Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (4 page)

I'm always working on Craig. I can't wait to become "Auntie Tressa." Oh, the paybacks I've got planned when I have a niece or nephew. Hehehe.

I got out of the car. Before I'd even taken a step, the pooches were on me, sniffing around for signs that I'd been to the Dairee Freeze and brought home a doggie bag.

"Sorry, guys," I said and bent down to put an arm around each of the pups. "No bacon burgers today. But if you're good, I'll let you come to the cookout next door and sneak you some prime Iowa beef underneath the table."

I'd have to do it without my mother, the bean counter, catching on. She'd prefer leftovers go in the fridge rather than provide a four-star dining experience for two scrap-eaters with dog breath and bouts of inappropriate scratching.

I hurried inside, yanked off my work clothes, put on a pair of navy shorts, white tank top, and a pair of canvas Skechers, and headed next door, my optimistic pups on my heels.

"All I want to know," my gammy was saying, "is how those girls on
Survivor
can parade around in skimpy bikinis without having pubic hair growth? Do they get regular waxes? And if they do, how can they call that roughing it? They don't shave or we'd see those unsightly bumps."

I intercepted one of my mother's "do something about your mother" looks in transit to my dad. He shook his head and raised one shoulder in his "what can I do?" response and went back to tending the grill.

"Hannah, I don't think that's an appropriate dinnertime subject," my mother said.

"Dinner? I don't see any dinner!"

"Just a few more minutes," my dad assured her.

"I like my steak medium well."

"I remember, Mom."

"I hope the roasting ears don't get cold."

"They'll be fine, Hannah," my mother said.

"And you're sure you got all the silks off? The last time we had roasting ears it felt like I was chewing on a hairbrush. Took me a week to get all those little strings out from between my teeth."

"We've got flossers, Hannah."

I paused long enough to give thanks that my gammy had found love the second time around before dropping into a seat next to her.

"Greetings,
familia
!" I said. "How is the Turner clan this fine evening?"

"Turner-Townsend," my grandma reminded me. "Don't forget, I'm a Townsend now too, dear."

Who could forget?

"That beater of yours is still running?" Craig said.

More along the lines of fits and starts, but at least it was paid for.

"It gets me from point A to point B," I said.

"Yeah. At the end of the hook on a truck at Dan's Towing. I hear you've got Dan on speed dial. Right after the Dairee Freeze and before Fong's Chinese Takeout."

"That's what you know," I said. "Fong's is no longer in my top ten. Wang's Garden offers two complimentary crab rangoon with a meal. Funny man, your husband," I told my sister-in-law.

"Oh, yes. He's a regular sidesplitter," Kimmie responded. "I'm a lucky, lucky woman." The look she gave Craig didn't exactly convey one of good fortune.

"Speaking of towing, the local tow companies sure were busy today," Craig said. "We had at least half-a-dozen cars brought to the body shop today for estimates on new paint jobs."

"How's come?" Gram asked.

"A rash of car vandalism on the east side of town overnight," Craig said. "Apparently, the vandals got spray-paint happy and trashed a bunch of cars."

"We got a rumble in the Bronx goin' on here in Grandville?" Gram asked.

"I see someone's rubbing off on my gammy," I said, looking over at Joe whose hand hovered above the relish tray. He nabbed an olive and popped it in his mouth. "Did you know over time couples who live together begin to take on the characteristics of each other?"

Joe lifted a brow.

"Oh? Then I suppose we can expect to see you developing additional canine teeth, growing a nice coat of fur, slobbering all over the place, and licking yourself in awkward places since you've been shacking up with two hairy males for years," he said, plucking a baby carrot from the tray before dunking it in dip and taking a bite.

"You got any inside info on the spray-paintin', Tressa?" Gram asked. "You know. One of them scoops?"

"The only scoop Tressa's likely to get is the one she uses to pick up pooch poop in the yard so Mom won't step in it and go ballistic," Craig said.

"For heaven's sake, give it a rest, would you, Craig?" Kimmie said. "You're always on her case."

"Tressa knows I'm just giving her a hard time for the heck of it," Craig said. "She doesn't mind. Do you, Tressa?"

