Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (11 page)

"I'm sorry," I said, inching my way to the door thinking I'd loiter around the courthouse rotunda until Dusty took off. Ooh. Poor choice of words there all things considered.

 "
You're
sorry," Dusty said, dropping back into the chair. "It's all in your head, Mr.

Cadwallader. You're being paranoid, Mr. Cadwallader. You're delusional, Dusty. You imagined it, Dusty. The figures in black. The chanting. The evil ogre. The pink tornadoes. They're all in your head."

Oomph!

I plowed into the door.

I turned.

"What did you say?"

"Huh?"

"Pink tornadoes! Did you say pink tornadoes?"

"Yeah. So?"

"What exactly did you mean?"

"Why do you care?"

"Please. Humor me."

He shrugged. "Those were the signs."

I must've had a "huh?" look on my face because Dusty shook his head and went on.

"The signs I was talking about before. The signs on the trees."

I frowned. "Wait a minute. There are pink tornadoes on trees in your woods?"

He nodded.

"You're damned right there are! They started showing up at the same time as the evil

dwarf."

I rushed over to the table, grabbed hold of Dusty Cadwallader's hand, yanked him out of his chair, and dragged him across the floor.

"What's all the racket?" the deputy returned from the back room. She put the paperwork I'd requested on the counter, her gaze resting on my hand on Dusty's wrist.

"Mr. Cadwallader?" she said. "Is everything okay?"

Dusty looked at me.

"Is it?" he asked.

I nodded.

"I'm ready to believe you," I said, borrowing heavily from the
Ghostbusters
' tagline.

"They call me George Jetson, you know," he warned.

"Oh? I heard Mr. Spacely." I held out my hand. "Meet Calamity Jayne."

"Nice to finally meet you. I've heard of you, too," Dusty said.

"Mr. Cadwallader? That report?" the deputy reminded.

Dusty looked at me and back at the peace officer.

"You can disregard, Deputy," Dusty said. "Calamity Jayne is now officially on the case."

The deputy sheriff looked like she'd suddenly bitten into a chicken nugget filled with gristle.

"I feel
so
much better," she said. "And I'm sure Sheriff Samuels will get all warm and fuzzy when he hears about Miss Turner's involvement in your little
Galaxy Quest
."

I winced.

"You might still want to file a report with the sheriff," I told Dusty.

He shrugged. "I'll email it," he said and headed to the door.

I started to follow him.

"Hey, don't forget!" The deputy called out.

I stopped. Right. The call logs!

I hurried to the desk and grabbed the paperwork.

"Thanks," I said.

"I wasn't talking about the paperwork, I was reminding you not to forget tinfoil hats," she said. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

Mortals, I thought and shook my head, tailing Dusty outside to the courthouse lawn.

I grabbed my phone to call Shelby Lynn. No way was I planning to go on a hobgoblin hunt with George Jetson without backup.

I got Shelby's voice mail.

I texted her.

No response.

I called again.

Voice mail.

Shoot.

"Is something wrong?" Dusty asked.

If you considered tiptoeing through the woods in search of a demon dwarf accompanied by a guy whose truck plate read
Signs
wrong, then yeah. Something was definitely wrong.

"I'm waiting for a call from my associate," I stalled, texting Shelby again. I looked up. A familiar familial figure had just left the bank and was presently crossing the street and heading in our direction. "This way, Dusty!" I said, charting a direct path to intercept my quarry. "Frankie!" I yelled. "Yoo-hoo! Frank-kee!"

My cousin looked up. I couldn't tell whether or not he was happy to see me. Frankie's the only child of my Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie. Aunt Reggie is my mom's sister. Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie own the Dairee Freeze sandwich shop where I've worked off and on since I was sixteen. Uncle Frank is hoping to someday retire and hand the business over to Frankie. Frankie is not so gung-ho about inheriting the family biz. Last year Frankie hoped to qualify for the Department of Public Safety peace officer academy. Unfortunately, Frankie just didn't have the right stuff—athletically, that is. Undaunted, he is now studying criminology and hopes to qualify for a job as a criminal analyst.

