Calamity Jayne Goes to College (23 page)

"That's it?" Townsend said. "That's all you have?"

"That plus a cowgirl's sense of when she's been sold a hayrack full of baled weeds and water grass rather than pure alfalfa,"
I told the two skeptics. "And I've been around enough manure to know it when I smells it," I added. "So put the pedal to the
metal and get Big Red moving. Don't worry about a speeding ticket. Remember, I have contacts in law enforcement."

"How could I forget?" Townsend said. But, much to my delight, he stepped on it.

We were nearing Des Moines when I suggested Frankie call Dixie to let her know what was going on and see if she could meet
up with us. That way we could cover more of the sprawling campus. I handed him Townsend's phone.

"That's funny. She doesn't answer," Frankie said. "I'll try her house. Maybe she's home.... She's not there?" I heard him
ask a moment later. "And her car's not in the garage? Okay, yeah. Thanks, Luther. Yeah. I'll let you know. She's not home,"
Frankie said, clearly concerned. "So why doesn't she answer her cell phone?"

"Maybe she's out of the car getting gas, or she had the munchies and is in line with a bag of Doritos and a bottle of Coke,"
I told him, thinking that combo would really hit the spot right now.

"I guess that's possible," Frankie said. "I'll keep trying." He did. With no success.

We pulled onto Carson Drive and into the campus.

"So, what's the plan?" Townsend asked.

"Let's check out the morgue," I said.

Townsend turned to look at me. "You really know how to set the mood, Calamity," he said.

"Wait! Stop!" Frankie slammed a hand on the dashboard. "There's Dixie's car!"

I followed his pointing finger. "Are you sure?" I asked, spotting the car pulled off to the side of the road.

"Of course I'm sure!"

Townsend pulled up to the car and hit it with a spotlight, and I gave him a surprised look.

"Deer hunting," he informed me. "And the occasional moose, of course."

Boys and their toys.

Frankie opened the truck door and hurried up to the vehicle. I followed close behind.

"It's Dixie's car, all right," he said. "This is really strange. Her purse is in here. Along with my cell phone. I don't like
this, Tressa. I don't like this at all."

"Maybe she broke down," I suggested. I grabbed the phone. "Let's see who she called and who called her. Maybe that will help
us locate her." I began to punch buttons.

"Here. Give me that," Frankie said, grabbing the phone out of my hand. "Her last call was to you."

"What?"

"Have you checked your voice mail messages?"

I grabbed my phone and turned it on. The low battery light was still blinking. I'd forgotten to charge it. I checked my voice
mail and, sure enough, there was a new message. It was from Dixie.

"Is this the Tressa Jayne Turner that works for the
Gazette?
The one that kills harmless old ladies with her scary driving? If it is, tell Frankie that my study group has been canceled
and I'm going to head home. Have him call me."

"So, what do we do now?" Townsend joined us. "Campus Security is on the way."

"We can't just stand here," Frankie said. "Tonight, murder is on the menu. We need to do something!"

"You two, start at the morgue," I suggested. "Between Townsend's purty face and his official badge, he should be able to get
you in there so you can check it out."

Townsend put a hand on my shoulder. "What about you?"

"I'll be fine. I'll lock myself in Dixie's car and wait here for Campus Security. Go on. Go!"

"Call if you need anything," Townsend said. I nodded.

"Roger that, Mr. Ranger, sir," I said, with a goofy salute.

He shook his head, started toward his truck, stopped, then came back and gave me a hard, quick kiss.

"For luck," he said.

I held on to the car to keep from falling over. The man could kiss.

I jumped in Dixie's car, locked all the doors, and waited for the good guys to show up, listening to my phone beep its low
battery warning. My stomach growled, and I remembered Dixie holding out on me with the M&M's. I turned on the dash light to
see if she had anything stashed away in her car to eat.

