Calamity Jayne (12 page)

“Wage war. Make assumptions. Jump to conclusions. See things that aren’t there.”

“Oh, so we’re back to
that
again.”

“What again?”

“The body in the trunk, of course. The one that is all in my head. To think I was just starting to harbor the hope that you
actually believed me. I should have known better. What is this—humor a ditz day? Keep your best bud’s sister out of Bedlam
week? Adopt a delusional dweeb month? What?”

Townsend pulled me to him, and I could feel my nipples harden, and it had nothing to do with my cold, wet T-shirt.

“It’s National Kiss-a-Clueless-Woman Day,” he announced, and laid one on me that had nothing in common at all with the teasing,
totally-too-brief touches of earlier. This one was a tongue on the tonsils, forget about the wedgie, shut up and kiss me kiss.
By the time he was finished, if I hadn’t been clueless before, I was after.

I struggled to appear angry and offended, and to regain the ability to speak.

“Wh-wh-what do you mean ‘clueless’—?”

Townsend placed a palm over my hot, swollen lips. “Shhhhh. You don’t want to spoil the magic of the moment, Tressa.” He walked
me to my car, opened the front door, and, like a zombie, I got in. He closed the door and leaned in the open window. “You’re
going straight home, right, C.J.?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good. We’ll talk soon.”

I nodded again.

“Say good night, Tressa,” he said.

“Good night, Tressa,” I said.

Townsend grinned. “Say, good night, Rick.”

I hesitated.

“You can do it. Go on. Say it.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. Why did I feel if I called him by his first name all my carefully crafted defense mechanisms
would blow apart like Wile E. Coyote’s crazy Road Runner traps?

“Come on, T. Do it.”

I clenched my teeth and shut my eyes even tighter.

“Tressa.”

“Good night, Range—”

“Tressa.”

“Good night, R-R-Ri-Rick,” I finally got out.

Townsend gave me a pat on the cheek. “Good girl, Tressa. Good girl. Next time we get together, we’ll work on the stuttering.”

My eyes flew open, but Townsend was already walking off toward his boat, whistling as he went.

I gave my own cheek a slap. Wake up, girlfriend. What was I thinking? The guy was trouble with a capital -T. He was the Don
Juan of the DNR. A ranger Romeo. A lake Lothario.

Nah-uh. No way.

I started the car and threw it into reverse. One couldn’t become addicted on just three kisses, could they?

Uber-uncomfortable in the tight, sodden togs that were probably impacting my ability to conceive sometime down the road, I
drove home slightly above the speed limit. I pulled into my drive and hurried to the trailer, anxious to rid myself of the
need to hold my gut in any longer.

I unlocked the door, switched the lights on, and was unsnapping my pants when the phone rang. I glanced at my watch. It was
half-past ten, too late for the folks to be calling unless it was an emergency. I hurried to pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Pay up.”

“What? What was that? Speak up.”

“Pay up.”

I proceeded to bite clean through my lip.

“Listen. I told you I don’t have the item you’re inquiring about. I left it where it was. Please, just leave me alone. Okay?”

“Check out the barn. Next time it won’t be your granny’s cat.”

The phone went dead. I dropped the phone and flew out the door, the dogs on my tail. I sprinted across the barn lot, stopped,
and stood just outside the barn door. Inside the barn was silent and menacing. I swallowed my misgivings, stepped in, and
flipped the light on. The dogs raced past me, directly to the back stall, and began to bark. I grabbed a pitchfork near the
door and pointed it, prongs out, as I made my way through the barn. I stepped around a pile of horse manure. Butch and Sundance
were barking up a storm. I reached the stall and saw the dogs jumping up to get at something hanging from a rope in the middle
of the stall door. I looked up. Gramma’s gray and white kitty was suspended from a nail by baling twine, its furry little
neck stretched and extended, one kitty-cat eye open, one closed.

I tossed the pitchfork down, grabbed the rope above the cat’s head, and, supporting the animal in my other hand, frantically
tried to loosen the rope that encircled the stretched neck. To my immense elation, I detected movement from the cat. I continued
to massage her distended body, and soon, Hermione was showing definite signs of life.

I sat on a bale of hay and stroked Hermione, giving her soft, reassuring words of encouragement and solace.

A hard knot of cold resolution settled in the very marrow of my bones. Steel determination reinforced my spine. The killer
had crossed the line. Destroying my property—I mean Gramma’s property—and dismantling Taylor’s car was one thing. But leaving
Gramma’s beloved pet dangling from a nail in the barn was something else altogether. It was personal. He’d made it personal.

