Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (3 page)

Shelby nodded. "If there was substantial damage, they'd take photos for insurance purposes. I'll text you the entire list."

"You take the garden shed. I'll take the greenhouse. And I'll be in Scotland afore ye," I warbled.

Shelby shook her head.

"You are so weird."

Okay. Yeah. Fair enough. I'll own it.

I was also a bit of a bull you-know-what detector, and I knew when something was in the air.

And it drove me crazy until I figured out what that something was.

Tressa Turner. Human bloodhound.

Woof
.

I coaxed my almost-antique Plymouth into a parking spot in the gravel lot at Country Acres Greenhouse. A decade earlier East Coast transplants Michael and Michele Colby had left their white-collar jobs behind and put down new roots (literally!) in the fertile soil of the upper Great Plains.

Middle-aged and childless, the Colbys had acquired the reputation for having four of the greenest thumbs in the county. You wanted a shrub that wouldn't shrivel, a flower guaranteed to flourish, and a tree that Paul Bunyan would lust over one day, Country Acres was your greenhouse.

This late in the season the bedding plants had been replaced by colorful mums, hardy perennials, and traditional fall offerings like gourds and pumpkins for decorating, and festive Indian corn of all colors and sizes.

Michele Colby, garden hose in hand, was giving a row of tall, decorative grasses a drink when I walked up. She saw me and looked beyond me, the stream of water doing a sudden dipsy-doodle.

I totally understood the reaction. The last time I'd been to Country Acres I'd brought my grandma along to purchase Memorial Day plants. Who knew dead people were so picky about plants they would never see? The term "grave" situation doesn't come close.

I put my hands up. "You can relax, Mrs. Colby," I said. "I'm all by my lonesome today."

She smiled and turned the water hose off.

"How
is
your grandmother?" Michele asked. "I hope she was satisfied with her Memorial Day plant purchases."

"Oh. Sure. She was satisfied."

"Satisfied" being a relative term when it comes to my gammy. After two-and-a-half hours selecting, rejecting, re-selecting, and re-rejecting flowers, ferns, and foliage, Gram had eventually ended up buying the very first plants I'd loaded into the cart. Sigh.

"So what can I do for you today, Tressa? In the market for the most sincere pumpkin already? You're a tad early you know."

I winced. My preoccupation with procuring the perfect carving pumpkin was a matter of public record.

"I'm good for now," I said, flashing her a sheepish grin. "I'm actually here about the malicious mischief you reported a week or so ago."

She pushed her hair away from her face.

"Malicious is right," she said, a pained expression creating furrows in her forehead. "We came home to utter devastation. All those lovely plants and flowers ruined. Pots overturned and broken. Paint everywhere. It was so sad. So senseless. You don't expect something like this to happen here. The coasts? Maybe. But not in America's Heartland."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Colby. I can imagine how it must feel to come home to discover someone has trashed your business and property." I knew exactly how it felt. A year earlier I'd been victim to a home invader who'd left the place a shambles.

"We felt so…violated. We'd never had that kind of problem here before. It was so disheartening." She stopped. "Why is the
Gazette
interested now?"

I explained about the early morning vandalism.

"And you think it could be the same individuals?"

I shrugged. "It's possible. I was wondering if you took pictures of any of the damage. I'd like to compare them against this morning's incidents. You know. Check for
commonalities
."

Take that, Ms. Smartie Pants Shelby Lynn Sawyer.
Take that.

"Isn't that something law enforcement should be doing?" Michele asked.

"Oh, I'm sure they'll get to it. You know. In time. But a little pressure from well-meaning media might help get the ball rolling."

"We do have some photos that we took for insurance purposes," Michele said. "And it would be nice if the sheriff's department would make some headway so we wouldn't have to worry about this happening again."

"My thoughts exactly. Perhaps a news article could generate some leads for the authorities to follow up on."

"The photographs are in the office." Michele stopped. "Darn it! Mike's out on a sod delivery. If you could keep an eye out for customers, I'll just run in and grab the photos."

"No problem," I said. "It'll give me a chance to peruse your fall fare."

