Calamity Jayne (8 page)

“We need to talk about the other night, Tressa. I’m worried about you.”

I thought about my snake charmer pal and made a noisy swallow. “I’m worried about me, too. But we can’t talk here. Please,
Townsend. Promise me you won’t say a thing about the other night.” My voice raised in the heat of the moment, catching the
table occupants at a lull in their conversations.

“What was that about the other night?” My brother, Craig, has the biggest ears in the family. And the biggest mouth next to
yours truly. “You two got something you want to tell us?”

“Uh, no, not at all. We were just, uh, discussing the baseball team’s arrest and suspension,” I explained.

“Oh, you’re good,” Townsend whispered in my right ear. I elbowed him and made my way to an empty seat by Gram. Townsend proceeded
to greet Taylor with a kiss on the cheek and took the seat beside the birthday girl, opposite me.

“Real tragedy,” Rick’s father commented. “We had a decent shot to take States this year. I’d say they were pretty harsh with
the boys. After all, it was just alcohol.”

“You wouldn’t say that if your son or daughter became a human hood ornament for one of those boys-will-be-boys driving drunk,
though, would you, Mr. Townsend?” I said, grabbing an onion ring from the appetizer platter closest to me. Hey, I like my
beer as well as the next cowgirl, but I draw the line at drunk driving.

Don Townsend gave me a look that I interpreted as, Stick to your dip cones, dippy. “Interesting insight,” was all he said.

“I’m with Tressa on this one, Mr. Townsend,” Taylor interjected. “Rules are rules. And, like laws, if they are to work, they
must be enforced fairly and impartially, without special consideration for Jeff the Jock, Debbie Drill Team, or other members
of the upper socio-economic segments of society. In other words, you do the crime, you do the time.”

“Yes, I can see that you’re probably right on this one, Taylor,” Don Townsend conceded. “And splendidly articulated, as usual.”
He lifted his glass of wine in her direction. “To the brilliant birthday girl.”

Everything went red in my head. An oozing, gushing, crimson red. I had a hard time focusing. Oh, so
Taylor
was right. What was I then? Too damned dumb to take part in a grown-up conversation?

Perhaps I should have been grateful for Taylor’s defense of me. I am not the most tactful of individuals. Over the years,
my family has often felt the need to explain my actions, smooth things over for me, excuse me.

Grateful? Yeah, right. More like fed-up. I was sick and tired of being the object of ridicule, head-shaking and knee-slapping.
I’d had it up to here with opening my mouth and having no one listen,
really
listen, to what I had to say. My folks did it. My grandparents did it. My brother and sister. My friends. Townsend. Now, even
the police were doing it. Have a good ole laugh at the ditz’s expense, give her a cookie and a pat on the head, and send her
on her way.
“You be a good girl and go on home, now, ya hear? We’ll take care of everything.”
Snicker, snicker, snicker.

A wave of sadness swept over me. I took a long swallow of my wine, then raised my glass in a solemn toast to myself. “To Tressa
Jayne Turner,” I murmured. “A woman with a story to tell.”

I looked over and caught Townsend staring at me. I blinked away each and every betraying tear that dared to consider rolling
down my cheeks.

I’ve had a lot of experience hiding my feelings. Used to be I’d laugh right along with the crowd when they were having a chuckle
at my expense, and take their all-in-good-fun teasing in stride. At the time, I thought I was the clever one, dumbing myself
down sufficiently to avoid catching parental heat for my lackluster performance in academia, and a
que sera, sera
approach to life. But as it turned out, I didn’t get the last laugh at all. Now, at twenty-three, I inwardly grieved for what
I’d lost as a result of my foolish insecurities.

The truth was, I was as about as credible as the boy who cried wolf. Or maybe Teddy Kennedy on water safety.

But I truly
did
have a story to tell. And it was an A number one murder-mystery with enough gory stuff to satisfy even my grandmother. The
trouble was, no one would listen.

I sat there for a moment, mulling over the sad state of my life, when goose bumps began to pop up all over my arms. My heart
rate increased and my breath caught. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? I’d just been handed the mother of all opportunities
to change the course of my destiny, to right the wrongs of the past, to obtain a measure of justice, and to finally, finally,
get my due. My very own murder-mystery just waiting to be solved!