I checked the various cubbies in the front seat and all I came up with was those Listerine dissolving strips that are enough
to gag a maggot off a gut wagon. One of my uncle Frank's many memorable sayings. I missed them. I missed him.

I'd searched for a moment longer when I picked up a sheet of paper that had fallen to the floor off the front seat. It was
one of the flyers the drama department had stuck on the windshields of cars to promote the Saturday night performance of
Arsenic and Old Lace.
I skimmed through it. Then read it a second time.

You've heard of Oprah's lightbulb moments, right? Well, this moment of illumination had all the magnitude of the combined
wattage of the lights at Wrigley Field at a night game.

"That's it!" I yelled, and punched Townsend's number, getting that infuriating
no signal
indicator. I searched for the car key and then remembered Frankie had taken Dixie's purse and, along with it, her keys. I
sighed. Of our intrepid trio of crime-stoppers, I had to be the closest. I unlocked the car door and climbed out. I started
running in the direction of Halliburton Auditorium--so-named for some alumni who had gone on to a measure of fame in the motion
picture industry. I tried Townsend's number again. He picked up.

"Townsend, I know where they are!" I said, between sucking in breaths and trying to keep the crotch of my panty hose from
sliding down to my knees.

"Tressa?"

"Yes, it's me! I know where they are!"

"You're breaking up! Say again."

"Halliburton Auditorium!" I yelled just as my cell phone died. "Hurry!"

I ran down the darkened streets, not amused to find it was beginning to sleet, freezing rain starting to pelt me. No one was
about. I figured they must've listened to the weather guy and had prior knowledge of the ice storm and decided to stay home
and off the roads. Good call.

I slipped and slid down the blacktopped streets, one hand on my panty hose and the other carrying my useless phone. The sleet
stung as it pinged my cheeks but I kept on running. I saw the auditorium up ahead. It was dark. I ran to the front door and
tried it. It was locked. I hoofed it to a side door. Locked, too. I pounded on it and was ready to see if I could throw my
cell phone through the window when the door opened and a tiny lady with gray hair and a black overcoat came out.

"Didn't you hear?" she said. "Rehearsal's been canceled due to the weather."

I nodded. "Yes, I know. But you see, I think there may be a would-be murderer lurking in the theater here, and they may or
may not have kidnapped a woman and may or may not be about to kill that individual, so I really need to get into this building
now," I told her. "You understand. Right?" She stared at me as I squeezed by her in the doorway.

"I'm going to contact security," she said, slipping out the door and into the drizzle.

"Good idea," I said.

I let the door click behind me--in case the post-secondary perp was listening for the last person to leave--then opened it
quietly and wedged my useless cell phone in the opening at the bottom so Townsend and Frankie could get in.

I wiped a hand over my wet face and moved quickly down the hallway. I'd only been in the auditorium one time, and that was
when I was dating a guy who was starring in the college production of
Grease.
No, he didn't play Danny. Nope. Not Kenickie, either. He was Putzie. 'Nough said.

I thought about how creepy the place looked at night. How it smelled like mothballs. How, if I was right, I was about to match
wits with a diabolically clever mind.

And where, within these walls, a murderer might be planning the grand finale.

All I had to do was rewrite the script.

Piece of cake for a smarmy, drive-by media type, right?

And for this cub reporter? One hell of a pop quiz... and failure was so not an option.

CHAPTER 20

I tiptoed about fifteen steps down the dark hallway, the sound of ice pellets hitting the roof and windows like the scratches
of tons of tiny rodent toenails. I tried several doors, most of which were locked, until I came to one that wasn't. I took
a deep breath--well, as deep a breath as you can take when your respiration is constricted by terror and panty hose that could
double as a torture device--and ever so quietly opened the door. I was thankful it didn't squeak or creak to announce my presence.

