Calamity Jayne Goes to College (5 page)

Both my eyebrows were elevated, along with my interest. "Abstinence? Isn't sex not only recommended for conception but kind
of, like, required?" I asked.

"It is. But unlike some of those conniving women you see on daytime TV, I'm not about to get myself pregnant and then hope
the daft fellow comes around. So I'm planning to give him a little shove in the right direction."

I wrinkled my brow. "By withholding sex?"

"Just temporarily. I'm calling it a cooling-off period. You know, time to reassess our priorities, set common life goals,
and establish a timetable for meeting same."

I scratched my forehead. "Priorities. Goals. Timetables. You make it sound like a business plan," I observed.

"It
is
a business plan," Kimmie maintained. "Serious business. It's a plan for a lifetime."

"But where does that leave romance? Passion?"

She stared at me. "Have you met your brother? His idea of setting the mood is cutting his toenails and trimming his nose hair.
After which, I'm expected to be ready and waiting and panting to have him."

I made a face. By comparison, Mrs. Doubtfire's "Brace Yourself, Effie" was a real turn-on.

"Do you think this is the best way to handle Craig?" I asked. "He's kind of stubborn. He can dig his heels in pretty deep,"
I said, thinking that was one thing my brother and I had in common.

"So can I," Kimmie said with a tilt to her chin that left me in no doubt that she'd ride this particular pony to the end.
To her, the stakes were that high.

I sighed. It looked like Craig and I had one more thing besides mule-headedness in common. And, while I wanted to be an aunt
almost as much as I wanted to be skinny, debt-free, and able to groom my hair without breaking comb teeth off right and left,
we sex camels had to stick together.

I said good-bye to Kimmie, telling her I'd see her the following evening at Kari's bachelorette party. With my being maid
of honor, it fell to me to plan the event. Which meant, of course, that absolutely nothing had been done. I was hoping Kari
would be content to tip back a few with several girlfriends and maybe dance a final two-step with a cute cowboy at my favorite
country-western hangout in Des Moines. (Okay, I hear you city girls going "Eeeww!" Tell me you didn't think the cowboys in
Brokeback Mountain
were hunka-riffic. Okay, so apparently they were also gay, but I betcha they knew how to show you a good time on the dance
floor. And sometimes, that's all a girl wants. Isn't that so, ladies? I know what you're thinking, "So says the sex camel,"
right? You guys.)

I grabbed the court filings from the clerk's office and headed back downstairs to the main level where the sheriffs office
was located. There I took time to pop a quarter into the dispenser and snare a handful of peanuts to satisfy an urge for something
crunchy and salty, then I made my way to the glass double doors that housed the offices of the county's chief law enforcement
agency.

The communications center is located across the hall. Most of the time I like to pick up the sheriffs reports after hours
so as to avoid any unpleasantness and misunderstandings that might have resulted from past encounters with the fuzz--uh, law
enforcement personnel--and between you and me, I'd called the new sheriff by so many different--okay, and unflattering--names,
I'm afraid one of them will pop out of my mouth whenever I chance upon him.

Imagine this scenario: "Good afternoon, Miss Turner. And what brings you to the courthouse on this fine spring day?"

"Just picking up traffic and court filings, Deputy Doughboy--Dawgface--Dickless--Dorf-wad." Or, my personal favorite, "Deputy
Dickhead." And those, my friends, are just off the top of my head. Of course, now that Samuels has been elevated to sheriff
I've had to come up with new material. Let's see. There's Sheriff Sitsalot, Sheriff Shitsalot, Sheriff Sourpuss, and Sheriff
Saggy Britches. Now you can see why I prefer to do a Santa number on this one and make my stops only at night.

I was about to open the door into the sheriffs office when; "Well, good afternoon, Miss Turner. What brings you to the courthouse
today? You finally planning to pay those parking tickets?"

I turned. Deputy Di--Sheriff Sits--damn--Sheriff Doug Samuels stood across from me, Ranger Rick Townsend flanking him. Next
to the stout, stocky, no-necked Samuels, the DNR officer looked tall, broad, and more tempting than a platter of brownies,
frosted and without nuts.

"Why, you're well versed in the law, Dep--Sheriff Samuels," I said. "You know I have to pay my tickets before I renew my registration
on my birthday," I told him. "But that's still almost a week away. Plus I think I get a thirty-day grace period beyond that.
Right?"

He shrugged. "Just makin' small talk, Turner," he said. "Jeesch."

