Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (22 page)

Who am I kidding? I was looking forward to
participating
in the event. I played softball. I rode horses.

Donkey baseball? Dude! I'm what you call a natural.

I hurried into the newspaper office and headed straight for Stan's office, eager to run the gnome theory by him. I put on the brakes when I noticed a sheet of paper tacked to the bulletin board in the hall.

"For sale," it read. "1987 Plymouth Roadkill Reliant. Unique paint job. Loaded with extras. One of a kind anti-theft security system. Perfect for that eccentric and hard-to-buy for family member. Previously owned by the notorious Calamity Jayne Turner. Vehicle can be seen at Ray's Wreck and Salvage. Gas mask and eye protection recommended when viewing the vehicle. All offers considered, reasonable or not."

I muttered a few choice words about men evolving from jackasses (or vice versa) and was about to expand on my theory when a bellow caught me in mid-hypothesis.

"Hey, Turner? You say something about a jackass?"

I flinched.

"As a matter of fact, yes, yes I did," I said, stepping into the doorway of his office.

"Oh, really? And what were you saying about jackasses, Turner?" my boss asked, sitting back and biting down on his cigar.

"I was saying that I, um, can't wait for 'Jackass, The Ballgame,' tonight," I improvised.

"That's what I thought I heard you say, Turner. Damned shame about your car," he said, shaking his head and switching gears. "I don't suppose it's salvageable," he said. "Tough break. I know how much you loved that old beater."

Who was he kidding? I'd cursed the beast backward, forward, and upside-down for years. Its only laudable qualities were that it was paid off, the insurance was how-low-can-you-go-low, you could park it anywhere without worrying about door dings, and the pups could go along for the ride without regard for toenail scratches or cloudy drool deposits.

"Thanks, Stan. I'm touched by your concern. Especially considering my vehicle was damaged in the line of duty."

"Line of duty?"

"That's right. I moved into Stan's office and leaned over his desk, bracing my fingertips against the desk's top. "I was working on a story at the time. Now that I think about it, the
Gazette
should really be responsible for my car damage. You have coverage, don't you, Stan? You see, if I hadn't been following a lead, this never would have happened."

"Following a lead—or following a cement lawn gnome?" Stan said.

All the huff and puff went out of me like a Halloween inflatable whose fan has been unplugged.

"Who blabbed?" I demanded to know.

"Shelby Lynn mentioned it. Now don't get all bent out of shape, Turner. She actually supports your divining dwarf theory. But me? I'm the guy the buck stops with. I'm supposed to be cynical. That's why I'm the boss. I need to be convinced, Turner. I deal in facts, Turner. Facts. You know. Like Joe Friday. Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts."

I shook my head. The man was a total legend in his own mind.

"What else do you have besides a now-you-see-him-now-you-don't lawn ornament?" Stan asked. "What about suspects, Turner? You know. Live human ones."

I brought him up to speed on what we'd learned about Jada Garcia's affinity for pink tornadoes and the follow-up we'd conducted with the cheerleaders.

I placed the photocopy from the yearbook page on the desk in front of him.

"That's our artist," I said, pointing at Jada. "And those are her fellow cheerleaders from last year. Surprisingly, they're all on the squad together again this year."

Stan's brows lowered. He picked up the sheet of paper.

"And these girls are connected to the incidents how?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Well, so far they aren't. Not directly, that is. But Jada Garcia probably is. And you know the saying, 'birds of a feather.' I just think it's worth taking a look at her circle of friends more closely."

Stan continued studying the picture, tapping it with his index finger.

Tap, tap, tap
,
tap.

I frowned.

"Is something wrong, Stan?"

He shook his head.

"Headache," he said. "Remind me again, where Space Cadet Cadwallader comes in," he said and rubbed his forehead before opening his drawer to take out a bottle of extra strength pain medication.

I explained again about the pink tornado on the trees, the activity in the forest, the can of spray paint—

I stopped and slapped a palm to my cheek. The spray paint can! The vodka bottle! The evidence! I'd forgotten all about the items we'd collected at Dusty's. I'd meant to turn it all over to the sheriff for proper forensic examination, but in the chaos of the moment, I'd totally spaced it off.

