Calamity Jayne Goes to College (2 page)

The class roared with laughter. Who knew Saddam had a sense of humor?

I quickly typed out up a short throw-me-a-line-I'm-going-under-Lord plea for inspiration, hit my send-to-Heaven key, and fidgeted
a second while waiting for a response.

"Miss Turner?"

Heaven's server must have been down because I wasn't receiving any divine reply.

"Uh, you said we needed to tell you today, right?" I stalled.

"That's correct."

"Technically, 'today' ends at eleven fifty-nine and fifty-nine seconds or thereabouts, right?"

The professor hesitated. "I suppose that's technically correct," he agreed.

"So, technically, I have until midnight tonight to get the proposal to you? Right?"

I was really grasping at straws. The chances that I would miraculously find a newsworthy story to investigate by that evening
were roughly the same as me being able to get into the bridesmaid gown I'd already had let out twice (please don't snitch
on me to Kari) without requiring me to wear an all-over elastic undergarment to flatten the fat. Have I mentioned that weddings
give me a great deal of anxiety? When I'm anxious, I eat. A lot. Okay, so I eat a lot when I'm not anxious, too. Still, about
the dress alteration? It's our little secret. Okay?

"And you think the additional"--the professor looked at his watch--"fourteen hours will give you sufficient time to select
your topic?" he asked.

I nodded. "I'm almost sure," I said. "In fact, I guarantee you I'll e-mail it to you before the stroke of midnight," I told
him. Or Tressa Jayne Turner would turn back into a minimum wage worker with no bennies and a shoe itch she could never scratch.

Professor Stokes removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead. Why do people do that around me so frequently?

"Very well, Miss Turner," he acquiesced. "By the stroke of midnight it is. However, if I don't receive your topic choice,
I'll have no alternative but to drop your project a full grade."

I gulped. I was hovering around a C- right now. Holding down several jobs, taking care of a small herd of horseflesh and two
yellow labs who love to romp and play, keeping tabs on a seventy-year-old grandmother who had taken up residence with me to
escape her "captors," as well as reassuring a best friend in the throes of prewedding mania had a tendency to cut into one's
study time.

"Roger that," I said. "Midnight it is," I added, sensing the amused smirks of my classmates. Good thing I'd had some experience
with this sort of thing or it could really have affected my self-esteem. Instead I gave them all a wide-eyed
I'm blonde and I'm proud
look and batted my mascaraed eyelashes. "Isn't he just the sweetest thing?" I said, gathering up my books. "And I'm going
to just knock his argyle socks off with my final article," I told the other students. "Just blow him away."

The bell sounded, signaling the end of class. Whew. Dodged that bullet. For now. I started to gather up my books.

"Tick-tick, Turner. Hear that?"

"Huh?" I looked up to see fellow student and teacher's pet Ramona Quimby--I mean, Ramona Drake--standing beside my desk. I
so
have a problem with perky brunettes. Especially ones who put other people down to make themselves feel superior. Ramona first
came to my attention when she pointed out during class, quite unnecessarily I might add, that I snored like a fat old woman
with sleep apnea. Since then, I've made it a point to keep my distance. Not that I'm intimidated by her, you understand, I
just don't want to get on Professor Stokes's bad side any more than I already am by taking my dog-grooming tools to the rottweiler
Romana.

"Tick-tick. Time is ticking away. Tressa, Tressa, Tressa--you can admit it. For all your PR, you really are scratching at
thin air, aren't you, you poor dear?" Ramona gave me a look designed to appear sympathetic but wasn't. "I'm working up a piece
on teenaged prostitution rings at our truck stops and what drives these young girls to that life," she told me. "If you like,
maybe I could help you out. You know, suggest something suitable. Hmmm. Let's see. How about an insider's look at the ice
cream business? You know. Hard-packed versus soft-serve. Pros and cons?" She laughed and punched my arm.

Ho-ho. Whaddaya know? We had a regular Sandra Bernhardt here.

