do is get out to the temple, tempt the goddess, and draw the kidnappers out of hiding.”
“Mama, you’ve got to be kidding.”
“Do you have a better plan, Callie?”
“Unfortunely, no.” If she’ll care to remember, my plans for questioning the Farkles didn’t go well.
Mama squashes out her cigarette, swigs her last drop of Prohibition Punch, and says, “Then shake a leg.”
“Where are we going?”
“To sacrifice ourselves to a goddess.”
I don’t know why I even asked. The crazy thing is that Mama could be right. If there is a connection between Lovie and Lucille Morgan, the kidnappers are more likely to be locals using Mayan mythology to cover their crimes than an exlover with a bruised ego and his fashion-disaster sister.
If anybody can tempt She of the Jade-Green Skirts, it’s Mama. And she’s already three strides ahead of me, strutting down the hallway, probably imagining herself as the cream of the crop.
Thirty minutes ago in the safety of the guest cottage, tempting a kidnapper/killer/ghost seemed like a pretty good idea. The plan even held water when Mama suggested we all put on some of Fayrene’s green skirts and do a dance on the temple steps to draw the enemy toward the goddess who loves green.
But now, stumbling through the dark behind Mama and Fayrene, I’m wondering how I let myself be conned into such a half-baked plan. I don’t know which is likely to happen first: Fayrene’s big green skirt will fall off my skinny frame, killer ghosts will drag the three of us into the jungle to do no-telling-what-all, or Fayrene will run into a tree in her night-vision goggles.
Who else would pack night-vision goggles for a trip to an undertakers’ convention? When I asked why, she said, “In case of immersions.”
I think she meant emergencies, but unless our off-the-wall plan succeeds, every last one of us will be up to our necks in hot water.
Somewhere in the dark, something moans. Or somebody.
“Mama, did you hear that? Somebody’s out there.”
“Of course. Why do you think I suggested we all pack heat?”
“Mama, a brass lamp base is not heat.”
“It’s better than nothing. Besides, when we scream, Charlie will come running.”
“You didn’t mention anything about screaming.”
“If I had, do you think Fayrene would have come?”
Up ahead, Fayrene looks like some kind of zombie in her night-vision goggles. She’s marching forward stiff legged with her hands held out in front of her.
“How’re you doing up there, Fayrene?” Mama yells.
“If a ghost is out here, I can spot him a mile.” She plows in to the side of the temple, which she couldn’t even spot three inches ahead. Or else the temple leaped out of the dark to waylay her. “It ought to be against the law to move buildings around.”
I don’t ask her how that happened. I’m afraid her explanation would make sense.
We assemble at the base of the temple, which looks imposing and mysterious, even a bit scary. What if old man Morgan is right? What if cannibals are lurking in the dark to sacrifice a female to the goddess of the Jade-Green Skirts? I wish I was wearing red.
Shoot, I wish I were in Mooreville with Elvis and Hoyt and the seven cats. I wish I had nothing more important on my mind than keeping Jack Jones from waylaying me in my own bed.
Mama tries to take charge. As usual.
“Okay. Callie, you and Fayrene climb to the top and start dancing.”
“What are you going to do, Mama?”
“Stand guard with my brass lamp.”
“You can’t hit the side of a barn, Ruby Nell. How do you think you’re going to hit a ghost?”
“Shut up and dance, Fayrene. Leave the rough stuff to me.”
“Mama, there’s not going to be any rough stuff. If we actually do draw the kidnapper out of hiding, we’re going to scream and run to get Uncle Charlie.” I don’t even mention cannibals for fear of spooking She of the Night-Vision Goggles.
“Who do you think raised you, Carolina Valentine Jones?
“Mama, you’ve got to be kidding.”
“Do you have a better plan, Callie?”
“Unfortunely, no.” If she’ll care to remember, my plans for questioning the Farkles didn’t go well.
Mama squashes out her cigarette, swigs her last drop of Prohibition Punch, and says, “Then shake a leg.”
“Where are we going?”
“To sacrifice ourselves to a goddess.”
I don’t know why I even asked. The crazy thing is that Mama could be right. If there is a connection between Lovie and Lucille Morgan, the kidnappers are more likely to be locals using Mayan mythology to cover their crimes than an exlover with a bruised ego and his fashion-disaster sister.
If anybody can tempt She of the Jade-Green Skirts, it’s Mama. And she’s already three strides ahead of me, strutting down the hallway, probably imagining herself as the cream of the crop.
Thirty minutes ago in the safety of the guest cottage, tempting a kidnapper/killer/ghost seemed like a pretty good idea. The plan even held water when Mama suggested we all put on some of Fayrene’s green skirts and do a dance on the temple steps to draw the enemy toward the goddess who loves green.
But now, stumbling through the dark behind Mama and Fayrene, I’m wondering how I let myself be conned into such a half-baked plan. I don’t know which is likely to happen first: Fayrene’s big green skirt will fall off my skinny frame, killer ghosts will drag the three of us into the jungle to do no-telling-what-all, or Fayrene will run into a tree in her night-vision goggles.
Who else would pack night-vision goggles for a trip to an undertakers’ convention? When I asked why, she said, “In case of immersions.”
I think she meant emergencies, but unless our off-the-wall plan succeeds, every last one of us will be up to our necks in hot water.
Somewhere in the dark, something moans. Or somebody.
“Mama, did you hear that? Somebody’s out there.”
“Of course. Why do you think I suggested we all pack heat?”
“Mama, a brass lamp base is not heat.”
“It’s better than nothing. Besides, when we scream, Charlie will come running.”
“You didn’t mention anything about screaming.”
“If I had, do you think Fayrene would have come?”
Up ahead, Fayrene looks like some kind of zombie in her night-vision goggles. She’s marching forward stiff legged with her hands held out in front of her.
“How’re you doing up there, Fayrene?” Mama yells.
“If a ghost is out here, I can spot him a mile.” She plows in to the side of the temple, which she couldn’t even spot three inches ahead. Or else the temple leaped out of the dark to waylay her. “It ought to be against the law to move buildings around.”
I don’t ask her how that happened. I’m afraid her explanation would make sense.
We assemble at the base of the temple, which looks imposing and mysterious, even a bit scary. What if old man Morgan is right? What if cannibals are lurking in the dark to sacrifice a female to the goddess of the Jade-Green Skirts? I wish I was wearing red.
Shoot, I wish I were in Mooreville with Elvis and Hoyt and the seven cats. I wish I had nothing more important on my mind than keeping Jack Jones from waylaying me in my own bed.
Mama tries to take charge. As usual.
“Okay. Callie, you and Fayrene climb to the top and start dancing.”
“What are you going to do, Mama?”
“Stand guard with my brass lamp.”
“You can’t hit the side of a barn, Ruby Nell. How do you think you’re going to hit a ghost?”
“Shut up and dance, Fayrene. Leave the rough stuff to me.”
“Mama, there’s not going to be any rough stuff. If we actually do draw the kidnapper out of hiding, we’re going to scream and run to get Uncle Charlie.” I don’t even mention cannibals for fear of spooking She of the Night-Vision Goggles.
“Who do you think raised you, Carolina Valentine Jones?
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