Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (7 page)

"You gonna keep our little secret until the reunion, ain't ya, Rick?" Aunt Bo, I mean Uncle Bo asked.

Rick looked at Uncle Bo and back at me.

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Your secret is safe with me," he said.

"That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!"

I watched in horror—okay and some morbid fascination—as Uncle Bo grabbed Townsend and planted a long, loud kiss on his unsuspecting lips.

Once the kiss ended, Townsend took a shaky step back and wiped his mouth.

"Now let me tell you, that is one mighty fine kisser,"
Uncle Bo
exclaimed and gave Townsend a big wink. "Know what I'm sayin'?"

Townsend sent me a look I couldn't begin to read and scurried to the safety of his truck and drove off, leaving behind little white swirls of gravel dust.

I winced.

So not a case of "kiss and tell," right?

I thought about Townsend's horrified expression. Hmm. Maybe I'd let the macho ranger-type sweat it for a bit before I made that call.

I know. I know. I'm a little stinker.

"You actually drive this car?" Uncle Bo asked from the passenger seat.

"Only when I want to go somewhere," I responded.

"It sounds like a German tank. And rides like one."

I looked over at her.

"And you've ridden in a German tank when?"

Aunt Eunice shrugged.

"Could use a good wash, too."

"I live on a gravel road. It gets dusty."

She sniffed. Her mustache wriggled like a caterpillar who'd seen hard times and was in its final death throes.

"Smells funny, too."

I shrugged. Like I haven't heard that before.

"I've got dogs," I said.

"Dogs? It's horsey I smell. But you got those, too, don't you? A regular menagerie as I recall."

Well, maybe not a regular one.

"So, let me get this straight," I said. "You want me to park around the corner from Abigail's place and let you out so my grandma won't see my car."

"That's right."

"But you don't mind if she sees you."

"'Course not. In this disguise, she won't know it's me." She patted her wayward mustache.

"She'll think Abigail's got her a secret lover."

There went that twitching mustache again.

"Uh-oh. Watch out. Popo ahead," Eunice said, and she pointed at the windshield.

I frowned. Popo?

"Looks like the county popo," she clarified.

Eunice was right. A county sheriff's vehicle sat on the shoulder near the entrance to Harve Dawson's driveway, whirligig lights going. I slowed. As we passed the rural mailbox, I stared. If I wasn't seeing things, Harve's previously utilitarian gray mailbox was presently a girlie shade of pink.

I made a U-turn and pulled in front of the patrol car.

"What's going on? Why are you pulling over here?" Aunt Eunice asked.

I grabbed my phone and notepad.

"I just want to check out what's going on," I said. "You know. For the paper."

"Ooh. Gotcha. You're on the trail of one of your stories," she said. She unfastened her seat belt and started to open her door.

I reached over to grab her sleeve.

"Just where do you think you're going?" I asked.

"To check things out with you. Two pairs of peepers is always better than one, you know."

"Thank you, but I think you'd better stay in the car," I said.

"This smelly old clunker? The exhaust fumes are enough to make you pass out."

"Open the window."

"I tried. It won't roll down."

I winced. "Oh, yeah. I'll open mine then. That should give you some good cross ventilation."

"And have me inhale enough gravel dust to start one of my asthma attacks," she said and put her mouth to her armpit and began coughing into it.

"Okay, okay. I give up. Just watch your step on the shoulder and the driveway. And stick close to me. Oh, and don't talk to anybody. Or make eye contact."

"Anything else, General Patton?" She put a hand to her forehead in mock salute.

"That'll do for now, Private Bo," I said, not about to forget Aunt Eunice shared a gene pool with my gammy—okay, okay—and with me, too—where unpredictability was hardwired into our DNA.

I put my four-way flashers on—well two-way since two of them wouldn't work—and got out of the car and headed around to the other side to help Eunice out. By the time I got there, she was out of the car and had her forehead pressed against the passenger side window of the county car, looking inside.

"Would you get a load of all the equipment?" she said. "They even got computers and printers in their cars now. Fancy that. All those high-tech gadgets to help catch bad guys. Wowee!"

I'd been up close and personal with a cop car in the not-so-distant past. Unfortunately I'd been relegated to the seat facing the cage, so I couldn't resist the impulse to put my head against the glass and peek in as well.

