Calamity Jayne (21 page)

I crawled to Joker and cradled his head in my lap.

“Hold on, boy. Hold on and I’ll be back with the good guys.” I kissed his head, jumped up, and took off across the field,
my boots barely touching the ground.

Just let me run into the lowdown polecat who shot my horse, I thought as I raced for the house and help. Just let me. I suddenly
remembered little details like gunshots and blood. Okay, such a meeting could wait for another time, I decided. Like when
I was wearing a Kevlar vest and was packing more than love handles around my waist.

“How is he, doc?” I asked. My mother, father and I looked on, stern-faced, as the vet examined Joker.

“He’s lost a great deal of blood, but the good news is the round went straight through the withers.” The veterinarian patted
my arm. “Don’t worry, Tressa. I won’t let your horse die.”

“Thank you, God!” I said.

“Hey, I may be a pretty good healer, but I’m not that good,” Doc Davis teased. “I’ll give him a painkiller, then we’ll get
him back on his feet, load him in the trailer and take him to the barn. I’ll stitch him up there. He’ll need daily antibiotic
injections.”

I nodded, my stomach still in a knot. “Done.”

Between the four of us, we managed to get Joker up and loaded onto the trailer. I rode in the trailer with him and reassured
him all would be well. Once Joker was unloaded, cleaned up, sutured, and given his first dose of antibiotic, Doc Davis prepared
to leave.

“I’ll have to report this incident to the county sheriff’s office, you know,” he said. “Being as how Joker was shot.”

“I’ve already reported it, Ben.” My dad shook his hand. “Thanks. Thanks for everything.”

The vet drove away, and my vision blurred. I sniffled. My father took me in his arms and held me tight against him in the
kind of hug only a dad can give.

“I’m so sorry about Joker, kid,” he said. “I can’t imagine how scary that must have been. Are you sure you’re okay?”

I sniffed, and nodded against his shoulder. “I’m fine, Dad.”

My mom put an arm around me and we stood there, a tight little group of three, grieving for the needless pain of our loved
one, yet filled with the knowledge that it could have been so much worse.

At the sound of tires on gravel, I looked up to see a patrol car pull into the drive. Deputy Samuels stepped from the vehicle.
My heart began to slam against my chest. My vision went red, as in Joker’s blood red. Deputy Samuels had never taken me seriously.
He’d scoffed and laughed at me at every opportunity. He’d dismissed me as sideshow entertainment. He’d written me tickets
and practically accused me of being an attention-seeking psycho. He hadn’t protected, and he hadn’t served. And now my horse
and I had been live target practice for some psycho, and I was pretty sure Deputy Dickhead was involved.

I broke free from my folks and ran full-bore at the deputy, knocking him to the ground.

“You son of a bitch!” I screamed. “You goddamned son of a bitch! My horse almost died, you fat bastard, because you can’t
or won’t do your goddamned job!” I was out of control. I admit it. The previous week had all but robbed me of any good sense
I had to start with. I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “Tell me who is behind this!” I said. “You know. You know a lot more
than you’re letting on. You worked Mike Hill as a snitch. You put him in jail to set Palmer up. You supplied the drugs, didn’t
you? Why? What did Palmer know that he had to die for? What?”

The accusations, fueled by pent-up rage and fear, spilled over onto the unsuspecting Samuels. If my father hadn’t dragged
me off the officer, I don’t know what might’ve happened.

“For God’s sake, Tressa.” My father pulled me a safe distance away. “What has gotten into you? Deputy Samuels is here to take
the report on Joker. What are you talking about, snitches and drugs? You’re distraught, honey. You’re not making any sense.”

In the meantime, Deputy Samuels had gotten to his feet and was brushing his uniform off. “I could file charges against you
for assaulting a police officer,” he said.

I gave the deputy my best make-my-day stare. “Go ahead,” I responded. “I’ll retain Dennis Hamilton as counsel,” I said.