The possibilities tumbled about in my head like the clothes in the super-giant capacity clothes dryer at the U-B-Clean Laundromat.
It was brilliant. No,
I
was brilliant.

I filled my wine glass and brought it to my lips again. I, Tressa Jayne Turner, was about to embark on a quest to expose a
killer, rescue the citizenry, redeem my honor, and banish the specter of Calamity Jayne once and for all to the pages of folklore.

I lifted my glass in Townsend’s direction. His eyes narrowed. I gave him a toothy smile. Brace those buns, Mr. Ranger, sir,
I toasted. Brace those buns.

The meal was tedious, as expected. I wanted to numb the effects with another glass of white wine, but decided I needed a clear
head for sleuthing purposes. Besides, there was Taylor’s car to consider. Instead, I concentrated my efforts on my thick,
pink rib eye (remember, I live in cow country), cottage fries, and Texas toast. Oh, and a nice, healthy green salad for roughage.
By the time I’d consumed my meal, I was glad I hadn’t worn a garment with a waistband. I shoved my chair back and rubbed my
tummy. When they brought the cake out, however, I had my second wind and, to be polite, ate a small sliver.

Throughout the evening, I’d kept my eye on Ranger Rick. It was clear to me, and therefore to others more astute than me, that
there was a concerted effort underway to promote the idea of a Taylor Turner/Ranger Rick romance. The chair reserved for Rick.
(I wonder if someone would have pulled it out from under me if I’d chosen to sit there first?)
The conversation clearly chosen to point out all the things the two had in common. Like post-high school education. Setting
professional goals and achieving them. Vehicle maintenance. Even being drop-dead gorgeous.

“Look at those two. Don’t Rick and Taylor make a striking couple, Jean?” Charlotte asked my mother.

“They do both have that lovely dark hair, don’t they? What do you think, Don?”

I resisted the temptation to stick my finger in my mouth and make a gagging sound. Instead, I did what I was famous for.

“Oh, by the way, Rick,” I batted my eyes. “How is Annette? From what I hear, you two are rather close.” I batted my eyes again.
“Can we expect an announcement soon?”

Ranger Rick slid an arm around the back of my sister’s chair, leaned back in a casual manner, shook his head, and cast his
eyes downward. “I didn’t want to put a damper on the celebration here, but,” he looked up at me, “Annette and I parted company
quite a while back. For good, this time. It’s been coming, and it’s for the best.”

“Oh, Rick, I’m so sorry!” My mother suddenly needed a drool bib. She was positively salivating. “I know that can’t be easy.
You two have been seeing each other off and on for some time.”

Taylor reached over and patted Rick’s free hand. “I’m sure this is a difficult time for you,” she said. “If there’s anything
I can do, let me know.”

From my perspective, the ranger didn’t look all that shook-up. Of course, I’m a cynic. And Taylor is the sensitive, giving
daughter.

“That’s strange.” I wasn’t ready to let Ranger Romeo off that easy. “Several folks who were at the lake the night the baseball
team went au naturelle said your lady friend was on you like—what was it? Oh yes, cling wrap on a sticky bun. Or something
to that effect. If it wasn’t dear Annette you were with, who was it?”

Townsend put a hand to his chest. “I’m touched, Tressa,” he said. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“You’re right, Townsend.” I tossed back the last swallow of my wine. “You are touched. I was just making polite conversation.
That’s all.”

Townsend smiled. “You, being polite to me? Now, that’s a first, isn’t it? What’s the occasion?”

“Why, it’s Taylor’s birthday, of course,” I replied. “I have to be good on my little sis’s birthday, don’t I? What kind of
big sister would I be if I was rude to one of her birthday guests? You did say you were invited, didn’t you?”

“Of course, he was invited, Tressa,” my father spoke up.

“Well then, there you go,” I said, noting that Townsend hadn’t answered my question about the lady at the lake. I didn’t like
the glint in his eye when he turned to Taylor.

“Taylor, I saw the Buick in the parking lot. How do you keep it looking showroom quality while you’re working and going to
school?” he asked. I jabbed him in the shin with a sandaled foot.

“You must be mistaken, Rick,” my father said. “Taylor rode with us.”

