Calamity Jayne (16 page)

Stan doodled with his pencil. “Nobody could concoct such an outrageous, incredible, logic-defying series of events, and have
them all be perfectly in character—for you, that is—without there being an element of truth in there somewhere. I heard about
an incident at the marina last evening.”

“If a slug through the head from a Colt Python qualifies as an ‘incident,’” I pointed out.

He sat forward. “We’ll need more information before going public. Verification from a competent... I mean credible... uh,
independent corroboration on some of the facts relating to the investigation. I’ll get Smitty on it right away.”

I stood ever so slowly. “Smitty? Smitty? I thought you understood the conditions on my giving this scoop to the
Gazette
” I said. “I’m working this story up solo, pal—solo as in if you don’t see fit to give me carte blanche with this exclusive,
you know, an insider’s perspective and all—I’ll be forced to peddle the biggest local news story of the century to your competitor.”
I hesitated, savoring the next moment:
“The New Holland News
.”

Stan gasped. His face took on the color of the salsa I drizzle over the belly burners at Dairee Freeze. He grabbed his chest
as if suffering an onset of heartburn from eating said belly burner. He stood and put his hands palms down on his desk. “You
wouldn’t!” Stan and his competitor of Dutch descent were not on the best of terms.

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” I picked up his office phone and buzzed Joan out front. “Get Paul Van Fleet over at
New Holland News
on the line!” I barked. “ASAP!”

Stan grabbed the phone from me. “Never mind, Joan,” he said, and cradled the phone. “Christ, Turner, you got a problem, you
know that?”

“Problem, Stan? Problem? I’m finding corpses in cars and on boats. What next? Greyhound? I have some sicko trashing my car—well,
actually Taylor’s car—the same sicko trashing my mobile home—well, actually Gramma’s mobile home—using poor defenseless family
pets as behavior modification props, and leaving not-so-nice greeting cards for me that imply great bodily harm. I’m stalked
by a guy who’d make a carny worker look like Mother Teresa. The guy ends up dead, and my fingerprints are on the murder weapon.
Yeah, I guess that qualifies as having a problem, Stan. But the big problem here is that the cops don’t believe most of what
I’ve told them and that leaves me where? Exposed, Stan. Exposed and vulnerable. If the cops aren’t going to do their job,
then someone has to get out, pound the pavement and build a case against this perp so the good people of Grandville can sleep
peacefully in their beds again and I can get on with my life, or what purports to be a life.”

“Geez, Turner.” Stan ran a hand through what was left of his hair. “You’ve been watching too much
Cops
. Besides, the good people of Grandville are sleeping peacefully in their beds. They don’t have a clue what the hell you’re
talking about.”

“My point exactly. We’ve got to warn them there is a murderer in their midst.”

“And start a public panic based on what? The cops haven’t even acknowledged a crime has been committed.”

I leaned across the desk and snagged a foil-wrapped chocolate kiss from his candy dish. “Doesn’t that seem strange to you?
What
is
law enforcement hiding? And why? I have the inside track here, Stan, but I need an ‘in’ that only press credentials can give
me. I need access to information. Sources only you have. What do you say?” I stuck my hand out. “Partner?”

Stan looked at my hand, crossed himself, and stuck his hand in mine. “You report directly to me. No one else, hear? And the
Gazette
retains all rights to your stories and photographs. Exclusive rights. Got it? Oh, and one more thing.” He squeezed my hand.
“For Christ’s sake, Turner, use Spell Check & Grammar Wizard.”

“Yes, sir, boss man.” I pumped his hand. “Now, about my salary.”

An hour later, I had my new press pass, conditional part-time employment (conditional on my not screwing up), and a new respect
for my boss. He’d outlined our article, highlighted what we knew, and how we knew it, and where we could obtain further confirmation
or corroboration to tighten the story. He pointed out gaps and ways we could attempt to fill them. He promised me a photo
and dossier on the inmate who’d fingered Palmer in the drugs-for-order charge. I had a to-do list that made a “honey-do” list
look tame in comparison.

