Calamity Jayne (4 page)

“Where is he?” I shouted, almost an accusation. “Where’s Peyton Palmer?”

“Probably at home in bed, asleep like most normal folks,” Townsend replied.

I stared at the trunk of the car. “I don’t understand. He was there. All twisted up and grotesque-looking, just staring at
me.” I grabbed Townsend’s flashlight and examined every nook and cranny of the trunk. “This can’t be. He was right here. Under
a gray tarp. And he was dead as a doornail. I know dead when I see it. And he was most definitely DOA.”

Townsend took the flashlight from me. “I’m sorry, Tressa, but as you can see, there’s nothing there.”

“The money!” I grabbed the flashlight again and hurried to the front seat. “There was a ton of money in an envelope in the
glove box, Townsend. Ten grand, easy.” I opened the glove box. “It was right here in a manila envelope.” I put a hand in the
glove compartment and pulled it back out. I pointed the flashlight at the palm of my hand, illuminating a handful of Trojans.
I stared at the little squares trying to make sense of the incomprehensible. What were prophylactics doing in my glove box?

Above me Townsend coughed, and I closed my fist. “It’s nice to see in some areas of your life, you come prepared,” he remarked,
a grin in his voice.

“Those are not mine! I’ve never seen them before!”

Townsend clicked his teeth. “Obviously, I was wrong about your Saturday nights, Calamity,” he said.

“Go to the devil, Townsend!” I yelled, frustrated that nothing was going the way it was supposed to. First, a dead body gets
up and walks away when nobody is looking. Then I lose about a zillion dollars in cash, and in its place I find rubbers for
a partner I don’t even have.

I waited for the ridicule to begin, the laughter, the
“dur, dur, dur
ring” to start, but to my utter amazement, Townsend never said a word. Instead, he pulled me into his arms and whispered reassuring
little nonsense words that meant nothing and everything.

I tried to process the radical change. This was a side of Rick Townsend I’d never seen. A soft, vulnerable side. A sensitive,
caring side. A sexy as all-get-out side. I sniffled against his shirt. He smelled good—a rugged combination of fresh country
air and man. My heart began to make those little pitter-patter beats against my rib cage again, but this time the fear I felt
was very different from my fright of earlier. Confusion cluttered my thought processes. This was my childhood nemesis. The
big H. The man who had made my adolescence intolerable. The boy who repeatedly asked me when I was going to grow boobs, once
over the public address system at homecoming festivities. This was the man who had set me up to meet my high school heartthrob,
Tommy Dawson, only to present me with Louie “the Stick” Parker. The man who coined the nickname “Calamity” for general use.
No. No, I couldn’t have any tender feelings for the man who stole my bathing suit top at the church youth mixer. None. Zip.
Zilch. Zero.

Shock, I reminded myself. Just shock. I moved away from Townsend.

His big hands cupped my shoulders and his thumbs made a circular motion that eased none of the stiffness out of my cardboard
cutout stance. “You’ve had a helluva night, Calamity,” he said, still close enough for me to feel his warm breath on my face.

“I don’t understand any of this. I’m not crazy. I saw what I saw. I’m not crazy.” I repeated that part just in case he’d missed
it the first time around.

“The mind can play tricks on us, Tressa,” Rick said, a tender edge to his voice that was so out of character that it was hard
to believe it was coming from him, and even more unlikely, directed at me. “It could happen to anyone.”

Yeah, right. Well, then, why didn’t it? Ever?

“I think I should know what I saw in my own trunk, for crying out loud. Give me a break.”

Townsend sighed. A real loud sigh. A sigh that said,
What am I gonna do with you?
That kind of sigh. He put a hand to the side of my face and stroked my cheek, his touch ever so soft and gentle. My lips quivered.
I looked up at him, but couldn’t see his face, which was probably a good thing considering he thought I was a craven little
coward who had dark, deserted road-induced hallucinations.

“Listen, Tressa, I have something to tell you,” Townsend said. “It’s very important and you really need to hear it. This can’t
wait.”

My breath caught at the serious tone of his voice. What could he have to tell me that was so vital, so crucial, that I had
to hear it now, in the middle of this personal crisis? I bit my lip and held my breath.

“Tressa?” Townsend now had both paws on either side of my face. I could feel my heart putt-putt-puttering like Uncle Frank’s
ancient outboard. I ran my tongue over lips as dry as our farm pond had been during the drought of ‘97.