“I don’t know, Phil. I could have sworn it was the Buick. So shiny you need sunglasses to cut the glare. And that cute little
black-and-gold smiley face on the top of the antenna.”

I tried to kick Townsend again, but he blocked my kick. All eyes turned to me with varying measures of dismay—or perhaps horror.

“You drove my car?” A quaver was noticeable in Taylor’s usually well-modulated voice.

“Tressa?” My dad queried.

“Yeah?”

“The Le Sabre?”

“All right, all right. I drove it. So what? It’s fine. Not a scratch on it. I swear. I was low on gas and running short on
time, so I drove it. What’s the big deal? It’s just a car, after all.”

My grandmother reached over and rapped me on the knuckles with a teaspoon. “Just a car? I’ll have you know your grandfather
loved that car. He washed it three times a week, whether it needed it or not. Parked it out in the boonies whenever we went
to the store, so no one would open their door and put a ding in it. I had to hoof it half a mile to protect that chassis,
little missy. Just a car? I can’t believe you said that!”

I patted her arm. “It’s okay, Gramma. I’m sorry. And the car is fine. Just fine.” I pulled the car key out of my purse and
handed it to Taylor. “There. Take it. I’ll ride home with Mom and Dad.”

Taylor gave me a stiff nod. I gave Townsend a nasty glare. The jerk. He knew there was a hands-off sign when it came to the
Buick. I made another jab at his shin with my foot, but found my ankle caught in a very firm grip. My foot was yanked up,
and my butt started slipping forward off my chair. I reached out to grab hold of the table to prevent myself from sliding
off onto the floor and under the table, but succeeded only in clutching a section of the tablecloth. In my descent to the
ground, I brought the table linen, silverware, cutlery, plates, cups, glasses, and an assortment of condiments with me. Screams
and gasps erupted around the table.

I got even, though. While I was under the table, I bit Townsend’s ankle.

It was way after eleven when we were finally ready to leave the restaurant. The mothers felt duty-bound to clean up the mess
one of their party had caused. Personally, I thought Townsend should have cleaned up, but judging from my parents’ expressions,
I kept that opinion to myself. Taylor was stoic, as always. Her birthday supper was ruined. She would bear her indignity nobly.
While Rick Townsend consoled the birthday girl, his gramps played patty-cake in a dark corner with my grandma over a margarita.
And me? I was drafted for under-the-tables clean-up duty. I’m sure the restaurant staff breathed a collective sigh of relief
as we headed out the door, thinking no tip was sufficient to cover this party from hell. They certainly lost no time locking
the door behind us as we left.

Muted good-byes were exchanged all round. Gramma wanted to ride with Taylor in the Buick. She tried to talk Taylor into letting
her drive “for old time’s sake” without success. I was opening the door to my folks’ car when I heard the first scream.

“Oh my God! My car!” I tried to tell myself that wasn’t Taylor’s voice shrieking like the lead female in our local amateur
operatic, but Gramma’s “What the hell has she done to Papa’s car?” pretty much cinched it. In the tradition of my Grandpa
Will, I’d parked in the space furthest from the restaurant behind a storage shed. I ran with the others over to the Le Sabre.
Mint condition no longer described the automobile. Totaled was more like it.

I took it all in. The flattened tires. The smashed headlights and taillights. The busted windshields and windows. The bent
antenna with the sad little yellow face hanging unhappily upside down. The dents on the hood, trunk, roof, doors and fenders
reminiscent of shoe or boot impressions.

Rick and my brother opened the driver’s side door. I held my breath, praying the interior, at least, had been spared.

“Geezus!” I heard Craig say. “Talk about overkill.”

I bravely stepped forward to take a firsthand look.

A big mistake. The dome light amply lit up the interior in all its glory. Red paint was sprayed across the dash and along
the seats. Knobs, do-hickeys and doodads were missing from a battered dashboard. Seats and upholstery were slashed. My mind
reeled at the senseless carnage.

All eyes turned to me.

A snapshot of Peyton Palmer’s ghostly white face freeze-framed in my mind, followed closely by the tattoo of a large, venomous
snake. Despite the sultry heat of the humid June night, I shivered.

Overkill.

