Calamity Jayne Rides Again (4 page)

"As a matter of fact, I did have a visitor last night," I replied, pulling the sheets up and making the bed. "Or should I
say, early this morning," I added with a wink at my mother in the bedroom doorway.

"Was this a male or female visitor?" Gram asked, sitting on a padded chair in the corner.

"Oh, very much male. Tall, darkish hair. Big brown eyes."

"And what time did this tall, dark male leave, my dear?" Gramma asked. "Or is he hiding under the bed?"

"He left around four a.m., Gram. We were both exhausted."

My grandma raised an eyebrow. "I see. And may we assume you harbor deep feelings for this brown-eyed fellow?"

I nodded, casting a look at my feet to hide my smile. "I love him, Gram," I replied, my voice soft and a bit breathless.

"Love?"

I nodded again. "And I'm pretty sure he returns that sentiment."

My mother stepped into the room and gave me her version of the Luuuccy-you've-got-some-'splaining-to-do look. To be honest
though, it's kind of hard to tell one look from another with my mom. CPAs don't tend to need that many different facial expressions.

"Are we talking wedding bells here?" Gram asked. "Or just immoral cohabitation?"

"I'm fairly certain one is illegal and the other just plain yeeesch," I replied with an all-over, body-length shiver.

"Huh?"

"Well, it is illegal to marry your first cousin," I said with a grin. "Isn't it?"

"Cousin?"

"Frankie."

"Frankie? You were talking about Frankie?"

"Of course. Who did you think I was talking about?"

"Oh, you are such a pip," Gram said, shaking a finger at me. "You get that from your mother's side of the family, you know."

"Yeah, right, Hellion Hannah." I shook my finger back at her. "Right."

"So what was Frankie doing here that late?" my mother asked. She tends to get right to the point.

"He was, uh, well, hiding out, I guess you could say," I told her.

"Hiding out? From what?"

"Who," I said. "And the answer is Uncle Frank. They'd had a bit of a problem earlier in the evening. Frankie thought he'd
wait here until Uncle Frank cooled off a bit."

"That Frankie," Gramma snickered. "What'd the boy do this time? Change the color scheme for the ice cream parlor from red
and white to pomegranate and puce?" While Gramma isn't related to Frankie by blood, she'd seen enough of him while he was
growing up to take on the role of surrogate grandma. I was all in favor of that. The more of us there were, the less time
and energy she had to focus on us individually.

"Frankie was trying to make a point with Uncle Frank but did it rather, uh, clumsily, I'm afraid," I said.

"What did Frankie do?" my mother asked.

I hesitated, not really wanting to rat Frankie out a second time. I was saved the necessity of a reply. A door slammed and
heavy footsteps moved toward our location at the back of the trailer.

"Okay. Where is he?" boomed Uncle Frank, his wide body filling the narrow bedroom door. "Where is my son?"

I stared at Uncle Frank. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Frankie never came home?"

"Hell, no! I waited up all night for that little bird turd and he never showed. What the hell is going on with that kid?"

A feeling a lot like the one you get after you've just made a New Year's resolution to give up chocolate so you can fit into
your bikini for spring break and then the Cadbury Creme Eggs go on sale came over me. I looked over at Uncle Frank, who was
proceeding to fill my grandma and mother in on the previous night's exciting extermination extravaganza.

I frowned. Opening day at the fair and a six-foot Frankfurter had gone missing.

CHAPTER 4

I disappeared into the tiny bathroom and did about half a dozen cockeyed twirls in the eensie-weensie shower, trying to expose
as much of my body to the weak, wussie spray as possible. I'm used to taking fast showers—probably because I'm always running
late. I washed, rinsed, then pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail and gelled up, donned khaki shorts and a navy tank,
and shoved my feet into my comfy Soft Spots sandals. I emerged from my hasty cleanup to find Aunt Reggie and Uncle Frank arguing
about Frankie, my mother setting up her laptop and printer, Gram painting her toenails black, and my dad nowhere to be found.
Wise man, my father. He generally drops his wife and mother off at the campground, then hightails it back to Grandville and
his job with the phone company and a week of peace and quiet. He sometimes visits on the weekend, but he's not a big fair
fan. Seen one, you've seen 'em all: That's my dad's position. "I can't believe you think Frankie is responsible for those
roaches," my Aunt Reggie was saying. "My god, Frank, he's your son."

