Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (5 page)

"I'll take the sheriff's office," Shelby Lynn said before I could suggest we flip a coin.

"Oh? What if I want the SO?" I asked, remembering Shelby's reaction when I'd asked if she had a contact with the sheriff's office.

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Do you want to talk to the county?"

Did I? God, no!

"If you think your source can assist—" I hedged.

"Who says I have a source?"

"Did I say source? I meant if you feel you have more of an amicable, er, relationship—"

"Relationship?"

"What I'm saying is, if you think you can get more cooperation, then I say go for it. After all, it's what's best for the story that counts, right?"

Shelby grimaced.

"Yeah. Uh-huh. It's what's best for the story. You're obviously overlooking the fact that you exposed criminal activity in the sheriff's department and ended up putting the head honcho behind bars."

I grimaced.

Shelby was right. Alienating an entire police agency trumped horse poop in a car wash any day.

"I'll take local law enforcement. You take the county," I said.

"Good call, Ace Cub Reporter," Shelby said. "Good call."

*   *   *

"So, Chief Scott, what does the Grandville Police Department have to say about the apparent connection between recent incidents of vandalism in the city and similar incidents in the county?" I asked with my pen poised above my notepad to take down his response.

"No comment."

"What about the pink painted tornadoes that appear at the scenes?"

"No comment."

"What about leads? Do you have any credible leads?"

"No comment."

 "Can I quote you on that?" I asked.

"Listen, Miss Turner. I can only tell you what I've told you ad nauseam before. Our—"

"—Investigation is continuing," I finished for him. "Honest Chief, I get it if there is some compelling reason you don't want certain facts made public. Just tell me, and I can take the information back to my boss. But surely the public has a right to information that might help them protect their properties and, perhaps, help them help you discover who is responsible for these acts of vandalism," I said, thinking I sounded pretty reasonable even to me.

"Miss Turner. I've told you before. I can't confirm or deny any connection between these incidents."

"I'm not looking for confirmation, Chief. I've shown you proof of the link between these incidents. This is more along the lines of a you-help-me-I-help-you call. The
Gazette
wishes to fully cooperate with local law enforcement, but we must balance that desire with our obligation to appropriately inform the citizens that depend on us for truthful reporting."

Chief Scott got a surprised look on his face. I was guessing he hadn't expected such eloquent defense of the First Amendment from the girl who got caught up straddling a barbed wire fence when she tried to cross it.

"Is that a threat, Miss Turner?"

Yikes! I'd apparently done a better job of reinventing myself than I'd thought. In record time, I'd graduated from bimbo to blackmailer.

Gulp
.

"Threat? No way! Not at all!" I gushed. "It's just a heads-up, that's all. A courtesy call—you know—hey, Mr. Police Chief, I've got this story, and I'd like for you to comment. That kind of thing. You know. Just so I cover my bases."

Babble, babble.

"Stan Rodgers sent you here, didn't he?" Chief Scott said.

"Well, um, I er—"

"Well, you go back and tell Mr. Rodgers that he better remember, nothing stays a secret in a small town. Nothing." Chief Scott got to his feet.

I grimaced.

Another message I so didn't plan on forwarding.

"Oh, by the way, I was almost certain that was your Great Aunt Eunice I saw over in New Holland yesterday. I bet your grandma is tickled to death her big sister is back in town. Give them both my best wishes for a joyous reunion, won't you?" Chief Scott said and practically shoved me out of his office.

Oo
kay. Make those three messages that would never leave my Inbox.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

The story ran the next day under the headline, "Area Vandalism Reported." I scanned the article online.

"You've got to be kidding me. You can't be serious. Un-freaking-believable!"

I sat at the kitchen table, seeing red—and not from the glamour girl red nail polish I'd spilled on the tablecloth.

Stan the spineless had gone through and deleted all references to pink tornadoes and the recent incidents being linked.

"I don't frigging believe it! The sell out! That First Amendment fraud! That…gigantic ass!"

"Knock, knock! You decent or am I interrupting something?"

I looked up.

