Chapter 22
Wild Goose Chase, Return to Civilization, and Captives on the Warpath
F
rom the helicopter, the scene below looks like something from a blockbuster Indiana Jones movie—tiny Mayan Indians in colorful native garb, Lovie in feathers and war paint, Jack trussed like somebody they plan to burn at the stake, and Elvis with his floppy ears flying outward. I don’t know who I’m the happiest to see. Well, all of them, really.
But when the chopper sets down, Elvis is the first one in my arms. He leaps up and starts licking my face, and I vow on the spot never to lose him again.
Over the top of his head I wave at Lovie. Screaming her name, I head her way, but suddenly I’m hemmed in and grabbed by little people who are either happy to see me or plan to eat me for dinner.
I glance around for Uncle Charlie, but he and the Hulks are hustling Jack into the chopper. Thank goodness.
Suddenly Lovie gives a rebel yell and lights into the natives, snatching and shoving my captors until my cousin and I are the only ones standing. With her feathers and flowers askew and her fierce war paint melting in the sun, she’s never looked more beautiful to me.
“Back off,” she snarls, “or I’m going to turn you into a village of toads.”
I grab my cousin and think I won’t be able to let go until Christmas.
“Lovie, did anybody hurt you? Are you okay? What happened? I was worried sick about you.”
“Are you kidding me? If anybody had tried to lay a hand on me, there’d be a pile of dead bodies all the way from here to Cozumel.”
I’m relieved to see that the cousin I know and love is completely intact. But what did I expect? This is Lovie we’re talking about.
Grabbing her by the hand, I say, “Come on, Lovie. Let’s get out of here.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Elvis has already trotted after Jack and is waiting by the helicopter. Like Mama, he thinks my ex walks on water. One of the Hulks reaches down to lift Elvis aboard.
“Wait a minute.” Lovie strikes a pose. “I’ve got something to do first.”
Holy cow! What now?
Swooping in a circle that sends flowers and feathers flying, she looks like a molting wild bird. While the natives are on their hands and knees picking up the scattered blossoms, Lovie lifts her arms over her head.
“Blessings from the goddess of Earth and Moon,” she shouts. “Long may your little pea-picking hearts prosper.”
The villagers start shouting something back that I believe is an ancient Mayan chant. Lacing my arms through my cousin’s, I lead her toward the helicopter.
Behind us the chant begins to sound suspiciously like “well’a, well’a, well’a.”
“Little Darlin’” in the middle of the Mayan jungle? That can’t be right. I know extreme stress can contribute to all kinds of bizarre illnesses. I wonder if it can cause you to hear things.
Lovie clambers aboard and I’m right behind her. I’m sorry to report that it’s impossible to be graceful climbing into a helicopter in a short skirt while trying to maintain decorum and hide a gun.
When I finally get aboard, the first thing I see is Jack, looking as pale as old man Morgan in his sheet. He winks at me. Knowing he was watching for—and probably saw—a glimpse of glory, as Lovie would say, I kneel beside him and take his hand.
Listen, I may be trying to make
no
my middle name where Jack’s concerned, but I’m still the same compassionate woman who encourages my clients at Hair.Net to come to me with all their problems and sordid secrets.
“Jack, don’t you dare die on me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Cal.” Just when I’m thinking he’s going to get the wrong idea, and I’m wondering whether I should release him and sit with Uncle Charlie, my almost-ex says, “I’ve got divorce papers to sign.”
“You bet your britches,” I tell him. But I keep on holding his hand.
Blood is my excuse. His. Which is rapidly soaking through his pants and dripping onto my shoes.
I glance toward the front of the chopper, where Lovie and Uncle Charlie are deep in conversation.
“Hurry,” I tell my uncle, but by the time the words are out of my mouth, the chopper is hovering over the island and setting down on the hospital rooftop. Jack is whisked off by men in white.
While I’m standing on the rooftop wondering if I ought to call Mama first or find the waiting room, we’re approached by a severe-looking woman with her hair pulled back so tight her eyes are little slits.
“Mr. Valentine?” Her nametag identifies her as Sonia Mendoza, the hospital administrator, no less. “Right this way. We have a room for you.”
