Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (20 page)

"It
is
death!" he yelled. "It's roadkill on steroids!"

I took a few steps nearer the car—and my bro. The closer I got to both of them, the heavier the smell of rotting flesh became.

"What exactly do you mean by roadkill?" I asked, a tremor in my voice as the unmistakable smell of death almost choked me. Oh, God. It couldn't be. No way. The same person couldn't come across three dead bodies in a year's time unless they were Bones or Dexter, or a regular who hadn't been killed off on
The Walking Dead.
"Craig?"

"It's your car!" Craig said, wiping his mouth with the tail of his shirt. "It's your stinking, rotten, bloody, mangy car!"

"Now just a minute!" I started to defend my car's honor when Craig reached out and opened the passenger side door. A rancid bouquet, the likes of which I hope to never smell again, hit me with such force that my knees almost buckled. I clasped my other hand over the first, trying to keep the smell from getting into the olfactory passages.

"Look," he said. "Go ahead. Take a good look!"

I bent down and peeked in.

Roadkill on steroids had been an understatement. This was roadkill-palooza!

I found myself staring in fascinated horror at the strings and clumps and mounds of what had, at one time, been benign residents of the timbers and pastures innocently going about their business—now unidentifiable piles of guts and fur and bones and tendons that covered every inch of my car's interior, fouling the air for a country mile.

I felt vomit begin to fill my throat.

A second later, my stomach contents joined the already disgusting, decaying collection of carcasses and other dubious material soaking into the upholstery.

I stumbled to the ditch and ralphed up what was left of my breakfast, a tried and true cowgirl revenge saying running through my head.

Sometimes you've got to put on your big girl boots and prove that you can use the pointy end!

Somehow or another, it's almost always about the boots, pilgrim.

Color me one pissed off and put out cowgirl. (Just don't color me a perky shade of hot pink. The paint-happy scofflaws had done what I thought no one could ever do—ruin the color pink for this coral lovin' cowgirl forever.)

As a result, I also happened to be a cowgirl without transportation. I'd snapped photographs of the Reliant—inside and out—and said my final farewells to a car that, while it hadn't served me all that well, had kept me out of debt. Craig had called in a "huge" favor and persuaded a friend of his to come tow the Plymouth. The car would be kept at his friend's facility on the outskirts of town where the "Roadkill Reliant" as Craig's friend dubbed my unfortunate vehicle would be stored well away from the living, breathing populace until law enforcement could examine the vehicle and write a report. Once the cops took a look—and I hoped, a good long whiff—it would be hauled off to wherever it was they took worthless vehicles full of dead animal carcasses, guts, and gore to be disposed of.

There was no insurance claim to file. No one kept comprehensive on a vehicle that didn't even show up in the Kelley Blue Book and held no value as either antique or collectible.

I'd asked (okay, begged) Craig to make the call to the sheriff's office. I figured they had no ongoing hostilities with my brother and wouldn't be likely to start any since most local law enforcement liked to finagle free car washes from the dealership in exchange for making regular patrols through the car lot at night.

They'd said they would be in touch after they examined the vehicle. Craig dropped me by the house, before heading home to "take a long, hot shower and snort a bottle of saline."

But the most pressing item on my agenda wasn't hygiene—it was transportation so I could hunt down the hooligans who'd turned my Reliant into a rendering vehicle.

And what kind of reporter didn't have access to a vehicle?

An unemployed one, that's what kind.

I saw the Buick sitting in the driveway near the folks' garage. Taylor wasn't scheduled to work the Freeze until five. I'd be back in plenty of time. I hurried over to the car. If only she'd left the car unlocked and the keys inside. I tried the door handle. No luck. Darned Taylor's suspicious mind. I tried the back door. Locked, too. I started around to the passenger side to check and make sure all the doors were locked.

"What are you doing? Playing musical car doors? Or are you trying to pinch my car again?"

I looked up. Taylor, clad in yoga pants and a waist-length hoodie stared at me from the corner of the house.

"Well, it's actually Paw-Paw Will's car—"

"It's registered in my name, Tressa. I suspected you'd be over here this morning. I just thought it would be earlier."

