Calamity Jayne (7 page)

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have the particular item you’re interested in.” I hardly recognized my own voice. In my dreams
I’d wished for a voice this husky.

The finger tangled in my hair yanked hard on the twisted lock. My eyes began to tear, and I knew how the early settlers must
have felt before they said goodbye to their scalps. “This ain’t no goddamned raincheck I’m asking for, girlie. You got something
belongs to me and I aim to get it back.”

“But I can’t—” I started to explain I couldn’t give him what I didn’t have when he clamped another dirty hand over my mouth.

“I hate the word ‘can’t.’ Implies a lack of effort. I hate it almost as much as I hate Buttinsky blondes who can’t keep their
goddamned nose out of things that don’t concern them. But believe me when I say, I know how to motivate reluctant women.”
He sneered, and I almost gagged at his brown, putrid teeth. “I’ve had lots of experience.”

I was about ready to promise my firstborn just to get the guy off me, when one of my regulars arrived to play the demo video
games for an hour or so. I could have kissed the little brat.

“You still have the same, dumb old game previews?” He came up to Tattoo Ted and me. “Hey, are you supposed to be making out
in here?” the freckled lad asked, staring at the motley character’s hand in my hair and fingers on my mouth. I took advantage
of my pint-sized savior’s arrival and freed myself from the repulsive grasp of my supposed admirer. I hustled to the boy and
put a shaking arm over his shoulders.

“I’m so glad you came in today,” I said, steering the boy to a more populated area of the store. “You can’t imagine how glad
I am you came in today.”

“Huh?” The little twerp I’d kicked out a record number of times looked up at me. I cast a backward glance. Cobra Man had disappeared.

“Your boyfriend is over there,” the red-headed youngster pointed toward the garden center. “I think he’s trying to get your
attention.”

I spotted my beau. He tapped his watch, then made a disturbing slashing gesture across his throat, turned, and walked out.

I proceeded to grab my carrot-topped rescuer in a giant bear hug and planted a wet, slobbery kiss on him. He ran from the
store screaming.

By five o’clock, I was feeling uneasy, both from the previous night’s excitement and my more recent encounter with Tattoo
Ted. I was now convinced I was in very real danger. I was being stalked at my workplace by a probable killer who thought I
had his stash of cash, and he was bent on getting it back or taking it out of my cowgirl hide.

I threw my vest in my locker, clocked out, and hurried to my car. I needed answers to the questions that had been cycling
through what was left of my mind. The cops would have no reason to keep their progress from me. After all, I was the one who
brought the report to them in the first place.

I stopped for a chili dog and soda, and managed to leak chili sauce on my white shirt. My earlier fright did not seem to diminish
my appetite. I have yet to find something that will. Sigh.

I parked my car on the square outside the courthouse and tried the door. It was locked. Well, duh. Of course. This was Saturday.
The courthouse was closed. I walked around to the south side of the building where the sheriff’s office was housed. This door
was locked, as well, but there was an intercom button, which I pushed.

“Yes, may I help you?” A woman’s voice came out of the box. At least, I thought it was a woman; the sound quality was as bad
as the Dairee Freeze drive-up.

“Uh, yeah. I need to speak with Deputy Di... uh Doug, Doug Samuels. This is Tressa Turner. I spoke with him last night concerning
a... a... a tire problem.”

“Ooo-kay.” There was a long pause. Then, a buzz and the lock was released. I grabbed the door and stepped into the cool interior
of the courthouse. I was met by Deputy Samuels.

“Afternoon, Ms. Turner.” The deputy folded his arms across his meaty chest. “What can I do you for?”

I think my mouth flew open. I’m not sure. “Do? I’m here for an update, of course. Oh, and to crack your case for you. You
know. Last night’s top-secret case. The one with all the elements of a Grisham novel.”

“Uh-huh. I was thinking more along the lines of Grimm’s fairy tales,” he said with a smirk. He looked at my soiled shirt.
“I suppose you’re gonna tell me that’s blood,” he added.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” I asked, returning the comment with a sneer of my own.