Be professional. Be discreet, Stan warned me. Operate below the radar. In other words, don’t open him up to public scorn or
liability. Gotcha.

“And don’t get shot,” Stan called out to me as I left his office. That piece of advice I could’ve done without.

I left the newspaper office with a new sense of worth, a vastly improved outlook on my life, and every reason to want to hold
on to it.

I walked to my car, spotted my Taco John’s evidence bag, and, on impulse, entered the offices of Palmer 8& Hamilton, Attorneys-at-Law.
The receptionist’s desk was empty. When the boss was away...

I peeked down the hall toward the offices. If I could just get a look at Palmer’s files. The low hum of voices came from behind
a closed door past the reception area. I moseyed down the hall away from the hushed voices. The first office I came to was
a conference room. Dennis Hamilton’s office was next. It was dark and unoccupied at present. At the far end of the hall was
a copy room, restroom, and Peyton Palmer’s office. I stepped into that and quietly closed the door.

The armpits of my shirt were wet. I hurried to Palmer’s desk and opened drawers. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but
the opportunity to nose around was too good to pass up. I was tempted to turn on the computer and access his files, but to
be honest, I’m technologically challenged. I have trouble zapping customers’ credit cards through the machine. I’m always
happy when they choose to do it themselves and all I have to do is press the appropriate key when prompted.

A door opened out in the hallway. I froze. Then, “There’s no one out here.” A female voice. The click of a door shutting.
Then giggling. Hello. I was intruding on a little bit of office nooky. I couldn’t even get any on regular date nights. This
gave a whole new meaning to “I gave at the office.”

I continued my search of the office, stopping short of using the letter opener to pry open the locked desk drawer; I decided
I’d pressed my luck enough. I cracked the door and peeked out. All clear. I crept down the hall toward the front door. I’d
just made it to the reception area when the door opened. Rick Townsend walked in.

He seemed surprised (not pleasantly) to see me. The feeling was mutual.

“Tressa, what are you doing here? They’re waiting for you over at the courthouse. I think they may be ready to send out the
posse. You better get a move on.”

“I’m going, I’m going. I just wanted to check something out.” I gave him the once-over. “What are you doing here?”

“Rick! What a nice surprise! I didn’t know you were going to stop by today!”

My olfactory senses came under assault from a potent whiff of cologne I was sure was way more expensive than the Bargain City
Fresh Blossom Body Spray I had splashed on earlier. Annette Felders, legal sexretary, attired in a white vest top trimmed
in navy and a navy skirt, wiggled toward us. Her brunette hair was swept up on her head, with two perfectly matching tendrils
falling in front of each delicate ear, just so. The delighted grin with which she greeted Townsend transformed into a just-sucked-a-lemon
grimace when her eyes came to rest on me. “Tressa.” She eyeballed me like I’d just let a particularly loud, offensive gasser.

“Annette,” I responded, and gave her a sickeningly sweet smile.

“Is there something I can do for you? Point you to the nearest exit, maybe?”

I was just tired enough, and pissed enough, that I was aching for a fight. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, there is something
you may be able to help me with, Annette. You see, I’m looking into the disappearance of one of this firm’s partners, Mr.
Peyton Palmer, and how it may tie in to a homicide at the lake last night.”

Beside me, Townsend shifted his weight onto my powder blue-striped walking shoes. (Hey, the shoes were thirty percent off
and I really was going to start walking every day. Honest.)

“Looking into? What do you mean?”

“For the
Gazette,
” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you got fired from the
Gazette
. That unfortunate obituary thing.”

“Naw.” I waved my hand. “That was the layout guy’s fault. I still give the paper a hand now and then. So, what can you tell
me about Peyton Palmer’s disappearance?”

“What do you mean, disappearance?”

“Oh? Is he in then? Could you buzz him, please? I’d like to speak with him. Or is he indisposed at present?”
Disposed of was more like it.

