Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (13 page)

"Does an Appaloosa quarter crap on the steps of City Hall during the July 4
th
parade?" Shelby asked.

Nice.

I bet Woodward and Bernstein didn't start out like this.

Five minutes later we presented our case. We left out any references to antique lawn gnome sightings and focused on the evidence we'd discovered in the woods adjacent to Dusty Cadwallader's acreage that was directly related to the vandalism.

"Have you shared this with anyone else?" Stan looked up at us over the tops of his half glasses.

I shook my head.

"Strictly in house—well, except for Mr. Cadwallader and my technician," I told Stan.

"Technician?"

"My cousin, Frankie. But he can be discreet."

Stan chewed his cigar.

"Right. So, what's your next move?" he asked.

I shuffled my feet, not sure if I wanted to share my plan with the boss man.

"Turner?"

"Well, I, uh, thought—"

"Now you know me, Turner. I'm not one to micromanage, but I know what I'd do if this was my story."

"What?"

He sat back in his chair.

"It's not my story, Turner. It's yours and Shelby Lynn's."

"And the article?"

"What say we run with the pink tornado connection but leave out the Cadwallader angle for now?"

"Sounds reasonable," I said.

"I'll run it tomorrow. Which means you better turn your findings over to law enforcement before then."

I looked at Shelby.

"We kind of thought we'd let you have the honor," I said.

He shook his head.

"Not a chance. To the victors, go the spoils."

I turned to Shelby.

"You have a better standing with that department. Why don't you—?"

"Forget it Blondie. I'm part-time. This is a job for a full-time employee."

"Then it's settled," Stan said. "Good work, ladies. Keep it up!"

Dismissed, we left the office.

"I guess I'd better prepare myself for a meeting with our illustrious interim sheriff," I said.

Shelby nodded.

"And I guess I'd better prepare myself for a stakeout," Shelby said.

"Stakeout?"

"Well, you were planning to stake out Dusty Cadwallader's timber tonight to see if the vandals return to the scene of the crime?"

"How did you know?"

She smiled.

"You pick up a thing or two," she said.

"Oh," I said, taken aback. "Then you can pick up the munchies for our little stakeout. And remember, an assortment of sweets and salties, please. And no pop. I'll have to whiz like a race horse."

Shelby made a face.

"Anything else?" she asked.

I paused.

"A roll of tinfoil."

She raised an eyebrow. "Tinfoil. Seriously?"

I nodded.

It never hurts to err on the side of caution.

Since I'd be away that evening, I decided I'd better stop by my own homestead and feed the critters. The boys greeted me with hopeful tail wags.

"Sorry guys, but we have to cut back on the human food," I said, kneeling to give both Butch and Sundance some lovin' before filling their bowls and making sure they had ample water.

They tailed me through the gate and into the barn lot that housed a modest four-stall barn and tack area. I checked the automatic waterer, scooping the spitty scum off the top, whistled for our tiny herd, and headed to the barn to scoop grain into the feed boxes. By the time I filled the third box, I could hear pounding hooves.

True to form, three regal heads appeared over the top of the hill out in the pasture. Moments later, the Queen of Hearts led her cohorts, Blackjack and Joker, into the lot. Like the well-trained royals they were, they transitioned from a trot to a walk and, one by one entered the barn and right into their assigned stalls.

Beauty, brains, and barn etiquette. What more could you ask for?

I gave each of the horses a pat and a howdy-do before leaving them to enjoy their grub in peace. Horses aren't like people. They don't consider dinnertime a social event like we do. Bugging a horse when they're trying to chow down is a sure fire way to get on their bad side.

I washed up in the house, gathered the items I'd need for that night's surveillance in case I didn't have an opportunity to stop by home before heading out to Dusty's, and headed next door to raid the refrigerator.

I was getting ready to open the slider to the dining room when I heard voices coming from the folks' garage. I circled around the side of the house and saw both overhead garage doors open. The hood on my dad's pickup was up.

