Calamity Jayne (6 page)

“You know, to make this a fair bet, Turner, if Peyton Palmer turns up alive and well, you’re gonna have to promise to desecrate
your flesh, too.” He tapped his chin. “Hmmm. Maybe a tiny raccoon on your tushie? How about it?”

“Sure,” I said, thinking this bet was way out there. Still it was a slam dunk for me. I knew poor Peyton Palmer was a goner.
“I have nothing to lose. I know what I saw.” I held out a hand to formalize our bet. “A raccoon tattoo to the loser it is.
But you better get those buns of steel prepped, Ranger Rick. I hear the procedure is rather painful.”

“Buns of steel?” Townsend laughed. “I’m flattered, Turner.” His grip on my hand tightened. “I never knew you noticed.”

“Oooh!” My romanticized version of Townsend dissipated like steam on a mirror. I tried to stomp to the driver’s side door
of my vehicle, but only managed to look like I’d had a few too many. I got in and shut my door. Men.

For about half a second, I contemplated hopping in the back seat and sleeping in my car since I had to be back at work in
four hours, but the lure of a light beer was one I couldn’t resist. I turned the key and was comforted by the traditional
belches, sputters and coughs of my Plymouth. Honest to goodness, guys, I almost teared up.

I pulled into my driveway with a huge sigh of relief, accompanied, of course, by several loud backfires. In my rearview mirror
I saw Townsend drive by slowly. I didn’t know whether to be touched or ticked. I put my head in my hands, trying to make sense
of what made no sense at all.

Murder had come to our sleepy little farming community. But I was the only one who knew it.

My breath caught somewhere between my uvula and lungs. Correction. Two people knew about the murder: me and the killer. I
mean the killer and I. Grammatically correct or not, that knowledge scared the h-e-double-hockeysticks out of me!

C
HAPTER
5

Saturday dawned gray and gloomy, which made it a heck of a lot harder to haul my kiester from my nice, soft bed. The two light
beers I’d consumed to celebrate reaching home safe and sound didn’t help matters, either. I gave quite a bit of thought to
calling in sick to Bargain City. I wasn’t certain I was up to being the butt of more dumb blonde jokes. Eventually, however,
economics won out. I needed the moola.

Besides, at this very moment I might already be vindicated. The police would have had ample time to run all their little chemical
tests on the trunk to check for bodily fluids. Ick. They were certain to know by now that Peyton Palmer had not been home
blissfully slumbering, but, indeed, had been doing a rather crude impression of a spare tire.

I felt bad for his family. I supposed he had a wife. Kids, even. I’d have to find out. Under the circumstances, a condolence
call was probably in order. The widow would probably want to know all the gory details concerning my grizzly discovery. Bummer.

I eased out of bed and made my way to the shower. I was ready to head out the door by seven-thirty. I grabbed my red, refillable
coffee mug, hesitated, then popped the lid off, peered at the bottom of the cup, and cringed. Yuck. I gave the cup a good
wash with antibacterial soap and hot water, while dismally wondering what critters were multiplying on the bottom. I brightened.
Wasn’t penicillin discovered in the same way? Maybe there was a cure for the common cold growing on my coffee mug. Or a cure
for zits. Toenail fungus, maybe? I could be rich. Famous. Somebody important. I stared at my reflection in the compact window
over my compact sink in my compact kitchen.
Somebody.

I stuck my tongue out at myself, checked the counter for my car keys, then remembered I’d dropped them in my vest pocket.
I grabbed the vest from the back of a dining room chair, and scooted out the door. The pooches greeted me as they always did,
with drool dripping from way too much tongue and the whacking of happy tails against my legs. I filled their water bowls and
dumped out more chow, then jumped in my car—emphasis on
my
car—and blew my mongrels a kiss before backing out.

On the way to Bargain City, I stopped for a fill-up. A cappuccino fill-up, that is. I always just buy ten dollars worth of
gas when I need to put fuel in my car. Old whitie wouldn’t know how to run on a full tank. Besides, I figure when he conks
for the last time, why waste an entire tank of gas? Of course, ten bucks doesn’t get me very far, especially when my mode
of transportation gets less miles per gallon than a cement mixer. Still, I was glad to be back behind the wheel of my car.
No bodies. No blood. No rubbers (sigh). Just pop cans, Snapple bottles, a tennis racket that hadn’t seen a whole lot of use,
and several tennis balls that routinely rolled from the back to the front depending on my driving habits. I stood in line
at the counter to pay for my drink.

“Did ya hear about the excitement last night?” Harve Dawson, a skinny, bowlegged little wrangler who used to do all our horseshoeing
and hoof-trimming until a back injury robbed him of that avocation, took a bite of a blueberry donut, and directed his question
to the middle-aged clerk, Mary, behind the counter.

