Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble (12 page)

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Authors: Peggy Webb

BOOK: Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble
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“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
I
n 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 make 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.
“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.

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