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Authors: Peggy Webb

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Chapter 16

Hairpins, Secret Partners, and Kinky Moves

S
purred by visions of myself with only one foot while Lovie and Elvis are lost forever in the jungle, I work in the dark with Rocky to keep me company. Not in person, of course. On the monitors, his cohort at his side, digging to find the lost tomb of the Nine Lords. And apparently a bunch of jade treasures, to boot.

Pushing my hairpin into the lock, I whisper,
Come on, come on.
I guess I’m praying for a miracle. The pin shoots out of my left hand and lands beyond the reach of my restraints. To my overwrought ears, it sounds like a cat being thrown against the wall.

I hold my breath, but all I hear from Morgan’s room is the sound of snorting, hissing snores. Pulling another hairpin from my bedraggled French twist, I tackle the lock with renewed vigor.

Since the universe seems to be fresh out of miracles, I’m on my own.

Or maybe
come on
is not the right prayer when you’re scheduled for dismemberment in an ancient Mayan ruin. “Please, please,” I whisper.

The pin slides into the lock, then meets resistance, bends sharply, and shoots toward the ceiling.

I will not cry. Until I get safely back to Mooreville. And then I might start bawling and never stop.

A faint band of light seeping around the thick shutters on the window tells me it’s almost morning.

Soon Morgan will come in here with a sharp knife to cut off my finger. Or my foot. Who knows what body part he’ll think of next?

I’m down to my last hope and my last hairpin. When I pull it from my French twist, my hair tumbles around my face in tangles. I feel sour and sweaty.

If my clients could see me now, I’d be out of a job. I pride myself on being my own best advertisement.

Of the many indignities of being a captive, one of the most insidious is not being able to maintain even minimum hygiene and beauty. I wonder about the state poor Lovie must be in, being held for days in the jungle.

Saying a little prayer for Lovie and Elvis, I insert my lone remaining means of escape into the lock at my right wrist. For a breathless moment, I feel resistance, then a slight twist, an indrawn breath . . . and the handcuff swings open. I catch it before it falls to the floor and wakes old man Morgan. Now that I have the hang of it, I use one quick flick of the wrist to jimmy the lock on my leg irons.

And I am free!

The front door is about five feet away. I’m there in seconds, moving quietly, holding my breath. Alas, it’s a deadbolt, requiring a key.

Guess who has it.

The only other means of escape is the window, and it’s shuttered and nailed down. I refuse to be daunted. I’ll simply have to overpower old man Morgan, take his keys, and let myself out. And I’m not about to scare myself into timidity by dwelling on my earlier failure to secure the keys.

I stuff the hairpin into my pocket and tiptoe around the room, searching for anything I can use as a weapon. I could club him with the bed if I were seven feet tall and benchpressed Texas for fun. Or I could hide in the closet and fell him with a bull’s-eye hit with one of the two mothballs I see on the floor. Alternatively, I might throw the “hopeful” wool coat over his head and smother him into submission. (I say
hopeful
because why would you keep a wool coat in the jungle unless you hoped to someday leave the heat and snakes and crocodiles behind and end up in New York watching Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade?)

The only possible weapons in this room are the monitors on the wall and Morgan’s straight-backed chair.

I sink into the chair, and my empty stomach gives such a vigorous protest it’s a wonder I don’t wake the Mayan mummies.

“Well, look’a here.”

Holy cow! Morgan is standing in the doorway leering at me. The only good thing I can say is he’s carrying neither gun nor cutlery.

The bad thing is that while I’m sitting here in shock, he’s heading my way.

I leap up, grab the chair, and swing. The brunt of the blow lands with a satisfying
thwack
in his groin. Morgan goes down on his knees, clutching himself, screaming.

Taking aim, I bring the chair down onto the back of his head. Still scrambling on the floor, he yells words that would shock even Lovie.

Why won’t this man go down? I leap onto his back and grab him by the hair.

“Hand over the keys or lose body parts.”

“How do you plan to do that, girlie?”

He tries to buck me off, but I hang on. Listen, he’s dealing with a farm girl. In my youth, I rode my share of horses and even bucking yearling calves.

