Calamity Jayne Goes to College (8 page)

He shrugged again. "I don't know. I just stuck it up there. Why? Is it a big deal?" he asked.

It was--because the blonde in the photo was me. And when you carried pictures of people with you to work, it meant something.
I swallowed, and was pretty sure Patrick could hear it from the other side of the car.

"No big deal," I said. I seemed to be fibbing a lot lately. "It's cool. Good times," I added, tapping the picture. "Good times."

"I need your driver's license, Tressa," Patrick said.

I looked over at him.

"What! Why? I wasn't driving at the time. The car was stationary--and the four-way directional hazards lights were not only
functional, but actually flashing," I told him.

"I need it for the report," he said.

"Couldn't you just use Dixie's?" I asked. "After all, she's going to be one of the family."

"Tressa, your license, please," Patrick insisted.

I fumbled around for the license. "This won't go on my record or anything, will it?" I asked. " 'Cause I'm thinkin' that wouldn't
be fair. I was parked at the time. It would be like charging a cow that got out of the pen and plowed over by Fanner Jones
with a moo-ving violation," I said with a grin. "Not that I'm calling Dixie a cow, you understand," I added.

Patrick took my license and wrote down the information.

"You know, when I gave you tips on narrowing the field of suspects, I didn't exactly mean for you to chase one down a dark,
gravel road, Tressa. You two could have been killed."

I nodded. That possibility hadn't escaped me.

"Bingo," Patrick said and clicked his computer. "Looks like you may be right. Keith Gardner lives right down this road about
two miles or so," he said. "And he has a dark blue Ford pickup registered to him. From the paint that was left behind on the
Suburban, I'd say Mr. Gardner's going to have a lot of explaining to do. I'll call for backup and we'll go pay him a visit."

"Oh, Patrick! This is going to be so cool! I'll be at an actual police interrogation--someone else's for a change! Are you
going to read his Miranda rights to him and everything?" I felt around in my bag for my camera.

"Uh, sorry, Tressa, but you'll have to sit this one out," he said. "I can't take a civilian along without permission," he
told me.

"Civilian? I cracked this campus caper for you. Now I have to sit on the sidelines and watch you big-shot, strutting troopers
waltz in and take all the credit?"

Patrick smiled and reached out to pat my hand. "Good. I'm glad you understand how it works."

I wrinkled my nose. Just when I thought Patrick was different from all the others.

"You can wait at the campus security office and as soon as I know anything, I'll contact you there," he promised. "It's the
best I can do, Tressa," he said, and I nodded. It was better than leaving me out of the loop altogether.

Thirty minutes later, Frankie, Dixie, Professor Billings, the campus security chief named Hector, and I sat in a small conference
room in the security office awaiting word from the authorities.

The vending machine left much to be desired in the way of snack items, but I consoled myself with a Coke and M&M's.

"My dad is gonna be so pissed," Frankie said, not for the first time.

"Relax, you don't want to have to breathe in a paper bag again, do you?" I said. "Besides, everything will work out. Insurance
is a lovely thing."

"What if the dirt bag doesn't have any?" Frankie asked. "What then?"

I shook my head. I wasn't about to borrow trouble when I had enough right here to focus on.

"You never did say how you came to be out there tonight, Professor Billings," I said, thinking it was odd that she was still
hanging around.

"I received a call from Campus Security and they requested I come down to their office. They told me about Frankie's theory
relating to the crimes on campus and a link to my lectures, and wanted me to come to their office to discuss it," she said.
"I had to admit, I thought it was pretty far-fetched when I first heard it."

"And now?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I was a cop for over fifteen years and I'd thought I'd seen about everything. I always try to keep an open
mind," she said. "I know firsthand how many kooks there are out there. But the idea that someone would take a course in criminal
law and use it to terrorize this campus and their classmates? Well, that's a first," she admitted. "And a bit of a stretch,
even for this ex-cop." "But Keith Gardner is a student of yours. Isn't that right? And he does have a criminal record. Right?"
I said. "So what is a guy with that kind of background doing taking courses in criminal justice?" I asked, baffled.

"Keith Gardner's case is a classic example of what's wrong with our laws relating to sexual abuse and the sex offender statutes.
We clump all these offenders together like they're all birds of a feather. And they're not," Billings said. "Keith got involved
with a fifteen-year-old girl. He had no idea she was that young at the time. She was a willing participant in the relationship
until her mother found out, and then the young lady turned on Keith. He was charged with sexual abuse of a minor under the
age of consent, and he's now branded a sex offender with very little distinction between him and Lester the Molester who rapes
five-year-old girls or Merv the Perv who sodomizes young boys. There's no sense of equity under the law as it stands. Everyone
is painted with the same broad brush and it's just not right. It serves no one's interest, least of all society's."

