Calamity Jayne (13 page)

“Okay, Miss Leopard pants. What’s your take?”

“I say we just mosey by, take a look-see, and if anyone asks, we’re on our way to your grandson’s boat. Of course, we’re really
not on our way to your grandson’s boat. We’ll take a gander at Palmer’s boat, see who she’s with, and make a U-turn back to
the car. That’s my plan.”

“Sounds dull as dirt, if you ask me,” Joe whined.

“I didn’t ask. Now, let’s go. And act casual.”

Right. An old duffer in a godawful neon wind suit, and a hat that said Jackie Chan Fan Club, and a blonde with fly-away hair
dressed in damp black and pulling at her crotch. Nothing there to draw anyone’s attention.

We struck out in the direction of Palmer’s craft. My insides were churning worse than when I’d ridden that mechanical bull
at the state fair two summers back.

“Lookin’ good,” Joe said. “Looking good. Almost there. Just a few more steps.”

“Would you pipe down?” I hissed. “I don’t need a play-by-play.”

We made our way toward the boat, and with each step I was more certain of discovery or worse. Something didn’t feel right.
The boat appeared deserted.

“I was sure this was where she was headed,” I whispered. “Where else could she be?”

“Beats me,” Grampa Townsend said.

We stood at the bow—or is that stern—of the top-of-the-line pontoon.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” I asked.

“What do we do now?”

“I’m thinking. I’m thinking.”

“Someone’s coming!” Joe whispered. “What do we do, or are you still thinking?” The wiry, little leprechaun reached out and
grabbed my hand and hauled me aboard the pontoon. “Come on.”

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“Hiding.”

“From what?”

“My grandson.”

“Oh.” I crouched along with Joe, feeling absolutely no shame for cowering in the shadows, my hand in the death grip of a cantankerous
old man.

“So, where is he?” I whispered.

“I could have been mistaken,” he said. “But since we’re already on Palmer’s boat, we might as well have a look around.”

“Why, you old—”

“Watch it now. You ever heard of elder-abuse?”

“You did that on purpose!” I hissed. “You never heard a danged thing. I should have known better than to trust a Townsend.”

“Now hold on just a minute.”

An abbreviated yelp, cut off by a slamming door, quieted the whispered objections of the old man whose fingernails were biting
into my hand.

“Well?” Gramps said. “What do we do now?”

“Get the heck out of Dodge,” I decided.

“You first.” Joe motioned toward the dark path we’d just taken.

“Age before beauty.”

“Ladies first.”

“Ah, hell.” I took his hand and we matched arm-in-arm toward the car. “Come on, Inspector Clouseau.”

“You know, you really should clean up your language if you want to find a young man. Lots of fellows won’t get serious about
a woman who talks like a truck driver.
Oprah
did a show a while back on bad habits. I stopped leaving toenail clippings in the living room. Ruthie would have been so proud.”

“Let’s go, Gramps.”

“Would this be a good time to remind you it was you who insisted I leave my revolver in the car?”

I stopped and gave him the evil eye.

“You will let me know when it would be a good time,” he said.

I began to growl.

“Do you suppose there are cougars hereabouts? There’s been several sightings of big cats reported in Iowa, you know.”

I squinted at the dark line of timber. “Of course not,” I asserted.

“Good thing, because you made me leave my gun in the car.”

“Joe.”

“Do you know what this reminds me of?” he asked.

“No, what?”

“The Wizard of Oz.
That ‘lions and tigers and bears, oh my’ part.”

“Joe?”

“Yes?”

“Shaddup.”

“Young people these days.”

C
HAPTER
12

Hand in hand we made our way back to my car. By this time, according to my Bargain City, cheapo, glow-in-the-dark watch, it
was just after one. I muffled a yawn, thinking even a lonely bed would be welcome this night—or, rather, morning.

“See anything?” I asked.