Michele hurried off, and I made my way to the autumn merchandise section, checking out the teeny-tiny, mini pumpkins—some painted with scary-cute faces—rough, gnarly gourds, plastic bags of potpourri tied with orange ribbons, and assortments of various-sized pinecones.

I bent over to check out a colorful scarecrow decoration.

"I know you!" I heard behind me. I frowned, fairly certain the only part of me visible was a panoramic view of my patootie.

"I knew it! I'd know that Blackford booty anywhere!"

I turned.

"As I live and breathe, if it isn't Tressa Jayne Turner! Long time. No see. How's it shaking, T-ball?"

"Aunt Eunice?" I said, dumfounded to discover my great-aunt Eunice standing not three feet from me. "Is that you?"

"In the flesh, kiddo. In the flesh. Come and gimme some sugar." She grabbed me and threw her arms around my midsection in a massive bear hug, clutching me to an ample bosom that was nothing like the bosom I'd inherited, squeezing me so hard, I couldn't feel my legs. "How the hell are you, Tressa Jayne? Find any stiffs lately? I sure hope you're not searching for one here. Should I be afraid? Hahaha!"

"Aunt Eunice?" I croaked, feeling my air supply being compromised by breasts that could double as flotation devices. "I can't breathe!"

She gave me a final squeeze that almost made me see white, slapped me on the back twice, and released me.

I did the Weeble wobble and stared at her.

"What are you doing in Grandville?" I asked.

"I'm back for a surprise visit," she said and put her hands out in a "ta-da" gesture. "Surprise!" She grinned. "Are you surprised, Tressa? Did I surprise you?"

I nodded. "You sure did. You got me. You really got me." In fact, I couldn't be more surprised if Indian corn started pop-pop-popping off their cobs and the wooden scarecrow began to belt out "Jimmy Crack Corn."

"You're working at a greenhouse now?" she asked. "I thought you were a reporter with the
Gazette
."

"Oh, no. I'm just watching the counter for the owner. I'm actually here on a story. You said you were here for a visit?" I asked. "I thought you weren't going to make it back for the family reunion."

Eunice Esmeralda Blackford, my grandmother's "much older" sister—at least according to my gammy—currently lived in Scottsdale. She'd never married. Never had children. Her, uh, er, sexual orientation had been the subject of speculation. My gammy had always been mum on the issue.

And that, ladies and gentleman, is a first.

"Like I said, I wanted to surprise everyone by showing up for the reunion. Do you think they'll be surprised?"

The last time Eunice showed up at a family reunion fur flew. Actually it was deviled eggs that flew, but you get the point. So, yeah. I could safely assume they'd be surprised.

"There you are, Eunice. I was browsing through the lawn ornaments, looked up, and you were gone."

I stared. Abigail Winegardner, wearing a perturbed look and a straw hat that looked a lot like one I'd seen
Mr. Ed
wear on a cable TV rerun last week, gave me a curt nod. "Hello there, Tressa."

"Uh, er, hello Mrs. Winegardner," I stammered. "It's nice to see you."

"Likewise," Abigail said.

"You know Abigail?" I asked my great aunt.

"Of course, dear. We went to school together, didn't we, Abby?"

Abby? I looked at Abigail Winegardner. She sure didn't look like an Abby.

"Any luck, Abby?" Aunt Eunice asked.

 "No. Nothing suitable. Nothing at all. I told you. The gnome is one of a kind. It's been in my family for ages."

I swallowed.

"Gnome?"

"Abby had a gnome go missing under some very suspicious circumstances," Aunt Eunice said.

"Oh?"

"I'm surprised you haven't heard," she went on. "Given your grandmother's proximity to the scene of the crime."

"Scene of the…
crime
?"

"It's obvious the gnome has been stolen. It was there one evening and gone the next morning."

"Oh?"

"I'm determined to find out who took it," Abby said. "It's a family heirloom. I want it back."

"Oh, I see." Boy did I ever. Abigail wasn't all that savvy in the subtlety department. Joe was right. She did suspect my gammy of nicking her gnome.

"Would you look at the time?" Aunt Eunice said. "We've got hair appointments."

"Oh, you're right. I so wanted to ask Mrs. Colby if she might know where to find a replacement gnome. But we do have to run. After we're done, we can check in at the police department and see if they've made any progress in the investigation."

