Calamity Jayne (18 page)

Townsend lives in a small ranch home on the outskirts of Grandville. He shares the house with a brown and white pointer named
Hunter (uninspired, I know), who lives in a very nice kennel in the backyard, and a snake or two, which was one reason I was
not a frequent visitor to the Townsend home. That and the fact that I’d never received an invite.

I cut the headlights and left the car down the lane a safe distance, then crept up to the house on foot, hoping Hunter was
either safely tucked away for the night or not in the mood to point me out. Townsend’s red pickup was parked in the driveway,
and the lights were on in the house. I moved up to the living room windows, but couldn’t get an unobstructed look due to the
bushes along the front. I figured Ranger Rick had planned it that way. Or should I say,
planted
it that way? A phone rang inside the home and was quickly picked up.

A small window was open, and the curtains were drawn back enough to allow adequate peeping. I looked around for another convenient
marble bird-bath to perch on. Instead, I spotted a quaint park bench placed under a huge old oak. Perfect. I slid the bench
across the grass, making minimal noise (if a grunt here or there doesn’t count), and finally maneuvered it at an angle between
the stubborn bushes.

I stepped up on the bench. It tilted slightly. I put an eye up to the side of the screen and looked in. I frowned. The window
I’d chosen was a bathroom window. About the only thing I’d find out here was whether Townsend rolled his toilet paper from
the front of the roll or the back, and what his color scheme was. Dark green and maroon, I noted. Colorful, yet manly. About
that time, Townsend strolled into the bathroom. I remained perfectly still, hoping to avoid drawing his attention to my head
perfectly framed in the window. Townsend reached in and turned on the shower, then left the room.

I gulped. Townsend was going to take a shower. That meant Townsend would take his clothes off before he took a shower. I swallowed.
That meant a naked Townsend would be stepping into the shower shortly. Perspiration beaded on my upper lip.

I did one of those internal dialogues. You know, the devil on one shoulder urging you to have fun, live a little, and the
angel on the other beseeching you to resist temptation. What could it hurt? the little devil in me asked. The last time I’d
seen a naked man was when some fat guy lost his bottoms at the wave pool last summer. On the other hand, would I want someone
ogling me through my bathroom window? I thought about that a bit. Of course, I wouldn’t. Would I?

I shrugged. Since I didn’t have a bathroom window, the point was moot, anyway.

I had just decided to do the noble thing and reposition my park bench when the opposite end of it was suddenly lifted off
the ground. I slid off, crashed into a rather large, sticky yew, and rolled down the length of the tree, landing in a heap
beside a family of raccoon lawn ornaments.

I heard a deep chuckle, then, “Window peeking, Calamity? I don’t know if I should be flattered or call the cops.”

I sprang up with righteous indignation, embarrassed by being caught in the act. Then I caught the sound of the shower still
running. “You set me up, you pig!” I yelled.

Townsend chuckled again and replaced the bench. “How the hell do you figure that? What? I made you drive all the way out here,
pull my bench to the bathroom window, and forced you to peek in at me? You’re nuts. Maybe I’d better call the cops.”

“Go ahead,” I spat, brushing yew needles from my arms and legs. “Call Deputy Do-wrong. He’s already written me two tickets
this evening. I could help him make his quota for the night and he could go home.”

“What the hell are you talking about now, Tressa?”

I suddenly felt very tired, and very sad. And, as always, very misunderstood.

“Just forget it,” I said.

“Forget you were hanging outside my bathroom window waiting for a glimpse of my naked body? Not hardly.” He took my arm. “You
look like you could use something to drink. Besides, if that shower runs much longer, I’ll run out of hot water.”

I let myself be led to his front door, then inside. “You aren’t entertaining anyone, are you?” I asked, remembering the reason
I had come here in the first place.

“Just the dog and the snakes,” he said with a grin. I was not happy to be reminded about his slithering housemates.

“Those reptiles—”

“Are all tucked in for the night. Hunter, too, or you wouldn’t have made it down the driveway with all body parts present
and accounted for. Where’d you park, by the way?” he asked, going into the bathroom.

“Up the lane,” I admitted. “And I didn’t come here to cop a look at your family jewels,” I said. “I wanted to ask you some
questions. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t entertaining anyone.”

“I see,” Ranger Rick said, re-entering the room and sitting me down at his kitchen table. He handed me a caffeine-free soda.

“You got any of the hard stuff?” I asked.

“Hard stuff? As in alcohol?”

I shook my head. “Caffeine,” I replied.

He laughed. “I’m decaffeinated.”