Townsend gave me a hard pinch on the elbow. Like grandfather, like grandson.

“I’m covering the whole drug-smuggling, abandoned pontoon, body-in-the-trunk angle. You know. For a human-interest piece.”

“They have you covering the Palmer story?” Her brows indicated she was dubious.

“Oh, no. Stan is handling the law enforcement angle. I’m just supposed to get the background. By the way, where were you Friday
night?”

Her mouth dropped open. She quickly closed it, then looked over at Townsend. “I was at home. Alone.”

I tried to raise one eyebrow. It’s harder than it looks. “Alone? On a Friday night?”

“That’s right. Not that it’s any of your business.”

I shook my head. “I’d like to go back and tell my editor that you were cooperative,” I said. “Tell me, Annette, when did Rick
Townsend break off his relationship with you?” I ignored the ranger’s quick intake of breath next to me.

“I don’t see what that has to do—”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“I
broke it off with him. Months ago.” Annette’s chin lifted. “There’s someone else.” Oh, vanity, vanity.

“What about the drug charges against Peyton Palmer? Did he really pass drugs to a client in the jail? Who was the client?
Why would Palmer take a chance like that?” I peppered her with questions.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Was Palmer’s wife really having an affair with Dennis Hamilton? How did Hamilton and Palmer get along? Did you ever hear
them argue?”

“You’ll have to ask Dennis Hamilton about his relationship, if any, with Mrs. Palmer. And perhaps Dennis and Peyton didn’t
always see eye-to-eye. So what? Sometimes folks just don’t gel with each other. Now, I’ve answered all the questions I plan
to. I’m going to give the paper a call and see if they really sent you over here. I don’t believe you’re working for them
at all. A total airhead like you? No way.”

I wanted to leap across the desk and turn her nice little coiffure into a rat’s nest. Or male pattern baldness. Instead, for
some bizarre reason, I whipped the exotic jungle underwear from the taco bag. “Do these, by any chance, belong to you, Miss
Felders? And remember, we have DNA.”

“Where did you...?”

“Geezus, Tressa,” Townsend said. “Put those away!”

“Get out!” Annette screamed. “Get out before I call the cops!”

The door opened and Sheriff Thomason walked in. Boy, was I impressed. Telepathic 911!

“So here you are, Miss Turner. I saw your car. You’re late for our appointment.” He turned to Annette. “Anything wrong, young
lady? You look upset.”

“Get her out of here! She said she was working at the paper and was asking all kinds of questions, waving underwear around.
Just get her out of here. This is a professional law office.”

“Where is Counselor Hamilton, by the way?” I asked. “I was thinking of retaining his services. Is he by any chance in?”

“No!” The receptionist was losing it.

“Fine. No problem. I’ll get Merle Hansen over on First. I hear he’s had lots of experience. Oh, just one more question, Annette.”
I held up the thong. “Where’d you leave the matching top?”

“Get out!” she screamed. “Get that crazy bitch out of here!”

I shrugged and stuffed the undies back in the taco bag and turned to Townsend. “You never did say why you were here, Townsend.
Did you?”

He gave me a hard look. “No comment, ace cub reporter,” he said.

I sighed. So much for flying below the radar.

C
HAPTER
15

I gave yet another formal statement to the police. I was becoming a pro at spilling my guts. I rehashed what I’d told them
the night before, including my visit from the deceased—before he was deceased, that is—reminding them again that I had filed
a report with their office. I covered the threatening phone call, but left out the particulars concerning Gramma’s kitty cat.
I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the authorities still believed I’d taken artistic license with the truth, seeking
my fifteen minutes of fame, kinda like one of those nuts who made their own kids sick so they could be around doctors and
hospitals, and I didn’t want them thinking I could string up Garfield.

“We’ll need to print you, for comparison purposes,” Deputy Doug told me. “Then we can compare your known prints to the prints
on the glove box and the murder weapon.” The DARE officer was gone, but the deputy was joined by Sheriff Thomason, and the
grumpy state agent.

