Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (9 page)

Get it? Deviled eggs. Devil.

Oh, fuggetaboutit.

"Let me get this straight. You want me to get a positive ID of a lawn gnome from the Colbys."

I nodded. "And show it to the Keefers while you're at it. It might jog a memory loose."

"I don't know if it will jog any memories loose, but it'll likely set off a gag reflex or two," Shelby said, grimacing at the scanned image I'd printed for her. "Why exactly are we doing this again?"

Great question. Now how to respond? Why was I pursuing this
line of inquiry
as the Brit crime shows put it?

"Well, you see, that little beaut disappeared from Abigail Winegardner's yard, and she seems to be operating under the misapprehension that her new neighbor—my dear, sweet gammy—purloined the little fellow."

"Oh. And did she?"

I shook my head.

"I doubt it. Too much effort. Cedric weighs a ton."

"Cedric?"

I nodded. "That's right. Apparently Cedric is very valuable."

We both did one-man's-trash-another-man's-treasure shrugs.

"I'd like to locate the gnome. You know—prove Gram didn't take it, and restore peace and civility to that neighborhood." I scratched my head. "What's weird is that I could've sworn I saw a similar figurine next to Harve Dawson's mailbox last night," I told Shelby. "But this morning when I was there, there was no sign of it, and Harvey swore he didn't know anything about it."

"Had you been drinking at the time?" Shelby asked. "I've heard of people seeing pink elephants but never lawn gnomes that only Stephen King could love."

"I was perfectly sober, thank you very much. Oh, and while you're out and about, drop by Dawson's and find out what kind of damage he had and get some pictures."

"
Oo
kay. So while I'm out soliciting gnome sightings and leading people to question my sanity, what are you going to be doing?" Shelby asked.

The door to the alley slammed shut. Our fearless leader had returned. Make that spineless leader.

"I'm going to have a little story development meeting with Mr. Rodgers," I told her. "And trust me. It's not gonna be a beautiful day in his neighborhood."

Stan had poured himself a cup of coffee and planted his rear in the chair when I pounded on his door.

"Who are you, and what have you done with my boss?" I yelled.

Stan jumped in his seat, coffee dribbling over the sides of the cup and onto the front of his shirt.

"Christ, Turner! What's the idea? Can't you see I'm busy?" He shuffled papers around on his desk.

"Busy taking a scalpel to perfectly good reporting?" I countered. "You did a Dexter on my article, man!"

Stan frowned.

"Dexter? Who's Dexter?"

"You eviscerated my article, Stan! Ripped it to pieces. Sliced and diced it!"

"Huh?"

"You cut out all the good stuff!"

Stan sighed.

"This is about the vandalism item then?"

"Ding, ding, ding! Give the alien life form a one-way trip to Ceres."

"Now listen, Turner, I know you're not happy with the editorial changes I made—"

"Editorial changes? Try extraction with maniacal precision! Snip! Snip! Snip!" I said, making a rock-paper-scissors scissors with my fingers.

Stan's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

"Listen Turner, law enforcement requested we hold off on releasing certain information—"

"Don't you mean 'facts,' Stan? And have you forgotten the last time you took the county's advice on a story?" I asked. "Let's just say the term
bum steer
comes to mind."

"I don't see what the big deal is, Turner. They wanted us to give them some time, and I figure folks are smart enough to come to their own conclusions on whether the same people were responsible and to act accordingly."

"That's a cop-out, Stan. In more ways than one," I pointed out. "And weren't you the one who told me, we don't get to decide what's news and what isn't. We report and then let folks decide if we've done right by them. Isn't that what you said, Stan? Isn't that the newsman's mantra?"

Stan put his coffee cup down with a thud.

"Geez, Turner. I didn't know you were listening," Stan said, a surprised look on his face.

"Well, I was not only listening, Stan, I was taking notes. And I don't recall ever writing down that the
Gazette
permits law enforcement to censor our stories?"

"Law enforcement agencies ask the media to withhold certain details of an ongoing investigation all the time, Turner," Stan pointed out.