I gently set Hermione down, picked up the pitchfork, and jabbed a nearby bale. It was personal now. And I was personally going
to nail this bastard. Whatever it took.

All I needed now was for someone to talk me out of it.

I jumped in my Plymouth and pointed the car back toward town, fear and anger continuing to wage a battle for supremacy. I
drove by Peyton Palmer’s house, surprised to see lights on in the home. I drove by again just to make sure I was looking at
the right house. Townsend Sr.’s bug light was on, and I took a chance he wouldn’t mind a surprise visitor. He was sitting
on the porch in a wicker loveseat as I approached the stairs. He peered at me through binoculars.

“I was just thinking about you,” he said. “I tried your number several times, but kept getting your machine. Sheila Palmer
is home.” He set the binoculars down with a Cheshire cat smile, and consulted a pad on the small wicker table beside him.
“It was six-fifty-six when she drove in.”

“She drove in? Was she alone?”

“Yep. Is something wrong? You smell like a wet dog.”

I sniffed an armpit and shrugged. Body odor was the least of my worries. “I had a bit of trouble at the lake. Nothing to worry
about.” If you called tampering with evidence and obsessing over a few little kisses nothing to worry about.

Old Man Townsend raised one eyebrow like I’d seen his grandson do countless times. How do people do that, anyway? He put the
pad down with a flourish. “Old Mrs. Winegardner brought over some cinnamon rolls this morning. I’m thinking they would be
awful good if they were nuked in the microwave for thirty seconds or so. You interested?”

“Do bears cr—uh, eat in the woods?” I corrected myself before I offended the old fellow. I licked my lips. “You wouldn’t happen
to have a cup of coffee to wash those rolls down, would you, Joe?”

“Do bears shit in the woods?” He winked and rose from his seat. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

I stared after the old gent, wondering if I would be as feisty as he was when I was his age. I thought of my gramma. What
was I thinking? Chances were excellent I’d be a heck of a lot worse. Or better, depending on your point of view.

I sat and chatted with Joe while I consumed several (okay, four) wonderfully gooey, sinfully rich, jumbo-sized cinnamon rolls.
I decided Mrs. Winegardner was a keeper, if only for her cinnamon rolls and buttermilk brownies. I was on my final roll when
the garage door across the street suddenly opened and a silver Honda sedan backed out.

“There she goes,” Joe said. “Come on. Hurry.” He picked up his notepad, grabbed my arm, and pulled me toward my car.

“Where are we going?” I stuffed the remainder of the fourth roll in my mouth.

“To tail her, of course. You want your story, don’t you?”

I slapped a hand to my mouth. “Tail her? Of course! But you can’t come along.” I came to a sudden stop. “This could get dicey.
Maybe even dangerous. There’s more going on here than you know, and I don’t have time to get into it.” I did not want to have
to explain to Townsend what his dear, old granddad was doing in the middle of a meddling murder investigation. I already had
one tough guy ready to inflict serious pain on me.

Joe patted the pocket of his putrid-green wind suit. “No sweat, I’m packing heat. Besides, I knew there was more to this than
that human interest story you tried to snow me with. Now come on, girlie, or we’ll lose her!”

I followed the wrinkled, shriveled Rambo-wannabe to my car, feeling that too-familiar sensation of things whirling out of
control. I cast a sideways glance at Townsend, Sr. “Are you sure, Joe?” I asked.

“Let’s roll, Kato,” he said with a grin.

I pulled out of his drive and followed the silver sedan turning left a block down the street. “Who the heck is Kato?” I asked.

“Kato. You know, The Green Hornet’s sidekick. Bruce Lee. Kung fu.”

I stared at him. “The Green Hornet? What is that?”

“A crime-fighter, girl. In the sixties, I think. My wife loved that Green Hornet. She used to like me to wear a black mask
to bed, and she would peel that baby off—”

“I don’t want to hear this!” I yelled.

“An excellent crime-fighting vehicle, the Black Beauty,” Joe continued. “This here jalopy leaves a lot to be desired. Hey,
pick up the pace, gal, we’re losing her.”

I blinked. How on earth did I get stuck in a comic book crime story with my gramma’s main squeeze and my archenemy’s pistol-packin’
grandpappy?

“Step on it, sister!” Joe urged.

I sighed, shrugged, and put the pedal to the metal. “The Green Hornet at your service, sir,” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous, girl. You’re Kato. Kato always drove.”