I snapped the top, took a drink and pulled a face. “Bully for you.”

“So, what did you want to see me about, Tressa? It’s kind of late for social calls.”

I snorted. “This isn’t a social call, and you know it. I’m working the Peyton Palmer-Mike Hill thing for the
Gazette
. Since you are, shall we say, cozy with one of the chief suspects, naturally I have some questions.”

He eyed me but said nothing.

“You
are
cozy with one of the chief suspects, aren’t you?” I pressed.

“Chief suspects?” he said, lifting a brow.

“Sheila Palmer, of course. The vic’s wife. The person who stands to inherit his money. The same person who was seeing his
law partner not so awfully long ago. Ooops, I’m sorry, Townsend. Did you know there were other men?” I was being bitchy, but
it had been one of those nights.

“I know where I stand with Sheila,” Townsend replied.

“Oh, that’s good,” I said. “A person should always be secure in a relationship, especially when one party’s spouse turns up
dead.” I took out my notepad. “Sheila Palmer told me you called her in Omaha and told her about my gruesome trunk discovery.”

“Alleged gruesome trunk discovery,” Townsend amended.

My lip curled. “When did you call her?”

“Saturday, somewhere around noon or thereafter.”

“How did you know where to reach her?”

“I had her cell phone number.”

I bit my tongue at this admission, but never missed a beat.

“How did she react to the news? Was she shocked? Dismayed? Hysterical? Giddy?”

Townsend’s eyes narrowed. “I’d say she was surprised.”

“Pleasantly?”

“Of course not. She was skeptical.”

“What does that mean?”

“Skeptical. To doubt or question.”

“I know what it means. Why was she doubting or questioning?”

“Well, it was unconfirmed at the time. Still is, I guess. Isn’t it, Calamity?”

I ignored his implication that I was still wrong about Palmer-in-a-trunk.

“How come your grandfather didn’t know you were seeing Sheila Palmer? He has his neighborhood covered better than the Secret
Service covers the first family.”

“Let’s just say I was sensitive to his feelings.”

I snorted. “Yeah, you’re the sensitive type, all right, Townsend. Did you know Mike Hill was a confidential informant?” I
watched his face for signs of surprise, but was disappointed.

“Yeah. So? Most cops have dirtbags they use as informants. That’s how a lot of drug cases are made.”

I leaned forward. “So this
is
all about drugs, then?”

“I didn’t say that, Tressa. I was speaking in general terms. Besides, from what I hear, Hill’s death could have been accidental.”

I stared at him. “Accidental? How?”

“He took the Colt from the glove box. Most cons can’t resist firearms, and Gramps’s was a doozy. Hill messes around with it.
It goes off. Bang. One dead guy.”

“But why was he on the boat?”

“Who knows? Maybe he was there to rip somebody off. Maybe he was there looking for something. Maybe he planned to meet someone
later. The point is, one theory the police are working is that the shooting was accidental. They’ll know more once the autopsy
results are available.”

My stomach reacted to the autopsy reference. “How do you know so much about this investigation?” I asked, suspicious again.

“You have to ask? With my grandfather’s handgun as the murder weapon, and him riding shotgun with Calamity Jayne herself?
I sure as hell am going to make sure I find out as much as possible.”

I nodded. It bit, but it made sense. “Then, why don’t you understand why I have to pursue this investigation for reasons of
my own? They’re just as compelling,” I said.

Townsend reached across the table and took my hand. Underneath the table, my legs were doing the jitterbug.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt, Tressa, or get in more trouble.”

I looked up from his hand on mine and looked into his eyes. “Why?” I asked. “Why do you care?”

For a moment his eyes seemed to lock on mine with fierce intensity. His thumb rubbed erotic little circles on my palm. I couldn’t
look away. I couldn’t even blink. His voice, however, was teasing when he replied.

“Hell, Craig would kill me if I let anything happen to you,” he remarked. “And Granddad has become rather attached to you,
too.”

I pulled my hand from his, disappointed but determined not to show it.

He reached for my hand again. He must have seen something in my face, after all. I wasn’t as good at poker faces as Townsend
and others.

“Your grandfather is a legend in his own mind,” I said, to cover any tender feelings inclined to show themselves. “He thinks
he’s a crime-fighter. He’ll give Jessica Fletcher a run for her money.”

“Tressa, you’ve got to let this go,” Townsend said. “For your own good. Let it go.”

I released my hand from his and stood.

“I’d better be going,” I said.