"Some son," my uncle said, shoving a hand over his smooth razor-cut gray head and staring out the front door. "He spits in
my face when I offer him a business I've spent my whole life building. He embarrasses me with my competitors. He disappears
on the eve of opening day, just when I need him the most. Why the hell wouldn't I be suspicious? That kid has a lot to answer
for. If he ever has the guts to show up again," he added.

"Where does a person get cockroaches anyway?" Gram asked, looking up from her toes. "Do you go to the landfill and start flipping
over garbage? Do you get 'em from those guys at the universities who study bugs? Maybe you breed them. I wonder if there's
a stud fee for roaches. You know what? I bet you can buy 'em online. You can buy anything online. Some guy auctioned off a
kidney online. Made a tidy sum!"

"That's illegal, Hannah," my mother informed her from the modest dining area.

"You can live with only one kidney, you know," Gramma went on. "Lots of people do."

"Hannah," my mother said.

"You can even buy Viagra online," Gramma continued. My eyebrows went north.

"Viagra's for men, Gram," I told her.

"That's what you think, missy," she replied with a wink. "That's what you think."

I could only stare. "Have you got the schedule worked out yet, Mom?" I asked, wanting to get the heck out of Dodge before
Grandma's little piggies dried and she recruited me to escort her to the fairgrounds. "When and where do I next report?"

My mother made a few clicks with the mouse. "You're scheduled at Site B from eight to one, with Frankie relieving you, then
Site A from five 'til close."

My mother referred to Uncle Frank's mini-freeze and emporium that way, as Site A and Site B. Must be that accountant thing
again. She added, "We may have to make adjustments for Frankie." Looking over at my aunt and uncle, she saw they were still
in a heated discussion over their only child. "We'll just have to play that by ear."

I nodded. "Who's going to pick up Taylor? I asked. "With Frankie possibly a scratch, we'll need her here ASAP."

My mother's fingers flew over the keyboard. "Oh, Rick offered to collect her. He had to make a trip back home early this morning
to get a few more specimens for the DNR exhibit. He said he'd swing by and pick her up on the way. There wouldn't be any place
for her to park her car here anyway."

"By specimens, you mean snakes," I clarified. Despite the stuffy trailer, I shivered at the thought. Who in their right mind
kept snakes as pets? Okay, so being petrified of the slithering serpents I'm hardly impartial—and rather inclined to stay
that way.

"That was very considerate," I observed, "to volunteer his reptile-mobile to transport Taylor. I hope she's suitably cautious
and keeps her eyes peeled for anything that slinks, wiggles, twists, and squirms. Including the good ranger," I added, telling
myself the unpleasant sensations in my gut were hunger pangs. Certainly they weren't jealousy twinges.

My mother shook her head. "Oh, Tressa. Really. Rick is doing our family a favor, not putting the moves on your sister."

I snorted. "Oh, really? What? You don't think a big red four-by-four filled with snakes makes a good chick pickup vehicle?"

"That ranger don't need no fancy wheels to attract females," my grandma interjected, looking up from her goth toenails. "He's
a regular chick magnet. At least for any gal whose magnetic field is in working order."

I wrinkled my nose, aware that Gramma thought I was moving slower with Ranger Rick than the line at the grandstand restroom
during a Faith Hill/Tim Mc-Graw concert. Still, the idea of a Taylor Turner/Ranger Rick match was hardly a new concept. Earlier
in the summer there had been an all-out campaign to shove the toothsome twosome together. I had watched with a cynical eye
and a bellyful of bile. It wasn't that I had any particular designs on Rick Townsend, I told myself; I just didn't want Taylor
putting her mark on him before I figured out just why I cared one way or the other who Ranger Rick ended up with.