“Now hold on, Deputy.” My father planted himself between his middle child and the law enforcement officer. “Tressa has been
through a very scary time. Her horse was wounded. She was almost shot. Cut her some slack, for god’s sake. Instead of threatening
my daughter with criminal charges, shouldn’t you be out there looking for the person who almost killed her?”

“That would require actual police work, Dad. The kind that doesn’t involve donuts.”

“Tressa! Quiet!” My mother shushed me.

The deputy and I had a staredown. I’m happy to report I won. He opened his car door and brought out a black notebook. “I’ll
need to see the animal,” he said. “And the scene.”

“You can’t miss it,” I hissed. “Take the path along the fence row, and when you come to a gallon of blood, then you’ve found
the crime scene.” I gave the cop a narrow glare.

“Tressa,” my dad warned. “This way, Officer.”

“Miss Turner?” Deputy Samuels motioned for me to precede him. Probably he thought I might attack him from behind. Probably
he had reason to think just that.

The deputy had just finished up his report and was preparing to leave when a phone began to ring.

“Your car’s ringing,” my mom exclaimed to me. “Why is your car ringing?”

I ran to the Plymouth. “It’s my cell phone,” I explained, and reached inside.

“She drives a car that’s falling apart, but she has a cell phone.” My father shook his head.

“Hello?”

“Is this Tressa Turner?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?” I asked.

“Are you alone?”

“If this is some sick obscene phone caller, let me just warn you that I’ve had a very bad day. And if you say one perverted
thing like what color is your bra or are you wearing underwear, I’ll hunt you down and stomp your gonads into fertilizer.”

“This is Dennis Hamilton.”

“Oh,” I said, lowering my voice and moving away from the others. “How did you get this number?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “We need to talk. You were right earlier.”

I put my mind on rewind and tried desperately to remember what I’d said to him that morning during my infomercial for honesty,
values and American jurisprudence. “Which part?” I finally asked.

“About owning up to your mistakes. Acknowledging wrongdoing and in doing so cleansing the soul of all the accumulated filth
and grime. To take responsibility. To do the right thing.”

Geez, had I been that eloquent?

“I see.” I paused. “Just how were you planning to, uh, own up to your misdeeds? Are we talking about turning yourself in?”

Hamilton exhaled a loud breath. “I can’t do that. Not yet. It’s complicated. I can’t trust the police.”

I turned my back on my folks and Deputy Samuels, and put more distance between us. “I can take you to Stan Rodgers.”

“Can’t take that chance,” he said. “But I can lead you in the right direction. Tell you where to look and what to look for.”

I paused, unsure how to respond.

“Like you said,” Hamilton said, “time is running out.”

I heard someone agreeing, and couldn’t believe it was me. “Okay. When? Where?”

“The observation tower at the lake. Ten
P.M.
sharp. I’ll meet you at the top. Come alone.”

“Just a minute. Wait!”

The line went dead. I punched up the number, hit send, but the phone just kept ringing. I looked to the west at the darkening
sky. A storm was moving in. And I was smack-dab in the eye of it. Man, oh, man.

C
HAPTER
20

It was past six when Deputy Samuels finally left. I got the impression he was stalling. When my mother asked who was on the
phone, I could tell the deputy was more than casually interested in the answer.

“That was Stan,” I told my mother. “He wants me to pick up the camera tomorrow and cover the skate park fundraiser.”

My mother nodded. “I hear they’re getting close to reaching their goal.” She frowned. “I hope you’re not thinking of trying
any of those skateboarding tricks,” she added.

I shrugged, then sent a benign smile to Deputy Samuels, who was listening to our exchange as closely as Gramma listens to
the numbers being called at bingo. I’d bet my newest pair of shoes I’d have company once I left home that night. I had to
find a way to lose the tail. And by now, my Plymouth was about as infamous as a certain white Bronco in an equally infamous
low-speed chase. I sighed. I’d have to find some way to switch vehicles. And I certainly couldn’t go alone. No way was I that
foolish. Okay, so maybe once upon a time I might have been that dense, but not any longer. Not since finding two dead bodies
and getting shot at. I’d learned a lesson from all this: date a merc.