I stared. An elderly, mustachioed man wearing a Chicago Cubs baseball hat and gray sweatshirt and sweatpants stood in the doorway.

"Excuse me?"

"I heard you ranting and raving and name-calling, and I didn't want to interrupt your diatribe."

I got to my feet.

"Can I help you?"

"Well, that's why I'm here."

I shook my head. "I don't understand. Do I know you?"

The old guy began to cackle. I gasped. There was something familiar about that wheeze.

"Close your mouth, girl. Or you'll swallow a fly."

"Aunt…Eunice?"

"In the flesh—or close approximation," the old man said before reaching up to pull off his hat—along with his hair—and then peeling off his mustache with a flourish and sticking it on the refrigerator door.

I took a step back.

"Aunt Eunice?"

I'd heard the rumors about my eccentric Aunt Eunice's er, unmarried status. Still, the subject of cross-dressing had never been part of that conversation.

"What are you doing here?"

And why are you dressed like a man?

"I'm safeguarding my surprise, that's what," she said, moving to take a seat at the table. "Staying with Abigail turned out to be a big mistake. I forgot how much of a nosy Nellie Hannah could be. Up at all hours of the night. Peeking out the windows. Watching the neighbors coming and going." She let out a long, disgusted breath. "And those binoculars of hers. I'd like to tell her where to put them. I have to wear a disguise every time I go out to keep her from recognizing me."

"That's why you're…dressed that way?" I asked, pointing at the wig and the mustache on the fridge.

"Of course, that's why. You don't think I get off dressing like this do you?" Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Did your grandmother tell you I liked to wear men's clothes?"

I shook my head so violently I got light-headed.

"No. Of course not. No way. Absolutely not!"

The Queen of Babel had officially made her entrance.

"Well, it's a good thing," Aunt Eunice grumbled.

"So, you're here because—?"

"I told you! Anonymity, Tressa Jayne! Anonymity! It'll only be for one night. The reunion is a couple days off, and I need to catch up on my beauty sleep so I'll be fresh as daisies come Sunday. Can't do that with your gramma peeking in the windows at all hours."

I winced.

"How did you get here?" I asked.

"Abigail dropped me off."

"That was nice of her," I said, thinking maybe my gammy had cause to dislike the woman after all.

"I wanted to hitchhike, but Abigail wouldn't hear of it."

"Hitchhike? Isn't that dangerous?"

"Please. Who wants to roll a homeless, old geezer? Still, I'd have given money to see Hannah's eyes bug out when I came out of Abigail's house dressed like a dude. I even gave her a big fat smooch before I helped her into the car. That ought to give your granny some sleepless nights of her own trying to figure out who ol' Abby was with. Hehehe!"

I shook my head. Poor Joe. If I knew my gammy, he'd be having some sleepless nights, too.

"So which room's mine?" Eunice asked. "I'm not picky, but the one closest to the loo would be best."

I showed her to the room my gammy used when she'd moved back in with me.

"Sorry about the mess," I said, hurrying ahead of her to clear a path. "I keep some of my boots in here."

"Just how many feet do you have?" Eunice asked.

I grimaced.

"The bathroom is right across the hall."

"Good to know. What time do we eat?"

"Eat?"

"Dinner! Supper! What time?"

I bit my lip.

"Well, actually, I have dinner plans," I said.

"With that Townsend chap?"

I nodded.

"Where you eating?"

"At Calhoun's."

"They still got those rarebits?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Order me one to go. With extra onions."

I sighed.

Only one day, I reminded myself. Just one day.

*   *   *

I swallowed the last of my beer and raised my hand to get the attention of the waitress. My date shot me a questioning look, and I managed a reassuring smile.

"Did we have a bad day?" Rick Townsend whispered in my ear. "Or do you require liquid courage to get through our second official date?"

"A little of both," I admitted, not quite comfortable with the role of girlfriend in Grandville's very own version of
The Bachelor
starring Ranger Rick Townsend in the leading role.

Townsend chuckled.

"I saw the article. It was a little light on the details."

"Tell me about it," I said, picking up my empty glass and raising it in the direction of the waitress. "Stan the hard-nosed newshound wussed out."

