Calamity Jayne Heads West (9 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sophie reached into the backseat and grabbed her handbag. I stared at it.

“Is that what I think it is?” I asked, unable to take my eyes off the white calfskin leather shopper with the oversized brown leather buckle and tan trim.

“That depends,” Sophie said. “What do you think it is?”

I ran my fingertips over the cool, smooth leather, and closed my eyes in ecstasy. “I think it’s a pricey little Dolce & Gabbana,” I told her.

“Then you’d be wrong,” she said.

I traced the embossed D&G with a fingertip. “What about this monogram?” I asked.

“Ever heard of Dollar General?” she said. I shook my head.

“I may be a country girl, and the closest I’ll get to leather this fine is one of my saddles, but I know a quality handbag when I see it—and sniff it,” I added, bringing the bag to my nostrils and closing my eyes for a whiff. “And if my nose doesn’t deceive me”—Isucked in the smell—“this little number goes for around five hundred smackaroos.” I opened my eyes. “Where the heck did you get that much money to spend on a handbag?”

She took the bag and made a big deal of searching around in it. “I have a job. I earn money,” she said. “Plus tips, of course.”

I raised an eyebrow. Her waitressing job obviously brought in better tips than my gig at the Dairee Freeze. The best tip I’d gotten was from a grade-school customer who left a wad of bubble gum under the front counter.

“Is that so?” I said, noting the color in her cheeks. “Apparently pigs-in-a-blanket go for more out here than back home,” I observed. “You’ve given me a seri-ous case of purse envy. The bag rocks.”

“Thanks,” she said, and stuck her keys in the side pocket and closed the bag.

We approached the bar and I couldn’t decide if I was tickled or ticked when the big, bulky, no-necked guy at the door with absolutely nothing in common with a Wal-mart greeter merely nodded at Sophie but requested photo identification from me. He took so long examining my driver’s license I started to get nervous.

“Iowa, huh?” he said. I nodded, hoping to God he didn’t say something about taters. Or my driver’s li-cense photo that could be used in photo line-ups. Or the weight listed on my driver’s license. “Vacation?” he inquired.

I shook my head. “Wedding,” I answered. “Not mine,” I qualified. “Our gammy,” I said, motioning in Sophie’s direction.

He stared. “Right. Well, have a nice visit, Tressa,” he said.

I stared back. “How—”

“Your license,” he said, handing the plastic card back to me with a smile.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” I said, thinking maybe there was something in the air up here that was making me para-noid. I hurried over to Sophie.

“You have been here before,” I accused as we made our way over to the long shiny bar. “Did you see that? The guy didn’t give you a second look but he detained me longer than the guy at Sky Harbor did after I set off the metal detector three times. And so what if it was my license photo that got his attention? I had a partic-ularly nasty flu bug that day, and it was really windy outside and I’d jogged to the courthouse after just fin-ishing a shift at the Dairee Freeze where the ice cream machine exploded on me. Other than that, I’d say it was a good likeness. And everyone lies about their weight on those things. I bet even Hillary Clinton fudges her weight on her driver’s license. I’d say ‘have you seen the ankles on that woman?’ but I’m not sure she has any. No wonder she wears pantsuits.”

Sophie gave me a look.

“So, what’s good?” I asked as we bellied up to the bar.

She shrugged. “How should I know? I don’t drink.”

I looked at her. “You don’t drink? Why the fake ID then?”

She cast an eye in the long mirror behind the bar. “I wanted to get in but I never drank.”

“So, what did you do?” I asked, spotting the long ta-bles set up for this evening’s entertainment and the ol’ generator finally kicked on. “Ah, you feel the need for speed,” I said, nodding. “Speed dating, that is. How’s that worked out for you?”

“I’ve met a few nice guys,” she said. “But no one to write home about. It’s more of a pastime than any-thing,” she added. “I don’t have time for a relationship.”

“I’ll drink to that!” I said with “hear, hear!” verve, atthe same time swallowing a sudden thickness in my throat. No time for dating. That was my own oft-used excuse for a lackluster love life of late. It was right up there with “I need to focus on my career,” “I’ll start dating seriously again once I lose these last ten pounds” and “all the good ones are married or gay.” Whatever gets us through the night, eh, ladies?

I ordered a light beer while Sophie nursed a Diet Coke as the place filled up. I picked up my backpack and rifled through it.

“Why’d you bring what’s-his-name, anyway?” she asked, motioning to the bag where Kookamunga presently resided.

