Calamity Jayne (20 page)

“Is this blackmail?” Ranger Rick asked with a lifting brow and, I was pleased to note, a bit of huskiness to his voice.

I shook my head slowly, then moved in closer so the tips of my breasts were just making contact with his chest. God, that
felt good, I thought, then chided myself for letting myself become distracted from the task at hand—a very pleasurable task,
I might add.

“Blackmail? Of course not.” I rubbed against him once more just to see if it felt as good. It did.

“And what are the right conditions?” Ranger Rick asked while one of his big, tanned hands traveled up my arm to snag a bra
strap.

“Huh?” I asked, losing my focus.

“You said you would lose the bra under the right conditions. What conditions?” He drew one bra strap down while he was talking.

“Conditions? Oh, yes. Well, in the spirit of cooperation and, uh, trust, yes, trust, as a sort of, uh, symbol of that trust,
I might be induced to shuck the bra.”

He nodded, and pulled my other bra strap down. I licked my lips again—not for effect, but because my mouth was dry as Gramma’s
legs during the winter.

“I see. And you would require what gesture from me as a, what did you call it, symbol of trust?” he asked, and stuck a finger
down the front of my falling bra.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe if you shared with me what you really know about Peyton Palmer’s death, that would go a long way
toward, establishing a level of trrruuusst.” I ended on a shaky note as his finger moved over my nipple. My legs began to
do a cha-cha beneath the floor-length gown.

Townsend’s finger passed over the peak, which was by now standing at full attention. I couldn’t stop myself from closing my
eyes and leaning into that intimate caress. I felt Townsend’s breath on my face. I parted my lips, waiting, wishing I’d had
time for a breathmint earlier.

“I get it,” Townsend said. His mouth rested on the swell of my left breast above the bunched bra, his tongue making erotic
little circles on my skin. “You’re talking tit for chat.”

My eyes popped open and I grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled. “Why, you... you...”

“Watch it, Calamity, your bodice is slipping.”

Too late I realized that, without the bra, there wasn’t enough me to hold up the rest of the dress, and the gown had slipped
almost to my belly button. I tugged the top back into place to the tune of Townsend’s ringing laughter.

“Sophomoric ass,” I mumbled, certain my face was as crimson as the dress I almost wore.

“I suppose in all fairness, since you did, in fact, give me a look at your perfectly delightful breasts, I should return the
favor in some respect.” Townsend was dead serious now, and I was intrigued.

“Are you going to drop your drawers?” I asked. “I could help you determine the best spot for your tattoo.”

He shook his head. “Not what I had in mind,” he said.

“I’ve seen you without your shirt. That’s no big thrill for me.” It was a bald-faced lie. Seeing Townsend shirtless had propelled
my resting pulse rate into the red zone on more than one occasion.

It happened so quickly I didn’t have time to wet my lips. One minute Townsend was standing across from me, a finger tapping
his cheek, and the next I was bent backwards in an embrace worthy of the formal gown I wore. I was kissed as I’d never been
kissed before. Lots of lip. Lots of tongue. Lots of heat.

Unfortunately, it was over way too soon, and I was brought back to earth before I’d had time to savor the blast-off. I rearranged
my gown, keeping hold of it with one shaky hand.

“What was that?” I asked, pushing my hair out of my eyes.

“Quid pro quo,” Ranger Rick said with a grin. “Quid pro quo.”

C
HAPTER
19

I left Kari’s apartment around eight with the infamous red dress
(Take it home, try it on with a strapless padded bra,
Kari instructed), depressed as hell.

As sucky as my life was, I realized I wanted it back. All of it.

I wanted to go out my front door again without peeking through the shades first. I wanted to eat supper at my folks’, and
not worry that I was putting them in harm’s way. I wanted to hit a country nightclub, put back a few beers and find a good-looking
cowboy to stomp around the floor with. I wanted a good night’s sleep, a whole day off, and a full tank of gas to drive on.
And most of all, I wanted Peyton Palmer to stroll up to me with his too-big nostrils and stiff hair and say to me, “Tressa,
the tales of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.”

