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Authors: Peggy Webb

Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble (5 page)

BOOK: Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble
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Elvis’ Opinion #3 on Bad Auras, Foolhardy Plans, and Rescue Missions
W
hen a shadow blocks my sun, I am rudely awakened from my nap. As if depriving a deserving dog of his sleep weren’t bad enough, the man who is making the shadow gets every one of my hackles up. Listen, don’t tell me a dog can’t read auras. And this man’s is blacker than the pits of Hades. I’d as soon chew his leg off as look at him.
Out of deference to the Valentine family, I refrain. Listen, you’re looking at a former icon in a dog suit who has adoring fans around the world. I know how to put on a public face.
When Mr. Dark Aura starts flirting with Lovie, I just put my brilliant head on my paws and play dumb.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he tells her.
Lovie’s collected so many umbrellas she can barely see him, let alone see through him even if he is wearing aviator sunglasses and a black wig I’d bury in the backyard.
I’m not letting this dude out of my sight.
With my mismatched ears, I can pick up trouble a mile away, and believe me, this jerk has me growling “T-R-O-U-B-L-E.”
Lovie puts her hand on my neck, then shades her eyes and looks up at the rude intruder with her coy, come-on expression. Granted, she’s feeling rejected and he’s good-looking. And just her type. Or at least the type she was attracted to before she fell for Rocky Malone.
But can’t she see who he is? I try warning her with a lowvoiced rendition of the “Devil in Disguise,” but she just keeps on responding to his heavy-handed flirtation.
Before I know what’s happening, Lovie’s rising from her lounge chair and staggering off with this dapper dude. Callie’s nowhere in sight and Charlie’s off with Ruby Nell and Fayrene. If this sleazy rake thinks I’m going to watch Lovie leave with nothing more than a “Vaya Con Dios,” he’s barking up the wrong tree.
I wait until they’re down the beach far enough for him to think I’m still happily lazing in the sun, then I shag my ample butt into gear and take off after them.
It’s up to me to save the day.
Just my luck, he’s taking Lovie to the ferry. But if you think a little thing like seasickness and visions of being stranded in shark-infested waters would stop a dog of my caliber, you’d be wrong. Listen, mess with my people, you’re liable to come up missing a body part.
Now, sneaking aboard a ferry might stymie lesser dogs like that goofy Lhasa apso upstart back at Hair.Net or that silly shih tzu down the street from Callie, but it’s easy for a clever basset to slip between the legs of milling tourists. Once I’m safely onboard, I find a nice cool spot in the shade of a man the size of twin oak tree trunks, and flop down to reconnoiter.
The ferry gets underway, and I watch Lovie leaning over the railing losing her Tropical Double Troubles. She looks close to passing out. The man she’s running off with hands her his handkerchief and acts concerned.
Concerned, my crooked hind leg. He may act like “The Love Machine,” but he doesn’t have a clue that a clever “Roustabout” is lurking in the shadows.
If he makes one false move, I’m liable to get dangerous. And I’m not talking about my usual modus operandi of bringing women and French poodles to a screaming, fainting frenzy.
Bring it on, dude. There’s nothing a dog of my intelligence and savoir faire can’t handle.
Chapter 5
Missing Person, Dire Predictions, and Arkansas Razorbacks
B
y the time I get back to my room at the Cozumel Palace, I’d like nothing better than to sink into the Jacuzzi. But there’s no sign of Lovie and Elvis, so I head to the beach to look for them.
Lovie is probably cooked to a crisp by now, and there’s no telling what my dog is up to. As much as I’d like to simply stand and admire the colors of the sunset across the water, I hurry along to retrieve part of the missing Valentine contingent.
Our party is meeting for dinner tonight at the semi-elegant MoMoNoHaHa restaurant. It’s a good thing it’s in our hotel. If Lovie had any more Tropical Double Troubles, she’ll be in no condition to walk far.
I’m wearing my new espadrilles, so I scan the beach hoping to spot Lovie and Elvis, then simply call and wave them to come in. Alas, they’re nowhere in sight. Which means I’m either at the wrong spot (highly unlikely) or they’ve moved to another spot.
If I were Lovie, I’d say a bad word. I’m supposed to meet the family for dinner in less than an hour. Now is no time to play hide-and-seek with my cousin.
I dial her cell phone, and leave a voice mail. “Lovie, where in the world are you? Is Elvis with you? Call me. We’re supposed to meet for dinner.” Then I pull off my shoes and set off across the sand, calling my dog.
You haven’t lived till you’ve strolled a foreign beach yelling, “Elvis!” Most of the sun worshippers have gone inside, but the ones who are left turn to stare at me as if they can’t decide whether I’ve gone crazy or I’m convinced Elvis never died and I spend all my free time searching the world for him.
Listen, let them jeer. I’ll do just about anything to find my dog.
“Elvis, where are you, boy? Come here.”
“Don’t expect too much, lady.” The hunky stranger is watching me, deadpan. I can’t tell whether he’s making fun or is an aspiring wag. “Last I saw, he was up at the bar having a Tropical Double Trouble.”