One of my three current jobs was working at my uncle Frank's Dairee Freeze business. It was in this capacity, hawking ice
cream confections at the state fair in August, that I set out to nail a soft-serve saboteur, and in the process met a really
dishy state trooper who actually liked me for me. I'm still trying to figure out what's wrong with that picture.

"Or maybe you could conduct an in-depth study of what exactly goes into a hot dog?" Ramona continued. "I hear it can be pretty
disgusting. And there's always another 'unsafe at any speed' spin off. You know, a look at junk cars motoring down our state's
highways and byways." She paused and put an apologetic hand to her mouth. "Oh, you don't still drive that infamous white Plymouth,
do you? The one we read about in the papers last summer ad nauseum?

I did and she knew it.

"I carpool with friends," I told her, which was also true. I shared rides from Grandville with my cousin Frankie, who had
enrolled in criminal justice courses after he'd had a date with destiny last summer and decided that a career in law enforcement
was where it was at. He'd also decided he was in love with a five-foot-five-inch barrel with legs, his father's soft-serve
competitor, Dixie Daggett. Dixie had taken togetherness one step further, registering for classes in criminal justice right
along with her fiance. We usually picked Dixie up from the Daggett digs in Des Moines and hauled her--uh, sorry, this sounds
like transporting livestock, but if you knew Dixie--to classes at Carson, which translated into a very long car ride several
times a week for Tressa.

Dixie and I didn't exactly jibe. We're like oil and vinegar. Insects and Deet. Nair and hair. Dixie and I are attempting to
overcome our mutual hostility for Frankie's sake, so give us an A for effort. Though, maybe an A is stretching it. After all,
just this morning Dixie informed me my hair looked like a small critter had crawled into it and made a nest, and urged me
to pull it back in a ponytail so she wouldn't have to look at it all the way to Des Moines afraid that something would crawl
back out again. I requested she do the same with her own hair--on her arms. Sigh. Old habits die hard, folks.

"Oh? You have friends? That go to school
here,
I mean?" Ramona asked.

I nodded. "My cousin is taking courses in criminal justice. He plans to go into law enforcement," I told her with a take-that-toots
tilt of my nose.

"Uh, is there something wrong with your neck?" Ramona asked.

Note to Tressa: Nuke the nose move. It's not workin' for you, girl.

"Speaking of Frankie, I'm sure he's out there cooling his heels waiting for me," I told her. "And I wouldn't like to keep
a future officer of the law waiting," I added.

"Is he that tall, gangly guy with all those sharp, bony edges?" Ramona asked. "Don't they have a weight requirement for peace
officers?"

God, I hoped not, or Frankie would never meet the minimum. I frowned. I also wondered if they had a separate height/weight
chart for barrels.

"Frankie's tougher than he looks. He played a pivotal role in exposing a criminal element at the state fair," I bragged. "And
he was dressed as a chicken at the time," I added.

Ramona blinked. A lot. That's another response I receive more often than I'd like.

"Well, good luck finding your article, Tressa. Toodle-loo!" She waved and bounced out of the lecture hall.

I followed at a safe distance, not trusting myself within yanking distance of her shiny, silky hair, or to resist the temptation
to draw a pitchfork on her white Aeropostale hoodie with my black permanent marker.

I waited until Ramona was out of sight before I proceeded to the parking lot and my old white Plymouth Reliant. We shared
quite a history, this ol' car and me. We'd been through some twists and turns but always managed to stay on course. Which
is not to say that I didn't secretly yearn for a shiny red sports car with leather interior and a bitchin' sound system.

I jumped in the Reliant and pulled my sweatshirt up around my shoulders. March had come in like an albino lion, dropping a
foot of snow on grass that was just starting to green up. Over the last couple of weeks we'd lost the snow, but the days were
still chilly and damp. I was hoping for a warm-up in time for next week's spring break. I wanted to spend some quality time
with my critters and lie outside in the sun and pretend I was snoozing on a white sand beach somewhere in the Caribbean, Orlando
Bloom tickling my nose with one of those tiny umbrellas you find in exotic fruity drinks.

