Calamity Jayne Goes to College (9 page)

"Oh. I didn't know you were here," she said, all dressed up in a black and white running suit. "Care to join me in a short
run?" she asked. I frowned. Here I was eating beef, cheese, and some decadent mystery sauce for breakfast and Taylor the Toned
seriously thought I was up for a run down a quiet country road? She don't know me very well, do she?

"I'd love to," I fibbed, shoveling in another mouthful. "But I have a class this morning. Maybe some other time." Like, when
the Vikings won a Super Bowl. And when our gramma finally made nice with Abigail Winegardner. "Where's Mom?" I asked.

"Working," Taylor replied, hovering in the doorway for a second before she approached the table and sat down across from me.
"I heard about your close call last night," she said. "And about Uncle Frank's Suburban."

I really started shoving the food in, figuring there was a good chance I'd lose my appetite shortly and wanting to get a jump
on that. "Yeah, it was quite the deal," I said, not sure what to say.

"Did Uncle Frank really fire you from the Freeze?" she asked. Taylor had surprised everyone by announcing she was taking a
semester off from college to sort out some career issues before she invested more time and money. A psychology major, she
was currently working full-time for Uncle Frank at the Dairee Freeze and had convinced Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie to leave
her in charge more and more. She actually seemed to enjoy puttering around the Freeze, and had implemented some innovations
and suggested improvements to Uncle Frank that would increase efficiency, as well as the bottom line. Since Uncle Frank is
as tight as my peach maid-of-honor dress, (shhh! It's our little secret, remember?) it suited him fine and dandy.

I shrugged. "Yeah. So? Big deal. It was time for me to move on," I said, unwilling to acknowledge the hurt I felt at having
been sacked. I'd been fired before. Okay, multiple times. But I'd worked for Uncle Frank since I was fifteen and the Dairee
Freeze had been a big part of my life for a very long time. The idea that I might not be welcome there left me feeling somewhat
adrift. Plus there was all that lost free food to think about.

"You really do have a knack for finding trouble, Tressa," Taylor said, and I looked up. Hello. I didn't find trouble. It found
me.

"Everyone has their gift," I snarked. "Guess that's mine."

"You do understand that you put not only yourself at risk, but others as well," she went on. "And eventually you're going
to tempt fate once too often and either you or someone you care about is going to end up getting hurt," she said. "Have you
thought about that?"

Following a vehicle at nine o'clock at night hadn't seemed all that risky to me. And who could have anticipated the driver
would turn Speed Racer on us?

"Contrary to what you may think, little sister, I don't run ads in the
Gazette
looking for trouble," I told her, finishing my cheesy pie and standing to take the plate to the kitchen.

"Oh, really?" Taylor asked. "Then why does some lady named Mo think you're about to marry her nephew?" she asked. I dropped
my plate. Good thing it was from my gammy's ancient melamine set and virtually unbreakable.

I turned. "Uh, what?"

"Some lady came into the Freeze yesterday looking for you," Taylor said, standing and coming over to me. "She said she'd just
gotten back in the state after wintering in Arizona and couldn't wait to see you. She said you were engaged to her nephew,
Manny, and she wanted to hear all about the wedding plans. Of course, I'm sure you have a perfectly good explanation for why
this nice lady thinks there are wedding bells in your near future. It's all a great big misunderstanding, right?" She crossed
her arms.

I bent over and picked up my plate and fork, rinsed them in the sink, and put them in the dishwasher.

"So? What's the real story here, ace cub reporter?" Taylor continued, one foot tapping in time with my increased pulse rate.

"Would you believe I was doing a good deed for a friend?" I asked. "Well, not actually a friend. More like an acquaintance.
A casual acquaintance. Not even a casual acquaintance, really. Almost a business acquaintance." I was into full Tressa nervous
chatter now. Not a good sign.

"And Manny DeMarco is this acquaintance?" Taylor asked with an upward lift to her eyebrow.

I grabbed a glass and poured some water. "He could be," I said, not even sure that was his real name. He'd used several since
I first came to meet him. I took a sip of the water.

"Isn't he the guy you bailed out of jail last summer?" she asked.

"He could be." I took another sip of water. He'd actually been known as Manny Dishman back then.

"The same Manny that Joe Townsend hit with pepper spray?"

"He could be." Then again, it might've been mace.

"And he thinks you're engaged to him?" she asked.

