Calamity Jayne Goes to College (10 page)

We headed down the hall to our left and I noted the office door of Professor Danbury as we passed. It was closed, but a cardboard
clock on it indicated he would be back in his office at two thirty. We moved on down the hall and located Professor Billing's
office two doors down. The door was ajar, which I took to mean the professor was inside.

"Hello," I said, reaching out to push the door open. "Professor Billings? It's Tressa Turner from the
Gazette."
Dixie gave me a sharp jab in the ribs and I continued. "And Dixie Daggett from the
Daily Destructor."
Another jab in my ribs. Not everyone appreciates my humor.

The professor didn't call out to me, but I swore I heard paper rustling inside the office so I opened the door and stepped
in, Dixie on my heels.

"Professor?"

The light was off and the basement windows provided very little in the way of illumination this time of day. I shook off a
sudden sense of claustrophobia and was about to switch on the light when a dark figure popped out from behind the desk and
ran past me,
barreling
right into Dixie. (Sorry, I just couldn't resist.) Whoever said weebles wobble but they won't fall down was just plain wrong.
Dixie went down like one of those inflatable punching clowns with the big red nose and stupid expression but with insufficient
air to pop back up again.

"Who was that?" Dixie yelled.

I didn't take time to answer. I figured we'd interrupted a burglary in progress, and while this wasn't the scoop a campus
stalker was, chasing down a burglar would still make a pretty nifty article for my reporting assignment. I pivoted and ran
out into the hall and the chase was on. I caught a look at the tail of a white lab coat as it disappeared around the corner
at the far end of the hall.

I was gasping for air before I'd run fifty feet. I really needed to go on a diet and exercise routine. I rounded the corner
and caught a glimpse of a black heel as it turned yet another corner. By this time I could pick up the harsh rasp of heavy
breathing. Jeez. I was worse off than I thought. I sounded like a wheezing old geezer.

"Which way?" I heard, and realized the loud, raspy wheezing didn't come from me, after all, but from Dixie, who had somehow
managed to pick herself up and put herself back together without the assistance of all the king's horses and all the king's
men. She was breathing down my neck. Well, midback, at least.

"Down the hall and to the right," I huffed.

"Ten-four," she said, and a blast of hot air hit me again.

I looked at Dixie. "You've been eating chocolate," I accused. I hit on the scent of chocolate like trained cadaver dogs do
decomposing flesh. Uh, forgive the tasteless simile there, folks. My bad.

"So what? Is there a law prohibiting chocolate consumption I don't know about?" Dixie asked as we ran down yet another hallway.

"You could have shared," I puffed. "That would have been the polite thing to do."

"You could have listened to me last night and stayed put. That would have been the smart thing to do," she countered.

We ran down another hallway, and I heard the click of a key-carded door. "Quick, the stairs!" I said, and ran to the heavy
door.

I reached it a second before it clicked shut. It opened to a staircase, and I hurried over and looked down, remembered we
were in the basement, then peered up the stairway to find our fleeing fella. I caught sight of him in the staircase a floor
above.

"There he is!" I shouted, and started up the stairs after him. I could hear Dixie's heavy footsteps hitting the steps behind
me.
Tromp, tromp.
Who's walking across my bridge?

We ran up two short flights of stairs and through another heavy door and into another long hallway. A familiar sensation of
deja vu came over me. You know. Been there. Done that. Don't want to do it again.

I stood in the hallway and listened. All I could hear was the incredibly loud sound of heavy breathing. In stereo.

Down the hall a door shut. I looked at Dixie to see if she appeared nervous at all. She didn't. Damn it. Just winded. We moved
slowly down the hall and toward the door that had just clicked shut. A sheet of paper was on the floor outside. I stopped
to scoop it up and handed it to Dixie. I put a hand out to open the door. I turned the handle and it moved easily. I opened
the door and we walked in.

It was a small room, almost like an outer office. It contained a desk and chair, a storage closet, and very little else. A
second door was located at the back of the room. I walked over to it, turned the handle, and opened it with a kick of my foot
and a bellowed "aaggh!" for effect.

The door hit the wall, flew back and struck my kneecap.

"Son of a Buick for Chrysler's sake," I said, rubbing my knee bone. I'm trying really hard to clean up my language. One of
many little self-improvement pledges.

I shoved the door with an open palm and moved into the dark room and looked around.

"What is this place?" Dixie asked, joining me.

"The door!" I yelled, way too little and way too late. It clicked shut on us just as I reached it. I tried to open it, but
it was locked.