Like there was anything small about him.

"That's right. You have a birthday coming up," Townsend remarked. "Twenty-four, isn't it?"

I nodded. "But who's counting?" I asked.

"So, you never did say why you're here," the suspicious sheriff followed up. I frowned. Just because there were occasions
in the past where my presence at the courthouse meant murder and mischief didn't mean there wasn't a completely innocent reason
for me to be here now. Which, of course, there was.

I flashed the court papers at him. "Errand-girl duties," I explained. "I'm here to pick up the weekly court, traffic, and
arrest info. I was just on my way into your office to grab them," I said.

"I'll get them!"

Both Townsend and I stared at the uncharacteristically helpful sheriff, who happily took my arm and steered me to the opposite
end of the hallway, far away from his offices. "You just stay here and visit with Townsend and I'll go get those for you right
now. Save you some steps," Samuels said.

He hurried away, and I glared at his big, tan-uniformed back.

"That really was uncalled for," I complained. "Almost like he didn't want me within spitting distance of his precious office.
Didn't even want me to step a foot in there." I stopped. "He's definitely hiding something," I said.

Townsend laughed. "You been reading Dan Brown again?" he asked with a grin. "Not everything is a conspiracy, Tressa," he said.
"I think Doug still has bad dreams about what prompted your past visits to this office."

"And
I
don't?" I exclaimed. "I still make the sign of the cross when I have to open a trunk, and I'm not even Catholic!" I said.

"I haven't seen you around much," Townsend remarked, capturing my eyes in a "what gives?" look.

"I've been busy," I said, shuffling my feet. "You know. Stuff. But I still live at the same address and I haven't changed
my phone number," I told him. "Or entered the federal witness protection program."

"Ditto," Townsend said. "How's life as a college coed--the second time around?" he asked. It was actually the fourth time,
but I wasn't about to correct him. "Strange, you dropping in to college at the same time your sister dropped out," he added.

"Yes, isn't it?" I said. I'd gotten so used to being the dumb sister that I had to admit the reversal of fortune between Taylor
and me was one I rather enjoyed. Of course, I was keeping my current GPA pretty close to my vest to maintain the illusion
of academic success, but with the project I had planned, I'd be back in the respectable range by the end of the trimester
and would shout it from the barn roof.

"So, classes are going well?"

"Definitely," I responded. The classes were going well. It was me that was the problem.

"I hear from Brian that Kari is a little bit stressed out getting ready for the wedding," he said.

I nodded. "I think that's probably pretty typical," I said. "Brides have a lot going on. How is the groom holding up?" I asked.

"Like a rock," Townsend said.

Of course he was. All the groom had to do was show up. It was the bride and her family who did all the heavy lifting.

"How nice for him," I said. "I suppose as best man you're planning the traditional raunchy bachelor party. Women get stuck
sipping punch with old ladies with blue hair who fall asleep during lame games, and guys get to sow their last wild oats with
strippers, beer, cigars, and lap dances." I cocked my head to one side and tapped my cheek. "What's wrong with this picture?"

Townsend put an arm on the wall behind me and moved closer, our bodies almost touching.

"You sound like you have inside knowledge of what goes on at bachelor parties," he said. "By the way, did you know they used
to be called stag parties? In Australia they're called 'buck nights.'"

I felt my eyebrows rise along with my body heat. "So named, no doubt, for the amount of rutting that goes on," I said, feeling
a wee short of breath.

"Naturally," Townsend agreed. "Or so I've heard."

I snorted. "Yeah, right. You possess no inside knowledge of what goes on at buck nights and stag parties."

"Brides have their night out, too, now," Townsend said, taking a nicely shaped hand and tucking a length of loose hair behind
my ear.

"Yeah. Hen night. You guys get a big macho rutting stag of a party and what do women get? A bunch of clucking ol' biddies.
I'm crying fowl!" I said.

Townsend laughed. "Some of those parties can get a little wild," he said.

"They can?" I asked, dubious. "How so?"

"A lot of women hire male dancers--strippers--to perform for the bride," he said. "Or they go to a strip club."

"They do?" Hmmm. Maybe hen parties were more than they were cracked up to be.

Townsend looked down at me. "You're not getting any ideas, are you, Calamity?" he asked. "Because Brian's a little nervous
about you being in charge of the night's activities as it is."

I frowned. "Oh? He is, is he?" I said. "I get it. What's good for Bambi isn't good for Faline," I said.

Townsend frowned. "Who the hell is Faline?" he asked.