"Of course not," I told her, draining the water and adding the glass to the dishwasher tray. "Just his aunt Mo," I said. "Oh,
and his cousin Mick. And maybe Mick's girlfriend. But that's it. Honest."

Taylor dropped onto one of the bar stools at the dining room counter. "I know I'm going to regret asking this, but how in
the world did you get yourself engaged to a guy you barely know who has had brushes with the law and whose name you're not
even sure of?" she asked.

I washed my hands and wiped them on a kitchen towel. "You'll understand completely when I explain," I promised. "And you'll
see what a kind, noble, compassionate soul your older sister is," I told her. She gave me an I-doubt-that look.

"Go on," she said.

"Manny's aunt Mo raised him. She thinks of him as her own child. He is very devoted to her. Last summer she had a health crisis
and it was almost certain she wouldn't recover. Manny knew how important it was to her that he find his life partner, so he
wanted to give her this final gift before she drifted off to the hereafter. So he asked me to pose as his fiancee for his
aunt Moon her deathbed. I didn't see how it could be harmful to grant an old woman's deathbed wish, so I agreed," I told Taylor.
"But what happens? Aunt Mo goes and has this shocky cardiac episode and it jolts her heart back in rhythm and, voila! She
lives! And I get royally screwed big time."

Taylor gave me an odd look.

"Uh, I didn't mean that the way it sounded," I said. "I didn't want Aunt Mo to croak or anything. But now I'm left having
to break up with a faux fiance without sending a nice old woman back into another cardiac crisis." Usually when you verbalized
a dilemma, it sounded less daunting and problematic than you anticipated. In this case, with the personalities involved, it
sounded like a job for a trained hostage negotiator. Or maybe Dr. Phil. Unfortunately, I couldn't quite see Manny, me, and
Mo sitting on Dr. Phil and spilling our guts.

"Does Rick know?" Taylor asked, and I shot her a you-wouldn't look.

"Uh, no. Like I said, it was a one-act, single-performance play that was supposed to close once Aunt Mo left this world with
a happy, contented smile on her face," I said. "The spoiler was that she--through no fault of her own, of course--survived.
And since she was way down in Arizona... well, that 'out of sight, out of mind' thing kinda kicked in and I didn't think much
about it. I guess I thought Manny would find an opportunity to break the news of our breakup to her," I said, wondering for
the first time why he hadn't done just that. While I knew I was a bit of a blond bombshell--hey, cut it out, I can hear you
snickering-- I didn't think that the one kiss I'd given Manny had affected him so much so that he'd fallen for me and was
secretly pining away. Still, why hadn't he handled the situation before now?

"Well, apparently your fake fiance hasn't terminated your invented engagement yet," Taylor said. "And if I were you, I'd make
sure it was a done deal before Rick hears about it. If you care about what he thinks, that is," she added.

I looked at her through the opening above the counter. Not so long ago I'd wondered if Taylor harbored some tender feelings
for the great-looking ranger. Townsend had convinced me they were merely good friends. I hadn't thought to wonder if my little
sister held the same view.

"I know where I stand with Townsend," I told Taylor, which did little to relieve my anxiety. After all, Rick was straddling
the fence with his feelings for me more capably than a six-foot, four-inch, bowlegged cowpoke. Somehow I got the idea that
me being intermittently engaged to someone who addressed him as "Rick the Dick" on a regular basis would likely not do much
to dissuade him from the idea that falling in love with me was comparable to signing on as one of Captain Jack Sparrow's crew.
Arrgh, matey!

"And you don't think he'll have a problem with you hiring yourself out as an all-occasion girlfriend to a guy who has body
tattoos that frighten young children?" she asked. "They have a name for that kind of business, Tressa. I think it's called
an escort service," she said.

The thought of anyone hiring me as an escort-- unless it was to a dude ranch or on a trail ride--was beyond ludicrous.

"No money changed hands," I reminded her, and then wondered if it would have been better had I charged a fee.

"And Townsend?"

"What Townsend doesn't know won't hurt him," I said. Hmm. I was using that phrase a heck of a lot as of late. "And, like I
said, I just need to figure out how to break the engagement without breaking an old woman's heart in the process--maybe fatally,"
I added and winced. I had gotten myself into another fine mess, hadn't I?

