Calamity Jayne (23 page)

Hill, according to the police, was Hamilton’s drug supplier. When Peyton Palmer had begun looking into the accounting practices
of his partner, which had ultimately led to Hamilton’s exposure as a big-time embezzler and dope-user, Palmer had to be dealt
with. The drug setup was to shut down Palmer’s investigation. Discredit him. Scare him off. It had been the proverbial shot
across the bow Stan had suggested. When that hadn’t worked, Peyton Palmer had to walk the plank, matey.

Hill had been hired to carry out the hit on Palmer. Only something went very wrong, presumably a bad tire and electrical problems.
Hill, an amateur in the kill-for-hire role and not the brightest hitman around, had left the car in the Bargain City lot,
and of course, you know the rest of the story. Enter Tressa Turner, aka Ms. Monkey Wrench. I threw everything into chaos when
I took the wrong car. Hill or Hamilton or both, followed me, and retrieved the body when I bolted. Searches were being conducted
on both Hamilton and Hill’s vehicles, and authorities were confident they would find forensic evidence linking the men to
Palmer.

Once Palmer was disposed of, Hill realized he’d hadn’t received his payment in full (i.e. the envelope of money), and had
assumed I had taken it. Where that money was also remained a mystery, but certain I had it, Hill began his little campaign
of cruelty to convince me to return the money. The vandalism, the notes, the threats. It was fortunate, the police said, that
I didn’t have the money, because as soon as I handed it over, I would have joined Peyton in the hereafter.

When I didn’t cough up the dough, Hill went to Hamilton seeking recompense. Hamilton refused, probably because he had snorted
away most of his money, or rather his clients’ money, and didn’t have it to give. When Hill tried to blackmail him, it was
bye-bye Cobra Man. Police speculated Hill had followed me to the marina, called Hamilton in to assist him taking out one annoying
blonde, they’d argued, and Hill got a head full of lead. Joe and I had unexpectedly returned to the pontoon before the killer
could dump the body.

Police figured once I’d confronted Hamilton at his office, I had to be dealt with, hence the unsuccessful attempt on my life
with the rifle. Perhaps Hamilton had lured me to the observation tower with his story of coming clean only to finish the job,
or perhaps, to come clean and unburden his soul. Either way, it was obvious that somewhere along the line he’d changed his
mind. Maybe he’d felt the noose tightening. Maybe he’d just decided to take the coward’s way out. Maybe he was just a sick
bastard who’d wanted the dumb blonde who’d unwittingly foiled his perfectly good crime, to find his grisly remains—as if Peyton
Palmer’s and Mike Hill’s weren’t enough.

Everything the cops said seemed so plausible. Yet, because it was the cops saying it, I was hesitant to accept it as gospel.
Maybe because I was unwilling to believe a John Tesh fan could be a multiple murderer. Or because Peyton Palmer’s body was
still out there, somewhere. Unfinished business.

Stan and I worked on the article for several hours. I provided eyewitness testimony. Stan refused to print any graphic details
of the suicide scene. Bummer. I had come up with some really terrific descriptive phrases.

“Too sensational,” he said. “We’re not a tabloid.”

Stan and I shared the byline. Staring at my name alongside his on a story that made state headlines gave me a lump in my throat.

“Tressa J. Turner,’” I read. “Unbelievable.” I stared at my name. Tressa Jayne Turner, not Calamity Jayne Turner. I smiled.
I’d done it. I’d actually done it. I’d put Calamity Jayne to bed along with the
Gazette
. It felt good. Damn good.

“Something’s been bugging me,” I said as Stan and I were wrapping up. “I never thought to ask, how
did
Hamilton get my cell phone number? I never gave it to him. It had to be you.”

“He came in looking for you yesterday, and one of the girls gave him the number. Sorry, kid. They didn’t know.”

“What time was this?” I asked, suddenly on alert.

“Don’t know. You’ll have to ask Shirley. I think she was the one who spoke with him.”

I left Stan to proof the article one more time and found Shirley.

She dug around and came up with a steno pad. “Around two-thirty,” she said, adding that he’d seemed very anxious to speak
to me, but she’d never suspected he meant me harm.

I frowned. That was very close to the time Joker was shot. Why would a lawyer, of all people, waltz into his prospective victim’s
workplace, and ask how to get in touch with her if he was planning to cap her that very afternoon? It was possible Hamilton
believed the horse-shooting would be considered an accident, especially with the local yokels on the case. Still, I wasn’t
so sure the police hadn’t forced some of the puzzle pieces into the wrong places in the interest of expediency.