"Hello! Anybody home?" I moved to the front of the truck and spotted my dad's leg sticking out from beneath the truck. A second later he rolled out on his creeper and looked up at me.

"Having fun?" I asked.

He smiled.

"Does it look like it?"

I shrugged. "Maybe for you. You talking to yourself again?" I asked and held a hand out to help him up.

He shook his head and wiped his face with a towel. "Police scanner," he said and pointed to a gadget on the workbench that looked like a large walkie-talkie.

"You can listen to all the police calls, city and county?"

He nodded. "When weather and location permits," he said. "What are you doing home in the middle of the day?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Telecommunications," I said. My dad has worked at the local phone company for well over a quarter of a century. He started as a lineman. He still prefers fieldwork to pencil pushing.

"I'm burning vacation before I lose it," he said. "Your turn."

"I'm hungry," I said.

He nodded. "I think there's some pulled pork and baked beans in the fridge."

"Thanks, Pop," I said and started for the door to the house. I stopped.

"Dad?"

"Yes?" If you couldn't tell, my pop is a man of few words.

"I could use some advice," I told him.

He leaned on the truck fender and wiped his hands with a rag.

"Shoot."

"Well, you see, there's this friend who has this husband who has this coworker who is supposed to be mentored by the husband, but the friend is concerned at the amount of time the husband is spending with the coworker, and a friend of the friend saw the friend's husband and the husband's coworker together, and this friend thinks her friend with the husband might be right to be concerned about her husband and the coworker. Should the friend who saw the husband and the coworker together tell the friend what she saw or keep her well-intentioned mouth shut?"

My father frowned and continued to clean his hands with the rag.

"Does this friend of the friend with the husband think that the husband is doing something inappropriate with the coworker?" he asked.

I thought about it for a second.

"The friend doesn't think any funny business is going on. And she doesn't think the husband is the kind to, well you know, cheat, but she doesn't want to take any chances where her friend's happiness is concerned."

"I see. But the friend is worried she'll cause more problems for the couple if she tells her friend about the husband and the coworker."

"That's it exactly. What should the friend do?"

My dad moved away from the truck and put an arm around my waist.

"I think the friend should follow her instincts. I don't think they'll let her down."

I rested my head on his shoulder, and he gave me a squeeze.

"Thanks, Pop. I'll let my friend know what you said. I know your advice means a lot to her."

"I hope your friend knows how lucky she is to have such a good friend looking out for her," my dad said.

I felt the sting of tears. My dad may be a man of few words, but oh, what words!

The police scanner crackled again, and my dad moved to turn it down.

"Hey, Dad. Do you suppose I could borrow your scanner sometime?" I asked. "You know. To keep track of what's going on for the paper?"

He thought for a moment before picking up the scanner and handing it to me.

"Here. You can have it."

"I can't take your scanner," I told him.

He smiled.

"It's okay. It's not mine."

"It isn't?

He shook his head.

"No. It's your grandmother's. She forgot it when she moved out."

We looked at each other and nodded.

"Thanks, Pop."

"Oh, and Tressa," he added. "Use it in good health."

I grinned.

"I hear you, Pop. I hear you. Now, about that pork."

My cell phone vibrated. I pulled it out of my holster and read the text message.

"Looks like I'm gonna have to take a rain check on the grub, Dad," I said. "Duty calls."

He nodded.

"Just remember what I said, Tressa."

"About the friend or about the scanner?" I asked.

"Both," he said.

I sped back to town, excited by Kari's text.

Remembered where I saw your pink tornadoes! :) Meet me at the football field after school!

I pulled into the gravel lot next to the field, and my phone vibrated again.

In the bleachers near the concession stand. Hurry!

I frowned and texted her back.

???

Now, Tressa!

I looked up at the bleachers and spotted Kari with both hands in the air waving at me. I waved back and jogged up the bleacher steps, dropping onto the seat in front of her.

"Okay, bestie. I'm here. Let's have it."

"How could he? How could he?"

I blinked.

"What are you talking about? He who?"

