Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (31 page)

"Guilt," I said.

"Guilt?"

"Guilt. Whoever made that call knew what happened to Dusty and where he was. How? Because Dusty was also telling the truth when he said someone was chasing him."

"He said aliens were chasing him, Turner," Stan reminded me.

"Okay so they wore hoods. The point is the caller had to have been there when Dusty fell and knew he was missing. That person felt guilty. Guilty and afraid. Afraid Dusty could die out there. So they went back and took his phone, charged it long enough to make the call to me, put the phone back, and staged the scene so it looked like Dusty had tied one on. Then when he told his story about an alien abduction attempt, no one would believe him because he was hammered and because he was, well, Dusty Dodger from the twenty-fourth-and-a-half century."

"So one of our band of hell-raisers has a conscience," Stan said.

"And I'm pretty sure I know which one it is." I tapped my nose. "Thanks to these—the olfactory nerves of a bloodhound."

"Not to mention the proboscis of one," Shelby said.

 "You mentioned something about a 'smell test' before," Stan said. "What's up with that?"

"Vanilla," I said. "Vanilla musk to be exact."

"Come again?"

"Vanilla musk perfume." I explained Dusty's heartrending, tearjerker, mother moment in the woods. "He remembered smelling vanilla musk! He recognized it because his mother wore it,

God rest her soul."

"So the ghost of his mother who reeked of vanilla musk visited him in the woods to comfort him?" Shelby asked.

"No! But one of our perps did!"

"Which perp?" Stan asked"

"The one with the conscience, of course. And also, by the way, the one who—just this morning—was a bit too heavy-handed with the vanilla musk. Miss Jada Garcia."

"Oh, my gosh! So it
is
the cheerleaders after all!" Shelby Lynn said.

"Put the champagne cork back in the bottle, you're getting ahead of yourselves," Stan said. "What about last night? The damage at your folks' place? Your pink pony? The cheerleaders have alibis, remember?"

"All but Miss Vanilla Musk," I said.

Stan frowned.

"I looked at the pictures you took, Turner. I don't see how one girl could have done that all by herself."

"How tall is Jada Garcia anyway?" Shelby asked. "All of five feet?" She grabbed my phone and opened the gallery. "It's hard to tell for sure, but from the location of some of the tornadoes, it looks like she wouldn't have been able to reach that high."

"A ladder maybe?"

"Who takes time to drag a ladder out to spray-paint graffiti?"

"And what about Joker?" Shelby asked. "Think about it. It would have taken at least two people to do the number on him. One to hang on to his halter at one end and one to do their stuff at the other."

I winced.

They were right. Jada must've had help when she hit our place to set up an alibi for her "sisters in spandex." And judging from the location of the paint, that…helper had to be much taller than Jada.

I got a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I may have moaned.

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

All right. I
did
moan.

"The reality of saving a man's life is starting to sink in I guess," I said. "It's exhausting. But I'm holding up well, thank you."

"Oh jeesh," Stan said. "Here we go again."

I let Stan go on about drama divas and deadlines while I focused on the daunting prospect ahead.

Not only did I have to confront Mick Dishman with evidence that implicated him in criminal activity of the most heinous kind (horse defacement in the first degree), I'd likely have to go through a mountain of a cousin who'd already warned me off and a pit bull of a gatekeeper known as "Ahnt Mo" to get to my quarry.

Skinflint Stan notwithstanding, this ace cub reporter would be putting in for hazardous duty pay and calling on the inherent ferociousness of a mama bear avenging the colorization of her likely-to-be-gender-confused, not-so-pretty-in-pink Appaloosa to win the day.

I decided to go bearing gifts. Food gifts. Aunt Mo was partial to her grub, like someone we know and love. After seeing her at the pharmacy, I figured she could do with a bit of sweetening up, so I stopped by Town Square Bake Shoppe and picked up a cake. Not just any cake. A fudge cake. Not just any fudge cake. Town Square's Best Ever Chocolate Lovers' Chocolate Fudge Layer Cake.

 Famous throughout Knox County.

Okay. So it was a bribe. And, as bribes went, it wasn't cheap. But it was also an investment.

The more I could coax from Aunt Mo over cake and a cold glass of milk, the less ugly it would get.