C
HAPTER
7

The police were called to take a report. When the responding officers asked who had driven the object of the police report
to the restaurant, I could swear I saw money pass between the two cops.

“Was that a pay-off I just witnessed?” I asked Townsend, who’d been drafted to stay with me until the paperwork was concluded
and the flatbed arrived.

“More likely winnings,” he said, from the tailgate of his truck.

“Winnings? What kind of winnings?”

“I don’t think it would improve your disposition if you knew.”

“Oh.” I said. “Oh!” I scribbled my signature on the tow slip and thrust the clipboard back at the officers. “I thought gambling
was illegal or against police regulations or something,” I commented.

“It isn’t gambling if it’s a sure thing.” The officer who had pocketed the money smiled and passed me my copy of the tow receipt.
“The car will be at Peters’s Garage. The insurance agent can look at it there.” He looked over at Townsend. “You’ll make sure
Miss Turner here gets home safe and sound, right, Rick?”

Townsend mumbled something the officer must have taken as affirmation. I marched to Townsend’s truck and climbed in the cab.
Through the open sliding windows to the bed, I heard one of the officers suggest it would be safer for Townsend if he made
me ride in the back of the pickup. I slammed the window shut so they would know I’d heard them and their idiotic joking.

When Townsend got in the pickup, I gave him the cold shoulder. Well, at least for as long as I could hold out. I’m not one
of those women who can sustain the silent treatment for very long. I like to talk way too much.

“I suppose you think all that was pretty funny,” I said, staring straight ahead. “Another laugh on the dumb blonde who burnt
her nose bobbing for french fries last Halloween. Hardy, har, har.”

Townsend took a deep breath. I’d have bet the farm his jaw was making funny little spasms and his brow was crinkling.

“I find nothing funny about the destruction of another person’s property, Tressa,” he finally replied. “Nothing at all.”

“You can’t think I had anything to do with Taylor’s car being trashed.” The idea that he could even entertain that notion
hurt me more than I cared to acknowledge.

“Cut the drama queen routine, Tressa. It doesn’t become you. And, for the record, no, I don’t think you had anything to do
with the vandalism. But I do think you’re a frigging walking, talking Stephen King novel. Forget that crap about an accident
looking for a place to happen. There’s no looking. You just happen wherever the hell you are at the time.”

Townsend took a corner too fast, and I went careening across the seat. I hauled myself back to my own corner.

“Well, excuse this imperfect soul for inhabiting Jellystone Park, too, Mr. Ranger, sir. And, frankly, I don’t see how I can
be blamed for tonight’s crime spree, any more than I can be at fault for simply opening a trunk and finding a corpse. It’s
not as if I asked for something like that to happen. ‘Please, please, let me! Let me find a dead body on a dark road in the
middle of the night.’ Hello. Does that make any sense at all?”

Townsend shook his head. “No, but I’m used to that when you’re around, Calamity.”

“Stop calling me that!” I pounded on the dashboard. “I am not a calamity. I’m just... unusually unlucky.”

“Right.”

My folks’ house was dark when Townsend pulled into my drive. Not surprising, considering it was well after two
A.M.
I yawned.
Thank heaven tomorrow was Sunday. I didn’t have to go in to work ‘til noon, and I had the perfect excuse for begging off church.
Our minister is not the most dynamic of speakers, and with a full night’s rest I still have trouble keeping awake.

The minute I stepped out of Townsend’s truck, I knew something was very wrong. Butch and Sundance were nowhere to be seen.
No drool. No dirty paws. No dog breath.

“No way,” I said, and put my fingers in my mouth and gave a shrill whistle. “Here, boys. C’mon, boys.” I whistled again.

“Jeez, you’ll be calling the pooches in from the next county with that whistle,” Townsend said, and handed me my purse.

“Something’s wrong,” I said, hurrying toward the trailer.

Townsend followed me up the narrow sidewalk. “What are you talking about?”

“Butch and Sundance.”

“The mutts?”

“They always come greet me. No matter what time I get home.” I called and whistled again, picking up the sounds of muffled
barks from the direction of the barn.

“That’s strange,” I said, and opened the gate and took off in that direction. The barks grew louder.