I shrugged. "Well, actually I—"

"Well, of course she minds!" Kimmie cut me off like the raggedy split ends I crop after an unpleasant encounter with the flat iron. "Who wouldn't? The constant teasing. The incessant digs. The dumb blonde jokes."

I blinked. "Dumb blonde jokes?"

"Well excuse me for having a little fun," Craig said.

"Fun? Fun? You think it's fun to needle someone all the time? To denigrate them! Make them feel like losers and twits and airheads?"

Losers? Twits? Airheads
?

"I don't think Craig really thinks—" I began.

"Why, I wouldn't blame Tressa if she gave you a dose of your own medicine!"

Craig snorted.

"What? You've got to be kidding. Have you been living in an alternate reality or something? Tressa never lets an opportunity to mess with me go by. She gives as good as she gets."

I felt my chest puff with a pride and warm fuzzies. Sweet! He noticed!

"Please," Kimmie went on. "You honestly don't realize how insensitive and glib you appear at times? How cavalier and dismissive? How often you seem to trivialize the feelings of others?"

"Are we still talking about Tressa now? 'Cause I'm getting the feeling we're not," Craig said.

"Oh, wow! If only you would direct such perceptiveness and discernment towards your own insecurities and commitment phobias, I'd really be impressed," Kimmie snarled.

Cookout attendees held collective breaths.

Craig shook his head and got to his feet.

"Seems like I can't do anything right where you're concerned, Kimberly," he said and walked away. "Dad? You got a cold one with my name on it?"

Craig popped the top of a light beer and swallowed.

Kimmie—trying to look like she wasn't about to burst into tears and failing epically—bit her quivering lower lip and stared at her hands.

Now normally this is when you experience one of those awkward silences. You know. Where nobody knows what to say.
Normally
. However, with my gammy and me around—both having inherited a gift for gab—that nasty, uncomfortable void is generally avoided.

This time my gammy beat me to the punch.

"What bee's got under Craig's bonnet this time?" Gram asked. "All this tension isn't good for my appetite."

I stifled a snicker. So far nothing known to mankind had an adverse effect on my grandma's appetite. Okay, or mine.

Gram turned to Kimmie.

"Is there somethin' going on with the two of you I should know about?" she asked. "You aren't preggers are you?"

Kimmie's stoic façade crumbled like packaged cinnamon streusel crumb cake. She made a strangled hiccough sound, put a hand to her mouth, jumped to her feet, and ran into the house.

Gram looked from Joe to me and back again.

"Was it something I said?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"No, Gram. Not really."

"So what's the deal? Craig!" Gram spoke up. "Craig! What's wrong with your wife? She isn't preggers, is she?"

"No, Gram. She's not pregnant."

"Well, why not?"

Craig ran a hand through his hair.

"Listen, Gram. This is between Kimmie and me."

"You don't have slow swimmers, do you?" Gram asked. "I told your mom she shouldn't put you in tight briefs. You're wearin' boxers now, right? Or do you go Comanche?"

"Comanche?" Craig got a what-in-God
'
s-name look on his face and, despite the situation, I found myself trying not to smile.

"I think she means commando, dude," I translated.

"Ye gads," Craig said and followed in Kimmie's wake.

Gram got to her feet.

"Jean! How much longer 'til we eat? I've got pills to take you know," she said and wandered over to the table.

Joe dropped into the seat she vacated.

"So. Have you learned anything?" Joe asked.

"About the vandalism?"

"No! The gnome!" he hissed.

"As a matter of fact, I have made some progress in that regard," I said.

I know something you don't know.

"What kind of progress?"

"I can't say anything more right now," I hedged, my knees beginning to bob up and down in a funky jiggle.

I know something you don't know
.

"More? You haven't said anything yet."

I know something you don't know.

"I'm ruminating," I said, using last Tuesday's word of the day.

"Ruminating? Stalling is more like it."

My toes started tip-tap-tapping a nervous beat due to the strain of safeguarding Aunt Eunice's surprise. Honestly, it's harder for me to keep a secret than it is to refrain from snitching cookie dough out of the bowl when my mother isn't looking.

I know something you don't know
.