“What do you think?” he remarked.

I took a deep breath. “Listen, Deputy, I know who killed Peyton Palmer.”

I watched the good deputy’s jaw drop like the first hill on the Twister at Adventureland.

“Say what?” he managed.

“I know who murdered Palmer! Well, I don’t actually know his name because he didn’t actually introduce himself, but I could
pick him out of a line-up or from a mug shot book in a heartbeat. He has some rather ornate piercings and a rather interesting
tattoo. The sooner he is in custody, the better. For me. You see, he seems to be under the false impression that I have that
thick envelope of money I told you all about. You remember. The one that disappeared with Peyton Palmer’s body.” I stopped
to wait for the deputy’s reaction. None was forthcoming. “I’ve just cracked your murder case, Officer. What do you have to
say to that?” I pressed.

Deputy Samuels took hold of my elbow and steered me toward an alcove right outside the men’s john. Bad lighting. Dubious ambiance.

“Listen, Ms. Turner, Tressa, I think it would be advisable if you kept low-key about that police report you made last night.
The less said, the better.”

I nodded. “I get it. You don’t want to jeopardize the investigation. I understand. I haven’t said a word to anyone. But some
progress is being made on the investigation. Right? What have you learned so far? Have the tests on the trunk been completed?
How is Palmer’s family holding up? Can I start looking through mug shots now?”

The deputy ran a hand through his hair. “There isn’t that much to tell.”

“What do you mean?” I was getting a weird feeling about this investigation. Like,
was
there an investigation? “Just what has the investigation established so far?” I asked.

Deputy Doug shook his head. “I don’t know how to tell you this. Of course, this is preliminary, but...” He stopped.

“Yes?”

“I probably shouldn’t say anything. It isn’t my place.”

“Why? Isn’t this within your jurisdiction?”

“Technically, yes, if a crime was committed, it would be within county jurisdiction.”

“Well then?” I said. Then, “Wait. Did you say
if
a crime has been committed? If? I don’t know about you, but last I knew killing someone and stuffing their lifeless body in
a trunk was considered a crime.”

The deputy’s nose wrinkled like he smelled something foul, something other than the unpleasant odor coming from the men’s
john. “It’s like this, Ms. Turner—Tressa. We checked out your story and, so far, we’ve found nothing to substantiate your
claims. The car was clean. Trunk. Interior. We turned up squat.”

This was surprising, though not outside the realm of possibility. There was that danged tarp to consider. “What about Peyton
Palmer’s wife? His family? What do they have to say? Did they even realize he was missing?” I wasn’t sure how long Peyton
Palmer had been dead, but from the looks of him, not long.

“I don’t know about that, Ms. Turner. The local PD handled that part of the inquiry.”

“What are they saying?”

“I can’t really comment on that, Ms. Turner.”

“But they do know about last night, don’t they? About the car and the trunk and the money?”

Deputy Doug shuffled his feet. “Ms. Turner, I really can’t say more—”

“More? You haven’t said anything yet.”

“Ms. Turner, listen...”

“Deputy Samuels, have the authorities or have they not notified Peyton Palmer’s family that he is dead?”

“But he isn’t, Ms. Turner.” A footstep caught my attention as Sheriff Thomason emerged from the shadows. He nodded to Deputy
Samuels, then directed a pained look at me.

I tried to remember what I’d said before the sheriff entered, stage left. “Isn’t what?” I finally thought to ask.

“Isn’t dead, of course.”

“Excuse me?”

“Peyton Palmer isn’t dead.”

C
HAPTER
6

Peyton Palmer isn’t dead. Peyton Palmer isn’t dead.

As often as those words cycled through my head, I found myself wishing they were set to music. Something really punk. Or maybe
a rap.

Yo, Peyton Palmer isn’t dead.

That wasn’t no hole in his head.

He ain’t a swimmin’ with no fishes.

That’s what you get, you
listen to ditzes.

But although it had a certain ring to it, it wasn’t the ring of truth. I’d seen the contents of that trunk with my own two
eyes, and if other things about me are a bit cockeyed, my vision is twenty/twenty.

