Calamity Jayne (22 page)

“Huh?”

“Please come.” I was not above pleading. “Please.”

“Yeah. All right. Manny owes you. I’m probably sixty minutes north of you, babe. But Manny’ll get started that way. How about
the hemorrhoid?”

“Huh?” My train of thought was low on coal.

“The conservation hemorrhoid. You try him?”

“He wasn’t home.”

Manny grunted. “Keep your head down, Barbie doll.”

“Roger that,” I said, and ended the call. I looked at the clock. Nine-thirty. Time to get the show on the road.

I helped Joe clean up, then drilled him and Gramma one more time: “Now, if you don’t hear from me by ten-ten, what are you
going to do again?”

“We’re to call your father, Craig, the fire department, the rescue unit, the state highway patrol, the Army Corp of Engineers,
your uncle Frank, and Mary at the convenience store on First.”

I nodded. “Well, this is it,” I said. “Time to go.”

“I can’t stand to watch you leave,” Gramma said, and gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek. “I just can’t.” She entered the
screened porch to the rear of Joe’s garage.

“I’ll be back,” I told Joe, feeling very un-Terminator-like, and shook his hand—“shook” being a key word.

“I’m gonna go console your grandmother,” the old man said with a wink. “You better use the john before you go. You have lipstick
on your face. You don’t want to have lipstick on when you go out looking for a murderer, do you?”

I shook my head and headed to the bathroom. I needed to go anyway.

While I conducted my business, I looked at the cabinet doors below Joe’s bathroom sink. I wondered if Joe had any bladder
control pads. As I backed Joe’s car out of his garage a few minutes later, I wished I’d checked. I was thinking there was
a very good chance that tonight, I just might need them.

C
HAPTER
21

I pulled into the parking lot below the one hundred and six foot converted water tower-turned-observation tower at nine-forty-five
P.M.
I spotted Dennis Hamilton’s silver Lincoln in the lot. His was the only other car. Dang. I’d hoped for people milling
about. Probably most people were home with a bowl of ice cream preparing to watch the late news, or to roll over and fall
asleep after a quickie. Probably I should be, too.

I’d already decided this interview would be a quickie, too. The gates closed at ten
P.M.
, and the weather looked like one
of Snoopy’s dark and stormy nights. Definitely not the type of night to be meeting potential murder suspects at the top of
a lake observation tower. What was I saying? No night was the night to be meeting potential murder suspects. I parked the
car and grabbed my flashlight with sweaty palms. I grimaced and wiped them on my jeans.

“Brrruuub.”

I stopped at the sound. Thunder? “Brrruuupp.” An unpleasant smell reached my nasal passages. I turned my flashlight on, and
pointed it into the back seat. I let out a yell when the light reflected off two sets of tri-focals.

“Gramma! Joe! What in God’s name are you two doing down here?” They were hunkered down like they were conducting WWII trench
warfare. “Besides cutting the cheese, of course.”

“We couldn’t let you face the enemy alone, honey.” Gramma unfolded herself from the floor. I winced, hoping she wouldn’t snap
a bone or something. “We stowed away. Felt good, too.”

“What? The farting or the stowing?” I asked, then shook my head. “Gramma, you can’t stay here. I don’t want to have to worry
about you two.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Gramma said, and pulled a gun from her purse. “This was your greatgrandfather’s service revolver
when he was Grandville’s Chief of Police. I knew Joe was interested in firearms, and I thought he’d like to see Daddy’s gun,
so I brought it along on our date tonight. I’ve shot this thing more times than I can recall. I’m quite the sharpshooter,
if I do say so myself.”

“I can’t believe this. My grammy is packing heat!”

“I’m packin’, too,” Joe said and showed me a dark gray automatic. “It’s a Glock,” he announced, as if that told me anything.

“A Glock? What’s a Glock?”

“It’s a gun. A way cool gun. Everyone carries a Glock in the mystery books.”

I put my head on the steering wheel. “Listen,” I said after a minute or two of therapeutic head-banging. “I’m going to go
up those stairs to tell Hamilton that tonight is not a good time for me, and we’ll have to reschedule.” Like, when hell sported
an ice skating rink. Or Britney Spears didn’t show her belly button. Or Al Gore was no longer boring. “You two stay here.
And unload those guns before you shoot each other.”

“Please, take it, Tressa.” Gramma handed my great-grandpa’s gun to me with reverence. “Papa would want you to carry this with
you. Just aim and pull the trigger, dear,” she announced as calmly as if she were instructing me on how to use a disposable
camera.

I shook my head. Some families passed down artwork, antique furniture, quilts, farmland and family Bibles. My relatives passed
down heirloom weaponry.

I took the gun from her, figuring it was safer with me than with Laverne and Shirley in the back seat. “Okay, Gramma. I’ll
take it. Thanks.” I promptly slid it under the front seat.

I gave my cell phone to Joe and told him if I wasn’t back on ground level within ten minutes, he was to call out the cavalry.

“Let’s synchronize watches,” he said, pushing his IndiGlo nightlight.