“Yes?” I squeaked.

“This is not your car.”

C
HAPTER
3

It took a while for Townsend’s words to sink in. I admit it; I can be rather dense at times. Especially when those
times
include a disappearing corpse, a mysterious envelope full of cash (also, sadly, among the missing) and a cross-country trek
on shoes that have about as much support as odor eaters. I stared at Townsend. “Huh?”

“Come with me, Tressa.” Townsend walked me to the back of the vehicle again. I dragged my feet, not trusting that Counselor
Palmer hadn’t done a Houdini and was just waiting to scare the crap out of me again. “Come on,” Townsend urged.

I found myself back at the trunk once more. It was still empty. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or frustrated.

“You own a Plymouth, right? A piece of crap, white Plymouth Reliant?” Townsend asked.

I nodded. “I’ll resent that remark later, at a more appropriate time. And are you blind or something? There it is.” I pointed
to the car.

“Ah, but there it isn’t,” Townsend replied.

Before I could respond, Ranger Rick illuminated the back end of the vehicle with his trusty flashlight. Standing out like
a beacon to my disbelieving eyes was the silver
Chrysler
emblem scrolled across the back.

“Chrysler?” I looked over at Townsend.
“Chrysler?”
I repeated.

“Chrysler.” Townsend echoed. “Not Plymouth. Not Reliant. Not yours.”

I gulped. “You mean—”

“Calamity Jayne Turner, at this point I should probably advise you that you have the right to remain silent.”

“You mean—?”

“Auto theft, ma’am.”

I grabbed the ridiculous man’s flashlight and shined it at the rear license plate. “Oh, my,” I murmured in amazement. I limped
to the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel, running the beam along the inside of the vehicle. Now that I could actually
see the car’s interior, I saw the subtle differences. The varied instrumentation. The wood grain trim. The koochie, koochie,
hula girl stuck on the dashboard.

Townsend opened the passenger side door and sat down. I barely gave him a thought. My eyes could not leave the hula girl.
“Tressa?” he murmured, but for the life of me I couldn’t respond. Instead, I poked the Hawaiian dancer and she sprang to life.
I watched her wiggle and contort in ways that, no doubt, figure prominently in men’s fantasies.

“How could something like this happen?” I whispered. “I mean, how could I just get in and drive away in somebody else’s car?”

When Townsend didn’t answer right away, I could almost imagine what was going through his mind. On an off day, Calamity Jayne
could manage something like that rather easily.

“But this car was parked where I park.” I initiated a preemptive defense of my actions. “It’s the same color. It looks a lot
like my car, and the lighting is so poor in that back lot they ought to issue white canes. I was so tired after working all
day and half the night, and I just jumped in and turned the key and—” I stopped. “Hey, hold on a second. My key! I used my
own car key, Townsend. How could that be? How could my car key work in somebody else’s car?”

Townsend let his breath out in a long, drawn-out, noisy exhalation of air. “Actually, although this kind of thing is rare,
it’s not unheard of with these K-car models. I remember several years ago reading a report of a similar incident occurring.
This guy thought he was hopping into his in-laws’ car. It wasn’t until days later when he returned it, that he found out he
had taken the wrong car and the one he’d been driving was reported as stolen. His mother-in-law’s car had been impounded and
towed. Betcha he never hears the end of that at family reunions.” He chuckled.

I tried to make sense of what I was hearing. “You’re telling me I stole a car? I
stole
a car?”

“Uh-huh. As we speak, chances are your old clunker is leaking oil into interesting Rorschach grease blots on the parking lot
at Bargain City,” he said.

I acknowledged the evidence before my eyes. “I’m a car thief. A criminal. A felon. A two-bit thug.”

“An accident looking for a place to happen.”

I glared at Townsend. “This is no joke. I’ve committed a crime here. I’ve been driving around in someone else’s car.” I slapped
my hand to my forehead. “Townsend, do you know what that means?”

“That you broke down in somebody else’s car for a change?” he suggested.

“No! It means that nobody dumped a dead body in my trunk, after all.”

Townsend let out another long, deep breath. “Thank God, you’ve finally come to your senses. I have to admit, you had me worried
there for a while.”

