Calamity Jayne Heads West (13 page)

I pulled the pillow off my face and hit it a couple times. Wretched statue. I’d had nothing but grief from the moment I purchased the infernal thing. I should have let the poor unfortunate soul who’d originally wanted it have it. My luck had been for spit since Kookamunga became part of our little southwestern wedding wagon train. Gram was lucky I’d taken the fertile fellow along this evening or he’d have been laid out alongside Big John—and likely missing something other than his head. Close call, Kooky. Hard to sow seed without the right tool there, bud.

I closed my eyes and thought about it some more. The term “jinx” flashed in my subconscious. My luck
had
headed south after Kookamunga signed on. He’d been with me at Oak Creek Canyon and again at Num-bers. And both times I’d been robbed. The first time, my cake. The next time, Sophie’s purse. But how did I explain the break-in at my aunt’s house? Was it just a coincidence that their house was hit the very same night, and unrelated?

It hit me then. Sophie’s purse had her wallet in it. Her wallet had her driver’s license. Her license had her home address. Her home address could have led the criminals straight to Aunt Kay and Uncle Ben’s door. Her keys could have let them walk right in. But why? What were they looking for? And why here? Why now?

I mulled those questions over in my head. Why here? Why now? Why me? I’d performed this kind of deliberation before.

Why me?

“No way!”

I shot up in my sofa sleeper and clutched the pillow to my chest. I chewed my lip. Why me? Because I had something that someone wanted. And what
was
that something I had that someone wanted . . . ?

I shook my head. As kooky as it sounded even to my own imaginative brain, I was suddenly convinced I was right. They were after Kookamunga!

As quickly as that realization sank in, another one arrived hard on its tail.

Holy jalapeños! Ranger Rick was sharing a bedroll with a wanted character that, it now appeared, had a very determined posse on his tail, and he had no way of knowing an ambush was in the making.

Talk about your lone rangers.

CHAPTER TEN

“Sonofabitch!” I yelled. Tossing the covers off and vaulting from the sofa bed, I threw on the closest clothes I could find, wrinkled and mismatched, yanked on socks and my boots, grabbed my backpack and flew up the stairs and out to the garage, snaring the phone-book from a desk in the kitchen on the way.

I debated for a second which car to take, remem-bered what happened the last time I borrowed an un-cle’s automobile and climbed into Aunt Kay’s Accord. I hit the garage door opener remote and as soon as I had clearance, backed into the street and peeled out. I turned the dome light on, flipped through the phonebook and found the phone number and ad-dress for the hotel the Townsends were staying at, and reached for my cell phone only to realize it was back home in the massive hands of an Amazonian with de-signs on my vocation. Damn.

With the aid of a phonebook map, three grouchy convenience store clerks, two slightly inebriated pedes-trians and one bleary-eyed cab driver, I made my wayto The Titan Hotel. It was after one A.M. when I wheeled into the parking lot, not sparing the brake pads in the process.

I hurried into the hotel and up to the registration desk. The uniformed clerk behind the desk eyed me with open curiosity. I wasn’t surprised. I’d caught a re-flection of myself in the mirror behind her. Jeepers creepers summed it up.

“May I help you?” the attractive female with the nametag
Tiffany
asked. I nodded.

“I need the room number of one of your guests,” I told her. “It’s an emergency.”

“I’m sorry. It’s against our policy to give out that kind of information,” she said. “To protect our guests, you understand.”

I nodded. “But this really is an emergency!” I as-sured her. “It could even be a matter of life and death. Then again, I could be totally wrong.”

“Huh?”

“The name is Townsend. Rick Townsend.” The clerk’s eyes took on a familiar glint. I should’ve known. “The room number?” I prodded.

“And how do you know this individual again?” Tiffany asked, and I was tempted to peek over the counter to check for the tackle box and fly rod, be-cause this girl was fishin’ but good.

“Uh, he’s my boyfriend,” I told her.

“Your boyfriend,” she repeated, so I nodded.

“That’s right. He dropped me off at my aunt’s house in Flagstaff a couple hours ago. We’d been out club-bing.” In reality, the closest I’d ever gotten to clubbing was my best friend Kari’s bachelorette party gone bad (the experience had ended with a police raid at a strip joint) and the time I used a Swiffer sweeper to club a big, ugly black snake who’d invaded my home turf. “The room number, please,” I said with a sugar-sweet smile.

“How do I know what you’re saying is even true?” the clerk asked.

“Easy enough to verify, right, Tiffany? Why don’t you ring his room and find out?” I told her. “My name is Tressa. Tressa Jayne Turner.”

She hesitated and reached for the phone.

“Are you looking for Uncle Rick?” I turned to find the notorious Nick Townsend looking up atme. Dressed in baggy shorts and a T-shirt, his feet were bare.

“What are you doing down here at this hour, Nick?” I asked.

“That’s funny. I was wondering that about you, too,” he said with a lift of his eyebrow. “Isn’t it kind of late to be visiting my uncle? Most people are asleep, you know.”