I know.
Spaced
it off. Very punny, right?

Work with me, people! I simply don't have time for sophomoric space jokes.

"What's the matter with you, Turner?" Stan asked.

I shook my head.

"Just a million and one things to do and no way to get from point A to point B," I explained.

"You've got a way to get to the park, I hope," he said. "I want lots of donkey ball pictures. People love those. Cracks 'em up. And while you're at it, don't forget to get plenty of jackass pictures of Paul Van Vleet from
New Holland News
if the cocky bastard shows up. And I'm not talking about the donkey jackass."

I winced. Business rivalry could get…dicey.

"Shouldn't you be participating, as well?" I asked. "You know. To uphold the honor of the
Gazette
?"

"You're takin' his side, Turner?"

I shook my head back and forth until I felt my fillings start to loosen up.

"No, sir! Absolutely not, sir."

"Good. Besides, I figure my employees can handle Van Vleet et al. Your track record with junior, that twerp son of his, ain't half bad, Turner. Not bad at all."

I grinned.

"Atta girls" from Stan Rodgers?

OMG! They do exist!!!

*   *   *

I killed time in the newspaper office before hitching a ride to the ballpark with Taylor.

Baseball.

America's sport.

There's nothing better than sitting in the stands on a warm summer day with a cup of cold beer, a jumbo bag of buttered popcorn, a hot dog with the works, and nowhere else to be but taking in the game.

Okay. There might be one thing better.

Watching hapless and unsuspecting greenhorns run to a donkey and jump on and actually expect to get to first base.

Literally.

If you've never watched a donkey baseball game, let me give you a quick overview. First off, each team can have up to nine players, depending on the availability of donkeys. Outfielders and basemen each have an assigned ass…er donkey. The pitcher generally does not have a donkey and is only permitted to pitch—not field. The pitcher pitches the ball to the batter and when the batter hits the ball, the batter runs to his donkey standing nearby, grabs the lead rein, and gets on and starts to first base. Well, in theory.

Fielders must ride their donkeys to the balls, get off, and then get back on that donkey to toss the ball to the appropriate baseman to make the tag.

Again
, in theory
.

And…reality?

You've heard the phrase "stubborn as a jackass"? Yep. That 'rep' is righteously earned.

Nine times out of ten the hitter/runner never makes it to the base. Generally, the "runner" ends up either flying off the bucking burro-bronco or goes hurtling like a missile over the lowered head of donkey who likes to put on the brakes without warning.

Let me tell you, donkey baseball is not for the faint of heart. Or for the old or brittle. (Sorry, seniors. The truth may hurt, but not nearly as much as taking a flip or a nosedive from an ornery, cantankerous donkey.)

That's why each game is only three innings long. By the end of those innings, most competitors will say the games are still too long.

Generally you have four teams vie for the chance to advance to the finals. In this case, we'd dispense with the preliminary round and play one six-inning game featuring a team from New Holland against a team from Grandville. A long halftime break was scheduled to rest the players (both two- and four-legged) and substitute new players where needed for the second half.

Halftime was also when the big wigs would encourage people to reach deep into their pockets to support a worthy cause. Since this was a fundraising event, any monies left over after paying the donkey ball people would go to the Knox County Historical Society for improvements to the park and the historical village.

The break also featured halftime entertainment, including a mini-cheerleading challenge. No. The cheerleaders aren't mini, the competition is. Duh.

The "players" had all been unloaded from the trailers and were tied up along a makeshift hitching post. The diamond had been prepared with great big circles spray-painted around the bases, the enlarged "safe" zone a concession to the four-legged runners. I blinked when I noticed the color of the spray paint.

Pink. Fat tornado pink.

I got my equipment out. I'd checked out a good quality digital camera from the newspaper and had pinched my folks' digital recorder, so I could also get video of the event. I figured I could stick it up on the blog I'd started on TribRide and still contributed to now and then.

I was bent over, rear in the air, pulling something from my bag when I heard a click.

"Wait a minute! Hold that pose!" Another
click
. "I want to remember you just like this!"