“Oh, so now you’re asking the senior citizen who is supposed to have trouble with night vision if he sees anything? Before,
all you could do was criticize. A person can’t please you.”

“Remind me, Joe. Why did I bring you along again?”

“Because of my Colt Python. Oh, and for my ability to remain calm in an emergency.”

Calm? I’d probably need sutures from the fingernail marks the old goat had left on my arm. I muttered a few naughty words
under my breath—I didn’t want another language lecture from Gramps. I really began to feel for Rick Townsend. I knew what
it was like to have a grandparent who made pit bulls run off with their tails between their legs, who thought they were the
Jay Lenos of the geriatric set, and who, bless their heart, still believed a condom meant something you put on a wiener. Which,
in a way, it is, I guess.

“Here we are,” I announced, immeasurably relieved to make it back to my vehicle without stumbling over a snake, tripping over
a corpse, or running into a ranger. I opened my car door and sank to the seat. “C’mon, grandpappy, let’s split this pop shack.”

Joe settled into the seat beside me. “I should have stayed home. I would have had more fun clipping my toenails.”

“Well, why didn’t you? Nobody invited you along to begin with.” I gave an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh. “A person just
can’t please you,” I remarked, throwing his earlier criticism back in his face.

He chuckled and shut his door. I reached for my keys tucked into my back pocket. I checked the other pocket. I got out of
the car and tried to check my front pockets. I couldn’t even get my pinky finger into either one, so I figured it was a safe
bet my keys were not there.

“Okay, so where are they?” I said aloud.

“Where are what?”

I summoned my courage, then answered. “Uh, my keys. I seem to have misplaced my keys.”

“You’ve lost your keys?”

“I didn’t say lost. I said misplaced. As in placing them somewhere I’ve missed. Let me think a second.”

“Uh-oh. She’s thinking again. This can’t be good.”

“Joe, please.”

“You need one of those fanny packs. If you wore one of those, you wouldn’t lose anything. Mrs. Winegardner always wears a
fanny pack when she power walks. You can’t tell whether she’s coming or going, but she never loses a thing.”

“That’s enough, Joseph.”

“Why don’t you just use your spare? You do have a spare key, don’t you? Everybody has a spare key.”

“Take a look around you. I drive a beat-up Plymouth Reliant that doesn’t even start half the time. What do I need with an
extra key?”

“This is great. Just great. Here we are stranded in the middle of nowhere, without a flashlight, and no food.”

“Food? You just ate a bunch of cinnamon rolls.”

“I have rapid-fire metabolism. I burn calories faster than Jackie Chan can lay out a dozen bad guys. Oooah!” He made a goofy,
Chinese kung-fooey move. At least that’s what it looked like. Then again, he could have been praying.

“You’re sure you don’t have an extra set? How about in the glove box? Could there be a spare key in there?”

I flipped on the dome light. “Elvis could be in there as far as I know,” I said. “But knock yourself out. Just be careful
with that stupid gun.”

“A Colt Python is not a stupid gun,” Joe snarled. Then, a second later. “It’s also not in the glove box.”

“What?”

“My Colt. It’s gone! You lost my Python!”

I slid across the seat and stared into the glove compartment. It was empty, relatively speaking. There was a handful of super-absorbency
tampons, a bottle of pills to combat cramps, and a mini-pad with wings wrapped up in plastic. This mini-pad, however, was
unique. It was decorated with a crudely drawn red bow and looked like a tiny present. Curious, I pulled the pad out and held
it up. “To Tressa” was crudely written on the mini-pad, accompanied by four words, also written in a blood red color. I hoped
it was just blood red, not real blood. It said:

PAY UP OR ELSE!

Despite the muggy night and high humidity that was wreaking havoc with my hair, I began to shake. Icy cold tendrils of terror
crept ever so closer to vocal cords that were working overtime trying to vibrate a warning to my comrade.

