Calamity Jayne (9 page)

By the time the authorities left my humble abode, the place had gone to the dogs and I was in the dog house. As soon as the
officers were done with their crime scene analysis (What a joke! The
CSI
guys would kick their butts), I herded the dogs indoors. Not that they were such brilliant watchdogs. They’d proven that.
It just made me feel better knowing they were around. Besides, they gave me somebody to vent with. I could rant, rave, stomp
and spit for all I was worth and they would listen. Well, actually they were doing more foraging in the kitchen for goodies
on the floor than listening, but occasionally they took time out from their garbage-disposal impressions to give me a lick
and a leg rub to let me know they were with me.

The police had rejected my theory faster than Darva Conger rejected her who-wants-to-marry-a-millionaire. They were convinced
this was just a random break-in, just like the random vandalism of the Buick. And the lipstick love note? Didn’t that provide
the officers with proof that this was not a random act, but rather a calculated threat against the person of Tressa Jayne
Turner? Not if they thought Tressa Turner wrote it herself.

Although they didn’t come out and say it directly, I could tell that was the absurd theory being floated about by the county
sheriff’s office. In an out-of-control bid for attention, beginning with the Peyton Palmer story, and culminating with the
menacing Tattoo Ted, Buick vandalism, and the house break-in, the cops were trying to pin this all on me.

“Stupid hillbillies.” I picked up a sofa cushion from the floor. “Fools. Dickheads.” I shoved the cushion back on the sofa,
sat down and looked at the carnage that was mi casa. I suddenly felt like the unappreciated little runt in the movie who had
to single-handedly defend his home against dangerous criminals. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going up against a couple of morons
in a carefully choreographed movie production. This was real life. Real death. I was on a hit man’s potential hit list, but
nobody believed me and time was running out. While my future might not seem as rosy as some, I was determined to hang on to
it at all costs.

I gathered my pooches, checked the doors and windows, grabbed a butcher knife from my kitchen drawer, and padded down the
hallway toward my bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind me. I crawled into my bed, man’s best friend on either side
of me, and lay awake, watching and waiting for things that went bump in the night.

C
HAPTER
8

“Ouch!”
I rubbed the back of my head where I’d whacked it on a shelf in my dad’s garage. I found what I was searching for and tossed
it into an old backpack from my community college days. I took another quick look at my father’s tool bench to see if there
was anything else that might come in handy, and grabbed a pair of brown jersey gloves. That should just about do it. I didn’t
have much time. I wanted to be well away from the homestead before the household began to rouse for church.

I’d done a lot of thinking while I’d shoveled up the mess in my trailer earlier that morning and wished for a skid loader.
After agonizing for what seemed like hours, I came to the conclusion that, for now at least, the less said to my folks about
the whole Peyton Palmer mess and my theory connecting the Buick’s battering and mobile home melee to his murder, the better.
I wanted to protect my family. I just wasn’t sure how.

“Tressa?” I jumped a good two feet.

“Dad! You startled me. What are you doing out here?”

My dad’s brow began to furrow. Why did foreheads always do that when I was around?

“I was wondering the same thing about you, Tressa. What are you doing out here? You’re not planning on taking
my
vehicle now, are you?” His forehead furrows were plowed-quality now.

“No, of course not. I was just looking around.”

“What have you got there?” he asked, and motioned to my backpack.

“Oh, I just grabbed a few, uh, tools. For some minor home maintenance. Repairs. That sort of thing.” I sidestepped toward
the door.

“What repairs?” my dad hollered to me as I scurried off. “And what the devil do you need gloves for?”

“In case I hammer my thumb,” I yelled back, thinking that was about the dumbest reason I could give. Still, I could hardly
say, “So I don’t leave fingerprints,” now, could I?

I jumped into the Plymouth. Confession time. I snitched gasoline from my dad’s farm tank. I keep a running tab, though. I
figure I owe him, what, close to a grand by now?

It was half-past six in the
A.M.
when I parked my car down the street a discreet distance from Peyton Palmer’s house. He lives—or
rather lived—in an affluent section of town, in a wooded area behind the Grandville Community Hospital and Clinic. This is
the area that all the kids hit big time on trick or treat night. You can get your Halloween bag filled with top-of-the-line
goodies in record time. We’re not talking fun-size bars here, folks.

I’d phoned the Palmer residence from the Get ‘n Go earlier. It creeped me out to listen to a dead guy tell me he was unable
to come to the phone. Talk about your understatements.

I pulled my visor on. Then my three-dollar shades. I zipped up the front of my navy blue nylon jogging suit and stepped out
of the car. I slipped the backpack over my shoulders, then began a slow trot toward the Palmer house. I’d seen this in a movie
once. To the casual observer, I looked like any other jogger. The key was to look like you belonged and, if challenged, BS
your way through.

