Calamity Jayne Goes to College (19 page)

I looked at her. "I tried it on the other day," I said, telling one of those harmless little lies I've alluded to before.
The ones that hurt no one by the telling but can hurt me big time if I don't.

"You get it zipped up?"

"Uh, it's a little hard to do by myself with the zipper in back," I said. "But with a little help, I should manage fine."

"You better get a body wax. That way you'll have a fightin' chance of sliding into it. Less friction," she said. I grimaced.

Two hours and three stores later, I was glad I'd braided my hair, or I'd have pulled out a significant chunk. As I feared,
Gram had insisted on trying on evening gowns that were more appropriate for Paris Hilton than a woman "of a certain age."

We were now in the dressing room of J.C. Penney's and Gram had already been through the "fun and flirty" department and was
currently trying on a halter dress that needed Cher's shoulders rather than saggy ones to work.

"Gram, you're not the mother of the bride," I reminded her. "Nor are you the entertainment. You just need a simple yet elegant
dress."

She looked at me. "I did see me a beaded jacket dress out there. It had one of them flowing hems. Comes in purple and navy,"
she said. "You think I could carry off all that purple without looking like that big, dumb dinosaur?"

"It's a tough call. Not everyone could pull it off," I told her. "It would take someone who is comfortable in her own skin.
Who isn't afraid to attract some attention," I added.

She nodded. "It would take a very confident woman, wouldn't it?" she agreed, almost to herself, handing me the black halter
dress. "That's the wrong size, anyway. I need a petite."

She threw her clothes back on. "I'll just go get that jacket dress to try on. And I also saw a long jacket dress in periwinkle
blue that looked bitchin'," she said and I winced. "Stay here and hold the dressing room for me, won't you, dear?" She disappeared
through the curtain.

I took a seat to wait and stared at the black halter dress in my hands. I checked the size out. If I sucked in my gut, I should
be able to squeeze into it.

I shrugged, shucked my clothes, and shimmied into the black dress. When I got it fastened--and finally maneuvered one boob
to each side of the low-cut gown--I turned to look at myself. Wow. Not bad. Not exactly Cher--my shoulders were more along
the lines of a beach volleyball player's than a svelte rock star-type's--but not bad all things considered. I started to remove
the dress, heard the rustle of the curtain, and braced myself to see what treasures Gram had discovered, only to find myself
staring at a guy who looked a heck of a lot like the one Patrick had told me was about to be arrested for hit-and-run--and
who was also our most promising suspect in the series of campus crimes.

Keith Gardner had a crazed look about him, like a tiger about to be captured. Or maybe a felon about to be sent back to the
slammer for a very, very long time.

I stared at him, certain I had the same look on my face you get when you don't get the restroom door locked and someone walks
in on you while you're on the stool. You just kinda sit there and stare, too stunned to react. I'm thinking that's also what
happens when you're in the fitting room of a mall department store minding your own business and a psychopathic registered
sex offender suddenly walks in on you. You should be screaming bloody murder, but all you can do is gape.

Gardner advanced on me, his face dark with rage.

"What the fuck are you trying to do to me?" he asked, and I still couldn't make my mouth work. I know, I know. Hard to believe,
isn't it? "What have I ever done to you that you want to ruin my life?" he asked.

Duh. Do the words "attempted vehicular homicide" mean anything to you?

"I have been struggling to get my life back, turn things around and have a chance at a decent future, and what happens? Some
dumb-ass blonde accuses me of trying to run her down in a goddamned hit-and-run. What the fuck is your problem?" he yelled.
"Why do you want to destroy me?"

The dumb-ass blonde reference helped me regain my powers of speech. And indignation.

"Listen, buster, don't try to pull the blonde card here," I said, wagging a finger at him. "My being blond doesn't have a
diddly-squattin' thing to do with the fact that your pickup almost ran my friend and me over the other night. Well, she's
not exactly a friend, really--more like a forced relation." I shook my head to get back on point. "Not to mention the fact
that you plowed into my uncle Frank's 2003 Suburban, costing me a full-time, part-time job plus all the Slurpees, beef burgers,
nachos, chili dogs, tacos, and ice cream I could eat for free. So step off, asshole, before this gets ugly!"

Gardner retreated a step. He probably got a good look at my shoulders and decided it was safer. He was probably right.