"You did?"

She nodded. "I thought you might need a ride out to your vehicle to see if it'll start." She hit the remote entry button. The Buick's doors clicked. "Hop in."

"Sweet! Thanks, Taylor!" I said, not about to let a free ride pass me by, I complied, throwing my bag in the back before jumping in the front.

She got in and started the car and backed out.

"Can we just make a quick stop first?" I asked.

She gave me a guarded look.

"Not Area 51 again?"

"Oh, no. Nothing so exciting as that," I said. "I just need to make a stop at the high school and get some information."

"What kind of information?" was her wary response. "And from whom?"

"Ease up on the reins of doubt and distrust, sister mine," I said. "I merely need to visit the Media Center and look at a few yearbooks to confirm some information is all. Perfectly harmless research. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about."

"Oh, God. I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" Taylor said, pulling out of the drive and heading for town. "By the way, did you know you reek?"

I nodded.

"I figured."

After a quick stop at the Freeze for free vittles and sodas, we pulled into the school parking lot. I jumped out of the car.

"Aren't you coming in?" I asked Taylor who remained behind the wheel.

"I'd rather not."

"That's probably a good idea. You just stay here and keep the getaway car warmed up and ready," I said.

Taylor shook her head.

"You win. I'll come. If I can stay up wind of you. Besides, someone has to be a buffer between you and Principal Vernon."

I held out my hand.

"Hello, Buffer. Welcome aboard."

We entered the high school. The commons wasn't nearly as busy as it had been the previous day. The second lunch period had ended, and the third one wouldn't start for ten minutes or so.

I headed for the hallway to the Media Center when I felt a hand on my elbow.

"We have to sign in first," Taylor said, pulling me in the direction of the principal's office.

"But I don't want to," I said, getting the same feeling I had in high school whenever "Tressa Turner to the office" came over the intercom.

"You have to. It's a security issue," Taylor insisted. "All visitors have to sign in at the office and get a visitor's pass."

"Let's don't and say we did," I said, pulling in the opposite direction.

"We're getting a pass!"

Tug!

"I'll take a pass!"

Pull!

"Is there something wrong, ladies?"

Crapola. Did the guy ever use his office?

"Oh, hello again Principal Vernon," I said. "I was just explaining to my sister here the importance of us checking in at the office to sign in and receive our visitor passes. You remember Taylor, don't you?"

Both the principal and the sister-in-question gave me telling looks.

"Of course, I remember Taylor. What principal forgets a valedictorian? Hello, Taylor. How are you?"

Taylor shook his hand.

"I'm well, thank you."

"Last I heard you were studying psychology. I'm surprised to see you back so late in the year."

I looked at Taylor. Her face had turned a flattering shade of red. Of course, on jaundice yellow is flattering.

"Yes, well, I'm, uh, taking a bit of a break," she stammered.

"A break?" The principal's surprise was evident.

For the first time, I felt sorry for Taylor. I'd never had to worry about maintaining extraordinarily high expectations others placed on me. Whereas I'd always made sure to land somewhere in the middle of the curve, Taylor had always been the hated overachiever who wrecked the curve for everyone else.

"Taylor's helping out family while she weighs other more rewarding and highly lucrative opportunities," I said. "While psychology is a fascinating field of inquiry, Taylor isn't yet certain it provides the challenge and level of stimulation she is looking for in a chosen career. If you'll excuse us, principal, we'll just grab those visitor passes."

Take that and stick it in your detention slip pad,
I thought and herded a silent Taylor into the office.

After several minutes of the office ladies making a fuss over Taylor and reminiscing about the time I got detention for shoving hard-boiled eggs up bully Chandler Radcliffe's tailpipe and speculating on "what that horrible smell could be," we were on our way, visitor passes in hand, to the Media Center.

"Happy now?" I said, grabbing Taylor's lanyard with the visitor pass dangling from it. "We're official."

 "What are we looking for anyway?" she asked, and I explained what I'd learned from Kari about the middle school artist who liked to draw pink tornadoes.