I hoofed it down the street in front of the house in question, a gray three-story with a partially bricked front and a three-car
garage. Keeping my speed steady, I made a sudden, sharp left and headed right down Peyton Palmer’s driveway toward his garage
and backyard. I moved to the south side of the garage where I noticed a window. It was too high for me to see into, so I looked
around for something to stand on. The bird bath caught my eye. It was one of those heavy-duty numbers with the look of carved
stone. The top comes off so you can dump the water and clean out the scum. I started to grab hold of the bird bath, then jumped
back as if I’d walked into an electric fence. Gloves, I reminded myself. I rummaged through the backpack for the ugly brown
work gloves and slipped them on, then dragged the pedestal of the bird bath over to below the garage window. I climbed up
to take a look. The nearest two bays were empty. Along the far bay sat a John Deere lawn tractor, and a trailer loaded with
a golf cart and what looked like his-and-hers golf bags propped in the back.

Disappointed, I returned the bird bath to its proper place, then proceeded to climb the stairs to a two-level, sprawling rear
deck, hoping the window treatments would afford me some prime snooping opportunities.

I peered through the French doors into a dining area or breakfast nook. It was bigger than my kitchen and dining room put
together. The window fogged up so I swiped a hand across the pane. Sudden movement in the reflection to my right whirled me
around. I pivoted, performing a somewhat spastic kung fu move, accompanied by a guttural, “Hee-yaw!”

The tiny furball poo-pooing in the yard a few feet away was not the least bit impressed by my aggressive attack mode. I wondered
if his owner, on the other hand, would be chagrined at being caught in the act without a pooper scooper and paper bag.

I transferred my attention from the pooping pup to its leash holder, momentarily blinded by the neon orange of his blast jacket
and the glare from white, bony knees.

“Oh, no,” I mumbled, recognizing the senior citizen. “I mean, hello.” I greeted Ranger Rick’s grandfather, Joe Townsend, hoping
he didn’t recognize me in my workout get-up. “Going to be another hot one,” I said. I suck at small talk. Can you tell?

“Especially when you’re wearin’ gloves,” he said. “Don’t I know you from somewhere? You looking for the Palmers?”

“Uh, as a matter of fact, uh, yes.” My brain struggled to come up with a plausible reason I would be peeking in the Palmers’
back window on a Sunday morning wearing work gloves and a running suit. I shook my head. There was never a good reason for
wearing work gloves with a running suit. “You see, I, uh... was hoping to get a, uh, comment from Mr. Palmer on an, uh, article
I’m writing for the local paper.” I tried to remember where my faded press pass from my days at the
Gazette
was. My billfold, maybe? I pulled my gloves off, grabbed my wallet from the backpack, and flipped through the video rental
cards, the Subway club coupons, and the ATM card that was a joke. You had to have something in the bank before those things
spat money out at you, right? Bummer.

“Aren’t you one of the Turner girls? Not the bright one. The other one. What’s this about a newspaper article?”

It took restraint, but I ignored the insult. “About Palmer’s arrest. I wanted to get his perspective, his point of view. You
know, tell his side of the story. I haven’t been able to hook up with him.”

“Oh, really? Did you try the front door?”

My eyes narrowed. So the old fart
had
been spying.

“Well, you see, I did call, but I got the machine,” I admitted, “and I confess. I decided to do some snooping.” I shrugged.
“You know how we newspaper folks are.” It occurred to me that perhaps old Joe here was the self-appointed neighborhood watchdog.
If so, maybe he could prove useful. “Do you know the Palmers well, Mr. Townsend?”

“I’ve lived in this neighborhood for almost thirty years. Peyton Palmer moved across the street from me, oh, I’d say around
ten years ago or so. He’s compulsive about his lawn. One of those fellows who mows when the yard don’t need it, just to show
off. Makes the rest of us look like deadbeats. He got married, oh, two or three years back. Married a gal young enough to
be his daughter, or close to it.”

“Do you know the Palmers well?” I repeated my earlier question.

“They keep to themselves for the most part,” he said. “It’s not like it used to be when neighbors were more like extended
family. Now folks just come home from work, pull into their garages and disappear.”

“Is that what the Palmers do?”

“He’s gone a lot of the time.”

“And Mrs. Palmer?”

He winked, and his thin lips made a lopsided grin. “She has her interests.”

“Interests?”

“It’s really none of my business. I don’t know if I should say anything, you being the press and all.”

I smiled. When someone says they probably shouldn’t say something, you can be certain they are going to. Every time. Works
for me.

“Mr. Palmer is going through a lot right now, the poor fellow,” I said, trying to get over feeling like I was being disrespectful
to the guy. He was dead, I told myself. He had no feelings to hurt anymore. Still, it felt... wrong. “At a time like this,
he should be able to rely on his wife to be there, to support him.”

Old Joe got a look in his eye like Gramma gets when she’s been to the senior center and comes back home with a load of dirt
on someone.

“He can rely on her to carry on when he’s not at home,” he said.

My ears began to burn. “You mean Mrs. Palmer is having an affair?”

“Affairs,” he said. “One feller would park down the street. Like you did. And he’d wear a running suit like you did. And if
someone saw him, he’d just keep on running. Funniest damn thing I ever saw. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him around
in a while.”

“Did you recognize the man?” I tried not to sound too anxious. “Did he have a rather ghastly snake tattoo? Was his nose pierced?
Did he have arms as big as tree trunks?”