“Just watch the time, Joe. Ten minutes from now, if I’m not down, make those calls.”

He nodded. “Yes, Herr Commandant!”

Against my better judgment, I stepped out of the car on legs that felt like I’d been walking a balance beam from one rim of
the Grand Canyon to the other. I deposited my fifty cents in the place provided and slipped through the turnstile. I gazed
up at the winding staircase, all one hundred seventy steps, with the same eagerness I show when I reconcile my bank statement.
I put my foot on the first step. Only one hundred sixty nine to go. Halfway up, I stopped for a breath. Hey, I already told
you I wasn’t in the best shape. So sue me.

“Mr. Hamilton?” I called out to warn him I was on my way, as if the heavy footsteps and even heavier breathing weren’t sufficient
warning. I was beginning to get a not-so-good feeling about this major journalistic scoop. Like, if rather than snagging a
by-line, I would end up with a bye-bye line. “Yoohoo? Mr. Hamilton, Tressa Turner here. I’m coming up.” A hint of wussiness
made its way into my voice. I actually found myself thankful for the golden oldie gun enthusiasts below. There was something
comforting about having a card-carrying NRA member with Jackie Chan fantasies and his blue-haired associate backing you up
on a murder investigation.

I resumed my climb. “Mr. Hamilton, this just isn’t working for me. I’m thinking another time would be best.” Yeah, like when
the Minnesota Vikings brought home a Super Bowl ring. Or Double-Stuf Oreos actually helped you lose weight. “Besides, there’s
thunder and lightning and it isn’t safe to be up in this tower during a thunderstorm. Mr. Hamilton?” A feeling like the one
you get when you receive an unexpected letter from the bank hit me. I peeked up the darkened staircase. “Mr. Hamilton?”

I took the final turn and could see the last stair. “Thank God,” I wheezed when I’d planted both feet on the floor, my legs
feeling like slinkies. Lightning lit up the sky to the west, and a crack of thunder provided accompaniment for the light show.
The top of the tower had three benches. I expect they thought folks needed a place to fall when they reached the top. I expect
they were right. There was enough lighting to see that only one bench was occupied. I started toward the figure on the bench.

“Mr. Hamilton, we really need to go. It’s going to rain buckets here any time now.” I poked him on the shoulder. “Mr. Hamilton?”
I poked him again harder. This time he fell over onto the bench. “Mr. Hamilton, are you all right?” I grabbed my flashlight
and turned it on. The beam hit Hamilton in the crotch area. I winced. I started to avert my eyes when I noticed the large
dark spot on the front of the khaki slacks. I made a gag-me face, hoping against hope Dennis Hamilton was merely incontinent
and hadn’t, uh, entertained himself before I arrived.

“Mr. Hamilton. Mr. Hamilton, wake up. Do you need a hand getting up?” I aimed my flashlight toward his face. A muffled scream
escaped me. No, Dennis Hamilton didn’t need a hand, at all. He needed a face.

Reconstituted taco meat burned the back of my throat. No way. Couldn’t be. No one could find three dead bodies in the span
of one week. As if on cue in some action-adventure flick, the earth shook, lightning crackled and the heavens opened up. I
did a number across the floor of the tower toward the staircase like Disney on Ice (Goofy or, maybe Dopey). I proceeded to
haul my ass down those stairs with one thought in mind. A vacation. I was taking a long vacation.

I lost my footing on the slippery stairs about two turns from the bottom. My feet went out from under me and I remember counting
each stair as my butt bounced off it. I stopped counting when I hit the heavy pole at the bottom, and everything went your
basic black.

In my dream, I was cradled in strong, protective arms. My wet hair was brushed away from my face with a whisper-soft touch.
Hushed words of tender devotion and humble adoration were spoken ever so low against my ear, sending thrills and chills rippling
throughout my inert body. I sighed and snuggled closer to the essence of my dream world. “Tell me again how you feel about
me,” I sighed, and arched my back.

“I think you’re a total nitwit, devoid of any legitimate claim to rational thought processes, and not even on a nodding acquaintance
with common sense or sound judgment.” Ranger Rick’s fire-breathing dragon breath singed my cheeks. “What the hell do you have
to say for yourself, Tressa Jayne Turner?”

I gave a weak smile. “Your grandfather made me do it?” I tried.

“Are you in much pain?” Rick asked, and I wondered how badly I was hurt.

“I’ll live,” I said, pretty sure Dennis Hamilton wouldn’t. It was hard to survive in the world without a face. “How did you
know I was here?”

“I got your insane message, checked the number, and when I didn’t recognize it, I called. Imagine my surprise when my grandfather
answered.”

I started to sit up, but Rick put a restraining hand on my shoulder. “Just take it easy, Calamity,” he said. “An ambulance
is on its way.”

“Ambulance?” That got my attention, big time. Thoughts of doctor bills, seven-dollar aspirins, and
Overdue
stamped on all my mail made my head hurt even more.

“No.” I managed to get myself to a sitting position. “No ambulance. No doctors. No hospital. No money,” I added, by means
of clarification. “I’m fine. Really. I’ve taken harder knocks to this noggin, believe me. And isn’t this the same head you’ve
been known to say is hard enough to pound deck nails?”