"So you want to see what this Jada Garcia looks like?" Taylor said. "For identification purposes."

I nodded.

"I think I already know who she is, but I want to be sure." I told her about seeing the girl with Mick and Aunt Mo referring to Mick's girlfriend as "Jada."

"And you think the Jada Garcia who drew the pink tornadoes in middle school is the same

Jada who is dating Mick Dishman?"

"I think the chances are pretty good. After all, how many Jadas are there likely to be attending Grandville High?"

I grabbed a table in the corner furthest from the Media Center desk and let Taylor make the yearbook request. The librarian wasn't exactly a fan of a blonde physically incapable of keeping her voice at a whisper. Taylor joined me at the table, materials in hand.

It didn't take us long to find Jada.

"There," Taylor said, shoving the yearbook from the previous year in front of me. "Jada Marie Garcia."

"That's her!" I yelled, getting a hissed "Quiet please!" from the librarian. "That's her!" I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. "That's Mick Dishman's girlfriend! She's a cheerleader."

I sat and stared at the photograph.

Jada Marie Garcia. A pretty girl with long, dark hair and a big, white "rah, rah, team" smile.

I looked at the photo a second longer before, out of curiosity, I flipped over to Mick's picture. I found him easily. Or rather I found his name. Dishman.
Mickel
Dishman. I ran my finger across the line of photos to where his should be and frowned.

No photo available
, the picture box read. I frowned.

No photo available? I shook my head. Poor guy. Usually the only people without photos were late enrollees or rebels like me who didn't photograph well and knew it.

I stared at the page of photos and sighed.

If only.

If only I'd been permitted the option of being "Tressa Jayne Turner, no photo available" my high school days might've been different. "Tressa Jayne Turner No Photo Available" would never have had to defend yearbook pictures that had teachers and classmates rolling in the hallways and photographers disavowing any knowledge of the photos in question.

I thought for a minute and flipped back to the sports section.

"What are you looking for?"

"Cheerleaders," I said. There they were. 'The Freshman Five," I read. There she was. Front and center, pom-poms at the ready. Jada Garcia. I looked at the other names. None of them rang any bells until I got to one—Keira Christine Radcliffe. I found her in the pom-pom photo and made a face. Last year when Shelby Lynn had been a homecoming queen candidate, Kylie Danae Radcliffe had also been in the running. I'd interviewed all the queen candidates, and Kylie had gotten my vote in the mean-girl competition. Judging from the name and the yearbook photo, I suspected Keira was likely Kylie's little sister.

I convinced Taylor to ask the librarian to make copies of the yearbook page with Jada's picture, the cheerleader page, and at the last minute, the page where "Mickel" Dishman's picture would have been.

"Why do you want that Dishman page?" Taylor asked after we'd turned in our visitor passes and left the high school.

"No reason, really," I said, wondering the same thing.

We'd crossed the parking lot when a short blast from a police siren got my attention. Oh,

Lord. What had I done now?

I looked up and spotted a trooper car in the lot.

"Look Taylor! It's Trooper Dawkins!" I said, grabbing Taylor's arm and jogging over to where the handsome young Smokey Bear had parked and exited his vehicle. "Hey, where's a trooper when a girl needs one?" I asked.

"Hey, Tressa. Hello, Taylor," the trooper smiled at us. "So when have you needed a trooper lately, Miss Turner?" P.D. asked. "Or do I want to know?"

A warning squeeze from Taylor with the pressure of a vice reminded me to keep a filter on my mouth.

"Tressa's car broke down out in the county last night," Taylor said. "We're actually on our way out there to see if we can get it going."

The trooper looked from Taylor, to me, and back to Taylor. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"That's strange," he said.

"Not if you know Tressa and her history with that Plymouth," Taylor said.

"What I mean is that I'm pretty sure the vehicle in question has already been towed in," Dawkins said.

"It has?" Taylor said.

"It has?" I parroted.

He nodded. "It's at Ray's Wreck and Salvage. I heard Dan's Towing wouldn't touch it."

"Wouldn't…touch it?" Taylor said.