Calamity Jayne (11 page)

I stopped by Uncle Frank’s and finagled a tenderloin, fries, and a diet drink by promising to close up for him the following
weekend, so he could attend some classic car show in Des Moines.

I winced when I walked into my house. There had been no visit from the little cleaning elves in my absence. I wasted little
time in the shower. It crossed my mind that I really should shave my legs, but decided what for? I was on a fact-finding mission,
not a man-finding one. It was business. Strictly business. Besides, Townsend wouldn’t notice my legs if I had a peg at the
end of one and a Barney slipper at the end of the other.

I threw on a black T-shirt with the word
Diva
scrawled in gold across it and a pair of black jeans at least one size too small. I swore off tenderloins and fries as I inhaled
and struggled with the zipper. I stuck my feet into a pair of old, black tennis shoes that I used for mucking out the stalls,
grabbed a black and gold baseball cap from my Softball days, and headed out, looking like Buffy the Vampire Slayer goes Goth.

By the time I reached the marina, I was cursing the jeans, which kept giving me a big-time wedgie. My luck, I’d probably get
a hemorrhoid. I found a parking place not far from Townsend’s pickup truck, and made my way toward the marina office, trying
to look inconspicuous, which was proving rather difficult considering I had to pull my jeans out of my butt crack with every
other step.

I was about to enter the office when Townsend hailed me, shook his head, and motioned for me to join him.

I took small steps, hoping my pants would cooperate. Ha. Fat chance. I made a face and pulled at my rear end.

“What are you dressed for? A Marilyn Manson concert? You forgot the black lipstick, black fingernails, and body piercings.”
Townsend greeted me in his usual cavalier manner. “You don’t have any body piercings, do you?”

“For your information, I’m blending in so I won’t be noticed.”

“You don’t think anyone is going to notice someone grabbing their own ass?” Townsend’s eyes crinkled with amusement.

“I’m not grabbing my ass. I’m grabbing my jeans. And could we please change the subject to something more urgent?”

“I don’t know. Ass-grabbing seems pretty high-priority to me.” He grinned.

“It would,” I said. “Why did you stop me from going in the office?” I extricated a tiny notebook from my back pocket—no small
feat, I can tell you. “I jotted down some questions off the top of my head I thought we might want to ask.”

Townsend closed my notebook with tanned fingers. “I think I can save you some time by telling you what I’ve learned.” He took
my arm. “Let’s talk on my boat.”

I followed Townsend to his water craft, a gorgeous silver and metallic blue something-or-other. He helped me negotiate the
crossing from dock to vessel. I had difficulty spreading my legs far enough apart to bridge the gulf. When I was comfortably
ensconced on a rather nice padded seat, and my pants were slackened around my nether regions, Townsend offered me a diet soda,
which I politely declined. No way was I going to squeeze more into the jeans from hell.

“So, what have you learned?” I took out my pen and notebook. “When was Peyton Palmer last out on the lake? Does anyone recall?”

Townsend looked at his hands, then fiddled with his can of pop.

“Well?”

“You’re probably not going to like this much,” Townsend said. “In fact, I can guarantee you’re going to have a hissy fit when
you hear what I have to tell you. So, before I say a word, I want to remind you that I am only the messenger, so don’t shoot
the messenger. Okay, Tressa? Messenger. Got it?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Townsend, I can assure you no matter what you have to tell me, you’re safe from attack. Feel better?”

Townsend shook his head. “We have a history, remember, Calamity.”

“Ancient
history, Ranger Rick,” I assured him. “Now get on with it.”

He took a very, very deep breath, like a man preparing to dive off a very high cliff. Or propose.

“Okay, here goes nothing.” He wiped a palm on his navy shirt. He took another breath. “All right. According to several boaters,
Peyton Palmer did, indeed, take his boat out this weekend.”

I started scribbling in my notebook. This was good stuff.

“What time did they say he headed out Friday evening?” I inquired, my pen poised to jot down the times. “What time did he
come in?”

Townsend shook his head, then took a long, hard swallow of his drink. “Well, you see, Tressa, the thing is...”

“Yes?”

“Nobody saw Peyton go out on Friday night.”

I gave him my best dumb blonde look. Okay, so in this case it was the real thing. “Huh? But you just said—”

“I said he took the boat out this weekend. The thing is, Tressa... What I’m trying to tell you, is that...”

“Oh, for crying out loud, just spit it out, Townsend! What are you trying so hard not to tell me?”

“Peyton Palmer didn’t go out on his boat Friday night, Tressa.”

“But you just said...”