"What's that thingamajigger?" Eunice asked.

"What thingamajigger?"

"That thing over there."

"That's the radio. Or maybe a scanner."

"Where do they keep the shotgun?"

"I don't know. The trunk maybe?"

"Uh hem. Do you mind? You're getting nose prints on my car window."

I turned.

Deputy Doug Samuels, aka "Deputy Dawg," "Deputy Doughboy"—along with several even more graphic monikers—made a blurry reflection on the windshield.

I groaned, pulling Eunice's face away from the glass as I straightened and turned.

"Oh, hey. Hello there, Deputy Samuels."

"
Acting Sheriff
Samuels," he reminded me. As if I needed reminding. "Tressa Turner. I could tell from fifty yards away that was you."

I didn't know whether to be flattered or offended.

"You got some super-duper spyglasses that magnifies us, Officer?" Eunice asked.

Lord, I hoped not.

"Nope. Just super-duper skills of detection," Samuels said. "And a certain… familiarity with the subject."

I snorted.

"Right. Right. So
Acting
Sheriff Samuels," I said, whipping out my pen and notepad, "can you tell us what your super-duper detection skills are being utilized for here at the Dawson residence? Would it have anything to do with the thoroughly modern look someone has given Harve's formerly drab mailbox?" I asked.

Samuel's expression went from sunny to sour in a heartbeat.

"How do you know Harve didn't decide to go retro?" he asked.

"I know Harve," I said. "So, what's the deal with the mailbox? Anything else tagged? Can I see the damage? This is tied to all the other incidents, isn't it? Country Acres Greenhouse, Keefer's shed, the East Side artwork? The other incidents. They're all connected, right?"

Samuel's eyes narrowed to slits. "Where did you get that idea?"

"Oh, come on. It's as plain as a pink tornado on a garden shed," I said.

"Where do you get this stuff, Turner? The
SyFy
channel?"

"Come on, Deputy. We both know this isn't made-for-TV-fiction," I said. "I've got proof the same individuals are responsible for these incidents. What I want to know before I go to press is if your department has any leads on the perpetrators?"

Samuels ran a hand through his hair.

"Know what, Turner? You're a real pain in the butt."

"Hey! You can't talk to my niece that way!"

I'd forgotten about Uncle Bo.

"Your niece?"

"That's right."

"You're Turner's uncle?"

"Great Uncle." Aunt Eunice smoothed her mustache and stuck her hand out. "Beauregard Blackford at your service," she said with a touch of southern twang. I cringed, letting my breath out when I saw Uncle Bo had put on a pair of my work gloves to cover the candy apple red nail polish.

The deputy shook Aunt Eunice's hand, a dazed look on his face. I could relate.

"You know, young man, as patriarch of the Blackford clan, I have a certain responsibility," Bo said.

"Responsibility?"

"To defend the honor of my family."

I shook my head at Aunt Eunice. I might as well have been invisible.

"Honor?" Samuels said. "I don't follow."

"It's up to me to make sure Tressa's reputation isn't sullied or tarnished."

I frowned. Aunt Eunice made me sound like my gammy's silver teapot that hadn't seen polish since Bush was pres. Bush one.

"It's okay, Au…er, Uncle Bo," I tried to assure my aunt it wasn't necessary for her to be my er, knight in ancient armor, but she forged ahead.

"Now don't get me wrong. I know Tressa Jayne here can get under your skin now and then—kinda like one of those annoyin' itches you can't scratch in public. Know what I'm sayin'? And she's got just enough of her grandmamma in her to be a bit of a, well, Magoo at times."

"No. Really. Uncle Bo. You don't have to—"

"Every family tree has a branch here and there that doesn't exactly hang like the other branches—ones that lose their leaves too soon or never lose 'em at all. Branches that lean this way when the others go that way. Every family's got 'em. But that doesn't excuse your disrespect. It's unbecoming of a man in uniform. Know what I'm sayin'? Why, when I was in Nam—"

"Really. It's okay, Uncle Bo," I took Eunice's elbow in an attempt to derail a line of inquiry into Uncle Bo's bogus military service. "Deputy Samuels was just teasing. He and I go way back. Right, Deputy?" I gave him a "work with me" wink.

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Whatever." Samuels shook his head.