“What it means,” I went on, “is that someone stashed Peyton Palmer’s body in this car for safe-keeping.”

“What!”

“Okay, so maybe ‘safe-keeping’ is the wrong word. Don’t you see? The killer never expected to have someone jump in and drive
away with his stiff. He probably planned to dispose of the body later, in the dead of night.” I winced. “No pun intended,”
I apologized, then grabbed Townsend’s arm again. “That’s it! The body. He came looking for the body.” I looked out at the
darkness around us. “He came looking for the body, and he found it.”

“Are we back to that again?” Townsend’s disgust was evident in his voice.

I was saved composing an appropriate reply by the short, loud bursts of a police siren and the appearance of flashing red
lights.

“Geez, it’s the cops!” I announced with conflicting emotions. My first impulse was to beg Townsend to hide me, but I managed
to hang on to a measure of composure. Instead, I grabbed the collar of his shirt. “I can count on you, right? To, uh, help,
uh, explain about my little mix-up with the cars?” I asked.

Townsend laughed. “Oh, yeah. Absolutely. You can count on me.”

I frowned. Yeah, right. I could count on him to broadcast this night’s activities via the mutual aid frequency in his state
vehicle. By the time the old timers gathered at Hazel’s Hometown Cafe at first light, I would be the clown of the county.
Again.

The car with the revolving bright lights pulled up behind Townsend’s truck, spotlighted it for a moment, then pulled alongside
it. I waited for the officer to announce over his speaker, “Come out with your hands in the air.” The wait was worse than
lying naked under a sheet in the exam room waiting for a pelvic exam from Dr. Coldfingers.

“What’s the hold-up?” I asked Townsend when the deputy made no move to exit his vehicle.

“Hold-up? As an admitted felon, I’d probably use a different choice of words.” I caught the grin in his voice. “And he’s probably
running the plate number through the computer to check for hits.” Townsend interpreted the delay, as unconcerned as a retiring
schoolteacher on his last day of teaching.

“Hits?”

“Wants or warrants. Ten-ninety-nines.”

I gulped and checked the rearview mirror again. “What if someone has already reported the car stolen? What if that deputy
comes up here with guns drawn?”

“In that case, I suggest you give up.”

Sweat pooled on my upper lip, and my underarms began to drip like a Dairee Freeze dip cone in midsummer. “Shouldn’t we get
out?” I suggested. “Go back and explain?”

“What if he thinks you’re making a run for it?” Townsend replied. “Some of these small town officers tend to be a little trigger-happy.
You know—shoot first, ask questions later.”

I kept my eyes fixed on the squad car in the rearview mirror. Just when I was about ready to jump out of the car and scream,
“Okay, okay, I did it. Arrest me. Haul me in,” the driver’s door of the cop car opened and, for the second time that night,
a flashlight beam headed in my direction. “He’s coming!” I whispered.

“Whatever you do, don’t make any sudden moves,” Townsend advised, suppressed laughter turning his voice husky. The beast.

I watched the deputy approach until he directed his flashlight right into the rearview mirror. Then, instant blindness. Neat
trick.

The deputy stopped beside the driver’s door and rapped on the window. I didn’t move. He rapped again, harder this time, with
his flashlight. I held my breath and stared straight ahead.

“What the hell are you doing?” Townsend asked. “Open the window.”

“You told me not to make any sudden moves.” I reminded him.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Tressa, open the damned window.”

“All right. All right. Just make up your mind.” I turned the window handle. “It won’t open!” I hissed.

“Then open the door!”

I yanked the door handle hard and shoved, praying my earlier failure to follow the lawful order of a police officer hadn’t
tainted the officer’s ability to be fair and impartial. And serve and protect. The door flew open. It impacted with the knuckles
of the officer’s right hand and his shin. The collection of curses that followed left me in little doubt what the term “swore
like a trooper” meant. Suffice it to say, the good officer’s choice of words had very little in common with fellow men in
uniform Andy Taylor, Sgt. Joe Friday, or Dudley Do-right.

I bent over and retrieved the flashlight the deputy had dropped, getting an up-close and personal look at the accoutrements
on his gun belt. The handcuffs. The mace or pepper spray. I didn’t get close enough to distinguish which, and didn’t ever
plan to. And last, but not least, the holstered (thank goodness) firearm that looked like it could inflict some serious bodily
damage. “Here you go.” I wedged the flashlight into the crook of his arm. “Everything good as new. A place for everything
and everything in its place,” I babbled.