"My husband, of course. Mr. Mentor. How could he do it?"

"How could he do what?" I asked.

"
Her
!" she said and pointed a shaky finger at the football field.

"Her?"

"Martina the Mentee! Over there." She pointed again. "The horse face with all the teeth and hair making over my husband like he was God's gift to the mentoring program. What does she think she's doing here?"

"Since she's the cheerleading coach, she's probably working with the cheerleading squad," I said.

Kari turned to me.

"How do you know she's the cheerleading coach?" Kari asked.

I bit the inside of my lip.

"You didn't mention it?"

"How could I? I didn't know it."

"Oh."

"So, how did
you
learn she was cheerleading coach?" Kari asked.

"I think someone might've mentioned it when I was here earlier today."

She frowned.

"Wait. You were here today? Why?"

I squirmed in my seat—an oh-so-familiar blast from my own high school past.

"I was working the vandalism story," I said. "Which is why I'm here now, remember?"

"Cheerleading coach, indeed," Kari fumed.

"Kari? The tornadoes?"

"I've got a cheer or two of my own I'd like to—"

"Kari? Your text? The graffiti?
My
story?"

"Oh, yeah. Right. Well, I was going through some of the student work from prior years that Mrs. Griffin kept as examples of work on various projects before I got the Language Arts position."

"And?"

"And I came across bookmarks one student made." Her eyes kept darting from me to the field over my shoulder.

"Go on! Go on!"

"And there they were." Her gaze returned to the field again. "I'm giving him two minutes. Count 'em. Two minutes to walk away."

"What was there, Kari? What was there?"

Kari gave me an annoyed look.

"What?"

"The bookmark!" I reminded her. "What was on the bookmark?"

"Oh. Yeah. The bookmark." Her gaze wandered again. "Sis, boom, back off, biatch," she muttered.

"Kari! Please! What was on the bookmark?"

Kari shook her head.

"Tornadoes, of course. Fat little hot pink tornadoes, just like in the pictures you showed me the other night at dinner."

I stared at her.

"Tornadoes! Fat, Dixie Daggett squatty body tornadoes? You're sure they were the same?" I asked.

She nodded, her attention once again on the action down below.

"Positive," she said.

"You wouldn't happen to know the name of the student who made that bookmark?" I asked.

Kari's focus finally shifted to me. "Oh, wouldn't I?" She held a folded piece of paper out. "You're going to owe me, you know."

I nodded and took the paper and opened it up.

"Jada Marie Garcia?" I read. The name meant nothing to me.

Kari shrugged. "I don't know her either, but that's not surprising since I've only been teaching here for two years. This was done four years ago, I think, so that would put the artist in tenth or eleventh grade now, if she's even a student here anymore."

Which would be easy enough to find out.

I got to my feet.

"Thanks, Kari. And you're right. I owe you one. If this pans out, I'll owe you an über big one. Oh, hey. Here comes your hubba-hubba-hubby."

"Lucky me," Kari said.

"Hey babe. Hey T," Brian said, running up the bleachers in a fraction of the time it had taken me.

"I see Miss Banfield gave you permission to be excused," Kari said. "Or does your hall pass only permit you to be absent five minutes?"

"This again?" Brian said, and I started to inch my way down the bleachers.

"How come you didn't tell me she was the cheerleading coach?" I heard Kari ask.

"What difference does it make? I'm not a friggin' cheerleader!"

"And I'm not an idiot!" Kari countered.

They were still going at it when I got to field level.

I walked past the cheerleaders on my way to the parking lot and recognized the dark-headed girl from the cafeteria. The one who'd planned to join Mick until she saw a certain blonde sharing his lunch break.

"We're tough! We're awesome, and we can't be stopped! We're number one, and you are not!"

I winced.

Give me an
L
. Give me an
A
. Give me an
M
. Give me an
E
. What's that spell?
Lame.

I felt eyes on my back all the way to the parking lot. I turned. Mick had joined his little friend. He had his arm around her shoulder but her gaze was on me.