My head started to hurt again. I needed donuts. Lots of them. Or maybe one of those frisbee-sized cinnamon rolls from Hazel’s
Hometown Cafe. I walked the two blocks south from the town square to the small, ugly yellow building that housed a Grandville
institution: Hazel’s had been in town in one form or another for over fifty years. I made my way through a room smokier than
most Country-Western hangouts I occasionally frequented. I eased myself onto a stool at the counter, oblivious to the chatter
erupting around my arrival and ordered a cinnamon roll and coffee. The cinnamon roll would go straight to my thighs, but the
last thing I was concerned with at the moment was how I looked in a bikini.

I ate my roll in silence, sipping black coffee and mulling over the events of the last week in a head that was still too sore
to be contemplating anything more complex than what movie I’d rent on my next day off.

I’d played a major role in bringing down a multiple murderer. So why did I feel such a letdown? Apart from the bummer of finding
three dead guys, of course.

I sighed and took a bite of my roll and winced. It even hurt to chew. I let the spit soften the roll in my mouth and considered
what would come next. Selecting a tasteful but appropriate tattoo for Ranger Rick was something to look forward to.

“I wonder if he’ll let me watch?” I said aloud.

“Watch what?”

I jumped, and coffee erupted from my cup and over the sides. I mopped the counter with a napkin and turned to the man at my
right. “Why, watch you get your tattoo, of course. Have you scouted a good location?”

“So, you want to watch, huh?”

I shrugged. “I want to make sure the tattoo is up to spec. Nothing tacky,” I said.

“Come see me in seven years and it’s a date.”

“What?” My mouth flew open. “Seven years! Why seven years?”

“Because if Peyton Palmer’s body doesn’t show up, it takes seven years to have him declared dead.”

“Why you... you welcher! You’d make me wait seven years to win our bet?”

“Hey, it’s not me. It’s the law.”

I shook my head. “You aren’t ever going to give me the satisfaction of admitting I was right about Peyton Palmer, are you?
You’re going to make me wait seven frigging years! Well, screw you, Townsend!” I threw my money on the counter, got up, and
walked out as fast as my aching muscles would allow. He caught up to me before I’d reached the Kut and Kurl next door.

“Can we call a truce, Tressa?” Townsend grabbed my hand. I wished I could hold on to my outrage, but, without my cinnamon
roll, I wasn’t up to fighting weight.

“Only until I feel better,” I said. “Then I’m gonna hound you until you make good on that bet.”

He laughed. “Thanks for the warning.”

We walked in companionable silence back to my car. A first for us.

“How is your grandfather?” I broke the silence.

“Spending way too much time with Hellion Hannah,” he said. “And your grandmother?”

“She’s cool.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“How are you?”

I gave him a smile. “I’m cool, too.”

“You look like hell,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be taking some time off?”

“I can’t afford to. Besides, I look worse than I am. Can I ask you something, Townsend?”

“Is it about the damned tattoo again?”

I shook my head. “It’s about this case. Hamilton’s suicide. The murders. Do you believe everything happened just like the
police are saying?” I asked. “Are you convinced that Dennis Hamilton is the only bad guy here?”

Townsend’s smile disappeared, and he seemed suddenly more alert. “What are you saying, Tressa? Did Hamilton tell you more
than you’ve let on?”

“No, not really,” I said, hesitant to open a whole new can of worms based on nothing more than feelings I couldn’t account
for. “It’s just he seemed so scared. Really scared. If he was the murderer, then what would he have to be afraid of?”

“Did he say—give any hint who he feared?” I shook my head. “He said he couldn’t trust the cops. But maybe that was just to
get me to the tower.” I rubbed my eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m trying to over-analyze everything.”

“You? Over-analyze? That’ll be the day.” “People change, Townsend,” I said. “Or maybe they weren’t what other people thought
they were all along.”

Townsend considered for a moment. “Are you working tomorrow night?” he asked, and my heart rate increased with the possibility
that Rick Townsend was really going to ask me, Tressa Turner, on a date. I cocked an eyebrow and tried to appear casual. “Why
do you ask? Have you reconsidered and want to go tattoo shopping?”

“Not hardly. My grandfather wants to take us all out to eat. You, me, your grandmother, Manny.” “Manny!”

“Granddad wants to make amends for macing him.” “And he figures a supper at the steakhouse will make up for a face full of
mace?” Townsend shrugged. “So, what should I tell Joe?” “Uh, I’d really like to join you,” I said, bummed that the dinner
appeared to be all Joe’s idea, “but I promised Uncle Frank I’d close the Dairee Freeze for him so he could take in a classic
car show in Des Moines. Tell Joe thanks and maybe some other time.” I didn’t want Townsend to catch whiff of my disappointment.
“I’m really feeling tired, so I think I’ll head home. I work the seven-to-three shift tomorrow, and then go straight to the
Dairee Freeze, so it will be a long day. See ya, Townsend,” I said, and backed out, drove home, did chores, undressed and
went straight to bed.