“Lock your door.” I sounded like one of those computer-generated voices devoid of feeling or emotion. I slid to my side of
the car, shut my door, and pushed the lock button down, then reached in the back and locked the back door.

“What?”

“Door. Lock,” I managed.

“What’s that, again?”

I lunged across the seat, reached around Joe, and locked us in.

“I could have done that if you’d just asked,” Joe said. “Why are we locking ourselves in?”

I showed him the mini-pad present. It seemed to take an eternity for him to read it.

“ ‘Pay up or else?’ What’s up with that? You got the bill collectors on your tail, little lady?”

“Yes, but that’s beside the point.”

“You’re holding out on old Joe, here, aren’t you?” He gave me back my gift. “What’s the deal, Lucille?”

I debated how much to tell the old guy. Truth be told, I didn’t want anything to happen to him, no matter how irritating he
was. The more I was around him, the more he reminded me of my own grandma.

“I’m being threatened,” I said, and told him about my little trunk discovery, the trashing of the Buick and my trailer, my
visit from Cobra Man, and ended with the abandoned pontoon. I left out the part about Gramma’s pussycat, Hermione. I wasn’t
ready to verbalize that heinous act yet. “The only thing I can figure is the killer thinks I have the money, and he wants
it back.”

“Don’t you think you could have mentioned this a little sooner? Like before I volunteered to go on this little ride-along
program?”

“Nobody twisted your arm, old man.”

“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that a killer would risk being exposed just for a wad of dough?”

“Yeah, maybe. So?”

“Seems to me there has to be more to it than that. But what?”

“I don’t know and right now, I don’t care. All I want is to get us out of here. Someone out there has your gun, Joe. Someone
who already popped Peyton Palmer. Someone who thinks I have their paycheck. And we’re stranded here like two sitting ducks.”
I reached up and shut the dome light off.

The sudden, muffled report of what sounded like a gunshot drowned out the whispered observations of the old man.

I squeezed Joe’s hand. “My god! Did you hear that?”

“I’m hard of hearing,” he insisted.

“Joe!”

“Oh, you mean that gunshot? No, I didn’t hear it!”

“Joe!”

“Okay, okay, so I heard it. What do we do about it?”

“Why do you keep asking me what do to do? You’re the elder here. You have years of life experiences. And years. You were in
the service. Surely you’ve had incidents similar to this. What did you do then?”

“I usually waited for orders,” he admitted.

I tried to think.

“Maybe someone will come along and we can hitch a ride?” Joe suggested.

“Okay. So how do we know it isn’t the same person who pinched your Python and left me that little love note? Personally, I
don’t think I want to take that chance. Do you?”

I put my head on the steering wheel. Where could I have dropped my keys? I snapped my fingers. “The boat!” I screamed. “Palmer’s
boat. When you hauled me onto the boat, I bent down. I bet you anything my key ring popped out. It’s on Peyton Palmer’s boat!”

I could hear my companion swallow in the dark. Or it could have been me.

“You mean we have to go back out there and walk to that blasted boat?”

“I don’t see what choice there is. But, Joe, there’s no reason for you to go. You stay here, and I’ll go look for the key.
Lock yourself in. No one will bother you. Probably.”

“Oh, I get it. Convince me to lock myself in your car and become human bait for some pistol-stealing mass murderer. Well,
it’s not going to work. I’m going with you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and said a little thank-you to my Fundamentals of Psych professor. He’d lectured on reverse psychology
before I dropped the class. This was back when I thought I might like to be a therapist like Dr. Phil, just before I made
the switch to animal husbandry, and just after I’d dropped public relations. I did not plan on making that trek back to the
boat alone. No way. No how. Uh-uh.

“Joe, I really think it would be better if you stayed here. It’s a long, hot hike, and you never know what or who we might
encounter. Besides, you’re probably getting faint from no food and that high metabolism and all.” I cinched the deal by adding,
“You know, you’re not as young as you used to be.”

