Calamity Jayne Goes to College (13 page)

"But you were a victim," I pointed out.

"Yes, I know," she said, standing up. She walked over to a bulletin board across the room and tapped a pink flyer advertising
the upcoming Carson College drama department's production of
Arsenic and Old Lace
with an afternoon and evening performance on Saturday. I looked down at her feet, admiring the oh-so-fine, two-tone, chocolate-cream
leather Manolo Blahnik boots that brought out the little green Tressa in me. You know, the green Tressa who knows she could
never in a gazillion years afford a pair of thousand-dollar boots, but can still dream.

"I should have stayed with drama and theater as a career," Professor Billings said, and I joined her at the bulletin board.

"You were an actor?" I asked.

She nodded. "High school and college productions," she said. "As a matter of fact, I was cast as Martha Brewster in the high
school performance of
Arsenic and Old Lace,"
she admitted; still looking at the poster.

I'd seen the Cary Grant version of the movie several years earlier with Gram. Gram swooned over Cary Grant. Personally, I
always thought he talked a little funny.

"But you were one of the first women to join the police force," I said. "And now you're a college professor. I bet your parents
are so proud."

Her hand dropped from the bulletin board. "I haven't seen or heard from my mother since I was eleven," she said. "She ran
off and left me. I never knew who my father was. A deadbeat, from what my mother said. Before she abandoned me, that is. I
was raised by my grandmother Grace," she said.

I felt very thankful that I'd had two parents who'd tried their best to raise me, despite the daunting challenge. "I'm sure
your grandmother was very proud," I said.

"She died when I was sixteen." Billings glanced at me. "She drank sometimes. Sometimes a lot. One day she left the stove on,
and when I came home from school, she was stone-cold dead in her bed, the house full of gas. I was in foster care for two
years and then entered college."

Man alive. With her childhood, it was totally impressive what she had accomplished. I told her so.

"What made you decide on law enforcement?" I asked.

She turned away from the playbill. "I guess I wanted to prove something," she said.

"What?"

"That I could succeed in an area where women weren't welcomed with open arms," she said. "That I could do something few, if
any, females before me had done."

"I get it. 'Go where no woman has gone before,'" I said, and she smiled.

"Something like that," she agreed.

"When you were a cop, wasn't your motto something like 'To serve and protect'?" I asked. "And aren't cops supposed to try
and prevent crime?"

She nodded. "Of course."

"Then why are you still planning to go on with your lecture tomorrow--today--when you know that you could be putting some
innocent person at risk?" I asked. "Isn't that a contradiction?"

She looked at me and seemed to consider my words. "Have you heard the saying 'We don't negotiate with terrorists,' Miss Turner?"

I nodded. I'd seen
Air Force One
a time or two.

"That's where I stand," she said. "That's where I have to stand. I'm not about to give in to some whacked-out miscreant--if
that's even what we're dealing with here, that is," she said. "The jury's still out on that one, you know," she added. "It
could all still just be a huge coincidence."

"But you don't know that for sure," I said. "Shouldn't you err on the side of caution?"

"You take that first step and permit someone to control your actions through intimidation or manipulation and you're on a
very slippery slope. Where will it end? I'm not about to set that precedent at Carson College, Miss Turner," she said. "Or
for me. No way. Besides, if your theory about the break-in at my office is right, then the perpetrator already knows what
comes next." She rubbed a hand over her forehead. "I need to go. I need to take a long shower, grab a bite to eat, take an
aspirin, and lie down to rest for an hour or so before class," she said.

I took a look at her calf-length denim skirt. It was soiled and stained. The shiny silver turquoise belt buckle twinkled at
me again.

"I wish you'd reconsider," I told the professor.

"Good night, Miss Turner," she said and left the room.

Good-bye, Ms. CHiPs.

CHAPTER 11

It was after four when Patrick and I walked out of the security office. I was beyond tired. If I didn't get at least a couple
of hours' sleep, I'd have to have someone tie me to my chair to keep me upright during class.

We walked across the parking lot to the cars.

"Long day," Patrick said, not bothering to hide his yawn.

I nodded, my own mouth gaping like crazy.

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to be driving as tired as you are, Tressa," Patrick said. "I've investigated a good
number of accidents resulting from folks falling asleep at the wheel."

I yawned again. "Not to worry, Officer," I said. "I won't be driving far. I've got a class at eight, so I'm just gonna sack
out in the backseat of my car. I'll sleep like a baby," I assured him.

He scratched his chin. I noticed the day's growth of beard. It made him look rugged and down-home good.

"I've got an idea," he said. "I don't live far from here. Why don't you follow me home and you can grab a quick shower and
a few winks at my place before you have to be back?" he said.

I blinked, looking carefully at his face to see if I could detect a wink, grin, eyebrow roll, or leer that would suggest undertones
of a sexual nature. Frankly, all he looked was beat.

"If you're worried I'll jump your bones, let me remind you that I've been working for going on fifteen hours straight and
on about three hours of sleep. All I want is a hot shower and a soft bed."

"If you can't trust Smokey Bear, who can you trust?" I agreed with another loud yawn. "So, lead on, Super Trooper Dawkins."