“I don’t want to be Kato,” I said.

“You could be Batgirl,” Joe suggested.

I gave him another look. “I’d rather be Catwoman,” I said. “She’s hot.”

“She was also a villain.”

“A reformed Catwoman, then. She’s seen the error of her ways and is trying to give back to the community.”

“Reeeowr!” Joe made a growling sound and I drove on, thinking sooner or later, I had to wake up. Please, God.

C
HAPTER
11

“Where do you suppose she’s going?” Joe asked.

“How should I know?” I mumbled, frustrated because I was forced to acknowledge that, in all likelihood, I was never going
to wake from this dream. God help me. This was my life.

“What’s that?” He raised a hand to his ear.

“I said, how should I know?”

“Don’t snap at me, she-cat.”

We followed our target into a fast-food restaurant at the corner of highways eighteen and six and watched her pull up to the
drive-through. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I grumbled, “she just had a Big Mac-attack is all.”

“You can’t know that for sure. She may be checking to see if anyone is following her.”

I started to park the car, but Joe grabbed my arm. “No, don’t! Get behind her in the drive-up.”

“Won’t that be just a little bit too close for comfort?” I asked, acceding to his wishes, figuring we’d just find Mrs. Peyton
Palmer heading for home after her fast-food run.

“It’s bound to be a lot less conspicuous than parking in the lot and not going in,” was the reply. Then, “I’ll take a quarter-pounder
with cheese, fries, and a cola.”

I turned to my companion. “What?”

“Now who’s hard of hearing? We have to order something. If we just drive past the window without ordering, we might as well
hold up a sign that says, ‘Object in rearview mirror is tailing you.’ “

I hesitated only briefly. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll have the same.”

We pulled up at the pay window, and I suddenly realized I was dead broke. As in I had nooooo money, honey. I gave a frantic
look at my unwanted sidekick.

“What’s wrong?”

I rifled through my purse.

“Don’t tell me. You don’t have any money? You don’t have any money at all?”

I held up a dollar bill with a grimace. “It’s all I’ve got.”

“Well, that’s just rich. What do we do now?”

I slammed a hand on the steering wheel. “Don’t blame me. I wasn’t the one who suggested we order something in the first place.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me you were broke?”

“I’m always broke. It’s my SOP.”

The Honda in front of us pulled away from the pick-up window.

“There she goes,” Columbo observed. “She’s getting away!”

I waved my puny dollar bill at the student in the pay window. “I’m sorry, I left my wallet at home. I’m really sorry. I don’t
know how it happened—”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, quit obsessing and step on it!” Starsky put a white orthopedic tenny on top of mine, and we peeled away
from the window and out into traffic.

“Stop that!” I poked the old man’s skinny leg “You want to get us killed? Anyway, she’s probably going home,” I said, annoyed
that I wasn’t going to get my quarter-pounder after Maniac Magoo next to me raised my hopes and aroused my tastebuds.

We followed Sheila Palmer to her husband’s law office, which was located in a brick building on town square at the corner
of Third and Main.

“I really wanted that burger, too, you know,” my passenger grumbled, echoing my own thoughts, as we watched the office lights
come on. “No money. What do you do for a living, anyway, girl? Flip burgers somewhere? Work at the five and dime?” He picked
up the taco bag and pulled out the leopard thong and held it up.

“Whoo-doggy!” he said. “You don’t find these at most Taco Joints.”

I snatched the spotted atrocity out of his hands and felt my cheeks burn. “Anyone ever tell you not to mess with things that
don’t belong to you? This is evidence.”

“Of course, it is,” he said. “Of course, it is.”

I lowered myself in my seat doing a slow burn. Why was it whenever I was around Townsend men my blood pressure soared?

“So is it burger flipping or five ‘n diming?” he asked again.

“Both,” I mumbled.

“Speak up, young lady. And sit up. Young folks slouch too much. You’ll end up with a curvy spine and a butt flat as a silver
dollar, and men like to see some curves. You know. ‘So round, so firm, so fully packed,’” Townsend’s grandad began to croon.

“For your information, gramps, most women do not care to be built like the Pillsbury Doughboy,” I said, still grumpy about
the burger thing.

“Here she comes!”

“I see her. I see her,” I said, following at a discreet distance. At least, it seemed discreet to me, but how would I know?

“She made another right.”

“I thought you senior citizens were supposed to have trouble with night vision.” I was beginning to see just where Ranger
Rick got his annoying tendencies.

