Calamity Jayne Goes to College (24 page)

I looked around to see what I could use to lure her closer to the edge, thinking it shouldn't be all that difficult. The loony
ex-law enforcer was already way over the edge. And then some.

"Barbara," I whispered. "Barbara." I then followed the whispered entreaty with a soft whimper, hoping I sounded a little like
a grieving granny. The stage creaked over my head.

"Where are you?" I heard directly above me.

"Here!" I yelled. "Aaaauuugghhhh!" I surged to my feet and reached out and grabbed Abby/Martha around her skirted legs and
yanked as hard as I could in my direction. However, I had underestimated the amount of force required to propel this Punky
Brewster over the edge. Rather than tumble off the stage, Barbara buckled at the knees and she went down butt first, hitting
the stage hard, her knife flying from her hand and skittering across the ground.

It took a second for me to react. I threw my fake knife on the stage and pulled my torso up and over the edge. I struggled
to get my legs to follow, but couldn't bend them due to the tight leather skin I wore. I figured I probably resembled one
of Townsend's pet serpents as I slithered my way up. By the time I got to my feet, Professor Billings was sitting there looking
at me.

"You're not Grandmother Grace," she said.

"Give the teacher a shiny red apple," I said.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Why, the Masked Avenger, of course." I said.

"You're Diana Rigg?"

"Huh?" I blinked. Who the heck was Diana Rigg?

Billings spotted my prop knife at her feet and made a grab for it. She struggled to her feet and brandished the knife at me.

We both heard a noise behind us, and a quickly unraveling Dixie had taken the stage. She'd somehow managed to get out of the
window seat--I suspect she used the tip me over, pour me out method--and had retrieved her captor's knife and cut the bindings
from her hands and feet. She removed the tape from her mouth. I backed toward her, noting the professor's knife in her hand.

"Wrong knife, teach," I said, and Billings looked at the plastic in her hand. She threw it at us. And pulled a gun out of
her apron pocket.

"But right gun," Billings said. "Drop the knife, Dixie," she ordered.

"You didn't tell me she had a gun," I said to Dixie.

"Uh, my mouth was taped shut. How could I tell you? Besides, I didn't know," Dixie responded to the criticism.

"Good points," I said. "So, what do you do now, Professor? Your final act has just been rewritten. Your perfect plot now has
two very big gaping holes."

Dixie poked me. "Considering she's got a gun pointed at us, I'd stay away from the topic of big, gaping holes," she remarked.
I winced.

"Another good point," I said.

"I could shoot one of you and make the other death look like suicide, and that would be the end of it," she said.

My luck to have a psychopathic professor who was a seat of the pants plotter.

"Your suicide scenario has some fatal flaws," I told Professor Billings. "We all three know that no way are we going to go
gently into that good night."

"That's right," Dixie added. "And it would be a little difficult explaining why a suicide victim has defensive wounds."

"I'm impressed, Dixie. You
were
paying attention in class," the professor said. "Good for you. But, thanks to your little friend's romantic tragedy the other
night, I've been handed a perfect motive for murder/suicide."

"Was my performance that good?" I said. "Sweet."

Dixie gave me a cold look.

"My entire class knows of your volatile relationship," Billings went on. "What did you say again, Dixie? Oh yes: The only
thing she could get on an intelligence test was drool. That when she went to apply for a job she had to sing happy birthday
to figure out how old she was. That the difference between a smart blonde and Bigfoot is that Bigfoot has been spotted."

I looked at Dixie. "You said those things?"

She shrugged. "Like you haven't said worse."

"Yes, but I say them to your face," I said. "Or what purports to be your face. See? Like that. There's a difference."

"I'll keep that in mind for future reference," she responded.

Billings turned her attention to me. "Tressa Jayne Turner, I presume," she said. "I underestimated you."

"Folks have a tendency to do that," I acknowledged, pulling off my spooky Christmas Future hood now that my cover was blown.
Besides, it was hotter than Hades.

"You had me going there," Professor Billings said. "All that 'I'm coming for you, Barbara' bullshit. I wasn't expecting that."

"Gee, I couldn't tell," I said.

"Sarcasm even to the end. I like that."

"And that wasn't bullshit, Barbara," I said. "They are coming for you. The cops. Frankie. The DNR."

"Don't you mean the DCI?" she asked, and I shook my head.

"Department of Natural Resources. They investigate manure spills--among other things."

"Ah, more sarcasm," she said. "I believe I already asked you once to drop the knife, Dixie."

"I think not," Dixie replied.

"I assure you, I can drop the two of you in a heartbeat if you rush me," Billings said. "I used to nail all my firearm qualifications."

"But your nice, pat murder-suicide angle would also be shot to hell," I pointed out. "Not that anyone would buy that lame
horse anyway."