For me.

Luck was with me, and I managed to score the last cake, doing a quick end run around a chubby little grade school kid, rolling around on the floor and pointing at the chocolate confection in question, screaming, "My cake! My cake! My cake!"

Ha! Fat lot you know! That's my cake now, brat.

The cake was out of the display, into a box, and into my hot, little hands, and I was out the door before Damian knew what happened.

I figured I was doing both mother and son a favor. Mom could blame me, and I'd get the love handles instead of the boy.

In record time (and to record horn toots, hoots, and heckling) I pulled up in front of Aunt Mo's. Aunt Mo lived in a two-story stucco house that had been added onto. It had a big old front porch and a new two plus attached garage. I didn't see a car in the drive but figured they could be parked in the garage.

I hurried up the porch and rang the bell. I noticed the curtains at the big picture window move. Someone was home. I rang again.

"I know you're in there," I said. "I saw the curtains move. It's hot out here, and I have fudge cake. Not a good combo."

The front door opened.

"Whatchu doin' here, girl?" Aunt Mo eyed me with suspicion.

"I came to visit. I thought, you know, after seeing you at the pharmacy and all that we never really got a chance for closure after all that engagement drama."

"And you thought cake would give Mo closure?"

"Well no. Not just any cake," I said. "But Town Square's Best Ever Fudge Cake might be a tasty beginning." I lifted the box up so Aunt Mo could get a whiff of fudge heaven. "But if you're not ready, I do understand." I sighed and turned to leave.

"Now don't get your big girl pants in a bunch," Mo said and leaned away from the door to look to her left and her right before reaching out to grab me and pull me into the house. She shut the door behind us, before getting up on her tippy-toes to peak out the tiny window on the front door.

"Are you expecting someone?" I asked.

"What makes you think that?" Mo asked and took the cake from me and moved from the living room into the formal dining room. She set the cake on the dining room table and continued into a large and modern kitchen.

"This is nice," I said, looking around.

She nodded. "That's right. It's one of them add-ons. Kitchen, bath, laundry, master bedroom, and garage. Mo's got everything she needs on one level now. Mo don't do stairs," she added.

"That's handy. I love the design. Did you do it?"

"Mo? Hell no. Mo's no contractor. Now Manny—"

"Manny?"

"Manny nothing!" she said. "You lost any rights to any info on that fine man when you dumped him for that slick Rick," she said, going to the cupboard to get plates. "Glasses are up there. Milk's in the fridge. Use the tray," she added.

"I didn't actually dump Manny for Rick Townsend you know. That implies Manny and I were a couple," I pointed out, opening cupboards until I located glasses and had poured each of us a glass of cold milk. "And we weren't. We were more like…coconspirators."

"Bring that," she nodded at the tray with our milk, forks, napkins, and elegant cake serving set with matching handles.

I picked the tray up and followed her back into the dining room and set the tray down.

"Rick's a really nice guy," I said.

"And Manny isn't?" Mo asked, dropping into a chair and opening the lid on the cake box.

I thought about it for a second then shook my head.

No. Nice wasn't a word I'd ever use to describe Manny DeMarco.

Mo cut two generous slices of cake and put them on plates. She gave herself the more generous of the two.

I picked up my fork.

"So what really brings Tressa Jayne Turner to see Aunt Mo?" Marguerite Dishman said before I could take a bite of my cake.

"I told you. Mending fences."

"Mo ain't got no fence that needs mending, and if she did, she wouldn't ask Manny's heartbreaker to mend 'em."

"I didn't break Manny's heart, Aunt Mo."

"How do you know? You can't see inside a person."

I supposed that was true.

"So, is Mick around?" I asked.

"Why do you want to know?"

"I just thought maybe he'd like a piece of cake," I said.

"Well, he ain't here."

"Oh, that's too bad."

"Why? You think you're taking the cake?"

I shook my head.

"No. The cake's yours. My little gooey fudge peace offering." I took a bite of cake and shut my eyes, savoring the moist fudgy flavor. I followed with a milk chaser. "You know I was looking at the yearbooks at the school the other day and came across Mick's name and thought it was funny."

"Whatcha mean, you thought it was funny?"

I looked at Mo.