I dreamed I was in a dense forest wearing my red Bargain City vest, a huge bull’s-eye on the front and back. I was running
as rifle fire ricocheted off trees and hit the ground by my feet. I tried to run faster, but my legs were heavy and aching,
each step more painful than the one before. I kept moving, but every direction I went, I ended up tripping over Joker on the
ground, blood flowing from his neck. When I could run no longer, I leaned back against a tree trunk. In my dream I watched
as the barrel of a gun moved closer and closer. I strained to make out a face in the dark, but all I could see was a silhouette.
Just as the face began to take shape, a scream woke me. It was only after I’d picked myself up off the floor that I realized
the scream was my own.

C
HAPTER
22

I was unprepared for the reception I received when I walked into Bargain City in my cola- and coffee-stained vest the next
morning. I shook more hands than a politician in a tough re-election bid. There were reporters from several television and
radio outlets, and a reporter from the state’s largest circulation daily newspaper. He handed me a copy of his paper, headline
reading,
CALAMITY JAYNE SOLVES HOMETOWN WHODUNIT
, complete with my high school graduation picture. I made a sour-milk face
at the grainy portrait and way-big hair.

“How does it feel to help hunt down a killer?” “Is it true you were shot at?” “How did you get those bruises?” “Are you planning
to write a book?” “You’re known around Grandville as Calamity Jayne. Do you think this incident reinforces that image or dispels
it?” “What do your parents think of all this?” “How did local law enforcement react to your involvement?” I noticed Sheriff
Steve and his faithful companion, Deputy Doug, arms crossed, observing from a discreet distance.

“You’d have to ask Sheriff Thomason that question.” I pointed out the sheriff, and took advantage of the moment to flee. This
notoriety was all well and good, but I was holding out for Matt Lauer or Stone Phillips.

I hurried to the restroom and took a look at myself in the mirror while I washed my hands. It was hard to believe the battered
and bruised face that stared back at me was now a celebrity. The country girl who provided more entertainment than Saturday
Night Live, and gave the old-timers regular chuckles over their morning coffee and biscuits and gravy, was now the hometown
sweetheart-turned P.I. who had solved a murder whodunit. It was the stuff dreams were made of. I thought of the reporter’s
question. A book? Movie deals?

Earth to Tressa. Earth to Tressa. I brought myself back down to the third rock from the sun with a castor oil dose of reality.
Until those movie rights proceeds came rolling in, I still had bills to pay.

I really got very little actual work done at Bargain City, however, and felt a touch guilty, but I figured my just being there
increased sales considerably. My boss must’ve done the same math because he actually appeared to smile at me several times
during my shift. Of course, it might have been gas. I can’t be sure.

As a result of my sudden popularity (everyone wanted to buy their CDs from a bona-fide newsmaker) I almost forgot I’d promised
to lock up the Dairee Freeze for Uncle Frank that evening. I flew out of Bargain City, my red vest flapping as I ran. With
a dark western sky, it looked like it might be a slow night. People generally don’t like to go out in storms for a Nutty Bar.

I skipped to my car, thinking I really did need to do something about my transportation. It just didn’t fit my image any longer.
Besides, every time I looked at it, I remembered Peyton Palmer’s body in the lookalike car. I needed something flashy, more
in keeping with my reputation as an up-and-coming reporter (okay, so far part-time reporter) with an eye for adventure. Something
small and red and fast that didn’t require a can of oil a day. And I’d get a vanity plate. One of those plates that lets everyone
know who you are. Like: HWKFAN, ITEACH, CEO2B. On impulse, I decided to pull good, old Whitie through the car wash. The manager
was off-duty.

I parked at the back of the Dairee Freeze lot, near a storage shed that Uncle Frank has. For some reason, Rick Townsend popped
into my mind. I wondered if he was still seeing Sheila Palmer, and if he ever thought about the kisses we’d shared. I shook
myself, got out of the car, locked it (I do learn, eventually) and jogged to the kitchen entrance.

“I’m here. I’m here. Don’t call out the National Guard. I just stopped off to wash my car.”

Uncle Frank stepped into the kitchen, and wiped his hands on a towel.

“You washed your car?” He crossed the room and put his hand on my forehead. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Kojak?”

I laughed. “Just coming to my senses, I hope. Besides, I’d like a slow night here, so I figured: wash the car and it’s sure
to rain. Is there anything I need to know?” I asked.