I don’t even stop to explain that Elvis is a dog. There’s no telling what he’d say to that.
Giving the smart-mouth hunk a wide circuit, I continue my search. I believe in keeping the body healthy, so it doesn’t take me long to make a quick tour of Cozumel Palace’s beach-front. Lovie and Elvis are nowhere to be found.
They were probably doubling back when I came outside. Most likely, Lovie’s in the Jacuzzi and up to her neck in bubbles this very minute. And Elvis is probably ensconced on his satin pillow for the night.
I turn and head back. To an empty suite. No Lovie hogging the hot tub. No Elvis thumping his tail on the floor.
If I have one fault, it’s being a worrier. But Lovie’s grown and Elvis would never wander far from me. I refuse to spoil the evening imagining the worst. Lovie probably stopped in a cute little sidewalk café and lost track of time.
I take a quick shower, slide into a darling pair of gold-andbronze Ferragamo sandals and a short pink silk dress, then call home.
“Hi, Darlene. How are things going?” I make my voice so perky it could brew coffee. I don’t want her to think I’m checking up on her.
“Fabulous! Trixie Moffett is now officially engaged to Roy Jessup.” (He’s the owner of Mooreville Feed and Seed, the third anchor of Mooreville society after Gas, Grits, and Guts and Hair.Net.) “Roy wants to hold the reception at his farm supply store.”
“Trixie must be a basket case.”
“She was hotter than a pistol. She wanted me to paint her nails seashell pink to take her mind off his silly notions.”
“Good. She loves pink polish.”
“I didn’t paint her nails that wimpy pink. Her horoscope said she was due for a dramatic change. It took a lot of persuasion and two cups of Prohibition Punch, but I finally talked her into going with neon Texas Bluebonnet.”
Holy cow! I wonder if I was hasty in my choice of manicurists. I’d head home on the next plane if I could find Lovie and Elvis.
“How did Trixie feel about her blue nails?”
“The horoscope is always right. She loved them, natch.”
Good grief. Shades of Fayrene. I assume
natch
means
naturally.
“Are you sure Trixie was satisfied? I pride myself on always pleasing my clients.”
“Oh, I threw in some daisy art with cute little rhinestone centers for free. If Trixie had been any more pleased when she left here, she’d have popped right out of her trashy bustier.”
“Good grief! You didn’t call Trixie
trashy
to her face, did you?”
I don’t know whether Darlene’s laugh means she did or she didn’t. By the time I get back to Mooreville, I’m liable not to have a single customer left.
“Now, Callie, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve got it all covered.”
Darlene’s reassurance does not ease my mind.
Plus, Elvis and Lovie still haven’t come back. I try to reach her again, without any luck, and then call Rocky to see if she decided to carry through her threat to go over there and give him a piece of her mind.
“I don’t want to alarm you, Rocky,” I say, which probably does just the opposite. “Have you heard from Lovie?”
“Not since she left.”
“She’s not in Tulum?”
“I thought she was with you.”
“Well, she is. Sort of.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was here this afternoon. At the beach. But she hasn’t come back to the room and it’s time to meet Uncle Charlie for dinner.”
“Lovie’s not the most punctual person I know. And she’s extraordinarily independent. She probably wandered off downtown and lost track of time.”
“I’m sure that’s it, Rocky.”
“Call me when she gets back.”
I promise Rocky to call, then race off and get all turned around trying to find the HaHaHeeHee or whatever it is. Sense of direction is not my strong suit, especially when I’m inside a cavernous hotel and can’t use the sun to tell east from west.
Why can’t life be as simple here as it is in Mooreville where there’s only one restaurant? And it has a name that’s friendly and easy to remember. No frills. No airs. Just Linda and Til’s. A big billboard out front—EAT—visible to everybody driving to Mantachie and points north on Highway 371.
When I finally find the restaurant, it’s my full intention to put on a smile and enjoy dinner. After all, Lovie’s a grown woman.
Besides, I pride myself on not being a party pooper. But one look at my face, and Uncle Charlie sniffs trouble. All it takes is one question, “What’s wrong, dear heart?” and I’m spilling my worried guts all over the NoHeHoHo.
“Lord, help us.” Fayrene jumps straight out of her chair. “Lovie’s been hijacked.”
If Mama hadn’t tugged Fayrene’s hunter green tunic, she might have levitated. Hijacked. Kidnapped. What does it matter? They’re both awful.
“Let’s not get alarmed, dear hearts. If I need to, I’ll call Jack.”
I sincerely hope not. I’m trying to get away from Jack, not run into him at every corner, especially in what could be the most romantic spot in the world. If it weren’t for Elvis digging up suspicious bones and Lovie turning up missing . . .
Why would Uncle Charlie be talking about calling Jack on such a short absence, anyhow? It can mean only one thing: he knows stuff he’s keeping from us. Probably stuff that would give me nightmares and make Lovie say a word that would get her on the prayer list at Wildwood Baptist Church back home.