I heard voices behind me, prepared to look in the rearview mirror, then remembered it had fallen off months ago--which in
turn made me recall Ramona's "unsafe cars" article suggestion. I bit my tongue to keep from letting fly with a really bad
word. I yanked my key out of my pocket, and jabbed it in the ignition, turning the car on just as the passenger-side door
flew open.

"You aren't gonna freakin' believe this!" Frankie said, folding his long limbs into the front seat of the Plymouth. His fiancee
levered her girth into the back.

"What? Has Dixie the Destructor finally found a depilatory that works?" I asked, still ticked at his fiancee's earlier disdain
for my coiffeur. Is it my fault I have hair that thinks kink is an actual salon style?

"I was thinking maybe you'd found a miracle comb that actually makes it through that mane of yours without getting lost,"
she said. "You have horses. Ever consider using their curry comb?"

"You ever consider using their fly repellent? It's called Wipe, and is available at fine veterinary clinics everywhere," I
remarked. "It works wonders keeping flies away."

"I'm sure you know from personal experience," Dixie replied.

"Would you two just button it? This is really intriguing stuff. We've got one hell of a crime spree going on right here on
campus," Frankie announced, removing his glasses when they began to fog up.

"What are you talking about, Frankie?" I asked. "What crime spree?"

"Where have you been all term?" he asked. I flinched.

"Uh, who have you been talking to?" I responded. "Ramona the Woofer?"

Frankie gave me a funny look.

"Haven't you heard about the rash of crimes that have been committed on campus?" Frankie went on. "Vandalism. Malicious mischief.
Break-ins. Thefts!"

Okay, so maybe I had caught some shut-eye off and on and had missed these events. I was way overextended. I shrugged. "So?
It's a college campus, Frankie. There's bound to be crime. That's what they have those campus police people for. You know,
the ones who should be catching criminals but aren't allowed to carry revolvers and instead waste their time writing parking
tickets." And I had a decent collection to prove it.

"Ah, but this is no regular crime spree," Frankie added. I could tell by the tiny bubble of saliva collecting at the corner
of his mouth that Frankie's juices were flowing.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"What he means, Blondie, is that every time our criminal law professor introduces a new crime and highlights the elements
of that offense, that same crime is committed that very night--right here on the hallowed grounds of Carson College," Dixie
explained.

I grabbed my rearview mirror from the floor of my car and held it up, catching Dixie's reflection in the clouded glass. And
I didn't even wince. "Are you serious?" I asked. I looked over at Frankie. "Is she serious?" I asked him.

He nodded. "That's the way it looks--at least to Dixie and me. I don't think anyone else has made the connection, though.
We kind of stumbled on it ourselves after we heard about the mugging last night."

"Mugging?" I grabbed Frankie's arm. "Crime spree! Ohmigawd! Frankie! Do you know what this means?" I asked.

"That by day this campus harbors a mild-mannered, book-bag-carrying college student, but by night a psycho serial stalker
wanders in search of his next victim?"

I beamed. "Exactly," I said. "Oh, Frankie!" I reached across to give my confused cousin a big bear hug. "You've made me so
happy!"

CHAPTER 2

I turned to share my enthusiasm with Dixie, realized what I was about to do, and settled for flashing her a thumbs-up.

"You are so weird," she said and shook her head.

I drove the three of us to the student union for a bite to eat, wanting to hear more about Frankie's class and why he and
Unibrow thought there was a connection between recent crimes on campus and his instructor's lesson plans. And there was the
added bonus that Frankie had arranged to meet my most favorite policeman in the entire world, Trooper P.D. Dawkins, there
to discuss the upcoming screening process for candidates applying for the next Public Safety Academy.