I moved about, the room illuminated only by a lamp from a sewing machine at a table near its center. I looked hurriedly around,
deciding I must be in the drama department's costume room. Rack after rack of clothing hung separated by period: Medieval
on one rack, poodle skirts and pink jackets on another. Furry animal costumes were on yet another. Hot pants and bell bottoms
on still another. Even the American West was represented, and, of course, it was to this rack I gravitated.

I spotted a hot-pink Stetson with an impressive cream and tan feather, and almost stuck it on my head until I realized I'd
stick out in the dark like Big Burl's blinking burlesque beacon. Nah, that wouldn't work. I needed something somber, darker,
scarier. Something that might give me an edge. Something a bit over the top that might buy me some precious seconds to get
the jump on the villain.

I went to the rack that held the grisly costumes. You know. Monsters. Ghouls. Ghosts. I found one that looked like that freaky
ghost of Christmases Yet to Be, with the hood that conceals a faceless horror. Now, this, this might just work. I grabbed
the hood and began to pull it on my head, thankful I'd given up the attempt to corral my wayward locks and instead fashioned
them into a long thick braid. The braid required minimal effort to cram into the hood. Once I managed to get it on, I hurried
over to a mirror and almost squealed when I saw how totally terrifying I looked.

I pulled on the long black cloak that went with it, but it was way too long. If I had to run for my life--or Dixie's--I didn't
want to trip over the hem. I looked around frantically, knowing I was wasting precious time. Time that Dixie--or some other
poor victim-- might not have. And then I spotted it. It was a black leather zippered number that looked like something Catwoman
might wear. All black leather and sexy. In this I'd be virtually invisible.

I yanked off my dress, flipped my boots off, and stepped into it, sucking in my gut as I moved the zipper carefully up over
sensitive areas and tender flesh-- a dress rehearsal for tomorrow when I had to squeeze into my bridesmaid gown. As I eased
the zipper up, I recalled Gram's waxing comment.

I finally got the zipper secured and let my breath back out. Ah, good, no stitching popped. I stuck my feet into my boots
and hurried to find a weapon--or at the very least, a fake one. I found an ample supply of these in the props section, including
several revolvers that looked very real and very dangerous.

My hand shook as I picked one up. My eyes strayed to several very mean-looking weapons: knives, swords, and claymores, one
of those seriously deranged balls on a chain with those sharp spikes sticking out all over it, plus other devices of death.
I figured a ghostly apparition in black leather would go for a more unconventional weapon than a gun and selected a really
wicked-looking knife.

As I passed by a prop table, I noticed a timer sitting on it--one of those my middle school teacher used to time how many
words a minute we read. (Kari calls the timed readings "dibbles," which always makes me giggle for some reason.) A surprise
diversion might come in handy. I set the timer for five minutes, thinking that was all the time Dixie could spare if push
came to shove.

This was it. Showtime. A star is born!

I exited the wardrobe room as quietly as one can when encased in five feet of body-hugging leather and, swift and silent as
a feline, made my way toward the theater itself. I entered the auditorium from a side door, losing myself among the rows of
padded seats and inky shadows.

Crouching in the dark, I waited for a creak, a whisper, even a groan, so I would know my theory was correct. I was beginning
to think I'd been totally wrong when I heard the fall of a footstep from the stage. I watched as a solitary light came on.
From where I was concealed, I could see that the stage had been turned into the home of the homicidal sisters, Martha and
Abby Brewster, complete with the infamous window seat.

I looked on as a figure took center stage. Dressed in a circa-1940s housedress, apron, and white wig complete with a little
ol' lady librarian bun, the threatening thespian looked like a close relation of Norman Bates's mother.

The dimly lit stage did not initially reveal the second character, but that was promptly cleared up when Abby/Martha walked
over to the window seat and threw it open.

"Forgive the tight squeeze, but your discomfort will be over very soon," the Brewster bee-yatch said, and I added an additional
nasty adjective or two in my head.

I hated when I was right. Bad things happened when I was right.