If she were anywhere around to say that word.
I sink into my chair. “Elvis is missing, too.”
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starved.” Mama signals the waiter. “I’m ordering dinner.”
“That’s callous, Mama.”
“All of you are overreacting.” Mama orders a carafe of Pinot Grigio, then sends the waiter off to give us time to study the menu. “It’s not unusual for Lovie to go off to enjoy a small diversion without telling anybody. If she doesn’t show up tonight, she’ll probably show up in the morning wondering why we all made such a fuss.”
“You’re right, dear heart. Let’s enjoy our meal.”
“Bobby predicted this.” Fayrene takes a fortifying sip of her wine. “When I talked to Jarvetis today, Bobby was there checking out the séance room. He predicted danger from a dark-eyed stranger.”
“He always predicts danger from a dark-eyed stranger,” Uncle Charlie says. “Now, here comes the waiter. Let’s enjoy the meal. ‘All’s well that ends well.’”
I don’t know why, but when Uncle Charlie quotes Shakespeare, we all feel reassured. Plus, he keeps the talk away from missing persons and turns it toward the size of the undertakers’ convention.
“It’s going to be a big one this year,” he says.
Mama agrees. “On the way to dinner, I met Lovie’s old boyfriend checking in.”
“Who?” I ask. It’s hard to keep up with Lovie’s old boyfriends. She has as many ex-lovers as I have satisfied customers at Hair.Net. And believe me, that’s a lot.
“Alvin Farkle. The undertaker from Arkansas.”
If I remember correctly, that relationship ended badly, which is totally unlike Lovie’s other breakups. She’s such a lively, charming, and forthright woman, it’s hard for anybody to have hard feelings for her, even the men she used to dump with the regularity of a Greyhound bus on its daily run to Memphis.
“I’ll bet undertakers will be here from every one of the contingency states.”
Trust Fayrene. You can always count on her for laughs and plenty of gossip. But, I have to say that by the time I leave the NoMoreHeHeHe, I’m feeling much less stressed about Lovie and Elvis. In fact, I fully expect to see them waiting for me in the room.
Alas, the lights are off and the room is empty. I try Lovie’s cell phone again, but this time I don’t even get voice mail, just that awful message that the person I’m trying to reach is unavailable, a surefire guarantee that I’m in for a sleepless night.
 
An earsplitting Arkansas Razorback
soooeeee!
jolts me upright. It takes a minute for me to realize that I’m in bed at the posh Cozumel Palace, the clock hands on the luminous dial are pointing to the crack of eight a.m., and I have barely slept three hours. After a restless night of worry and nightmares with my eyes wide open, I’m in no mood to be deprived of anything by loud guests throwing a hoedown in the next room.
Another loud
soooeee
splits the air.
I pride myself on tolerance, but one more yell for the Arkansas home team and I’ll be reaching for the telephone.
I lie back down and pull the sheet over my face, but no sooner does my head touch the pillow than a loud knock jerks me out of bed. Holy cow! Somebody has found Lovie and Elvis bound and gagged. Or worse: Dead.
I turn on the lamp, give my bleary eyes time to adjust, then grab my robe and head to the door. Rocky’s there, looking sleep deprived and worried.
“Callie, I’m sorry to wake you. But I took the early ferry over. I haven’t heard a word from Lovie. Have you?”
“Not yet. That’s why I didn’t call.” I don’t think Mama’s suggestion that Lovie is out seeking diversion would reassure Rocky, so I keep my mouth shut about that. “Come in. I’ll make us some coffee.”
“I hate to intrude.” Ever the perfect gentleman, Rocky hesitates to enter my bedroom, but when I motion, he comes inside.
While I find the filters and set about brewing coffee in the two-cup coffeemaker, Rocky sinks into one of the twin chairs in the window nook.
“I’ve tried repeatedly to reach her.” He pulls out his cell phone and tries again. “No luck, Callie.”
As if his face hadn’t said it all. If my nerves were stretched any tighter I’d be twanging like an upright piano in a country and western bar.
“Lovie’s not an early riser, Rocky.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“She could show up at any time.”
I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I don’t even believe myself.
“The Mexican police are all over Tulum. It seems the bones your dog found solved a thirty-year mystery.”
“Not murder, I hope.”
“It’s too early to tell. But the case hit home. The bones belong to Lucille Morgan, the wife of the guard at Tulum.”
“One of your men?”
“Not technically. Archie Morgan guards my site, but he came with the territory. He’s American, but he’s been at Tulum for thirty-five years. Five years after he arrived in the Yucatan, his wife vanished without a trace.”
This news makes me weak-kneed. I prop myself against the wall, hoping the smell of coffee dripping into the carafe will revive me.
“Rocky, you don’t think Lovie’s disappearance is connected to the disappearance of that woman, do you?”
A loud pounding at my door, followed by a series of
yahoos
and
woohoos
brings conversation to a standstill. I hurry to see who’s making such an unholy commotion.
BOOK: Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble
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