Taylor stood up. She shook her head. "Your life reads like a really seriously messed up soap opera written by the creators
of
The Simpsons,"
she said, pulling her long, shiny dark hair back into a ponytail and securing it with a black scrunchy in a single, smooth
motion. Not one clump of hair stuck out anywhere on her head. That's just not right. "I hope you know what you're doing,"
she added. "Because it sounds as if there are a lot of people who could be affected by your actions."

I nodded. Sometimes it was hell being the center of so many people's universe. Yeah, yeah. I know. She's a legend in her own
mind, right? Can't you tell by now when I'm kidding? Jeesch.

"And what about Uncle Frank?" Taylor went on. "How are you going to handle that situation?" she asked.

Until Uncle Frank cooled down a bit and could articulate his feelings without clenched fists and spittle flying from his lips,
I decided discretion
was
the better part of valor and planned to keep my distance.

"We'll eventually sort things out," I told Taylor. "Until then, you could do me a big favor," I added.

She looked at me. "And what is that?"

"Bring me home a doggy bag now and then?" I said hopefully.

Taylor shook her head. "I should've guessed," she said, zipping up her jacket and leaving.

I shrugged. You can't blame a junk food addict for trying.

CHAPTER 7

I headed for Des Moines, but not before I reminded Taylor about Kari's hen night festivities that evening-- not that I really
wanted Taylor to attend, you understand. How can I put this nicely? Taylor can be a bit of a party pooper at times. However,
she's known Kari for as long as I have. Kari hung out at our house so much she kept pyjamas, toothbrush, and a change of clothes
there. So basically, I had little choice in the matter. Besides, I'd never hear the end of it from my mother if I kept the
little princess out of the loop.

I loitered outside Professor Billings's classroom waiting for Frankie and Dixie once my eight o'clock class was over. I was
a little nervous about how Frankie would treat me after yesterday's unfortunate incident. I'd always felt a certain sympathy
with Frankie who, until recently, had been a walking and talking poster child for Losers Anonymous.

I'd been waiting fifteen minutes when students began to file out of a nearby classroom. I watched and looked on as Professor
Billings's associate from the night before, fellow professor Sherman T. Danbury, brought up the rear. I grinned like a goofy
adolescent when I realized what the good professor's initials spelled out: STD. What were his parents thinking?

Since I had a few minutes to spare, I figured I might as well see what, if anything, Professor STD brought to the table. Besides
a hilarious monogram.

"Well, hello, Professor Danbury," I said, approaching him with a hand out. "Tressa Turner. We met last night at the Campus
Security office."

He looked at my hand, his brows almost meeting in the middle of his head before he took my hand in the limp-wristed handshake
that was so memorable from the night before.

"Of course. Hello again, Miss Turner," he said, quickly withdrawing his hand. Mine came away moist with his perspiration.
Gross.

"Eventful night last night, huh?" I asked. "I understand Professor Billings shared our little crime-by-curriculum theory with
you. So, what's your take on it? Do you think we're on the right track or, like your colleague, Dr. Billings, do you feel
it's mere coincidence? Anybody you know here on campus besides Keith Gardner who might have the pathology to be capable of
this type of activity?" I asked him. Once I finally get someone's undivided attention, I have the tendency to bludgeon them
with babble.

"I haven't made a judgment one way or the other on possible motives, if any, that are driving these crimes. I just want to
see them stop," Professor STD stated.

"I understand. It can't be easy to think someone who has taken up space in your classroom and listened to your lectures day
in and day out is meticulously plotting to pull off a crime right under your nose," I said. I hadn't intended for it to come
out sounding quite so insulting, but realized that was the end result when Danbury's face and ears turned dark red.

"It wouldn't be an ideal situation," the professor admitted.

"So, is there someone you've taught whom you could see committing these crimes?"

The professor shook his head. "How does one really get to know an individual in the span of an hour or so once a day for twelve
weeks, when you have a classroom of them? It's just not that simple," he said.

I nodded. What did I really know about Professor Stokes, and what did he know about me? Other than the fact that I liked candy
and coffee, required a lot of sleep, and sometimes acted like I should be standing in the corner of the classroom, with a
pointed hat on my head, staring at the wall.

"How long have you taught here, Professor Dan-bury?" I asked.

"Five years," he replied.

"So, you're pretty well set, then," I said. "Don't university professors usually get tenure after five years or so?" I knew
about tenure from Kari, who railed about how many of her tenured professors at college no longer even taught classes, but
nontenured, low-wage, low-benefit adjunct profs taught those classes on a contract basis. Kari said with the bucks she was
spending to attend college she at least ought to have her classes taught by the real thing.