I whip my hairpin out of my pocket and press the tip against Morgan’s throat.

“Do you want me to give you a new windpipe first or would you rather lose an eyeball?”

With a horrific crash the door is kicked from its hinges and Jack Jones roars into the room.
Relieved
doesn’t begin to cover my feelings. All I can say is somebody ought to name a building after him. Maybe even a whole town.

Bleary-eyed, disheveled, and dangerously coiled, he looks more demon than human. I wouldn’t want to be Morgan.

“Kinky, Callie. Now, move back.”

I’ll argue later. For now, common sense takes precedence over independence. I jump off Morgan’s back and out of Jack’s way. Before Morgan can get off all fours, Jack jerks him up and dangles him in the air.

“Did he touch you, Cal?”

“No.”

“This is your lucky day, Morgan.”

With that, Jack knocks him senseless, then cuffs him to the bed with the shackles I no longer need.

“Get the key,” I yell, but Jack’s half a step ahead of me.

If I were a vindictive and violent woman, I’d march over there and kick old man Morgan. As it is I feel sorry for him. By the time he serves his sentence in Mexico for covering up his wife’s death and kidnapping two U.S. citizens, not to mention my dog, he’ll wish he was resting peacefully in the fabled tomb of the Nine Lords.

“You okay, Cal?” I nod, and Jack pulls out his cell phone.

While he gives Uncle Charlie a quick recap, I race through the caretaker’s shack looking for my own cell phone. I find it on Morgan’s bedside table.

Snatching it up, I march back to the front room where Jack drapes his arm around me and leads me to the door.

“Let’s get you out of here. You look like death warmed over. It’s a good thing I got here when I did.”

“If you’ll care to remember, I had already rescued myself.”

I’ll think about the sins of pride later. Right now, I just can’t let my almost-ex think I can’t make it without him.

“I would never underestimate a stylist with a hairpin.”

His chuckle spoils the compliment. If he even meant it as one in the first place.

“Jack Jones, the minute we get stateside, I want divorce papers signed.”

“Yes ma’am. It’s at the top of my list. After we find Lovie.”

Good grief, I ought to be ashamed, talking divorce with my cousin missing. I blame an empty stomach and unwashed hair.

“Morgan admitted he took her,” I tell Jack. “He has partners. At least two of them.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“No. I think one is female.” I tell him my suspicions about the Farkles, then Juanita and Rosita, leaving out a few details. Like how I went snooping. “We’ve got to find Lovie and Elvis fast before the other kidnappers panic over Morgan’s capture and do something horrible.”

“How did you happen to come up with that particular set of suspects?” This is not an idle question. Those aren’t in Jack’s vocabulary.

The guest cottage is just ahead. If I wait long enough to answer Jack, maybe Mama or Uncle Charlie will rush out to greet me and Jack will forget about putting me in the hot seat.

But I pride myself on being a thrifty, independent woman. If you don’t count shoes. And all that dog and cat food I have to buy for Elvis and my rescues.

Oh, well.
“Would you believe the ceremony of the jade-green skirts?”

“We’ll discuss skirts later. Right now, let’s get you fed and bathed.”

“I’ll take care of that all by myself, thank you very much. And you leave my skirts out of this. You have better things to do.”

Mama and Fayrene are the first to spot us. Screaming, “My baby!” Mama lifts the hem of her hibiscus pink caftan, races my way, and nearly bowls me over with a hug.

Fayrene is not far behind. Both are clinging to me as if I’ve been gone for years. Over the top of their heads I see Jack watching me.

“Cal, I have urgent things to do. But nothing better.” He winks, then strolls off.

“What was that all about?” Leave it to Mama. Where Jack’s and my private business is concerned, she never misses a beat.

“Mama, can I bathe and eat first? I’m grungy and I’m starving.”

Chapter 17

Bad Blood, Bat Blood, and True Blood

I
t’s not until I’m safely back inside the guest cottage that I notice both Mama and Fayrene are wearing feathers in their hair.

“Mama, what in the world? Are you going native?”

“Shhh. I don’t want Charlie to hear.”