"I wasn't there!" he insisted.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Forensic tests prove it was your truck. And it was you we followed off campus. You who drove
like a NASCAR wannabe. You who came back to finish us off," I pointed out. "Now, maybe you were too drunk to remember it or
maybe you are regretting it, but the fact remains that your pickup was there. And I have the skinned knees, pissed-off uncle,
and one less income to prove it!"

Okay, so I can react rather violently when economically and physically threatened--not to mention being denied free junk food.

"What do you mean, 'I came back'?" Gardner asked.

"Huh?" I looked at him.

"You said I came back to finish you off. What did you mean?"

I gave him another look. "I'm not sure I should divulge information in an active, ongoing investigation," I said.

"You fond of that old lady you came in with?" he asked. I flinched.

"Not especially," I lied.

He shrugged. "Fine. Have it your way," he said, and turned to leave.

"Wait!" I said. "Can't you recognize a joke? I was just trying to lighten the mood, you know. Interject a little levity."

"There's nothing funny about being wrongly accused of a crime," Gardner said.

"Right," I asked. "What did you want to know again?"

The guy shook his head. "You said something about me coming back," he said, clearly exasperated.

"Oh, right. Yeah. That's what you did. You went down the road and we--what do they call it? Terminated our pursuit--and about
ten minutes later you came back and almost collected two DNR doe tags on my friend and me."

"Ten minutes later? Why would I wait ten minutes later to come back and nail you?" he asked.

I thought about it. "I dunno. Why would you?"

"I didn't!" he yelled. "That's why! I got home, unloaded the pickup, went into the house, and took a shower. I didn't even
know the pickup was gone till the cops showed up."

"How could someone take your truck?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "I leave the key in it. I live out in the boonies. It's an old truck. I always leave the key
in the ashtray."

"So you expect me to believe that in a ten-minute span of time somebody stole your pickup and tried to run us down, but you
have no idea who or why?" I asked. It sounded pretty lame to me. Still, I had asked folks to believe that there was a body
in the trunk of my car and a hit man was out to get me, so in the larger scheme of things, Gardner's story wasn't all that
unbelievable. I wasn't sure the authorities would agree, however.

"I have no control over what you believe," Gardner said. "But it's the truth."

I stared at him, my BS detector stuck on
inconclusive.
The guy seemed sincere enough, but something told me Frankie would say sociopaths are damned good liars.

"Maybe you could take a polygraph," I suggested. "That might help."

"What would help is if you would change your story," he said. "Say it wasn't me behind the wheel."

"But I couldn't see who was behind the wheel," I said. "It was dark. Except for a tiny flash of light."

"It wasn't me," he said. He took a step in my direction. "You've got to tell them it wasn't me!" he said.

I felt cornered; the dressing room was a rabbit trap and I was Thumper.

I was finally ready to scream like a little girl when the curtains parted and my gammy stood there, curtains in one hand,
hanger items in the other.

"I don't think men are allowed in here," she said, giving Keith Gardner an intent look. "Kinda young for you, ain't he?" she
asked me.

I hurried over to Gram and shoved her out into the dressing room corridor and back into the store. Gardner gave me a chilling
look, raised his hand as if to grab me, but thought better of it and ran out of the dressing room and out of the store.

"Well, how do you like that?" she said with a sniff. "Didn't even introduce himself."

I looked at the direction Gardner had run. "He did to me, Gram," I said. "He did to me."

"You gonna take that dress?" she asked, gesturing to the garment I wore.

I shook my head.

"Good thing," she said. "You don't have enough to fill out that top. Talk about your peep shows."

I followed Gram into the dressing room and changed out of the black dress and back into my street clothes. Twenty minutes
later Gram had narrowed her choices down to two beaded jackets: the purple with a short jacket and a periwinkle blue with
a longer, flowing jacket and tiered hem.

I pointed out the periwinkle was a perfect match with her hair.

"I'll take it," she said.

Score one for the dumb blonde.

At the checkout I noticed another item in her hand. I motioned to it.

"What is that?" I asked. The thing looked like a device of torture.

"It's a body slimmer," Gram said. "To suck everything in and pull it up."

"Sounds like the stuff they use to repair hernias," I said with a snort.

"It's for you," she said.

I stopped laughing. "Come again?"