"Great," I said. "Just great. 'Take Dixie with you,' Frankie said. 'She'll keep you out of trouble,' Frankie said. And look
who gets us locked in God knows where," I complained.

"You were in the lead," Dixie said. "You were the one who chose to come in here in the first place, so how is it my fault
we're locked in here?"

"Because you were bringing up the rear. Everyone knows the rear is responsible for the exit strategy," I pointed out.

"I see what you mean. Like Bush being responsible for our Iraq exit strategy," she observed.

I shook my head. Only a lib could think of gaining political advantage at a time like this.

I tried the door again just to make sure it was really locked and started to beat on it with an open palm.

"H'lo! Anybody out there? We're locked in. Hello!"

Dixie looked at me. "That door has to be at least three inches thick," she said. "Plus there's that other room before you
even get to the hallway. I'm not sure anyone can hear us yell."

"Good point," I said, reaching in my book bag for my cell phone. "I'll just ring up Frankie and he can come and get us," I
said and hit the speed dial. A phone began to ring and I frowned. Dixie gave me a strangled look and reached in the pocket
of her pants and drew out Frankie's phone and silenced it.

"What are you doing with Frankie's cell phone?" I asked.

"He wanted me to take it just in case you pulled me into another one of your escapades," she said. "Which, of course, you
have."

"Uh, Frankie forced me to bring you along," I reminded her. "And you were the one who let the door shut on us."

"And you were the one who took off running after the guy in the first place. Face it, Turner, your record with chases sucks.
Give it up," Dixie said.

"Well, that's gratitude for you," I groused, grabbing Frankie's cell and punching in P.D. Dawkins's number. It went to his
voice mail. I considered leaving a message, but it would take way too long to explain.

"Grateful? What the hell do I have to be grateful for?" Dixie asked. "I was almost run over last night, and today I'm locked
in some antiseptic hole with you. Gratitude is not the emotion that comes to mind at the moment."

I shook my head. Everyone was so touchy these days. I found the light switch and flipped it on.

Dixie and I stared across the room at the shiny, stainless steel doors that lined the opposite wall. Approximately three feet
by three in measurement, a dozen of them, six on top and six on the bottom.

We looked at each other.

"No friggin' way," Dixie said.

I moved over to the far wall and put a palm on the front of one of the shiny doors.

"Cold," I said.

"No friggin' way!" Dixie said again.

I removed my hand and could see the impression of my palm quickly fade.

"Way," I said.

Dixie joined me near the rows of doors. She put a hand up to grasp the handle of the nearest.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked.

"Do you think I'm going to let an opportunity like this go by without at least taking a peek inside?" she asked.

"But it's so... so... wrong!" I told her.

"Merely professional curiosity," Dixie said.

"Oh? How's that? Are you changing your major to mortuary science with a minor in cadaver cosmetology?" I asked.

"Funny," Dixie said, and grabbed the handle of the first drawer.

"I so don't like this," I told her. "Have you considered the possibility that the guy we were chasing managed to get in here
with enough time to crawl into one of these cold compartments and, at this very moment, is hiding in one of them?" I asked,
hoping to dissuade the little bulldog from sticking her chased-a-braking-car-too-close nose into places it didn't belong,
then realizing what I'd just suggested about the burglar could actually be true.

Gee, I'm way sharper than you thought I was.

I saw from Dixie's reaction that she hadn't considered such a possibility. I watched as she appraised the row of doors.

"I suppose you do have a point," Dixie said, backing off.

"Still, we probably need to be sure," I said, and Dixie looked at me, her eyes suddenly showing a lot of white.

"Oh, so now you think we
ought
to check it out, huh?" she said. "What happened to 'boo-hoo, it's so wrong? Bad, bad, Dixie'?" she asked.

"That was before. This is now. Besides, if we were to apprehend a perp in a morgue cooler, think of the ensuing publicity.
It could really jazz up your resume," I told her. "You remember. In the interest of professional curiosity and all that."

"I'm gonna regret this, aren't I?" Dixie said.

"There's only one way to be sure," I replied. "And everyone knows fear of the unknown is always so much worse than fear of
the known."

We looked around for instruments that we could use to defend ourselves, if necessary. The pickings were slim. Dixie selected
a large pair of scissors. I armed myself with the two-hole, heavy-duty punch. We started at one end, taking turns opening
the doors. The first three units were empty, thank goodness. Four through eight held various deceased persons in various stages
of "decomp"--or so Dixie called it. Compartment nine held the fellow with the skull fracture photo op from the day before.
Poor guy. He didn't look much better right side up. We stood outside the final and last compartment.