While we are in the kitchen Uncle Charlie is somewhere down the hall, casing and debugging the joint, as Lovie would say.

“Don’t you think he’s already noticed? Holy cow, Mama, you’re wearing buzzard feathers.”

“These are erotic feathers,” Fayrene chimes in.

“For Lovie?”

“No, for you,” Fayrene says. Mama tries to shush her, but she keeps on prattling. “If we can find the blood of a bat, we’re going to do a reunion ceremony.”

If I were “at myself,” as Fayrene would say, I’d try to talk them out of another ceremony. So far, their native rituals have produced nothing but disaster. That I am grateful just goes to show the subtle shifts that take place in the psyche when you’re kidnapped. Even if it’s for only a short while.

I shudder to think about the Lovie and the Elvis I’ll be getting back.

Uncle Charlie comes into the kitchen and puts his arm around me. “Take your time getting cleaned up and changed. When you show up for breakfast, act natural and don’t mention a thing about Morgan. I want to see some unguarded reactions.”

Uncle Charlie explains the situation in great detail, and I’m glad. If I had my choice, I wouldn’t want my fate—and Lovie’s—hanging on the chance that these two would keep their mouths shut.

And I mean that in the best of ways. I love Mama and Fayrene, but the mambo murders in Memphis proved my point. Enough said.

“Where’s Jack?” I ask.

“He and Rocky are making sure the Mexican authorities find out where Morgan has hidden Lovie.” Uncle Charlie kisses my cheek. “Take your time, dear heart. You’ve been through a lot.”

After he leaves, Mama says, “For Pete’s sake, Fayrene, I told Charlie my feathers were a frivolous fashion accessory. I thought I was going to have to muzzle you.”

“You and which army?”

Oh, Lord
. “I need a bath.”

Mama and Fayrene follow me to the bathroom, then stand guard outside the door. Though I protest that I can do this myself, I don’t need bodyguards, I have to say this is one time I’m glad Mama doesn’t listen to me. I’m feeling so skittish I don’t want to be anywhere alone.

How that’s going to translate when I get ready for bed and Jack’s across the hall (I hope), I don’t even want to think about.

There’s a tap on the door. “You all right in there?” Mama calls.

“I’m fine.” This is only partially true. I still feel like I’m back at the shack worrying about walking with a peg leg and dreaming about taking a bath. I worry I might wake up any minute and it will be Morgan outside my door.

While I turn on the water, step into the tub, and soak myself, I can hear Mama and Fayrene outside the door arguing about who said what and the best place to obtain the blood of a bat.

Though I’m certain Uncle Charlie was thorough in his search, I glance around for unwanted visitors. I don’t trust snakes. The two-legged kind or any other kind. You never know. One could be lurking to bite off the body parts still intact thanks to old man Morgan’s unfortunate morning.

Another tap on the door. “Cal, it’s Mama. Are you okay?”

I don’t tell her this is the fifth time she’s asked. I’m just grateful. “Yes,” I say, then consider myself lucky to have family and friends who care. When I get Elvis and Lovie back, I’m going to make a long list of all the reasons I have to be thankful.

I guess I can start by being grateful I’m alive. Even so, after I patch my scrapes and scratches with ointment and Band-Aids, I look like the unfortunate Bride of Frankenstein.

Mama and Fayrene follow me down the hall and into my bedroom, where Mama proceeds to plop onto my bed and Fayrene proceeds to search my closet.

“Do you mind?” I tell them. “I’d like to get dressed.”

“I’ve seen it all,” Mama says. “Who do you think changed your diapers? Fairies?”

Deep in the bowels of my closet, Fayrene says, “You can never take anything for granite, Callie. There’s no telling who could be hiding in here.”

I give up. And I confess—I’m secretly pleased.

“Since you’re already in my closet, toss me out some clothes. I’d like to eat breakfast in something besides a bath towel.”

Fayrene emerges with a pair of blue-jean shorts and a white tee shirt, then joins Mama on my bed. I would have chosen a perkier color—probably yellow—but at least this one matches my bandages.

After I dress, the three of us head toward the main cottage, just in time for breakfast.