"My magnetic field is humming away just fine," I said. "In fact, it's pointing me in the direction of a large order of fresh-from-the-deep-fat-fryer,
sugared mini donuts. So, dear family, if you will excuse me, I'll be off to Dot-tie's for a bag of baked heaven, a cup of
coffee, and to loiter alongside her concession stand until I smell just like a bag of lovely, warm donuts. So sorry your toenails
aren't dry, Gammy, or I'd let you tag along. Toodles!" I waved and headed out the front door.

"We've got donuts and coffee at the emporium, too, you know!" Uncle Frank called out.

"Give me a break! Those are dry as Frankie's nasal passages in midwinter," I said. "Get some donuts that won't work double
duty as door stops or hockey pucks and I'll be first in line!" I yelled. Then I skedaddled before Uncle Frank could come in
hot pursuit.

I headed down the gravel road that led to the gate from the campground, inhaling deeply with each step that brought me closer
to Dottie's Donuts. I love the various food fragrances of the fair on opening day. Donuts, funnel cakes, and cotton candy—all
meld with the smell of turkey legs, hot dogs, pizza, and every type of beef product imaginable. Add to these the odors emanating
from the livestock barns and pavilions, and you have quite the olfactory odyssey. But the midway—well now, that's a horse
of a different aroma. Let's just say that, after a week of hot, humid August weather, you don't want to walk through the midway
without Vicks stuck up your nose—you know, like those TV morgue guys do who have to post a floater. It can get really ripe
between rains. A daily hosing down of the black-topped ground does little to dampen the pungent aroma of the massive numbers
of hot, sweaty people meandering along the narrow walkways, mixing with the smell of Technicolor hurls from the poor souls
who feasted on funnel cakes or corn dogs before stepping up to brave the galleon or whirl around one time too many in a tiny
teacup. No, the midway is definitely not one of your scratch-and-sniff moments.

As I walked, I thought about Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie and the fight over Frankie. While the sudden roach infestation at
the emporium was no accident, I still didn't believe my discontented yet harmless cousin had set the filthy bugs loose in
his dad's business. But if not Frankie, then who? (Or is that whom? I never can decide.) One thing was certain: I needed a
donut jump-start followed by a caffeine chaser.

I hurried to Dottie's Donuts, my mouth watering the closer I got. I rounded the corner and bit back a bad word when I saw
the length of the line. Dottie's is always the most popular early morning concession stand. The wait never seems to bother
most of her patrons, though. The donuts are worth it.

I took my place in line, trying to tell myself that a medium bag of donuts would do, but knowing on a bad day I could put
away two large bags with nary a thought for my thighs. This morning I convinced myself that, considering my previous night's
good deed at the emporium and the fact that my hunky dream cowboy had been cruelly replaced by a dorky cousin with a deviated
septum, I deserved the jumbo bag. I was about to step up and place my order when fingers gripped my shoulder and squeezed.

"Two jumbo bags of mini donuts and two large coffees," I heard over my shoulder. I felt my sphincter muscles contract. I stood
mimelike and did my best hear-no-evil routine.

"That'll be seven dollars," Dottie, whose real name is Mervin, since Dottie had been dead for the last three years, barked.
He reminded me of that soup guy on
Seinfeld
. He didn't have to be polite to keep the customers coming back. His—or would that be her—donuts did that.

"I'll get that." A bony hand reached around me and handed Mervin a ten-dollar bill, then accepted the change and the bags
of donuts. I grabbed the two coffees and followed the tantalizing bouquet of cinnamon and sugar and hot donut batter like
the Wimpy character follows hamburgers in the old Popeye cartoons.

My baked-goods benefactor deposited the goodies on a nearby picnic table, parked his arthritic rear, then brought a jumbo
bag of donuts to his nostrils to breathe deeply—one of those long, drawn-out, nostril-narrowing thingies you do when you're
out in cold weather and your nose starts to run and you've got no tissue, so you inhale hard enough to suck the snot back
up into your nostrils so you don't gross anyone out. Oops, sorry to ruin your appetite, there.

