Calamity Jayne (10 page)

That was my current working theory. But just how did I go about proving it? I thought for a moment. Weren’t criminals supposed
to return to the scene of their crimes? Maybe one of my suspects would inadvertently lead me to Peyton Palmer’s body. After
all, who would ever expect some ditzy blonde airhead might actually set up surveillance on two murder suspects in order to
prove a murder took place? I frowned. Not a soul. That’s who.

I looked down at the notepad I held in my lap.
Where are you, Peyton Palmer?
I’d written. “Where are you?”

C
HAPTER
9

Okay, at this point I started getting second thoughts about the amateur private eye business I’d started. You know the feeling.
The one you get when you promise to be a bridesmaid in your friend’s wedding and then get a look at the bridesmaid dresses.
Or, in a moment of extreme weakness, you agree to a blind date set up by a senior citizen who still has the hots for Guy Lombardo.

What made me think I, of all people, could solve a murder-mystery? I was the intellectual lightweight of the family. The space
cadet. Jerry Lewis to everyone else’s Dean Martin. Did I really think I could do the cops’ work for them with any level of
competency at all?

Remembering the lipstick greeting on my bathroom wall, and the dangerous character who’d delivered it in person, dispensed
any lingering doubts. You betcha I could do the cops’ work for them. You bet I could. Funny how fear of bodily injury and
painful death works wonders on the old self-esteem. I consulted my steno pad again. Since it was Sunday, I would have to put
off any interrogation of Palmer’s staff until the following morning. I wanted to see if my snake charmer had ever visited
the offices of Palmer and Hamilton, attorneys-at-law.

Meanwhile, I had about two hours before I had to be back at Bargain City for a six-hour shift. Used to be, stores didn’t open
up on a Sunday in Grandville so folks could spend the day at church and with their families. Unfortunately, or fortunately
if you’re like me and need a paycheck, small-town retailers realized they were missing out on lots of business, so they began
to open on Sundays, with shorter hours. Our Dutch neighbors to the west still observe that closed-on-Sunday tradition. You
need something on a Sunday in New Holland, you either do without, or get in the car and drive twelve miles to the county seat.

I looked back through my notes to a boat I’d drawn during my visit with Joe. He’d confirmed Peyton Palmer was an avid boater
and rarely missed an opportunity to get out on the lake. It was his passion, Joe said. Hmmm. No wonder Mrs. Palmer diddled
his law partner. Palmer’s passion meant I needed to do a little nosing around at the marina, take a look at his boat, and
see if anyone could recall seeing Palmer or Hamilton at the lake Friday afternoon or early evening.

Unfortunately, I knew even less about boats than I did about how e-mail works. Which meant I needed someone who was familiar
with things nautical, someone who routinely visited the marina, who knew the regulars and who could chew the fat with them
and not draw undue suspicion. My belly made a gimme-antacid-now sound. I groaned.

Townsend. It would have to be Townsend. He had a boat at the marina and almost lived there himself. And I’d take bets he was
on a first-name basis with the Devil himself. I’d have to recruit Townsend to help me check out the marina. Convincing him
would be the sticky part.

I decided to conduct a quick drive-by of Dennis Hamilton’s home, which was located on a quiet little cul-de-sac in an older
part of town. A long, elegant white brick ranch-style home, its garage door was open and a classy silver Lincoln sat inside.

I drew a quick sketch of the home and neighboring houses, in case I had to come back after dark. Just the thought gave me
corn-starch mouth.

I was putting the final touches on my masterpiece when my passenger side door was flung open. I gave an abbreviated yelp before
I recognized the long legs folding into my car as belonging to Townsend, the younger. He was gorgeous, as usual, sporting
black bike shorts, a nylon black and gold V-neck, and a tan that made you itch to see if there was any white anywhere.

“What the h—what are you doing here?” I demanded, quickly covering my notebook. “You could give a person a heart attack sneaking
up on them like that,” I complained.

“I’m riding my bike. The question I have for you is, why are you sitting at Dennis Hamilton’s house looking like a bad impression
of a stakeout?”

“Oh, is this Dennis Hamilton’s house?” I asked. “I didn’t know.” My eyes caught sight of a for-sale sign in the yard next
to Hamilton’s. “I was just checking out the house with the for-sale sign. I might be interested.”

“In what? Cutting the grass for the realtor?”

I wrinkled my nose. “No. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about purchasing a home. I hear they have some super deals for
first-time home buyers.”

