Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (32 page)

There was the stagecoach inn, the old-time depot, the general store, the old country church, the little red schoolhouse, and the historical museum. As a family—between ball games, picnics, camping, and fishing—we'd spent countless hours at the county park. It felt like an old friend.

Well, except for the occasional gaggle of rabid geese that, from time to time, laid claim to the park as home turf. Waves of bittersweet nostalgia took me back to a simpler time and place when life was carefree and uncomplicated.

"Well, howdy there, little lady? Don't I know you from somewhere? If I don't, I'd sure like to. Hehehe. Know what I'm sayin'?"

My own blast from the past and back into present day came in the form of Uncle Bo, who looked even more like Freddie the Freeloader, than I had in my hobo day. Or Red Skelton had, for that matter.

"Aun—"

"Ah, ah, ah." Aunt Eunice rapped my arm with the knapsack she carried. "Don't blow my cover, Calamity. One more day until the big reveal."

"You're not planning to dress like that tomorrow, are you, uh, er, Uncle Bo?" I asked, thinking that would be one
Extreme Homely Makeover
, and one that shouldn't be attempted in a place where food was being served.

"I haven't decided yet. I want to go for the biggest wow factor. By the way, you'd be doing me a big favor by running interference between that sister of mine and her Seeing Eye guide dog of a husband. Everywhere I go those two are on my tail, including the crappers. Why, I went in the men's bathroom the other day and your grandma almost followed me in. I can't take it anymore! She's going to spoil the surprise! Oh, criminy. Here they come again! I'm out of here!"

And
pfft
! She was gone. I took a second to appreciate her flight. For an old guy, Uncle Bo moved like greased lightning.

I felt an itch inside my waistband at the back and started to scratch again.

"Tressa! Tressa Jayne! That you?"

Okay. Yes. I'd gone ahead and dressed up. Let's face it. I was never going to turn down an opportunity to dress up like my notorious namesake, Calamity Jane. Get real.

It hadn't taken much in the way of 'costuming' to make me fit the part. Blue jeans, cowboy boots and hat, western shirt, and big ol' belt were fashion essentials already in my closet. I'd had to scare up a vest, settling for the colorfully flamboyant hot pink vest made famous in my ill-fated hobo performance. With a hot pink kerchief to match tied around my neck, a toy gun and holster set strapped to my hips, and a short, braided whip known as a quirt for effect, I was the quintessential lady outlaw.

In other words, I didn't look all that different from normal.

"It's me, Gram." I turned. "Holy hell…
o
, Martha Jane Cannary!" I said, taking a giant step back.

"Surprise!" Gram yelled.

I blinked. Surprise didn't come close. Shock and awe? You're getting warmer.

I blinked again. It was like looking in a mirror—if the mirror was older than Methuselah and made everyone who looked into it appear the same.

"Who's Martha Jane?" Gram asked.

"Martha Jane Cannary—Calamity Jane's real name," I said, still put off by the spectacle before me. Gram was almost a carbon copy of me, down to the jeans stuck into the boots, pink vest, (although hers was fringed) and toy gun belt. The only thing missing was her quirt.

"Isn't that the hobo vest?" Gram asked, eyeing the area of my boobs.

I nodded and scratched one of the girls.

"It don't have no fringe. Calamity Jane had fringe, didn't she, Joe?"

I finally thought to look at Joe—and wished I hadn't.

"Who are you?" I asked, taking in the long black wig and handlebar mustache, black bolo tie, fringed suede shirt, and hat with a brim the shape of a pizza pan. "Mario meets Fabio?'

"Funny stuff, Miss Ants in Your Pants," he said. "I'm Wild Bill Hickok, of course, with the lovely Miss Martha Jane. What's with the quirt in the pants?" he asked.

I pulled the quirt out and tapped it against my palm.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said, feeling an almost unbearable compulsion to stick the quirt down my right boot and scratch.

"Did you finish writing up the Cadwallader story?" Joe asked. "I trust I'm given the recognition I deserve. After all, if I hadn't traveled cross-county to seek out help—"

"Cross country? You drove an ATV to a car and a car down the road and made a phone call. You did a good deed, Joe. Be content in that knowledge, and don't seek society's stamp of approval. You'll be happier for it."

