Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble Read online

  Books by Peggy Webb

  ELVIS AND THE DEARLY DEPARTED ELVIS AND THE GRATEFUL DEAD ELVIS AND THE MEMPHIS MAMBO MURDERS ELVIS AND THE TROPICAL DOUBLE TROUBLE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  ELVIS and the Tropical Double Trouble

  Peggy Webb

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Peggy Webb

  Title Page

  Elvis’ Opinion # 1 on the Valentines, Manicures, and Mooreville’s Royalty

  Chapter 1 - Mooreville Gossip, Mexican Capers, and Misbehaving Mamas

  Chapter 2 - Suitcases, Studs, and Traveling Dogs

  Elvis’ Opinion #2 on Old Bones, New Bones, and ’Dem Bones

  Chapter 3 - Ancient Ruins, Buried Secrets, and Murder

  Chapter 4 - Sandy Beaches, Small Umbrellas, and Big Problems

  Elvis’ Opinion #3 on Bad Auras, Foolhardy Plans, and Rescue Missions

  Chapter 5 - Missing Person, Dire Predictions, and Arkansas Razorbacks

  Elvis’ Opinion #4 on Kidnapped, Hoodwinked, and Hoodooed

  Chapter 6 - Bad Boy, Bad Wind, and Big Trouble

  Chapter 7 - Folly, False Clues, and Farkles

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

  Chapter 8 - Ghastly Visions, Lost Tombs, and Grisly Discoveries

  Elvis’ Opinion #6 on Ghosts, Tarantulas, and Being a Tasty Dog

  Chapter 9 - Mooreville Gossip, Half-Baked Plans, and More Trouble than the Law Allows

  Elvis’ Opinion #7 on Dignity, Enemies, and Unsavory Stew

  Chapter 10 - Secrets, Searches, and Diabolical Twists

  Elvis’ Opinion #8 on Foes, Big Macs, and Monkey Business

  Chapter 11 - Motives, Mischief, and Mayhem

  Elvis’ Opinion #9 on Gods, Captivity, and Blue Suede Shoes

  Chapter 12 - Desperate Measures and Danger from a Dark-Eyed Stranger

  Elvis’ Opinion # 10 on Pregnancy, Pup-Peroni, and Jungle Protocol

  Chapter 13 - Complications, Hot Tempers, and Prohibition Punch

  Elvis’ Opinion # 11 on Clever Plans, Escape Route, and the Church of Lovie

  Chapter 14 - Ghostly Encounters, Tiger by the Tail, and Beauty to the Rescue

  Chapter 15 - Breadcrumbs, Inner Animals, and Wild Goose Chases

  Elvis’ Opinion # 12 on Jungle Fauna, Bad Booze, and Burnin’ Love

  Chapter 16 - Hairpins, Secret Partners, and Kinky Moves

  Chapter 17 - Bad Blood, Bat Blood, and True Blood

  Elvis’ Opinion # 13 on Babies, Names, and Destiny

  Chapter 18 - Feathers, Ceremonies, and Elvis Sightings

  Chapter 19 - Voodoo, Film Noir, and the Final Journey to Glory Land

  Chapter 20 - Botched Plans, Marilyn Monroe, and a Farkle Future

  Elvis’ Opinion # 14 on Silly Lyrics, Silk Scarves, and Rescue the Perishing

  Chapter 21 - High Stakes, Hijinks, and Hardened Criminals

  Elvis’ Opinion # 15 on Diplomacy, Jaguar Traps, and Explorer Dog

  Chapter 22 - Wild Goose Chase, Return to Civilization, and Captives on the Warpath

  Elvis’ Opinion # 16 on Mooreville Homecoming, Mayan Calendar, and a Whole Lotta Hanky Panky Going On

  Lovie’s Southern Fixin’s

  Copyright Page

  Elvis’ Opinion # 1 on the Valentines, Manicures, and Mooreville’s Royalty

  Ever since I used my famous nose to crack the Memphis Mambo Murder Case, things have gone to the dogs around here. And I don’t mean to a musical genius in a basset hound suit, either. (That would be yours truly.)

