Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (19 page)

"Excuse me if I'm finding the idea of a group of vandals utilizing a rogue elf—"

"Gnome," Taylor corrected.

"—gnome in their criminal activities a bit hard to swallow. It just doesn't make any sense to me. Now I appreciate you all coming out and sharing your theories, but it's time for you stick to doing your job and let us do ours."

"Sheriff!" Shelby started to object, but I put a hand on her arm.

"Don't bother confusing the sheriff with facts, Shelby," I said. "If he doesn't want to benefit from the fruits of our cutting edge investigative efforts, fine. We'll leave him to his work."

I walked away, dragging Shelby and Taylor with me.

Stan had requested I consult with the sheriff before the next day's article came out—the one that mentioned pink tornadoes and links between the incidents. So, I'd just consulted. Too bad for the sheriff that I had neglected to mention the article. I'd leave him to discover that little eye-opener over his morning cup of coffee.

I made a longhorn sign with my fingers.

You mess with a cowgirl—you get the spurs.

Despite my late night—or early morning, I suppose—I was ready to head out the door before eight. I grabbed my bag and keys and opened the door—and stopped in my tracks. I had no wheels. My vehicle was sitting on a gravel shoulder miles out of town with its hood up, a bright yellow, not-so-happy, ball ornament sporting a cowboy hat stuck to the top of the antenna. (After I'd driven off in a car that belonged to someone else last summer and found a stiff in the trunk, I figured having some clearly visible means of vehicular identification was probably a good idea, although the likelihood of that happening again is probably astronomical, right?)

I looked at the time, considering my options.

And there weren't many. Only one individual in my circle of peeps knew about cars and motors and things that go awry under the hood and also had access to a tow truck (if necessary) at a discount price. I pulled my phone out.

"What's wrong with the wreck on wheels now?" came my brother's surly greeting.

"What makes you think there's anything wrong?" I asked. "Can't I call my brother and wish him a good morning?"

"What did you break this time and where?" he asked.

I gave him the location and told him about the electrical glitch-out.

"It's never done that before," I added.

"Oh, please. The damned thing breaks down more often than the chubby guy on
Modern Family
."

"So can you pick me up?" I asked. "I really, really, really need to get my car going so I can get to work before Stan goes all, 'If you're late one more time, Turner, I'm going to blah, blah, blah, on me! And I'm right in the middle of this story—"

"I know, I know. Kimmie and I read about it this morning. Vandalism. Thefts. Pink tornadoes. A regular crime wave."

"So? Can you help me out, brother dearest?"

A long, loud sigh came through the speaker next to my ear.

"I started your way as soon as I saw your number," he said. "Be there in a few." He hung up.

I smiled. It was times like this that made putting up with my big brother's crapola over the years totally worth it.

I went out to the porch and sat down, spending some time with the pooches while I waited for Craig. He rolled up in his big black Ford tough truck that never seemed to be permitted to get dirty—another perk that comes with working at a car dealership—and I hurried to get in.

"Thank you sooo much!" I said, blowing him an ear kiss. "You are a lifesaver. You're like Iron Man or Superman or the Green Lantern or Thor or Captain America. You're like—"

"I get it, Tressa. I'm here. You can stop trying to butter me up."

I sat back in my seat.

"Well, excuse me for expressing my gratitude," I said, and looked over at him. "So, how's Kimmie?" I asked. "Is she feeling better?"

Craig looked over at me.

"What do you mean 'is she feeling better?'"

I frowned.

"I stopped by the treasurer's office yesterday when I was picking up the court stuff, and they told me she was home sick."

"What are you talking about? As far as I know she went to work yesterday. She didn't say anything about missing work or being sick."

I bit my lip. Oh, God. This was not good. Not good at all.

"Maybe I misunderstood," I said. "That's probably what happened. I get to talking, and sometimes I don't listen all that well. You know how I am. I just get carried away and go on and on and on, and sometimes I can get distracted, and I don't take time to hear what others are saying, and that's probably what happened here. I probably just misunderstood. I'm sure that's it. I just got to talking, and you know how I am when I get on a roll—"

"You're doing it now, Tressa," Craig pointed out.