“So the Colt was the murder weapon?” I gulped.

“The ballistics report isn’t back, of course, but judging from the entrance wound, I’d say, yeah, it’s a safe bet. Besides,
it’s been fired. Recently.”

My stomach had a Maalox moment. “Well, you’re bound to find my prints on the gun,” I said. “I already told you, I took the
gun from Joe. His prints will be on there, too. And the killer’s, hopefully.” I gave a crooked smile. “There are other prints
on the gun. Right?”

“We’re not at liberty to say at present, Miss Turner,” the sheriff said.

I felt the noose tighten. “I see,” I managed, wondering when the handcuffs would come out, before or after “you have the right
to remain silent.”

“Fortunately for you, Ms. Turner, so far Joe Townsend’s story and yours check out. We’ll know more after his formal statement,
but it appears he backs up your account of the events of last night.”

Yes! Joe hadn’t blown it, after all. “Oh, that’s good news. Very good news!” I blew out a lungful of air. “Then I don’t need
to get Merle Hansen to represent me?”

“Hasn’t-got-a-clue Hansen?” Deputy Doug snorted “He’s eighty if he’s a day.”

“Experience is the best teacher,” I said.

“The last time he was in court he fell asleep during his own cross.”

“Hmm. Sounds like a lawyer I can afford.”

“What was that all about over at the law office earlier?” The sheriff poured himself a cup of coffee, his back to me. “Something
about a leopard thong and a story for the
Gazette?
”

“I got my old job back. Actually, it’s a way better job. I’m doing investigative reporting. Since I have information relating
to the murder investigations at hand, who better to report than an eyewitness with, uh, hands-on knowledge?”

“Investigations?” the sheriff asked.

“Peyton Palmer and Tattoo Ted. By the way, do you have an ID on the deceased yet? Deceased number two, that is. What connection
did he have with Peyton Palmer? Any known enemies? Criminal record? Any other interesting tattoos?”

“Stan gave you back your job?” Deputy Samuels asked.

I nodded. “On a trial basis. But I’m hoping for something more long-term.” I took out my notebook, flipped back the cover,
and picked up a pencil. “So, who’s the vie?” I asked.

“You’re free to go, Miss Turner,” Sheriff Thomason growled. “Again, please don’t leave town without notifying the sheriff’s
office. And don’t print anything in that newspaper that could jeopardize this investigation.”

“Don’t you think people have the right to know what is going on in their own community?”

“I said you’re free to go, Miss Turner,” the sheriff reiterated.

I decided not to press my luck, and hustled my cookies out of the courthouse before they could change their minds.

It was two-thirty. Joe had given his statement at one. What I needed was to sit down and have a little tete-a-tete with Dennis
Hamilton. And Sheila Palmer was on my to-do list. I sighed, thinking she was probably on Townsend’s to-do list, too.

Then there was the doper inmate who’d snitched out Peyton Palmer. Once Stan tracked him down, I’d see what, if anything, I
could learn from him.

I called in sick to Bargain City for the afternoon shift. (No sermons, please.) I didn’t want to quit until I knew I wasn’t
going to have to go back and beg for the old job back at some point down the road. I put some gas in the Plymouth, courtesy
of dear old dad again, then went next door to do the chores. It was approaching six when I finished up with the critters.

I showered the horsey smell off me and made a quick call to my best friend, Kari Carter. Kari’s been my best friend since
fourth grade, when her family moved to Grandville. Her father is a local optometrist, and her mother works in his office.
Kari is nothing like me. Thank goodness, you’re thinking, right?

Kari teaches middle school English to sixth graders. All throughout high school, Kari knew she wanted to be a teacher. She
tutored students in reading after school. She was a cadet teacher for the middle school language arts department her senior
year. That’s when Kari decided teaching middle-level-aged students was her calling in life. I go back and remember what I
was like in junior high, all those raging hormones, boy problems, and self-esteem issues, and I tell you, I have to admire
anyone who faces a classroom of thirty adolescents at various stages of puberty all day long, day after day, and still retains
an enthusiasm for their vocation. Oh, and their sanity, too. A couple hours of babysitting with the Parker twins and I was
ready to hit the bottle, and I’m not talking baby formula here.