“He went out
Saturday
. Saturday morning.”

I fielded Townsend’s information with my usual aplomb. My jaw just totally relaxed. My mouth flew open. I may have even drooled
a tad bit, but I was wearing black, so who can be sure. I jumped to my feet and sent the boat wildly rocking.

“What do you mean, Saturday?” I’m pretty sure I was yelling at this point. Or maybe I just sounded that way to myself because
my ears are so close to my mouth. “Peyton Palmer couldn’t have been out to sea on Saturday, because he was already swimming
with the fishes Friday night!”

The next thing I knew I had Townsend by the shirt and was shaking him (or maybe it was just the rocking of the boat), and
we both went ass-over-appetite over the side.

C
HAPTER
10

There’s one thing worse than in-your-butt-jeans, and that is wet, in-your-butt-jeans. Townsend was the first one back in the
boat. I was beginning to prune by the time he bothered to offer me a hand. For a while there, it seemed to me he had every
intention of leaving me in the water.

He threw me a towel. “You better get out of those wet grab-ass jeans,” he said. “I think I have an extra pair of sweatpants
around here somewhere.”

“Is this your amateurish attempt to get me out of my pants?” I eyed him through a jungle of wet hair. “Because if it is, it
won’t work. Besides, I couldn’t pry myself out of these jeans with a crowbar.”

Townsend laughed, grabbed another towel, and began to dry off his dark hair. I was envious of the way his fell right into
place, except for one dark, dramatic lock perfectly poised over his forehead. By contrast, I probably resembled Medusa, or
the goddess of the deep.

“If I put that kind of move on you, C.J.—how did you put it before? Oh, yes, your ‘bum would be mine.’”

“Oh, puh-lease!” I twisted the towel around my head. “I’ve known you way too long to fall for any of your lines, Ranger Rick.
You forget. I’ve seen you and my brother’s Macho, Macho Man routine from the get-go. Corny and cornier. Thank God, Craig has
married and settled down. Well, semi-settled down.”

“Craig says you have a hard time with men,” Townsend said. “Fear of intimacy, I think he said.”

I scowled. “More like fear of being stuck with some knuckle-dragger with delusions of godhood,” I snapped. “And for the record,
my brother is insane. I’m just very selective, that’s all,” I said—probably more to convince myself than him. “I’m like Everest.
It’s a long, hard climb, bucko, but once you’ve made it to the top, man, is it worth it!”

“Sounds like a challenge.” Townsend pulled the towel off my head and wrapped it around my neck, keeping hold of both ends.
“I never could resist a challenge,” he said, and I could feel his warm breath on my cheeks. My vision blurred. I shook my
head.

“Uh, something else about Everest you should probably remember.” My voice suddenly went Darth Vader on me, complete with heavy
breathing.

“What’s that, Tressa?” Townsend pulled on the ends of the towels and propelled me toward him.

“Many climbers find Everest unattainable. Only those with the utmost stamina, unflagging endurance, immeasurable intestinal
fortitude, and death-defying determination make the summit.”

Townsend smiled, then put his lips on mine for a mere moment. “Thanks for the warning, Kilamanjaro,” he teased. “I’ll proceed
with caution.” He gave me another light peck, one way too short for me to ascertain how he rated as a kisser. And, of course,
that was the only interest I had in his kiss. Purely clinical. Curiosity only. Nothing more. Pinky swear.

Yeah right. I could tell myself that ‘til the cows came home, so how did I account for the furious pounding of my heart and
my sudden breathlessness?

The drubbing in the lake, I told myself. That was the reason. Not Townsend. Not his kisses. Never, ever.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.
The childhood rhyme ran through my head. I winced. That
pants on fire
part was way too close for comfort. It was a wonder steam wasn’t billowing out in all directions from my wet trousers.

“Do you suppose we could get back to the reason we’re here?” I was proud I sounded so convincing. In reality, I probably wouldn’t
have complained all that much if Townsend had insisted on another quick peck—or a bushel, for that matter—but he didn’t. “Your
sources are mistaken. About Peyton Palmer, I mean. He couldn’t have been up to an early morning outing on the lake Saturday
because his dinghy had already set sail for the last time the night before.”

Townsend motioned to a seat. “You better sit down, Tressa,” he said.

“You gotta be kidding.” I slapped a hand to my soggy butt. “I can’t even bend at the waist here. Why? What’s going on?”

Townsend pulled a hand through his hair, then turned away from me. I saw his shoulders lift and his spine straighten—like
a soldier marching off to battle. Or a taxpayer walking into the IRS office for his first audit.