The formidable Sonia gives Elvis a look that means she’s not too happy that he’s part of the Valentine party, but I tell her, “He goes, too,” and that’s that.
She escorts us to a board room, from the looks of it—long, polished table, plush leather chairs, coffee and doughnuts on a mahogany credenza.
I’m famished. While Sonia and Uncle Charlie stand in the doorway in quiet conversation, Lovie and I fall on the doughnuts. I put two on a plate for Elvis. Forget his diet. He’s earned some fat and sugar.
After Sonia leaves, Uncle Charlie joins us.
“Rocky and Seth Alford will be here shortly. Lovie, they don’t know you’ve been found. I don’t want them to see you until they’re in this room and the door is closed.”
“What in the world’s going on?” I ask. “Rocky’s not part of Morgan’s ugly scheme.”
“No, but Seth Alford is, the sorry snake. When he took me off the beach I was so sloshed I could have mistaken him for Santa Claus. By the time I came back to my senses, I knew it was Seth. When I get my hands on him, he’s going to be nothing but a greasy spot.”
For once, Uncle Charlie doesn’t pat Lovie and say
now, now, dear heart.
If I had my guess, I’d say he’ll have to use every bit of his restraint to keep from doing bodily harm to the man who did this to Lovie.
“Rosita’s fingerprints were all over the voodoo doll. She’s already been picked up,” Uncle Charlie says. “Jack and I have suspected Seth for some time.”
“Why?” I ask. “He seemed so nice.”
“He’s Morgan’s nephew, and the two of them have been after the lost tomb for years. They knew Rocky was close. In order to get credit, they had to get him out of the way. They thought kidnapping Lovie would do the job.”
“It should have. Rocky Malone should have been combing the jungle day and night. Forget the lost tomb. He ought to have been tending his lost love.”
“He was desperate after you were kidnapped, Lovie,” I tell her. “I’ve never seen a man so distraught.”
Rocky’s really a sweet guy. Somebody has to defend him.
Lovie is not mollified. “I don’t know whether I want to give him a piece of my mind first or strangle him.”
I would tell her it’s just a lover’s quarrel that will blow over, but Lovie’s still wearing war paint. Under the circumstances, I think it best if I keep my mouth shut.
“Has anybody told Mama?”
“I called her,” Uncle Charlie says. “I told her to wait with Fayrene at the hotel until we get there.”
“She won’t listen. She never does.”
“Yes, she will,” Uncle Charlie says.
I’m so glad to see the twinkle back in his eye that I don’t take the time to wonder why he’s so certain Mama will do what he tells her. The older I get, the less I understand my mama. And my uncle, it turns out.
Footsteps echo in the hall and all of us freeze.
“Quick.” Uncle Charlie nods toward a chair behind the door, and Lovie scoots in.
I prefer to stand. I want to see Seth Alford’s face when he realizes his goose is cooked. Besides, I’ve got a gun. I don’t care if this is a hospital and I am the most horrible shot in the South. If he makes a run for it, I’m going to shoot him.
Rocky is the first through the door. He looks horrible, poor man. “You said Jack’s been hurt.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Seth strolls in and smiles at me. “He should have searched where I told him instead of chasing off on his own. The jungle’s a dangerous place.”
“Not nearly as dangerous as this room, you lying shit.” Lovie steps from behind the door and Seth turns chalky.
Like a man shell-shocked, Rocky glances from Seth to Lovie. Then he strides toward my cousin.
“Stop right there, Rocky Malone. Do you think I want a man who values the lost tomb more than he does his lost national treasure?”
“If I were you,” Seth says, “I’d listen to her, Rocky. She’s crazy as a loon. People lost in the jungle almost never come back with their full senses.”
I never thought Seth would try to bluff his way out of this. Why doesn’t Uncle Charlie say something? Is he waiting for Seth to incriminate himself?
And why hasn’t Rocky jumped on him and beat the snot out of him? No wonder Lovie’s miffed.
“By the way, Lovie. We’re glad you’re back.” Seth has the audacity to blow a kiss at her.