Kari is getting married during winter break to Brian, a physical education teacher at one of our elementary schools. She’s
all wrapped up in wedding and honeymoon plans. I’m her maid of honor. Like me, Kari is blonde and great-looking. (I just had
to get that in somewhere.)

During the summer, Kari helps out at the Dairee Freeze sometimes. She accepts me for who I am. Well, most of the time, anyway.
That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like to see me married and settled down. Why is it when women become engaged, they think everyone
around them has to be one-half of an adorable little whole in order to be truly happy? Before Kari met Brian, she was, as
she liked to call it, footloose and fancy-free. Now a certain ball and chain has the romanticism of a glass slipper. Kari
won’t even consider the possibility that a woman can be single and happy.

“Now, remember, you have to get over and try the bridesmaid’s dress on, ASAP,” Kari said, when I met her for a bite at the
local Subway. “I’ve got to have the dresses ordered by next Tuesday at the latest.”

I tore into my meatball sandwich, belatedly wishing I’d gone on that diet like I was supposed to.

“Things have been a little bit hectic,” I told Kari. “Lots going on.”

Kari nodded, and slowly unwrapped her less-than-eight-grams-of-fat turkey sandwich. “Working two jobs will do that to a person.
I still say you would make a super teacher! Why, we could teach at the same building. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

I made a face and took another bite of my sub. “I’m not the teacher type,” I said.

Kari gave me a look I’d seen before and shook her head.

“Tressa, one of these days you’re going to have to decide what you want to do with your life. You can’t go on working two
nowhere jobs, living a nowhere life. You need to find a decent career, a decent guy, and settle down in a decent life. You
know. Get your act together.”

The meatball I was chewing became wood shavings. I stopped eating.

“Where is this coming from?” I asked. “Have you been talking to someone about me?”

Kari buried her head in her meal. “People are just worried, Tressa. You always seem to be in the middle of some conflagration.”

Since Kari had graduated from college, she’d grown fond of big words. I’d have to look “conflagration” up at a later time
to be sure, but from the context of the sentence, I thought I could decipher the meaning.

“You’ve never had a problem with me before, Kari,” I said, hurt that my best friend was dissing me now.

“I don’t have a problem with you now,” she replied. “It’s just that some people seem to think your behavior is out there.
You know. Beyond Thunderdome. And with the wedding coming up and all...”

Kari stopped. I wrapped up the remains of my supper and stood.

“Are you saying you don’t want me in the wedding?” I asked, more hurt at the possibility than I could have imagined.

Kari stood and reached out for my shoulder. “No, no, not at all. I just want you to get your head screwed on straight. That’s
all. Rick—I mean, Brian just suggested I talk to you, that’s all.”

Too late, she realized she’d spilled the beans.

“Oh, so all this concern was generated by Townsend.” It was becoming clear now. Townsend was a great pal of Brian’s. He’d
apparently gone running to enlist Kari’s assistance in getting me to back off my crusade for justice. But was it out of concern
for me, or in Townsend’s own best interest if I ceased and desisted?

“I’ll be in touch about the dresses,” I said. “If I’m still a member of the wedding party, that is.”

Kari nodded. “Of course you are, Tressa,” she said. “Of course you are. I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “Me, too,” I said, dumped my sandwich in the garbage, and walked away.

I headed back to the newspaper office to check in with Stan. I hurried back to his office, but he was nowhere around. A photograph
on his desk caught my eye. I walked around to get a better look and almost lost a meatball. There, in living color (okay,
black and white), was every woman’s answer to birth control: the Cobra King himself, Tattoo Ted. My nausea grew.

“Hey, Turner, I got that info you were requesting.” Stan returned to his office with a coffee cup that said
Reporters kiss and tell
. “Oh, I see you’ve found it already.”