Townsend pulled his sunglasses off. “If you’re really interested in this piece of property,” he said, “I think I can help
you out. I know the listing agent personally. I’ll just give her a call and see if she can come out and get you in to take
a look at it.” He pulled his cell phone out of his shorts pocket.

“That is so nice of you,” I said, in a voice that conveyed just the opposite. “But I’m just in the very preliminary stages
of my search. These things take time. Careful consideration.”

“And money, which you must be making more of at Bargain City and the Dairee Freeze than I suspected if you can afford a house
worth nearly a quarter of a million.”

I began to perspire as if I really were considering a purchase of that magnitude. “A person can dream, can’t they?” I squeaked.

“Fess up, Tressa.” Townsend put his phone away. “You’re spying on Dennis Hamilton. Why?”

“I’m not spying,” I said. “I’m just admiring his landscaping. I thought I would make a few sketches to take back and incorporate
at my own humble abode.”

Before I could stop him, Townsend swiped my notebook and had it open.

“Give that back to me!” I made a lunge for it. “Give it back!” Yeesh. I sounded just like an elementary school sissy asking
the school bully for my sack lunch back.

“What the hell is all this?” Townsend shook his head. “Good lord, Tressa, are you nuts? You can’t be serious. You’re butting
into an official police investigation here. That’s serious shit!”

I snatched my pad from him. “There is no police investigation, Ranger Townsend, and you know it,” I snapped. “The cops think
I’m a raving lunatic. They don’t take me seriously. They never have. And neither do you.”

“That’s not true, Tressa.” Rick took hold of my chin and turned my head to meet his gaze. I had to give him credit. His expression
looked serious enough. But he had donned a similar sober countenance when he’d offered me a lift to the State Fair one day
but failed to mention he was also transporting snakes for a display at the Division of Natural Resources building.

I am petrified of snakes. I think it goes back to my childhood hay-baling days. When you bale hay, it is inevitable that you
will, from time to time, bale a snake or two. (PETA folks, please remember that this happens purely by accident.) Sometimes
the snakes would die. Sometimes they wouldn’t. Sometimes, they would come slithering out of the hay bales. Usually they would
slither out of the hay bale I happened to be stacking. With the history I shared with Townsend, there was ample reason for
me to be skeptical about anything he said.

I grabbed his hand. “It
is
true, and you know it, Townsend. I admit I’ve had my meathead moments, but it doesn’t help matters when you are always front
and center ready to spotlight them. Regardless of what you or anyone else thinks, I do have a brain and it is quite adequate
for my needs, thank you very much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more house hunting to do.”

“Tressa, you’ve got to let the police handle this.”

“But they’re not handling it, Townsend. You said it yourself. They think it’s all a hoax. And while they are sitting around
with their fingers up their... noses, I’m Bambi’s mother trying to elude the great white hunter in a construction-paper forest.
So you can do one of two things here. Either help me solve this mystery, or get the hell out of my way!” I was stunned by
my kick-butt-and-take-names ultimatum. What do you know? I was a regular Dirty Harriet!

Townsend blew out a gale force blast of breath that sent my pine air freshener swinging. “All right, Tressa. Have it your
way,” he said.

I frowned. “What does that mean, exactly?” I asked.

“What the hell do you want me to do?”

I smiled at Townsend. “Oh, you’re just gonna love this assignment. It’s right up your alley.”

“Hell,” Townsend said.

I filled him in.

“Hell,” he said again.

I didn’t have time to go home and change before I went to work, but I figured: Who cares how a lowly electronics associate
looks? As long as I wore my red vest and kept behind the counter, who was to know what I was wearing from the waist down?

I was flipping the TV channels between a WPCA golf tournament, to NASCAR, to one of those infomercials that promise a six-pack
if you buy their workout video, when the clearing of a throat at my checkout alerted me to a waiting customer. I hurried over
to my counter.

“Sorry,” I apologized for keeping him waiting. “Did you find everything you needed?” He moved a stack of CDs towards me.

“This will be all, thank you,” he said, and I scanned the tunes—oldies, but goodies. Sinatra—Frank, not Nancy—Nat King Cole,
Tony Bennett and some Yanni instrumentals. I raised my eyebrows. Music to get lucky by. I ran his total and he handed me his
credit card. I blinked when I saw the name. Dennis Hamilton. Hello! The same Dennis Hamilton who, according to one nosy old
goat, was showing more than his briefs to his murdered law partner’s wife? The guy I’d staked out earlier in the day? The
same fellow who figured prominently in my own little version of Murder in the Heartland? Talk about your opportunity knocking!
I looked at the mood music and my customer with renewed interest.