Uncle Frank shook his head. “Bernie is on the grill until eleven. You’ll have Teri ‘til eight. If it’s slow, let Bernie go
home and close up early.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

“I don’t like to complain,” Uncle Frank said, “but do you think you could quit advertising for Bargain City while you’re working
for me?”

I gave him my best,
huh?
look.

“Your vest. Think you could wear one of our aprons and actually promote
my
business?”

I looked down at the vest I’d forgotten to remove again. Oh well, it needed to be washed. I’d toss it in Uncle Frank’s tiny
stackable with the aprons and towels.

“Don’t even think about mixing that red vest with my white aprons and work clothes.” Uncle Frank waggled his finger at me.
“I don’t want to return to pink aprons and pink shirts. You put it in with my navy slacks. Okay?”

“Okay, okay. Give me credit. I do know something about doing laundry, you know,” I said. “And what’s wrong with pink, anyway?”

After two
tell-that-uncle-of-yours-to-shake-a-leg
phone calls from Aunt Reggie; four
make-sure-you-turn-off-the-grill-and fryers;
and seven (or was that eight?)
don’t-forget-to-lock-ups,
Uncle Frank finally left the Dairee Freeze for the last time. Good thing. I was starving.

“What’s quick and easy?” I yelled back at Bernie, making myself an M&M Cool Blast.

“Tacos, beef burgers, nachos...”

“I’ll take a burger with the works,” I said. “Oh, and toss some rings on, would you?”

The distant rumble of thunder got my attention. I hate the windows on the front of the Dairee Freeze. You can’t see out. Uncle
Frank put these humongous food-special posters on the windows. If you want to see out, you have to go out the kitchen door,
or stick your head through the drive-up window. I feel like I’m in a shoebox.

I got tired of listening to sounds of the fifties and sixties, so I changed the radio to my country channel just in time to
hear about a heartache looking for a place to happen, which made me think about Townsend again.

I sniffed, blew my nose, then had to go and wash my hands.

I had completely lost my appetite, but forced myself to eat. At seven-thirty, I took over the drive-up headphones and sent
Teri home. The wind was beginning to whip up and the sky to the west was an ominous shade of gray.

The rain started around eight-thirty, great sheets that the storm drains couldn’t keep up with. Water collected in the streets.
Drivers slowed, and folks ran to and from vehicles. At ten-thirty, it was still a downpour.

“Why don’t you take off?” I told Bernie. “I don’t think we’re going to get much more business tonight. Most folks are home
in front of their TV with a big bowl of buttered popcorn, watching a new-release DVD. Why don’t you do the same?”

Bernie pulled his white apron over his head. “You sure?” he asked, and tossed his apron in the open top of the tiny washer.

“Positive. Uncle Frank told me it would be okay if it was slow.”

“Okay, then. You’re opening up tomorrow, right?”

I nodded.

“See you in the morning, then.”

He ran out the kitchen door into the wet night. Feeling tired, yet knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep with a heart heavy
as the fat in our fries, I decided to go ahead and do a load of Uncle Frank’s work slacks, and throw my vest in at the same
time, then clean the grill while the laundry was going. I put the closed sign up and locked the front doors, then went back
into the tiny supply room where Uncle Frank housed the cute little compact washer/dryer unit.

I started the water, tossed in one of those dissolvable detergent tablets that never dissolve, and grabbed the bag of dirty
clothes. I sorted through it for Uncle Frank’s navy pants and Aunt Jeanie’s navy smocks. I checked the pockets, found one
dollar and twenty-seven cents in change, and threw the dark clothes in. I remembered my soiled Bargain City vest and hurried
to retrieve it from the coat tree out in front. Deciding to see if I could raise my laundry collections from a dollar twenty-seven,
I checked the pockets of my vest. Two quarters, one dime and a penny in one pocket. I reached into the other pocket wondering
how large the windfall would be and pulled out a thick manila envelope.

My hand shook. Like someone receiving a one hundred and fifty-million dollar lottery check. Or preparing to testify before
a Congressional Committee. All I could do was stare at the envelope in my hand, an item that had monopolized my thoughts so
often the past week. An item I’d rejoiced over, wondered over, fretted over, agonized over. An item that had been the cause
of threats, vile acts, and attempted murder. An envelope that could just maybe condemn a killer.

With fingers I couldn’t manage to get to work right, I opened the envelope and pulled out the stack of bills. I fingered through
the money. I found what I was looking for at the very back of the envelope. I pulled out a hard, plastic card. I turned it
over.