How should I describe Patrick Dawkins? The first things I noticed were his amazing blue eyes. Clear, bright, and glorious
as an Iowa lake in midsummer, they flashed like reflected sunlight when he laughed. What's that? You don't believe it was
his eyes that first caught my attention? Okay, so I'll admit that his rather striking rear end wasn't exactly lost on me,
either. But seriously, by far the most attractive quality about Patrick Dawkins was his natural inclination to accept me for
who I was--and this right smack dab in the middle of one fine, sticky fair mess, I'll have you know. Up to that point, all
the people in my life had been after me to change. To figure out what I wanted to do with myself. To stop acting one way and
to start acting another. To get a job and keep it longer than a pair of shoes. Demands, demands. P.D. never once judged, second-guessed,
or criticized me. He just plain liked me. For me. And that, I found, was very much of a turn-on.

"So what time did Patrick say he was going to meet you here?" I asked Frankie as I sat down at a table and tore into the Italian
sub sandwich I'd bought.

"He said he'd ten-twenty-five me here at eleven hundred hours," Frankie replied.

I raised an eyebrow. "Good to know," I said through a mouthful of salami, Italian ham, and cheese. Shhh. Remember. What Kari
doesn't know won't hurt me. "So, tell me again why you two think the on-campus criminal activity is linked to your Criminal
Law course."

Frankie took a bite of his chicken salad croissant-- he was in training for the physical agility and endurance portion of
the academy application process--and wiped light mayo from his mouth with a napkin.

"We started out the term covering simple misdemeanors like littering, vandalism, trespass, et cetera, and then moved to serious
and aggravated. Then we moved to the different classes of felonies and crimes that fell into each of those categories. It
wasn't until today, when we learned that Friday night one of our classmates was assaulted, that we realized we'd gone over
the elements of assault Friday in class. At first we thought it was just a coincidence, but then we got to backtracking and
matching up crimes and lectures and dates, and a pattern emerged."

"By pattern you mean that the criminal acts committed here at Carson College this term were included in your professor's lectures?
Are you
sure?"

"As near as we can tell," Dixie said, taking a big bite out of her slice of pepperoni pizza. "It's been like this freaky crime
wave predictor," she said.

"Or producer," I suggested. "Who is the professor?" I asked.

"Billings," Dixie said. "Barbara Billings."

I stopped chewing. "Isn't that the name of Beaver Cleaver's mom?" I asked.

Dixie shook her head. "That's Barbara Billings
ley
," she said with a disgusted look. "This is Barbara Billings, and she used to be a Des Moines police officer back in the
early eighties when women were first being recruited for law enforcement. You should hear some of the stories she tells. She
took a hell of a lot of heat being one of the first women to break into the good ol' boys club. Not everyone agreed with affirmative
action back then or thought women could hack it as uniformed peace officers."

I nodded, impressed. "I get it. Law enforcement's equivalent of Chris Columbus, Ferdinand Marcos, Lewis and Clark," I noted.

"That's Ferdinand Magellan, Einstein," Dixie the stickler for details snapped.

I shrugged. "Whatever. Just think of all the girl-sized shiny black patent leather footsteps that followed after her. Now,
there's a story for you," I said, thinking this could be the subject of a future article. "I'll need to speak with Professor
Billings, of course."

Frankie's head jerked up. "What? Why?"

"Because I need to ask her some questions, silly," I said. "From what you've just told me, it's likely that the person who
is committing these crimes is one of your classmates. How else would he or she know what crimes were discussed in class each
day?" I reasoned. "So that should narrow our suspect field a bit," I said, then paused. "Just how many other students are
in your Criminal Law course, anyway?" I asked.

Frankie's shoulders sagged. "Thirty-two," he said.

"Thirty-two! You gotta be freakin' kiddin' me!"

He shook his head. "It's a growing field. There are more jobs in law enforcement post Nine-Eleven," he said. "Homeland Security.
Airport security. People like this kind of work. Good job security and excellent bennies."

Rub it in, Frankie. Rub it in.

"But, thirty-two! How are we going to zero in on a handful of suspects from that large a pool?" I asked. "Unless you've got
some ideas of your own from sitting in class with them since the beginning of the term," I suggested.