I ran to the barn and unlocked the door. My pups bounded out the door like bargain hunters at first light at Crazee Dayz on
the town square. “How did you guys get locked in the barn?” I bent down and gave them each a big hug. “I don’t get it,” I
said to Townsend, who’d followed me. “Why would they be in the barn?”

“Maybe your dad put them there,” Townsend suggested. “Or Taylor.”

“But why?” The sick feeling I experienced earlier when I saw the demolished Buick made an encore performance.

“C’mon, boys.” I walked toward the trailer, the red meat I’d consumed earlier in the evening a heavy wad in my gut. I reached
in my bag for the key, then recalled I’d left my keys in my car before I’d switched to the Buick. I ran to the Plymouth, retrieved
the key from the ashtray, and hurried to the front door. Townsend took the key ring from me.

“I have to whiz,” he said.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to do that before you leave?” I teased, then stepped in and turned the light switch on.

“Hell’s bells,” Townsend said.

I looked at him, then at my dining room and kitchen, or what purported to be my dining room and kitchen. Frankly, it was hard
to tell what I was looking at. The place looked like it had been used for a WWF free-for-all. My table and chairs were overturned.
The refrigerator was standing open, its contents spilling onto the floor. The kitchen faucet was running and the sink was
overflowing. Dishes and plates were busted. In the living room, sofa cushions were slashed, flower pots upended, and my quaint
little knickknacks were now pea-sized gravel.

My bedroom was just as bad. My mattress had been violated and my drawers emptied, leaving my holier-than-thou underwear in
plain view. I was shaking so much I had to sit down, so I chose to join my intimate apparel on the floor. I couldn’t decide
if I was shaking because I was so afraid, or because I was so friggin’ angry. How dare someone break into my home? Destroy
the property I worked—Gramma worked so hard to acquire!

“You okay, Tressa?” Townsend asked from above me.

“No, I am not okay,” I said, trying to keep my lips from shaking along with the rest of my body. “Some scum-sucking, deadbeat,
no-good bastard broke into my home. I am definitely not okay!”

Townsend bent over and grabbed the red thong panties from the floor and used them to pick up the phone. Seconds later I heard
him recite my address. Then he cradled the phone.

“Don’t know if they will dust for prints, but, just in case, we better not touch anything.”

I nodded, so weary that Townsend could have made a lewd suggestion and I would have yawned in response.

“I’m gonna have to use the john,” he said. “It can’t wait.”

Any other night, the idea of Rick Townsend in my trailer with his pants unzipped would have left me short of breath and low
on spit. But this night, I couldn’t manage even the teensiest naughty thought. That injustice, if anything, deserved retribution.
Big time.

Once Townsend was finished, I excused myself, leaving him to greet the police (I was up to here with coppers), and headed
to the bathroom. Good lord, even my john hadn’t been spared. They’d dumped my toiletries all over the place and done something
quite obscene with my curling iron and the bathtub faucet.

I went to pull the electrical appliance out and drew back the maroon shower curtain. In big, block letters reminiscent of
my Mystical Mauve shade of lipstick, were four words:
“PAY UP OR ELSE!”
My throat tightened. My chest hurt worse than when I’d taken my first spill from a horse, and unwisely tried to inhale. A
cold sweat began to form on my goose-pimply skin.

I sank down on the toilet seat and stared at the words. This was not the act of some bill collector gone postal. Nor was it
my mother reminding me I owed her seventeen dollars and some odd cents for groceries. No, this little greeting card had nothing
to do with financial insolvency, and everything to do with corpses, cash and cobras. I noticed my light brown Perfect Blend
eye pencil sitting near the sink. I picked it up, pulled out a length of two-ply toilet paper, and started writing.

1. Left work

2. Took the wrong car

3. Flat tire

4. Body in trunk

5. Cash in glove box

6. Body not in trunk

7. Cash not in glove box

8. A visit from Cobra Man

9. Buick vandalized

10. House destroyed

11. Lipstick threat

I looked at my list trying to do a dot-to-dot. You know, make some connections. Nothing jumped out at me. Usually that’s what
it takes for me to have a clue. Obviously, cobra guy thought I had the money. I
had
returned the money to the glove compartment, hadn’t I? What if I’d dropped it? What if, when the killer returned for the body,
he couldn’t find the money? It was hardly a stretch to believe a hard-up blonde who was chronically out of work had pocketed
the green.