"So, any leads on our little Grandville gang fest?" I asked.

Samuels' brow crinkled.

"Gang? Who said anything about a gang?"

"Well, obviously the spray-painting suggests—"

"It suggests someone has issues and wants to make a statement."

I frowned. "What statement does a pink tornado make?"

"Pink tornado?"

"Oh, come on Samuels. You can't have missed the recurring theme in these incidents. It doesn't take Holmes and Watson to figure out they are connected."

He shrugged. "Maybe someone really likes pink tornados. We're not prepared to make that leap yet."

I frowned. "Leap? Leap! What leap? We're talking facts, here, Deputy, facts the public has a right to know."

He crossed his arms. "The public's right to know. The media's mantra—and their convenient excuse for sticking their noses where they don't belong."

"We don't need an excuse. We've got the First Amendment," I said.

Samuels raised a brow, but didn't say anything.

"Listen, Deputy, er, Sheriff. I'd really like to include a comment from law enforcement confirming the connection and alerting the public on what to be looking for."

"Well, you're not gonna get that from me today, Turner. In fact, we'd prefer you hold off on putting that information out there. This investigation is ongoing, and the appropriate authorities will disseminate appropriate information at the appropriate time through the appropriate channels." He unfolded his arms. "And you can quote me on that."

"You want Uncle Bo to give popo another piece of his mind?" Aunt Eunice asked.

I shook my head.

"Nah. We're good, Bo."

Samuels moved to the trunk of his patrol vehicle. I followed. He opened it and removed a camera.

Oh, right! Pictures!

I grabbed my phone and pointed it at Harve's psychedelic mailbox and took a couple shots. I moved back a few steps to get a fuller view of the entire mailbox and post.

Then I remembered.

The gnome. The lawn gnome I'd seen by Harve's mail post the night before when Townsend and I had driven by.

"Hey. Where's Harve's gnome?" I asked Samuels.

He frowned at me over the top of his trunk lid.

"What?"

"Harve's lawn gnome! Where is it?"

He slammed the trunk lid shut.

"I've got no idea what you're talking about. As usual."

"Harve had a lawn gnome sitting beside the mailbox post. I saw it last night. Did it get shellacked, too?"

Samuels shook his head.

"A shellacked gnome?"

"What's taking you so long, Doug? Ain't got all day."

I turned. Harve the Horse Whisperer, looking every bit the wrangler in a red plaid western shirt rolled up to his elbows, boot cut Levis with a big ol' horse shoe buckle, and a well-worn pair of boots, hoofed it down the gravel drive toward us.

"Oh. Hey. Hi." Harve put a hand up in my direction. "How goes it, Tressa? How's your folks? Family doing okay?"

"Good. They're good. How've you been?"

"Can't complain. No one would listen," Harve said. "How's the little herd? They're about due for a trim, aren't they?"

They were. But I was a little short this month. Who was I kidding? I was short every month.

"I was meaning to get hold of you," I said. "Things have been a little hectic."

Harve nodded. "I read about your big ol' bike ride," he said, a reference to my tandem trek across the state. "Reckon you've spent more time on a bike seat than a saddle this summer."

Sadly true.

"Can we get a move on, Doug?" Harve said. "I've got to get hold of the insurance guy."

"Did you have a lot of damage?" I asked.

He nodded. "Enough, the bastards."

"Bastard
s
? Plural?" I shot a told-you-so look at Deputy Dawg. "Can I get some pictures for the paper?"

Harve's gaze shifted to Samuels.

"It's still a crime scene until we release it," he said.

I felt my lip curl. Crime scene my CSI arse. Samuels was being Deputy Dick.

I dug around in my bag for a business card and handed it to Harve. "I'd appreciate it if you would give me a call when the county has released the scene. Oh. And, Harve, about your gnome…"

"Good Lord. Not this again," Samuels muttered.

Harve scratched his chin. "Gnome? What gnome?"

"Trust me, Dawson," Samuels said. "And run!"

I ignored the deputy.

"Your lawn gnome is gone, Harve. The one by the mailbox."

He shook his head.

"Ain't never had me no gnome—lawn or otherwise. You sure it was my mailbox?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I saw it with my own eyes last night. It was sitting right there." I pointed to the mailbox post. "At the time I thought it was odd because I'd never seen it there before."