Wow. Open can. Find worms. I am so a pro at this.

"But why criminal justice?" Frankie asked. "With his background, no way would he be hired in law enforcement," he pointed
out.

"Quite correct," Billings agreed. "But Keith works for an attorney--his attorney as a matter of fact, and a friend of mine--doing
odd jobs on various cases for him. Keith is good with computers and does research and gathers information on individual cases
for his employer. He wants to become a full-fledged legal assistant so he can earn a decent living and he's taking courses
to facilitate that goal."

"Aren't there, like, restrictions on where sex offenders can live and work and stuff?" I asked, thinking this had been in
the news a lot lately. "Some two-thousand-foot rule or something?"

Billings nodded. "That's why he lives in the county. He has a small home he rents. He takes care of the owner's cattle and
gets a break on the rent."

She knew an awful lot about this particular student, I thought.

"I just can't believe you're right about Keith," she went on. "Things have been going so well for him. Why would he throw
it all away by running you two over?"

"Maybe there's some underlying physiological or psychological issue that is causing this behavior," Frankie said.

"Or, here's a novel thought. Maybe he's just a really evil dude who gets his jollies by committing crimes and terrorizing
innocent people," I suggested.

"Sociopathic personality disorder, also known as antisocial personality disorder," Frankie supplied.

I stared at him. "Bud, you need to get out more," I said.

The door opened.

"Barbara, I got your call. What's going on?"

The newest addition to our odd collection of crime fighters was a fellow I judged to be somewhere in his mid-thirties, with
prematurely graying temples and a nicely trimmed beard. Black glasses rode low on his nose--not by design, but by neglect.
He finally reached out to nudge them back up to the bridge of his nose.

"Sherman. It's really the most bizarre thing," Professor Billings said, standing to greet him. "This is Professor Sherman
T. Danbury," she told us, "a colleague of mine in the Criminal Justice Department," she said. "You know Frankie and Dixie,"
she said. "This is Frankie's cousin, Tressa Turner," she said, motioning at me. "I called Professor Danbury after I received
the call from campus security," she explained. "I thought maybe he could shed some light on the situation as he has had many
of the same students."

"Tressa Turner?" Sherman Danbury looked at me. "Wasn't that the name of the girl who discovered the murderous misdeeds in
Knox County last year? And I seem to remember something about the state fair this past summer."

Great. My reputation preceded me yet again. I shoved a hand his direction. "Tressa Jayne Turner. Finder of stiffs and magnet
for psychos. Nice to meet you," I said. He raised a brow, but took my hand. His handshake was weaker than an old lady's who
suffered from acute arthritis. Bleah.

"So, tell me again what's going on, Barbara." Professor Danbury turned back to Professor Billings and she quickly explained.

I watched for Danbury's reaction. He seemed as surprised--and dubious--as his colleague.

"I still don't buy the theory that someone in my class is committing all these crimes," Billings went on. She turned to address
the security officer present. "How do you know that they are even connected, Hector? Do we have witnesses who can say for
certain that the assailant is one and the same?" He shook his head.

"No connection so far, Professor Billings," Hector said. "But that may change tonight, with Keith Gardner," he added.

"I guess we wait, then," she said, excusing herself to step outside and light up. Professor Danbury followed her out.

As neither Dixie nor Frankie was in the mood for conversation and none of us smoked, we waited, a silent, somber trio.

The news, when it came, was mixed at best. I had hoped for an immediate arrest of a suspect--not only to mitigate my damaged
relationship with Uncle Frank, but to give me what I needed to write my article.

The good news? The police had located Keith Gardner's pickup truck in a ditch a mile from his home. It showed unmistakable
evidence of being the vehicle that had almost run us down and plowed into the Suburban.

The bad news? When the police got to Gardner's residence, he was sitting in front of the television watching reruns of
M*A*S*H
and appeared genuinely shocked that his pickup was not in his driveway and that it had been used in a hit-and-run earlier
that evening. When questioned, Gardner admitted he'd been out when he was supposed to have been home and had gotten spooked
thinking he was about to get caught. He'd kicked up his speed in order to get home. He also admitted to having beer in the
vehicle with him, something else that could violate the terms of his release, landing him back in the slammer.