It was your basic Mexican standoff--without the Mexicans. The seconds ticked away.

I put a hand out to Abby/Martha's dining room table, and my fingers closed around the sister's delicate teapot. Hardly a weapon
of mass destruction. But it was all I had at my fingertips.

"I said drop the knife," Professor Billings said.

"I heard you the first time," Dixie spat, and I thought, under the circumstances, she probably might have chosen a kinder,
gentler tone.

"Very bold. Very daring," I said instead.

"Now!" Billings demanded, advancing on us. I sensed she was also past the point of no return.

My fingers tightened on the teapot.

From the back of the university auditorium the timer I'd set began to beep. Billings pivoted in that direction and the gun
moved with her. I took advantage of the lapse to smash the teapot down on her hand. The gun went off, the bullet whizzing
across the shimmering, disco-dancing Tinker Bell interior of the theater. I grabbed Billing's gun with my left hand and smacked
her upside the head with the shiny silver teapot.
Clang.
Dixie, meanwhile, had taken the opportunity to jump on her professor's back and was attempting to get her arm around the
woman's neck to choke her.

Boom!
I whacked the professor one more time right in the nose and heard a loud crack. She dropped her gun and cradled her cartilage.
I kicked her in the knee with my pointed-toe boot and down she went, Dixie straddling her. I plopped my hindquarters on the
professor's still flailing legs. The professor wasn't going anywhere.

All of a sudden the twinkling lights shut off and the houselights came up.

"What the hell is going on here?" The tiny lady I'd spoken with earlier now stood at the back of the auditorium; she had returned.
Dixie repositioned herself to sit on Professor Billings's squirming shoulders. Billings definitely wasn't going anywhere.

"What are you doing up there?" the woman yelled. I looked at Dixie. She looked at me.

"Would you believe 'all the world's a stage and we're merely players'?" I quoted.

Dixie grunted. "Overactor," she complained.

CHAPTER 21

By the time Campus Security arrived to take charge, Townsend and Frankie had stormed the auditorium and taken charge of our
prisoner. Once the authorities took custody of the dazed professor, we sat in front row seats waiting for the police to wrap
things up at the scene.

"What took you so long?" I asked.

"We couldn't make out what you were saying when you called," Frankie said.

"So, how did you know to come here?" I asked the slightly tardy duo.

"We stopped by Dixie's car and Townsend saw the play flyer on the front seat. We figured it was a place to start," Frankie
said. "I still can't believe it was Professor Billings all the time." He shook his head. "She sure had me fooled," he added,
and I felt the old Frankfurter self-doubt creep into his voice.

"She had everyone fooled," I told him. "She acted her part to perfection."

"She didn't fool you," Frankie pointed out. "You figured it out."

"How did you come to suspect the professor anyway?" Dixie asked, sitting next to Frankie as he rubbed her sore wrists with
his thumb. How precious.

"It's not something you probably would have noticed, Dixie," I said, letting just a hint of conceit into my voice.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"Just that you're not the fashion maven I am," I told her. "So this little detail would probably have escaped you. It's nothing
to hang your head over."

"What detail?" Dixie demanded.

"Her Manolo Blahniks," I said.

"Her what?"

"I rest my case."

"Oh, for heaven's sake--"

"The shoes!" I exclaimed. "It's always about the shoes!"

Dixie folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot, apparently still not getting it. And people thought they had to
draw pictures for
me.

"I always notice what people have on their feet," I said. "Always. Especially when someone is wearing a seven-hundred-dollar
pair of Manolo Blahniks that I would only be able to afford if I won the Power Ball Lottery or robbed a bank. Billings had
them on the night she was attacked. Well, supposedly attacked. I remembered seeing them on her feet at Big Burl's-- okay,
and drooling over them in a two-size-smaller kind of way--and then at the security office after her attack, I looked at them
again. And they looked just the same. No scuffs. No dirt. Nothing. They were pristine. It didn't register then, but when I
looked down at my feet at the rehearsal and saw the scuffed toe of my new boot and remembered how my brand-new pair of New
Balance sneakers got the toes all scratched up and dirty when I hit the ditch face first, it suddenly occurred to me: If Professor
Billings had been facedown on the parking lot or grass like she said she was, the toes of her boots would reflect that. But
they were clean as a whistle. It started to make a weird kind of sense. And, of course, once I made the connection to the
shoes, there was the silver belt buckle and laptop to consider."

"Belt buckle?" Townsend looked at me. "Laptop? What are you talking about?"

"If Billings fell forward, her turquoise belt buckle would have been dirty or scratched up, too, but it wasn't. And she claimed
she'd dropped her laptop when she was attacked from behind, but the case didn't have a scratch on it either. I've seen Frankie's,
and as good as he takes care of it, it still has some scratches. If that had been dropped on the cement, it should have shown
some signs of outward damage."