  To hear my human mom (that would be Callie Valentine Jones, owner of the best little beauty shop this side of the Mason-Dixon Line) tell it, life just couldn’t get any better. She thinks she’s happy since she said “The Last Farewell” to Jack (my human daddy) up in Memphis, but I know better. When she’s not giving New York hairdos to Mooreville’s finest and doling out the dough for her mama’s little gambling escapades—and every other kind of escapade Ruby Nell Valentine can think of—she’s sitting on the front porch swing with a faraway look in her eyes that says, “Stuck on You.”

  Listen, I know she believes Jack is finally going to give her a divorce so she can have her heart’s desire with somebody who won’t spend more time in the world’s underbelly avoiding bullets than he does in the gazebo with Callie and her “Ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog” best friend. (I’m not even going to talk about Hoyt, that ridiculous cocker spaniel pretender to my throne, and the seven silly cats who took up residence with us when Callie rescued them and dragged them home.)

  Believe me, Jack’s face said it all when Callie and the rest of our gang headed home from Memphis—“There Goes My Everything.” A man that smitten is not going to let his woman go, no matter how noble he thinks the gesture might be.

  I’m trying to teach Jack and Callie to be thankful for what they’ve got—each other plus a suave, famous Rock ’n’ Roll King who is content to live a dog’s life in order to make his humans happy. Instead, they’re intent on turning everything upside down to get what they think Callie wants. A child. Someone just like the short, not-too-bright little person who makes car noises all day long, smears peanut butter on my pink satin guitar-shaped pillow, pulls my mismatched ears, runs Tonka trucks up the legs of Callie’s customers, and generally has turned everything upside down here at Hair.Net.

  This particular little person is David. He was part of the package when his mom, Darlene (Callie’s new manicurist), moved in lock, stock, and uppity Lhasa apso.

  That would be William, who claims he’s the Dalai Lama reincarnate. He’s prancing around here, even as I speak, acting like he outranks the King. I thought he’d get the message when I howled “The Great Pretender,” but he just did his silly Lhasa flop that made Callie say, “Isn’t he the cutest little dog?”

  Cute, my slightly crooked hind leg. “Don’t step on my blue suede shoes” is what she ought to be saying. That silly fuzzball’s motto is “Rip It Up.”

  Mine is “Suspicious Minds.” Listen, you can’t trust a dog with a bushy tail. What’s the use of a tail that can’t point to rabbits? Or thump the floor like a drum? Or whack your human mom’s legs to let her know you love her?

  Wait till Callie finds out William sneaked into the beauty shop closet and chewed the toe out of her favorite Steve Madden moccasins. She loves her designer shoes.

  But even with that dumb dog chewing up everything in sight and trying to steal my spotlight, and with David trying to pull my tail, I have to admit business has picked up around Hair.Net. Ever since Fayrene’s daughter moved back home with her entourage (which includes a cat named Mal, which I’m not even going to dignify with a comment) and started dispensing Atlanta nail art, we’ve been booked to the hilt. Everybody who is anybody comes here to have Darlene paint witches and pumpkins on their toes. And while they’re at it, they end up getting a new hairdo for Halloween.

  Business is popping over at Gas, Grits, and Guts, too. People have been coming from Mantachie and Saltillo and even as far off as Red Bay, Alabama, to admire Fayrene and Jarvetis’ disco ball dance trophy. They hung it over the pickled pigs’ lips, then proceeded to spotlight it so it would send rainbows over the Vlasic pickles and Lay’s potato chips. My best friend, Trey (Jarvetis’ redbone hound), tells me that Fayrene and Jarvetis (Mooreville’s answer to royalty) are acting like lovebirds these days in spite of the fact that work is progressing on the séance room he said she’d build onto the back of their convenience store over his dead body.
/>   And speaking of dead bodies . . . ever since Charlie Valentine thought Ruby Nell was going to join the body count during the Memphis Mambo Murders, he’s back to being her best friend as well as the backbone of the entire Valentine family. As a matter of fact, he’s planning to take her to the undertakers’ convention in the Yucatan.

