Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (23 page)

I sighed. Apparently he still blamed me for his little accident at the naked slide during TribRide.

"Come on, Frankie," Dixie took her intended's arm. "Let's get your ointment."

"Oh, and Frankie? Don't forget to lose the plastic fork if you do get a chance to go for a donkey ride. You don't want to puncture or deflate…er…anything."

Dixie shook her head at me, and they walked away.

I finished getting my equipment ready and wandered over to check out the donkeys. I'm a sucker for anything with four legs—especially ones you can ride. I petted each donkey player and learned his or her donkey names. There was Johnny, Toby, George, Garth, Waylon, Willie, Hank, Kenny, Dolly, Reba, Patsy, Loretta, Shania, and Outlaw.

Just a guess here, but I'm figuring Outlaw is a bit of rebel.

"Barbie makin' new friends?" I heard. Manny DeMarco, a mountain that blocked my view of the sun—and everything else—looked down at me from behind his dark glasses.

"It's always nice to make a new friend," I said. "What are you doing here?" Somehow I couldn't see Mr. Dark and Dangerous here jumping on a short-legged donkey and yelling "giddy up." "Oh, I bet I know. You're here to see Mick's girlfriend, Jada, perform, right?" I said, figuring I might as well try pumping Manny for info on the cheerleader girlfriend. "Aunt Mo's not here, is she?" I said, attempting to sneak a look around his bulk.

He nodded. "Mo's here."

"Oh, that's nice," I lied. "And Mick?" I peeked around Manny. "Is Mick here? You know I never did get to properly thank him for his help at getting the vote out at homecoming last year. I suppose he's hanging with his girlfriend, Jada. Well, if she's feeling better that is. She was under the weather earlier when I spoke to her fellow cheerleaders. Is she here? Jada, that is. I'd like to meet her. You see I'm doing a feature on cheerleaders—you know—showcase all the hard work that goes into cheerleading, and I'd really like to get the inside scoop—"

"Barbie's babbling."

I stopped.

Damn.

"Barbie asks a lot of questions," Manny said.

"It's my job to ask questions. Information is my stock in trade."

"Barbie's got Mick asking questions for her. Mick's a busy kid. Mick's got school and football. No time for Barbie's distractions," Manny said, and I felt a tiny stab of hurt and more than a little irritation.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was imposing on Mick when I asked him to keep his ears open for anything he might hear about gang activity or incidents that have been occurring. Mick didn't seem to have a problem with it."

"Mick needs to focus on school. Period. And Manny and Mo gonna see he does."

Holy Tressa-passers will be shot on sight!

For the first time since I'd met Manny DeMarco I felt a frisson of real fear—a sense that I was treading on dangerous ground and had better retreat before it was too late.

"Oh, sure. Absolutely. Of course. I totally understand. Scholastics rule. No problem. I get it. Academics and athletics come first." I performed a nervous salute. "Roger that! Message received! Over and out!"

Manny gave me a last look before turning and walking away.

I patted Reba's neck.

"You heard me babbling like a fool, girlfriend. Why didn't you reach out and nip me in the hiney or something?"

"Am I interrupting a private moment?" Shelby Lynn's bulk almost replicated the same blackout pattern Manny's had.

"Reba and I were just venting about the vagaries of men. What's up?"

"Nothing much. I just received some very interesting information about the incident at H&F," she said.

"Oh? Enlighten me, my young apprentice."

Shelby did an eye roll number.

"It seems that the H&F job was not merely an act of vandalism. This time there was an actual break in and items were stolen."

I caught my breath.

"Oh, wow! What did they take?"

"That's where it gets interesting. They took ropes and knives and last but not least, a Kahr," Shelby said.

I frowned.

"A car? They broke in and took a car?"

Shelby nodded.

"Let me get this straight. They broke in and took knives and rope and a
car
? Was it a toy car?"

She shook her head.

"No. It was the real thing."

Something still did not compute.

"A real car. They took a real car."

 "Yes! They took a real Kahr! A Kahr is a gun!"

"A car is a gun?" My cluelessness must've shown.

