Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble (11 page)

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Authors: Peggy Webb

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Balancing my plate and my coffee, I’m headed back toward the cottage with Fayrene and Mama when Jack says, “Cal, Archie Morgan will be keeping an eye on you ladies while we’re gone. Let him know if you need anything.”
“Good idea,” Seth says.
He doesn’t have a clue. When Jack Jones is this casual and offhand, you’d better be watching your back and digging for motive.
“Thanks, Jack.” Mama smiles and waves at her almost-ex son-in-law.
The minute we’re out of earshot, I say, “Mama, are you kidding me? That’s his way of keeping tabs on us.”
“I know.”
“If you knew, why’d you say thanks?”
“Carolina, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
Maybe she’s right. But in case she hasn’t noticed, Jack is hardly a fly.
The guest cottage is just up ahead. I’m not as anxious to enter as I was to leave. Obviously Mama and Fayrene feel the same way. If the three of us slow down any more, you won’t even know we’re moving.
“I’m not going in that bathroom by myself,” Fayrene says.
“What do you think best friends are for? If you need to go to the bathroom, just call Cal. She’ll go with you.”
This is one of those times I wish Mama would speak for herself. Still, I’d want somebody with me if I were reentering a room recently occupied by “deadless” snakes.
It takes us less than two minutes to change out of our nightclothes into shorts and tee shirts. Mama and Fayrene grab hats, I secure my hair against the heat in a hasty French twist, and we get the heck out of Dodge, as Lovie would say. Only she wouldn’t say
heck.
Since Jack will surely have Archie Morgan spying to see if we actually go to the Temple of the Frescoes, we head that way. Over doughnuts and coffee, we discuss how to sneak into the main cottage without detection.
“Disguises,” Mama says. “This place will soon be crawling with tourists. All we have to do is disguise ourselves to look like them.”
“Does that mean I have to wear something besides green?”
“Cheer up, Fayrene,” I tell her. “We won’t be wearing disguises.”
“Flitter. I’d like to know why not?” Mama hates being wrong.
“Because Archie Morgan will be watching. He wouldn’t let a tourist into the main cottage any more than he’d want us snooping around there.”
“What are we going to do?” Mama asks.
“The two of you are going to create a diversion while I sneak in. Then you’re going to hotfoot it back to your rooms. I’ll meet you after I finish snooping.”
“What kind of diversion?” Fayrene wants to know.
“I’ve got a plan.” Mama perks up at being back in charge.
Even if it involves channeling her inner animal, I don’t care. All I need is enough time to get on Rocky’s computer to do some cyber-snooping, then search the room off the kitchen where Juanita and Rosita sleep.
Considering that we’ve already been through a kidnapping plus encounters with ghosts and snakes, the hard part’s over.
What else can possibly go wrong?
Elvis’ Opinion #8 on Foes, Big Macs, and Monkey Business
W
ell, bless’a my soul. Here we are in a primitive village so remote it’s probably not even on the map.
The painted-up savages lead us to a little thatched hut and shove us inside. Lovie’s gagged so she can’t protest, and my paws are so scratched up, I’m grateful to be anywhere but traipsing through the jungle.
I’m so tired when I plop down on the mat, I don’t know whether to growl “Release Me” or “Reconsider Baby.” Lovie thrashes around to let me know she’s as far from “Surrender” as you can get. If she thinks I’m going to drag myself over there and start gnawing ropes in front of restless natives carrying sharp-pointed spears, she’s fried a few brain cells with her own Prohibition Punch.
Even that empty-headed monkey is not foolish enough to untie her ropes and stir up the natives. He followed us all the way through the jungle, and is now up a tree outside our hut chattering as if he had something to say.
He might as well keep his trap shut. I can’t understand monkey talk any better than I can cannibal talk. Even my famous mismatched ears are no match for fools not speaking English.
Let me tell you, if I spoke that monkey’s language, I’d tell him to get out there and scavenge up some food. The King never goes hungry. Back in my heyday as a worldwide icon with black sideburns, I could call down to Graceland’s kitchen any time of the day or night and everybody would scurry to fix whatever I wanted. Usually a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. Sometimes a BLT with a whole pound of bacon. Once, the doctor put me on a diet and the kitchen staff tried to cut back on the bacon, but I fixed that in a hurry.
“Who do you think pays your salary?” I asked, and they nearly broke their necks hustling back to the kitchen for the rest of my bacon.
Now I limp around this mean shack looking for scraps and don’t even find a crumb fit for a mouse, let alone a King. Listen, when I get my mojo back, I’ll find something to eat. Right now, though, I hear a nap calling my name.
The straw mat on the ground is a far cry from my guitar-shaped silk pillow, but it will have to do.
I’m wallowing in dreams of Pup-Peroni when a little bitty woman with skin like a dried peach pit lifts me off the mat.
“Long lipped god,” she says. “Long lipped god.”
Well, bless’a my soul. Finally, somebody in this burg recognizes my worth. I’d much prefer to be considered something more glamorous than a god you have to describe as long lipped, but under the current circumstances, any old god will do.
Furthermore, this woman is speaking English, even if it is a fractured version.
Even better, she’s got food. She snaps her fingers and six giggling nubile young women with most of their charms hanging out file into the hut and pile food at my feet in pottery dishes.
The food smells like meat and I don’t much care what kind. I wolf it down. I’d offer Lovie a bite, but she’s surrounded.
It looks like the natives are plying her with drink, and from the way Lovie’s eyes are rolling back in her head, I’d say it’s a stronger Mayan version of her very own Prohibition Punch.
One of the young women squats beside me and strokes my head while the older woman chants,
Long lipped god.
