Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble (17 page)

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Authors: Peggy Webb

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Elvis’ Opinion # 13 on Babies, Names, and Destiny
L
ovie’s groaning brings me out of doggie dreamland. She sits up, holding her head.
“Where in the devil am I?”
I’m so happy to see her coming back around, I cut loose with a little “Welcome to My World.”
“Elvis?” She gives me a bleary-eyed look, then proceeds to inspect herself, feathers, war paint, and all. “What is this shit? I look like a molting turkey.”
Doesn’t she remember? I do a clever rendition of “Too Much Monkey Business,” which turns out to be brilliant thinking on my part. Lovie shakes herself all over, clearing out the cobwebs, and then she rises to her feet, all magnificent hundred ninety pounds of her.
Outside our hut, the natives are stirring. Lovie watches them awhile, trying to get the lay of the land, then she stomps over and sits on her throne.
“If they’d meant to kill us, they’d have already done it. What do you think, boy?”
She may look a bit shaky on her feet, but at least she’s no longer calling me
dog.
I take that as a very good sign.
I march over to my pottery bowls and nose them around to show Lovie I’ve been well-fed. Then I do a swivel-hipped version of “Treat Me Nice.”
Lovie’s smart. She gets the picture. Inspecting her paint and feathers again, she begins to chuckle. The only sound I can think of more wonderful than Lovie’s full-blown laughter is my sweet Frenchie in the throes of heat.
“Looks like the natives are treating us like gods. Well, much as I appreciate being a goddess, I’m fixing to get the heck out of Dodge.”
Lovie goes from laughter to flinty-eyed determination. If you’ve never seen a steel magnolia on the warpath, you’ve missed one of the world’s greatest wonders.
“We’re getting out of here tonight, Elvis. I’ve got some unfinished business in Tulum.”
Lovie’s my kind of gal. Trouble is her middle name and kicking some serious butt is her game. This is one show I don’t want to miss.
All I can say is the kidnapper doesn’t stand a chance.
Suddenly my nose starts twitching and my mismatched ears pick up sounds. I scurry outside just in time to catch a glimpse of somebody disappearing around the side of the hut. A woman, it looks like. Was it the old woman who speaks English? Did she overhear our escape plans?
I don’t have time to ponder because another parade of pregnant native girls is heading our way. I hurry back inside and give Lovie a heads-up by howling a few bars of “This Is Our Dance.”
Quick on the draw, Lovie slouches in her makeshift throne and relaxes her face so she appears to be in a glassy-eyed stupor.
The giggling gaggle of girls come inside and approach her, offering a cup of native brew, all chattering at once.
A lesser dog would get caught up in their party mood, but a dog with mismatched ears for trouble and a keen detective mind, to boot, is not about to lose sight of the fact that we’re in the midst of the enemy.
My finely tuned instincts are confirmed when I feel a shadow fall over me. I glance up to see the one-and-only Englishspeaking woman gliding into the hut. Tightlipped and silent, she’s as impassive as the shell of an English walnut. But let me tell you, I don’t read faces—I read auras. And hers is black as the tar Tinseltown reviewers use on entertainers who can’t sing.
I try to warn Lovie, but she’s too busy being a goddess to notice.
She waves the cup away, and then surprises the heck out of the natives by lifting her hands and saying, “State your wishes. I am the goddess of the sun, the moon, the stars. I am the goddess of all things fertile and good.”
She sounds so ethereal and goddess-like, she nearly fools me.
Still expressionless, the old woman interprets, and the girls fall onto their knees in front of Lovie’s throne. Some of them even kiss her feet.
Well, bless’a my soul. From the looks of things, it wouldn’t take much more of this adulation to win Lovie over to the notion that she could be a Mayan goddess forever. When we get home I’ll have to have a heart-to-howl chat with her about the pitfalls of being a celebrity.
In the background, I try some serious body language to tell her to
suck it up and pull out of it. Listen, Dorothy, we’re no longer in Kansas.
Finally Lovie pulls herself together. “Rise,” she intones, and one by one the native girls stand up to present their big bare bellies to her.
“Tell baby sex and name,” the old woman commands. “Bestow blessing.”
Lovie never misses a beat. She puts her hand on the first belly and acts like she’s vanished into the netherworld of wise goddess gurus. If she had my talent and savoir faire, she’d throw in a little hip swiveling and some well-placed sneers.
“Boy,” she intones. “His name is Stalking Panther. He will have the strength of warriors.”
To the next two, she says, “Girl, her name is Dancing Moon. Great beauty is her gift.” And then, “Boy, his name is Tall Trees. He will be filled with wisdom and courage.”
It’s all I can do to keep from rolling around on my mat laughing. From her throne, Lovie steamrolls ahead.