He wasn't too tired to summon a grin. "Ten-four," he said. "And if you get sleepy while you're driving, just roll your window
down, stick your head out, and let the wind smack you in the face. Works for me on the hoot owl shift every time," he said.

I nodded. "Oh? So that story about troopers driving around behind the weigh stations to sleep isn't true?" I asked.

Dawkins gave me a look. "I'm pleading the Fifth," he said.

I think that's what they call a "cop" out.

I followed Patrick to his home, which was in a suburb north of Des Moines. What had started as a bedroom community twenty
years ago had grown larger and thrived.

He pulled onto a street in the older section of town and into a neighborhood that featured nice older homes and wonderful,
big trees. He drove into the driveway of a charming bungalow with a small bricked front porch and two-car detached garage.
He moved the patrol car into the garage and I pulled into the driveway behind him, turned the car off, and laid my head back
on the seat.

"Come on, young lady," Dawkins said, reaching out to yank hard on my driver side door and wrench it open. He tugged gently
on my arm. "Time for bed."

I groaned and let myself be led into the house.

Dawkins flipped on the inside lights. The home was as cute on the inside as it was the outside. The modest but quaint porch
led to a small foyer where an antique table sat. Dawkins peeled off his gun belt and placed it, his hat, and his keys on the
table.

Beyond was a small but cozy living room. I followed Dawkins into his kitchen. Bigger than I expected, it was functional and
modern with a small center island. I always wanted a kitchen big enough for a center island. Not that I spent that much time
cooking, but a center island would make it look like I did.

"Nice," I said as Dawkins opened the ivory fridge and pulled out a carton of cranberry juice. He retrieved two glasses and
poured us each one.

"It's good for you," he said when I wrinkled my nose.

I was parched so I took a long drink. It was... not terrible.

"You'll probably want to freshen up," he said. "The bathroom is down the hall and to your right," he said. "Towels are in
the linen closet in the bathroom. I'll grab one of my football jerseys and you can use that as a nightshirt," he said with
a grin.

"Let me guess," I said, putting a hand to my forehead as if I was trying to read my mind. "Green Bay Packers, right?"

"Is there any other football team?" he responded.

Patrick's older brother was an assistant on the Packers' coaching staff.

I downed the rest of the cranberry juice and followed Patrick down the hall.

"I really like your house," I said, stopping to check out the family photos on the wall. "It's got character."

"Thanks. It belonged to a trooper who got promoted to sergeant. I was looking for a place at the time, and when I saw this
house, I knew it was the one for me." He paused. "Sometimes you just know," he said, and I got the uncomfortable feeling he
wasn't talking about brick and mortar anymore. "Here we go." He flipped on the bathroom light. "I'll just grab that jersey."
He hurried down the hall to a room at the end.

I took the opportunity to stick my nose into the adjacent room. It was Patrick's office. A large desk, computer, monitor and
printer/scanner/fax/copier, and a tall file cabinet, took up a great deal of space. I padded over to the closet and checked
it out. Uniforms, both of the summer and winter variety, hung in the closet along with coats ranging from a winter parka with
brown fur to a light jacket. Several pairs of black army boots, box after box of shiny black patent leather shoes, and several
pairs of black Nike running shoes sat on the closet floor, lined up just so.

Frames on the wall displayed Patrick D. Dawkins's peace officer credentials, his academy certificates, marksmanship awards,
and pictures of Patrick in his uniform.

"Find anything interesting?" Patrick stood in the doorway with a shoulder against the doorjamb. "I forget you're a compulsive
snoop," he said, holding out the green and gold jersey.

"Goes with the territory," I told him.

"Your room is next door," he said.

"Thanks, Patrick," I said, and took the shirt. "I'll hurry so you can go next."

"I drew you a bath," Patrick said. "I figured you could use a soak after the day you've had," he said. I thought it was cute
when he blushed. "There's a bathroom off the master bedroom," he continued. "I'll just pop in and take a quick shower while
you're bathing."

I soaked in the tub, enjoying the pure bliss of the warm water, and didn't realize I'd fallen asleep in the tub until I heard
a hard rap on the door.

"You okay in there, Tressa?" Patrick asked through the door.

"Uh, yeah. Just a second," I said, pulling the plug and grabbing a big white bath sheet. "I'll be out in a jif." I quickly
dried off, dressed in the football jersey and drawstring boxer shorts Patrick had provided, and gathered up the rest of my
clothes and left the bathroom. Dressed in shorts and a white Packers T-shirt, Patrick reached out to take my dirty clothes.

"Here, give me those," he said. "I'll toss 'em in the wash so you'll at least have clean clothes tomorrow. Bad enough you
have to wear the same ones. Isn't that like the fashion kiss of death?"

"Either that or it screams, 'Whose bed have your boots been under?'" I said, thinking it might not be all that bad if some
folks I could name thought I was getting a little action. "I'm impressed with the service I'm getting here at Smokey's B-and-B,"
I said. "Clean jammies. Bath drawn. Nice big bath sheets. Laundry service. You're such a good host one would swear you've
invited tired, bedraggled young ladies home before," I teased.