He gave me a
bub?
look.

“I don’t know if I really should say,” he said.

I fought the urge to give him a good, hard shake and scream, “Tell me, old man! Tell me or else!” Having your life threatened
tends to make you a bit cranky.

“I wouldn’t want to see this in the newspaper, you know,” he added. “Just in case you really are a newspaper reporter.”

I made a crossing gesture over my heart, followed by a totally perverted version of the Girl Scout hand sign. “This is strictly
off the record, Mr. Townsend. Girl Scout promise.” Okay, so I was never a Girl Scout. But how was gramps here to know? “I
give you my word. I won’t print anything you tell me in the paper.” True enough.

“Well, in that case.” He leaned close to my ear. I could smell the Polident. “It was his partner.”

I gave him a blank look. “Partner?”

“His law partner. Dennis Hamilton, as in Peyton and Hamilton, attorneys-at-law. That partner.”

“Partner?”

He nodded.

“Peyton Palmer’s partner?” I sounded like I was performing a tongue twister.

He nodded again. His lips puckered so much, his mouth resembled a chicken’s rear end.

“Sheila Palmer is having an affair with her husband’s law partner?”

“Was having,” he said. “Now”—he raised his hands—“who knows?”

“Hot dang!” I said. “Did you tell the police any of this?” I asked.

His brows came together. “Police? Why would the police be interested in any of that?”

I did a mental head slap. Why, indeed? The police weren’t trying to locate Peyton Palmer. They didn’t believe he was dead.
But, say I was to present a compelling case to them that clearly showed Peyton Palmer was, in fact, deceased, they would have
to take me seriously then, wouldn’t they? I chewed my lip. Where did I begin? What did the dicks on
Law & Order
do once they had their first lead? Motive, I decided. Nail down the motive first and then see where that takes you.

I grabbed my pen and notepad out of my bag and hurried toward the senior citizen. “Mr. Townsend, if you could just spare me
a few more minutes of your time, I have a couple more questions.”

Joe Townsend gave me a strange look. I hoped it was because I looked like an ace reporter. “You’ve stepped in it now, girlie,”
he said, and at my puzzled look continued. “Poop. You’ve stepped in Kojak’s poop.”

“Kojak? I looked down at the dog near my feet and the doo doo on my shoe, and sighed. “Story of my life,” I muttered. “Story
of my life.”

“You know, you kinda remind me of your grandma.” Old Man Townsend took my arm.

“Oh, did she often step in it, too?” I asked, curious as to just how he felt about my grandmother.

“Only all the time, girlie. Only all the time.” He pulled on my arm. “Come on home with me. I’ve got some buttermilk brownies
waiting. Old lady Winegardner baked them. That woman wants me bad. She’s always bringing me goodies to eat. They’ll go good
with a fresh pot of coffee. Then, you can ask me anything you want. Of course, you’ll have to remove your shoes.”

I allowed myself to be led away. Hold chocolate out in front of me and I’ll follow you anywhere.

Two hours, a half-dozen buttermilk brownies and a probable case of acute abdominal distress later, I knew more about the corpse
in the trunk than I’d cared to. Several times during my little chit-chat with Joe (we were now comfortably on first-name terms),
I almost let it slip that Peyton Palmer was, well, wherever it was attorneys went after they’d put in their final court appearance,
so to speak. The tablespoon of booze in the coffee didn’t help. By the time I left Joe’s, my lips were looser than those baggy
drawers the high school guys wear. But it was worth it. My little steno book was chock full of dates and times, vehicle descriptions,
and license plate numbers, and Joe’s observation that the founder of the brownie feast was as hot for his bod as both major
political parties are for the White House.

What I found out from Watchdog Joe convinced me more than ever that I had found at least one
pow! bam! socko!
motive for Peyton Palmer’s murder. Sex, lies and a sizable inheritance. Passion and greed. Had to be the top two answers to
the
Family Feud
question: Name a motive for murder. And who better to benefit from Peyton Palmer’s untimely demise than a widow doing the
nasty with his law partner? All the gruesome twosome had to do was find someone willing to off poor Peyton (I was beginning
to think of him as “Poor Peyton”), for, say, ten grand or so. And let’s face it. What attorney doesn’t know some lowlife like
my Bargain City buddy willing to do someone in for a wad of green? Now, if I could just tie my pierced friend to Sheila Palmer
or Dennis Hamilton, I could present my murder-for-hire theory to the police—and demand my due.

I scribbled in my steno book again, recapping what I knew, or thought I knew so far, and what I just made up as I went along.
My working theory was that Sheila Palmer and Dennis Hamilton had, either independently or in collusion with each other, conspired
to kill Peyton Palmer. According to the cops, Sheila Palmer had been out of town when Peyton was killed. If true, it appeared
she had no hands-on role in his murder. Still, Dennis Hamilton could easily have put a slug in Palmer’s head before he left
the office Friday afternoon or later that same night. Still, I thought it more likely a contract job. Attorneys don’t like
to get their hands dirty. Besides, there was the envelope of money to consider. Payment in full for one dead husband.