“Boy, his name is Wide Waters. He’s deep as the sea, smart and bright. Girl, her name is Yellow Bird. She will run so fast it seems she’s flying.”
My human mom says Lovie always got the lead in school plays, and every Halloween, Fayrene sets her up in the back room at Gas, Grits, and Guts with a gypsy costume and a crystal ball. It wouldn’t be Halloween in Mooreville without Lovie telling fortunes.
Trey, Jarvetis’ best redbone hound and my best friend, says they sell more pickled pigs’ lips on Allhallows Eve than any other time of the year. He credits Lovie.
I sit on my royal haunches and enjoy the rest of Lovie’s show. She seems so good at divining the sex of unborn babies, even I start to wonder if she has a gift.
Listen, never underestimate the link between a child’s name and his destiny. Take me, for instance. Mention my given name, and everybody in the world knows you’re talking about a King.
Maybe when my sweet Frenchie comes around again, I’ll take her to Lovie to find out if we’re going to get lucky and have three handsome basset boys instead of only one, like we did last time.
Ann-Margret’s human mom is calling the boy Spot, of all the insulting things. I’d have gone with DJ in honor of DJ Fontana, one of my best backups ever. Plus, DJ has a nice strong ring to it.
I’ve told Ann-Margret I don’t care what they call him, no son of mine is going to be named Spot. It sounds like something spilled on a rug that you’d want to spray with Woolite.
Over by Lovie’s throne the pregnant girls are grooming Lovie’s hair, festooning it with flowers. This could go on all day.
I glance around to see what the old woman is up to, but she has vanished. This can’t be good. My dog detective instincts tell me she didn’t go outside to sing “Queenie Wahine’s Papaya.”
Feigning innocence, I stretch my ample self like I’m doing a little doggie calisthenics, and then I mosey on out of the hut.
Usually an appearance by the long lipped god spurs a rush of admirers who follow me around imitating my every move. Today, my fans are in clusters around the perimeter of the village, and they’re busier than that silly cocker spaniel when he’s digging up the whole back yard trying to find my hidden stash of ham bones.
This calls for some skullduggery. I suck in my portly gut and slink from tree to tree, my ears on radar and my nose to the ground.
I smell “T-R-O-U-B-L-E.” These natives are swinging ropes and nets from every tree in the area, and they’re not building a “Mansion Over the Hilltop.”
What they’re building are traps.
A lesser dog would be trembling in his hind legs. But it would be a mistake to underestimate me. I continue to suck up my gut, go into
Kid Galahad
mode, prance into the middle of the village square, and howl a few bars of “King of the Whole Wide World.”
Listen, I’m a dog of valor. Act like a scaredy-cat and you end up eating Meow Mix.
Chapter 18
Feathers, Ceremonies, and Elvis Sightings
I
know Uncle Charlie well enough to be certain he won’t take Mama’s radical path and beat the truth out of old man Morgan. But the strain of the futile search for Lovie is beginning to show. For one thing, he hasn’t shaved, and for another, he hasn’t quoted a single line of Shakespeare.
Always when the family is frazzled and threatening to come apart at the seams, Uncle Charlie comes up with some pithy Shakespearean quote that makes us all feel better. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s the way he speaks, ever confident and hopeful.
My kidnapping only added to his strain. I’ve got to be more careful. And smarter.
Think,
I tell myself. Surely there’s something I’m missing, some small detail about my kidnapping that would solve this case if only I could remember it.
Suddenly Mama says, “I wonder what’s keeping Seth?”
“My ESPN tells me he’s up to no good.”
Fayrene could be onto something. After all, he’s the only man left in Rocky’s crew. Why didn’t he spook and run? Is he hanging around out of loyalty to Rocky or loyalty to old man Morgan? And if so, why? What’s Seth’s connection to Morgan? And to Rosita?
Fayrene’s right. Something’s up in the kitchen.
The thought of sneaking back there to find out gives me the shivers. What if one or both were involved in my kidnapping? What if they’re plotting my recapture right this very minute? Or worse, my murder.
I’m dithering between sleuthing or playing it safe when the matter is taken completely out of my hands.
“Jack!” Mama rushes toward him as if a fatted calf killed in honor of his return is roasting on the spit.
Rocky’s with him, his face drawn and his fists clenching and unclenching.
“I wanted to beat the truth out of Morgan,” Rocky says. “If Jack hadn’t stopped me, I’d have killed him.”
“The authorities should have turned Jack loose on him,” Mama says. “He’d get at the truth.” She thinks my almost-ex can turn water to wine.
“I’ve already spent a little
quality time
with Morgan, Ruby Nell. He’s not talking.”