"I see. That means you've cast yourself in the starring role, and I'm a supporting character," Joe said.

"It's better than a walk-on, Bill," I said.

"What'd that bum want with you, Tressa?" Gram asked. "He didn't prop-position you, did he? Looks like a dirty old man to me."

I shook my head.

"No. He was just looking for the bathrooms."

"That feller goes to the toilet more than anyone I know, don't he, Joe?" Gram said. "Every time I turn around, that bum is goin' into another bathroom. Whatcha think he does in there?"

I raised an eyebrow.

"There you are! Sorry I'm late. Work was a bear today."

I felt a hand at my waist and turned, relieved to discover it belonged to Ranger Rick.

"Not a literal bear," Townsend qualified, looking at my gammy. "Just a very long day."

"Who you supposed to be?" Gram asked, taking in Rick's black jeans, western shirt, and boots.

"I'm a simple working man who was too tired to dress up," he said.

"Lot of men wearing your costume," Gram said. "Come on, Wild Bill. Let's get over to the restrooms so we can trail that hobo hombre when he comes out. Later!"

I watched the
Apple Dumpling Gang
walk off, letting out an, "Oh, Lord, that feels good!" sigh when Townsend started to rub the center of my back.

"Lower! Lower! Put a little fingernail into it. Yes. There! There! Oh, yes! Yes!"

"Are we interrupting something…creepy?"

"Another country heard from," I said. "Transylvania. Hey, you two. Don't you look…interesting?"

Five feet three inches of
Roll Out the Barrel
Dixie and her malady-magnet fiancé, Frankfurter Barlowe were dressed as… Okay I had no idea who or what they were dressed as. Frankie had on an old-looking black suit with a white shirt and narrow black tie. He had a toy stethoscope around his neck and one of those weird headbands with a big ol' reflector thingie around his head. Dixie wore…nothing. Well, not nothing as in naked (thank goodness), but nothing as in no costume.

"Dr. Who the heck are you, I presume?" I said to Frankie.

"Dr. Janus Pritchaerd, one of the first medical doctors in the county, at your service," Frankie took a bow and the metal doohickey on his head slid off onto the ground. "Watch your feet! Don't step on my head mirror!" he warned.

"And who might this be?" I waved a hand at Dixie. "Dr. Janus's first medical patient who, sadly, succumbed to some rare and exotic illness like party-pooperitis?"

"We can't all be illiterate, alcoholic circus performers with a storytelling résumé that includes among other things, embellishment, prevarication, and profanity," Dixie said. "I eschew such banalities. I'm merely here in a support role."

"Oh. I get it. You're his undertaker," I said.

She shook her head.

"Still itching, I see, Frankie," I said, watching him take a tongue depressor and put it down the side of his waistband. "Tough break."

"What about you?" Dixie asked. "

"Me? What do you mean?"

"You got Rick going at your back like it was a cat scratch pad and, while I'm not an expert on equine tack, I'd swear sticking a quirt down your boot isn't the appropriate usage for said item."

I pulled the quirt out.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm fine. Just getting a back rub from my boyfriend," I said. "Keep it up. A little lower. Lower. There."

Dixie shook her head.

"We heard about Joker and the paint damage and all," Frankie said. "Do the police have any leads? What about that evidence we collected at Dusty Cadwallader's? Has that helped the investigation at all?"

I lifted my shoulder several times. Up and down. Up and down. Ah. That felt good.

"I don't have a clue what the county is doing, if anything."

"Look. There's Kimmie and Craig! Over here!" Frankie called. "Here! Oh, no. Looks like they're having another argument."

I craned my neck to see.

Sure enough. From here I could spot Craig's pissed-off-but-trying-not-to-show-it tell, his left hand on his hip and the fingers of his right hand repeatedly massaging the top of his head as they ran through his hair. Kimmie's tell was no less apparent. At barely five feet tall, she had a beer in her right hand and was doing her "let me tell you something" finger pointing with the left.

"This still the baby battle?" Dixie said.

I nodded. "Round ninety-seven."

"Too bad. That kind of thing should be discussed and agreed on before the wedding, not after."

I looked at her.