“There. She’s heading out of town.”

“I can see that.”

“Don’t lose her. Where do you suppose she’s heading?” he asked again.

“Do I look like Psychic Sylvia?” I asked.

“You know, you’re about as feisty as that grandmother of yours,” he muttered.

“And you’re about as big a pain in the derriere as that grandson of yours,” I countered.

He fell silent, then chuckled. “That boy can sure get you all riled up, can’t he? I never saw the like, except for maybe me,
and Hannah the Hellion. Every time we were within spittin’ distance, sparks flew hotter than Fourth of July fireworks!” He
chuckled again. “Old Hannah. She was always brewin’ for a good fight.”

“Hannah? Hannah? Are we talking—is Hellion Hannah my grandmother?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the taillights a quarter of
a mile ahead of us.

“One and the same.”

“She threatened to marry you if my grandpa didn’t go into the family business.”

“That brought old Will Turner up to scratch in a New York minute.”

“You mean, he really thought Gramma would leave him?” I’d never thought of Papa Will and Grammie Hannah as a Bogie/Bacall
kind of match, but they seemed content with their life together. Still, the idea of Gramma lusting in her heart for another
man had never occurred to me.

“Your grandma and I fought like cats and dogs from the first moment we met,” Joe explained. “My father was the mayor. Her
father was the chief of police. And they hated each other. They were constantly at war, so I guess it was inevitable battle
lines would be drawn, and we would be on opposing sides. By the time our folks weren’t at each other’s throats anymore, the
feelings of anger and hurt went too deep to heal overnight. We made some inroads when my hitch in the service came up, but
by the time I got home, your gramma was engaged to Will. Will was a good man. He gave Hannah a good life. I married Ruthie
and we had thirty-nine wonderful years together.”

Tears stung the corners of my eyes. “Darned allergies,” I said, a hoarse tone to my voice.

“You know, you and my grandson remind me of Hannah and me,” Joe said. “It’s almost like looking into the past. You two faunch
and fight like crazy, but I get the feeling there’s something smoldering just below the surface ready to ignite into a raging
inferno one of these days.” He sighed. “Ah, memories.”

I rolled my eyes, more for the appearance of sloughing off his words than anything else. I did not want any association with
Rick Townsend to be remotely related to such concepts as burning desires and a consuming passion kept banked for years. No
way.

I tapped my head. “What’s the name of that old-timer’s disease again?” I joked.

Joe laughed. “You’re a ornery one, aren’t you? And not too hard on the eyes, either. You and your gramma got that in common.”

I gave the shadow in the passenger seat a hard look. “You put your hand on my knee, gramps, and you pull back a stub,” I warned.

The old man laughed so hard his upper plate fell out.

“Holy crap!” I said.

“Not to worry, I just snap ‘em back in place.”

“I’m not talking about your falsies, Joe. I’m talking about Sheila Palmer’s destination. She’s turning off to go to the marina.”

“So?”

“Do you know who is at the marina?”

“No, not off the top of my head.”

“Your grandson,” I yelled. “That’s who. And if he sees you with me, he’ll freak. He’ll probably throw me into the lake again!”

“Again? When did he throw you in the first time?”

“Earlier this evening.” I chewed my lip and tried to decide what to do. I wanted to see who Peyton Palmer’s widow was meeting,
but I did not want to do so at my own peril, which would be the case if Rick Townsend found his dearly beloved grandfather
riding shotgun with yours truly.

“Why’d he do that?”

“Do what?” I asked, pulling slowly onto the road that led to the marina.

“Rick. Why’d he toss you in the drink?”

I shrugged, and watched brakelights appear on the car ahead. “I don’t know. Maybe I tossed him in.”

“You tossed Rick in the lake?”

I slowed the car down to a crawl. “Maybe we fell in. The point is, if your grandson sees you here with me, he’ll fit me with
cement overshoes, and toss me over the side for real. I’ll be guppy food by morning.”

“You aren’t really afraid of my grandson, are you?” Joe leaned across and I could smell coffee on his breath. “He’s really
just a pussycat at heart.”

“Yeah, a pussycat with great big, sharp Cujo teeth, and claws the size of Edward Scissorhands.”

“Edward who?”

“Never mind. Sh.... shh. What was that? Did you hear that?”

“Hear what? You sniveling about my grandson? Hell, yes, I heard it. And it’s downright pathetic.”