Unbelievably, Frankie's fiancé, Dixie Daggett, aka Dixie the Destructor, also heir to a restaurant dynasty, Daggett's Cone Connection, passed the same battery of tests Frankie epically failed. She is currently waiting to see if she receives a formal offer from DPS as a peace officer candidate. I'm skeptical. It's hard to picture someone whose shape and stature bring to mind the song, "Roll Out the Barrel," outfitted in a Smokey Bear trooper uniform.

Afraid Frankie would somehow guess I was up to no good and avoid me if he could get away with it, I stuck my fingers in the sides of my mouth and let out a long, shrill whistle.

"Frankie! Frankie Barlowe! Over here!" I yelled and moved in for the kill.

Frankie gave me a nervous look when I jogged up. He looked even more anxious when he saw the guy on my heels.

"Oh. Uh, hey, Tressa. How's it going?" Frankie said, sending not-so-furtive looks at Dusty Cadwallader. "Everything…okay?"

I nodded. "Great! Just great!" I responded. "You know Dusty here, don't you, Frankie?" I said, motioning to my not-so-confidential informant. "He eats at the Freeze fairly often, right Dusty?"

He nodded.

"I am partial to the rocket sandwich and Frank's out-of-this-world chili cheese fries."

I grinned. "Good one, Dusty," I said, before it became apparent to me from his puzzled look that he wasn't making a space joke. "So, Frankie," I said, quickly switching gears. "You're still studying criminology and basic criminal investigation techniques, right?"

"You know that I am." The whites of Frankie's eyes nearly blinded me. "Why?"

"I thought perhaps you might appreciate some, uh, practical experience," I said. "You know. Field work."

"Oh, criminy. What kind of drama are you trying to rope me into this time?" Frankie asked.

"A demonic-dwarf-from-hell kind of drama," Dusty interjected. "But I'm merely speculating here."

"Tressa?" Frankie said.

I grimaced.

"What he said," I told him and went on to give Frankie just enough of a teaser mystery to hook him. "And just think of the field experience you'll gain, Frankie! The opportunity to apply the scientific process! To participate in a forensic discovery mission that could lead to a bona fide criminal investigation! Think of how great this real-life forensic foray could look on a résumé or as the basis of a college paper! But I'm not going to pressure you into helping me out, Frankie. I'm not that kind of person."

Frankie looked at Dusty and back at me.

"I'm gonna regret this, aren't I?"

Did
Men in Black
long for a casual Friday?

Roger Dodger!

We ate Dusty's dust (literally) as we followed him to his little piece of the good life. Dusty lived in a modest house on fifty-odd acres. The homestead had belonged to Dusty's grandparents who Dusty lived with all his life. Well, up until they passed away, that is. No one ever mentioned Dusty's parents. I had the idea that they hadn't been around much.

"I thought—"
Hack, hack
, "you were working—"
hack, hack
, "the vandalism story," Frankie said.

I looked over at him and frowned. He had a bright red kerchief tied around his nose and mouth.

"What are you supposed to be? The Masked Marauder? The Barlowe Bandito? Frankie the Kid?"

He coughed again. "It's the dust! Roll your window up! My eyes are stinging, and my throat is scratchy!"

Have I mentioned my cousin is a bit of a hypochondriac?

"My air isn't working," I yelled over the roar of the wind noise. "And I am working on the vandalism story. At least I think I am."

"What do demon dwarves have to do with property damage by vandals?" Frankie screamed back, and I gave him a brief overview of my investigation thus far—along with the mystery of the missing lawn gnome subplot.

Now he was doing the staring.

"Really? Seriously? That's it? That's all you've got? I'm risking an asthma attack for a report of possible pink tornadoes and disappearing demon dwarves by a guy who once called to report strange creatures on his property and it turned out a farmer's cows got out?"

I winced.

"I'm playing a hunch, Frankie," I yelled back.

He reached out and put a hand on the dash.

"Oh, God. Now I know I'm going to be sick. How much farther to Oz?"

"We're looking for a gnome, not a munchkin, Frankie," I said. "And Dusty's place is another mile or two."

"He's kind of off the beaten path, isn't he?" Frankie yelled, putting a hand up to wipe the grime from the inside of his window.

"The better to tempt extraterrestrials and gang types, my dear."

And, also fewer opportunities for prying eyes and exposure. It didn't hurt that the property owner had a reputation countywide as a Grandville's answer to "Houston, we have a problem."