My vehicle dilemma was solved rather unexpectedly by Gramma. Once the law enforcement officer left the premises (although
I was certain he was sitting down the road a piece pretending to do paperwork), I showered, changed into jeans and a gray
Hawkeyes T-shirt, and ran next door. My grandma was primping in the living room, gussied up way more than a night of bingo
at the senior center merited. I sniffed her.

“Is that Evening in Paris I smell?”

“Tonight it’s eau-de-get-lucky!” She winked and put her arms around me. “I’m so sorry about Joker, honey. Your mother tells
me he’ll be just fine, but that has to hurt. And you’re okay?”

I sniffed again. Every time I thought of Joker, I got emotional. “I’m fine, Gramma. Just a bit bruised and sore. I was lucky.”

“See, my eau-de-get-lucky is working!” She kissed my cheek. My grandma used to be as tall as me. She had the best posture
until osteoporosis messed with her bones. She’s lost several inches in height, but makes up for it by wearing two-inch heels.
My mother has a fit. She says Gramma will fall off her shoes one day and break another bone. I say, let the woman have her
heels.

“Are you planning to win the jackpot tonight, Gram?” I asked. “If you do, don’t forget your poor, destitute granddaughter
who has her eye on a gorgeous pair of Indian pink and turquoise Tony Lama boots.”

Grandma took a tissue out and wiped the lipstick from my cheek. “I’m not going to bingo tonight,” she said.

“Did someone else die I should know about?”

“No, dear. I’m going on a date.”

This was the last thing I expected. “A date? With who?”

Color provided a natural blush to Gramma’s cheeks. “I’m going out to eat with Joe Townsend.”

I swallowed. Egads. “Do Mom and Dad know about this?” I asked.

Gramma moved to her favorite chair and sat down. She took out her compact and repaired her lipstick. “I’m a grown woman, Tressa.
I don’t need permission.”

I sat on an ottoman near Gramma. “Of course you don’t, Gramma. Is Joe picking you up?” I asked, thinking this gave me the
ideal opportunity to slip away unnoticed. I could jump in the back seat of Joe’s car, lie on the floor and no one would be
the wiser. Except Joe and Gramma, of course.

“Yes, he should be here any time.”

“What’s he driving now?” I asked Gramma, certain with my luck, he probably drove some outrageous red two-seater.

“He drives a Buick, of course. Like your grandfather did.”

I nodded. “Do you think I could catch a ride to town with you?”
And maybe borrow your date’s car around ten?

“You got car trouble again, sweetie?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I said.

“I’m sure Joe wouldn’t mind if you hitched a ride. He’s rather fond of you, you know.”

“He’s not bad for an old coot, either.”

I jogged back out to get my purse from the house, and the cell phone from my car. I felt safer just knowing I could call for
help if I needed to. Joe was just pulling into the folks’ drive as I returned next door. “Hey, Joe. What do you know?” I’d
always wanted to say that.

“Long time, no see,” Joe replied. “What have you been up to?”

“Other than being shot at and having my horse hit? Not much. How’re things with you?”

“Someone shot your horse?”

I nodded. “Some slimy, no-good bird turd shot my horse this afternoon.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Get ‘em,” I said. “You in?”

“Does Jackie Chan kick ass?” We did a jivey little handshake followed by a high five. I proceeded to fill Joe in as best I
could about my new friend, Manny, and what he’d picked up in the jail (the information, not the little bugs), my visit to
Hamilton, Hamilton’s earlier phone call, and the arranged meeting.

“I’ll need your car,” I said.

“What about a piece?”

I gave him a blank look. “Huh?”

“A piece. A firearm. Handgun. Revolver. Weapon.”

“Oh, that kind of piece. I thought you were offering me another delicacy from old lady Winegardner. I don’t think it would
be wise to carry a gun. Not after what happened the last time. If you’ll recall, someone ended up dead.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t you or me. Oh, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention Mrs. Winegardner to your grandma.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t the cops still have your Colt?” I asked. “You don’t have other unregistered firearms just lying around
the house, do you?”