"Yes. If they're tracking a killer or a terrorist or there's something more nefarious afoot," I said. I stopped. "Wait. Is there something more nefarious afoot? Is that why you didn't run the original article?"

"Maybe I just did the cops a solid, Turner."

I shook my head. Something wasn't right here.

"You heard about Harve Dawson's place getting hit last night, right?" I asked. "Shelby Lynn's on her way to get some pictures. I suspect we'll have additional proof that the same vandals are responsible. What then? Do we sit on it some more?"

Stan shook his head. He looked tired.

"No. When we've got the proof, we'll run with it."

I frowned. "Stan, is everything okay?" I asked.

"Sure, Turner. Just peachy. You pick up the city and county arrest reports yet?" he asked.

"Just getting to that," I said.

"Don't forget we've got the Pioneer Days celebration at the County Park. You and Shelby got the donkey ball deal and the Wild West shindigs covered?"

"We're on it, boss."

The Historical Village celebration and fundraiser sounded like fun. The first night featured a donkey softball game pitting the city of New Holland against Grandville. And the next night, a Wild West masquerade party in the Knox County Historical Village that included a concert, dance, and silent auction. I smiled. I'd get to dress up in my best cowgirl regalia, enjoy cold beer and mouthwatering country cuisine, and boot-scoot the night away to toe-tapping music—oh, and get a paycheck for doing it.

Food, beer, shopping, and compensation. What's not to love, pilgrim?

I turned to leave.

"Oh and Turner?"

"Yeah?"

"You're right. We report. Readers decide," he said. "Thanks for the reminder."

Ahh. I felt a pitty-patter in my chest.

"Now, get your fanny out of my office and get to work!"

I sighed.

These boots were made for…gettin' the heck out of Dodge.

*   *   *

I listened to the hum of the dryer as I peered over the material I had spread out on a card table in the lower level family room at my folks'. I'd decided if I was going to have a houseguest, I better tidy up my place a bit. Which started with—laundry. Sigh.

Next to the card table, I'd set up a dry-erase board. Using fun dry-erase marker colors, I'd constructed a timeline of recent vandalism incidents with dates, times, and locations. By backtracking through various jurisdictions, Shelby Lynn and I had discovered additional incidents of property damage linked to the same group of vandals.

I stared at the whiteboard trying to make my own connections.

"I see we've taken doodling to the next level," I heard. "Soon you'll be ready for Sudoku."

I turned. Taylor stood grinning behind me.

"What are you doing down here?" I asked.

"Apparently not my laundry," she said and set her hamper on the floor. "What are you working on?"

"Just trying to put some pieces together on the vandalism story," I said. "See the big picture."

Taylor dropped onto the sectional beside me. She stared at the whiteboard and then thumbed through the photographs, examining each of them before going to the next. She turned her attention back to the whiteboard.

"I thought I heard voices in here." My mother, dressed in business casual even though she worked from home (I'd be in shorts and a tee) entered the family room. She looked at the mess I'd made. "What do we have here?"

"Tressa's getting the big picture," Taylor said.

"I see." My mom stared at the whiteboard. "Hmm," she said.

"Hmm? Hmm, what exactly?" I said.

"I was just looking at your timeline."

"Yes?"

"These incidents began several weeks before school started."

"Okay. Yeah. So."

"That could suggest a group getting back together. Reconnecting. Reestablishing relationships that might have lapsed over summer. You know. A reunion of sorts."

I winced at the mention of a reunion.

"Go on."

"Or, maybe you have the formation of a new dynamic going on," she added.

"Dynamic?"

"I see what you mean," Taylor said.

I wished I did.

"New relationships forming. A kind of bonding going on. A group identity being forged," Taylor added.

"It's certainly possible," my mother said, hovering behind us as Taylor flipped through the photographs again.

"Look at the vandalism," Taylor said, pointing at the spray-painted images. "It's organized yet there's an adolescent component to it. An immaturity. Pictures, but no words. I think you're looking at a group of teens here."

I blinked, impressed.

"Anything else?" I asked, thinking Taylor's undergrad psychology studies were paying off.