Townsend raised an eyebrow. "That's good," he said.

"And then there was the fact that the only crime that wasn't successfully committed was the sexual assault attempt on Billings.
At the time of the incident I thought that was due to the fact that she was a former cop and knew how to defend herself, so
it didn't raise any flags. But now I know it's because no matter how good an actor you are, it's a bit of a challenge to abuse
yourself sexually when there are tests that can be run to verify whether you were sexually assaulted. Billings knew about
the tests. That's why she had to report it as an attempt only."

"So, what about the hit-and-run?" Dixie said. "We know it was Keith Gardner driving because we followed him from the campus."

"Yes, but we didn't see who was behind the wheel of the pickup, did we?" I pointed out. "And remember, there was a lapse of
ten minutes or so before the pickup came back. Billings was probably sitting on Gardner's place, having decided to use his
truck for the hit-and-run. All she had to do was park her car somewhere nearby, watch for Gardner to return home, jump in,
and drive away. She almost mows us down, leaves the truck in a ditch, and retrieves her car and drives to the campus. And
remember, Billings said she received a phone call from Campus Security? I think her phone ringing in the pickup was that flash
of light I saw as the vehicle bore down on us."

"But why pin it on Keith? I thought she was mentoring him," Dixie said.

"What better patsy than a registered sex offender?" I turned to see Patrick Dawkins had joined us. "He was a perfect fall
guy if things went south for Billings," Patrick added, removing his trooper hat and leaning back against it. "Is everyone
all right?"

Dixie and I nodded.

"So, where does Professor Danbury come in?" Frankie asked. "Was he just another red herring?"

Patrick nodded. "That's right, Frankie. You see, Barbara Billings was smart enough to know that eventually someone would connect
the dots and figure out the link to her lectures. As a matter of fact, she counted on it. Therefore, she needed several viable
suspects in addition to the run-of-the-mill kook theory for authorities to consider, so she served up Gardner and Danbury.
Although I did make that initial complaint against Danbury for drinking, according to Dan-bury he had joined a twelve-step
program and come to terms with his sexual identity, and he hasn't had a drink since he was put on notice."

"So, Billings phonied up the tenure paperwork?" I asked.

Patrick nodded. "And she set the fire outside her own office to make us think she was a target. And it worked."

"It's hard to believe someone could be so devious as to orchestrate this entire production," Frankie said. "Even down to assaulting
herself. My God, she had one mean goose egg on her forehead. That had to hurt."

"To keep her story as close to the truth as she could, she probably did get it by hitting her head on the car," Patrick guessed.
"She just happened to do it to herself. To corroborate her victim role."

What continued to creep me out was how thoroughly she'd pulled the wool over our collective eyes, how she'd anticipated each
scene so accurately and prepared for each eventuality so carefully, each part so well rehearsed as if she'd known what was
to come and had prepared for it. It was utterly chilling.

"One thing is certain," I said, "she'd have made a heck of an actor. Do you suppose she really killed her grandmother?" I
asked.

Frankie looked at Patrick, who waited for Frankie to answer.

"You're more of an expert on this stuff than I am," Patrick told Frankie.

"Sometimes individuals with psychopathic personality syndrome can start acting out in violent and unsettling ways very early,
and their descent into this pattern of behavior may be triggered by a traumatic event in their childhood," my cousin said.

"Like a parent abandoning them?" I suggested, and Frankie nodded.

"As a child she may have felt powerless to control things going on in her life and saw it continuing on forever if things
remained status quo," Frankie said.

"So she offed her granny?" I asked.

"Don't get any ideas, Calamity," Townsend remarked, and I gave him a look.

"Maybe she saw that desperate act as gaining back control over her life," Frankie said.

"Or maybe she was just a screwed-up, homicidal adolescent who got tired of Grandma Grace getting drunk as a skunk all the
time and decided to do away with her," I proposed.

"I'm confused," Dixie said.

"No shame in that, Dixie," I remarked. "It happens to the best of us at times."

She frowned at me. "Why would she go into law enforcement if she had really done this horrible thing as a child? Isn't that
a glaring contradiction?"

Patrick shrugged. "Maybe in some way she wanted to pay for the sins of her past by turning her life into one of service to
others. By all accounts, she was basically a good cop."

"Except for that part about taking orders," I added.

Patrick smiled. "Yeah, except for that. I think there was also an element of her wanting to show the 'good ol' boys' that
she could do the job just as well as they could. You have to remember, when she joined the department, she took a lot of heat
from the boys' club. I think for her it may have been a lifelong battle of good versus evil. Unfortunately, evil eventually
won out," he said. "It's a damned shame."