"My turn to open the door," I told Dixie, thinking I didn't want to be the one to have to bludgeon the guy with a two-hole
puncher if he was in there.

"I don't think so," Dixie said. "You started with door number one, so it would be my turn to open, yours to attack."

I squinted at her. "Are you sure?" I asked. "Because I distinctly remember it was my turn to open and yours to defend," I
said.

"Nice try, Turner," Dixie said, and put a hand on the last and final door. "We go on three."

"Is that on three or after three?" I asked.

"On three!" Dixie yelled.

"Gotcha," I said, feeling very much like I might wet my pants at any given moment, and for sure would if that door opened
and something was squirming around inside.

"One," Dixie counted. "Two. Three!"

Dixie yanked the door open.

"Aaaaaggghhh!" I took a savage swing downward with the paper punch. I felt the punch smack a soft object, and as the hole
punch moved downward, the shiny steel slab reverberated with the clash of metal striking metal. The only person I could have
hit with that resulting sound was Dorothy's Tin Man.

I opened my eyes to see what I'd made contact with and found myself staring at what used to be a foot-long, paper-wrapped,
tuna salad submarine sandwich and a slightly dented Tupperware container shaped like a wedge of pie.

I looked at Dixie. Her arms were crossed and she was tapping her foot.

Extra, extra! Read all about it!
Dixie the Destructor and Calamity Jayne Turner just tag-teamed someone's lunch.

CHAPTER 8

"I cannot believe you!" Frankie hissed across the table at me while we sat in the security office waiting for Hector, head
of security, to rejoin us. "Didn't last night teach you anything?" he asked.

Yeah. His fiancee had a really low center of gravity.

The owner of the tuna sandwich had discovered his demolished lunch--and us--and had immediately notified Campus Security,
who had escorted us to their office where Frankie was waiting.

Once we'd explained why we'd given chase and how, as a result, we'd gotten locked in the morgue, Hector dispatched security
personnel to Professor Billings's office and had contacted Professor Billings to meet the officers there to try and figure
out what, if anything, had been taken.

I remembered the sheet of paper that I'd picked up and handed to Dixie while giving chase.

"Do you still have that paper I gave you?" I asked her.

Dixie looked through her bag and pulled out a crumpled sheet. "This is it," she said, putting it down on the table and smoothing
it out. We peered at it.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Looks kind of like a lesson plan," Frankie said. "For Professor Billings's class. It appears to be an outline of what we
are scheduled to cover for the remainder of the week," he said.

I looked up at him. "What would a burglar want with this?" I asked.

"Maybe he wasn't your average, everyday burglar," Frankie said.

There was such a thing as an average, everyday burglar?

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"What he means, Lois, is that there's a good chance you had us hoofing it after the nutjob who has been terrorizing this campus,"
Dixie pointed out.

"He does? I did?" I said.

"Could be the unsub thought he needed a little advanced preview of coming attractions so he could do a little precrime production
prep work before actually executing the crimes," Frankie suggested.

"The perp stole lecture notes so he could do his homework ahead of time?" I said. "Sounds like an obsessed overachiever to
me." Or my sister, Taylor, maybe. "We're dealing with a seriously screwed up individual," I told Dixie and Frankie.

We hung around the Campus Security until Hector let us know that his officers had checked out Professor Billings's office
and the only things that appeared to be taken were some personal papers and miscellaneous course materials. We relayed our
theory--Frankie's theory--that the burglar and the campus criminal were one and the same, and that he'd wanted a sneak peek
in order to plan his crimes ahead of time.

Hector pointed out that we couldn't be certain what the burglar's intent was, reminding us that we'd interrupted the break-in
in progress so there was no way of telling what other items might also have been stolen had we not dropped by when we did.

We made one more plea to the security chief for him to issue an alert to coeds and to crank up his patrols and he said he'd
think on it. He wasn't convinced there was anything to our theory and didn't want to cause a campus-wide panic if he didn't
have clear, convincing proof that there was a link to Professor Billings's curriculum.

He promised he'd confer with Professor Billings and the university president and then consider his options carefully. He also
warned us not to indulge in any campus patrols of our own. He'd seen how that played out, he told us, and once was more than
enough. He ushered us out of the security building with a bit more enthusiasm than I personally thought the occasion warranted.

"I still need to talk to Professor Billings about her colleague Professor Danbury," I told Frankie, explaining why I wanted
to find out more about the un-tenured prof. "But I have Kari's hen party this evening," I added.

Frankie and Dixie stared at me.

"Hen party? What are you talking about?" Frankie asked.