  That leaves only one Valentine unaccounted for—Lovie, Callie’s 190-pound, over-the-top flamboyant cousin. Currently she’s in the Yucatan at Rocky’s archeological dig promoting an agenda that features the love of her life discovering her “national treasure.” She had that tattooed on her bombshell hips when we left off trying to catch a killer long enough to have a little fun up on Beale Street in Memphis. Personally, I think the “national treasure” ought to be added to the list of world wonders.

  Here comes that five-year-old, pretending he’s a Peterbilt rig. I’d escape through the doggie door and mosey on down to see what’s cooking with my cute Frenchie (that would be Ann-Margret) and my five handsome progeny, but somebody has to keep things straight around here. Ruby Nell will be here any minute. She called to say she wanted to get spiffied up for her trip, but you can bet she’s up to something. And I’m just the dog to find out. These mismatched radar ears miss nothing.

  Well, bless’a my soul. The little person is carrying a cone of vanilla ice cream. That goofy Lhasa just waves his useless, ostentatious tail, but I know opportunity when it knocks.

  I heft myself off my cushion, hum a few bars of “(Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear,” then mosey on over to see if the short person will let me lick ice cream off his elbows.

  Chapter 1

  Mooreville Gossip, Mexican Capers, and Misbehaving Mamas

  Mooreville was edging toward fame with the disco ball dance trophy at Gas, Grits, and Guts, plus my dog Elvis, who thinks he’s the King of Rock ’n’ Roll. But I put it on the map when I hired an Atlanta manicurist who paints roses with faux jewels—and everything else you can imagine—on my customers’ nails. My little beauty shop is now the talk of northeast Mississippi.

  When I hired Darlene Johnson Lawford Grant to enhance the beauty experience of my clients at Hair.Net, I never figured on getting another menagerie plus a cherub/holy terror on chubby, dimpled legs. (Her son, David, from what Darlene terms her “second and final” marriage.)

  Not that I’m complaining. In fact, just the opposite. Having a five-year-old running around the shop is almost like having my own little boy. Now that Jack Jones has promised a divorce and Luke Champion is acting like he’s my personal prize stallion (he’s a vet, which explains the animal analogy), I see my most cherished goal—motherhood—just over the horizon.

  The only hitch is that I keep seeing my aspiring stallion-inhot-pursuit as a delicious-looking blonde confection you admire through the window, but never get the burning desire to reach in and take a bite of.

  On the other hand, just let my almost-ex come within spitting distance, and I want to eat him up, starting with his dark, always mussed hair and ending with his size twelve feet, which just about says it all.

  But where Jack’s concerned, I’ve decided to make no my new middle name. After all, everybody in the know in Mooreville’s society considers me an entrepreneur on the upswing since Hair.Net got a manicurist. I’d be featured in the newspaper if Mooreville had one. Which is not likely in the next fifty years, considering Darlene and David are the biggest population explosion we’ve had in ten years. And they only brought the live body count up to six hundred fifty-two.

  Holy cow, listen to me, thinking in body counts. I’m turning over a new leaf. Now that we’ve put the Peabody murderer behind bars, I’m giving up crime. Period. Unless you consider it criminal to amass the stash of cash I’m saving so I can hit the after-Thanksgiving shoe sales next month.

  The sight of Mama in her red Mustang distracts me from thoughts of cute designer shoes. She’s driving with the top down. Anybody else her age would drive with the top up. Shoot, they wouldn’t even have a convertible in the first place. But that’s Mama, sassy all over, and I have to say I’m glad. In this day and age, a little joie de vivre can take you a long way past the blues.

  Mama’s wearing a flaming red caftan, which matches her car, but clashes with her hair. I might tell her, depending on what kind of mood she’s in. She doesn’t always take criticism well, even if it’s well meant. Which mine most certainly is. My motto is Be nice to everybody. There’s too little kindness in this world, and I try to do my part to spread it around.

  Mama bursts through the front door and charges in like she owns the place. “I want the works.”

  “Mama, whatever happened to hello?”

  “Flitter, everybody here knows who I am.” Mama sashays over to the manicure table to see what color Darlene is painting Fayrene’s fingernails. “Is that green?”

  Well, naturally. Fayrene always decks herself out in the color of money.

  “It’s called peacock.” Fayrene holds up her left hand. “It matches the new swimsuit cover-up I bought for my trip to the undertakers’ convention.”