“I’m going with you and that’s final,” Joe announced, pounding the dash with a bony hand. “Besides, what kind of Jackie Chan
man would I be if I left a puny young thing like you to face unknown danger alone?” He opened the door. “All for one and one
for all!” he said, then added, “You know, I could use a Three Musketeers bar about now.”

“I could use a musketeer,” I said. “One who looks good in tights.”

“Who loves dogs, horses and children, but not necessarily in that order,” Joe added.

“You remembered!” I said, touched that the old guy had actually absorbed my wistful wish list for the perfect mate.

“I never said I had trouble listening, kiddo. Just hearing.”

“Know something? You’re a pill, Joseph Townsend. A real pill.”

We joined hands again as he came around the front of the car. “It runs in the family.”

I smiled. “Don’t I know it?”

It took us much longer the second time to make our way to Peyton Palmer’s boat than it did the first. That’s because we kept
stopping to listen for anything unusual. You know, like Michael Myers breathing, stealthy footsteps, or the cocking of a Colt
Python.

We reached the boat still in one piece. I had even come to terms with my wedgie. Hey, what’s a little discomfort compared
to loss of life? The marina lighting left much to be desired. I would have lodged a complaint. That is, if I’d had a boat
stored here. Or is that moored?

“Do you remember where we were cowering?” I asked as we approached the Palmer boat a second time.

“Cowering is a pretty strong word.”

“Resting, then.”

“We were standing about here, so that would mean we were resting right about there.” He pointed to the corner of the boat.

I nodded, climbed into the boat, and proceeded to slip and slide across the deck. I put a hand down to keep from falling.
“Be careful,” I warned Joe. “It’s wet here. And very slippery.” Funny. I didn’t remember it being wet when I’d done my yellow-belly
coward routine earlier.

My eyes scanned the deck of the boat. The light reflected off something shiny. I took a step closer. It looked like... it
was. A key ring. My key ring!

“Stay where you are, Joe,” I called. “I think I’ve found my key.”

I skated toward the object that promised escape from Marina Macabre. I reached out to take my keys. It was at that point,
I realized they were clutched in a hand. A human hand. My horrified gaze traveled upward from the hand to rest on two, wide-open,
heavy-lidded, hooded eyes, and long, hideous fangs. I gasped. I’d seen fangs like that before. Recently, as a matter of fact.
On a particularly gruesome tattoo on an equally gruesome character. The snake charmer!

I snatched my keys and drew back a hand covered in blood. I looked down and suddenly realized just what I’d been slip-sliding
around in. I scrambled across the deck on all fours, and reached the edge of the boat just in time to lose the cinnamon rolls
I’d enjoyed earlier to the sea. Or lake. Or whatever.

“You sick?”

My head draped over the side of the boat, I tried to stop Joe. “Stay back!”

Of course, it was too much to ask that a Townsend male follow a lowly woman’s advice. Thirty seconds later, I was joined at
the rail by Ranger Rick’s granddad where, our heads stretched over the side, we puked and retched in stereo.

“I thought you said you had rapid-fire metabolism.” I wiped a shaky hand across my mouth when I was relatively sure I had
finished regurgitating. “You shouldn’t have anything to toss up, then.”

“Stomach juices.” Joe’s voice was weak.

“I’m sure I saw some chunks.”

“Prove it!”

“Hold it right there! Don’t move!” A powerful beam of light hit us, or rather our tail ends, as we were still on all fours
with our necks resting on the side of the boat. “Hands in the air! Nice and slow!”

“Hell!” Old Joe and I chorused in complete synchronization.

“I bet now you wished you’d stayed home and cut your toenails,” I commented. “What would Jackie Chan do in a situation like
this?”

“He’d cuss. In Chinese, of course,” came Joe’s reply.

“Do you know any Chinese phrases that are right for this occasion?” I asked.

“I sure do.”

“Well?”

“We deep dung.”