I whipped around.

Dixie Daggett, camera phone pointed in my direction, looked at the phone and shook her head.

"I knew it! I should've used the panoramic view."

"That's weird. I'd have guessed you had panorama set as default mode for your selfies," I snarked back.

Dixie and I are still working through trust issues with one another. I think she's a
Weeble
masquerading as a human, and she thinks I'm the country and western version of a blonde Betty Boop.

"By the way, thanks for dragging my fiancé out to the boonies so he could come back with a first class collection of chigger bites," Dixie said.

"Frankie has chigger bites?"

"Only up the wazoo," Dixie said.

I frowned.

"When you say 'up the wazoo'…"

"He's got them everywhere, you lunatic!" Dixie said. "He's driving me crazy. I don't know what's worse, the incessant scratching or the accompanying sound effects."

"Sound effects?"

"The grunts, moans, and hisses he makes when he's not scratching and the "oohs" and "ahhs" when he is."

"That doesn't sound too terribly bad," I thought, thanking heaven that I didn't have to nurse the Frankfurter back to health.

"Oh. It doesn't sound so terribly bad? How would you like it if your boyfriend comes out with, "Oh, God that feels so good" and he's talking about using a plastic fork on his groin area?"

I winced. So not a mental image I wanted imprinted on my psyche.

Delete. Delete
.

"How the heck did Frankie come in contact with chiggers?" I asked. "The guy wrapped himself up so much we could have stuck postage on him and sent him to Timbuktu. He got so liberal with the duct tape that we had to use a utility knife and pliers to get him loose."

"How did this happen? Because he was with you. That's how this happened," Dixie said.

"And you know Frankie and his sensitivities. He looks at a strawberry, and he turns into Fat Albert."

"Oh, geez, I'm sorry," I said and meant it. Anybody who spends any time out of doors eventually gets clobbered by a nasty case of the chiggers. So. Not. Fun. "Has he seen the doctor?"

"He's Frankie. What do you think?" Dixie said. "They gave him a shot and some ointment, but he's still doing his fleabag impression."

"Tough break," I said and shook my head. "Tough break."

"Speaking of 'tough breaks,' I hear you are no longer a member of the motoring public. Something about your car doing double-duty as a rendering vehicle. Rotten break."

I bit my tongue. News traveled at warp speed in a small town.

"There you are, Dixie," Frankie walked in, a finger inside his waistband. "Where did you put my ointment?"

"It's in my bag in the concession stand," Dixie said. "You need it again so soon?"

He nodded.

"I just want to apply some before the game starts. I'll probably get hot and sweaty, and that will aggravate the itching."

I blinked.

"Wait a minute. You're playing, Frankie?"

He shrugged. "The Chamber of Commerce asked Dad to provide a player."

"And he chose you?"

He shrugged again. "The Freeze employees who want to participate will take turns and rotate in and out. It's supposed to boost morale among the workers."

I grimaced.

Chances were good it would boost Uncle Frank's liability insurance if any of his employees took a hard spill.

"And you volunteered?"

Frankie nodded.

"A lot of the local cops, deputies, and firemen are playing," Dixie explained. "And you know Frankie when it comes to hanging out with the men in blue."

If you knew Frankie like I knew Frankie
…

If you did know Frankie, you would be placing a heavy bet right about now that before the night was over Frank Barlowe, Junior would end up being a man in blue—black and blue—judging from prior athletic performances, that is.

"I hear Rick and Craig are playing," Frankie said. "Patrick Dawkins, too."

Sweet!

Studly men on immovable, mulish beasts providing primo blackmail material.

Good times!

"I know one person who won't be participating," Dixie said. "Your friend, Drew Van Vleet. He's over there hobbling around on crutches and giving you the stink eye. Sorry. That was awfully insensitive of me, considering your car situation and all."

"Wow. I didn't know a
Weeble
had a sense of humor," I said, turning to look behind me. Sure enough my former biking buddy,
New Holland News
reporter and all-round smarmy pseudo-journalist, Drew Van Vleet, shot me a dark look before turning away.