My ears perked up, and I scooted closer to old Harve. I held my breath. Ready or not, here it came. In a few short seconds,
I would be thrown into the limelight, a local celebrity, the hometown girl who had exposed murder in the heartland.
Murder in the heartland.
Now, that had a certain ring to it. Maybe there was a book in this somewhere. Even a mini-series. Who would play me, I wondered,
and raised my cup to my lips to appear casual, unaffected.

“Ouch!”
Cappuccino scalded my upper lip. So much for casual.

“Excitement? I sure did.” Mary, never one to turn down a good gossip, leaned across the counter. “It is shocking, isn’t it?
I mean, how humiliating to be found like that!”

Behind Harve, I nodded. Being stuffed in the trunk of a 1985 Chrysler Le Baron was not the most dignified way to be remembered.

“I would be mortified,” Mary went on, “just mortified, if that was one of my family members. Pillars of the community? Ha.
Snooty well-to-do’s, is more like it. Kind of makes you glad it happened. It’s about time, I say.”

I frowned. This class warfare was getting out of hand if working-class folk were expressing glad tidings due to the fact one
of the country club set had bought the farm in a particularly gruesome and violent manner. What was next? La guillotine?

“Who called in the report?” Harve asked.

I took a deep breath. This was it. Showtime.

“Someone fed up with some people getting away with murder around here. I guess Townsend was out there, so maybe he called
it in.” Mary smiled. “He was with a lady friend, naturally. I guess they were getting very touchy-feelie. I heard she was
all over him like cling wrap on a sticky roll.”

All over him like cling wrap! Oh, I knew I should never have let my guard down with that weasel.

“I don’t know where you’re getting your information,” I spoke up, “but for the record, I have never played touchy-feelie with
Rick Townsend, or anything else for that matter. He gave me a brotherly hug, that’s all. A strictly platonic, no hanky-panky,
no cling-wrappy hug. Got it?”

Harve and Mary exchanged surprised looks.

“You were there?” the convenience store clerk asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“With Townsend?”

“Well, yes, but you see, I was shaken, vulnerable. I needed comfort. Reassurance. That was all.”

“Huh?” Harve contributed.

“You were there? You saw everything?” Mary queried.

I nodded, directing my eyes downward.

“I bet that was a sight!” Mary continued. “Lord, I wish I could have been there to see it all in living color. Makes you wish
you had a video camera handy. That would be a sure grand prize winner on
X-rated Home Videos!
”

I jerked my head up. Yuck. What kind of sicko actually wanted to witness such a gruesome, ghastly sight, let alone tape it
for Nielsen ratings?

“Describe everything to me.” Mary leaned further across the counter with a feral gleam in her eye. “Every last detail.”

I looked over at Harve the Horseman. His tongue darted out and retrieved donut crumbs from his lip, his eyes wide with anticipation.
What was wrong with these people?

“I’m sorry, I really can’t discuss the details of this since there is an ongoing investigation.” I hedged, not willing to
share my celebrity with Damian and his evil twin sister here.

“Investigation?” Harve took his green co-op cap off his head, smoothed his thinning hair, and put the hat back in place. “What
investigation? They know who did it. They’ve already made arrests.”

I put a hand on the counter to steady myself. Talk about your brilliant police work! I’d been convinced when I left the sheriff’s
office last night that the authorities hadn’t believed a word I said. Now here, the next morning, they’d already made an arrest.
“That’s fantastic!” I gushed. “Utterly fantastic. What awesome police work.”

“Say what?” Harve snorted. “Barney Fife could’ve solved this crime. They were caught red-handed.”

Caught red-handed? How? Where?

“Something was red, but I guarantee you it wasn’t hands,” Mary snickered.

Harve hooted. I blinked. How could these people be so callous and unfeeling?

“How could you?” I asked, at my wits’ end with Thelma and Louis here. “How could you?”

“What’s got you all bent: out of shape?” Harve asked.

“You
are
discussing last night’s criminal activity, aren’t you?” I said.

“What the hell do you think we’re discussing?”

“I’m missing something here,” I said.

“How can that be?” Mary turned disbelieving eyes on me. “You said you were there. You should know all about it.”

“I do. I do. At least, I think I do.” I took a gulp of my cappuccino to jumpstart my brain function.

“Well, then,” Mary gave me an exaggerated wink. “You must have seen ‘em all
au naturelle
. Tell me. Who’s the best hung?”

“What?
What?
What was that?” I sputtered and began to cough. The contents of my mouth spewed out right onto Harve the Horseman’s eyeglasses,
down his cheeks, and onto the collar of his white shirt. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I grabbed a napkin and began to wipe his
glasses.

“What in the hell is wrong with you, sister?” Harve gave me a whack on the shoulder. “You okay?”

Was I? I had my doubts. Supersized ones.

The door chimed. A mailman with ugly, knobby knees came in.

“You hear about the ruckus last night?”

I picked up a nearby local newspaper and stuck it in front of my face.