Tattoo bets and
I-told-you-sos
no longer held the appeal they once had. I realized I didn’t need to prove anything to my folks, or my friends, or the entire
population of Grandville, for that matter. I needed to prove something to myself, Tressa Turner. I needed to prove that regardless
of years of mishaps and missteps, of selling myself short and daring too little, of hiding my light under a bush I’d planted,
cultivated, and fertilized, that I was smarter than the average blonde.

I drove home, locked myself in my bedroom with Butch and Sundance, and fell into a sleep disturbed only by images of red dresses,
bare chests (male variety) and kisses to die for. I woke with my arms clasped around a pillow and my mouth plastered against
a drool-soaked pillowcase. I looked down at the pillow with disgust, then at the dogs who’d joined me in bed. I hoped that
was human drool.

I showered, shaved (I hate razor stubble, don’t you?) and lightly spackled, deciding to take great care with my appearance
today. I wanted to look polished. Professional. In charge. I looked in my closet. Let’s see... khaki, khaki or khaki. I began
beating my head against the closet door. Once I was through with Bargain City, I would never wear khaki again, I vowed. I
scrounged around and finally settled on a calf-length, belted denim skirt and a sleeveless red top. I thrust my feet into
a pair of red suede sandals with two-inch heels. I re-did my nails with a quick-drying shade called Extrovert, grabbed my
cell phone (I just love to say “my cell phone”), and headed for town.

I walked into the newspaper office determined to let my little light shine.

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.” Stan blew cigar smoke in my direction. “I’ve been calling that damn cell phone for
the last hour. Don’t you have it turned on?”

I slapped my forehead with an open palm. “I forgot and left it in the car. Besides, you can’t blame me—that battery lasts
about as long as a bag of Doritos among a
Survivor
tribe,” I told him. “I’ll just run and get it now.”

“Forget the damn phone. Get in here and tell me what the hell you’ve been up to.”

What was it with everybody wanting to know what I was up to?

“I heard you bailed out some dirtbag biker-type from the county jail yesterday. What’s with that?”

I explained to Stan about Manny, and what he’d heard down in the bowels of Knox County Courthouse.

“He says it was an inside job all the way. That means corrupt cops.” I spelled it out for my boss, although I was certain
he could come to the same conclusion without my pointing the way. “But why would they want to strongarm Peyton Palmer?”

“It’s like a shot across the deck of a ship.”

I gave him my clueless look.

“It’s like a warning shot. ‘Prepare to be boarded. Behave and you won’t get hurt. Don’t behave and we throw you over the side.’”

I gulped. “Fish food.”

“The question is, what did Palmer know?”

“If the police are involved, that means he had something on them.”

“Not necessarily. You don’t know the drugs came from the cops. Someone outside could have smuggled the dope into the jail
to Mike Hill, so Hill could accuse Palmer.”

“Dennis Hamilton is up to his two hundred dollar ties in this,” I said, “but I’m not convinced he’s a killer.”

Stan jumped to his feet. “Stay the hell away from Hamilton. You get yourself hurt, your dad will catapult me off that damned
cherry picker into orbit. You tried to get a statement from Hamilton. He declined. Hell, he’s called the cops on you at least
twice. Give it a rest.”

I shook my head. “Hamilton didn’t call the cops on me,” I said.

“What?”

“Technically, Hamilton never really called the cops. The first time an anonymous caller phoned in a suspicious vehicle tip.
The second time, they just showed up.”

I thought about that, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that getting close to Dennis Hamilton was about
as easy as painting your toenails in the dark. And let’s face it, you know how it is when someone forbids you to do something.
It’s like a keep off, wet paint sign. Don’t tell me you’ve never stuck a finger out to make sure that wet paint is really
wet. And those you break it, you bought it signs. That’s like inviting you to pick up everything in the display. Or the flashing
don’t walk traffic signs. Get real.

“Keep your distance from Hamilton, Turner. Back off, or you’re history.”

Uh-oh. Red flag waved in the face of a pissed-off bull.

“Yeah, right. Anything you say, Stan. You’re the boss.”

“I wish people around here would remember that,” he whined.