"The female version of the bachelor party," I explained. "I know. Gag me. I picture a bunch of fat-breasted Hennie Pennies
strutting around cackling and clucking and scratching the ground. So not cool. But since Kari doesn't have a sister and I'm
her maid of honor, it's my job to throw her a traditional last fling before the final, irrevocable
I dos"

"What do you have planned?" Frankie asked.

I started to scratch the ground with the toe of my shoe.

"Don't tell me. Let me guess," Dixie said, tapping her chin with a stubby finger. "Absolutely nothing. Am I right?"

"I've been busy," I said. "And it's not as big a deal as all that. Just a few friends getting together for a couple drinks
and some laughs. I thought we'd do some club hopping, hit the favorite spots, get some breakfast, and then call it a night."

"Sounds like a real yawner," Dixie said.

"Where will you be starting off at, and what time should Dixie be there?" Frankie asked. "We have night class, but that's
done by nine," he said.

"The hell you say!" This invective came from Dixie before I could even get "the" or "hell" out of my mouth. Okay, yes, I know
I said I was trying to clean up my language, but I wanted to say something that started with "bull" and ended with--well,
you know. See? I'm really trying.

"You
were
planning to include Dixie, weren't you?" Frankie asked me. "After all, she's going to be your cousin-in-law. She's known
Kari since she started to work the fair when she was sixteen. And I'm invited to Brian's stag party this evening."

"I don't need you to plead my case, Frankie," Dixie said, shooting a dark look at her boyfriend. "Besides, I don't even want
to attend this lame party. And have you forgotten that there's another crime on tap for Carson College this evening, and all
we can do is hope that the university powers-that-be will do everything possible to protect their students?"

Both Frankie and I sobered. Dixie was right. We had to keep sight of the big picture. Put petty grievances behind us. Move
to a higher level of social consciousness. All for one and one for all. I'd invite Dixie and hope the bartender didn't confuse
her with one of his kegs.

I left Frankie and Dixie with a promise to call Frankie's cell phone to let Dixie know where we'd be at nine, and headed back
for Grandville. I needed to call and remind Kari's bridesmaids and other friends that we were hanging out that night in honor
of our mutual friend who had decided to trade in a footloose lifestyle for a ball-and-chain existence.

It was also, I decided, time for a little personal grooming. I hadn't shaved my legs in way too long-- Iowa winters can be
brutal and you need all the extra layers you can get--and my feet were probably in worse shape than Fred Flintstone's. I hadn't
taken a pumice stone or nail polish to my tootsies since the fair.

I dropped by the
Gazette
to touch base with Stan, but he was out. I followed up on the sticky notes he'd stuck on my desk, and once that was out of
the way set about calling the hen brigade to tell them we were meeting up at The Wild Side, one of my favorite country-western
hangouts in the capital city. I'm notorious there. I used to hold the girl-riding-mechanical-bull record (gee, that didn't
come out as I intended) until some rodeo queen from Omaha bumped me from the top spot. I usually try to dethrone her each
time I visit.

I finished up my phone calls, checked the time, and saw it was half past three and well past time for me to refuel this finely
tuned, supercharged, superfine body. (Okay, so I thought you were due for a laugh.)

I gathered up my stuff, filed things in the appropriate places, stopped to grab a handful of hugs and kisses from Stan's candy
bowl (Shhh! Don't tell!), and left the newspaper office. Destination: Hazel's Hometown Cafe. Hazel's has been a dining tradition
in Grandville for generations. One of those hometown restaurants handed down from one generation to the next, Hazel's features
home-cooked meals from the heartland delivered amidst decor with all the ambience of an auto repair shop.

I slid onto a stool at the discolored Formica counter and Hazel's daughter, Donita, had a cup of coffee in front of me before
I'd had time to brace my feet on the counter foot rail.

"Thanks, Donny," I said.

"What'll it be, Tressa?" she asked.

I don't require a menu at Hazel's. I've got everything memorized down to the latest price increases.

"Hot beef sandwich, please," I said.

"Full or half order?" she asked, and I raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry I asked," Donita said with a pained look

I sat at the counter going over in my head various outfits I could wear that evening, discarding ones I knew were still waiting
to be washed and others that made my butt look larger than life. Maybe I'd even try wearing my hair down that night. Get an
industrial-strength tangle tamer and whip it into shape.

The stool next to me creaked--a lot--and I looked to my left to find Manny DeMarco-Dishman occupying the seat. I cast a worried
glance at the chair, which looked way too flimsy to hold even one of Manny's butt cheeks.

"Uh, hey, Manny," I said. "What's new?"