I waited, thinking Townsend was not usually so reticent about sharing information.

“Tressa.” Townsend turned slightly. “They towed Peyton Palmer’s pontoon earlier. It was found abandoned and floating in the
middle of the lake. There was no sign of anyone on board.” He turned away again to stare down into the murky water.

My heart gave a flip. “What?”

“The police also found Palmer’s SUV parked in the marina lot. They speculate Palmer took the boat out early Saturday morning,
then, at some point, either fell overboard or jumped. No suicide note was found, so authorities are leaning toward the accidental
drowning theory. They found empty booze bottles on board. I guess Palmer liked his liquor. They figure Palmer was drowning
his sorrow. Sorry. Bad choice of words there. One wrong step. Overboard. Too drunk to swim, the guy didn’t stand a chance.
Tressa?” He stopped, probably to assess my reaction—and any threat to his well-being.

I managed to sink into a seat despite my crotch-constricting garment. “Tell me you’re joking,” I said. “Please, tell me this
is all a joke.”

Townsend took the seat across from me. “No joke, Tressa. I wouldn’t joke about something like this.”

I was silent for a moment, trying to process this unbelievable turn of events. “Slap me. Pinch me. Shake me. Just wake me
up and tell me this is all a bad dream,” I pleaded.

Townsend took my cold hands between his two warm ones, rubbing them vigorously. “I’m sorry, Tressa,” he said. “I don’t know
what to say.”

For once in my life, I couldn’t think of anything to say either. Nothing made sense. If one was to believe what Townsend and
the police were saying, no way could I have seen Peyton Palmer in the trunk of a car Friday night. But, I knew I had seen
Palmer. Had even touched him. And this little rendition of
Showboat?
Pure illusion created by a killer who was determined to end a murder investigation before it got started and, in the process,
brand this cowgirl loco.

“Palmer’s boat may have been out on the lake, Townsend,” I finally said, “but Palmer? Well, he may have been along for ballast,
but he was definitely not swatting mosquitoes and chugalugging brewskies. Unless, of course, you believe in ghosts. Or zombies.
Because, I’m telling you, Townsend, Peyton Palmer was already dead Friday night.”

Townsend sighed. “You’re sticking to that story?”

“Like the superglue between my fingers when I worked on the Dairee Freeze homecoming float last year.”

“Do you know how crazy this sounds, Tressa? What you’re suggesting?”

“I’m not crazy, Ranger Townsend,” I told him. “But someone would sure like to have people think that I am. You said the cops
searched Palmer’s boat. Right?”

Townsend hesitated. “Yeah.”

“Are they still there? Searching, I mean?”

Another hesitation. “No. They packed up some time ago. But you can’t go snooping around that boat. It’s part of an official
investigation,” Townsend pointed out.

“Did they leave someone guarding it?” I asked. “Wind crime scene tape around it? What?”

Townsend shook his head. “I told you, they already searched the damned thing.”

I stood.

“Tell me you’re not thinking of doing what I think you’re thinking of doing,” he said. “That’s nuts!”

“You don’t have to come with me. I wouldn’t think of making you an accessory after the fact. Just have the decency to bail
me out if I get arrested so my poor, old grandma won’t stroke out. Okay?”

I moved stiffly off the boat—not all due to my offending apparel—and managed to traverse the gulf and reach the dock. I started
down the wood planking, when I was grabbed from behind and spun around.

“You’re going the wrong way, Calamity. Palmer’s boat is this way.”

“You believe me?” A warm, gooey, chocolatey-chip feeling poured over me.

“Let’s just say I’m keeping an open mind—and keeping you out of further trouble.”

“That’s an improvement over your body snatcher remark the other night. I owe you for that one, you dog.”

“Yeah, well, I reckon I’m paying for that now,” he said.

I had to hand it to Townsend. Despite his earlier hesitancy, he took to snooping, I mean sleuthing, like a Labrador takes
to water. Once we crept onto the boat—I mean, boarded the vessel—Townsend was Mr. Cool, Calm and Collected, methodical and
efficient in his search.

“Palmer runs a tight ship,” I said, when nothing of interest came to light. “Neat as a pin. Too neat, if you ask me,” I added,
taking in the positively sparkling pontoon. “What’s he got, a pontoon cleaning lady?”

Townsend shrugged. “I told you, the cops took some evidence.”

“That’s right. Evidence of overindulgence. What was Palmer supposedly drinking? Beer? Wine? Whiskey? Vodka?”

“I think it was whiskey,” he replied. “Why? What does it matter?”

I shrugged. “Just curious.”