"Whoo-wee, do I remember that smell!" the sly senior with an insider's knowledge of my sweet tooth exclaimed. His eyes closed
and he sucked in so hard I wouldn't have been surprised to see a donut do a disappearing act up his nose. "First thing I eat
at the fair every year," he said, and patted the bench seat next to him. He slid one jumbo bag of donuts in my direction.
"Here, take a sniff."

I hesitated, wavering between walking off empty-handed and empty-stomached or snapping the old guy's suspenders, grabbing
the goodies, and hauling ass away from the scene.

"Come on now." It was temptation in the form of a seventy-four-year-old guy in knee-length khaki belted shorts, white socks
and hiking boots, and a neon green windbreaker. He coaxed, waving the donut back and forth in front of me like a hypnotic
charm. "You know you want it."

I wiped the perspiration from my upper lip and stared. Damn, he was good.

I shook my head, set the coffee on the table, and took a step back. "No, I can't. I won't." I took another step back to escape
the confection's impossible power.

The donut dangler waved the treat before me like a red flag. "Come on, take it. You know that's what you want to do."

I took another smaller step back. "I can't. I'm not supposed to see you," I said. "Or talk to you. Or come within a hundred
feet of your geriatric behind."

"Well, if you insist." The guy, who looked like he was dressed to audition for
Croc Hunter III
, started to bring the donut to his mouth with much fanfare when suddenly I lunged forward, snatched it from his fingers,
and popped it into my mouth. I chewed the still-warm sweet dough with my eyes closed, savoring each delectable moment.

"Have a seat. There's more where that came from, girlie."

I gave the old fella a grave look before my eyes came to rest on his bag of donuts. "Bad things happen when we get together,
Joe," I reminded him.

Joe Townsend had played a prominent role in my small-town thriller earlier in the summer, much to the distinct displeasure
of his grandson, Ranger Rick. In fact, Joe, or "The Green Hornet," as he liked to be called, had been harder to get rid of
than Uncle Frank's latest product—"mud pies." Don't ask. You don't want to know. Trust me.

"What could happen?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, only little ole things like tailing murder suspects and losing car keys. Or losing handguns and finding
dead bodies. Or using pepper spray on jumbo-sized bikers and—"

"The fair only comes once a year," my tormentor reminded me. "And Dottie's donuts are only available for a limited time."

Like Shamrock Shakes, Cadbury Creme Eggs, and marshmallow snowmen, I thought.

My ex-partner in crime-fighting removed the lid to his coffee, picked up a donut, dipped it once, twice, into his steamy brew,
and then brought it to his lips. Oh so slowly, he took it into his mouth and chewed, making more of a production out of it
than my grandma does with the one candy bar she is allowed every week. (The one my mom knows about, that is.) He washed the
remains of the donut down with a noisy swallow of his coffee.

"Hmmm. Better than I remember," he said, reaching for another mini donut. I sucked in air, calling on any and all reserves
of willpower I had left.

"Your grandson will kill me," I said, inching closer to the table.

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

"You'll blab."

"I'll be silent as the Open Bible congregation on Commitment Sunday," Joe swore. "Besides, Rick threatened me, too, you know.
And personally I like having someone else do the driving when I have to have my yearly colonoscopy."

I took a couple of hesitant steps forward, wanting to appear I was fighting the good fight, but in reality I knew there was
an invisible white flag above my head waving for all it was worth. Knowing me way too well for my own good, the smooth operator
cinched the deal. "They're getting cold," he warned.

"All right! All right!" I said, and raised my hands in an I-give-up pose. "By the way," I said, taking a seat across from
Joe, "for your information, you had me at 'donut.'" I snatched the bag from him, placing it over my nose and mouth like an
oxygen mask. "Aaaagh." I took a nice long sniff, then dug in.

"As good as you remember?" Joe asked.

"Even better," I said. " 'Cause you paid."

He grinned. "Figured you wouldn't have much spending money."

I acknowledged his remark without rancor. His assumption was right on the nose. I was always a day late and a dollar short.