"Oh, no. I don't mean that like it sounded. I'm not photogenic either. What I meant was I saw his pictures and thought, wow! Brilliant! I wished I'd thought of that."

"Wished you'd thought of what?"

"Of the picture thing," I said.

"What picture thing?" Mo asked.

I looked up from my plate.

"The no picture thing," I said.

"No picture thing?"

"All the spaces for Mick's photographs have
photo not available
across the boxes. He even opted out of the team pictures. I wish my folks had let me get away with that."

It would have saved me countless hours of detention due to schoolyard fisticuffs.

Mo pushed her plate away.

"What makes you think anybody's getting away with anything? What makes you think that? Nobody's gettin' away with anything. Why'd you say that?"

"I don't. I didn't. I was just making chit-chat."

I frowned. I hit a nerve but danged if I knew which one. Since Mo was already upset and I didn't have a clue why, I figured I might as well get it over with and bring up the subject of Mick and Jada and the suspicions that had actually brought me here.

"Aunt Mo. We need to talk about Mick," I said. "You see. I know."

Mo's fork hit her plate.

"You know?"

I nodded.

"I wish I didn't. But I do."

"How'd you know?"

"I'm a reporter. It's what I do. I'll admit it was a shock. How long have you known?"

Mo frowned.

"Since the beginning," she admitted.

"The beginning? Why didn't you say anything?"

"I couldn't. I have to protect Mick."

I nodded. "I understand. But you must know this can't just be swept under the rug."

"Mo and Manny plan to deal with it eventually—when the time is right."

I got up and moved around the table and crouched next to Mo. I took her hand.

"Mo, don't you see? The time is now. You can't keep your head in the sand and hope this goes away. It won't. Damage has been done. Your neighbors' hard work trampled on and reduced to nothing more than sophomoric scribblings. People injured—while proud, noble steeds face the indignity of being turned an unflattering shade of pink. Oh, Aunt Mo! You can't imagine what it was like. Seeing those hot pink spots. That putrid pink tail!" I squeezed her hand. "The madness has to end! Help me, Aunt Mo! Help me stop this madness!"

Aunt Mo's looked down at me, her mouth open, eyes bug-eyed wide.

"You've gone and done it. You've snapped your twig, Tressa Jayne Turner. Or did you slip something extra in that cake? All this going on about putrid spots and hot tails!"

I winced. "That would be hot
pink
tails," I clarified and then frowned. "Wait a second. Hold on. You said you knew all about it—" I stammered.

"Barbie proposing to Aunt Mo?" I turned my head. Manny stood in the doorway of a room just beyond the dining room. "'Cause from here that's what it looks like."

I shook my head and got to my feet.

"How long have you been there?" I asked, but guessing it was pretty much the entire time.

I turned to Mo. "How come you didn't tell me Manny was here?"

"'Barbie' didn't ask," Aunt Mo said.

"I came to talk to Aunt Mo about Mick," I said.

"Manny heard."

"I figured. And?"

"Thanks for the cake, Barbie."

My mouth flew open this time.

"What? That's it! That's all you've got to say? 'Thanks for the cake, Barbie?' You're not going to deal with this?"

Manny came over and grabbed my arms and lifted me up and off my feet. Yes, I said off.

"Frontier night's tonight. Aunt Mo needs her rest. Barbie needs to split."

"B…but—"

Before I could react, he literally (no exaggeration) carried me to the door and set me on the porch.

"Manny'll see you tonight. Save a dance."

I stood on the porch and fumed.

What just happened?

I shook my head.

Well, hell hath no fury like a woman who's been handled like dry cleaning picked up at Fresh Start Cleaners.

Or one deprived of cake. And not just any cake.

Town Square's Best Ever Chocolate Lovers' Chocolate Fudge Layer Cake.

Save a dance, my ass.

He'd be too busy watching his back to dance.

I'm a cowgirl. I haul fifty-pound sacks of feed. I use pitchforks regularly. I move twelve hundred pound animals out of my way with a single shove.

Be afraid, Manny DeMarco.

Be very afraid.

I stood by myself, now and then scratching, taking in the sounds and colors of a true down-home, good time gala. Vendors lined the lane that ran along the buildings that comprised the historical village.