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Authors: Peggy Webb

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Chapter 7

Folly, False Clues, and Farkles

A
s soon as the men are out of sight, Mama and Fayrene make a mad dash to the pier for some last minute shopping—interpret that,
tequila purchases.
I’m not opposed to another chance to shop for shoes. Suffice it to say, they don’t have to hog-tie me and drag me along.

One hour, six bottles of tequila, and two new pairs of shoes later, we head back to the hotel where Fayrene calls home to give Jarvetis a blow-by-blow report on Lovie’s
hijacking.

After she hangs up, Fayrene says, “I told Jarvetis to call Bobby.”

“Good idea,” Mama says.

Those two believe Uncle Charlie’s assistant is a true clairvoyant, but I’ve never seen evidence. I keep my mouth shut, though. If believing in Bobby Huckabee’s psychic eye makes them feel better, who am I to burst their bubble? I pride myself on being the kind of woman you come to for comfort. Listen, this world’s hard enough as it is without adding a bunch of pessimism to the mix.

“There’s no use hanging around here waiting for the men to do all the detective work,” I say. “Why don’t I try to find Alvin Farkle while you two try to find Lulu and see just what she knows?”

“I’ve already told you.” Fayrene is miffed, which is just what I need. On top of everything else.

“You did a good job, too, Fayrene, but it never hurts to dig a little deeper.”

“Good idea, Cal. Come on, Fayrene. We’ll separate and see if we can track her down.”

“That won’t be too hard, Mama. Everywhere the Arkansas folks go, the decibel level rises.”

Mama sets off in the direction of the lobby, and Fayrene heads toward the pool. I guess I ought to be worried about letting Mama and Fayrene out of my sight, but I’m more worried about Lovie and Elvis. Who would want to kidnap them?

I decide to start my search on the beach. After all, that’s where Lovie was last before she vanished. Besides, it’s a gorgeous day, the view is spectacular, and any tourist in his right mind is going to be outdoors. Especially Alvin Farkle. If I remember correctly, his biggest worry about being an undertaker was losing his tan and looking as pale as his poor, unfortunate clients. Lovie said he spent more time in the tanning bed than I spend at shoe sales.

The beach is dotted with tourists sitting in beach chairs underneath the shade of umbrellas. I hardly give these a second glace. I’m looking for a very big beach towel with a well-oiled, hairy body. Not that I ever saw Alvin Farkle in the nude.

Thank goodness, Lovie kisses and tells. When she had her fling with Farkle, I learned more about him than I ever wanted to know. According to Lovie, he has as much body hair as an ape and his legs are so long he could wrap them completely around her (which makes them considerable, believe me). She gave me a blow-by-blow description of his other charms, too, but I’m too much of a lady to repeat what she said.

It doesn’t take me long to spot Farkle, slick with suntan oil and spread out on a tropical-themed towel. Lovie was right. He’s so hairy it’s hard to find the turquoise toucans on his towel. I try, though. I can’t look at him without blushing.

If I ever find Lovie alive, I’m going to kill her.

“Fancy seeing you here,” I say. As interrogations go, it’s lame, but it’s a start.

He pushes his sunglasses to the top of his bald head. I’ll bet he wishes he could redistribute some of that chest hair. I’d advise him about hair implants, but I don’t think he’d appreciate it.

“Callie Jones?” He leaps off the towel and grabs me. It feels like being hugged by a gorilla. Holy cow! I’m glad Lovie has finally found her prince and quit trying to transform all these frogs. “Is Lovie with you?”

Is he sincere or is he trying to throw me off by hiding the fact that he knows where she is?

“Yes. She’s around here somewhere.”

“Great. Tell her I’d love to get together and talk about old times.”

He sounds sincere, but he could merely be a very good liar. I decide to dig a little deeper.

“Lovie was at the beach yesterday. I’m surprised you didn’t see her.”

“I didn’t come to the beach yesterday.” Alvin shoves his sunglasses back into place. “My sister’s never been to Cozumel, so the whole Arkansas group toured the island. We didn’t even check into the hotel till late.”

Is he talking so much because he’s just told a lie or is he merely chatty? Lovie never mentioned his conversational skills, so I wouldn’t know.

I try for puzzled innocence. “I saw Lulu at breakfast this morning.” I’m not above lying if it’s for a worthy cause. And I sincerely hope Lulu is his sister. Lovie never mentioned her. “I thought she said she had taken the ferry to Tulum yesterday.”

“The island. Tulum. What difference does it make? If you want to book a tour, go see the hotel tour director.”

