Calamity Jayne Heads West (17 page)

I stared at the aging actress. She really did believe in this New Age stuff. Lock, stock and pocketbook.

“Wouldn’t buying self-help books be a lot easier?” I asked. “And cheaper? And Dr. Phil’s brand of ‘the BS stops here’ daily therapy is totally free of charge via the airwaves.”

Gloria looked over at me and got this sad, tired look on her face. “The young are always looking for an easy fix,” she commented. “I was like that when I was your age. When you get older, you realize that those Band-aid solutions never last. That healing has to come from the inside, not the outside. I know I’ll be on top again one day. Cadence has seen it. I
feel
it. I have only to follow the path that is laid before me by the spirits and I’ll reach that summit once more.”

“You climb mountains?” Gram asked.

Gloria nodded. “I will,” she said. “And I’ll soar with the eagles. And swim with the dolphins. And maybe sleep with an actor young enough to be my son, too!” she added with a wink. “If I draw on the energy that is here around me and the power that is here”—she put a hand on her heart—“within me.”

Gram wiped the raspberry plum barbeque sauce off her chin. “I’m fixin’ to get me a reading from a spiri-tual adviser,” Gram said, and explained about her up-coming nuptials. “I figured I’d better get everything aligned before I march down the aisle. Speaking meta-phorically, you know.”

“Uh, I’m thinking you mean metaphysically there, Gramma,” I said. “And you make it sound like you need your back cracked by a chiropractor. Frankly, I think your aura and chakras and past lives and vortices”—I saw Sophie wince and self-corrected—“vortexes are in pretty good shape for a woman of seven. . . .” I stopped when Gram started making a slashing motion at her throat. “Uh, I’m thinkin’ you’re good to go,” I told her.

“Well, I’m not so sure. You think I could get in tosee that adviser of yours, Gloria?” Gram asked, and I couldn’t understand how Gloria failed to see a quartet of women performing various hand gestures, eye rolls, and body movements that screamed, “Hell no!” But she did.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Gloria said. “I’m sure if I call and explain the situation to Cadence, she’d be more than happy to squeeze you in. In fact, I was supposed to go in for my weekly appointment at two, but she can get me in anytime. Why don’t you take my appointment?” Gloria reached into her purse and brought something out. “Here’s her card. I’ll call and tell her you’ll be coming in my stead, and that should take care of that. Her shop is the last you come to down the next block over,” she said.

“Oh, no, you shouldn’t give up your appointment, Miss Grant,” Taylor said. “Really, it’s not necessary!”

“Please. It’s not a problem,” she assured us.

Maybe not for her.

“Tressa? You got one of your reporter cards?” Gram asked. I nodded.

“Why?”

“Give one to Gloria. And write down the hotel info on the back.” She turned to Gloria. “I’m invitin’ you to my wedding,” Gram said. “You can meet Joe and the rest of the family and have cake and toast the newly-weds,” Gram said.

I scribbled the hotel name and the date and time of the wedding, and handed it to Gloria.

“Well, I’ll try,” she said, standing to leave. “It’s been very pleasant meeting you all. Good afternoon.”

Gloria left, and we followed suit several minutes later.

“Let’s get this over with,” I heard Taylor comment. Spoilsport. It could be fun.

We took the directions Gloria had given and foundourselves at the last shop on the left. “There it is,” Gram said, and pointed to a shop with a great big illu-minated blue sign that read,
The Spiritual Boutique
. A sign in the window indicated that the boutique spe-cialized in spiritual readings, spiritual advice, aura photography, and vortex tours.

“The Spiritual Boutique? Sounds classy,” I said. “One-of-a-kind, designer auras.”

We opened the door and, unlike the annoying little bell Stan Rodgers installed to monitor his employees’ comings and goings, a voice announced “Blessings on you” as we entered.

The outer area featured items we’d seen many times already: crystals, jewelry, special lotions, books, CDs and the usual tourist trinkets sold in the area. Back-ground music of rushing water made me have to tin-kle, and I looked at Gram, hoping it would have the same effect on her so we could cut this reading short.

Long lengths of turquoise beads on a door off the main room parted and a woman approached us. Clad in a long flowing black and teal robe, red hair piled on her head, her movements measured and slow, it al-most looked like she was on a conveyor belt. Or one heckuva moonwalker. Michael, eat your heart out.