In his mid-to-late thirties, Dennis Hamilton wore his light brown hair wavy on top and closely-cropped on the sides. Sharp,
angular features partnered with a weak chin kept him from being handsome. Several inches taller than me, he was of medium
build. His pale blue eyes lacked color and warmth. Not exactly my idea of a hot, secret love, but then again, Peyton Palmer
had been no pin-up.

“Nice selection of tunes,” I said as I zipped Hamilton’s card through the machine. “Very romantic.” I batted my eyes at him.
“I love Sinatra. Frank, not Nancy,” I qualified, and performed a Marilyn Monroe pout. I must not have done it very well, because
the only reaction I got was a vague look and an impatient tap on the counter. “Don’t you?” I tried again, leaning toward him
in what I hoped was a hi-there,-big-boy,-come-up-and-see-me-sometime come-on.

“Since I’m purchasing his CDs, I’d say that was evident.” He checked his wristwatch, an expensive one from the look of it.
Of course, anything that didn’t come free with a backpack purchase qualified as expensive to me.

“Don’t I know you?” I gave up my vamp persona. It rarely ever works for me, anyway—I always have trouble keeping a straight
face. Instead, I opted for the more direct approach, keeping his credit card clutched tightly in my Manic Mauve nail-colored
fingers. “Hey, aren’t you that attorney I read about who got charged with smuggling drugs to his client right in the county
jail? Something like that?” A deep red stain began to make its way from the collar of his tan three-button polo shirt, and
infused his general neck area. Even his ears turned a bright crimson.

“You’re mistaken. That was another local attorney. Peyton Palmer.”

“Was,” was right.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry, Mr. Hamilton. But I was sure I saw your name mentioned in the article.”

“Peyton Palmer is an associate of mine. We work in the same law firm. That is the only connection I have with his affairs.”
Other than the little one with his wife—or rather, widow.

“I’m curious. How does a person smuggle drugs into a jail, I wonder? Do they hide it in their shoe? Swallow it like those,
what do they call them—camels—do with those heroin-filled balloons?”

“Mules!” he snapped, reaching for his credit card.

“What?” I asked.

“They’re called mules, not camels.”

“Mules. Right. Gotcha. Hey, maybe they call them camels in the Middle East?” I joked. “How would someone get drugs into a
jail of all places?”

“I have no idea how the drugs were passed in the jail facility, or even if they were passed at all,” Hamilton snapped, clearly
unhappy with the topic and the person who had chosen it.

“The article didn’t say. Who was the inmate he allegedly passed drugs to? Do you know? What was he in for? How is Mr. Palmer
holding up?”
By now, not so good.
“What about his family? His wife? Is Sheila sticking by him?”

I’d gone too far. Crossed the line. Given a whole new face to nosiness.

“How do you know Sheila?” Hamilton asked.

“I do a little, uh, stamping,” I threw out, hoping he would consider a mutual stamp junkie harmless.

“Sheila’s very gifted,” he said. “Very talented, indeed.”

I fought the inclination to roll my eyes. How hard could stamp-collecting be?

“I have rather a nice collection of stamps myself,” I said. “Some of them haven’t even been canceled.”

Hamilton gave me a strange look. “Sheila Palmer doesn’t collect stamps. She designs stamps for ink pad stamping,” he said.
“What’s going on here? Why are you so interested in Peyton Palmer and his legal troubles, anyway? Why are you asking all these
questions? I came in here to buy CDs, not be hassled by a minimum wage sales clerk.” He grabbed his credit card out of my
hand, and scribbled his signature on the credit card receipt. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I stapled his receipt to his bag. “Just friendly conversation, sir. That’s all.” I handed him his CDs. “I hope your lady friend
enjoys the tunes.”

He snatched the bag from me and stomped away. Another satisfied customer.

I sighed, totally bummed out because I hadn’t learned a thing from Hamilton other than he was hoping to get lucky. And where
did that leave me? With a big-time headache, a lot of questions, and a feeling that time was running short.

I finally clocked out at six-fifteen. I had arranged to meet my reluctant comrade at the marina around seven-thirty. That
should give me enough time to run home, change my clothes, and throw a meal in my face.