I forced a smile. “You’re not,” I pointed out.

He shrugged. “I’m a kid. We don’t count. Besides, I’m on vacation.”

Right. “So what are you doing down here? Do your folks know you’re sneaking around the hotel?”

He cocked his head to one side. “Do your folks know you’re sneaking around the hotel?” he re-sponded, and I glanced at Tiffany the receptionist and flashed a tight smile.

“I came to see your Uncle Rick,” I told the runt. “Something happened tonight and I need to talk to him right away. Could you please tell this nice lady that I am a friend of your uncle’s? Then you can show me to his room.”

At first I didn’t think the kid would comply, but af-ter a long pause, he nodded to the girl behind the counter.

“It’s okay. She knows my uncle,” the twerp finally ad-mitted. “Uncle Rick says they have a strange and won-derful relationship.” I felt my insides get all soft and gooey until Nick went on. “He says she’s strange”—he pointed a fat little finger at me—“and he’s wonderful.” I shook my head. Nice. “If you give me a keycard, I’ll take her up to his room,” he volunteered, and I shot a gloating departing look at Tiffany as we headed for the elevator.

“You know, it isn’t really safe for you to be running around a strange hotel in the middle of the night, kid,” I told him as we entered the elevator and he hit the button for the seventh floor. “You never know who could be lurking around a hotel lobby at that hour.”

“You got that right,” he said.

Man, this kid was a regular Howdy Doody.

“What do you want to see Uncle Rick for?” he asked. “Are you going to stay in his room with him? Are you going to sleep with him?”

I stared at the little voyeur. “Excuse me?”

“Is that why you’re here? To have sex?”

My ears grew hot. “No! I am not!” I exclaimed. “As a matter of fact, I have something important to share with your uncle,” I insisted.

“I thought so,” he said with a disgusted look.

“Now just a minute!” I insisted as the elevator opened and the squirt stepped out. “I am not here to sleep with your uncle!” I hissed, as we made our way down the hallway. I caught the surprised look on the face of a hotel guest who was making his way to the vending area in search of ice, a plastic bucket in hand. “I just want to talk,” I told Nick. “As if it’s any of your business, little man. What room is he in, anyway?” I asked, thankful Rick had decided to get his own room.

“It’s down here,” he said, handing me the cardkey. He yawned. “I’m really tired. I think I’m gonna go to bed. Night, Tressa,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you in themorning.” He smiled at me, his expression warm and genuine, and for a moment I forgot he was a trying lit-tle turd muffin.

“Good night, Nick,” I told him. “And thanks. I owe you one,” I added.

“Sure,” Nick said. “See you.”

He turned and made his way down the hall. “Have a good night,” he said just before he disappeared around a corner.

I stared down at the card in my hand and shook my head when my hand shook so much I had trouble in-serting the card in the slot. Why did I feel as if I would experience a defining and life-altering moment with the opening of this particular door? That by stepping inside I would turn the page from a familiar, comfort-able chapter in my life to a new and uncharted one?

And was I ready to open the door to those wondrous possibilities? You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie.

I jammed the card in the slot and heard the click, and the light blinked. I opened the door, both elated and nervous, when I realized the security mechanism had been left off. It appeared the ranger really had thought I might change my mind and end up at his door tonight. The fact made my legs quiver and my heart race as I approached the bed. Or, rather, beds. Apparently, Townsend hadn’t been able to secure a full-sized bed after all. I could detect dry, raspy snor-ing and made a mental note to razz Townsend about it in the morning.

I stopped. The morning? Was I really prepared to spend the night with Townsend? Sleep with him? All night long?

I took a deep, cleansing breath and fought the im-pulse to run out the way I came in. This was not the way I’d fantasized making love with Rick Townsend. In my dream world my hair was long, silky and shiny, notknotted and ratty. In my storybook imagination, I wore a black teddy with matching panties, not a wrin-kled
Cowgirls Love Cuttin’ Up
T-shirt and soiled black jeans. I sniffed myself. I smelled like cigarette smoke and turpentine.

Suck it up, Tressa, I scolded myself. You’re thinking way too much. Stop the sniveling and second-guessing and haul your cowgirl cookies over to that bed and jump that man’s bones. Those boots were made for walkin’, Miz Calamity.

I had the means.

I had the opportunity.

God knew I had the motive.

I took a deep breath. It was time to commit the act. Before I expired from long-term sexual frustration and self-imposed self-denial.

Ready, boots? Start walkin’.

I made my way to the bed, shucking my hoodie and T-shirt on the way. I winced, feeling wanton and lusty. I unzipped my jeans and slid them down, sucking in my stomach as I slid a hand over my midsection. Good thing I’d passed on Raphael’s dessert invite. It oc-curred to me to wonder if the eatery even existed, and whether I’d have ended up in a Dumpster somewhere, had I gone with the sweet-talker after all.

I kicked off my boots and nudged them under the bed with a grin.