A short rap sounded at the bathroom door. “You fall in or something?” Townsend asked.

I quickly wadded up my toilet paper notepad and flushed it. I opened the door. “Townsend, you gotta see this!”

“See what?” The look on his face suggested he did not think there was anything in the can he cared to see. I grabbed his arm
and hauled him to the bathtub.

“Look.” I pointed at the Mystical Mauve message. “What do you make of that?” I asked. “Doesn’t that prove something to you?
Well, doesn’t it?”

Townsend took so long to reply I wondered if he was having difficulty reading the four words.

“ ‘Pay up or else.’ Do you see that? Or else? Now I don’t know about you, but generally when I hear the words
or else
I’m thinking major threat. As in ‘or else, you’re history.’ ‘Or else, you’re dead meat.’ ‘Or else, you join the spare tire
club.’ Or else. Get it?”

A deep crease marred Townsend’s brow. I considered telling him that frowning like that would produce wrinkles, but suspected
I would hear something like, “I only get crinkles when you’re around,” or something like that, so I kept it to myself.

“You’re not telling me you think there is a connection between the Peyton Palmer piece of fiction and this?” Townsend said.

“It’s as clear as the lipstick on the wall,” I asserted. Actually, it wasn’t all that clear to me, but Townsend didn’t have
to know that.

“So you think... what, exactly?”

“Do I have to draw a picture?” I asked, hoping that Townsend would complete his own dot-to-dot in his head and, perhaps, fill
in the some of the blank spaces in my own mental picture of how and why this was all unfolding.

“That would be helpful,” Townsend said.

“It’s all about the money, man,” I proclaimed. “The green. The moola. The Mr. Franklins.”

“Money?”

Clearly Townsend wasn’t drawing any mental pictures or conclusions in his head. And they called me a ditz.

“The envelope with the hundred dollar bills. The one that was in the car, then wasn’t in the car. The one the killer thinks
I have. The money he wants back
or else
. That money!”

“You’re telling me that your trailer was broken into by Peyton Palmer’s killer because he was looking for the money he was
paid for a hit on Palmer? Is that what you’re saying?”

I stared at Townsend.
Was
that what I was saying? What was that about a hit? I blinked. A hit! A hit on Palmer? Of course. That would account for the
money in the glove box. Payment for services rendered. All that was left was disposal of the body. It made perfect, if chilling,
sense. I thought about my silver-studded snake charmer. If ever a person looked like a hit man...

“A hit man! A hit man is after me! A hit man who wants payment for professional services rendered, and if he doesn’t get it,
he’ll provide his services to me free of charge! God, what do I do, Townsend? What do I do?” I grabbed his shirt. “You don’t
have a spare ten grand just lying around, do you?” I asked.

“Get a hold of yourself, Tressa. You’re making some awful big leaps here. After all, the cops don’t think there has even been
a crime committed. Other than vehicle theft, of course. They’re convinced this was all just a big misunderstanding. Now you’ve
got hired killers stalking you.”

“But don’t you see, Townsend, it makes perfect sense. Why trash my house? Because the killer was searching for his pay. Why
strip Taylor’s car? Because the killer saw me driving it and thought the money might be in there. Why does he think I have
his blood money? Because I was in the getaway car and found the money, and now he can’t find it and thinks I have it. He even
came to Bargain City threatening me today. If it wasn’t for that twerpy little video game freak, I could be in someone’s trunk
myself.”

Townsend ran a hand through his hair. I couldn’t read his expression. Maybe that was a good thing.

“This is all connected to Peyton Palmer’s death, Townsend,” I insisted. “I know it.”

“Hello. Anybody here? Hello?”

“Back here,” Townsend yelled in response to the calls from the other room. He turned to greet the officers. I grabbed his
arm and stopped him.

“You
do
believe me, don’t you, Townsend?” I asked.

Rick gave me another inscrutable look. “One thing I can say about you, Tressa, is that you’re definitely not a dull date.”
He turned and left.

“Date?” I said. “Who said anything about a date? Townsend? Townsend!”