Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble (15 page)

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Authors: Peggy Webb

BOOK: Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble
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From her position underneath Fayrene, Mama yells, “Don’t let him get away.”
“I’ve got him.” Fayrene grabs and ends up with a fistful of thin air.
Meanwhile, Morgan makes his getaway, his sheet and his hidden identity still intact.
It won’t be long before he returns to the mean shack. And let me tell you, he’s going to be madder than he was when he left. Mama has that effect.
And it doesn’t help that I kicked him in his privates.
There’s no telling what kind of revenge he’ll exact on me.
Getting a good grip on my hairpin, I redouble my escape efforts. Listen, this is hard work. For one thing, using my left hand is awkward. For another, I’m no hardened criminal who goes around the neighborhood picking locks.
In desperation, I call on Mother Earth, Mother Teresa, and motherhood. If I thought it would help, I’d chant Fayrene’s erotic fruit list.
Chapter 15
Breadcrumbs, Inner Animals, and Wild Goose Chases
W
hen Morgan roars back into the shack, I barely have time to hide my hairpin. I guess that’s the point of soundproofed shacks. Your victims can’t be heard screaming, and they can’t hear you coming.
I try my best to look innocent, but apparently I’m not the object of Morgan’s interest. He stops in front of the monitors, then stands there mesmerized.
At first I don’t see anything, but finally I make out two shadowy figures at the dig. Judging by size, one of them has to be Rocky. The other probably is Seth, since that seems to be the only crewmember he has left.
“Does that fool never stop?” Morgan says, and I’m pretty sure he’s not asking for my opinion. I’m equally certain I don’t want to be in the middle of his latest rage.
Morgan shakes his fist at Rocky’s shadowy image. “Go on, fool. Work till you drop. If you think you can stop me from grabbing the jade treasures and the headlines, you’re dumber than you look.”
He snarls at the monitors, then storms toward the back room muttering, “We’ll see how interested he is in working all night after I turn loose my secret weapon.”
Secret weapon? What fresh horror is that? I picture a couple of hungry crocodiles chained in a pit somewhere out back, waiting to be turned loose for the meal Morgan has deprived them of since last Tuesday. I’ve just lost all interest in the cute Bernardo alligator-skin sandals I’ve been hoping make it to the after-Thanksgiving shoe sale.
Thinking of the alligators and a whole class of shoes now fallen into disfavor, I’m almost too upset to use my hairpin.
In the other room, Morgan is moving around, slamming cabinet doors, and rattling dishes. Within minutes, I smell coffee.
With nothing in my stomach but a meager breakfast and a few crumbs of bread, I’d do just about anything for a cup of coffee. In my current circumstances, I have about as much chance of getting one as I do of winning Mooreville Elementary PTO’s “Mother of the Year” award next spring.
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 designer 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
N
eck 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.

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