"I am?"

He nodded. "Your motor mouth is at maximum rpms."

"It is?"

He nodded again. "And that's your tell."

I frowned. Busted.

"Tell?"

He shook his head.

"I've known you twenty-four years, lived with you for a score. I know what it means when your motor mouth is at maximum acceleration. It means you're nervous and agitated."

"Well, look who's going all BAU on us now," I said, trying to divert his focus from the reason for my runaway mouth. "And to think I thought your main gift was talking people into purchasing new vehicles when they come in for their 60,000 mile vehicle checks. You got a gift, my friend. You got a gift."

He turned to look at me, and for the first time I noticed the dark rings under his eyes and the crinkly lines in the corners that hadn't been there before. A pang of sisterly concern hit me.

"So Kimmie wasn't at work yesterday?" he asked.

I shook my head. I wasn't going to lie to him. Not about this.

I'm a horrible liar anyway. I never could get away with fudging the truth. I still can't.

"No."

I could tell from the sudden set of his jaw that he had clenched his teeth.

"You know, everyone needs a mental day now and then, Craig," I told him. "We can't be Wonder Woman or Superman all the time. Sometimes we need a day to just
be
."

"Bullshit! It's that baby!" Craig said suddenly, and I blinked.

"Baby? Kimmie's pregnant?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"No! That's the problem. She wants to be pregnant. She wants a baby. And she can't seem to think about anything else."

I winced. I'm not usually the person people go to when they have a life crisis or need advice. It's not that I don't want to be that person. I do. It's just historically I'm not the first individual others think to consult in times of emotional or personal crisis. I tend to be the one contributing to those highs and lows and peaks and valleys, if you get my drift. But I'd always wanted to be that go-to person.

I still wanted to be that person.

"Listen, Craig. I don't profess to know much about those complex and powerful maternal feelings women get when they want to start a family, because I'm not there yet. But I am a woman. And I think I understand what Kimmie is feeling."

When he didn't cut me off with some smart-assed remark, I went on.

"Kimmie is married to the man she loves. Now personally what she sees in the dunderhead, I really have no clue. But she loves him. And I know he loves her. It's like that nursery rhyme. First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes Craig with the baby carriage. It's only natural for Kimmie to want to move on to that next huge step. She's committed to the relationship—to that happily ever after. She's ready for that baby carriage."

"But what if I'm not?" he said. "Don't
my
feelings count in this relationship? Why is it that women think they're the only ones that matter, that how they feel trumps how the guy feels?"

Wow. Heavy-duty stuff. This cowgirl was definitely out of her league.

"Have you ever told Kimmie
why
you're not ready for fatherhood?" I asked.

He thought about it for a second.

"Well, sure. I mean. We've talked. I've told her I'm not ready."

I shook my head. Men could be so…clueless.

"I'm just guessing here, Craig, but I'm thinking that's what bothers Kimmie the most. What are your feelings about parenthood?"

He shook his head.

"I don't follow."

"Kimmie is ready for step three. Kimmie is ready for that baby carriage. And she doesn't understand why you don't feel the same way she feels. And I honestly think what worries her most is
why
you aren't ready to become a father. She looks at it like,
if
you love her,
if
you're committed to her,
if
you're going to be together forever and ever, then why aren't
you
ready? She is. How come
you're
not? Unless…"

He frowned.

"Unless what?"

"Unless you're not all those things after all. You're
not
totally and irrevocably in love with her. You
aren't
permanently committed to her. You
don't
think you'll be together forever and ever. Do you see what I'm saying, Craig? A woman looks at things way different from men. We take things personally—most everything personally when it comes to the guys in our lives. The basic fact that you don't want to have a baby right now might be sending Kimmie the wrong message."

"What do you mean 'the wrong message'?"