I picked up the sounds of a struggle from the window seat and saw someone manage to sit up and flail about. If Abby/Martha
was disturbing, this sight was enough to give you nightmares. It was Dixie. And she was trussed up with so much gray duct
tape strung around her that she looked like a beat-up aluminum can. But so not recyclable.

Faint moans and humming noises reached my ears as the pop can tried to communicate with the psycho who wanted to crush her.

"I know. I know. I'm sorry it had to end this way, too," Abigail-Martha said. "But beggars can't be choosers. I really never
meant for you to be the final victim, Dixie, but sometimes actors have to improvise. And the beauty of these crimes is the
sheer randomness of them all. I didn't care who the victim du jour was. All that was necessary was a connection to the class.
So that gave me a lot of flexibility. Until your little blond reporter friend began to sniff around for a story and, as luck
would have it, found one. But, sadly, she didn't fit the victimology, so I couldn't use her. A disappointment, but one must
stick to the script, you know."

More protests from Dixie that basically amounted to grunts and groans, and despite her obvious efforts to the contrary, made
me feel time was running out.

"I always admired the sisters Brewster," her demented captor went on. "Once they were found out, there was no hand-wringing,
no remorse, no apologies. No atonement. I like that in-your-face, just-deal-with-it honesty. Murder was simply what they did
when they weren't pouring tea and entertaining visitors. It was who they were. Quite refreshing really. And so it goes with
my little play. I call it 'Criminal Acts.' Catchy, huh?"

A pause as the "actor" stared out over the auditorium. "This will become one of those classic whodunits. Years from now people
will still be speculating over who the Carson Campus criminal was. Just think, Dixie. On the anniversary of your death for
years to come, this case will be resurrected and revisited, looked at and mulled over, reconsidered and reinvestigated. You'll
be famous! A celebrity! Posthumously, of course. Still, your memory will live on. That's a positive, isn't it? And I'll sit
back and know that I fooled them all. I pulled off the perfect murder. And why, you ask?" The creepy character walked over
to Dixie. "You
are
wondering why, aren't you, Dixie? Why all this attention to detail? Why all the meticulous planning and carefully choreographed
interactions? The elaborately executed escalation? Well, I suppose I owe you that much. And it's not as if you're going to
tell anyone, are you, Dixie? Do you want to know why, Dixie?" Another pause. "Because I can, that's why. Because I can and
I want to prove I can." A long sigh followed and I caught the glint of a blade. "And now we find ourselves at the final act."

This was my cue. Dixie's time had run out.

I'm not what most people would call resourceful in a clutch situation. I am, however, creative and impulsive in an over-the-top
sort of way. And since we were in a theatrical setting, I decided that my best opportunity to steal the show must, by necessity,
include something with a hint of the dramatic. Something larger than life, yet in keeping with the esteemed reputation of
the stage, of course.

I crawled toward the area where the light controls were located. I figured my best shot was to either scare the old lady bloomers
off Miss Brewster, blind her... or both. I managed to reach the control panel and when I took a look at all the knobs and
switches, I knew if my cat costume hadn't been quite so tight, I'd be dealing with some serious stomach noises that would
probably out me to the enemy. As it was, I simply bit my lip, prayed for supernatural assistance, and hit the first switch
my shaking fingers came to. It was a solitary spotlight and it shone directly in the center of the stage where, for most of
the monologue, the "star" had stood.

"Who is it? Who's there?" I heard.

I spotted a microphone sticking up out of the console. I searched my brain for something really scary to say, something that
would creep out even a psychopathic sociopathic narcissist with dreams of the stage. Something that would make the Carson
College criminal think twice about screwing with my final grade.

I took a deep breath and grabbed the mike. "I'm coming for you, Barbara."

The darkened theater grew hushed and eerily silent. I felt like I was in a low-rent mish-mash of
The Phantom of the Opera
and
Shawn of the Dead.

"Who's there!" came again from stage level.