"We're here," I said, and pulled into the gravel driveway Dusty's pickup truck disappeared into.

I pulled into the grass near a line of tall pines that served as a windbreak for the property.

Dusty parked his truck and got out and walked around to the tailgate of his vehicle. He pulled the gate down and took a seat. A few seconds later a squatty-body of a dog with legs so short its belly nearly dragged on the ground, ambled down the driveway. Dusty bent over and scooped it up and set it in the back of the truck.

"What the heck is that?" Frankie said.

"A dog. Dixie Daggett variety."

"It looks almost like a pot-bellied pig."

"I rest my case. And remember, you said it, not me." I turned to Frankie, who was checking his backpack. "Do you have everything?" I asked.

He nodded. "Digital camera. Phone camera. Evidence bags. Swabs. Miscellaneous tools of the trade. First aid kit. Allergy meds. Nose spray. Eye drops. Yeah. I guess I'm good."

I winced. Have hypochondria. Will travel.

We got out and headed up the driveway. I saw Dusty's eyes narrow when they came to rest on the skinny dude outfitted with the red kerchief around his face, dark glasses, and tan straw hat with red strings, yet Dusty never said a word. I guess being marginalized for your own, er, eccentricities makes you less likely to question those of others.

"Nice…dog," I commented.

"Name's Roswell. Good watchdog in his prime. Now he can barely get around, poor feller. Need to put him on a diet."

"It's awful quiet out here, Dusty," I said. "Very peaceful."

"And isolated," Frankie added.

Dusty nodded. "Noticed that, did you? My land butts up against other folks, but it's timber or farmland. Nearest house is a good three miles."

"Now that's a comforting thought," Frankie snarked.

Dusty failed to pick up on the sarcasm.

"It sure is. I enjoy the solitude. I've never been all that good with people."

"Oh, I'm sure that isn't true," I said. "I just think everyone has their own comfort level with others. It's what makes each of us…unique."

I looked over at Frankie. He'd pulled duct tape out of his backpack and was winding it around the hem of each pant's leg.

"Ticks," he said and handed me the roll of tape before I could ask what he was doing.

"I'm good," I said. "But thanks!"

"I'll take some of that," Dusty said, and I watched him tape his ankles. "This will save me from changing into my camouflage," he said. "You know. You really need to get a set of camos," he told Frankie. "They have drawstrings. Very convenient and effective."

Frankie nodded. "Sounds like something I ought to check into," he said, pulling out his phone, his thumbs going like gangbusters on the keypad.

"Uh, if we could, uh, continue the camo conversation later, I'd like to see the site," I said, itching to see if Dusty was right about the pink tornadoes.

The gnome sighting? The jury was still out on that one, too.

"It's quite a hike. You okay with that?" Dusty asked.

I nodded.

"We're good. Aren't we, Frankie?"

"Exactly how far of a hike?" Frankie asked.

Dusty shrugged. "Couple miles."

Two miles? Two frigging miles!

"'Course I suppose we could take the four-wheelers," Dusty said, scratching his head. "I've never seen any activity out there during the day so we should be okay on that score."

"You've got four-wheelers?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Hondas," he said and slid off the gate. He scooped Roswell up and put the butterball inside the ramshackle house. "Got me a FourTrax Rancher and a FourTrax Foreman."

"I don't know," Frankie said. "They might kick up dust and pollen and—"

"Sweet! We'll take the four-wheelers," I said, not about to let an opportunity to ride a four-wheeler pass me by. Not to mention that the idea of hoofing it through the timber in ninety-degree heat and humidity didn't exactly get my motor runnin'.

"I've only got the two so we'll have to double up on one of them." He gave Frankie an up

and down look. "You ever drive a four-wheeler?" he asked.

Frankie shook his head.

"You?" he said to me.

"No, but I've driven tractors since I was ten," I said.

"Piece of cake then," he said. "You better double up with me," he told Frankie.

"Double…
up
?" Frankie squeaked.

I could visualize his Adam's apple bobbing furiously up and down beneath his kerchief.

Dusty nodded. "Good then. It's decided. They're in the garage."

I lifted my shoulders and gave Frankie a "what can I do?" look and hurried after Dusty, grinning from ear to ear when I saw the Hondas—one green and black, one camo, both with black racks on back.