Gardner vehemently denied any involvement in the criminal activity that currently plagued the Carson College campus, and,
for now at least, the investigation was ongoing.

Campus Security, along with the State Patrol and County Sheriffs office, would work the case jointly. They would be in contact
with Gardner's employer and probation officer and let them know what was going on. Meanwhile, while the evidence against Gardner
was considerable, the cops weren't ready to make an arrest just yet.

"Well, that's that," Professor Billings said and got to her feet. "I have early classes tomorrow. See you two then," she told
Dixie and Frankie.

"Uh, for curiosity's sake, what does your lecture cover tomorrow?" I asked Billings as she prepared to leave.

The cop-cum-professor stopped at the door and turned. She looked at me.

"Rape. Sexual assault," she said.

I winced. No woman would be safe on the Carson College campus the next night. And I got the kick-in-the-gut feeling no one
was going to do a diddly-squattin' thing about it.

CHAPTER 6

I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache that had almost nothing to do with the fallout from Uncle Frank when
he saw the condition of his Suburban. I'd felt I owed it to Uncle Frank--and Frankie-- to be there when he was told, and to
divert as much of the heat off Frankie and onto me. I didn't have to live and work with Uncle Frank day in, day out like Frankie
did (picture me here on my knees giving thanks) and I didn't want Frankie's situation with his parents to be strained just
because I was a bit, uh, overzealous in my efforts to get to the bottom of the case of the campus criminal.

Unfortunately, like Dixie, Uncle Frank also failed to be impressed by my "for the greater good" logic, and he'd proceeded
to terminate my employment at the Dairee Freeze, declaring I was persona non gratis. Once I got some time to Google that particular
phrase, I'd decide how upset to be.

I padded out of my bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen around 6:00 a.m. wearing nothing but an
it was a dark and stormy night
Snoopy T-shirt and red bikinis and walked right into Ranger Rick Townsend.

"Oommphf!"

His chest was a rock-solid wall of khaki. I brushed my tangled hair out of my half-opened eyes and, in the bright light, squinted
up at him. The look on his face opened my eyes the rest of the way. Last night's news couldn't have traveled this fast. Could
it?

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this early morning visit?" I asked. Somehow I didn't think it was to catch a peek at what
I looked like in the mornings when I first crawled out of bed. Frankly, most mornings it's hard to tell where the unmade bed
ends and I begin. "Was there a report of a confused crane or a pelican gone postal in the area? A raccoon requiring relocation?
Or are you out in our neck of the woods recruiting more stags for Brian's bachelor buck party?" I asked.

"I saw your uncle Frank at Hazel's this morning," he stated, folding his arms across his chest.

Nice.

I frowned. "How did you get in here again?" I asked, folding my arms across my chest for entirely different reasons. It was
chilly in the double-wide and Townsend's nearness always wreaks havoc with my nerve endings. The last thing I wanted right
now was perky, puckered nipples. I'm guessing that may be one of the few times you'll ever hear me say that.

"Your grandmother was on her way to your folks' house," he explained. "She let me in."

"Was she clothed?" I asked him. My gammy likes to sleep "as God intended"--well, except for heavy, wool socks, that is. I'm
thinking if God intended my gammy to sleep nekked, He needs a long vacation.

Townsend gave me a queer look. Queer as in strange or weird, you understand. Ranger Rick Townsend is definitely a manly man.

"Of course she was clothed. I get the feeling you're trying to distract me from the point of my visit," he said. "And it's
not going to work."

I walked past him and into the kitchen, pulling my T-shirt down over my butt to cover my panties as I walked away. "And what
was the point of your visit again?" I asked as I took a cup and poured myself a generous amount of coffee. I raised the cup
in Townsend's direction. "Coffee?"

He shook his head. "Damn it, Tressa," he said, covering the distance from the door to where I stood by the kitchen sink in
record time. He took the cup from me and set it down and grabbed my elbows. "What in God's name is wrong with you? Why in
the hell do you keep putting yourself at risk? Do you have a death wish or something?"

I stared at him. Ranger Rick had gotten upset with me in the past, primarily because I'd put his grandfather, Joltin' Joe
Townsend, in jeopardy. Quite by accident, I remind you. But I'd never seem him quite as upset as he was at this moment, his
tanned face flushed red and his neck a mass of bulging veins that looked about ready to pop. His outburst unnerved me. Confused
me.

"Answer me!" he said, and I felt his fingers dig into my arms.

"What was the question again?" I asked, finding myself oddly reluctant to find out exactly what was really behind his anger.