“Are you about finished here, Miss Drew?” Townsend asked. “That is what you’re doing, isn’t it, Nancy? Amateur sleuthing?”

I ignored him and continued my search, careful to use a hankie to raise the seats when I looked beneath them. “Hey, what’s
this?” I pulled a leopard-spotted thong swimsuit bottom out of the crease in one of the chairs, and swung them from the end
of my pen. “You wouldn’t happen to have one of those bags like CSI uses?” I asked Townsend. “For evidence.”

Townsend’s white teeth shone in the dimming evening light. “What do you suppose that is evidence of?” he asked. “Indecent
exposure?”

“More like poor taste. No wonder the owner discarded them. Do you know how uncomfortable these things are?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Townsend replied. “But apparently you do.”

My face flushed. “I bought some as a joke for my grandmother after she gave me old lady underwear. Grandma ended up giving
them back to me on my birthday.”

“And you tried them on.”

“Only out of curiosity, I assure you. They’re not my style.”

“Which is?”

“Something between granny bloomers and a pipe cleaner.”

“What a shame.”

“Can we please drop the subject of my underwear?”

“You brought it up,” Townsend pointed out.

I mumbled something about men and breech cloths, spotted an empty Taco Juan’s sack on the dock, snared it, and dropped the
spotted underwear in the sack.

Townsend stared at me. “You’re actually going to take that?”

“It’s evidence. DNA and all that. Besides, these swim thongs tell me at one time Peyton Palmer had a lady friend on this boat.”

“How do you know they don’t belong to Sheila?”

I gave Townsend a get-real look. Sometimes men can be so dense.

Then, “Sheila? You know Sheila Palmer, Townsend?”

“I knew her as Sheila Davis, from junior high,” was all the response I got.

“Were you friends?”

“Sheila was two years ahead of me.”

Clearly nonresponsive. The fact that he hadn’t said anything up to now about being on a first-name basis with Palmer’s spouse
made me wonder what else Townsend was keeping from me. Like maybe it wasn’t Annette Felders doing the cling wrap imitation
the other night. Gee, where had this come from?

“Can we go now?” Townsend added, climbing off the boat, leaving me no choice but to follow. We headed back to the marina parking
lot. I looked at my watch. Ten
P.M.
Still early enough to do some damage.

“Well, uh, thanks for the help, Townsend.” I suddenly felt nervous. And this around a fellow who’d been a fixture at our house
since he was ten. “I’ve got to head home and finish cleaning up before Gram gets a look at the trailer and has the big one.”

“You know something, Tressa?” Townsend grabbed my hand and pulled me to a stop. “Do you realize you’ve never once called me
‘Rick?’ You’ve called me Ranger Rick, Carp Cop, Bassbuster, Squirrel Security, and a whole helluva lot worse, but you’ve never
called me just plain Rick. Why is that?”

First, kisses. Now, personal questions. What was going on?

“Uh, why do you ask?” I said, not about to admit that maintaining an adversarial attitude had always been standard operating
procedure where Rick Townsend was concerned. I’d kept my brother’s handsome devil-of-a-friend (emphasis on the devil) at arm’s
length through the years by fueling a mutual, initial hostility. I can’t even recall when I started seeing Rick Townsend as
something more than a sub-creature. It was probably about the time I began to realize that boys weren’t so icky, after all.
Townsend did come in a nice package (even if the contents might be a disappointment), and I wouldn’t be human if I hadn’t
noticed the way his jeans hugged his football player thighs, and how his muscle shirts showed off all those, well, muscles.
And since he was at our house so often he had his own Christmas stocking, well, a girl in the throes of puberty is going to
take advantage of the opportunity to gawk. Of course, I was way too clever to let Townsend think I had thoughts about him
other than dark, destructive ones. If he had even an inkling that he made an impression on me other than a negative one, I
was pretty sure he’d use that information to his advantage. Besides, it’s what’s inside that counts, right? Okay, ladies,
you can quit laughing now.

“I probably spent as many hours at your house growing up as I did at home,” Townsend went on. “I sure as heck ate as many
meals there. And not once do I recall you calling me Rick. Seems kind of odd to me, that’s all.”

I tried to read his expression, to figure out what he was up to now. I felt off-balance, on a slippery slope. Why the devil
did he want to psychoanalyze a perfectly good feud at a time like this? I fell back into the safety net of my porcupine defense
mode.

“Oh, so in addition to being a ditz, I’m also odd. An oddball. A curiosity. How lovely.”

“Good God, Tressa, why do you always do that?”

“What? Do what? What am I doing?”