The professor's face grew redder than mine does when I put on a Tae Bo tape and try to keep pace with the instructor. Professor
STD's hand shook as he put his fingers to the nosepiece of his glasses to shove them back on his nose.

"Have you been talking to someone?" he asked. "Because I don't appreciate people poking their noses into something that is
of a private, personal, and purely professional nature," he said.

Hello. What do you know? Chalk one up for Tressa Jayne Turner, who'd just struck a nerve without even trying. Which wasn't
all that unusual for me, I suppose.

Hmm. Let's see. Now, how to capitalize?

"Well, one has to wonder if there could be a connection," I said, no clue what I was suggesting, but figuring it was generic
enough for the professor to take any way he liked. "I imagine there were hard feelings. Disappointment. Anger. Betrayal even."

"What did they expect? That I'd jump for joy when I was denied tenure by the committee?" he said. "And over what was at worst
an isolated, understandable indiscretion?" He seemed to realize he was disclosing way more than he'd intended--and to a member
of the hated press corps to boot. He straightened his spine. "I fail to see what this has to do with the rash of crimes here
on campus."

I gave him a wide-eyed look. "Probably nothing," I said. "When we find out who is responsible, I guess we'll know for sure,"
I added.

Professor Danbury gave me a considering look and then turned on his heel and left, leaving me to wonder what isolated indiscretion
had torpedoed his bid for tenure. Of course, nosy person that I was, I intended to find out.

I waited another five minutes or so before Frankie's class was dismissed and students began to file out. I watched closely
to see if Keith Gardner was among them, but didn't spot him.

Frankie and Dixie were the last out of the classroom. I grabbed Frankie's elbow as he walked past me, and he squealed and
jumped.

"Hey, take it easy, Frankie," I said. "You're way too tense, bud."

"Don't sneak up on me like that!" Frankie looked around. "It's embarrassing," he said.

I blinked. "How was I to know you'd leap around like a loopy ballet dancer just because someone touched your arm? Take a chill
pill, Frankie," I said. "H'lo, Dixie," I greeted his girlfriend. To say she stared daggers at me was as much of an understatement
as me saying,
I like beef.
"So, how did class go? Did Billings go ahead and stay on point with the next crime?" I asked.

Frankie nodded. "She was a rock," he said. "No stepping down or backing off. She was in your face, I double-dog-dare you to
use this lecture as a crime primer, bring-it-on-punk kind of righteous indignation," he said.

"I thought she didn't buy into our theory," I said. "Wouldn't she be business as usual if that were the case, too?" I asked.

Frankie thought about it for a second. "Oh yeah," he said.

"Still, if the perp was sitting there, going ahead with the next lecture could be interpreted as throwing down the gauntlet,
couldn't it?" Dixie asked.

With a psycho nutcase? It was anyone's guess.

"So, if our theory is right, we're looking at a sex-based crime next," I said, and we all noticeably sobered. The very idea
that some woman could be attacked and cruelly violated on the Carson College campus that very night made my bowels clench.
"Do you think we could persuade Campus Security to issue a warning to female students and beef up their patrols tonight?"
I asked.

"It's worth a try," Frankie said.

"You'd better approach them," I told Frankie. "After last night, I'm thinking you'd be received more... cordially than I would,"
I said, not thrilled to admit it, but there it was.

"I can give it a try," Frankie said. "Maybe I'll get a hold of Patrick and see if he'd be willing to back me up. A request
from the state police to ratchet up Campus Security would probably receive more action on the part of security than a suggestion
from a lowly wannabe criminal justice major." I wondered what happened to Frankie's puffed-up persona of yesterday. It had
probably taken a beating along with Uncle Frank's Chevy SUV, I decided.

"I've got a lead to follow that requires me to touch base with Professor Billings again," I said and saw Frankie's nostrils
flare.

"What lead?" Frankie asked.

"I'll explain later," I told him. "You need to get on the security angle pronto."

"Dixie's going with you," Frankie said.

"What!" Both Dixie and I responded with equal levels of enthusiasm.

"To keep Tressa from getting into more trouble," Frankie elaborated.

"I don't need a babysitter," I told my cousin, raising my chin. "All I'm going to do is talk," I said.