"What do you think will happen to her?" I asked.

Patrick shook his head. "She'll probably be evaluated by some heavy-duty shrinks and they'll decide if she's competent to
stand trial," the Super Trooper told us. "Frankly, from what I've heard, my bet is she'll be spending time in a rubber room
for the near future. As I said, it's a damned shame. She was brilliant. Apparently psychopathic as well."

"Ah, but brilliantly so," I agreed. "And with a normal healthy woman's appreciation for a to-die-for pair of shoes--which,
fortunately for us, proved to be her downfall." I frowned. "Will they let her wear chocolate leather boots in a rubber room?"
I asked.

Patrick grinned. "I suspect not."

We ended up being transported to the security office, and gave our statements to DCI agents in separate interviews. I spent
my downtime working on my article--for class and publication. I was so gonna get an A+ on this puppy!

By the time we were permitted to leave, it was the morning of Kari's wedding day.

"I'm gonna look like something Gram's cat drug in," I complained once we'd bid good night to Dixie and Patrick. Patrick, I
noted, gave me a pat on the shoulder instead of a hug--or anything more--under the watchful eye of Ranger Rick Townsend. I
felt like I had an old maid aunt chaperone. "With these black circles under my eyes, I'll probably hiss and shriek at the
sight of a cross," I said. "Not a good thing in a church."

"Who's to see?" Frankie remarked. "You'll have your butt facing most of the people most of the time," he pointed out.

I winced. "That so does not make me feel better," I said. "Have I mentioned I hate weddings?"

"Only ad nauseam," Frankie replied.

"Can you blame me? My track record with things matrimonial aren't good. At Craig's wedding I caught my sleeve on fire at the
refreshment table and stunk the place up and dropped barbecue sauce down my front. And this time I've already almost caused
the happy couple to break up, delivered a dead wedding guest to Kari's door, run out of her rehearsal night to play pin the
tail on the psycho, and now when I show up for her wedding--if I show up--I'll look like I should be laid out beside poor
dear feisty old Great-aunt Trudy. I
did
mention that I hate weddings, didn't I?" I said.

"I think I've heard that somewhere before," Townsend said.

I looked at him. "You are going to be on your best behavior this time, aren't you? No idiotic jokes or pranks, right?"

Townsend's eyes grew big. "Who? Me? I'll be a regular Boy Scout," he said.

I scowled at him. "Just make sure you don't work on earning your 'obnoxious jerk' badge, okay?"

Townsend chuckled. "Cheer up, Calamity. You might even enjoy yourself," he said.

I snorted. "I doubt that."

"You never know. You might even end up catching the bridal bouquet, and you know what they say about that. The girl who catches
the bridal bouquet becomes the next bride."

I winced, remembering I was kind of already engaged and wanting no part of a bridal bouquet--or anything that went with it.
Well, other than terrific wedding night sex maybe.

"When Kari gets ready to toss that puppy, I'm, like, gone," I said.

Townsend gave me a crooked grin. "Guess that leaves the field open to your grandmother," he said.

I shuddered.

I supposed tripping a seventy-year-old woman with osteoporosis was out. Hmmm. Maybe I'd oil my soft-ball glove up and take
it along.

"You'll have to shuck the brassiere," Gram said, and I looked at her.

"What?"

"Your bra. You'll have to lose it. This here dress has your basic gauzy yoke. You can't have bra straps showing. You'll look
like a joke. People will gawk and stare at you. And more importantly, they won't gawk and stare at the bride, which is who
they're supposed to gawk and stare at."

"I can't go without a bra," I insisted. "What if they've got the air conditioner cranked up in the church? I'll get more than
gawking and staring if that happens," I advised her.

She considered this. "You're right. Nipples at attention in the sanctuary would make for two definite distractions. And there's
the reverend to think of. And there will be children present," she added. "Course, with Joe's grandson being the best man,
I'm thinking a couple of twin peaks might just be the ice breaker you two need to heat things up a bit."

My brain froze at all the mixed metaphors. Or is that similes? Oh, who cares?

"I have just the thing!" Gram said, trying unsuccessfully to snap her arthritic fingers. "I saw this on clearance at the mall
one day. I just knew someday it would come in handy. You stay there and I'll be right back."

I watched her retreating back with only slightly less anxiety than I reserved for stepping on the scale. Or opening my bank
statement.

I shrugged and padded to my chest of drawers and scrounged around for a new pair of flesh-colored, control-top panty hose
with built-in tummy flattener, wishing now I hadn't vetoed Gram's body slimmer out of hand. I grabbed a pair and started to
pull them on, hopping up and down and attempting to raise the level of the hosiery crotch from just above my knees to something
more natural--and comfortable--when Gram returned.