“You were unconscious when I found you, Tressa. You need to be checked out.”

I tried to shake my head. It wasn’t easy. “I wasn’t
unconscious
unconscious. I just sort of passed out for a teensy while. There’s nothing wrong with me that plain-label, over-the-counter
painkillers and a nice, long nap won’t cure.”

“You could have a concussion. A hemotoma. A skull fracture.”

I gave him a nasty look. “Aren’t we just little Mary Sunshine?” I said. “No doctors,” I reiterated. “No kidding.”

Ranger Rick mumbled something about self-destructive women and the men who tolerated them, and helped me to my feet. I swayed
a little before I regained my balance.

“Yeah, you’re fine, all right,” Townsend observed, “for someone who should have her head examined.”

I stuck my middle finger up. “How many fingers am I holding up, Ranger Rick?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Actually, I’m kind of hoping the blow to your cranium knocked some sense into you for a change. Or a case of
amnesia would be nice. That way you’d forget all about this crime-solving compulsion.”

“When I feel better, I’ll expect an apology from all three of you.” I turned and almost stuck my nose into a silver shield.
I read the nametag with a frown. “What’s
he
doing here?” I asked no one in particular. “What are
you
doing here?” I glared at the deputy who was about as welcome right now as a big ugly zit on picture day at school.

“I believe it’s within law enforcement purview to investigate suicides.” Deputy Doug gave me a stern look.

I caught the suicide thing right away. I’m getting quicker on the uptake. “Suicide? What are you talking about?” I faced Townsend.
“What’s he talking about?”

Townsend took my arm and led me to the exit. “Looks like Hamilton stuck the gun to his own head. At least, the evidence suggests
that.”

“Suicide? No way. Hamilton had something for me. Information he wanted to pass along.”

“To you?” Deputy Dickhead inserted. “Why you?”

“Because he didn’t trust the police, that’s why!” I shouted, rain hitting my face and dripping down my nose. “He was going
to finger a killer here tonight.”

I saw the deputy’s eyes lift to a point behind me. He and Townsend were probably ready to exchange eye rolls. Or put their
fingers to their temples and make a
she’s cuckoo
finger motion.

“Did you touch the dead guy?” Samuels gestured to the stairs. I nodded, and he sighed. “We’ve already got more than enough
sets of your fingerprints for comparison purposes than we’ll hopefully ever need, but we’ll need a statement.”

“She needs to sit for a bit first,” Townsend said. “At least until she only sees two of me.”

“Thank you,” I said, loath to turn my back on Deputy Doug even for the half-minute it took to leave the observation tower
and head to Joe’s car. I faltered. Joe’s car. Townsend’s grandad. My ass. My knees began to go south and I was grateful for
Townsend’s arm at my waist. I pointed to a Harley motorcycle in the lot. “Isn’t that Manny’s bike?”

“Your biker buddy? Yeah. He had a little accident.”

“An accident?”

“My grandfather thought he was one of the bad guys and maced him.”

“Mace? Your grandfather carries mace?” Why that should surprise me, I didn’t know. My mind raced with images of biker paybacks.
“Is Manny okay?”

“Yeah. The rain helped.”

Rick led me to his pickup and helped me up. “You need anything?” he asked. “A glass of water? A cold rag? A CAT scan?”

I shook my head, wanting nothing more than to just sit and be very, very still. “Maybe later. After my MRI.”

I looked on as activity picked up. I recognized the DCI agent who had sat in at one of my two police interviews. I shuddered
at the prospect of a third. Why did this keep happening to me? Even as that thought filtered in and out, my brain was already
composing attention-getting headlines and opening paragraphs for the next news article. I closed my eyes and rested my head
on the back of the car seat. I sure hoped Joe remembered to hide his Glock.

Two days later I sat across from Stan with a bottle of water and a handful of extra-strength painkillers in front of me. I
popped a couple tablets and washed them down with a long swig. I had a knot on my head the size of Sadie Tucker’s goiter,
a softball-sized bruise on my left buttock, and one on my right thigh that, interestingly enough, resembled Horton the elephant
with two trunks. With my collection of cuts and scrapes, I looked like I’d gone several rounds with Muhammad Ali’s daughter.
I wasn’t complaining. At least I still had a face. Not so for Dennis Hamilton. The police had everything wrapped up in one
nice, neat little Knox County Special Delivery package: Peyton Palmer’s disappearance, Mike Hill’s murder, and Dennis Hamilton’s
apparent suicide. I was skeptical, but glad not to have to look over my shoulder anymore.

A search of Hamilton’s home had turned up evidence of those “misdeeds” Hamilton had referred to. Records on Hamilton’s home
computer and a subsequent search of his office files showed years of embezzlement by Hamilton from estate and trust accounts.
Drugs confiscated from the home, along with financial records, indicated Hamilton had a very expensive drug habit to feed.
That was where Mike Hill, drug dealer and general all-around do-anything-for-a-buck lowlife came in.