“So, are we gonna go with the stuff I got from Manny?” I asked.

Stan blew a ring of smoke. Cool. I wish I could do that. If I smoked, that is.

“The guy’s a biker thug. You think he’s got any credibility? He’s probably got a rap sheet longer than my wife’s honey-do
list. We’ll hang on to it and wait for the coroner’s report on Hill, then see if we can slip it in on a follow-up.”

I nodded. “Okay. What do you want me to work on now since you won’t let me stake out Hamilton? You did say you didn’t want
me to stake out Hamilton, didn’t you?”

“Go home, Turner!” Stan’s voice rose and his cigar puffing increased to smog-alert status. “Take the afternoon off. Spend
some quality time with your family. Go swimming. Take a nap. Read a good book. Just get the hell out of here. And remember,
stay away from Hamilton’s house. Or don’t bother coming back.”

I struck a military pose. “Aye-aye, captain. Arrrr, maties!” I snarled, and beat a hasty retreat to the sounds of “smart ass.”

I’d walked a block or so when I found my newly-polished piggies taking me in the direction of the little brick building that
housed Palmer & Hamilton, Attorneys at Law. I had promised Stan I would keep my distance from Hamilton, and I would. I wouldn’t
stake out his home or follow him by car. But what was the harm in sitting across from him in broad daylight at his legal office?

My gut told me I hadn’t imagined the haunted look in Hamilton’s eyes at the running track, or the fear when the cops rolled
up. The boys in blue clearly didn’t want me getting close to Mr. Hamilton. And for that reason alone, I knew I had to talk
to him. Now. Before my courage fled.

Chin high, I marched into the offices of Peyton & Hamilton. “I need to see Mr. Hamilton,” I announced to Annette Felders,
who still didn’t have a hair out of place. She jumped to her feet.

“He’s very busy today. Besides, you don’t have an appointment. So get the hell out of here, or I’m calling the cops,” she
said.

“I’m here to see Dennis Hamilton. You’re welcome to try and stop me,” I challenged. With my party girl shoes and her diminutive
size, it was an obvious mismatch. I made my way down the hall, oblivious to the dwarf at my heels. I went directly to Hamilton’s
office door, turned the knob and walked in.

If staring out the window qualified as busy, Hamilton was busy. He looked up when I walked in.

“What the devil are you doing in here? What’s going on, Annette?”

I sat down in a comfy-looking chair across from Hamilton. “Mr. Hamilton, let’s cut to the chase here, all right? I am not
here as a newspaper reporter. I’m not here as some poor, misunderstood, woe-is-me cowgirl looking for legitimacy, or her fifteen
minutes of fame. I’m not here to threaten or intimidate. I’m here to ask you to please help me. Help me find justice for a
man who can no longer seek it for himself. You’re an attorney. You seek justice for people everyday, for strangers who just
walk into your office. Does Peyton Palmer deserve less?”

I was on a roll, with no clue where I was heading, but my mouth was fully engaged.

“So you slept with his wife. You probably weren’t the first and probably won’t be the last. Maybe you have some skeletons
in your closet that you’d rather not see the light of day. But if you know something about a murder and you don’t step forward,
then this honorable profession you’ve sworn an oath to is just a lie.”

“Don’t listen to her, Dennis,” Annette said. “She’s mental. Everyone knows it. Now, are you leaving or do I have to call the
sheriff?” She held the door open for me.

“If Mr. Hamilton wants me to leave,” I said, “I’ll leave.”

She looked over at Dennis Hamilton, who looked oddly deflated. He shook his head.

“I’m getting the police,” she said, and ran out of the office.