“Oh, my God!” I stared at the face on the driver’s license. I checked the name. “Oh, my God!” I said again, and felt the burger
ingredients I had eaten earlier churn in my gut. I stared at the phony driver’s license.

The faintest of sounds from the kitchen snapped my head up. I held my breath. The kitchen door. I hadn’t locked the kitchen
door!

“Who’s there?” I called out. “Bernie, is that you?” I bit my tongue, wanting to take back my blatant stupidity. I was doing
exactly what got me yelling at the dumb bimbos (usually blonde) on the big screen for doing when they were being stalked.
“Oh, that’s right!” I would yell. “Just broadcast to the stalker that you are all alone by calling out for someone who has
already left, and who the stalker knows already left, because, of course, he’s a stalker. That’s what they do. They stalk.”
I stuffed the envelope back into the pocket of my vest.

My eyes flew to the keys by the order window to the kitchen. They seemed an eternity away. Could I bust through the front
doors? Get real. Uncle Frank had this place fortified like Fort Knox. The glass had to be three inches thick.

Another sound from the kitchen reached my ears, desperately trying to pick up the slightest whisper. Could I make it to the
customer restroom? Were there even door locks that worked? My instinct told me that the paper-thin lavatory door would be
so weak, Joe Townsend could kick it in.

I straightened. If I could just get to my keys. I turned and saw the red closed sign illuminated. I reached out and hit the
switch to read open. Then I slowly put the red vest back on the coat tree and made my way around the long front counter toward
the order window looking into the kitchen. I took a deep breath and reached out to snag my keys when a hand popped through
the order window and grabbed my arm. I screamed, and tried to free my hand.

I remembered what Joe had mentioned in one of his Jackie Chan moments. Find where the thumb and fingers meet, then snap your
arm in a twisting motion in that direction. I tried it and was able to free myself. I backed up against the drive-through
window and saw the shadow of a figure emerge from the kitchen.

“Good evening, Tressa. It’s not a fit night out for man nor beast.” The killer shook water from his dark work-issued raincoat.
Water dripped onto Uncle Frank’s shiny floor. He’d be pissed.

“Yeah, it’s a wet one for sure,” I said, trying to keep the quiver of fear out of my voice. “I was just going to give the
folks a call. They like me to check in, ever since, well, what happened and all.” I reached a hand toward the wall phone.
The killer smiled.

I picked up the receiver. The line was dead. The killer came toward me, took the phone, put it to his ear and shook his head.

“Must be the storm,” he said with another smile, and hung the phone back up. “You closed early,” he said. “Business slow tonight
because of the rain?”

I shrugged and took a step back. “Sometimes we get more business when it’s rainy. Folks come in to get out of the weather
and sit and enjoy a dip cone, or an, uh, Cool Blast, or, uh, Goo Goo Bar, or a, uh...”

“Slurpee?”

“Huh?”

“A Slurpee. I had a craving for a tropical punch Slurpee. I was disappointed when I saw the closed sign.”

“You want a Slurpee? Now?”

“Tropical punch. If it isn’t too much trouble, that is.”

Like the Tin Man from Oz, I walked stiffly to the machine that served up Slurpees and went to take a cup. I hated cat-and-mouse
games. Especially when I was in the role of mouse. Unless it was Mighty Mouse.

“I forgot to ask. What size?” I managed to get out.

“Oh, make it a small. It’s close to bedtime and I don’t want to be up all night.”

I nodded, filled the small cup with ice, squirted three squirts of tropical punch flavor in, then stuck it all under the mixer.
I put a lid on when it was done, retrieved a straw and spoon, and prayed the entire time he didn’t notice how much my hand
was shaking.

“Will that be all?” I set the Slurpee on the counter.

“Not quite, Tressa,” he said.

“I’m sorry. If you want something from the kitchen, I shut it down. I might have taco beef I could warm up for you if you’d
like a taco.”

“No, no belly burners for me tonight.”

“Would you like some frozen Dairee Pops to take home? Let’s see, we have cherry, chocolate, oh, and the butterscotch is really
tasty. They’re six for four dollars on special now. You can even mix and match. Would you like for me to wrap up a half dozen
for you?”

I’d done it now. I was babbling, and I could tell from the look on his face that he knew I was scared. And he knew what that
meant. It took all the courage I could muster to stand there and stare him in the eye without making a run for the back door
screaming.

“No, I don’t care for Dairee Pops,” the killer said. “They rank right up there with ditzy blondes who take off in cars that
don’t belong to them, team up with frail old men and play Keystone Kops, who think they’re the next Woodward and Bernstein,
and won’t keep their nose out of things that don’t concern them.”