I could suggest they call me swivel-hipped god, but considering the alternative (being prodded with spears), I’ll take what I can get. If they’d toss in some Pup-Peroni and some visitation privileges with my human mom and dad, I could get used to being a Mayan deity.
There’s only one little hitch. I don’t know if the natives are priming me like the sacrificial fatted calf, or if they plan to worship at the shrine of the King.
Chapter 11
Motives, Mischief, and Mayhem
W
hile I linger around the Temple of the Frescoes acting as if I intend to spend the rest of the morning sipping coffee and enjoying the sunshine, Mama and Fayrene hotfoot it toward the cliffs to create a diversion.
Mama wouldn’t tell me what her diversion will be. She just said, “Leave it to me. We’ll meet back at the guest cottage. All you have to do is stick to your plan no matter what you hear.” Words that strike terror to my soul. My idea of a diversion is going into a fake faint while Fayrene screams her head off.
They’re probably going to do something that will get them arrested. I’ll end up spending the rest of my days in the Yucatan dispensing Mexican hairstyles to my new clientele while I try to get Mama and Fayrene out of jail.
Waiting is one of the hardest things for me to do, anyhow, but it’s particularly awful with Lovie and Elvis missing and Mama on the loose. I try to sip my coffee, but it has gone cold, so I pretend to be interested in the tourists who have just arrived.
Suddenly, I’m no longer pretending. Lulu Farkle just rounded the corner of the Temple of the Diving God. Did she just step off the ferry from Cozumel or has she been here since last evening, long enough to don a sheet and scare off Rocky’s crew, then grab a snake or two and toss them into the bathtub for Fayrene’s viewing horror?
And if so, why? What could have possibly gone so horribly wrong between Lovie and Alvin to make his sister resort to kidnapping, ghost impersonation, and almost-murder by snake?
I’m torn between following Lulu to see what she’s up to and going forth with my plans to break into Rocky’s computer. I have no choice, really. Any minute now Mama and Fayrene will start cutting a ruckus, the diversion angle of our plan.
I sit tight and wait for my opportunity. It’s not long in coming. Hard on the heels of Lulu Farkle is a group that includes six teenagers plugged into iPods and cell phones, plus two middle-age women dressed in walking shorts and matching yellow tee shirts that do nothing for their complexions. Both women are wearing plaited plastic lanyards with whistles on the end. Obviously they’re in charge, because every few minutes, one of them gives a big toot on the whistle followed by a screech to
stop that, now!
Breaking and entering just got easier. With this kind of commotion, I don’t even need a diversion from Mama. I’m about to head toward the cliffs to tell her when I hear an unholy howl from the sea.
“Haints! Haints!” It can only be Fayrene.
The teenagers bolt for the sea while the leaders huff along behind them, tooting their whistles. Nobody pays them the least bit of attention.
I blend into the melee and am making good progress toward the main cottage when Fayrene screams again.
“Help, somebody, he’s throwing Ruby Nell into the sea.”
Holy cow! Is Mama going to meet her Maker in the Caribbean or is this the diversion? I’m about to bolt toward the sea when I spot old man Morgan trotting that way. If I’m going to break and enter, now is the time.
Anyhow, Mama’s too smart to fall into the Caribbean. Besides, she’s got a bucket list two miles long. She’s not about to do something foolish that might deprive her of a single adventure.
I wait until Archie Morgan vanishes around the side of the temple, then make a beeline for the main cottage. Thank goodness, the door is unlocked. I can’t believe my good luck.
Easing the door open, I slip inside and head straight to Rocky’s desk. Without his password, I have no hope of getting into computer files, and the Internet is likely to yield slim pickings on my major suspects. Still, it’s worth a try.
It’s my lucky day. The computer is up and running.
Since it was his wife’s bones Elvis found, I start by typing in Archie Morgan’s name. Plus, the man looks like somebody who keeps hatchets under his bed and black widow spiders in his dresser drawer.
The initial search for information on Archie Morgan yields nothing. I’m about to give up on him and move to Alvin and Lulu Farkle when inspiration hits. I type in Morgan’s name again, followed by
archeology.
Bingo. There’s an obscure article about a 1965 dig in the Hawaiian Islands led by an archeologist named Archibald Simon Morgan. The dig was fraught with trouble—two caveins and four men dead. According to the article, the entire team left the islands in despair and disgrace.
Could it be this Archie? And if so, why isn’t he still leading expeditions and searching for hidden treasures? He’s probably not much older than Uncle Charlie, and I can’t imagine my uncle retiring at any age.
Though the tie-in is suspicious, being an unsuccessful archeologist on a trouble-prone site is not enough to link old man Morgan to anything. Let alone kidnapping and murder.
I type in Alvin Farkle and get an instant hit. An article complete with photograph. Joseph Alvin Farkle, hairy gorilla arms and all, a famous archeologist in the 30s. He’s too old to be Lovie’s Farkle. Still, all that hair is a tipoff. Joseph Alvin is bound to be kin.
Suddenly I hear a female voice singing in Spanish. The sound is coming from the direction of the kitchen. Probably Rosita. Somebody ought to tell her it’s not appropriate to sing about cockroaches in the kitchen.
I’d do it myself, but I’m standing here with my hand in the cookie jar, so to speak, wondering what I’m going to do if I get caught. Why didn’t I check the whereabouts of the cook before I barged in here? Especially after I thought I spotted her outside our cottage following the snake invasion.
Instead of leaving while her boss is gone, as I had assumed, Rosita is still here, most likely cleaning up the breakfast things and making lunch for the skeleton crew (no pun intended) who stayed through the ghost scares to work on Rocky’s dig.
Or, is she here for a more diabolical purpose? To spy for whoever kidnapped Lovie? If she really is in love with Rocky, as Lovie claims, then she could easily fall in with a plan to get Lovie out of the way.
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.

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