"For you to wear under the maid of honor dress," she elaborated. "No offense, dear, but after seeing you put away that lunch,
I thought we'd better have a little backup plan--just in case."

I looked at the constricting article of intimate apparel. Visions of cocktail weenies, wedding cake, butter mints, and peanuts
traveled through my head. And ice-cold beer. Lots of ice-cold beer. I looked at the slimmer again and calculated how long
it would take me to get it slid down over my thighs each time I had to use the restroom.

I gave it a failing grade.

"Just put the body slimmer down and step away from the register and no one will get hurt, Hellion Hannah," I told my grandma.

She looked at me for a second and then complied. Still, give my gammy an A for effort.

CHAPTER 16

Gram and I got back in town around four. I couldn't believe I'd have to turn around and head back to Carson in two hours for
my night class. I seriously considered skipping, but really wanted to find out the latest on the campus shooting. All I'd
been able to learn from the news reports was that a cyclist had been shot and that the injuries did not appear to be life-threatening.
No names had been released.

I also wanted to inform Patrick about my run-in with Keith Gardner in the J.C. Penney's dressing room. I'd leave out the part
where I was wearing the peekaboo halter dress, I decided. I wanted to know, too, if the cops had arrested Gardner yet.

I'd thought about Gardner all the way home while Gram snored in the seat next to me and, once we'd reached our destination,
denied she'd slept at all. Lathering up in the shower, I continued to mull over our fitting-room exchange. On the one hand
I knew he was a convicted sex offender. That was reason enough to be creeped out at being in a confined space with him. But
he'd seemed genuinely outraged that he was being accused, even in the face of compelling forensic evidence and eyewitness
accounts. Of course, didn't something like ninety percent of incarcerated individuals swear they were innocent?

So I was back to square one, and feeling like I was running out of time. With the clock ticking down to murder….

I came out of the shower all wrapped up in a big bath sheet to discover a dark-haired, long-limbed, ranger-type asleep on
my bed. I stood dripping for a moment and pinched myself--hard--thinking maybe my subconscious had manufactured this intriguing
little diorama as compensation for a dry spell in the sex department that had gone on so long I qualified for federal drought
aid.

I walked over to the sleeping figure and stared down at him. He looked even more scrum-dilly-icious asleep than he did awake.
I bent down to take a closer look. I should have known. Not one damn speck of drool in the corner of his mouth. No snoring.
No restless leg syndrome. This was, like, so unfair.

As I bent over the dozing Don Juan of the DNR, a drop of water from my hair fell right in his closed eye. One minute I was
on my feet leering down at the safely slumbering Greek god and the next I found myself on top of him, with nothing but a loosely
wrapped towel between the ranger and my wet, naked body.

Okay, okay, so this had been part of Tressa's bedroom fantasies, too. Except the Tressa in my fantasy has long, flowing locks
of silken hair--of course on my head, you jackasses--a slim, tanned, toned body, dainty soft feet, and an overall complexion
that was airbrushed perfection. But other than that, it was me.

"Wanna get lucky?" the now wide-awake ranger asked.

"Uh, ah, whu-huh?" I stammered.

"Easy for you to say," Townsend said, his fantastic whiskey-colored eyes laughing up at me.

Okay, so my fantasy hadn't come with a teleprompter or script--well, apart from the really naughty words I invented Townsend
whispering in my ear, that is. (Regrettably for the voyeurs out there, those are of a personal and private nature.) So I was
left to wing it. You can see how that worked for me.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. "Other than being an impediment to me getting ready for class."

"Impediment? You use a lot of big words now that you're a reporter, Calamity," he said. "So, I'm an impediment now, am I?"
He laughed. "Guess that's an improvement over some of the other names you've called me," he admitted with a crooked grin that
was so sexy I wanted to cover his mouth with mine and regret it in the morning.

"You're the only guy I know who thinks being called a hindrance is a promotion," I said.

"And how many guys is that?" Townsend asked, with a serious tilt of his chin upward.

Vixen that I am, I opted to leave the answer to Townsend's imagination.

"So, what are you doing here again?" I asked instead.

"I thought I'd tag along with you to your night class," he said, and I was immediately suspicious. Hey, blame it on the senior
citizen I resided with who thinks she's Miss Marple.

"And why on earth would you want to do that?" I asked. "I'm sure you can think of other more entertaining things to do. Like,
clean out your reptile cages. Or drag my brother away from his wife during her ovulation cycle. Again. Or help your granddad
spy on his neighbors."