Townsend sighed, stood, and walked me to the door. “Tressa, listen. Let this go. Let the authorities figure it out. Take a
vacation. Get away for awhile. You’re encroaching on dangerous territory, invading rival turf. For your own safety, as well
as for the safety of those you care about, just leave it alone. Go back to your job at Bargain City. Go back to the Dairee
Freeze. Better yet, fly out and visit your aunt and uncle in Arizona. Drop this silly crime-solving notion and let the police
do their jobs. Trust me, Tressa. For your own sake, walk away.”

There it was again. That trust thing. Could I trust Townsend? I noted the firm set of his jaw. The heat of his gaze. Could
I trust him? Could I trust myself to make the right choice?

My heart wanted to say yes, but years of being Gilligan and never the skipper, of being greeted with titters and snickers,
or, worse, years of being ignored altogether, made me want to say screw it.

Trust a gorgeous guy who happened to be seeing the spouse of a dead lawyer I’d found in a trunk?

Fat chance.

C
HAPTER
17

I woke very early with no firm plans in mind. I was scheduled to clock in at Bargain City at two. I also needed to touch base
with Stan the man so he could see I really was trying to earn my pay. I wondered if he would be impressed with what I’d learned.
I hoped so. I was going to try to get him to cover the citations Deputy Samuels had issued me the night before.

I jumped in the shower, then donned a white tank top, light blue running shorts and a pair of running shoes that hadn’t seen
a lot of wear. I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and headed to town. I parked in the driveway of the vacant house
next door, and swigged my water while I waited for activity from the Hamilton home.

Thirty minutes and a good twelve ounces of water later, Hamilton emerged from his residence wearing a navy tank top and gray
running shorts. He entered the garage, got into his vehicle, and pulled out onto the street. I followed, more at home with
the appropriate following distances to be observed when tailing someone. He pulled into the parking lot by the high school
track, the same track I’d regularly thrown up at after competing. He got out of his car, entered the gate, and began hoofing
it around the cinder track at a pace I thought I could match.

I chugalugged more water, hitched my shorts up, did a few stretches to show I was a serious runner, and jogged toward the
track. I timed my entrance on the running track to coincide with Hamilton’s own trek. I didn’t want to appear too anxious
to engage him in conversation, but I knew I only had a finite amount of time before I was breathing too hard to talk at all.
I let Hamilton pass me, then took off behind him, in an adjacent lane. After about a quarter mile, I picked up the pace and
came abreast Hamilton.

“Nice morning for a run,” I said, with a smile I suspected looked more like a grimace. “Do you run here often?”

“Do I know you?” Hamilton gave me a quick look. “You look familiar.”

I didn’t want to bring up the incident with the CDs at the electronics counter, so I just shrugged. “I have that kind of face,”
I remarked. “But you might’ve seen me around the square. I work at the
Gazette
.” I kept a smile on my face despite the fact that my legs were beginning to feel like I was wearing waist-high waders full
of water. “I’m a reporter.”

He gave me another look, not one of interest, exactly. Maybe disbelief.

“So, what do you report?”

“News, of course. Local news. I have to make a confession here. I’ve been hoping to have the opportunity to speak with you
concerning a story I’m working on.”

“You wanted to speak with me? And you are?”

I held out my hand awkwardly. “Tressa Turner. Tressa Jayne Turner.”

His eyes took on the look of a hunted man. Or maybe a guilty one. “I’ve heard of you.”

I nodded. “I’m somewhat of a local icon,” I admitted, my respiration more compromised with each step.

“I’m not sure how I can be of help to you.”

I debated how to proceed. My earlier bombshell routine with this male had submarined big-time. And it was a safe bet I couldn’t
intellectually spar with him. Frankly, I was getting too tired to do much more than breathe in and breathe out.

“Here’s how you can help, Mr. Hamilton. Your law partner didn’t drown. He was murdered. I found his body. In the trunk of
a Chysler Le Baron that looked an awful lot like a Plymouth Reliant in the dark. Anyway, a client you referred to your law
partner was murdered. Lucky me. I found his body, too. That same ex-con threatened me, and demanded in a very unpleasant manner
that I return an envelope of money I found when I found my first dead body. I’m having some difficulty getting local law enforcement
to give my account of events the serious consideration it requires. So, what I need from you right now are answers. Answers
that will help me figure out why Peyton Palmer is dead, and why I keep finding stiffs. Were you and Sheila Palmer lovers?
What was Peyton Palmer so preoccupied with in the days leading up to his death? Why did you insist Palmer take on Mike Hill
as a client? Did the two of you argue? Did you set Palmer up? Who did Mike Hill snitch for? What was the nature of his information?
Did you have anything to do with Peyton Palmer having a hole in his head the size of a Ping-Pong ball? Did you take his boat
out early Saturday morning and drop Peyton Palmer in the drink?”