Townsend gave my arms one more squeeze, then let go and ran a hand through his hair.

"I don't know if I'm the man for the job here, Tressa," he said, and I blinked. I hadn't known I was hiring.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "What job?"

"Protecting you from yourself," he said.

He got my attention with that remark.

"That's a little over the top, don't you think?" I asked. "What's to say I need protection at all?"

"The mirrorless, dented side of Frank's Suburban, for one thing," he pointed out. "Your skinned knees for another."

I looked down at my scratched, scabbed-over knees.

"I can explain--" I began my mantra again.

Townsend waved a hand in my face. "Spare me. I've heard all about the Carson College crime wave, your journalism project,
your tanking grade, the tailing of a registered sex offender. It's always something with you, Tressa. A body in a trunk. A
psycho clown. A reclusive writer. A campus criminal. I feel powerless to protect you."

He made it sound as if I'd gone out and campaigned to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"I wasn't aware your duties with the Department of Natural Resources extended to providing personal bodyguard services to
blondes with death wishes, Mr. Ranger, sir," I said.

"Just one particular blonde with a death wish," he said, and I could swear his voice grew huskier.

Just when I was prepared to rip into the guy like my gramma does macaroons fresh from the oven, he goes and says something
totally unexpected.

"What blonde would that be?" I heard myself say, wishing I'd at least had time to wash my face and swish some Scope around
in my mouth. "Cute cowgirl type? About five feet seven? Curly locks? On the lippy side?" I asked, detecting the pathetically
hopeful edge to my tone.

Townsend moved closer and looked down at my mouth.

"Definitely on the lippy side," he said, not taking his eyes off those lippy lips.

I stared up at him.

He bent down and pressed his lips to mine and, morning breath or not, I didn't resist. I found myself leaning into his arms,
leading with my chin as J so often do. He deepened the kiss and I opened willingly for him. His tongue was hotter than those
cinnamon toothpicks I used to smuggle into class and suck on. I gasped as his hand slid to the front of my nightshirt and
underneath, his palm flat against my abdomen. I sucked in my gut. (Oh, get real. Tell me you don't suck it in for all you're
worth when a gorgeous guy is caressing your tummy.)

I slid my arms around his waist and pulled him closer, careful not to break a kiss that generated so much heat I waited for
the smoke detectors to go off. I moaned into Townsend's mouth when his hand moved upward to cover a very needy breast.

"You're wearing too many clothes," Townsend said, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against mine.

"I was just thinking I wasn't wearing enough," I told him.

He groaned and removed his hand from under my T-shirt. "We've got a big problem here, Tressa," he said, giving me one more
quick kiss before he stepped back.

"We do?" I said.

Townsend let out a long, shaky breath. "We do," he said.

"And what is this big problem?" I asked, hoping to God he wasn't talking about erectile dysfunction.

Townsend put a hand on each of my shoulders and took another look at my lips before his gaze switched to meet my anxious gaze.
"I think I may be falling in love with you, Tressa Jayne Turner," Townsend said. "The problem? I'm not sure I want to. I'm
not sure at all."

I met his gaze directly, hoping the effect of his words wasn't readily apparent in my expression. I'm a lousy poker player.
I wear my emotions on my face like a painted-up circus clown.

I felt my lip tremble like it had last night, but this time I wasn't sure if it was due to fear or hurt. I heard the front
door open and shut as my grandma returned to the house.

"Did Rick get a hold of you?" she called out.

We broke contact just as Gram entered the kitchen.

I looked at Townsend. "Ten-four, Gram," I called out. "He got hold of me," I said, watching as Townsend backed away.

And then some.

After Townsend left, I shuffled off to my bedroom, feeling pitiful and forlorn and wishing I could just crawl back in bed,
cover my head, and let the world turn without me one day. Since I had a class at eight and that night I had to throw a heck
of a hen party for Kari, I recognized I didn't have that luxury.

I trudged to the bathroom and took a quick shower, dressed in jeans, a white Carson College T-shirt and gray hoodie, and went
to touch base with Gram. She was in the living room sipping a cup of coffee and nibbling a blueberry bagel with cream cheese.
I hoped to heck she hadn't noticed I'd switched the real thing with the one-third-less-fat variety. I like to do my part for
my gammy's heart health.

The TV was on and a skinny lady in a pink leotard was sitting in a straight-backed chair doing butt clenches. It looked seriously
messed up.

"I'm going to be shoving off, Gram," I said. "What are your plans for today?" I asked, sitting on the arm of the couch. Sometimes
that question isn't as innocent as it sounds.