Townsend reached up and pulled the towel off my head and ran his fingers through my hair. Or, rather, tried to. They got stuck
halfway through. I hadn't de-tangled yet.

"We could stay in tonight," Townsend said, extricating his fingers and putting his hands on my bare shoulders instead, lightly
caressing flesh that was needier than a one-legged, homeless hobo. "And make wild passionate love all night."

I blinked. Had Townsend really said that, or was I getting bleed-over from Tressa's Bedroom Fantasy Adventures?

"Ten-nine?" I managed to say--which to those of you who are ten-code illiterate means
repeat.

"We could make love," he said. "All through the night." He gave my shoulders a squeeze to accentuate the preposition--or more
likely--proposition.

"You can't be serious," I said. "My grandmother is in the other room."

"We'll send her to Pop's."

Townsend must be desperate. He usually wanted me to enforce a two-thousand-foot rule between the two seniors.

"I have a night class."

"We'll send Hannah instead. She told me all about her experience today as a college student. Besides, from what I hear, she
can't hurt your grade. Maybe she'll raise it." He grinned. "She might even offer to sleep with your professor."

The mental picture of Gram and Professor Stokes going at it on the same table where the professor kept his dish of butterscotch
disks in a tall coffee mug that said
Journalists do it on a tight timetable
was so ridiculous, I began to giggle.

"Is that a 'yes' giggle I hear?" Townsend asked, doing a Groucho Marx eyebrow number.

I sobered. Why shouldn't I? My legs were shaved. I was squeaky clean. Townsend was already in my bed. And I wanted him.
Bad.
Unfortunately, I always kept coming back to that one question: Would he still love me tomorrow?

"Convince me," I heard myself say, although I'd just about already convinced myself.

In a move better suited to a wrestling mat than a bed, Townsend flipped me over onto my back, lock, stock, and bath sheet,
and covered me with the hot, lean length of his body. I shivered despite the warmth of him against me.

He bent his head and took my lips in a slow, seductive kiss that sent the chills skedaddling quicker than I could say burn,
baby, burn. I moaned like a wanton woman against his mouth.

When his lips began to brand a hot trail across my neck and downward, I arched my back, helpless to fight the flood of conflicting
sensations and emotions that always seemed to wash over me where Townsend was concerned.

Hot. Cold. Feverish. Frosty. Bold. Timid. Daring. Scared out of my friggin' gourd.

Sensing my growing anxiety at his growing ardor, Townsend returned his attention to my lips, taking them in a kiss that erased
any doubts I had that Townsend wanted to jump my bones. Right now. This very second.

A few more kisses and he would have me.

The ringing of the phone halted our heated embrace. I listened for Gram to call for me. Nothing. I looked at Townsend. He
looked at me. I figured my eyes must've said, Go for it. He lowered his head again and had just touched his lips to mine when
a loud bang sounded on the door.

"Tressa! That was that Mo lady I told you about. She said to tell you to stay put, she's on her way out," Gram said through
the door. "You two all right in there?" she added.

I didn't take time to answer. I gave Townsend a hard shove and he tumbled off the bed. I grabbed for my clothes and hurried
to the bathroom and threw on black jeans, a white shirt, and a red sweater vest. I flew out of the bathroom and pulled on
a pair of socks and yanked on black high-top Converse canvas shoes.

"Are you going to drive or am I?" I asked, grabbing my purse and backpack. "Forget it. You drive. You have more money for
gas," I said.

I left my bedroom and blew my gammy a kiss as I flew past.

"Don't wait up," I told her as I ran for the door.

"Wait! What about Mo?" Gram asked, but I was already out the door and climbing into Townsend's red pickup.

Townsend joined me a couple of minutes later, giving me a superannoyed, superfrustrated look. I couldn't blame the guy. Talk
about coitus interruptus.

He started the truck and pulled out of my driveway.

"Your reputation as the rodeo queen of all cowgirls appears to be sadly overrated," he said, shaking his head.

I looked at him. "What do you mean?"

He gave me a sour look. "I gotta tell you, Calamity. That had to be the shortest ride on record," he said; then he gave a
wicked, albeit somewhat confused, smile.

Great. Just what I needed. A sexy ranger with a yen for stand-up. Good grief.