You can bet Morgan’s “quality time” with Jack Jones a.k.a. the Black Panther was not something you’d want to talk about with your grandchildren over Christmas dinner. If The Company’s most lethal operative can’t get the truth out of Morgan, nobody can.
Jack fills his plate at the buffet, comes back to the table, and assesses me like I’m his favorite strawberry jam and he’s fixing to spread me all over his hot toast.
I thought I was half-dead till he looked at me like that. Leave it to Jack to prove me wrong.
He winks, then sits down in the chair next to mine and proceeds to attack his food. Jack eats the way he does everything else, with energy and apparent single-minded concentration.
I say
apparent
because what you see with Jack is not what you get. There’s nothing single-minded about him. A peek into his multitasking, steel-trap, formidable brain would probably scare the average person to death.
Uncle Charlie and Rocky ease over to the coffeepot, settling for only dark, sugarless brew. If this were a movie, they’d be cast in rolls of the serious but fatherly cop and the grieving young lover.
When Rocky comes to the table, I watch something deep in Jack unfold. From the look in his eyes, I’d say he’s not fixing to deliver a Christmas package.
“Rocky, what do you know about Seth Alford?”
“He’s a good archeologist. Well credentialed and fully capable to take over when I’m not at the dig.”
“Why would a young, bright archeologist take a back seat and watch you get credit for a historic discovery?”
Rocky takes off his hat and puts it on his knee. Trying to center himself, it looks like. The hatband is already damp with sweat and has left an indentation in his hair.
I wish Lovie could see this. I think she’d find it endearing.
“What are you getting at, Jones?”
Looks like Jack has met his match. If the Valentine family weren’t in such dire straits, I’d giggle.
“Your second-in-command keeps trying to take charge of the search for Lovie.”
Rocky stands up, a big, intimidating man. Anybody but Jack might think twice about crossing him. “Are you implying something, Jones?”
“Just pointing out the facts.”
“Seth’s crazy about her. Everybody is. Lovie’s like that. People are drawn to her. Besides, I want him in charge.”
I wonder if anybody else sees the look that passes between Jack and Uncle Charlie. Probably. But I’m the only one here who knows its significance—two Company men, one former, one current, telepathizing that Seth Alford warrants further investigation.
But if he were my kidnapper, wouldn’t I have recognized something about him? His size, his voice, his scent, for goodness’ sake. If you pay attention, you can tell one male from another simply by scent.
As the seed of doubt Jack planted begins to sink in, Rocky looks like a man trying to get his bearings.
“Seth knows this jungle better than I do.” Rocky sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself.
“Why?” This from Uncle Charlie.
“Did I hear someone call my name?” Seth strolls back onto the patio, carrying a map, looking as innocent as the little boy who always gets picked to play a cherub in the Christmas pageant. He plucks an apple turnover from a plate, then straddles a chair. “All’s well in the kitchen. What do you want me to do today, boss? Search for Miss Lovie while you work at the dig?”
“Forget the lost tomb of the Nine Lords.” Rocky rams his hat back on his head. “We’ve got to find Lovie.”
“I knew that’s what you’d say.” Seth spreads a map over the table. “I’ve laid out a search pattern.”
Given Jack’s recent questions regarding Seth’s role in the search, you might expect him to leap up and snatch the map out of Seth’s hands. But leaping is not in Jack’s nature. To the unpracticed eye, he looks like he’s just sitting there taking it all in. Uncle Charlie and I know otherwise. He’s a man holding a keg of dynamite, just waiting for the right moment to light the fuse.
Seth points to quadrants on the map that show the areas already searched highlighted with yellow, and the vast majority of the map blanketed in pink—unexplored territory.
And somewhere out there are Elvis and Lovie.
The vast pink area gets to me. I have a hard time keeping myself from breaking down and weeping into my rapidly cooling coffee. This won’t do. I pull myself together by thinking about the revenge I’m going to take on Morgan’s partners.
If I ever find out their identities. Make that,
when.
This is Lovie we’re talking about. If I were the one missing in the jungle, she’d be tearing through the trees armed with a baseball bat and no-telling-what-all till she found me.
“Rocky, you and I will take this section.” Seth points to an area of pink west of the compound. “Charlie, you and Jack search here.” His finger moves to a spot north.
Uncle Charlie nods, and if you didn’t know him, you’d think he was agreeing to everything Seth Alford said.
On the other hand, who knows what Jack’s thinking? He might as well be an oak tree for all the good it does to try to figure him out.
“Thanks, Seth,” Uncle Charlie says, and Rocky gives him a skeptical look.
Poor guy. He’s got a lot to learn about the Valentine family.
“That’s settled then.” Seth folds the map and stuffs it in his pocket. “You ready, Rocky?”
I catch a glimpse of something out the corner of my eye, and quickly turn to see Rosita scuttling back toward the kitchen as if she’s been up to no good.
