Calamity Jayne (15 page)

A long pause. Rick Townsend’s gaze moved to my lips. I could see little knots of tension rise in his jaw. “Nothing, Pops.”
He met my eyes again. “Nothing at all.”

He stopped his truck across from the Plymouth and got out. I turned to Joe. “I guess I’ll see you downtown,” I said. “But
don’t expect the interrogation room you’ve seen in the movies. You’ll be disappointed.”

“No bright lights?”

I shook my head.

“No two-way mirror?”

“Not that I could see.”

“Did they offer you a smoke?”

I shook my head. “But the coffee definitely was cop quality. You could float a coin on that stuff.”

“At least that’s something.”

I jumped down from the truck and winced. Once I finally made it home, and managed to remove a certain offending garment (probably
with wire cutters), I was going to toss it in the incinerator, squirt it with lighter fluid, light it and have a weenie roast.

“I’m following you, remember,” Rick Townsend advised.

“I’ll try to keep it under fifty-five,” I snipped.

“Just keep it between the lines.”

“Yes, sir.”

If my first experience with police interviews had not lived up to my expectations in terms of drama, the second more than
made up for it. As I suspected, they interviewed us separately. All the credible cop shows separate witnesses... and suspects,
too, I realize now. I was a little uneasy not knowing what wild stories Joe was telling. Now that the shock of finding a murder
victim and having the wits scared out of him had worn off, no telling how Mr. Super Hero was embellishing the story. No doubt
he was putting himself in a good light and casting me in the role of—you guessed it—the helpless, or I suppose hapless, female.

Tell the truth,
I’d told Joe,
and nothing but the truth. Everything will be fine if you tell the truth.
Only, I’d told the truth and everything wasn’t fine. It wasn’t fine at all.

“I’ve explained why you’ll find my fingerprints on the gun. I was saving an old man from shooting himself in the foot, or
worse. I’ve told you why I was following Sheila Palmer. Someone around here has to solve this murder—Peyton’s, not Tattoo
Ted’s. He wasn’t dead at the time. It’s not as if I had a choice here. No one believed me about the body. Peyton’s, not Tattoo
Ted’s. And the killer was trying to discredit me big time.”

Then, “I don’t know why the maxi-pad with the blood red message wasn’t in my car. I left it there. On the front seat. Before
we left to find the body, the tattooed one. Maybe Joe picked it up. Ask him. He saw it. He can verify it was there.”

I was lucky. Rick Townsend chose to sit in on his grandfather’s interview. I was grilled by a grumpy state agent, the local
DARE officer, and a sheriff who clearly was not impartial. Hey, how long can you hold a grudge over a canine custody dispute?

“Miss Turner, let me give it to you straight,” Deputy Dawg’s owner said. “We’ve got your fingerprints on the murder weapon.
You were at the scene of the crime. You have the victim’s blood all over you.”

“Ditto for Joseph Townsend,” I reminded him. “And as far as opportunity, Joe and I were with each other from the moment we
left town until you split us up. Joe did tell you that we were together the entire time, didn’t he? Didn’t he?”

I hate it when cops put on their cop faces.

“Do I need an attorney?” I used the standard witness-turned-suspect line.

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t plan any out-of-town trips,” the sheriff replied.

I swallowed. Finally. An honest-to-goodness hall-of-fame cop line. Addressed to me. Gulp.

I was allowed to leave just as the sun was coming up, but I had to promise to return at ten to give a formal statement. I
kicked around the idea of getting an attorney to go with me, but didn’t have the money for a retainer, and didn’t want to
hit my folks up for it. Besides, I had an airtight alibi. Or as airtight as one could have depending on a cranky old fart
to vouch for your whereabouts.

Experience had taught me not to wait for the cops to get off their duffs and do their jobs. Besides, this had turned into
something way beyond a personal safety issue, although that angle was still the most compelling. I was on a crusade here for
ditzy blondes everywhere, those women unfairly labeled “dumb” for their unique, eccentric personalities, who were given a
wink, a pinch, and a leer, rather than credibility, who were taken about as seriously as stop signs are by bicyclists.

I’d had it up to here with being talked down to. I was over being overlooked and underestimated. I’d had my fill of being
patronized and pointed at. I wanted to be laughed with, not at. Consulted, not advised. Considered, not left off the list
altogether. I wanted respect. Simple R-E-S-P-E-C-T. And by, golly, I was going to get it. Or die trying.