"What's up with the jitterbug feet?" Joe eyed my tapping tootsies. "Just what are you hiding?"

"Me? Hide something from Grandville's senior sleuth? Pfft!" I made a raspberry sound.

"Right." Joe raised an eyebrow. "You might fool other folks with that laissez-faire attitude, missy, but not me. I know when I'm being sold a bill of goods. And you know how much I like being left out of the loop."

"Sorry, Joe. But, really. I'm not hiding a thing. Girl Scout's honor."

He gave a disgusted harrumph.

"According to your grandma you couldn't even cut it as a Brownie."

I lifted an eyebrow. Let's see. A chocolate brown sash, high-waist shorts paired with a butt-ugly beanie? Need I say more?

"Joe! Come look at this potato chip! It looks just like George Washington!" Gram exclaimed.

"To be continued," Joe promised before he hurried over to ooh and ahh at his new wife's presidential discovery.

Whew. Dodged one bullet. Unfortunately the reunion surprise was still a few days off.

Tressa Turner, Secret Agent Woman.

Better make that
Mission Impossible
.

"And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what investigative reporters call commonalities."

I ignored the dark look Shelby shot me over the top of Stan's shiny, balding head and surveyed my boss and our young apprentice as they bent over an array of photographs displayed on the table in the multipurpose conference room.

I handed Shelby a magnifying glass.

"If you will observe what I have marked as Exhibits A and B. Exhibit A is a photograph taken at Country Acres Greenhouse. Please note the large pink tornado spray-painted on the door of the shed." I paused for effect. "Now, if you would please take a look at what is marked as Exhibit B which is an investigative report written by our very own Shelby Lynn Sawyer generated from an investigative interview with one Bert Blakely who resides at 813 118
th
Avenue. I've noted the passages I'd like you to pay closest attention to. Shelby, would you please read the highlighted section out loud for us?"

Shelby did an eye roll number.

"Seriously?" she said.

"Well, you can read it any way you like, Shelby, but given the circumstances, a serious tone would probably be best," I said.

Shelby shook her head.

"Good grief." She took the paper from Stan. "'Mr. Bert Blakely indicated that included among the spray-painted graffiti defacing his outbuildings was a pink tornado-shaped figure.'" She handed me Exhibit B. "Satisfied?"

"Very nice. Thank you, Ms. Sawyer."

Shelby sighed.

"If you two could manage to quit law and ordering me to death and cut to the chase, I'd appreciate it," Stan said, his unlit cigar hanging out one side of his mouth. "So we've established that a number of the incidents are linked—"

"When you say 'we'—" I began, stopping when I saw Stan bite down on his stogie.

"—and presumably carried out by the same individual or group of individuals—"

"Given the amount of damage, we're probably looking at more than one person—" I interrupted again. "But, of course, you've no doubt figured that out already, Oh Clever and Knowledgeable Leader," I added seeing Stan's eyebrows lower. "So, we go to print, right?"

Stan's frowny face got frownier.

"There's still something missing here, Turner," Stan said.

Now I frowned.

"What do you mean? What's missing?"

"The part where you take this information to law enforcement and get their response."

My slam-dunk turned into an air ball.

"I was afraid you were going to say that."

"We need to present these facts to the authorities and see what they have to say before we put it out to the community. There may be good reasons law enforcement is keeping the link between these incidents under wraps."

"You think they've made the connection then?" Shelby asked.

"I don't know. It depends on how much interdepartmental give-and-take there is between the Grandville P.D. and Knox County," I said.

"Well, we'd better find out before we print something the cops don't want out there. I'd rather make friends in law enforcement than enemies," Stan pointed out.

I sighed. The big boss man was right. Like it or not—and I so didn't like it—before we ran our story, we had to give the local police and county officials a chance to weigh in.

"Okay, troops. We need to get on this. Turner, you take one agency. Shelby, you get the other," Stan instructed and walked to the door. "And we'll meet back here after lunch and see where we stand.
Capisce
?"

I
capisced
all right. I was going to have to choose between prying a statement from a police chief who still saw me as a blonde ditz or an acting sheriff with whom I had a complicated—and decidedly non-convivial past.