“You know Gram and gift-giving,” I reminded So-phie. “Remember the Christmas she unwrapped all the gifts under the tree to see who was getting what—and then wrapped them back up but in the process got them mixed up?” Imagine my dad’s surprise when he opened a Lady Remington shaver and a gift certificate to the I’m Every Woman Salon and Day Spa. I knew something was afoot when I opened my gift expecting to find a Megamall gift card only to discover a six-month membership to the Rec Center. Okay, so my gammy’s not the only one in the family to do a little pre-Christmas snooping. It’s in the genes, folks. She’s even been known to take back what she doesn’t care for, replace it with an item she wants, and wrap it back up. One year when someone mentioned something to Gram, she pointed out that it saved her from a flare-up of her sciatica from standing in line after Christmas to take them back. After that, no one had the heart to say anything.

I shook my head. “Trust me, Sophie. Kookamunga is safer right here with us,” I said, patting my bag.

I sipped my beer, keeping an eagle eye open for Ranger Rick, Officer Whitehead, or my new friendfrom Oak Creek Canyon—but trying not to look like I was looking.

“Numbers is pleased to welcome you folks this eve-ning, and we thank you for coming out to party with us tonight,” came over the sound system. “We’ll be starting our first round of speed dating at eight o’clock sharp. That gives you just about five minutes, ladies and gentlemen, five minutes to take your places at the long tables and perhaps meet your match!”

Dancing lights raced around approximately twenty tables or so that were moved together to form one very long one. Two chairs facing one another at each table invited optimistic occupants looking for love in five minutes or less to sit down and try their luck.

“As always, Numbers accepts no responsibility for what occurs between consenting speed daters.”

I took a sip of my beer. What do you know? A speed-dating disclaimer. Who knew?

I reached out to grab a handful of pretzels and was about to make some smart-mouthed remark to Sophie about the impossibly dire circumstances that would compel me to plant my carcass in one of those speed dating seats when my Ranger-Rick radar started hum-ming and pulsing and pinging for all it was worth. My eyes darted to the long, broad mirror behind the bar, and my lip curled as I fixed Mr. I-never-planned-to-go firmly in my sights, locked and loaded.

Strike gold, huh? Explore the possibilities, huh? Who the hell did he think he was? Christopher Colum-bus? Suddenly the idea that he might discover me there spying on him no longer held the appeal it had. Maybe because I was afraid my being here might be in-terpreted as an admission of feelings for the sneaky ranger. Maybe because that could be right and I just wasn’t ready to accept that terrifying little truth. Or even worse, broadcast it.

Or it could be I just didn’t want to be such a piss-poor spy that I got made so early in the night.

Whatever the reason, the heart or the ego (sounds like something from a Dr. Seuss poem, doesn’t it?), I wasn’t about to let Ranger Rick discover me there un-til I was good and ready. I watched Townsend look around, then slowly make his way in the direction of the bar.

“Crap!”

I looked around for the exits—saw I’d have to go right past Townsend to use them—when I spotted sev-eral empty spots on the far end of the speed dating table. I reached out, grabbed Sophie’s hand and yanked her down off her bar stool.

“Let’s go,” I said, leading her toward the empty seats.

“What are you doing?” Sophie asked as I shoved her into a chair opposite me. “This is for the speed dating and this side is for the guys.”

I shrugged. “It’s fine,” I said. “It shouldn’t be a prob-lem. I’m sure no one will think anything.”

“I am not gay!” Sophie said, and I sighed.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, are we back to that again?”

“This is nuts,” she said. “What am I going to do when they start the timers?”

“We’ll be out of here before then. I’m just waiting for the coast to clear,” I told her.

Sophie frowned. “Coast? What coast?”

“Can you believe that rat of a ranger actually showed his Yogi-like face here tonight?” I asked.

“He’s here? Where?” Sophie’s head moved back and forth more than my Duke bobble head.

“Down, Sophie! Down!” I said, putting my hand on top of hers. “We don’t want to attract attention.”

The woman next to me looked at our hands on the table and cleared her throat.

“Too late for that, sweetie,” she said with a lift of one painted-on eyebrow.

Sophie yanked her hand out from under mine. “We’re cousins,” she advised the woman.

“Right,” she said. “Right.”

Sophie shot to her feet. “That’s it. You are on your own, cous’,” she said. “I’m strictly an observer. I’ll be at the bar when you come to your senses.”