(Yikes! Strike that last part, okay?)

C
HAPTER
14

The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten when I left the county courthouse, bleary-eyed, and loopy from the amount of
a legal, addictive stimulant I’d consumed (i.e. caffeine) at the sheriff’s office. I crawled into bed, promising myself I’d
only sack out for a couple hours, then head next door to brief the family on the rising body count witnessed by their loved
one. Four hours later, I was awakened by the persistent barking of two hungry dogs, and an annoying beam of sunlight that
slapped me in the face. I pulled myself from the bed, did the zombie shuffle to the bathroom, and turned on the shower, letting
the hot water cascade over my tense neck and shoulder muscles.

I rehearsed what I was going to say to my folks. “Mom. Dad. I have good news and bad news. The bad news is I found a body
in the trunk of a car. The good news? It wasn’t my car.” Or: “The bad news? I was the target of a hit man. The good news?
I found the hit man’s body at the marina last night.” Or: “You know how you all are always worrying about me being such an
underachiever? Well, guess what? I found not one dead body, but
two!
”

I could hear them now. “What were you thinking?” “How could you take the wrong car?” “Why didn’t you tell us before?” Yadda,
yadda, yadda. Except for Gramma. She’d go ballistic over her mobile home, and Grampa’s car, and want to kick some serious
booty.

I frowned. Face it. There just wasn’t a positive way to spin the events of the previous forty-eight hours. Unless I engaged
the services of the Democratic National Committee.

I fed Butch and Sundance, picked up Hermione from a pillow in my living room where she’d been recovering, and trudged next
door.

“Can you call Dad and ask him to come home, Mom?” I caught my mother on one of her potty/check-on-an-old-lady breaks. “I have
to talk to the entire family. There’s something really important I have to tell you.”

“You’re not pregnant, are you?” my gramma chimed in from the living room.

I shook my head furiously at my mother’s raised eyebrows. “I’m not pregnant!” I yelled. “I’m just involved in something with
personal safety ramifications.”

Seeing my mother’s face turn white, I added, “I think I should be safe now that the hit man who was threatening me is dead.”

My mother blanched, grabbed the cell phone, and speed-dialed my dad.

“Phillip. Get home now.” Pause. “Tressa Jayne,” was all she said next, then she disconnected.

“Your father will be here shortly,” she said.

I followed her into the living room to wait.

“Better make this snappy,” my grandma spoke up. “My show starts at eleven, and today we find out who the real father of Reeyanda’s
baby is. Frank, Caleb, Terrence or Cappy.”

I sat down on the ottoman next to Grandma and waited for the DNA test results.

My family reacted to my news pretty much as I predicted. Taylor grew rather fond of the phrase, “I don’t believe this.” My
father paced the rug repeating, “My daughter found two bodies. Not one, but two!” My mother sat ramrod straight in her chair
and wanted to know why my car key worked in another automobile, and if there was, perhaps, a cause of action there. And Gram?
Bless her heart, when I put Hermione in her lap and explained the kitty’s heroic role, (leaving out the exact manner of torture),
Gram responded by inquiring if one could acquire the services of a mere over the Internet. Atta girl, Hellion Hannah!

Gramma was also surprisingly interested in hearing all about my partner in crime-fighting, Joltin’ Joe Townsend.

“Did he, or did he not talk about me?” My grandma took on the qualities of a seasoned prosecutor cross-examining a reluctant
witness.

“Who?”

“Joseph Townsend, of course. Did he talk about me?”

“Well, yes, in passing. We talked about a lot of things.”

“Did he tell you I was in love with him, the old liar?”

“No, Gramma, I don’t believe he mentioned love. He said you two fought like cats and dogs.”

“And I usually won.” She sat back in her rocker with a half-smile on her face. “What else did he say about me?” she asked.

I got up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “He said you were a real pip, Gramma. A real pip.”

“A pip, indeed,” she said, but I could tell she was tickled. “Did he tell you about the time I stole his skivvies when he
was swimming in the old strip pit? I don’t think he ever knew I hid and watched him walk out, naked as the day he was born.
I couldn’t leave without knowing he was okay, now could I? And it wasn’t like I left him there with no clothes at all. I’d
left behind one of my favorite sundresses. It was bright yellow and aqua with thin, delicate little straps—you call them spaghetti
straps now—and the cutest row of ruffles with elastic tucks across the bust. Very chic.”