The room goes quiet. If fury were a country, Lovie would be China. Any minute now, she’s going to jump on her kidnapper and I don’t think even Uncle Charlie can stop her.
Suddenly there’s a low growl.
Elvis
. Something’s wrong.
When Seth darts to the door, I’m the first to react. Maybe it was my dog’s warning growl. Maybe it’s because I’m facing the culprit who snatched Lovie and my dog.
In a move worthy of Clint Eastwood, I whip out my gun, aim with both hands, and shoot.
Seth goes down in a howl, blood blooming on his pants.
I stand there numb while Uncle Charlie takes the gun from my hands, cleans it with his handkerchief, and kneels to put it in Seth’s hands.
While I’m trying to decide whether to get hysterical or thank my lucky stars for Uncle Charlie, two security guards burst into the room, guns drawn.
“The man on the floor is wanted for kidnapping,” Uncle Charlie tells them. “You’ll want to get him seen about his wound before he goes to jail. He was so distraught he shot himself in the groin.”
Holy cow! I’ve ruined Seth Alford’s
family.
I guess I ought to feel awful about that, but I don’t. I’m just glad to have my dog and my family back.
One leaf I don’t have to turn over is gratitude. I know how to be thankful I love and I am loved.
Elvis’ Opinion # 16 on Mooreville Homecoming, Mayan Calendar, and a Whole Lotta Hanky Panky Going On
T
hanks to Jarvetis, who issued daily bulletins to the home front regarding our tropical double trouble, yours truly and crew get a hero’s welcome. Darlene has banners stretched across the front of Hair.Net, Jarvetis has helium-filled balloons tied to the gas tanks, and Mooreville Feed and Seed is serving cookies and punch with every purchase of dog food and Yard Guard mosquito spray.
Even Bobby Huckabee has put up signs. Though I’ll have to say his
WELCOME HOME
signs on the lawn of Eternal Rest Funeral Home are getting mixed reviews from the friends and relatives of the newly deceased. Charlie’s so busy fielding irate phone calls, he hardly has time to put into practice the new techniques he learned in the last few days of the undertakers’ convention in Cozumel.
Fayrene and Ruby Nell have taken up consulting the Mayan calendar and wearing feathers—earrings, hair ornaments, necklaces—anywhere they can put them. Last I heard, they were busy planning seminars in the back room of Gas, Grits, and Guts on “finding your inner animal.”
But the biggest changes are with this intrepid jungle explorer dog and the Valentine cousins. Though Callie advises otherwise, Lovie never did patch it up with poor, befuddled Rocky. She left him in Tulum, almost too devastated to continue his search for the lost tomb. And she vows he’ll never get another chance to find her national treasure.
Even if I were a gambling dog, I wouldn’t place bets on this one. Lovie’s as stubborn as they come, but Rocky doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who will give up.
And then there’s my human mom. Callie brought Jack back home, but only to take care of him until his leg heals and he can take care of himself. Or so she says.
Listen, I saw how she stayed at that hospital in Cozumel night and day till the doctors said the surgery was successful. (Jack’s out of the woods and he’s going to be like brand-new again.)
As you know, I’m a keen observer of human nature, especially when it happens to be the two humans I love best. Let me tell you, nothing has changed between them. Except now he’s issuing daily and irritating love advice to Callie, who is determined to ignore him and pursue happiness with Champ.
I’m not too worried about the outcome. Wait till Jack’s a hundred percent again. Then we’ll see who Callie really wants.
Anyhow, I don’t have time to fret over my human parents. I’ve my own love problems. Would you believe that sawed-off Lhasa escape artist has been courting Ann-Margret and trying to take over as poppa to my offspring? Even worse, my own private and personal French poodle has been making eyes right back at the “Devil in Disguise.”
All this according to my own grapevine, Javetis’ best redbone hound dog and my best friend, Trey.
If that useless-tailed William keeps messing with the King’s sweetie, he’s going to get about two inches gnawed off his three-inch legs.
Trey says no French poodle is worth fighting over, but who said anything about fighting? Listen, a dog of my talent and iconic status doesn’t need to use force. Curled lips, swiveling hips, and a howling rendition of “Love Me Tender” should do the trick.
Elvis has left the building.