My partner stalked off.

“Sophie! Sophie, you forgot your bag!” I shrugged. If she wanted her money, she’d have to come back. Then I’d make her suffer for deserting a family mem-ber in her time of need. I set the large handbag at my feet. Sophie’s seat hadn’t gotten cold when another warm bod dropped into it.

“Well, hello there.”

I looked over to see a guy who appeared almost old enough to be my pappy occupying Sophie’s chair. A peachy-colored comb-over that trumped Trump’s, ruddy cheeks that suggested he’d started the party early, and a string of silver chains, which drew atten-tion to a furry upper torso that brought back memories of a Pomeranian my gammy used to own, super-charged my creepometer to alert status.

“I haven’t seen you here before. Where have you been all my life?” he asked. The needle on my creep-ometer jumped.

“I’m visiting from out of town,” I said, trying to be polite but not wanting to encourage anything beyond civilities.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to begin our first round of speed dating this evening. And it looks like the tables are full of adventurous folks eager to see if they can establish that special love connection, or make a match with the help of our Numbers Dating Game. So, start the timer. And good luck!”

I shrank down in my seat, hoping the announcer hadn’t succeeded in drawing the ranger’s attention to the speed dating tables—and little ol’ creep-magnet me.

“I’m Ken,” he said, looking nothing like a Ken any Barbie in her right mind would be seen with. “I keep a summer home here in Flagstaff. I usually work out of Phoenix.”

“I’m Barbie,” I said with a teasing smile. “So, what do you do, Ken?” I asked—
other than try to hit on girls who
weren’t even gleams in their daddies’ eyes when you graduated
from high school?
I kept one eye on Ken and the other trying to locate Townsend, receiving for my efforts a strange look from Ken and double vision for me.

“I’m in real estate,” he said. “You said you’re from out of town. Where does a great-looking gal like you hail from, and what does she do for a living?”

“I’m from Sheboygan,” I said. “And I sell shoes.”

Ken leaned across the table. “You know, Barbie, ever since I sat down, I’ve felt this force, this pulsating, throbbing, surge of explosive energy between us,” he said and, squirming ever so slightly in his chair, he reached out and grabbed my hand. “Tell me you feel it, too?” he asked, stroking my palm with his thumb. By sheer force of will I barely managed to avoid a re-flexive retching action when my creepometer gauge shot into the perv range. I yanked my hand away.

“Ken?” I put my elbows on the table and parked my chin in my hands. “I have a confession to make.”

“Yes?” He leaned closer.

“I’m not really in shoe sales, and I’ve never been to Sheboygan,” I told him.

“Oh? A woman of mystery, huh? How intriguing,” he said.

I shook my head. “No big mystery, I’m afraid. Just a teensy little secret. You see that guy over by the door? The one absent a neck.” I motioned to the door and Ken’s gaze followed. I made eye contact with the su-persized fellow who’d carded me earlier and gave him a little wave and a “hey, big boy” smile. He obliged by smiling and winking right back.

“I see him.” Ken said. “And?”

“And he’s actually my boyfriend, and I’m doing this speed dating as a sort of favor to him. You see, Ken, the management has been receiving complaints con-cerning highly inappropriate behavior from some gentlemen who are, shall we say, old enough to know better, and I volunteered to sit through a speed dating session or two to see if I could nail the letch for my sweetie. All he’s waiting for is the signal from me and he’ll be on the guy like stink on, well, you know.”

“Signal?” Ken’s Adam’s apple jumped up and down like a bobber with a teaser fish on the line.

I nodded. “Shhh! It’s a secret signal,” I said. “Now, where were we again, Ken? Oh, yes. You were talking about something pulsating . . . throbbing . . .” I stopped and tapped the table with Madly Mauve-painted nails and waited.

Ken put a finger behind the rows of chains around his neck that seemed suddenly a wee bit on the snug side.

“I really don’t recall . . . I’m not sure . . . Sprinkler systems! That’s it! I was talking about sprinkler sys-tems!” Ken almost yelled. “In real estate, I find a lot of the pulsating variety on homes I list,” he added, wiping his shiny forehead with a napkin from the table.

“Oh, that’s right. We were taking about sprinkler systems, weren’t we?” I said with a huge grin just as the timer sounded to end our little tête-à-tête. “Good talk-ing with you, Ken,” I told him as he got up to leave. “And remember,” I said, putting a finger to my lips, “it’s our little secret.”