I giggled. “Did you, by any chance, leave him coordinated footwear?” I teased.

“Heavens no! With his big feet, he’d have ruined them. As it was, I never got my dress back.”

“Oh, why not?”

“To tell you the truth, I think he took a liking to it. He wasn’t wearing it the other night, was he?”

I gave a loud laugh. “No, Gramma, but it was close.” I hugged her tight. “Real close.”

I left my family still trying to come to terms with the latest calamity I’d stumbled into, citing another police interview
scheduled for that afternoon. My parents wanted to go with me, but I refused; I didn’t want them any more involved in my murder
mess than necessary. And once the identity of Tattoo Ted was known, perhaps the pieces of this whodunit would fall into place.

The more I got to thinking about Tattoo Ted’s threats, the more convinced I was that Joe was probably right. There had to
be more to it than just cold hard cash. What killer risks all for a measly (well, not so measly to me) ten grand or so? So,
maybe there was more in the envelope than just money, like something the killer wanted so desperately he was willing to kill
yet again to get back. Maybe that explained why I hadn’t been killed. Maybe as long as the killer thought I had it, I was
safe from harm. Maybe he couldn’t take a chance of the envelope falling into the wrong hands once I was dead. I shook my head.
Too many maybes. I needed facts.

Like, why would a highly respected attorney like Peyton Palmer risk his good name, law license, livelihood, even his freedom,
to play mule for a jailed client? (Some service. I can’t even get a pizza delivered out where I live.) And what connection,
if any, was there between Peyton Palmer’s alleged drug-smuggling, his subsequent arrest for same, and his recent murder?

These questions and a gazillion others were foremost in my mind as I made my way back to town. Who better to get those elusive
answers, I decided, than a nosy newshound? I took a deep breath. It was time for this ace cub reporter to resurrect her sorry
career.

The editor of the
Grandville Gazette
(I know, P.U.), is Stanley Rodgers. Stan reminds me of that guy on NYPD Blue. No, not Jimmy Smits, unfortunately. No, not
Ricky Schroeder, either. The older guy. The pudgy one. Only Stan doesn’t have as much hair. And he has a bigger gut.

Stan was always willing to give a person a second chance—or, in my case, a good half-dozen chances. I just know he felt bad
about letting me go the last time. He was in tears, the poor man. And seeing as how I had just happened onto the biggest story
this neck of the woods had seen since the high school band performed in the Tournament of Roses Parade, I felt I owed it to
my former employer to let him have first chance at the scoop. Providing, of course, he’d find it in his heart to provide me
with gainful employment again—or cover, at the very least. The bell on the door tinkled as I walked into the newspaper office.

“Is Stan in?” I asked Joan, the receptionist secretary proofreader photograph developer advertising assistant.

She did a double take when she saw me. “You want to see Stan?”

I nodded. “I’m almost certain.”

“I don’t know. He’s not in very good humor this morning. Another time might be better. Like when hell freezes over.”

“This can’t wait, Joan,” I said. “And surely he’s not still ticked about that obituary thing.”

“It was his wife’s Aunt Deanie you identified as Stubby Burkholder.”

“That’s water under the bridge.” I brushed her misgivings aside. “I’ve got a blockbuster, headline-grabbing, breaking news
story that I’m working and, well, I felt a certain loyalty to Stan to bring it to him first. Professional courtesy and all.”

“What kind of news story?” Joan’s extension began to ring, and I took advantage of the opportunity.

“That’s okay, I know the way. You just go ahead and answer your phone there.” I hurried down the hallway to Stan’s office,
a place I seemed to have spent an inordinate amount of time given the relatively short period I was actually employed by the
man. His office door was open, and he was at his desk reading advertising copy. I rushed in and shut the door behind me.

“You’d think with Spell-Check we’d get the damned things spelled correctly,” he was saying. “Carrots has two r’s last I knew.”

“Only the orange kind, not the ‘dahlang, it’s simply divine’ kind!” I suggested.

“What?” Stan looked up over his half-glasses at me. You know, I’ve never understood the half-glasses thing. Either you need
eyeglasses or you don’t. He jerked the black frames off and stood. “What the devil are you doing here?” he asked.