What about Palmer’s wife and family? I’d asked the sheriff.

The missus Palmer, Sheila, apparently an artsy-fartsy sort who was into all things crafty, had checked into a hotel for a
stamping conference around three Friday afternoon. According to the cops, Sheila last spoke with her husband Friday morning
before I, uh, stumbled across him later that night. He’d planned an all-dayer on the pontoon Saturday, if nothing came up
at the office, Sheila advised.

How convenient, I thought, already pointing the finger of suspicion at the Martha Stewart wannabe—well, apart from Martha’s
little stint upstate, that is. Conveniently out of town. Trying to establish an alibi, maybe? Still, Omaha was just a two-hour
drive.

I asked when Palmer had last been seen. Thomason’s eyebrows went toward his hairline. My guess is, he was surprised I’d asked
two intelligent questions in a row.

Dennis Hamilton, Peyton Palmer’s law partner, told the local police that, as far as he knew, Palmer had put in a full day’s
work on Friday. He’d seen him there. But Hamilton had been in court all afternoon and hadn’t returned to the office afterwards.
He assumed Palmer had been in the office Saturday as well, as the attorneys took turns working Saturday mornings and it had
been Palmer’s turn. Hamilton couldn’t say for sure, though, as he hadn’t dropped in, and the secretary had weekends off. Sometimes,
he admitted, they would check the offices for messages, then lock up and leave if things were slow.

Local police checked the Palmer residence. There was no answer when they knocked, the machine picked up when they called,
and there was no sign of Palmer’s silver SUV.

Not knowing much—okay, anything—about such things as decomposition rates, rigor mortis, livor mortis (or is that liver mortis?)
my abbreviated examination of the corpus delicti yielded few clues. I recalled reaching out and touching skin that seemed
so cold I felt a chill up to my armpit. But that may have had more to do with my realization that I was touching a dead guy
rather than an accurate assessment of his body temperature.

What about a search warrant for his house? I’d pressed. What about his boat? Had they checked his boat? Inquired at local
restaurants? Local watering holes? Maybe someone saw Palmer earlier in the evening. What about the threat I received at Bargain
City from Tattoo Ted wanting his wad of hundreds back, I continued, sensing the law enforcement-types bristling at my tenacity.
Fine for them to drag their feet; they weren’t the ones with a self-mutilating, possibly murderous, psychopath making disturbing
throat-slashing gestures at them in their workplace.

The officers humored me by permitting me to file a report, and promised to permit me to look through the mug shot books the
next day, then hustled me to the door with the assurance that the case was being handled with the degree of attention it warranted.
That was not a comforting thought.

I sulked all the way home. If the local butcher, baker, or candlestick maker had reported this incident to the police, they
would have called in the National Guard. Even the drunks that closed the local taverns each weeknight by puking in the bushes
would have elicited more action on the part of law enforcement.

I pulled into the driveway and spotted a dark blue Buick in my folks’ drive. Oh, crap. Taylor was home for the weekend. I’d
forgotten all about her Royal Highness coming home. Taylor is my sister. Don’t get me wrong. I love my baby sister. I do.
It’s just that I don’t fare well by comparison. You be the judge. Homecoming Queen vs. Detention Queen. 4.0 GPA vs. trade
school recommendation. Honor Society vs. Humane Society. Miss Iowa contestant to Miss Rodeo Queen runner-up. You get my drift.

I surveyed the Buick with a wrinkled nose. When my grandmother could no longer safely operate a motor vehicle, the little
princess inherited my grampa’s like-new, full-sized Buick for college purposes. As usual, it was spotless. Trust Taylor to
cover all her bases. Before the end of the weekend, my father would be sure to point out once or twice how immaculate sister-dearest
kept the car, and how she made sure the oil was changed every two thousand miles. My father does it with the best intentions,
of course. He’s thinking that eventually I’ll sit up and take notice. But I figure, hey, why change the oil at all? As much
as my car leaks, I’m putting in a quart of fresh, clean oil once a week, easy.