"Why, Barbara? Why?" I whispered into the microphone, not quite sure where I was headed with this dialogue but feeling the
definite magic and lure of the stage.

"Grandmother?"

Grandmother? I blinked, puzzled, but like any good actor went with the moment.

"Yes, Barbara. It's Grandmother," I said with a soothing tone to my voice--in other words, the opposite of my own dear ol'
granny. "Grandmother Grace," I added, recalling she'd told me Grandma Grace raised her.

"Why have you come here? Why have you come back?" Barbara Billings asked.

What was I? Psychic Sylvia?

"You know, Barbara," I said into the microphone. "To keep you from doing something you will come to regret."

"But you're dead," Barbara said. "I killed you."

Uh, say what?

Okay, I'll admit there are times I get a wee bit frustrated with Hellion Hannah, but had I ever thought of harming a blue-gray
hair on her head? (You can't count the time I accidentally on purpose knocked the winkie off one of her more energetically
endowed fertility God statues. That wasn't her. But tell me. How would you like a collection of excited erections decorating
your living room?)

Professor Billings's psychopathology read like an M. Night Shyamalan screenplay. No buttered popcorn or Sour Patch Kids during
this one, boys and girls.

"Grandmother Grace? Grandmother?"

"I'm here, child. And I've come for you." I was getting close to using up my meager store of dead old lady dialogue. And when
you think about me not being able to come up with something to say, well, it's actually quite remarkable.

"Where are we going?" Professor Billings asked.

"To a place where there's no more trouble," I said, borrowing this notable quote from Dorothy Gale. Tell me you could do better.

I decided it was time to make my movie--uh, my move. I started to flip console switches. The entire theater was suddenly filled
with tons of dancing lights, as if a gazillion Tinker Bells were frolicking about the room in search of Peter Pan.

"I'm coming for you, Barbara," I said again, and hit the button to start the timer. I crept out from behind the console and
slipped across the theater on my hands and knees, shielded by a row of theater seats. I made it to the far aisle and stopped
to catch my breath--my tight leather garment constricting lung function--and continued my progress to the front of the auditorium.
I crawled across the floor near the front of the stage, no real idea how I planned to disarm the knife-wielding criminal mastermind.

"Grandmother?"

From her voice, I could tell Barbara had moved closer to the edge of the stage. I suddenly recalled an incident from my calamitous
childhood that involved Rick Townsend. And no, my story has nothing whatsoever to do with a game of Choo-choo Train or Let's
Play Doctor, so get that thought right outta your head, hear?

Rick Townsend was a frequent overnight guest at our house. One particular Friday night, somewhere around Halloween when my
parents happened to be working late in the barn and Taylor was at a friend's house for a sleepover (little Miss Popular),
I'd decided to watch a monster movie marathon before I went to bed. I was like five at the time. Okay, so I was really seven,
but that's not pivotal to the story. Bottom line, folks? Bad idea. Especially with two moronic meat-heads in the house. I'd
awoken to sounds coming from downstairs.

Picture cute, blond, adorable little Tressa in her Black Stallion pajamas padding down the hall and out of her room to the
door at the top of the stairs. Picture precocious little Tressa calling out for big brother Craig but getting no answer. Picture
nervous little Tressa reaching out to open the basement door and switching on the light, but it doesn't come on. Picture plucky
little Tressa taking a shaky step down the first step and down the second, and on the third step a hand reaches out and grabs
Tressa's ankle. Picture poor little Tressa screaming bloody murder and bouncing down the stairs on her butt, squirting pee
as she hits each step.

As plans went, it wasn't much, but it did have a track record of limited success--and it was all I had in my bag of tricks.

"Who's out there?" Barbara stepped closer to the edge.

Just a little closer, Professor. Just one more step.
I just prayed Dixie kept still and didn't draw Billings away from the precipice before I had time to spring my trap. Such
as it was.