Hamilton began to run. I mean really run. I kept even with him, stride for stride, although my hamstrings were so tight, you
could pluck a tune on them.

“Who hated Peyton Palmer?” I huffed and puffed. “Who hated him enough to blow him away, then stuff him in the trunk of a 1987
Le Baron? Was it you, Mr. Hamilton?” I was beginning to see white spots. My sentences were short and choppy. “Did you kill
Peyton Palmer?” Huff, puff.

“I remember you now!” Hamilton stopped running. I was so thankful I could have kissed him—if he hadn’t been really sweaty,
that is. Oh, and a murder suspect, of course. “You were the nosy store clerk at Bargain City the other day asking all those
questions. You know something, young lady, you’ve got a problem!”

I was now bent double, sucking air into tortured lungs. “Tell me about it!” I managed. “I keep finding dead bodies!”

“You were out in front of my house, too, weren’t you?”

I straightened. “Which time?” I said, before I could stop myself. I frowned, a wave of nausea assailing me. Chugalugging that
bottled water had been a mistake. I doubled over and water streamed out of my mouth and onto Hamilton’s expensive running
shoes.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I straightened, and swiped a hand across my mouth. “Sorry about that,” I said. “It’s just water,” I assured him. “Really.”

He shook his head and took off faster than Butch and Sundance on bath day.

Being the intrepid reporter, I followed.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m jogging, of course,” I wheezed.

“This is harassment.”

“How am I harassing you? I’m exercising. Now listen,” I said. “We all make mistakes. You know. Lust after someone else’s woman.
Have a bit too much to drink from time to time. Gamble away money we can’t afford. Compromise our futures by choosing the
road of low expectations. Mistakes are made. But somewhere along the line one has to step up and take responsibility. Right
the wrongs of the past. You are a member of an honorable profession. Shouldn’t you do the honorable thing? If you know something
about Peyton Palmer’s death, please, please tell me.”

Hamilton stopped again. He put a hand to his forehead and massaged it. I could almost see the internal battle the attorney
was waging.

“Everything is in such a mess. Such a godawful mess,” he said, a hand shielding his eyes. “This was not the way I wanted my
life to turn out.”

Hope filled me when the counselor’s arrogant facade slowly crumbled, and tears filled his eyes. Seconds later, however, the
vulnerable, anguished look left his face, and his eyes widened. His gaze shifted past me to the gravel parking lot beyond
the high chain-link fence. I followed his gaze and was disturbed to see two police vehicles parked near the gate. A uniformed
officer stood with his arms folded, watching us behind dark glasses.

Hamilton made a sharp turn, and took off toward the officer, while I continued to hoof it around the track. Actually, hoofing
it is an exaggeration, but at least I was still ambulatory. I wiped the sweat from my eyes vowing the next time I ran (like,
as in never again, I hoped), I’d get one of those stretchy headbands and color coordinate it with my outfit and look fine.

I entered the last turn, casting a quick glance at the men visiting outside the chain-link fence. Hamilton motioned in my
direction. I recognized the cop now. Deputy Doug. I made a face. Great.

I struggled around the track until I decided, the heck with it. My feet were harder to lift than my head from the pillow for
the early shift. I slowed my pace. I morphed into what I hoped resembled a cool-down maneuver rather than a if-I-run-another-step-I’ll-puke-again
death march. I swung my arms out in front of me in my best impression of those power walkers who just can’t comprehend how
ridiculous they look, or they would stop with the arm-swinging already.

A second patrol car joined the first, this one an SUV with the wide, gold stripe and the word sheriff in big, gold, block
letters that spelled out I was in deep doo-doo again. I watched as the head honcho himself, Sheriff Thomason, pulled long,
uniformed legs from the vehicle, and shook hands with Dennis Hamilton. As if choreographed, the three men turned in unison
and nailed me with three pairs of enemy eyes. I felt like Winona Ryder with a shopping bag. Or Michael Moore at a Republican
convention.

Deputy Doug and Dennis Hamilton got into their cars and drove away, leaving Sheriff Thomason leaning on the tailgate of his
vehicle. That saying about living to fight another day entered my head and I decided a hasty retreat was in order. The sheriff
intercepted me before I could make good on my getaway.

“You know, I’ve tried to be patient, Miss Turner,” he began, “but I must concede, I’m reaching the end of that commodity with
you. Deputy Samuels tells me you staked out Dennis Hamilton’s home again last night, and here you are harassing him this morning.
He’s threatening to file charges.”

