say right or left? I’m so nervous I can’t remember. Using my cousin’s favorite decision-making process, I whisper, Eenie, meenie, minie, moe.
I turn right and discover the monster lurking around the corner—an industrial-size dryer whose load has shifted and is knocking the machine around.
Light spills from a half-open doorway down the hall. Heading that way, I hear another sound—Mama’s laughter. A good sign. I ease my gun down to my side and step into the room.
There’s Mama, cards in one hand, cigarette holder in the other, and half my after-Thanksgiving shoe budget on the table.
She looks up. “It’s just my daughter. Bet or pass.”
I’m as close as I’ve ever been to saying one of Lovie’s words when I notice that one of the back room gamblers is Carmita.
“Callie, let me introduce you to my friends. This handsome fellow is Raoul from the kitchen, next to him is Pete from Texas, and I believe you know Carmita.”
I hide my gun behind my back and tell everybody hello. Then, “Mama, we need to talk.”
“Just a minute.” She spreads her cards on the table, says, “Full house,” then rakes in my money.
Thank goodness. At the rate she’s going, I ought to let her play another hand or two. Maybe I’ll get my loan back. A first.
She grabs her loot, says, “Toodle-ooo. See ya’ll later,” and we get out of there before somebody sees that I’ve got a gun and Mama was there to snoop.
There’s no telling what back room regulars do if they discover you’ve entered their game under false pretenses. At least, I hope Mama’s were false.
As soon as we’ve gained the stairs, I ask her.
“You did go down there to find out about Carmita?”
“Ha.”
“Mama, that’s not a word. And since when have you ever said ya’ll.”
“It’s part of my Southern belle disguise. I didn’t want them to catch on that I’m a seasoned private eye who could take them all down.”
I don’t point out that Mama’s not a private eye and that the only thing she takes down with any regularity is my bank account. We have to move fast. Any minute now we could be chased by back room losers or Lulu Farkle still mad about her Marilyn Monroe makeup and her failed chain of Farkle Funeral Homes.
We race to the top of the stairs, and I’m proud to say that Mama doesn’t miss a beat. Listen, I’ve got some good genes. Between my daily exercise regimes and Mama’s DNA, I could become an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records—the woman whose eggs got fertilized after everybody in Mooreville had dropped her from the prayer list.
We push through to the lobby and collapse into a couple of wing chairs
overlooking the beach.
“What did you find out, Mama?”
“You’ll never guess Juanita and Rosita’s father.”
“Holy cow, Mama. I don’t want to play guessing games.”
“Archie Morgan.”
“That explains why Juanita would deck herself out in sheets and help her daddy chase off Rocky’s crew.”
“Not Juanita. Rosita. She forced her sister into helping her with the sheets.”
“Was Rosita the one who helped kidnap me?”
“We didn’t get that far. Raoul and Pete came in and I couldn’t very well talk about kidnapping in front of them.”
“If Rosita’s involved, she’s probably keeping it from her mother.”
“Flitter, Carolina. You can’t keep anything from a mother.”
That would strike terror to my heart if I didn’t already know that what Mama says is true. Listen, when Jack left, she knew before I even called her, even before Mooreville’s grapevine got a whiff. Don’t ask me how.
I’m in the middle of telling Mama that Fayrene’s waiting in their room when Uncle Charlie rings my cell phone.
“Jack’s found Lovie and Elvis.” I burst into tears. Extreme happiness always does that to me. “Meet me on the beach. The Company’s sending a helicopter.”
“I can go, too?”
“Jack needs you. Hurry. I’ll explain later.”
I might pass out from anxiety. I give Mama only the good news, but I also give her a job to do. Mama hates being left out.
“Call Darlene and Bobby. Let them know Jack found Lovie and Elvis.”
“Darlene and Bobby, my hind foot. We’re calling everybody in Mooreville.”
The first thing I see when I step outside is the chopper that dominates the beach, its blades beating the air. Uncle Charlie spots me, ducks down, and races to my side.
“Come, dear heart. We don’t have a minute to lose.”
“Jack?”
“We’re airlifting him to the hospital.”
“Alive?”
“Yes. He sounded strong on the phone.”