I tapped my toe. "Bambi's childhood friend and future mate," I informed him. "Didn't you ever see the movie?"

He gave me an evil grin. "I couldn't handle the part where the hunters shot Bambi's mother," he said.

Yeah, right. Truth be told, her head was probably on Townsend's wall.

"Well, all I know is that I intend to make Kari's Doe Party a night to remember," I said. "A blow for equal rights."

Sheriff Surly appeared, and he stuck a stack of papers between Townsend and me. "Here's your paperwork," he said. "Nice doin'
business with you. Now, I know you have to run."

I gave the sheriff an aggravated look and grabbed the papers. "Stags," I hissed. As I exited the courthouse, the scent of
Townsend clung to my clothes.

CHAPTER 4

"You're going back to Des Moines tonight? Mighta let me know ahead of time. I put on a chicken." My gramma slammed the pots
and pans around in the kitchen like an aggrieved spouse.

"What kind of chicken?" I asked.

"The only kind I make. Baked. I got a couple of them stuffed chicken breasts from the Meat Market and I brushed 'em with butter
and sprinkled on some seasonings."

Seemed harmless enough. My gramma and I are not known for our culinary competence, but we both have major, long-term attachments
to our Slo Cookers and microwaves.

Gramma had moved back into her double-wide mobile home--and, consequently, in with me--last autumn after "breaking out" of
the "penal institution" run by my mother, Warden Jean Turner. Too many falls and near misses had forced Gramma to move in
with my folks several years before. Since I was still living at home (I know, how pathetic is that?) we'd traded spaces. I
took the double-wide and she took my bedroom. And the living room. And the kitchen. And the dining room.

I had hoped the lure of a toasty, crackling fire in the fireplace would entice Gramma to return to hearth and home--my folks'
hearth and home--when winter set in, but instead she'd settled in for a long winter's nap with me, and cranked the thermostat
up to eighty. That first morning I'd awoken to sheets and undies so wet you could wring water out of them. I'd thought I was
already experiencing night sweats. As a result, I was for the first time sleeping with my window open in the dead of winter
and shucking my jammies at bedtime in favor of a tank top and undies. I just couldn't bring myself to sleep "nekked" as my
gramma likes to say. One of us was more than enough.

"Uh, sides?" I asked, the lure of food getting me back on topic.

"Broccoli and cheese sauce--one of them microwave cook-in-the-bag numbers--and garlic bread."

"I don't have to leave for a while yet," I waffled, zeroing in on the garlic bread reference. "And I wouldn't feel right if
I didn't eat after all the work you've gone to," I told her.

"Oh, you got something in the mail from that college," Gram said, setting the broccoli on the table while I removed the chicken
from the oven. It smelled surprisingly good.

"College?"

"Could be a bill. You get a lot of them."

I sighed. Sad, but true.

It turned out to be a notice of a substandard grade report for a D+ I was currently carrying in Investigative Journalism.
At a C, my Principles of Reporting grade wasn't all that much better.

This cinched it. I desperately needed to bring home an outstanding grade on my project to salvage my GPA and dreams of financial
success. Plus there was that office furniture and computer upgrade to consider.

"I saw Manny in town today," Gram said between the forkfuls of chicken and stuffing she was shoveling into her mouth. "He
had a message for you."

I stopped chewing. I'd been trying to avoid Manny Dishman-DeMarco--de-whatever the heck he was calling himself these days.
Manny had been of assistance to me some months back, but had a disturbing habit of popping back into my life when I least
expected it. Built like a Rock--literally a younger, stronger, sexier version of the pro wrestler turned Scorpion King--Manny
was your classic bad boy, with all that those sinful, but seductive danger-ahead signs implied.

I'd agreed to do a teensy-weensy favor for Manny when we'd both thought his poor, sick Aunt Mo was on her deathbed. I'd signed
on to pose as his girlfriend/fiancee so the ol' gal could drift off into the hereafter comforted that the boy she'd raised
from a pup and loved like her own had found his soul mate. At the time, Manny had slipped a ring on my finger the size of
one of those Ring Pops, and I'd expected my performance to be limited to a onetime, one-act play. However, Aunt Mo had surprised
us both by not only weathering her medical crisis but, now, with her nephew being engaged and all, she was determined to hang
around for the nuptials and for dandling baby versions of little Manny/Tressa on her knee.