Farkle flops onto his towel, turning his back, which is just as hairy as his front. I hate to be the one to disillusion him, but his tan does nothing to camouflage all that ugly black body hair. I’d recommend a hot wax treatment, but I don’t intend to stand here in the middle of a foreign beach consorting with a possible kidnapper.

Without even saying goodbye, I jerk my cell phone out of my pocket and hurry back to the hotel.

“Mama, I’ve found Farkle. Where are you?”

“At the pool. We’ve found Lulu. Hurry.”

Mama hangs up before I can ask her why. Her cryptic message chills me. Knowing Mama, something disastrous is afoot.

I take off running. Thank goodness for long legs and discipline and regular runs in my neighborhood. I’m not even winded when I reach poolside.

It doesn’t take long to find out why Mama wanted me to hurry. She and Fayrene are chasing a skinny woman with sagging knees and crows’ feet, yelling at the top of their lungs.
Wait, whoa, stop, slow down.

If they’d spread out, they could flank her. They’re so busy huffing and puffing, they haven’t even seen me.

I set out in the opposite direction, hoping to hem Lulu Farkle in.

The woman needs some fashion advice. She’s wearing a yellow bikini that washes out her complexion and does nothing for her figure. Plus, she has too much hair to be wearing a blunt bob. If I didn’t intend to shake the truth out of her, I’d invite her to my room and cut some cute layers that followed her natural curl.

All that bushy black hair is a dead giveaway. She’d bound to be Lulu Farkle.

And I’m closing in. Victory is within sight when Lulu notices me and streaks toward the pool.

“Wait!” Fayrene yells. “We just want to integrate you.”

“Are you broads crazy? Leave me alone.”

Lulu jackknifes into the pool with hardly a ripple, then races toward the other side in a crawl worthy of Olympic contenders.

I’m almost close enough to plunge in after her, but Fayrene beats me to it. Her leap into the water sends a tsunami wave over a couple sunbathing on the rim. Saying words they must have learned from Lovie, they grab their soaking beach towels and storm off threatening to call the management.

Finally I’m close enough to dive in, and I’m proud to say I slice the water. Listen, I grew up on a farm with my very own lake. It was available any time I took a notion to swim and could convince the bullfrogs to get out of my way.

Unfortunately, Lulu must have grown up swimming, too. She’s so far ahead of me, it’s going to take every bit of skill I have to catch her.

“Quick, Mama. Intercept her on the other side.” Just in case. Listen, I haven’t been in the lake on the farm since Jack left. And I don’t even want to talk about what we were doing. I’ll say this much: not swimming.

Mama hasn’t budged. What’s wrong with her? All of a sudden, she yells, “Fayrene!”

Holy cow! Where is Fayrene? She went in but I never saw her come back up.

About that time, her head surfaces briefly, then goes back under.

Good grief. She’s drowning. I alter course and head toward the green blob now rapidly sinking to the bottom.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Lulu clambering out of the pool and streaking off. If I ever get Fayrene off the bottom, I’m going to throttle her.

Fortunately, I have some help—a young man with enough muscles for the job. Together we get Fayrene onto the concrete apron. She sputters, sits up, and goes into complete Fayrene mode.

“I thought you were going to have to give me artificial perspiration.”

“What did you mean, jumping into that water? You can’t swim a lick.” Mama helps Fayrene up and leads her toward the hotel to change clothes.

“I wanted to comprehend the criminal.”

The man who helped rescue Fayrene looks a little startled, but he doesn’t ask questions. I do, though. It turns out he’s an undertaker from Dallas, Texas, who put himself through school working as a lifeguard.

I thank him, then hurry into the hotel for my own change of clothes. I sincerely hope Jack doesn’t hear of this little episode. He’d have me on the next plane to Mooreville in less time than it takes me to shop a shoe sale.

Inside, I stop by Fayrene’s room to check on her and Mama. Fayrene is on her cell phone telling Jarvetis about her “near death” experience. Mama is sitting by the window puffing on a cigarette without her movie star holder. She must really be upset.

I sit beside her, never mind that the smoke will pollute my lungs and do no-telling-what to my unused eggs.

“Flitter, I could wring her neck, jumping in the pool like that.” Mama glares at Fayrene, who glares right back. “We might have found out something useful if she’d waited for you.”

“I don’t know, Mama. I didn’t get much out of Alvin except to find out he lied about where he was yesterday.”

“You think Alvin and Lulu are hiding something?”

“Maybe. But why kidnap Lovie? It’s not as if she lied to him about her feelings or intentionally broke his heart.”

“Maybe it wasn’t his heart she broke; it was his ego.”

“Or maybe he has it in for her over something we don’t even know about.”

Mama stubs out her cigarette. “We’ll keep digging.”

“Not today. We’ve got a ferry to catch.”