“Of course not. They’re all locked up.”

I rubbed my eyes. Maybe involving Joe wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Still, I couldn’t very well undertake such a dangerous
meeting on my own, gun or no gun. I needed back-up. Reliable back-up. Someone more substantial than the scrawny, bow-legged
fellow cracking his knuckles next to me. I sighed, coming to a conclusion that was bound to give me acid reflux later on.

Trust me, Townsend had said. I sighed. I really didn’t have much choice. I needed help on this one, someone who wouldn’t let
me injure or maim myself too badly. And with any luck, he’d talk me out of the whole thing. Yep. Rick Townsend was the man
for the job.

Rick Townsend also wasn’t at home. I used my cell to phone him, but got no response other than his answering machine. I supposed
I could leave a message.
“Hello, Rick, this is Tressa Turner. I’m planning on meeting a murder suspect on the top of the observation tower at the
lake tonight at ten. I’d love to have you join us. See you there. Bye!”
Yeah, that would work, all right. I sighed. What was I going to do now?

It was seven-thirty when Joe, Gramma and I pulled out of our driveway onto the gravel road.

“Whatever you do,” I told Joe, “don’t break any traffic laws. Stop at every stop sign. Don’t speed. In other words, drive
like the gramps you are for once.”

“I resent that,” Joe said, but he made a flawless stop at the first stop sign. I was sandwiched between the back of the front
seat and the back bench seat admiring a very clean carpet.

“Tell me again why Tressa is hiding on the floor in the back?” Gramma said.

“Because she doesn’t want that deputy sheriff to know she’s back there.”

“Oh.”

I waited.

“Why?”

“Because she thinks that deputy may have shot her horse and might want her dead. Lots of deputies carry high-powered rifles,
you know.”

I hadn’t. Loud swallow.

“Why would a police officer want to shoot Tressa and her horse?”

“To keep her from sticking her nose in places she shouldn’t be sticking it. To silence her. To eradicate her. To exterminate,
eliminate.”

“I think she gets the idea, Joe,” I spoke up. “Just drive the car.”

The car stopped. “What would you like, Hannah?”

“Tacos sound good. And those little potato things.”

“Tell me you’re not going through the drive-up window!” I pleaded.

“We have to eat, don’t we?” Joe hissed back. “We can’t very well go out and eat now, can we? Besides, we have plans to make.
Details to work out. Assignments to hand out.”

“You are to keep your narrow butt home. That’s your assignment,” I said. “Besides, I’m arranging for back-up.”

“Yes, hi, we need that taco special. The one with the soft and hard shells and all those potatoes. Yes, that’s right. Thank
you.”

I drooled at the mere thought of tacos and realized I’d skipped lunch and supper altogether.

“Who’s taking my place?” Joe said, and tried to get my food-derailed thoughts back on line.

“What? Oh. My back-up. I’m, uh, going to ask your, uh, grandson to ride along on this one.”

“I knew it! I just knew it! You hear that, Hannah? Tressa and Rick are a couple.”

“A couple of what?” Gramma asked.

“They’re going undercover!”

“They’re having sex!”

“Not yet, but it’s a start,” Joe said. “It’s a start.”

I wanted to do a Jeannie blink and open my eyes to find myself on board a luxury cruise ship with Kathi Lee and the
Love Boat
crew.

I tried Townsend’s home number again and got the same leave-a-message-at-the-beep. Joe drove around and picked up the grub.

“Hey, is that crunching I hear?” I asked, moments later. “You’re not eating all the tacos are you? Pass me one back, would
you?”

“No way. You’ll get it all over my car.”

“Gramma, you’re not eating all the tacos, are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tressa. We’re saving most of the hard-shell ones for you. With these new dentures, I can’t bite into
them the way I used to.”

I nodded, reassured. Trust a grandmother to look out for her granddaughter.

Joe pulled into his garage. “Stay down until the door closes,” he said, then helped my grandma out and into the house. I followed
with the food bags, inhaling the aroma like some drug-sniffing mutt.