I'd managed to keep news of this engagement under wraps. Aunt Mo had left Grandville for her customary southern migration
to warmer climes last fall, and Manny assured me by the time she returned, he'd have broken the news to her that we had mutually
decided to go our separate ways.

"Uh, what was the message?" I asked my grandma.

"Let's see. How did he put it again? Oh yes. 'Manny's aunt Mo not in the know,'" she said.

I frowned.

"Are you sure that's what he said?" I asked. Manny is a man of few words. Plus he has this weird habit of referring to himself
in third person. You know. Manny likes. Manny wants. Manny gets. Gulp.

"Not like a person's apt to get something like that wrong," Gram responded. "Mind translating?"

I chewed my meat with less enthusiasm. "It means your granddaughter is about to be
so
screwed," I replied.

"Oh, Tressa! I'm so happy!" Gram exclaimed. She put her fork down. "Wait a minute. Is Ranger Rick the lucky stud muffin, or
is Manny? I admit I never thought of you with Manny before, but come to think of it, he's no slouch. A little too dark and
mysterious for my taste, and big as a mountain, but I'm thinkin' that means he's loaded for bear!"

"Gram! I'm not talking about 'screwed' in the sexual sense," I said, scandalized, and Gram shook her head and picked up her
fork again.

"I mighta known," she complained. "So what are you talkin' about? What's this 'Aunt Mo not in the know' all about?"

The last thing I wanted to do was explain to Gram the whole situation. When it comes to spreading the word, she makes the
Internet seem like the pony express.

"Uh, I've just been helping Manny with a little ongoing secret surprise for his aunt is all," I told her. "And he was just
letting me know that she wasn't, uh, privy to our, uh, project yet," I said.

"So what's that got to do with you being screwed?" she asked.

My gammy gets a hold of something, you need wire cutters to disengage her.

"I just don't have the, uh, time right now to devote to the project," I explained, thinking I mainly didn't have the stamina
to pretend to be Manny's best girl. I'd bestowed a kiss on him several months back as part of the faux engagement--and because
he'd done something unexpectedly touching for me. Okay, so it probably involved some questionable tactics, but still, it's
the thought that counts, right? That unexpected act-- and the kiss that followed--had affected me more than I'd bargained
on. Manny DeMarco/Dishman was one supersized complication I didn't need in my life right now. Probably ever.

"I was attracted to a bad boy once," Gram remarked. "Johnny Devlin. Wore white T-shirts with his smokes folded up in one sleeve,
cigarette stuck behind his ear. Greased-back hair and denim jeans that rode low on lean hips. I knew he was trouble from the
moment I saw him."

"How, Gram? How?" I asked, thinking this was a talent that had bypassed me, but one that could come in very handy indeed.

"How? Why, he had it tattooed on his right bicep-- T-R-O-U-B-L-E."

"Good catch, Gram," I said. Checking the time I added, "I've got to head out. Just leave the dishes in the sink and I'll tend
to them when I get home," I told her, feeling guilty that she'd made the meal and was now stuck with the cleanup.

"Not to worry. Joe's coming over and he'll help," she said. "You know, it's kind of nice having a man around the house again.
'Course, your Paw Paw Will, God rest his soul, used to have his nose in the newspaper most of the time. Still, it's nice to
have someone around to share things with."

"I know, Gram," I said, reaching down to give her a kiss on one dry, perfumed cheek. I just wished she'd have picked someone
other than Ranger Rick's grandpappy.

"I shouldn't be too late," I told her.

"If the trailer's rockin' don't come knockin'," she warned with a wink.

I shook my head. The image she'd brought to mind was only marginally more appealing than that of the naked dead guy with the
dented skull I'd seen earlier that day. If the trailer was rockin,' later tonight, this little horse soldier was gonna be
in full retreat.

Frankie picked me up some twenty minutes later. He was driving his uncle Frank's Suburban, which gets about three yards to
the gallon. Uncle Frank's a big guy and he likes his transportation substantial and roomy.

"Where's
your
car?" I asked.

"Repair shop," he said. I nodded, familiar with the concept.

"So, what exactly is the plan?" I asked. "Shouldn't we alert the campus police to the situation? Make them aware of the possibility
that they have some psycho nut job acting out Iowa Criminal Code 101 on the Carson College campus?"

He looked at me. "Sure. We could do that. But what evidence do we really have beyond our own speculation? You think the campus
cops are gonna buy in to our theory? Just remember how hard it was to get highly credentialed law enforcement officials to
take you seriously when you told them your 'there's a murderer right here in good ol' Grandville' story. As I recall, you
said they looked at you like you'd just told them you'd found Elvis in the trunk of your car."