I yanked my ponytail scrunchy out, and dragged my fingers through my freed head of hair—struggling to extract them once they were inside the tangled net-work of curls. Then I bent over and shook my head, allowing my hair its head. I straightened, feeling the tickle of my locks on my shoulders and down my back.

I leaned over the sleeping man.

“I heard tell a cowgirl could get a long, sweet ridehereabouts,” I whispered near the sleeping man’s head. “How about it, stud?”

The figure stirred and groaned in his sleep, letting out a throaty snore.

I put a knee on the bed and slipped in beside the now lethargic Lothario. I shook like a bag of Mexican jumping beans. An antiseptic, medicinal smell reached me and I made a face. Nasty-smelling toothpaste. He’d have to switch.

“You ever heard ‘save a horse—ride a cowboy’?” I whispered, tugging on an exposed ear lobe. “Heigh ho, Silver!” I purred. “Away!”

The figure next to me finally came to life. I felt a hand reach over and grab my backside, trying to squeeze, but completely muffing it.

I frowned. What the—?

“Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. You little hellion, you. I thought you wanted to wait for the next time ’til after the wedding vows.”

Reality rolled over me in roiling waves with equal parts of nausea, horror and disbelief. My head snapped back. I threw my arms out to the side. I flew off the bed and landed in a heap on the floor.

I lay there stunned, my eyes tightly shut while I tried to come to terms with what had just transpired. A light suddenly clicked on and I slowly opened one eye. Then the other. Above me, peeking out over the side of the bed and breathing Polident breath down on me was Ranger Rick’s grandpappy—and my step-grandfather-to- be—Joltin’ Joe Townsend.

The horrified look in his eyes matched what I was feeling at the moment. We stared at each other.

“I can explain,” I began. “It’s not what you think. There really is a perfectly logical explanation for this.” I stopped. “Are you gonna believe what you see or what I tell you?”

Joe shook his head. “Good God, girlie, get dressed! I’ll pee. Then, we talk,” Joe said. “And this better be good. I’ll be up all night going to the pot now. I hope you’re happy,” he grumbled as he climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom. I stared when I noticed he was wearing what looked like a silky kimono-type nightshirt.

I sat up and located the clothing from my demented striptease and dressed, unable to look at myself in the mirror.

I supposed there was something to be thankful for: At least Joe didn’t sleep in the buff like my gammy did, thank God for small favors. No pun intended. Eeww.

A half hour later, when Joe finally finished in the bathroom and I’d retched in the sink, I filled him in on the high points of that evening while we sat in arm-chairs near the window, a safe, discreet distance from each other. Since I didn’t want to spoil the wedding gift surprise, I merely told him that there had been a break-in at my aunt’s house and I thought it might be related to the theft of Sophie’s purse earlier that eve-ning, and wanted to discuss a theory I had about the crime with his grandson. Assured that my grandma was unharmed and set to stun him with a new bridal dress, he relaxed.

“So, you see, I came here strictly to compare notes with Rick,” I pointed out.

“And you shucked your threads because . . . ?” Joe asked.

I knew there was no way I could talk myself out of this escapade. Not even with Steven Spielberg putting the words in my mouth. Not with a fellow who belongs to the NRA, reads
True Crime
magazines as light-reading fare and visits Web sites like mercs_r_us regularly.

“I’m in lust with your grandson,” I told Joe. “I’m pretty sure.”

“I see. But are you in love with him, girlie?” Joe questioned, verbalizing what I’d been asking myself ad nauseum of late.

“I’m not sure,” I told him, truthful. “I think maybe that’s why I came here. You know. To find out.”

Joe looked at me for a long time. “I think you’re holdin’ out on me, girlie,” he said. “I think there’s more to this little late-night rendezvous than a stolen purse, a residential break-in, and a cowgirl lookin’ for a sweet ride.”

My cheeks felt warm as a spanked baby’s bottom. “I’d just as soon you’d forget I ever said that, Joe,” I told him. “It was said in—shall we say—the heat of the moment.”

“You think?” he responded.

“I would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to . . . anyone,” I said. “It’s rather . . . embarrassing.”

He looked at me and got a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not sure this is the kind of thing I should keep from my grandson,” he said. “Familial duty, you know.”

I raised an eyebrow.
Right.

“I see,” I said. “Duty, huh?” I looked at him. “I reckon then, it’s my duty to let everyone back home know that macho Joe Townsend sleeps in a silk dress at night. Very chic and retro, by the way,” I said, and his eyes got big and bulgy like those bug-eyed fish that live near the bottom of the ocean. “So bright and . . .
gay.
”

“You wouldn’t,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Freedom of the press is a lovely thing,” I remarked.

Joe considered me for a second. “So is family loy-alty,” he countered.

“You squeezed my butt,” I pointed out. Or, rather, tried to. The poor guy couldn’t get a grip. I didn’t care to speculate on whether it was due to his lack of pincer power or too much posterior on my part.