“Welcome to The Spiritual Boutique,” she said, spreading her arms in a gesture of greeting and accep-tance. “You must be Hannah,” she said, moving straight to Gram and taking both liver-spotted hands in her own very white, pale ones. “I am Cadence. I’m a Clairsen-tient, Clairvoyant, Clairaudient, and Empathic. I under-stand you wish a psychic health consultation,” she said, and Gram looked over at me.

“Do I?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I do,” she said. “I want to make sure everything’s in tip-top shape for me and Joe to tie the knot. I’m notmuch for surprises. I had that scope up the bunghole two years back, so I’m good to go there for another five, and I got a thumbs-up from my dentist last month.”

Cadence lost her rhythm for a second but recovered nicely. “I do offer a package that includes a psychic checkup. You receive an activation and alignment of your seven basic chakras, a psychometric reading, and a channeling exercise,” she said. “Is that something you might be interested in?” she asked.

Gram turned to me. “Would I?” she asked.

“What is the charge for this checkup?” Taylor chimed in.

“For a friend of Gloria’s? One hundred and fifty dol-lars,” Cadence said. I winced, wondering what the cost would be for an enemy.

Gram also seemed to be taken aback by the cost. She rummaged around in her purse. “I’m not sure I have enough cash on me,” she said.

“We accept debit and all major credit cards,” Ca-dence said.

“Not to worry, Gram,” Sophie said, pulling out a wad of dough that made my eyes pop out of my head—and it wasn’t even the chocolate chip variety. “It’ll be my wedding gift to you,” she said.

“Where
do
you get all your money?” I asked Sophie. “And don’t you dare say tips again. Because the only gals I know who get that many tips are prancing on a stage somewhere in a G-string and pasties,” I told her.

A telltale blush colored Sophie’s cheeks. “Here.” She handed Cadence the money.

“All right then. If you’ll come with me, Hannah,” she said, gesturing back to the beaded doorway. “We’ll get started.”

Gram hesitated. “Do I have to get undressed?” she asked. “ ’Cause I just want to tell you that I don’t usu-ally wear white old-lady underwear. Today’s the excep-tion. I knew I’d be riding in the car and those bikinis can ride up on you, if you know what I mean.” She fol-lowed Cadence to the beaded door and stopped. “So, who’s comin’ with me?” she said, and the phrase,
Don’t
everyone volunteer at once
popped into my head.

“I paid,” Sophie pointed out. “I’ve done my part.”

Kimmie fingered through her purse and pulled out a twenty. “Here.” She slapped the twenty in So-phie’s hand.

“Taylor?” I asked, and she put a hand to her mouth.

“I still have a bit of a queasy stomach,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m up to it.” She added her twenty to Tay-lor’s. I shook my head.

“Cowards!” I said, and followed Gram and Madame Cadence.

We were taken to a nicely appointed room with a round table covered by a shimmery tan print cloth. I expected to see a crystal ball in the middle of the table; however, I spotted it on a nearby bookshelf be-side a colorful, eye-catching tray. Cadence motioned to a couple of chairs.

“I like to begin with the psychic consultation,” Ca-dence said. “Do a reading and in so doing enhance the aura before it is photographed, giving it more color and clarity. I can hang that up for you if you like,” she said, reaching out to take hold of my back-pack. I snatched it away, almost ripping her fingernails off in the process. She stared at me.

“Uh, no thanks. I’ll just hold on to it,” I said, setting it on my lap and flashing her a weak smile.

She gave me a wary look as she took her seat.

“So, you are about to embark on a new phase in your life, Hannah,” Cadence said. “A new husband. Brand-new experiences.”

Gram’s eyes grew big. “See that, Tressa?” She jabbedme in the ribs with her elbow. “See how she knew that? And you thought this was all hooey.”

“Uh, Gram. You told her you were getting married, remember?”

“Oh,” she said.

“May I?” Cadence reached out to take hold of Gram’s hands at the same time I reached across to take Gram’s bag and our hands collided. The spiritual advi-sor jumped. Like you do when you sit down on the toi-let only to discover the seat is up. Lazy men. I stared as she suddenly grabbed my hands and clutched them in a finger-crushing grasp.

“Hey. You got the wrong hands!” Gram exclaimed, but the adviser ignored her. Instead, she closed her eyes, dropped her head back, and began to hum.

I looked over at my gammy and shrugged before fo-cusing my attention back on the spiritual seer.

“What’s that smell?” Gram asked, and I sniffed, a sweet fragrance reaching my nostrils.