"A Kahr!
K-A-H-R!
" she yelled. "As in a nine-millimeter Kahr
revolver
!" Shelby Lynn said.

It took a second for that startling information to sink in.

"Oh. That kind of Kahr," I said. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?"

She just shook her head.

"You do know what this means, don't you?" Shelby said. "It looks like they've upped the ante."

I nodded.

Our merry little band of vandals had just turned rogue.

By the end of the first two innings, my sides ached from laughing so much, and both cameras were chock-full of so-ready-for-YouTube footage and scrapbook quality photography. I watched as my "boyfriend" mounted a wily Waylon or Willie (I can't remember which) only to have the base runner stop suddenly, put his head down, and buck for all he was worth, shooting the DNR officer up and over the front of Waylon or Willie like shot from a slingshot.

Bah-zing!

By the fifth fall, even I wanted the proud ranger to raise the white flag and surrender to the superior athlete.

P.D. Dawkins showed his mettle, getting thrown twice before coaxing Johnny to first base. In the stands the Turner-Townsend contingent was well represented. The folks, Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie, Gram and Joe, and Kimmie occupied the stands around me, along with best bud, Kari. Taylor was helping out in the concession stand.

"You see the way she keeps eyeballing Brian?" Kari nudged me in the side.

"Who? Loretta? Or is that Dolly?"

"No! That barracuda in yoga pants! She just can't take her eyes off my husband."

"Who can? From here it looks like he can't decide if he wants to ride the donkey or marry it," I said, observing his bear hug technique for staying on.

"At least your husband has the gumption to commit to something," Kimmie said. "My husband took one tumble, dusted off his pants, cursed, and gave up. No staying power. No staying power at all," she observed.

I winced, wondering if we were still talking about donkey rides or something of a more…intimate nature.

"Do we really have to put up with Martina McMentor at halftime?" Kari asked.

"I hear one of her girls is sick and she's going to stand in for her in the routine," Kimmie said. "I hear she's very good."

"At what?" Kari said. "Pretending to be a cheerleader or causing marital discord?"

"I meant I heard she was good with the girls. They really like her."

"She's not making moves on
their
husbands," Kari said.

"I don't think they have husbands," I pointed out and gave Kimmie a help-me-out-here nod of my head, which, judging by her next remark she apparently totally misinterpreted.

"Face it. Men are just plain stupid when it comes to women," Kimmie said. "And the longer they're married, the more clueless they become."

"At least your husband doesn't spend nights out with a phony wannabe cheerleader who claims she needs help with career goals of all things!"

"No. Mine spends his evenings on a computer researching his Fantasy Football player roster and watching ESPN or Sportsman's something or other."

"At least he's home."

"If you can call it that. I get more conversation from zombies on TV."

Serve, volley, smash. Serve, volley, smash!

Back and forth. Back and forth
.

Back and forth the balls of marital dissension went.

Kimmie. Kari. Back to Kimmie. Back to Kari.

Bam! Bam!
Bam
!

I felt like I was center court at Wimbledon watching the Wives of Knox County Grand Husband Slam.

"Oh, look! They've got caramel apples!" I interrupted the latest smash and put a hand on each of the contestants' shoulders and pushed myself to my feet. "I've gotta get me one of those before they're out," I said, and scrambled off the bleachers.

I rubbed the crick in my neck I had from turning my head back and forth, back and forth, between the two clearly discontented wives.

I shook my head. Lord. If that was marriage I'd—

I stopped dead in my tracks.

If that was marriage I'd…what exactly?

"I'm surprised you're not out there. You know. You being such an accomplished rider and all."

I looked up.

County Deputy-slash-Sheriff Doug Samuels leaned against the hood of his patrol vehicle, a four-wheel drive Tahoe, arms folded across his ample chest, feet crossed at the ankles.

"I wouldn't want to make the other participants feel badly about themselves," I said. "I'll try my luck the last inning. But, gee thanks for acknowledging my riding skill. As you recall, it likely saved me from death by a crazed, lunatic murderer last summer."

Samuels grunted. He didn't like to be reminded of the events of last summer so, of course, I brought them up as often as I could.