I survived the attack of my dogs, carnivorous creatures, Butch and Sundance, and played with the hairy varmints a bit before
I filled their bowls and went in. I wasn’t in the trailer more than forty-five seconds before the phone rang. I was tempted
to let the machine get it, but didn’t want to miss a call from the police if, by some freak miracle, they actually got off
their donut duffs and decided to do some police work.

“Tressa, honey, you remembered about tonight, didn’t you?” My mother tends to get right to the point. I think it’s an accountant
thing. Time is money and all that.

“Tonight?”

“Taylor’s birthday.”

I hesitated.

“We’re going out. To celebrate. As a family.”

I scratched my head and tried to act dumb. (Hey, stop that. I know what you’re thinking.) “Gee, Mom, I don’t recall—”

“I told you myself, Tressa.” My mother cut me off like the big hook that drags people off stage at the comedy clubs.

“I don’t think—”

“I wrote it in big, red letters on the dry erase calendar I bought you.”

“I must have—”

“I left a message on your machine every night this week.”

“I really can’t remem—”

“Tressa Jayne Turner.”

“Taylor’s birthday supper. Family dinner. Gotcha.”

“We’re meeting your brother and Kimberly at Calhoun’s around seven. Do you want to ride with us?”

Right, and give Dad the ideal opportunity to praise Taylor’s automobile maintenance? No way. I declined gracefully, citing
animals to be fed, thinking if I hustled my buns, I could run
my
car through the car wash and do an end run around little sister. Of course, there was still that little nuisance of being
banned from the car wash.

I jogged to the horse barn and did the chores in record time. I felt guilty because I’d had so little time to spend with my
tiny herd, and made a vow to devote Sunday afternoon to getting reacquainted.

Lathering down in the shower later, I contemplated how to break the news to my family that I had discovered a dead body in
the trunk of a car I’d taken by mistake, and now there was a very good chance the killer was after me. I hesitated to go public
with the information. Truth be told, once my grandma hears something, well, it’s like telephone—telegraph—tell-an-old-lady.
It would be all over town quicker than the flu after Christmas vacation. And since the police were moving slower than the
line at the drive-up bank on a sweltering Friday afternoon at quitting time, having the particulars of my discovery hit the
streets too soon could jeopardize the outcome of the investigation when it finally kicked into high gear. About the time I
applied for Medicare at the rate it was currently going.

Besides, Taylor, Craig and Kimmie would be there. Craig is three years older than me. His best friend, you recall, is Ranger
Rick, the beastie I plan to put out of my misery someday. Craig and Kimmie have been married for three years. Kimmie works
in the county clerk’s office. Craig is the sales manager for a car dealership. He cringes every time he sees me drive up in
my reject from the auto salvage yard. If he’s heard it once, he’s heard it a thousand times, “You sell Calamity a decent set
of wheels yet?” I’m sure this figures prominently in his tendency to needle me. That and the fact that he thinks I’m wasting
my life.

I shook my head. No. Better to wait until I could speak with Mom and Dad privately about my little car predicament. Spring
it on them when they were alone, and after Dad had relaxed with a beer or two. I twisted a towel around my head, another around
my body, and padded to my bedroom. I dug through my underwear drawer, trying to find a pair of hipsters that weren’t “religious.”
You know. Holey. I finally found a red thong that looked like it was purchased at Hookers-R-Us. I threw it aside and settled
for a pair of white old-lady undies Gramma had given me several years ago when I went into the hospital for minor knee surgery
so I would have “proper” underclothes. One of these days, I needed to do laundry.

I stood outside my closet trying to decide what to wear. It’s a challenge to glamorize a body that is most at home in tank
tops, cut-offs and cowboy boots. I usually end up looking like I’m playing dress-up. It just isn’t a natural look for me.
I’m more the Meg Ryan does Dallas type. Comfy. Informal. Rumpled, yet cute.