"It should?"

"Absolutely. It's the only way to approach a marriage since both parties bring their own expectations—some of which are totally unrealistic by the way." She shot her fiancé a quick look.

Jab
.

"Dixie's right. Couples should sit down and clearly articulate what they want from a marriage and from their partners, not expect them to read their minds, isn't that right, Dix?"

Feign and jab.

"You would agree, wouldn't you, Frankie dear, that a person wouldn't need to be a mind reader if their partner shared what was going on in that oh, so, precious but occasionally
Magoo
head of his from time to time."

One to the chin
.

"How could I disagree,
sweetie,
when you're always right
?
"

Sucker punch.

Townsend gave my shoulders a final squeeze.

"I'd better go see if I can ratchet Craig down a notch," he said.

I nodded. If Craig didn't stop running his hand through his hair, he'd be bald by morning. Townsend gave me a kiss on the neck, and I watched the view as he walked away. It never ceased to get my heart rate going
thumpity-thump
.

"There you are!" I was jerked out of my arse appreciation by a hard yank on my arm that pulled me across the grass.

"You're coming with me!"

I stared at my bestie. She was wearing an old-fashioned and somewhat severe dress with a high lace collar. Her hair was pulled back in a hairnet with wire-rimmed glasses perched halfway down her nose. She had a book in her hand.

"Kari! You look fabulous. Let me guess. A spinster librarian."

"I'm a schoolmarm, but the spinster? It could definitely happen. Come on!"

She yanked on my arm again.

"What are you doing? Where are we going?"

"We're spying on my husband," she said. "This way!" She grabbed my hand now, leading me away from the village and down the path towards the recreational areas and the water beyond.

"Spying? On Brian? Why?"

"I saw him leave with that Dallas Cow of a Cheerleading Coach," she said.

"Martina Banfield? Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I followed them. I saw them go into the covered bridge. And they never came out." For a moment the fury in her voice gave way to hurt.

"That doesn't sound like Brian," I said. "Besides, she's too flash—" I stopped.

"Go on! You were going to say she was too flashy for him, weren't you? So she's like this big ol' blinding billboard with her breasts and her bling, and I'm what? A black-and-white snapshot of some nobody you find in a billfold you buy? Is that what you're saying?"

I shook my head. "I think that's what you're saying. I'm saying she's not his type. She's all hair and boobs and teeth and show. You're real and genuine and funny and smart and beautiful and sensitive."

"Okay. You've talked me down. You can stop."

I smiled. "Besides, Taylor and I spoke to her, and that girl is all about her career." I said. "She's like obsessed with this dude named Marlowe."

"Is he a teacher?"

I shrugged. "He might've been. But I'm pretty sure he's dead."

She looked at me.

"So what do you think they're doing in there?"

"Now that, young lady, is a perfectly reasonable question. Why don't you go find out?"

"You mean just walk right on in and say, 'Oh, hello there. What the hell are you doing with my husband?' Like that?"

"Just like that."

"You could do that. I can't do that."

"And you're sure they're in the covered bridge?"

She nodded.

"I have an idea. You ever play
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
?" I looked at her and shook my head. "You had such a sheltered childhood. Permit me to explain."

A few minutes later we were beneath the bridge, directly under the mentor and his mentee.

We'd already silenced our cell phones, and I was already regretting my impulsive action when the voices above us filtered downward. I put my fingers to my lips in a
shh, quiet!
number.

"I need to get back to Kari," Brian said. "She'll be wondering where I'm at."

"You said you cared!" Martina said, and I reached over and clasped a hand over Kari's mouth a millisecond before she exploded.

"I do care. But you're crossing lines. Getting too close."

"How can you say that? It's just that I'm passionate. I feel deeply about this. About what this could mean. Why don't you understand?"

"I do understand, Martina. And I do care. But this is getting out of hand."

"Forget it! Forget I even asked. Go back to your boring little life and your boring little wife!"

I almost lost Kari on that one. Thank goodness her roar of outrage was muffled by the sounds of running feet on the floorboards of the bridge.

"I will end him!" Kari said, once I got off of her.

Who's tromp, tromp, tromping over my bridge?

A schoolmarm with three
R
s on her mind.