He took my arm. "Manny needs a booth," he said, pulling me off the stool and over into the corner. I waved at Donnie and pointed
at the booth. Her mouth flew open, but she nodded.

I slid in on one side of the booth. Manny slid in opposite me, shoving the table in my direction to give him enough clearance.
Manny's enormous. All muscle. No love handles. One of those persons whose body fat doesn't even register. You know. The people
that give the rest of us a bad rep and make us feel like Jabba the Hutt.

"I haven't seen much of you lately," I told Manny. "What have you been up to?"

He picked up a pink packet of Sweet N Low. "Been out of town," he said. "Just got back."

I nodded. Good. He could inform his aunt that we'd parted ways. Amicably, of course.

"I heard your aunt Mo was back in town," I said, and Manny looked up at me.

"Barbie's seen Aunt Mo?" I'd been Barbie to Manny since I first bailed him out of the Knox County Jail where he was cooling
his heels after a little fracas at the local bowling alley, Thunder Rolls.

I shook my head. "My sister, Taylor, said she stopped by the Dairee Freeze yesterday looking for me," I informed him. "She,
uh, seemed to, uh, think that the two of us were, uh, still engaged," I said. "But now that you're back in town and she's
back in town and all, you can break the news of the breakup of our fantasy engagement to her. Right?"

I waited for Manny to agree, but he just sat there twirling the pink fake sugar packet in his large, dark fingers.

"About that, Barbie," Manny began, and I started to get a really bad feeling.

"Yeah?"

"Gonna need more time," he said.

Manny is a man of few words.

"How much time does Manny need?" I asked, feeling my anxiety level rise faster than the dew point in Iowa in late summer.

"Till Aunt Mo settles back in," he said. "She had another episode. Needs time to recover. Then Manny'll tell her. Does Barbie
still have the ring?"

Barbie nodded.

"Yes, but I can't very well wear it," I told him. "How would I explain it to my family?"

"Here." Manny produced a fine silver chain. "Put the ring on this. Wear it around your neck under your shirt. Barbie sees
Aunt Mo, Barbie can slip it on."

I hesitated. "I'm not sure this is a good idea," I told him. "Are you sure Aunt Mo's heart isn't up to a teeny-tiny shock?
After all, it's just an engagement. And not even a real one at that."

"Doc says her heart can't stand the strain of another shock right now," Manny told me. "Manny needs to prepare her. Smooth
the way. So Aunt Mo won't go into defib."

He put the chain in my hand and closed my fingers over it. His gaze locked with mine and I was struck by how dark his eyes
were.

"Thanks, Tressa," he said, squeezing my fingers together with two big hands. He got up and was gone as quickly as he'd come.

I felt a sudden thickness in my throat. Ohmigawd, he'd called me Tressa. Major gulp moment.

I'd decided to wear a pair of boot-cut black Levi's with a pink rhinestone belt and a white long-sleeved, button-down shirt
for the clucky clatch. I'd had to settle for my black Durango harness boots since my hot-pink Tony Llamas were nowhere to
be found.

I sat at a big table in the corner of the The Wild Side and listened to Kari's other friends and bridesmaids giggle and prattle
on about wedding gift nightmares, favorite honeymoon spots, and wedding night antics. Two of Kari's bridesmaids were already
married and the other one was set to march down the aisle in late fall. I sighed. It was official. I was now what my gammy
was fond of calling a "third big toe." You know. In the way. A bit of a nuisance. Not quite sure what to do with it.

Taylor had already been discovered by a cute cowboy who had just finished veterinarian school and was employed by Heartland
Racetrack and Casino as one of their three full-time vets. And me? I'd been nursing the same Coke for so long it was warm
as horse whiz. As hostess, I was also a designated driver, so I was alcohol-free for the evening.

I'd left a voice mail on Frankie's cell phone for Dixie to let her know where we were and that we would be here for some time
if she wanted to join us.

I was just about ready to make a trip to the restroom to let my belt out a notch when I noticed a man and woman--definitely
not of the spring chicken variety-- garbed in gaudy, country-western shirts and blue jeans with huge shiny belt buckles enter
the bar.

"Excuse me, ladies," I said to the hens, and hurried to greet the newcomers. "Well, if it isn't Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys,
and Dale Evans, Queen of the West!" I said. "What brings you ramrods to these here parts?" I said. "Are you lost? The Bingo
Parlor is three blocks down and two blocks over," I said.

"We're in the right place, girlie," Joe Townsend scolded. "You got a problem with us listening to a tune or two and maybe
mixing it up on the dance floor?" he asked.

I did, but clearly it didn't matter.