"Well, consider the spray-painting." She picked up one photograph. "The frenzied rainbow colors. The tornadoes. With pink so prominent. It makes we wonder if we're dealing with a group of girls. You know. Teen
girls."

Oh, man. She was good.

"We need to narrow that down a bit. Teen could mean anyone from thirteen to eighteen," I said, looking at the timeline again.

My mother took a seat beside me on the arm of the sectional and shook her head. "Not necessarily," she said. "Not with the times and locations of the incidents you've noted."

"What do you mean?" I asked our very own in-house numbers gal.

"It seems likely that the individuals who did this had to have access to a motor vehicle. At least one of them had to be old enough to drive. And that means—"

"High school girls," I finished, triumphant and bilious at the same time.

Holy
Mean Girls
and
The Faculty
.

It was
Back to the Future
all over again.

I sat in my car in the high school parking lot, chewed a fingernail, and looked on as high school students clowned around outside enjoying the last moments of freedom before the second bell moved them indoors. Not all that many years before, I'd been one of those reluctant scholars putting off the inevitable for as long as she could.

School and I had not been what you call simpatico. If it hadn't been for sports, and parents who kept my head in the game academically speaking, I'd likely have settled for a GED and a dual-track career in retail and fast food.

Not that there is anything wrong with those careers, but it made me feel good to know that despite being voted most likely to join the circus in my high school yearbook, my folks had enough faith in my abilities and intellect to require more of me than I'd wanted to give at the time.

I'd figured I'd let Shelby Lynn check out the Grandville High angle. After all, she'd only been out of school a matter of months, and it was a safe bet she'd be on better terms with the faculty than yours truly. But Shelby Lynn, claiming a prior dental appointment in New Holland, took dibs on checking out New Holland High, leaving me to deal with good ol' GHS and Principal Vernon.

Even the name still had the ability to make my sphincters pucker.

I took a long drink from my super gulp pop, wishing I had something that included a bit more liquid courage and sighed.

School days, oh, those school days
.

I got out of my car and walked to the entrance, gaining curious looks from those waiting for the bell to signal lunchtime was over.

A warm summer day, shorts and skimpy tops, jeans (some baggy), and T-shirts were the outfits of the day. I entered the school and directly into the commons area where lunch was served and students hung out between classes and after school. I winced, wondering why it seemed so much louder now than it had when I was a student loitering in the commons.

The place was packed, most of the tables and chairs occupied by chattering and laughing students. I stood for a second, taking it all in, and waited for a wave of nostalgia to engulf me.

I tapped my foot.

Nope. Nothing.

No nostalgia. No warm fuzzies. No channeling Mr. Chips.

Nada.

I observed the student body for a few more seconds when my gaze hit on a student who sat alone at a table. Short-cropped dark hair, broad shoulders, and thick neck, much like many of his fellow students, the high-schooler's attention was on the cell phone he was holding.

I watched him for a second longer, noticing for the first time the resemblance to his larger than life cousin, Manny DeMarco. Last year Manny's cousin, Mick, had been of some assistance in whipping votes for unlikely homecoming king and queen candidates who'd been nominated for the honors by a group of malicious pranksters. Shelby Lynn had been a target for the mean girls who thought it was a hoot to put the girl they'd dubbed "Sasquatch" up for homecoming queen. It backfired on the meanies when, due in large part to Mick's uh, er, persuasiveness, Shelby Lynn Sawyer aka Sasquatch and Tom Murphy aka Tom Thumb were crowned Homecoming King and Queen.

You gotta love it when the good guys stick it to the jerk wads.

I hurried over to Mick's table, tiptoeing up behind him.

"I'm looking for Captain Underdog," I whispered in his ear. "I was told he could hook me up with a mean girl repellant."

Mick turned, a surprised look on his face when he recognized me.

"I thought maybe yous was in the market for more gerrymandering," he said.

"Jerry who?" I responded.

He shook his head and motioned to the seat across from him. I sat.

"Long time, no see," Mick said. "Since you split with the Man, Mick don't see Blondie much."