“The boys’ baseball team was caught skinny-dipping out at the lake on the New Holland side last evening,” the bony-legged
mailman went on. “They’ve all been charged with possession of alcohol by a minor. There go the play-offs.”

I brought the paper down to nose level. Underaged drinking? Skinny-dipping? Since when did that qualify as a crime spree?
Why were these people obsessing over teenaged partying when they had a murderer in their midst?

“We got an eyewitness here.” Mary motioned at me. “As a matter of fact, I was just getting the straight skinny from her when
you came in,” Mary said with an obscene wink.

“You were at the scene of the crime?” the mailman asked, with a perverted wink of his own.

“No? Yes?” My head was spinning. I tossed the paper down, stuffed the damp napkin behind Harve’s eyeglasses, and threw my
money on the counter. “Late. Gotta go,” I managed. I hit the door on a run, dribbling French vanilla cappuccino down my front.

“That’s our Calamity,” I heard Harve the Horseman chuckle.

I pulled away from the convenience store in a hurry, my tailpipe scraping loud and long on the inclined drive. I tossed my
hair away from my face and sneered. The good people of Grandville would be laughing out of the other side of their mouths
when news of the real crime and my personal involvement hit the streets. Then I would have the last laugh and a brand-new,
respectable reputation. Romeo Rick Townsend would have a cute little tattoo on his behind, and all would be right with the
world.

I worked my shift at Bargain City in a funk. For all I know, someone could have said, “hand over all the money in the register,”
and I would have asked “paper or plastic,” dumped it in a bag, thanked them, and urged them to have a nice day.

The law enforcement community, it seemed, was keeping a lid on this investigation tighter than my Uncle Frank’s grip on his
wallet. We’re talking pickle jar lid tight here, folks.

I supposed the secrecy was appropriate. Given the nature of the crime and the circumstances relating to it, it was wise to
avoid the media circus that would erupt once word was out. Still, in a community where your neighbor clocked in what time
you took your nightly whiz, the brake man at Barney’s Brakes and Exhaust knew you’d been through two bad relationships and
were just getting back out there socially again, and where the meter reader knew your Great Aunt Eunice was a lesbian, keeping
this story under wraps for this long qualified for miracle status.

Had the cops found the body? Were the forensic tests completed? Did the police have any suspects? Had the next of kin been
notified? Had Townsend given any more thought to his tushie tattoo?

The afternoon crawled by slower than it takes a cold sore to heal. I was daydreaming about a gorgeous cowboy with a great
smile running his fingers through my hair and looking deep into my eyes. Of course, in my fantasy, I had someone else’s hair—someone
for whom the term “the frizzies” is a mystery. I had earphones on, listening to sample CD tracks, imagining myself anywhere
but where I was, when it dawned on me there was a customer to my right, almost rubbing elbows with me. I pulled my headphones
off and turned. A long set of ugly fangs greeted me. I gasped, and then recognized the fangs as belonging to a rather frightening
cobra tattoo coiling around a rather large arm.

“Sorry,” I gulped. “Did you find everything you needed, sir?” I watched, intrigued, as the cobra seemed to wriggle when its
owner’s muscles tensed.

“As a matter of fact, no, I haven’t found everything I need.” Cobra Man moved closer, his brewery breath hot on my face. “But
I’m guessin’ you’ll be able to help me out. You are the helpful type, aren’t you?” He tapped my Bargain City name tag. “Tressa?”

“That depends on what you want,” I replied, my eyes drawn to the silver stud pierced through his left nostril, and the collection
of them in his left eyebrow, before returning to the serpent decorating his arm.

“I want my property,” the snake charmer said, and wound a lock of my blonde hair around a dirty-nailed finger. “I want my
property,” he repeated, “and I want it now.”

“P-p-p-roperty?” I stammered. “Did you check the lost and found at customer service?”

The serpent performed another recoil. “What I want was never lost, but it sure as hell was found. And you, blondie, found
it. Now, I want it back. Simple as that. So hand it over.”

“If you could be more specific, sir—”

“I ain’t got the patience for game playing, bitch. Just hand over the green and everything will be cool.”

“Green?” My god, I thought, a robbery! “Is this a robbery?” I asked, with a pathetic tremor to my voice.

Tattoo Ted’s eyes shot open, and he looked around. “Just calm down, you stupid bitch. I didn’t say nothing about no robbery.
I’m here to retrieve my personal property, that’s all. I happen to know it came into your possession last night. You got it.
I want it back. End of discussion.”

Up until this point I was pretty much playing a guessing game on how to serve this particular customer. His references to
green, property,
and
the other night
finally got the old cognitive abilities firing, and it became clear as the slithering serpent on the bulging biceps. Since
I was fairly certain my visitor didn’t want Peyton Palmer’s body back, even though it might well be green by now, I concluded
he was inquiring about the envelope of Bennies that had almost made me wet my drawers.