“Charges? For what? Jogging? Parking? Asking questions? I’m a reporter, Sheriff Thomason, that’s what I do.”

He shifted his weight subtly, effectively preventing me from opening my car door. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions of
a lot of folks, I understand.”

“Yeah. So? Last I knew that was protected in the Bill of Rights or Constitution or something.” I didn’t like the way he tried
to intimidate me by tapping his handcuff case.

“Do you want to report the news, Ms. Turner, or make it?” he asked. “There is no physical evidence to indicate Peyton Palmer
was anywhere except on his pontoon Saturday morning. Evidence suggests that he became drunk and either jumped overboard or
fell. What you hope to get out of perpetuating this ridiculous hoax is beyond me.”

“Hoax?” I repeated.
“Hoax?
That wasn’t any hoax Joe Townsend and I came across the other night at the marina. And it sure wasn’t death by drowning. How
do you explain Mike Hill’s demise? Playing with a Python, perhaps?”

The sheriff gave a tight smile. “We haven’t come to a conclusion yet on how Mr. Hill met his death. If you recall, however,
your fingerprints are on the murder weapon, you were at the scene of the murder, and, as you just pointed out, you discovered
the body, so I’d be walking a fine line here, Miss Freedom of the Press.” He looked at me for a moment. “I wonder how much
of your dumb blonde act is just that? An act?” he asked, almost as if he were thinking aloud.

I was taken aback. No one had ever sought to challenge a persona I wore as naturally as Big Bird wears that ten-gallon tie.
Under normal circumstances, I would be whooping it up that I had finally given someone cause to doubt the dopey blonde caricature.
Why then did I suddenly feel so strongly that convincing folks I was every bit the screwball they believed me to be was the
safest place to be right now? Maybe because of the threats I’d had lobbed at me like tennis balls from an automatic ball tosser.
Maybe it was the possibility of incarceration looming. Perhaps because if I transformed myself into a force to be reckoned
with, I’d have to be reckoned with.

Regardless of what the sheriff believed, I knew there was a killer out there. A minimum wage, college dropout with a history
of underachievement poking about asking questions wouldn’t be much cause for concern. However, if I lost that reputation and
was taken seriously for a change, what more might I lose? Ironic, wasn’t it, that I had to act the twit (okay, so it wasn’t
really that big a stretch for me), in order to avoid the notice of a murderer. It was not a position I ever expected to be
in.

“Congratulations, Sheriff.” I grabbed his hand and pumped. “Finally, someone has seen the truth of it. That dumb blonde thing
is
all an act. Way to go, Sheriff! Do you suppose you might, uh, spread the word? You know, a word from you that I’m a legitimate
newspaper woman who is only out to get at the truth and report it will open up vast new sources of information to me,” I said.
“With my reputation, folks are a bit, oh, uneasy spilling their guts. You could help me out lots.” I smiled, and continued
to pump his hand while I maneuvered myself into my car. “Oh, dear,” I said, and put a hand up to the ignition.

“Is something wrong?” The sheriff tipped his head inside.

“My car keys. They’re gone!”

“Isn’t that your key ring in your other hand?”

I looked down and gave a little chuckle. “Oh, yes. Thank you, Sheriff.” I started the car. It cooperated by belching and farting,
then dying. I giggled. “I think I need a tune-up. Is that something I could do myself, do you think? I already know how to
change my oil. Which reminds me.” I popped the hood release. (I knew where that was from years of adding motor oil.) I jumped
out, grabbed a bottle of 10W-30 from my back seat, and prepared to dump it in.

The sheriff stopped me. “That’s for transmission fluid.” He pointed to the oil-covered engine. “That’s where the oil goes.”

“I know that,” I said, indignant. “I’ve changed my oil before.” I dumped the plastic bottle of oil in the engine, swiped an
oily hand across my mouth for effect, then jumped back in the car. It sputtered, then started. “See? Back in business,” I
announced. “Thank you, Sheriff,” I said. “Thank you for seeing me for who I really am.” I drove off, oily mustache and all,
hoping he’d reassess his earlier lightbulb moment concerning my intelligence quotient. Ah, irony, sweet irony.

I made a stop by the newspaper office and closeted myself with Stan for a couple hours until we had a decent front page article
featuring the unflattering mug shot of Mike Hill, and the report of his death at the marina. Stan would wrangle the pathology
and forensics report from law enforcement authorities. We decided he had a better rapport with the cops than I did. Gee, I
wonder why?