“Hope you’re not expecting a thank-you.” The deputy took his flashlight and directed its beam across the top of the car. “Evening,
Rick.” He nodded to Townsend, whose head appeared above the car’s roof.

“Doug,” Townsend greeted him. “Nice evening.”

“It was,” the deputy replied. “Seems we got a bit of a problem here. I ran the plate on this vehicle and got a hit. Car was
reported stolen out of Des Moines a week ago.”

I swallowed. Real loud. Like if-I’d-had-an-Adam’s-apple-that-sucker-would-be-bobbing-up-and-down-like-a-yo-yo loud. “Wait.
Hold on.” I heard my own voice rise to just below the shattering fine crystal stage. “A week ago? That can’t be right. I just
took the car two hours ago.”

“You recall me advising you earlier that you had the right to remain silent, Calamity?” Townsend asked. “Now might be a good
time to take that to heart.”

“Sounds like good advice, Miss Turner,” the officer agreed. “Real good advice.”

“How—how did you know my name?” I stammered.

“Hell, everybody knows the story about the pooch parlour and Deputy Dawg. Made the sheriff mad as hell, havin’ his wife hold
his pup as ransom for a bigger settlement.”

I shook my head. “But how did you know it was me, here, now?”

“Would you believe your coworkers were, uh, concerned when they left work after you and found your car still in the parking
lot? There was some speculation that your vehicle had broken down and you’d called someone for a lift, but no one saw you
come back into the store to use the phone or hitch a ride.”

“And they were so concerned about me, they called the police?” Nice, warm fuzzy feelings swept over me.

“Well,
not exactly. See, the night manager, he wanted to tow your car. Says it makes a helluva mess in the parking lot, but—”

“Tow my car? The worm!”

“But when the city went by for the impound—”

“Impound!”

“—it was decided we’d better conduct a welfare check first just to be sure you hadn’t been abducted or anything. I was heading
out to check your residence. It might comfort you to know that the odds were heavily in your favor over any possible abductor.
As a matter of fact, several folks expressed sympathy for the unsuspecting soul who chose to snatch you.”

“Of all the—”

“I imagine you have an interesting explanation for being out here in a stolen automobile, don’t you, Miss Turner?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, officer,” I said, still piqued by my coworkers’ insensitive remarks.

“I was sure you would,” he said. “Let’s all have a seat in my patrol car. Shall we?”

Once in the squad car, which by the way smelled of stale cigarettes, dirty socks, and Altoids, I related my story of the confused
car caper to Deputy Doug, highlighting important facts such as my long work hours, the dark parking lot, and the fact that
my own car key fit the ignition of the vehicle in question. You know. The hot one. To his credit, Officer Samuels didn’t bust
out laughing or act like I was one banana short of a split. Still, I hadn’t gotten to the good stuff yet—the part about Peyton
Palmer’s dead body and the wad of hundreds.

“As Officer Townsend here may have told you, Miss Turner, this kind of incident is isolated, but it does happen on occasion,
especially with the K-car series. It really doesn’t surprise me in the least that it happened to you.”

Townsend coughed in the back seat, and I wanted to slug him, which was unfortunate, because an admitted car thief has to show
some restraint in front of an officer of the law.

“Seems like unusual things have a way of happening to you,” the deputy went on, “or those individuals in close proximity to
you. I’m recalling the time you kidnapped that young fellow from the Dee-lux car wash in the capital city. That had everyone
talking for weeks.”

“I did not kidnap that man.” I protested my innocence. “How was I to know he was still wiping down the back seat, hit his
head, and blacked out?”

“Or when you got banned from the local car wash for leaving all that horse shit in the self-wash bay.”

“I was hosing out a horse trailer, for crying out loud.”

“Sounds like a car wash issue,” Townsend commented from the back seat.

“And how about the time you went skinny-dipping at the church youth mixer?”

“I was not skinny-dipping. The lunatic in the back seat stole my suit.”

“You gonna believe me or an admitted car thief?” Townsend piped in.

“When did you realize this car didn’t belong to you?” the deputy asked, ignoring him. I frowned as he began to scribble notes
on a yellow legal pad. Notes on a legal pad couldn’t mean anything good.