I shrugged, and turned back to Hamilton. “Mr. Hamilton, you deal with folks at their worst. Divorce. Deaths and estate issues.
Criminal cases. The stress must be incredible. Things happen. Humans make mistakes. Sometimes really bad ones. We’re not perfect.
But at some point each of us must acknowledge the wrongdoing in our lives. You can choose to do it now, or take a chance and
wait, in which case it might be too late. I don’t think Peyton Palmer expected last week to be his last on this earth, but
that’s what happened. Ditto for Mike Hill. No second chance to get it right. No rain check for the next time around. No, I’ll
catch the next train. Just ‘the end.’ Or whatever comes after the end.” I was using bits and pieces I’d picked up from a televangelist
Gramma watched, Judge Judy and Dr. Laura. I couldn’t tell if I was getting through or confusing the hell out of him. As I
sat there and watched him, I just didn’t see a cold-blooded killer. An egomaniac? Probably. Immoral? That, too, no doubt.
Criminal? Yep. But a murderer? I wasn’t so sure. Whatever Hamilton’s secrets, and they were probably dirty ones, I just couldn’t
picture the guy nailing Mike Hill with a Python or stuffing Palmer in a trunk.

I stood. “You and I can walk right out of here now, and walk just down the street to Stan Rodgers at the
Gazette
. You know Stan. You can trust Stan. He’s a stand-up kinda guy. Come on, Mr. Hamilton. What do you say? Shall we take a walk?”

I heard the front door. Hamilton heard it, too.

“Mr. Hamilton?” I asked, and held out my hand.

A couple uniforms appeared in the doorway.

“Everything all right here, Mr. Hamilton?” a thick-necked officer asked. “You want us to take her in?

Dennis Hamilton stared at my hand, then shook his head.

“That won’t be necessary, officer,” he said. “Miss Turner was just leaving.”

I let my hand drop to my side. “Time is running out, Mr. Hamilton. Please. Do the right thing.”

I passed a couple uniforms in the hallway, but just kept walking. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, but I didn’t know why.
Maybe because I felt I’d failed, that my words hadn’t been persuasive enough, that I hadn’t been credible enough. Those same
old doubts and insecurities I’d battled for so long were hard to vanquish overnight.

I sighed. I thought about the little speech I’d just given. When I’d first started out, it had been just so much spin. But
now, thinking about it, I realized that what I’d said was true. No one knew what day would be their final one on the earth.
It just made sense to live each day as if it were your very last.

I was going to go home, hug my critters, and tell my family how much they meant to me. Even Taylor. I winced. This was getting
way too warm-and-fuzzy, touchy-feely. Maybe I’d tell the animals how much they meant to me and save the hugs for family members.
Yeah. That would work.

I jumped in my car, remembered to plug in the cell phone and drove home. I hummed a little tune as I did. I was going to forget
my worries for the afternoon and pretend all was right with my world.

I spent the afternoon with a Mexican general. You know: Manual Labor. I cleaned out stalls, picked up poop in the horse lot,
spread the poop per environmental guidelines, then passed time playing with the dogs. I saddled Joker up and put him through
his paces, feeling happy in the saddle as I never was anywhere else. Well, with the exception of bed, of course. And the shopping
mall with birthday money burning a hole in my pocket.

I rode along the fence row, careful to watch for ground-squirrel and mole holes. One minute I was cantering along, at one
with nature and contemplating my next shoe purchase, when a sharp crack accompanied by a strange whizzing prefaced a sudden
lurch of Joker as he faltered, then tumbled to his side. I had just enough warning to kick my feet out of the stirrups and
dive out of the way, when I heard a second crack.

I registered Joker’s labored breathing at about the same time I noticed the blood pouring out from around his withers, understanding
the significance of the crack and the whizz immediately. Some psycho had shot my horse! I was so filled with anger and rage
that I lifted my head to get up, then remembered there had been a second shot. Two shots. Not one.

I let my head fall back to the ground, as if I’d just passed out. Or died. I tried to keep as still as I could, terrified
the shooter would come finish the job, but more terrified to move and be picked off like one of those revolving ducks at the
shooting gallery carnival games.

I prayed as I’d never prayed before. “Please Lord, don’t let me die,” I prayed. “At least not until I track down the son-of-a-bitch
who shot my horse. Amen.”

I remained on the ground, still as death for a moment or two, knowing that with each minute that ticked off, more life’s blood
was pouring from Joker. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t lie there like some spineless coward and let Joker die. No,
pilgrim. Not today. Today I was a true crime-fighter. Today I was Catwoman gone straight!