“Did you see her, Uncle Charlie?”
“I did.”
“It looked like she was eavesdropping.”
“Probably waiting for us to finish so she can clear the dishes.”
Suddenly Jack uncoils. “Charlie, take the women back to the hotel on the island. Track Morgan’s connections to all suspects.”
“What are you going to do, Jack?” I ask.
When he turns to look down at me, I wish I were standing up. Towering over me while I sit wilted and patched up in my chair, he seems about ten feet tall. And I don’t know whether I’m glad about that or mad.
“I’m going to bring Lovie and Elvis back.”
“I’m going with you.”
“You’re going with Charlie.”
“She’s my cousin and Elvis is my dog.”
“The first is true, the second is debatable.”
“I’m going, Jack, and that’s final.”
He gets quiet and I can’t tell if he’s marshalling further arguments or getting ready to issue commands. When he leans down and puts his hands on my shoulders, gentle-like, tears spring to my eyes. Sometimes, unexpected tenderness unravels me. There is so little of it in this world.
“Cal, I know you would love to go. But you would only slow me down. With one kidnapper caught and the others loose and forewarned, we can’t risk losing time.”
He’s right and I know it. Still, I have my pride. And a stubborn streak, too.
“All right, Jack. You go into that jungle by yourself, but you’d better bring them back.”
“I will. I promise.”
I lift my chin. I’m not finished yet.
“And don’t you dare tell Uncle Charlie to
keep the women safe and out of trouble.
Mama and Fayrene and I have plenty of sense. We’re not going to sit in our rooms in Cozumel like three lumps on a log. We’re going to help Uncle Charlie get the truth out of the Farkles.”
He lets go of my shoulders, all business. “Give her a gun, Charlie. She knows how to use it.”
That’s stretching things, but I don’t let on. Particularly to Jack, who spent hours on the farm trying to teach me to use a firearm.
When he turns on his heels and hurries off, I’m so flabbergasted I can’t even move. Who’d have thought? Maybe I impressed him with my hairpin.
“Well, Lord, Callie,” Fayrene says. “If you can use a gun, why didn’t you get rid of the critters that are eating Ruby Nell’s Canadians?”
I think she means caladiums, unless Mama has some foreign men stashed about. Which would be just like her.
I laugh till tears roll down my cheeks. Comic relief will do that to you. A person can take only so much drama. The pressure builds inside, and you have to let it out, one way or the other. The Southern way is laughter through tears.
 
Within an hour, Fayrene, Mama, Uncle Charlie, and I are all packed and on the ferry heading back to Cozumel. It’s a relief to be heading back to civilization, even if we will be in the middle of a bunch of undertakers.
If we can get to the bottom of the Farkle connection, I might even get a chance to slip into the seminar on making up the dead. Not that I need any lessons on makeup for the Glory Land bound. On the contrary, I could teach the rest of them a thing or two.
I’m so good at fixing up the dearly departed at Uncle Charlie’s Eternal Rest Funeral Home, I have a stack of requests from my geriatric clients at Hair. Net. The most interesting is from Junie Mae Getty, who drives all the way from Tupelo so I can do her hair.
“Callie, when I go,” she told me, “make me up to look like Marilyn Monroe. For once in his life, I want to take the limelight away from Robert Earl.”
Robert Earl’s the mayor of Tupelo, and his wife Junie Mae stands so far back in his shadow, most folks don’t even see her. About the only thing we’ve ever heard her say in public, is
Hon, it’s working
, her way of telling Robert Earl to quit tapping the microphone, it’s on.
I promised Junie Mae I’d fix her so even the most diehard fans wouldn’t be able to say she wasn’t Marilyn, right down to the mole on her left cheek.
Uncle Charlie is standing at the railing between Mama and Fayrene. I wander close enough to catch a drift of the conversation and satisfy myself that no fresh horror is afoot.
He’s silent, but Mama and Fayrene are discussing feathers. I don’t even want to know.
Leaving them behind, I find a relatively secluded spot on the ferry and call Darlene to check on things at my shop.
The first thing Darlene says is, “Have you found Lovie and Elvis,” proving that Mooreville’s grapevine is alive and well.
“Not yet, but we’re hopeful today will be the day. How are things at Hair.Net?”
“Business is booming,” she tells me, which is good news I can use. “Everybody in Mooreville’s trying to help Trixie Moffett plan her wedding to Roy Jessup.”
“There’s no such thing as a private affair in Mooreville.”
“I talked Trixie into a blue wedding gown.”
“Blue? It’s her first wedding.”
“Yeah, but her horoscope said she should take a chance and reach for the sky. In my book, that spells blue. Besides, Bobby said Trixie was in danger from white.”

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