I picked up the mug shot and pointed at the terrifying profile. “Who is this?” I asked.

“That’s him. That’s Mike Hill.”

“Huh?”

“Palmer’s client. Drugs. Jail. Criminal charges. That Mike Hill.”

I shook my head to clear it.

“What’s wrong, Turner? Think you can track him down?”

I slumped into Stan’s chair. “I know right where he is, boss,” I said.

The publisher’s eyes grew wide, no doubt wondering how I’d come by such information. “You do?”

I nodded. “That’s the good news.”

His eye’s narrowed. “And the bad news?”

“I don’t think we’ll be getting a quote.”

* * *

I left the newspaper office around eight
P.M.
, after I’d typed up a short narrative for Stan outlining my brief, albeit memorable,
contact with Mike Hill, aka Tattoo Ted, aka The Snake Charmer, aka Cobra Man, the inmate who’d ratted out his lawyer. It was
hard to put my brain around the concept of a killer at large in a town where folks rarely locked their doors, children were
free to roam at will, and the local cops got a boner whenever they got to use their top lights and sirens.

I reviewed my list of suspects. First there was Sheila Palmer. According to Joe, she liked to indulge in extracurricular marital
activities. Poor Joe. He probably hadn’t anticipated his own grandson as a participant. Sheila’s infidelities, if true, gave
the wandering spouse a motive to rid herself of her present entanglement. I couldn’t help but wonder what Joe Townsend was
making of his grandson keeping company with a married woman. I knew I was surprised. And, yes, disappointed. I could only
imagine what his family was thinking.

Next on the short list was Dennis Hamilton: Sheila Palmer’s reputed ex-lover, and her husband’s law partner. Was he so obsessed
with Sheila that he’d offed her husband in order to clear the way for them to be together, or was there a legal issue pertaining
to the law practice that came between the two partners?

I was also beginning to get a queasy feeling in my gut about our local men in blue—or khaki, as the case may be. Law enforcement
was dragging their feet worse than kids heading back to school after summer vacation. I’d lay odds both Deputy Doug and his
grudge-holding boss, Sheriff Thomason, probably needed their shoes resoled from all their heel-dragging. Just why were they
so afraid to do their jobs? What were they afraid they might find out? Or I might find out?

It hadn’t escaped me that both times I stumbled onto a corpse, Deputy Doug had been on the scene lickity split. First with
Peyton Palmer, and then with Tattoo Ted—I mean Mike Hill. Coincidence? I had to wonder.

By that same reasoning, however, Rick Townsend also fell under the same umbrella of suspicion. He’d been at each of the crime
scenes. When my mobile home had been redecorated, he’d used the john first. He had more than sufficient time to leave the
lovely message for me in the shower. He’d been at the marina. It appeared he had a relationship of some sort with the wife
of one victim, and a past relationship with the secretary of that same victim. It was time to ask myself, how well did I really
know Rick Townsend?

Then there was the mysterious Mike Hill. In my nice, neat little murder whodunit, the who was Mr. Hill. I’d pegged him as
Peyton Palmer’s murderer. That could still be true, I supposed. The question was why? Why had he killed his own attorney?

I did a palm-to-my-forehead number. Well, duh, I was sure there were tons of people who dreamed of offing their lawyers—or
the ex-wife’s attorney, for sure. But who had killed Mike Hill, then? Was the same killer responsible for the deaths of both
Peyton Palmer and Mike Hill, or were there multiple killers afoot in our fair city? And of most interest to me: Was there
still someone out there who thought of me as a loose end that needed to be taken care off?

Minutes later, I found myself pulling into the Palmer driveway. I cast a look across the street to see if Joe was on duty,
but didn’t spot him. Just as well. I didn’t need his skinny butt nosing into my investigative reporting. Not to mention a
guy was dead because Joe Townsend thought he was Dick Tracy, although I couldn’t picture Dick wearing a neon green wind suit.