For the most part, I suppose you could say I’m average. I’ve always been comfortable being average. It’s a low-risk place
to be. I’m average height: five-foot-seven. I’m average weight. (Okay, so I could lose a few pounds and not miss them. But,
who couldn’t?) I am admittedly a bit cleavage-challenged, having inherited my modest bosom size from my beanpole mother. Still,
those Wonder Bras work wonders, don’t they, ladies? Thanks to three years of orthodontic treatment, I lost my what’s-up,-doc?
overbite, and ended up with a rather nice smile if I do say so myself. Usually by this time of year I have a terrific tan
started; however, two indoor jobs and zero time and money for the tanning salon had left me looking like a wraith.

I have your basic blue eyes, nothing fancy, and, as we’ve already established, blonde hair. My naturally curly locks have
always been the bane of my existence. I always envied girls with straight, silky blonde hair. I look like a peroxide Shirley
Temple, without the cute dimples, talent, or fame. Left to dry naturally, my hair spirals into perfect corkscrew curls, all
around my face. You can imagine how thrilled a devout tomboy was with a head of curls. Once, when I was twelve, I tried to
straighten my lion’s mane with my mother’s steam iron and scorched my hair so badly, I had to have it cut even with my jawline.
Even when I pull my hair back into a ponytail, those danged curls escape and frame my face with frizz. I go through a bottle
of gel a week easy, plastering my hair to my head.

I finally decided on an olive-and-white floral print sundress, mainly because it was clean and not wrinkled. I gelled my hair,
slapped on some foundation and blush, brushed mascara over my lashes, and doused myself with Bargain City clearance body splash.
Although I’m not gorgeous by any stretch of the imagination (even mine), I don’t clean up half-bad. And if I really gave a
you-know-what, I could probably turn a few heads. Some of them even male. Up to now, I hadn’t found the guy worth the effort.

My sister can turn heads without trying. Not that she’s any more beautiful than the next supermodel centerfold. She just has
more—what should I call it? Charisma. The truly incredible thing about Taylor is she’s genuinely oblivious to the fact that
she is the cause of rampant spousal abuse. When she walks by, women frequently hit, poke, or jab their husbands or boyfriends.

It was nearly eight when I left the trailer. I jumped in my car and started it, then noticed the gas gauge was how-low-can-you-go
low. I should’ve put ten bucks worth in, after all. I checked my watch again. I considered snitching some gas from the tank
Dad kept for his farm toys, but decided that would take way too long and I would end up smelling like Eau de Petrol. I tossed
my key in the ashtray, and my eyes drifted to the blue Buick. I hesitated a good thirty seconds before I hoofed it to the
Buick, and slid behind the wheel. The key was in the ashtray and there was a full tank of gas. It was a sign. All I had to
do was make certain I left the restaurant first, and no one would be the wiser.

My folks had reserved the big party room in the back. I arrived just as the waitress was taking drink orders.

“Oh, here she is.” I waved to Aunt Reggie, who’d noticed my arrival. I smiled at Uncle Frank, and my eyes drifted down the
full tables toward the end. The smile froze on my face. Since when did “just family” include Don and Charlotte Townsend and
Don’s father, Joe?

“So, here you are.” I didn’t need to turn around to figure out who’d sneaked up behind and almost scared the old lady panties
right off me.

“You! What are
you
doing here, Ranger Rick?”

“I was invited. At least, I think I was. From your reaction, I can’t be all that sure.”

“Who invited you?”

“Your folks. Actually, I think it was your grandma’s doing. You know, I believe she has the hots for Granddad.”

I took another look at the shriveled old man next to Gram, the guy who had been such a strapping young businessman in the
olden days, and focused my attention back on his annoying grandson. “You’re nuts,” I hissed.

Townsend gave me one of his crooked smiles. I’d seen him use that smile on others, and I’d sneered at the phoney baloneyness
of it. Now, being the sole recipient of its splendor—well, even I had to admit it had its charm.

“I’m not the one who played hide and seek with a dead guy,” he remarked, and took a lock of my hair and tucked it behind my
ear.

“Stop that! And lower your voice, you moron. I don’t want everyone in the restaurant to know about all that. At least not
yet. Not until the cops get their heads out of their rear ends and take this seriously.”