I took a seat in front of his desk and crossed my legs. “I’m here to give you every newspaperman’s dearest wish.”

“Employees who can spell?” he asked, and sat down again.

“No. I’m here to offer you the biggest scoop since you broke the bus barn scandal five years back. They were talking about
that for months.”

Stan sighed, grabbed a starlight mint from a dish on his desk, and stuck his glasses back on the end of his nose. “The good
ole days.”

“Not necessarily,” I told him.

“What do you mean?”

I leaned forward in my seat. “Stan, you’re a good newspaperman. Naw, you’re a great newspaperman. You have the vision, the
instinct, and, uh, tenacity, yes, that’s right, tenacity, to go after a story no matter where it may lead. You have the reputation
of being a hard-nosed journalist, someone not afraid to take on the big boys, the establishment, to get at the truth. When
you exposed those school employees working on automobiles for profit using school district facilities, tools, parts and school
time, you took on the superintendent, the school board, and the bus drivers union, and didn’t even blink an eye, because your
cause was righteous and just and because the public had a right to know. You believed so strongly in their right to know,
you didn’t back down. That was your shining moment, Stan. Your glory days. When was the last time you felt that rush of adrenaline
that comes from chasing that elusive story, sniffing out that next piece in the puzzle, loosening the lips of that next informant?”
(Okay, so I was getting a bit melodramatic, but I was on a lifesaving mission here.
My
life.)

“Did you feel that energy when you printed those letters to Santa last year from selfish, money-grubbing, greedy little grade-schoolers
whose every sentence to dear old Ho Ho began with ‘I want,’ ‘I want,’ ‘I want’? Not a ‘how are you, Santa,’ ‘how are Mrs.
Claus and Rudolph,’ or ‘thank you for the Playstation II you brought me last Christmas’ to be found. Just more gimme, gimme,
gimme.

“Did you feel that surge of euphoria when you reported on Jim Bob Billy Bob receiving a ribbon for showing his prize goat
at the county fair? Well, if you’re tired of reporting tea times at the nursing facilities, and the pee-wee kickboxing finals,
have I got a deal for you. I’ve got a story that will make you a king among newsmen.” I swept my hand across the air in front
of me. “I can see the headlines now: ‘Murder Comes to Grandville. Prominent Attorney Missing and Presumed Dead. Unidentified
Victim Found Shot to Death on Boat.’”

Stan’s attention was directed from his ad copy to me. He leaned back in his chair. “What the hell are you talking about, Turner?”

“I’m talking about headlines, Stan. Banner headlines! Award-winning headlines!” I eased back in my chair. “How does that grab
you, Mr. Editor-in-Chief?” I wondered how long it would be before Stan ordered me the hell out of his office, or, conversely,
fell to the floor in uncontrollable laughter.

“Like I’m gonna take it in the shorts again if I listen to you,” Stan responded. “But go on. I’m feeling in need of a good
laugh today. So, fire away, Calamity.”

Half-an-hour later, I still expected Stan the Man to give me a good swift kick in the pants and out the door. For a while
during my rendering of Tressa & Townsend’s Trip to Marina Macabre, Stan performed more facial contortions than Jim Carrey
does in a two-hour motion picture. To my immense shock, however, my ex-boss now simply frowned at me over the top of his butt-ugly
spectacles. Geez, had I put him into a catatonic state? I waved my hand in front of his face. “Stan? Hello, Stan! Earth to
Stan! You don’t believe me, do you? That’s why you’re sitting there in La-La Land like my gramma during Sunday sermons. You
think I’m a fake, a fraud, a phoney baloney, full of something other than hot air. You think I’m just jerking your chain,
pulling your leg, feeding you a crock.” I stood up, ready to haul my own ass out of the newspaper office, rather than suffer
the indignity of someone else doing it for me. “You think I’m having a breakdown, trying to scam you...”

“I think you’re telling the truth. Or some cockeyed version of it,” the newspaperman inserted. “Sit down, Turner.”

“Wh-what?” I managed.

“I said ‘sit.’”

I felt my knees make like Jello jigglers, and I sank back into my chair. First, I’d managed to convince Rick Townsend to keep
an open mind about disappearing corpses, now I had a very cynical journalist believing a tale that, even for me, had to be
harder to swallow than Gramma’s dumplings.

“Are you serious?” I asked. “You believe what I’ve told you?”