"By the way," I went on, "I heard about H&F. The thefts. The Kahr theft. That's a gun, you know. Sounds like the crime wave is escalating. Stealing firearms is pretty serious, wouldn't you say? I'm thinking this development probably puts us beyond 'drunken high-schoolers being high-schoolers.' Right…Sheriff?"

A muscle pulsated in Samuel's cheek.

"I see I need to have another talk with my people about disseminating information," he said.

"Or I suppose, in this case,
not
disseminating information. I don't suppose it would do any good to ask you to sit on that information."

After the way he'd dissed me? He could sit on it.

I crossed my own arms. "What do you think?" I said.

He shrugged.

"Have it your way," he said. "It's just too bad we can't work together."

"Oh, really? You mean that,
Sheriff
? Because it so happens I have something of an evidentiary nature that might be of assistance in your investigation."

His irritable look became an "Oh, God, what now?" look.

"Okay. I'll bite. What might that be?"

I told him about the spray paint can and the vodka bottle and burnt paper in the woods at Dusty Cadwallader's.

"Okay, I know it's a long shot that there will be fingerprints on the spray paint can or the bottle. But I was thinking you could canvass the stores that sell the brand and color of paint and see if you can find out who purchased it. Or check the vodka bottle for the same. And you might be able to make out something from the paper we found. I think it might be a photograph that someone tried to burn."

"You have these items here?" he asked.

I nodded. "They're in the trunk of my Paw-Paw Will's Buick," I said. I'd bribed Taylor into taking me out to Ray's Wreck and Salvage and retrieving the evidence from Dusty's woods by telling her I'd behave where a certain trooper was concerned that night. "And don't worry. We've kept the chain of evidence. My cousin, Frankie, who's sort of studying to be a crime techie, processed, sealed, and initialed everything just like you see on those crime shows. Gil Grissom would be impressed. Well, he would be if he hadn't left CSI, that is."

Samuels did one of those head-clearing shake numbers.

"Yeah okay. I suppose I could take a look at what you have."

He walked with me to the Buick. I retrieved the key from the ashtray and opened the trunk.

"Whoo. That's ripe," Samuels observed.

I was handing over the evidence in question when I noticed the squad of Grandville cheerleaders—minus their graffiti artist, Jada, but plus Martina their handler—walk by us, six sets of suspicious eyeballs giving me and the county Mountie the once-over but good.

Once over might be understating. The truth was, I wouldn't have been surprised to see the cheerleaders make cutting motions across their throats—all carefully choreographed for perfect synchronization, of course.

"Something wrong?" Samuels inquired.

"Wrong?"

"You look like someone who walked into a darkened movie theater expecting to see
Frozen
only to have
Undead and Unfrozen
show up on the big screen."

Dang cops and their knack for reading body language.

"I'm fine, but thanks for asking," I said.

He grunted again.

"Anything else?"

"Yes, in fact. What's the latest on Dusty Cadwallader? Has he been located? Is he okay?"

The acting sheriff frowned.

"How'd you hear about Cadwallader?"

"I'm a reporter, remember? I have sources. So, they found him, right?"

Samuels shook his head.

"Our department has been unable to make contact with Mr. Cadwallader, but we're checking his home periodically."

"That's odd."

"Not if you know Cadwallader."

I frowned. "Where do you think he is?"

"Don't you know?"

I shook my head.

"No. Do you?"

"Of course. He's been abducted by an alien life form and taken to the mother ship where he is being poked and prodded and experimented on for scientific research purposes," Samuels said.

Great. Just what Knox County needs. A sheriff who thinks he's Letterman.

"I don't think Dusty's disappearance should be dismissed so lightly, Sheriff Samuels," I said. "One minute he's there and the next,
poof
, he's gone."

"Exactly," Samuels said. "And if you'd been called out to Dusty's place as often as our deputies have to listen to the latest cock-and-bull story about UFOs and creatures from another planet or galaxy, or solar system or whatever, you'd be less likely to call out the bloodhounds just yet. He hasn't even been missing a day. Usually we have to wait at least two days to open a missing person's investigation. Fortunately, ninety percent of these cases end up with the person showing up with a perfectly good reason for not being where other people think they should be."