We polished off the Mexican feast at Joe’s dining room table in record time. Joe poured us each a nice, cold glass of milk.
“Nothing better with Mexican than milk.”

I wiped a milk mustache and had to agree as Joe brought out a plate of sugar-sprinkled, peanut butter cookies with a yummy
chocolate kiss pressed in the middle for dessert.

“Chocolate!” I exclaimed, and took a big bite. “My undying gratitude to Mrs. Winegardner, the Julia Child of Dakota Drive,”
I said.

I noticed Joe’s violent head-shaking too late to call back the incriminating words. I prayed Gramma hadn’t heard.

“Winegardner? Abigail Winegardner? Is that old bat still alive?”

“Gramma!”

“I suppose she’s trying to get in your shorts via your stomach, old man?” She shook her head. “I always did say men let their
stomachs rule their lives. That and their winkies.”

“Gramma!”

“She likes to bake!” Joe was flustered. “She shares with the neighborhood. Cookies, candy, cakes, pie. Last week I sampled
her sticky buns. She has the sweetest buns.” He made a strangling sound and shot me a for-God’s-sake, throw-me-a-life-preserver
look. I had to smile.

“Gramma, I think I can assure you that Joe’s only interest in Mrs. Winegardner is regarding her skills in the kitchen, not
the boudoir.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right, then. I hate to bake. But give me a Crock-Pot and I take no prisoners.”

I nodded. Gramma and I both had serious, long-term relationships with our microwaves and slow-cookers. And China Wall takeout.

“You gonna try the boy again?” Joe asked, watching me pace his living room. It was getting close to nine, and I was facing
the likelihood that I would either have to go it alone or take Bonnie and Clyde here as back-up. Not a pleasant thought. “You
know, he’s missed out on a lot of sleep on account of you lately.”

I looked at the old man. “Well, I certainly didn’t ask—”

“That night your gramma’s Buick got destroyed, the boy sat outside your house most of the night.”

I blinked.

“And you think he just happened to appear at that law office, and at the courthouse by magic? He’s been looking out for you,
girlie.” Joe gave my arm a squeeze. “Oh, and he looks good in tights.”

“Tights?” I asked, thrown off by the fact that Rick Townsend had cared enough to play bodyguard for me.

“You know,” Joe said. “He’s your musketeer.”

I smiled at Joe, nodded, and dialed Townsend’s number and left an abbreviated version of the earlier, silly message I’d composed
in jest.

I grabbed the backpack I’d brought with me, the same one I’d used on my first stakeout, oh-so long ago. I pulled out the flashlight
I’d pilfered from Dad, and put in fresh batteries. I checked my billfold and noticed the card Manny gave me the night at the
bowling alley. His pager and cell phone numbers were printed on the card. I looked at the numbers and rubbed my chin. Manny
owed me for bailing his butt out of jail, and he did say to call if I got in a jam. Manny, who loooked like the Incredible
Hulk without the green color and split pants. Manny, who could snap twenty lawyers in two on a good day without breaking a
sweat. Manny. He would have to be my Back-up. I grabbed my cell phone.

I tried his number, but no one answered. I left a message. If he was on his Harley, he wouldn’t be able to hear the phone,
but he might feel the vibration. I also left my cell number on his pager. Sure enough, ten minutes later, I got a call.

“Yo, who the hell’s this?”

“Manny? This is Tressa. Tressa Turner. The Tressa Turner who posted bond for you in Knox County. The Tressa Turner who almost
got shot this afternoon. The Tressa Turner who is ready to kick ass big time. That Tressa Turner.”

A pause. Then, “Oh. Barbie.”

“Yeah. Barbie. I need your help. Now. Tonight.” I filled him in on the latest developments since we’d parted company the day
before.

“Observation tower? Why the hell he want to meet there? Don’t sound good, Barbie.”

“I know. That’s why I need your help. All I’ve got backing me up is one Geriatric Joe with Green Hornet fantasies and Hannah
Hellion, a woman who is jealous of sticky buns.”