"Joe and I have plans," she said. Joe was Joe Townsend, Gramma's contemporary and sometimes cohort in chaos, and grandfather
to Ranger Rick Townsend. He had serious crime-fighting fantasies and had played The Green Hornet (I had no clue what a green
insect had to do with crime fighting at the time) to my Catwoman-gone-straight (rrreeeaaarrr!) back when the Grandville body
count was rising faster than my credit card balance at a horse tack auction. Plans with Joltin' |oe could mean anything from
an evening at bingo to sitting outside the East End Tavern with night-vision goggles waiting to see who left with whom.

"What sort of plans?" I asked, uneasy.

"Oh, this and that," she said, rather more vague than usual. "We might go up to the malls in Des Moines. I still need to get
a dress for Kari's wedding. You keep promising to take me, but I don't see any action. And I'm not wearin' something I've
already been seen in. Abby Winegardner would be the first to point it out, the ol' bitch."

Abby Winegardner lived around the corner from Joe and kept him in a supply of tasty homemade treats, much to my gammy's displeasure.
Joe has quite the sweet tooth, which endears him to me. If you're going to eat naughty, it's nice to have company.

"I told you I would take you when I had some spare time, Gram," I said. "It's just been crazy lately."

She snorted. "Chasing a rapist cross-country in your uncle's truck and getting canned kind of crazy? I didn't know there was
so much excitement on campus. Maybe I should sign up for a class. Joe and I were watching TV the other night and they had
a news story about a bunch of old people--much older than we are--heading back to college in droves. Something about keeping
their brains from turning to mush by learning new stuff. Joe e-mailed for a catalog of classes and we're going to look it
over. Wouldn't that be something, Tressa? First roommates and now college chums!" she said, and I hoped that sudden buzzing
in my head didn't mean something was about to blow.

"Where did you hear about last night?" I asked. "And who told you Uncle Frank fired me?"

"Taylor mentioned it when I went over to get some cream cheese," she said. "Ours tasted spoiled."

I winced. Busted.

And, just great, Taylor the tattler had spilled the beans. No doubt she was glad for my goof-up. It took the attention off
her and her rather surprising exodus from academia. With Taylor working the Freeze more and more, it wasn't as if I racked
up all that many hours. Still, the free food I consumed as additional compensation would be missed--by my palate and pocketbook
if not by my hips and thighs.

"I gotta hit it, Gram," I said. "I'll call you later," I gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Have a good day."

"You too, dear. By the way, you wouldn't mind if I hit Frank up for a job, would you?" she asked as I prepared to leave. "After
all, we should keep it in the family."

Initially I planned to dissuade her in the gentle, soothing way I have, but when I thought about how Uncle Frank had dismissed
me last night as if I were yesterday's French fries (Uncle Frank recycles the onion rings but don't tell anyone--I'm saving
this information to hold over his head) I decided maybe having Hellion Hannah as hired help was exactly what the soft-serve
king needed.

"Knock yourself out, Gram," I said. "You have my blessing."

She smiled and patted my hand. "You're a good girl, Tressa," she said. "Don't have a clue what to do with good-looking men,
but you're a good girl."

I sighed. Yeah. I was a regular Liza Doolittle, I was.

I hurried next door to my folks' house to mitigate the damage made by my little lapse of judgment the night before. I was
sure that once I'd left Uncle Frank's the first person my aunt Reggie had called was her sister. My mom. Aunt Reggie and my
mother are close. Plus they're a lot alike. Both are pragmatic and serious. My mom is a certified public accountant with a
bookkeeping service and an office in her basement. For most of the year she's cool, calm, and collected. During tax season,
however, she's a little scary to be around. Fortunately, she stays secluded in the basement for long periods of time only
to emerge around April 16 looking like a movie poster model for the thriller
It Came from the Basement.
Her sis--and my aunt Reggie--is the brains behind Uncle Frank's soft-serve businesses. He's the muscle.

I entered through the patio door off the dining room, which is right next to the kitchen. My folks have one of those old-fashioned
bars between the kitchen and the dining area where you can pass the bowls and platters of food through. I appreciate this,
as it speeds up the meal prep time--and cleanup afterward.

"H'lo!" I called out as I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door to check out the leftovers situation. I
removed the foil off a glass pie pan and discovered leftover hamburger pie. Yum! I missed my mom's cooking. I nuked a sizeable
portion in the microwave and was sitting at the dining room table when Taylor walked in.