"She could be interpreting your feet-dragging as not being totally happy and secure in the relationship or happy with
her
. The fact that you've never once sat down and talked this out and told her why you're not ready for that baby buggy only adds to those doubts and fears. Does that make sense?"

I sure hoped it did, because I wasn't all that confident I hadn't muffed it, and I didn't think I had the wherewithal to be so eloquent the second time around.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Why don't you want a baby, Craig?" I asked.

"I do want a baby!" He yelled and put his hand through his blond hair, leaving it sticking up in places. "I'm just not—"

"You better not say the R-word!" I warned. "The real question is why aren't you the R-word? And don't tell me it's because you want to spend your time playing sports, or watching sports, or killing for sport, or fishing for sport, because I don't buy it. Not when I know how much you love Kimmie. So tell me something I will believe."

He seemed at a loss for words, which is rare for a salesman and given the fact we both carry Blackford genetic markers for oral activity. Well, you know what I mean.

"Would you believe that I don't know why the hell I'm not ready to be a father?" he said, but wouldn't look at me. "Honest to God, I have no idea why I'm not there yet. I'm just not there. And I'm beginning to wonder if I ever will be."

I heard the fear and uncertainty in his voice and my "aunticipation" level took a sudden nosedive.

I braved a look at him. He looked like I did when I discovered a murdering hitman had added me to his target list. I reached out and patted his hand.

"Then again, maybe it
is
about the sports and the games and the hunt," I told him, adding a little prayer that my brother had his epiphany before his wife had had enough.

"My car is just around the bend on the shoulder," I told Craig as we approached the section of road I'd left the Reliant. "It'll be on our left." I pointed out the front windshield.

We rounded the turn, and the vehicle came into view.

"Good God! Would you look at that?" Craig said.

I did. And saw what used to be my vehicle looking like a reject from a gay pride parade.

"Holy shit! Talk about trashed!" Craig said and drove onto the opposite shoulder, making a U-turn before pulling up a safe distance behind my poor Plymouth.

Oh. My. God.

I had a sudden déjà vu been-here-done-this moment. The last time it had been my Paw-Paw Will's Buick that had been desecrated. This time my Reliant had become the canvas for some modern day gang of psychedelic artists with an attitude and agenda.

"Why does this keep happening to me?" I whined to Craig. "Why me?"

He shook his head.

"I've got nothing for you, sis," he said, opening his door. "Ready for a closer look?"

I shook my head.

"Not really. I think I've seen enough already."

"You got the keys?" he asked. "I suppose we should see if it will start."

"Why?" I asked. "Obviously it can't be driven in that condition." The fact was, start or not, I wasn't about to drive a vehicle that made Joseph's coat of many colors look dowdy and would make Rainbow Brite feel inadequate.

"Just give me the key, Tressa!" Craig snapped.

I handed him the key. "No need to get snippy."

Craig looked in the rearview mirror before getting out and walking up to my vehicle. I put my sunglasses on and waited. I couldn't bear to look at my poor, pathetic, paid-for Plymouth.

The spray-painting, gnome-stealing, mischief-making thugs had obviously targeted me.

Why? Because my posse was on their tails, breathing down their necks, closing in for the kill.

"Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" Craig's outburst reached me through the open driver's side window. "Son of a bitch! Jesus Christ! God damn it!"

I looked up in time to see Craig jump away from the car and head for the ditch. I frowned. It sounded like he was retching.

"Is there something…wrong?" I asked, reluctant to set foot outside the safe confines of the pickup truck.

"Ugh. God. Ugh. Dammit! Tressa Jayne Turner, get your ass out of that truck and get over here! Now!"

"Do I have to?"

"Tressa!"

"Coming!"

I opened the door and got out. I'd taken about three steps when it hit me. The smell. No, not a smell. An odor. No. Not an odor. Fumes. A putrid, noxious, not-of-this world stench that filled the nostrils and activated the gag reflex. I suddenly wished for Frankie's bandana.

"What is that smell?" I put a hand over my nose and mouth. "Is there a deer carcass in the ditch? It smells like death!" I asked Craig, who was still yacking in the grass.