“Mama, remember what Uncle Charlie told us. Fayrene, you, too.”

“For Pete’s sake, Carolina, we have sense enough to keep our mouths shut.”

“Don’t worry about me. I understand the elephant of surprise.”

For once, Fayrene got it right. If there were ever a moment when the element of surprise could become an elephant, this would be it. Everybody at the dig knows I’ve been missing. The question is, who wanted me to vanish and who will be upset by my sudden reappearance?

Now that Morgan’s been turned over to the authorities, the cold case is solved. But there are still at least two people hanging around Tulum who will do anything to sabotage Rocky’s dig.

Or are they on the island at the undertakers’ convention?

With their arms looped around my waist, Mama and Fayrene flank me. I guess they’re afraid if they aren’t touching me, I’ll get carried off by the ghosts of Tulum. Believe me, I have no intention of getting bushwhacked again, by Morgan or anybody else. From now on, I’m keeping hairpins in my pocket and adopting Lovie’s
don’t mess with me
attitude.

We don’t encounter a soul on the path to the main cottage. I find that odd, since Juanita is always around with an armload of sheets. Has she already found out Morgan’s been arrested? Is she holed up somewhere with Morgan’s other silent partner wondering what their next move will be?

Only two people are in the courtyard when we arrive: Uncle Charlie and Rocky’s second-in-command, Seth Alford.

“Good morning.” I smile like I’m on a commercial for whitening toothpaste.

Seth looks slightly shell-shocked. Guilt or relief? He recovers quickly and comes running over to sweep me into a tight hug.

“Callie, I’m so glad to see you. We were frantic looking for you.”

I ease out of his grip. He’s treating me like a long-lost favorite relative. His reaction not only seems excessive but also makes me uncomfortable.

Listen, I know Lovie and I are warm and friendly, prone to quick hugs and air kisses with people we’ve just met while reapplying passion pink lipstick in a public bathroom, but I’ve never been in a public bathroom with Seth Alford.

Of course, he did have breakfast with me while I was wearing baby doll pajamas. That sort of thing could cause a false sense of intimacy. Besides, I can’t picture this bright, openfaced young man as anything but sincere.

Lovie says I rationalize too much. Based on that first look on Seth’s face, she’d be ready to march him off and throttle him with her baseball bat. Or sit on him till he squealed the truth. The poor young man she flattened in Las Vegas during the Bubbles Caper probably still can’t catch a painless breath.

Grabbing my plate, I walk to the buffet, where Mama and Fayrene close ranks again. I wonder how long it will take before Mama loses interest in being my watchdog and moves on to more exciting pursuits (probably involving war paint and feathers or a hefty chunk from my bank account).

There’s not as much food as usual on the table. Does that mean Rosita knew I was in the caretaker’s cottage and wouldn’t be here for breakfast?

Of course, slim pickings at breakfast are not enough to make her a suspect. With Jack and Uncle Charlie turning this place upside down, plus Mama and Fayrene doing no-telling-what-all, everybody on staff knew I was missing. Including the cook.

I take two of everything and pour myself a huge glass of orange juice, and then head back to the table.

“Where’s Rosita?” Uncle Charlie and I seem to be thinking along the same lines.

“I’ll check on her,” Seth says. “She needs to be out here hustling things along so we can start searching for Lovie.”

He rushes off, and Mama pulls out her Hollywood cigarette holder, a sign somebody’s in big trouble. I’m just glad it’s not me.

“What was that all about, Charlie?”

“Jack called before you got here. Morgan denies having partners and claims to know nothing of Lovie’s whereabouts.”

“But he confessed to me, Uncle Charlie. He talked about his partners.”

“It’s your word against his, dear heart, and he knows that.”

“They believed that lying rat, didn’t they, Charlie?” Mama’s blowing smoke rings, now, and her feathers are quivering. Not a good sign. Listen, smoke rings mean there’s bad blood between Mama and somebody. Currently, that somebody would be Archie Morgan.

“I’m afraid the authorities did, Ruby Nell.”

“You get out there and take Morgan down. Make him talk, Charlie. Nobody messes with a Valentine and gets away with it.”

BOOK: Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble

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