"Well, if it isn't the notorious Calamity Jayne and her scholastic sidekicks!" I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to
see those beautiful baby blues I mentioned earlier smiling down at me. I blinked. A woman could drown in those depths. Happily.
"Are we keeping the peace or disturbing it today?" Trooper Dawkins asked, pulling out the chair next to me and taking a seat.

"Now that you're here, what choice do we have but to abide by the law?" I asked, coming up for air. "You're packin'." I pointed
to his gun--a state-issued Smith & Wesson .44 auto. One learns these things when you hang out with the coppers. "And as for
keeping the peace--well, maybe you can help us out on that one, Super Trooper Dawkins," I added, batting my eyelashes over
my own set of baby blues.

His eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his dark brown Smokey hat. "Are things going to get messy again, Calamity?" he
asked.

I wrinkled my nose. "Only as messy as a piece of cake, Officer Dawkins," I responded, raising my little finger. "Pinky swear."

I explained the situation to Patrick, with added emphasis on how I was trying to resuscitate grades that were on their last
legs (poor babies) and how busy I'd been with news, nuptials, new roomies, bosses, brides, and beasties. By the time I got
to the end of my explanation, the trooper's eyes were beginning to glaze over. Then again, it could have been allergies.

"And you think there's a chance that the person committing these crimes is sitting in class right alongside you, taking notes
on the finer points of criminal pathology?" he asked Frankie and Dixie.

"It sure looks that way," my cousin said.

"And you don't think anyone else has made the connection?" Patrick asked. "Campus police? Fellow students? The professor himself?"

"Herself," I inserted. "Professor Billings. Barbara Billings. Not Billingsley as in Beaver Cleaver's mom," I clarified.

Dawkins raised an eyebrow. "I know Barb."

I raised an eyebrow of my own. "Oh? 'Barb,' is it now?" I said.

Dawkins nodded. "As a matter of fact, I received some instruction from her myself."

"Law enforcement related, I trust," I said.

Patrick grinned. "Professor Billings is just slightly younger than my mother. What do you think?"

I batted my eyes some more. "What? You've never heard of a May/December romance?"

"Certainly," he said. "And maybe I'll even consider it--when I'm the December, that is," he added with a yummy grin.

"Uh, could we curtail this so-called flirting that is activating my gag reflex and get back to the business at hand?" Dixie
injected. She aimed a sour look in my direction.

"Curtail?" I said. "Now, there's a post-secondary word if I ever heard one."

"Curtail. To curb. Inhibit. Rein in," Dixie offered. "As in 'rein in your mouth!'"

Ouch. Unibrow was on a roll.

"I'm pure impressed by yer gel's edgycation, young feller," I informed Frankie with a slap on his shoulder. "Us hillbilly
types don't cotton to book learnin' much, but we's shore do like the sound of them that big words comin' out of the pie holes
of edgycated folks like yore sweetie pie over yonder. Do some more, lil' lady," I said. "Purty please."

"Screw you, Turner," Dixie growled. "And the hayseed wagon you rode in on."

I shook my head. Some folks have no sense of humor. I turned my attention back to Patrick, who was much easier on the ol'
retinas anyway.

"What we figure is there's a good chance the person committing these crimes has a rap sheet," I told the trooper.

"A criminal history," Frankie corrected.

"Whatever," I said. "So, you state poe-lice types have access to computerized databases that check for"--I gave Frankie a
dark look before proceeding-- "criminal histories, right?"

"Of course," Dawkins replied. "NCIC. CODIS. VI-CAP--"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, good, we get the point, Mr. Acronym," I said. "What we really need is a way to run these students through
the system. You know. To find out if any of them have a record. You could do that, couldn't you, Trooper Dawkins?" I shifted
my body in his direction, put my elbow on the table to rest my chin in my hand, and batted my eyes. "For me," I added. "After
all we've been through, for old times' sake, because you like me for me--"

"Oh Gawd, I've died and gone straight to cliche hell," Dixie moaned.