At Carson, Townsend opted to hang out at a table in the lobby area while I was at class. Frankly, I have to admit I was conflicted
about his insistence on coming with me. On one hand, it meant a lot that he wanted to protect me from a criminal who'd set
up shop on the college campus. But that earlier remark about protecting me from myself? Well, let's just say that put a burr
under this cowgirl's saddle the size of the stress ball that sat on Stan Rodger's desk at the
Gazette.

These conflicted emotions pretty much summed up my relationship with Ranger Rick Townsend. His over-the-top sex appeal got
every nerve ending in my body humming, yet somehow he also managed to get on my last nerve. He was a man of many talents.

I listened to the assistant professor lecture on Basic Principles of Reporting and took notes like a good little college coed.
After class I met briefly with my study group. Each of us was to be assigned a share of our final group project. Surprisingly--or
maybe not so surprising--my fellow study group members opted not to give me a piece of the action. I chose to believe they
took pity on me (I'd whined about my matrimonial itinerary, my jobs, and my need to focus on my investigative reporting project
to avoid failing) rather than assume they thought I was incapable of pulling my own weight. (No smart remarks, now.) Still,
I wasn't disappointed when I didn't get an assignment other than bringing treats (translation: bribes) for the class the night
we presented, as our fellow classmates would be evaluating our project.

I rejoined Townsend around nine thirty.

"Are you hungry?" I asked him.

He gave me his trademark one-eyebrow-raised look.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Something nice and hot," I said, with a look of my own.

"Go on," he said.

"How does hot chocolate and whipped cream strike you?"

"Will one of us be licking it off the other?"

I'm almost certain I blushed.

"Uh, I'm actually talking about hot chocolate from the student union," I said. "And I doubt very much if they permit licking
activities like that on the premises."

"What a shame," Townsend said.

We drove to the union and got our drinks. Townsend sat across from me stirring milk into his decaf coffee with a skinny red
and white straw. I found myself watching his long, lean fingers on the straw with more fascination than the occasion warranted.

"So, tell me, Tressa, just how much time have you been spending with Patrick Dawkins?" he asked out of the blue.

It took me a while to drag my attention away from his incredible hands.

"Why do you ask?" I said, sticking my face in my cup and attempting to sip some cocoa out from under the thick layer of foam.

"Curiosity," he said. "He's been in the loop on what's going on up here, so I just wondered how often you see the guy."

I shrugged. "Now and then. Off and on. Here and there," I said, babbling like a fool.

"You sound nervous, T. Flustered," Townsend said. "How come?"

"Flustered? Who's flustered? I'm not flustered," I said. Babble, babble, babble.

He shook his head. "So, if your theory about these crimes is correct, what are we looking at for tonight?" Townsend said,
apparently deciding, for now, to drop the subject of P.D. Dawkins.

"Arson, attempted murder, and kidnapping--among other things," I said, suddenly jittery, and not at all due to the chocolate
I was sucking down. Sitting around waiting for a serious crime to happen tended to give a person the heebie-jeebies.

"I don't like this, Townsend," I said. "It's like waiting for the executioner to strike. Each time the crime that's attempted--or
committed--becomes more serious. More destructive. We've been lucky no one has gotten killed. Yet. That cyclist who got winged
was fortunate."

"I doubt he feels that way," Townsend remarked. "What are the campus cops saying?"

"I'm not sure they really believe there's a connection, but they have increased their patrols. And they're discouraging people
from going anywhere on campus alone, so that's something. It just doesn't seem like enough," I lamented. "As far as I know,
they haven't interviewed hardly anyone from the class--and I know Patrick has passed along what we've learned." I winced,
wishing I hadn't mentioned the handsome trooper.

"So, based on what you know, who do you think it is?" Townsend asked me.

I shook my head. "I wish I knew. Keith Gardner has the pathology and criminal history to follow through with these crimes,
and the evidence sure points to him. But Sherman Danbury has the motive and expertise to plan and execute these acts. And
there's always the possibility it's someone who's flying way below the radar. That's what's so scary about this kind of criminal,
Townsend. I know from experience the bad guy can be right in front of you and you don't have a clue."

"Don't remind me," Townsend said. "Are you ready to go?"

I nodded. I had an early morning quiz and still needed to look over my notes. Gram's notes.