  For once Mama is speechless. If I recall, she never invited Fayrene, even if they are best friends.

  “You didn’t think I’d let you go to Cozumel without me, did you, Ruby Nell?” Fayrene blows on her left hand, though she knows good and well I’ve installed the latest technology, a nail dryer in pink, which happens to be my signature color, as well as Elvis’ (my dog and the real King). Plus, it matches my loveseats with the hot pink vinyl covers.

  “Besides,” Fayrene adds, “that hammering over at Gas, Grits, and Guts is driving me crazy. As much as I want a séance room, I need some rest and respiration.”

  Relaxation, I hope, but you never can tell. Maybe Fayrene’s having breathing problems I don’t know about. Which is highly unlikely. The grapevine in Mooreville is alive and well. Not that I gossip. Far from it. But I pride myself on having created a spa-like atmosphere in Hair.Net. (That’s why I painted a beach scene on one wall.) I want my customers to be totally relaxed and to feel free to tell me everything.

  “Mother’s horoscope said she’d be traveling to hot climes this month.” Darlene consults the stars daily. I didn’t know this when I hired her, but I was tickled pink to find it out. Any woman in touch with the stars is a welcome addition to Hair.Net.

  Besides, Darlene’s a natural blonde with flawless skin and thick hair cut in long layers, perfect for her pretty little heartshaped face. With her angelic looks and unflappable personality, she’s drawing customers in here like there’s no tomorrow. Even the men are abandoning the Mooreville Barber Shop to come here for a great cut from yours truly and a good gander at Darlene in her slim-cut jeans and Texas style, genuine alligator-skin boots. She and Lovie have a lot in common.

  The last two days, though, Darlene’s been looking a bit frazzled. I can’t help but notice how relieved she looks that her mother is talking about leaving the country.

  Currently Darlene, her son, and their menagerie are living with Fayrene and Jarvetis. I guess they’re feeling a little crowded over there. That will happen after about a week of company. And I know for a fact she’s already been with her parents for three weeks.

  My next project is to help Darlene find a little house with rent she can afford.

  Darlene’s unfazed when Mama plucks some Persian pink polish right out from under her nose, then proceeds to open the bottle and paint her own nails.

  “Mama, if you’ll care to remember, Darlene’s the manicurist. Besides, that color clashes with your caftan.”

  “Since when is it a crime to try out a nail color in my own daughter’s beauty shop? And for your information, if I want beauty advice, I’ll ask for it.”

  As if that didn’t announce her mood loud and clear, Mama flounces into my chair, snatches up a hand mirror, and views the back of her head like it’s the burning of Chicago and I’ve personally lit the torch.

  “I can’t do a thing with my hair. You made a miswhack the last time.”
/>   “That’s not even a word, Mama. And even if it was, I never miswhack.”

  I cinch the haircutting apron around her neck a little tighter than usual. Listen, I may be a pushover when it comes to Jack and babies and Elvis and stray cats and dogs—well, to just about everything—but I have my limits. And being called anything less than a total expert with hair is one of them.

  I’m so good, my older customers make post mortem hair appointments while they’re still alive. I have a whole shelf devoted to the special color blends I use on some of my customers (Bitsy Morgan and Mabel Moffett, to name two) in case I’m out of current stock if they die unexpectedly and need a little touch-up.

  If you’re wondering, I also fix up hair and makeup of the deceased over in Tupelo at Uncle Charlie’s Eternal Rest Funeral Home.

  “What do you want me to do today, Mama?”

  “Take an inch off, color me jet black, and loan me about five hundred.”

  There goes my after-Thanksgiving shoe shopping spree.

  “Holy cow, you’ll only be gone a few days.”

  “It’s for incidentals.”

  “How many incidentals can you buy, Mama?”

  “You never know. I hear Cozumel is a shopper’s paradise. I might need six hundred.”

  At this rate, I’m going to have to go to the Yucatan to keep up with my money.

  Besides, Mama’s not going to like her hair black. Knowing her, she’ll get a thousand miles away, then call me to fly down and turn her into a redhead.

  “Black’s too harsh for your face, Mama.”

  “It’s my hair. Besides, while I’m south of the border, I want to look like a señorita.”