"Yeah. And last night all you were gonna do was sit in the Suburban and wait in the parking lot for me," he said. "You're
taking Dixie."

I gave in to the inevitable. I'd take the keg with legs. Only because I knew I could outrun her if I had to.

We backtracked into the classroom Dixie had just exited only to find the professor had somehow slipped past us.

"We could check out her office," Dixie suggested.

I nodded. "Great idea. Where is it?"

Dixie got this I-know-something-you-won't-like grin on her face.

"You're already familiar with the location. Her office is in the same building as the medical examiner's office," Dixie said,
and I could feel my sphincters pucker.

"The M.E.'s office?"

Dixie nodded. "The college ran out of room in Proctor Hall several years ago so they arranged to lease some offices for the
criminal justice program from the Department of Health. It seemed appropriate to share digs, given the fact that some of the
forensic classes are held in labs in the same building."

I felt a gurgle of indigestion ripple through my belly. I'd had an up-close and personal look-see at Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory
the day before. I wasn't sure my constitution was ready for a sequel--in this case
The Bride of Frankenstein,
featuring Dixie in the role of the barrel-chested bride, of course.

"Is something wrong, Miss Lane?" Dixie asked. I frowned.

"Huh?"

"Lane. You do envision yourself as a sort of modern day Lois Lane, don't you?" she asked. "You know. The fearless and intrepid
female reporter who will stop at nothing to get the story? Of course, in your case, it's more Lois Lane meets Betty Boop.
Or Laverne and Shirley. So, how badly do you want to speak with Professor Billings?"

I thought about it. How badly
did
I want this story? Enough to step foot inside a place where the clients have had more recent stitching than my maid-of-honor
gown? Where you get a lovely toe tag when you check in--and a tiny slab of real estate six feet under when you check out?

I rubbed my temple. Making the grade shouldn't be this hard.

"Why, you're not scared, are you, Turner?" Dixie probed.

Unibrow had me in checkmate and she knew it. I'd sooner admit I was a straight-ticket-voting Democrat than admit I was chicken.
Well, almost.

"What's to be afraid of?" I asked. "It's daylight. We're working as a team. I have my running shoes on this morning." No matter
that I'd never actually run in them, I was still confident they could carry me away from trouble faster than Dixie's tree
stumps could carry her. And though it would grieve me sorely to choose between getting the story to the masses and leaving
Dixie the Destructor behind, there was still that greater-good angle to consider.

"Then let's go," Dixie said. "And en route you can fill me in on just what you hope to learn from Professor Billings, and
why you think she can help."

Talk about bossy. Anyone care to bet on who'd be wearing the pants in Frankie's family? Come on, folks, place those bets!
It was probably a good thing odds were heavily in Dixie's favor here, though. I couldn't imagine for one minute Dixie Daggett
in a skirt... and didn't want to.

We made our way across campus and I related my conversation with Professor Danbury (pointing out his unfortunate initials
with an admittedly adolescent snort) and said it appeared there was more to the professor than met the eye.

"Tenure can be denied for a variety of reasons based on the institution," Dixie explained. "Usually the professor's record
in various areas such as teaching and service is evaluated. At research-intensive universities a professor's record in research
and snaring research grants is also considered. Often a review committee made up of department faculty members makes the final
decision to award tenure, but ultimately the university president makes the final call."

I looked at Dixie. "How do you know this stuff?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I watch a lot
of Jeopardy,"
she said.

"So a professor would have to be deemed deficient in one of those areas to be denied tenure?" I asked.

"There's also moral grounds for being denied," Dixie added. "Maybe he slept with a student."

I thought about that a second. STD didn't look like any campus Casanova I'd seen. Of course, I hadn't really seen all that
many, so what did I know?

We arrived at the M.E.'s building and located the Criminal Justice annex portion. I relaxed when I realized that although
the two were in the same building, they had separate entrances and were in different parts of the facility.

"So, what floor is Billings on?" I asked.

"Downstairs," Dixie said.

"Uh, as in the basement?" I asked.

"Hey, beggars can't be choosers," she said. "The Criminal Justice Department was fortunate enough to get any office space
on campus," she pointed out.

We opted to take the elevator since we'd already gotten our exercise by hoofing it across campus.

"Which way?" I asked when the elevator door opened.

"Left, I think," Dixie said. "I've only been here once."

We stepped out of the elevator into the poorly lit hallway. The college certainly saved on its light bill down here.