I hated to admit it, but Frankie did have a point. I'd had about as much credibility with the cops as Dusty Cadwallader did,
who regularly calls in reports of UFOs in the night sky and strange lights in the woods just beyond his house. The cops had
even taken wagers on when I'd next find myself in hot water with local officials, the fiends.

"Plus these campus cops probably don't have the level of expertise your county and state officers have. Getting them to believe
our 'crimes and how to commit them' scenario may be more difficult than it was getting the local yokels to take you seriously."
Huh. In his quest for his destiny, Frankie was becoming an insensitive doofus.

"So we just conduct campus surveillance and hope we luck out?" I asked. "I dunno, Frankie. I'd feel better if we gave the
campus police a chance to at least consider what we have to say," I told him. I'd still get my story, but at less personal
risk to various body parts. Mucho appealing.

Frankie shrugged. "It's not like I can stop you," he said.

"Good." I smiled. "We're in agreement, then. First, we fill in campus police so they can issue a red alert to the student
body. Then we convince them to let us patrol with their units. Then we'll be there for the big takedown." I had it all worked
out. We'd let the campus cops conduct the risky business, and I'd be there to grab the story, make the grade, and get the
glory.

Worked for me.

By the time we picked Dixie up at her apartment, it was nearly eight and beginning to get dark.

She opened the front car door, saw me, shut it, and climbed into the back. We headed for campus.

"Have I got news for you!" she said, sliding across the seat to poke her head up between Frankie and me in the front.

"You're running away to join the circus?" I guessed. "Dixie Daggett, the human cannonball! Your parents must be so proud."

"Funny. Leno should be, like, so worried," she replied. "As a matter of fact, I was going through my list of classmates and
got a hit on one!"

I turned to look at her. I'd totally forgotten about my own list. Some investigative reporter.

"Are you kidding?" Frankie almost ran off the road. "We need details!"

"When I Googled Keith Gardner, he came up on the Iowa Sex Offender Registry!" she said with a "top that, Tressa" look.

I thought about it and shrugged. I had nothing.

"A sex offender? That's fantastic news!" Frankie said. "Way to go, Dix!" He reached over and high-fived Dixie, and I stared
at them both. Something was seriously wrong with a relationship where the couple got their jollies by discovering a sexual
deviant in their midst.

"Sexual misconduct with a person under the age of consent," Dixie told us.

"That could mean anything from weenie waving to actual physical contact," Frankie said.

I raised an eyebrow. "Weenie waving?"

"Indecent exposure," Dixie offered.

I winced. "So, what does this Keith look like?" I asked.

"So glad you asked," Dixie said. With a great deal of fanfare and flourish, she presented a color printout of a mug shot.
"Keith Gardner: twenty years of age, five feet ten, brown hair, brown eyes. I made copies for each of us."

"Smart thinkin', babe," Frankie said, casting a lovesick look at his girlfriend.

Damn. This
was
impressive. And I didn't like it one danged bit.

"How about you, Turner? You get anything on that list I gave you?"

Did grease spots from potato chips count?

"I'm working on it," I told her. "I had some stuff to do for Stan. Majorly important journalistic-type stuff," I added.

"That's funny. Rick Townsend stopped by the Dairee Freeze and told Taylor you were chewing on peanuts and playing errand girl
for Stan earlier," Frankie said.

Nice.

"Rick Townsend has lost his grip on reality, the poor demented fellow," I said.

"Well, I came up high and dry," Frankie went on. "Nothing but some high school sports and activities on my list. So I'm still
thinking our best bet is to cruise the campus and keep our eyes open for anything out of the ordinary. You girls will have
to pair up. I'll go it solo."

"Uh, wait a minute. Aren't you forgetting something?" I said. "Patrick made it very clear we should be with someone else at
all times. I don't think you should be running off by your lonesome," I told him.

"I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself," he said. This coming from a guy whose mother still fed him Jell-O, tea, and toast
when he was sick, and who was allergic to so many things that he carried a three-pack of epipens. "Besides, I'll be in the
Suburban, driving around."

"Oh? And what will we be doing?" I asked.

"Jogging, of course," he said. "It's the perfect cover. Lots of people jog around campus at night."

Yeah? Well, lots of people didn't include this here little filly. I was built for speed, not endurance. Luckily, Dixie spoke
up first, saving me from having to defend my sad, sedentary lifestyle.