What a coincidence. I was wishing her to perdition at that very moment.

Patrick removed his hat and ran his hand through his dark blond hair. It fell back neatly into place. So not fair.

"I have a dispatcher friend," he said, obviously having to take some time to think things through. Of course, I couldn't blame
the poor dear for proceeding with extreme caution. First the fair fiasco and now this.

"I'm sure you do," I told him with a wicked leer.

He grinned. "We'd need dates of birth. How many are we talking about?" he finally asked. "Ten? Fifteen at the most?"

I looked at Frankie and he looked at me.

"Thirty-two," my cousin said.

"Thirty-two!" The trooper let out a whistle like I do when I'm calling my horses into the barn for grub. "That's impossible.
No way would I be able to slip that many requests for criminal histories under the radar," he told us. "I'd be called in and,
if I was lucky, all I'd receive is an ass chewing."

Which, of course, made me think about the trooper's backside and how it wouldn't be so bad to nibble on. Okay, okay, so I'm
in really bad shape here. I'm a regular sex camel--the two-humped variety, since I'm female. I've gone without sex longer
than most camels go without water on their treks across the Sahara.

"Now, maybe if you could whittle it down to ten or under, I might be able to help you out," he said.

I looked at him. "How are we supposed to do that?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Process of elimination," he said. "You know, a little covert observation. Keep an eye on the other students
in the class. Note any suspicious behavior. Interact with these individuals. Casually. You know--coffee or drinks after class.
Get them to talk, open up. See if any of your fellow wannabe peace officers act hinky."

"Hinky?" Dixie asked.

"Hinky. Acting in a manner that draws suspicion. Abnormal. Strange. Unusual," I supplied with a proud smile.

Dixie shook her head. "Oh.
Hinky,"
she said. "As in, 'hinky'--see Tressa Turner.'"

Oh, Dixie was just a barrel of fun. Literally.

"So, say we finger ten or so suspects. How do we get their dates of birth?" Frankie asked.

"Well, you can figure an approximate age just by looking at a person. Observe what they wear, what music they listen to. Heck,
even check out My Space. You'd be amazed at what you can find out online. If you get together for coffee, you can always talk
about horoscopes and zodiacal signs, historical events, culture, anything to narrow it down to an approximate date," Patrick
suggested. "It's not so crucial if they have an uncommon name, like Engelbert Humperdinck--"

"Engelbert who?" I asked.

"Humperdinck. A singer. Had some hits. The women loved him," Patrick said.

"They did?" I asked. He nodded.

"Mr. Romance," he elaborated before continuing. "But if you're dealing with a name like Smith or Jones, you're gonna need
more concrete data to pin it down," he said. "And you can probably start off by eliminating most of the female students and
focusing more on their male counterparts."

"What! Why?" Both Dixie and I jumped on Dawkins like my pooches on Purina.

"What? You don't think girls can commit murder and mayhem just as well as guys?" Dixie asked, and from the way it came out,
I was glad she'd said it instead of me.

"Whoa. Slow down. No offense, ladies," Patrick said, putting his hands out in a don't-shoot position. "But given the nature
of the crimes we're dealing with, and what Frankie said about the little description victims provided, it seems more likely
that we're dealing with a guy. But if it makes you feel any better, ladies, you'll be happy to know that I'm an equal opportunity
law enforcer. I'll keep an open mind," he advised with a wink. "Of course, it goes without saying that if you do this 'covert
research,' you need to operate in pairs," he told us. "You're looking for someone with a criminal agenda here. Don't ever
forget that."

I felt some of my appetite shrivel at Dawkins's advisory. In my excitement over finding a compelling topic to investigate,
I'd neglected to consider there might actually be an element of danger. Silly me.

"There's one of our classmates now," Frankie said, keeping his eyes averted from the person in question so as not to attract
attention. "And he seems to be watching us rather closely."