“No! I thought I heard something. Never mind. Be quiet now. Let me think. Okay. I’ve got it.” I pulled off the road and into
a clearing surrounded by trees. “You stay here in the car and be the lookout while I go up on foot and check out Palmer’s
old lady. Got it?”

“What the devil am I supposed to look out for clear back here? There isn’t a confounded thing to see. I want to be in on the
action. Kick butt. Take names.”

“If we’re discovered by your grandson, you’ll think kick butt. If I get my hind-end chewed, I’ll kick your nosy behind back
to Dakota Drive and leave you on old lady Winegardner’s doorstep!”

“Hey, I’m the Green Hornet, remember. You take orders from me.”

“Oh, for crying out loud. Okay, you can come. On one condition. You leave your piece in the car. Do you even have a permit
for it?”

“I’m almost certain I do,” he said. “But I really don’t think it’s smart to be working undercover without a sidearm.”

I counted to ten. Okay, so I only made it to five before I took possession of Grampa Townsend’s gun. I stared at the heavy
metal firearm, which more closely resembled a cannon. I looked over at Joe. “What is this?” I asked. “Did you mug Dirty Harry
or something?”

“It’s a Colt Pyton,” Joe enlightened me. “A superb firearm.”

I grunted and shipped the weapon into the glove box.

“Here’s the deal,” I explained, as we headed toward the marina a few minutes later. “I know where Palmer’s boat is docked.
I was on it earlier.”

“You were on his boat? What did you find?”

“Evidence,” I said.

“Ah! The exotic underwear.” He rolled his tongue and made another growling sound.

“I told you they weren’t mine.”

“No, I imagined not. You probably go for more conservative undergarments.”

“Gee whiz. What is it with you Townsend men and underwear?”

“Just making polite conversation.”

“Discussing a woman’s choice of underpanties is not polite. Just kinky.”

“Really? Kinky, huh? Does that turn women on?”

I was having a hard time walking and talking at the same time. The hot, humid night air was making me huff and puff like the
big, bad wolf, when the real wolf striding next to me was showing relatively little exertion.

“Kinky is not synonymous with romantic, Joe. Sorry.”

“What do women like? I mean, the women of today?”

“Why ask me?” I wheezed. “Anyway, ask a dozen women what they think is truly romantic, Joe, and you’re bound to get a dozen
different answers.”

“What do
you
find irresistible in a man?” Joe persisted.

“What are you doing, writing a book?” I stopped to catch my breath. I really needed a good exercise program. “For the record,
Joe, I don’t think the man exists who can fulfill my qualifications. I want a guy who is strong but also gentle, who can be
both serious and funny at the appropriate times, someone who is comfortable leading and equally comfortable following. He
must be secure enough with who he is to allow his mate the freedom to be who she is, but who is savvy enough to know when
his lady needs his undivided attention and gives it unconditionally, who loves no matter what, in spite of human foibles and
failings. I want a mate who is best friend, confidant, lover, teacher, student, nursemaid and therapist all rolled into one.
Oh, and he has to adore dogs, horses and children, not necessarily in that order.”

“Now who’s writing a book?” Joe said.

My cheeks grew warm again. I’d never confided that much about Mr. Right to anyone before. What was wrong with me?

“I suppose your idea of a dream date is being picked up in a fancy, schmancy car and being wined and dined in a gourmet restaurant.
Women like that sort of thing.”

“Ugh, not this woman.” I stopped to catch my breath and wipe the perspiration from my brow. “I’m more a light beer and hot
dog kind of girl. You doing okay, Joe? Need to sit down for a minute? Take a break?”

“Naw. I’m top-notch,” he replied.

Goody-goody for you, I thought, and smacked at a mosquito the size of a dragonfly before pulling my pants away from my rear.

“What are we waiting for?” he asked.

“I’m formulating a plan of action.”

“How to do away with a senior citizen by allowing swarms of mosquitoes to suck the blood from his body?”

“Why would they want your iron-poor stuff when they can feast on my cholesterol-saturated plasma?” I swatted at the buzzing
in the general direction of my left ear.

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Well?”

“I could make like a drunken sailor, lurch up to Palmer’s boat, and act real obnoxious...”

“Yeah, like that would be hard.”

“That way I could find out who Sheila Palmer was meeting.”

“And she would say, ‘Oh look, it’s my nosy neighbor, Joseph Townsend, retired businessman, Jaycee member, and snoop extraordinaire.
Hello, Joe, what do you know?’ Yeah, that’ll work, all right.”