Fortunately, it’s getting dark by the time we board the ferry. I know Jack is already on here somewhere, but it’s easy for me to lose myself in the crowd. I don’t want to have to lie to him about our afternoon sleuthing fiasco. I want some time alone so I won’t have to think about anything except finding my cousin and my dog.

Contrary to the ownership claims of Jack Jones.

Elvis’ Opinion #5 on Tight Ropes, Jack’s Socks, and Revenge

A
bout the time that sleazy low-down skunk who kidnapped Lovie is vanishing into the jungle, I imagine Rocky is moaning, “Bring my baby back.” Never fear. Elvis is on the job and taking care of business.

As soon as the coast is clear, I stroll into the shack, announcing my presence with a platinum-worthy rendition of “You Better Run.” Then I prance over to the low-slung bunk and nuzzle Lovie’s hand.

“Elvis? Is that you?”

Who does she think it is? Michael Jackson? Listen, they keep you longer than that before they let you come back down here in a dog suit—or any other kind of suit—and start messing around in the lives of humans.

Humans are fragile creatures. You have to know how to handle them before they turn you loose on terra firma with the kind of power I have.

Of course, to give Lovie credit, she’s wearing a blindfold.

In case she might possibly mistake me for a jungle stray that wandered in, I do a little “Long Tall Sally.” That snaps Lovie out of the doldrums and back into her sassy self.

She struggles halfway upright and swings her bound legs over the edge of the cot. “See if you can’t gnaw these ropes off, Elvis. If I had my baseball bat, I’d beat the living tar out of the devil who did this.”

Now she’s talking. I sink my teeth into the ropes at her ankles and start gnawing. In case you’re thinking this is easy for a dog with my teeth and talent, think again. I don’t know where this hemp has been before it ended up wrapped around Lovie’s legs. But trust me, it smells like Jack’s old socks after they’ve been tossed behind the dirty clothes hamper and forgotten so long you could find a cure for disease growing among the folds.

One of the many reasons he ought to take Callie for a stroll around the Mooreville Truck Stop like I did my cute Frenchie. With that kind of romantic ambience, he could sweet-talk her into coming back to him. When he was living with Callie, every one of his socks smelled like Bounce dryer sheets.

Not that clean socks ought to be the main reason he makes up with my human mom. All I’m saying is hygiene matters. And Callie improves Jack’s exponentially.

I lift my head from the ropes to keep from being asphyxiated.

“Hurry, Elvis. He might come back any minute.”

Who does she think I am? Houdini? It’s going to take me more than a few minutes to overcome the smell enough to set her free and keep down my last snack of Pup-Peroni.

Speaking of which, I haven’t had a bite to eat in so long, that stupid monkey outside is starting to look tasty.

“Once we get out of here, I know you can track my kidnapper, can’t you, Elvis?”

You bet your “Fame and Fortune.” When I had women around the world throwing their panties at me and fainting at my feet, I had a cadre of people to find anything I wanted. I guess that’s why I got sent back as a basset. With this famous nose, I don’t have to rely on anybody else. I can sniff out everything from a hot-to-trot French poodle to a fresh shipment of pickled pigs’ lips over at Gas, Grits, and Guts.

Lovie tries to work her feet loose, but the ropes are still holding tight.

“That’s okay, Elvis. We’ll get free. And when we do, that sorry piece of trash is going to wish he’d never messed with Lovie Valentine and Elvis.”

There’s a loud racket outside the door and we freeze.

“Quick, Elvis. Hide.”

With Lovie sprawled on the cot, it’s sagging so low I couldn’t get underneath if I gave up Pup-Peroni for two years, and there’s nowhere else in this room to hide. “Where Could I Go But to the Lord?” A frightening prospect. What if I got sent back as a cat?

Lovie and I hold our breaths, waiting for what happens next.

With an unholy screech, that dratted monkey jumps into the room, scaring me out of one of my incarnations.

I’m all set to show the jungle animal some Mississippi muscle when he cocks his silly little head and stares at me like he knows me.

Of course, everybody knows the King.

“Is that a monkey, Elvis?” I whack my tail against Lovie’s leg, a definitive yes. “He’s got fingers. See if you can coax him over here to work on these ropes. You can talk animal talk, can’t you?”

I can talk anybody’s talk. Doesn’t Lovie know? Music is the universal language.

I hum a few bars of “I’m Counting on You,” and bless’a my soul if the little primate doesn’t take a step toward us.

Who knows? Maybe he’s the reincarnation of my pet monkey, Scatter, from my other life in Graceland.

Even better, maybe he’s Abraham Lincoln, come to emancipate us.

BOOK: Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble

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