Investigation?

"Then perhaps we could check out the antique and secondhand stores over in New Holland for a replacement lawn decoration," my great-aunt went on. "You know. Until we find yours, that is."

"I suppose we could always look," Abigail said.

"Now, remember Tressa Jayne!" Aunt Eunice warned. "Don't you go blabbing and spoil my little surprise!" She put her fingers to her lips as if turning a key. "Mum's the word."

I nodded.

"Mum's the word," I agreed. And totally meant it.

No way was I going to be the one to break the news to my gammy that the sister she'd had a running feud with for decades was sleeping with the enemy.

Er, you know what I mean.

"Sorry. It took me longer to find the pictures than I anticipated." Michele said, walking up to me. "Was that Mrs. Winegardner I saw leaving?"

I nodded.

"Oh, dear. I'm sorry I missed her. She's such a good customer. Was she looking for anything in particular?"

I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.

"She said something about replacing a lawn gnome."

Michele frowned. "Lawn gnome? That's odd."

"Odd?"

"One day last week Michael and I were driving home, and we saw a strange little lawn gnome statue sitting out near the greenhouse driveway. At the time we were on a delivery and in a bit of a hurry, so we didn't think much about it at the time. We didn't get home until after dark, and it totally slipped our minds. Then, with the vandalism and all, we forgot all about it. The next time we thought to look for it, it was gone."

"That
is
weird," I said, wondering if my gammy was onto something with her Chucky the lawn gnome comparison.

"Here are those photos," Michele said and handed me a stack of pictures.

I flipped through them and stopped, frowning. I brought the photos closer.

"Is something wrong, Tressa?" Michele asked.

I stared at the garden shed in the picture, bright pink tornadoes painted on the side.

Hot pink cyclones, disappearing lawn gnomes, and reunion gotchas.

How do you say "spree"?

"I know something you don't know. Nah nah nah nah nah nah."

The childhood taunt hounded me as I flew down the county road to my humble abode. I live in a double-wide mobile home next door to my parents. When my Paw-Paw Will died, my grandmother had a very nice three-bedroom manufactured home delivered to a building site on my folks' acreage. She lived there until health issues forced her to move in with my folks so that my mother, who works from home, could keep an eye on my grandma.

We traded spaces.

That is, until my grandmother decided she required more freedom than "Jailer Jean" (aka my mother) permitted, and Gammy and Hermione (her very own grumpy cat) moved back into the mobile home with me and my two lovable, but feline-loathing labs, Butch and Sundance.

In a year that felt like ten, my gammy had reignited an old flame, put this granddaughter to shame in the dating department, and managed to wrangle a proposal of marriage—followed by a Grand Canyon wedding and a Caribbean honeymoon cruise this landlubber wouldn't soon forget.

The happy couple aka Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Townsend, Esquire, now resided in the groom's home in a very nice subdivision in Grandville—right next door to none other than arch villainous Abigail Winegardner—giving, I realized, my gammy both motive and opportunity to pilfer the mysterious missing gnome.

Oy vey
. The plot thickens.

I shut the car off. The sound of laughter reached me about the same time I picked up the scent of sizzling beef juices. I glanced over at my folks' patio. Smoke billowed from my dad's monster-sized grill. My mouth watered. I might've even drooled a bit.

Beef. It's what's for dinner
.

Only when I'd succeeded in dragging my hungry gaze from the gas grill did I take in the cookout attendees gathered on the patio. Right away I recognized the beanpole frame of my brand new step-gampy, Joltin' Joe Townsend. My grandma, "Hellion Hannah" to those who knew her in her younger days, sat on a cushioned lawn chair, big ol' white sunglasses perched on her nose, and a floppy-brimmed straw hat on her head. The other side of seventy (even I don't know exactly how far on the other side) and that nickname continues to be appropriate. Sometimes I look at my grandma and wonder if that's what I'll be like in fifty years. I try to console myself with the possibility I won't live that long.

My brother, Craig, and his wife, Kimmie, also on hand, sat next to each other on a wicker love seat. Craig is a car salesman, and Kimmie works in the county treasurer's office. There's been a wee bit of tension between the two of late. Kimmie wants to start a family. Craig is still dragging his feet.