"Not as often as you'd think," he said. "Be right back."

I found my way to the living room and took a seat on the smaller portion of the tan sectional and sank down into the soft
cushions with a long sigh. The bath had woken me up and I looked at the wide-screen TV across the room thinking it was a safe
bet Dawkins had cable. I hadn't been able to afford it but when my gramma moved back into her home, she'd insisted on getting
Direct TV.

"I thought you'd be sacked out and snoring away," Patrick said, dropping onto the couch and putting his arms behind his head.

"The bath kinda woke me up," I said, feeling a bit self-conscious lounging around in Dawkins's living room dressed in his
shirt and boxers. "How do you know Manny?" I asked out of the blue. I could swear Dawkins tensed.

"Manny? Who's that?" he asked.

"Manny DeMarco. Or Manny Dishman maybe. He likes to use both names," I said.

"What makes you think I know this Manny?" Patrick asked.

"Well, earlier this evening at breakfast we were talking--"

"You and this Manny went to breakfast this morning?"

I nodded. "He kind of helped me out of a tight spot at Big Burl's," I said.

"Big Burl's strip joint? I heard they had to send cars out there for a ten-ten," he said. "What were you doing there?"

I explained what had led me to Big Burl's house of broads with my little entourage in tow. Patrick just stared at me. "And
did you learn anything?"

"I learned never to let Dixie Daggett pick the bar," I said.

"I meant from Billings."

"She wouldn't divulge anything about Professor Dan-bury," I said. "Being denied tenure seems to be a pretty compelling motive
for this crash course in murder and mayhem to me. I thought if I confirmed the tenure angle and was able to find out why it
was withheld, that would give me a little insight into Professor STD, to help me figure out if he was campus psycho material."

"I can tell you why Danbury is being denied tenure," Patrick said.

I sat up. "You can?"

He nodded. "And I'm the one responsible."

"You are?"

"I took a class with the professor a couple of years back. He had a habit of being chronically late. Okay. Hungover. One day
he was really messed up and I smelled alcohol on his breath. So I reported it. One morning Campus Security showed up out of
the blue and made him take a breath test. He tested over .80, which is the legal limit for DUI. He received a written reprimand,
a directive to seek treatment, and was put on probation. If he kept his nose clean, he'd be considered for tenure when the
time came. Apparently, he didn't and toodle-loo to tenure," he said.

"So, STD's a drinker," I said. "That coupled with a thirst for revenge could definitely fuel some serious payback."

"So you think STD--Professor Danbury--could be staging all these crimes to get back at Billings for denying him tenure?" Dawkins
asked. "Mess with her head, maybe?"

I thought about it for a second. Yeah. That's what I was thinking.

"They have a committee that makes a final recommendation. And the president makes the ultimate decision. Why target only Billings?"
Patrick asked.

I shrugged. "Maybe he felt she stabbed him in the back, her being a colleague and all." I sat up. "Oh my gosh. I saw him!
STD! He was on the campus around the time Billings was attacked," I said, suddenly remembering I'd seen him getting into a
car outside the M.E.'s building.

"He was there tonight?" Patrick asked, and I told him what I'd seen.

"We'll follow this up tomorrow," he said. "Make that today."

"So we now have two possible suspects," I said, rubbing my head. "I'm too tired to think this hard," I complained.

"Time for bed, Tressa," Patrick said, and I looked up to find him standing over me. "Let's go."

I stared up at him.

He pulled me to my feet and I tottered for a moment before he steadied me.

"You okay?" he asked.

I frowned. I'd thought only Townsend's nearness could turn my legs to Ramen Noodles. "Sure. Just a little tired."

Patrick tucked a stray curl behind my ear. "I can't imagine why," he said with a smile.

He took my hand and led me to the spare bedroom. "Here you go. I hope you find the accommodations to your liking," he said
with a bow. "If there's anything you need, just ring."

"Thank you, kind sir," I said. "I'll be sure to remember you with a big tip when I check out," I told him with a playful smile
of my own.

Patrick's eyes turned dark blue. "I'll take that tip now," he said, and dropped his head to take my lips in a soft kiss.

I felt my body lean in to accept the kiss, his lips sweet and strong against mine. Different from Townsend's hot, wet, curl-your-toes
kiss, this one promised strength, security, and acceptance. A kiss of possibilities.

I felt the kiss warm as Patrick put his fingers on my head to deepen the contact.

All of a sudden "Roll out the Barrel" began to chime from my purse. I gasped and stepped quickly back.

"My phone!" I said, and ran to get my purse. I shuddered when I saw the incoming number.

"H'lo?" I said.

"Tressa Jayne Turner, where the bloody hell are you?" Ranger Rick yelled.

I considered my options.

"H'lo?" I said. "H'lo? Is anyone there? H'lo?"

Patrick looked at me.

"Good night, Tressa," he said, and went into his room.

I shut the phone off.

And so ended another episode in the continuing saga of Tressa Jayne Turner, College Drop-In. Frankly, I think I'll wait for
the movie.