"What do you mean?"

"Stan decided to take out some rather important details."

"Ah. I see. Stan screwed with your article."

"Screwed with it? Screwed with it! Try going after it with a frigging scalpel and hacking it to pieces, the maniacal slasher!"

"Where is that waitress?" Townsend said, looking around. As if by magic, our recalcitrant server showed up. "She'll have another," he instructed, pointing to my empty glass.

"And you, sir? Would you care for a refill?" the buxom brunette with fangs, er, teeth so white they nearly blinded me, inquired of my date.

"I'm good, thanks," Rick said.

I snorted.

"Well, I am good, aren't I?" he asked, with a teasing lift of a brow. He looked at his watch. "I wonder what's keeping your bestie," he said. "You did say this was to be our first official double date, right? So where are the happy newlyweds?"

The tart arrived with my beer. I took a long sip.

"I'm sure I told them seven," I said. "Oh, there they are!" I waved to my best friend. "Kari! Brian! Over here!"

Several weeks earlier, Townsend and I had agreed that if our relationship stood any chance of thriving, we needed a history. A dating history. A history as a couple. You know. Going places. Doing things. Tonight's dating game episode featured our first foray into the double-dating scene. My best friend, Kari, taught middle school Language Arts. Her husband, Brian, was a physical education instructor who'd recently transferred from one of the elementary schools to teach at Grandville High School.

I'd been Kari's maid of honor at Kari's and Brian's wedding a year earlier, with rather…er…revealing results.

I looked up and saw them heading in our direction.

"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Davenport!" I greeted the newlyweds. "How nice of you to join us."

"I'm sorry we're late," Kari said, sending an annoyed look at her significant other as she slid into the bench across from us. "My husband couldn't seem to pull himself away from work."

"Oh? Coaching responsibilities?" Townsend asked.

Kari snorted.

"So-called mentoring responsibilities," she said, with a "can you believe it?" roll of her eyes.

"What kind of mentoring?" Rick asked.

"The pretty, new Life Skills teacher kind of mentoring," Kari responded. "It seems every time I turn around she's calling or texting her mentor. Isn't that right,
sweetie
?"

"Kari here seems to think Martina is making moves on me," Brian said.

"Martina?"

Kari made a face.

"Miss Banfield," she said. "And what am I supposed to think? She calls or texts at all hours of the day and night. A girl like that?" She shook her head. "It's not mentoring she's after."

"Would you give it a rest, Kari, and let us enjoy the evening?" Brian said.

"Fine by me. I'll enjoy the break from mentee mania," Kari said. "What do you have to do to get a waitress? I could use a glass of wine."

The waitress miraculously appeared and took our orders.

"So, Tressa," Kari said, when the drinks arrived. "What's this I read about a rash of vandalism? How many incidents are we talking about?"

"Unofficially? Up to a dozen in the last couple of weeks," I said.

"Wow. That many, huh? We don't see that kind of activity around here all that often. Is there a connection? The
Gazette
article didn't exactly say."

"Noticed that did you?" I said, tipping my glass to take a long swallow.

"Tressa seems to think the incidents were committed by the same individuals," Rick said.

"Oh?" Brian raised an eyebrow.

"I told Brian you'd have the inside scoop," Kari said.

"Actually, she said you'd have the inside 'poop,'" Brian said. "So, what makes you think the incidents are linked, Tressa?"

"Yes. Do tell, bestie," Kari urged.

I bit my lip. Should I, or shouldn't I? Just because Stan wimped out and gave in to pressure from popo, was no reason for me to do the same. And wasn't the press supposed to be the people's watchdog? Look out for them? Be their eyes and ears?

"There was physical evidence at each scene that suggested the malicious mischief was committed by the same perpetrators," I said, sounding very authoritative if I do say so myself.

"What kind of evidence?" Kari asked. "Footprints? Fingerprints? DNA?"

I shook my head. "Nothing like that."

"What then?" Brian asked.

"More along the lines of a signature, I guess you'd call it," I said, trying to be forthcoming and vague at the same time.