“Flowers,” I said, looking around. “Are you all right, Cadence?” I asked, my fingers beginning to cramp. “Hello? Cadence?”

The adviser’s eyes snapped open and fixed directly on me. The humming stopped.

“Your spirit guide speaks,” Cadence said, tugging my hands in her direction. “Beseeches me on your be-half. You are on a quest. A search for truth. Nay. For answers. Yet you protect a dark secret. A secret that threatens to end your quest. Nay. Even your life.” Talk about your “nay” sayers!

“You really do have the wrong hands,” I said, yank-ing those appendages back toward me. “Along with the wrong client,” I said. “This is my gammy’s reading, remember?”

“Shh!” Gram shushed me. “You hear that? Her voice is even different. Her lips are movin’ but somebodyelse’s voice is comin’ out. Like that exorcist movie. The one with the pea soup.”

Not what I wanted to hear when I was on the receiv-ing end of an alleged message from beyond.

“I wonder who your spirit guide is,” Gram said.

More information I didn’t particularly care to know.

“I see a change of heart,” Cadence went on. “Great pain. Sadness. Loss. Yet, a chance at redemption re-mains. Death. So much death.”

Cadence’s grip on my hands became a death grip—no pun intended—and her eyes closed once again. “I understand! Yes! Yes! I see! I see! Yes! Yes!”

She swayed about in her chair and seemed to be in the throes of something almost orgasmic. Gram and I exchanged uncomfortable glances as the adviser col-lapsed in her chair like a balloon suddenly deflated. Her head lolled on her chest to one side.

“Well, how do you like that?” Gram said. “I’m sup-posed to have the psychic encounter, you get a spirit guide looking out for you, and she tunes in to a dirty cosmic channel just in time for the climax.”

I broke our clasp, jumped up and ran around to the other side of the table.

“Uh, Madame Cadence!” I shook her shoulder. “Hello! Are you all right? Hello?”

She finally stirred and looked up at me, shivering noticeably.

“You need to go,” she said. “Leave. Now.”

“What?” I frowned. This was the second time today I’d been asked to leave a business establishment.

She shoved her chair back, got to her feet, and slapped Sophie’s cash into my hand.

“Go!” she said.

“Well, I never!” Gram got to her feet. “This is the worst reading I’ve ever had. I don’t know what GloriaGrant was thinking. Why, I’d have better results with a magic eight ball,” she said. “Let’s go, Tressa!

I grabbed hold of my backpack and followed Gram to the door. “Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked, hesitant to leave the medium alone. “Should I call someone?”

“No. No.” Cadence reached out to take my hand again. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Truly sorry.”

I shook my head. “No sweat. We all fall under the weather at inconvenient times. Feel better,” I told her.

“I will,” she said. “I will.”

I nodded and left, steeling myself to listen to Gram bitch and moan all the way back to Flagstaff.

I had to hand it to the Cadence, the Spiritual Ad-viser. She’d added a whole new meaning to the phrase, When the spirit moves you. I knew I should’ve had firewater at lunch.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

We returned to Flagstaff mid-afternoon, a ragged group of tourists. Gram was still steamed by the spiritual-advice snafu and wanted us to drop her by the Better Business Bureau so she could file a complaint. Kimmie was battling a headache. Taylor was crabby be-cause there was still the matter of the wedding dress. Sophie was preoccupied, stuck in the middle of a per-plexing puzzle. And me? I was split on the conundrum I currently found myself in: Part of me was totally ticked off that my vacation time in Arizona was being threatened, while another part of me—the part that loved saying “I told you so,” despised victim status and wanted to jettison Shelby Lynn Sawyer out of my brand-new office chair—was determined to get to the bottom of the Kookamunga connection.

As we pulled up I noticed the Townsend rental SUV was parked on the street outside Aunt Kay’s house.

“Oh, I bet Joe’s here!” Gram said, and I wondered who had provided chauffeur services. My heart rate in-creased. From anger, I told myself. (Okay, so I fib onoccasion. Even to myself. Okay, so sometimes espe-cially to myself.)

“I wonder what he’ll think when I tell him I still don’t have no dress,” Gram said.

“I don’t imagine Rick will care much one way or the other,” I said.

“Rick? I’m talking about Joe!” Gram said, and I felt my cheeks warm.

“That’s who I meant,” I said.

We piled out of the car and made our way into the house. I was anxious to get Uncle Ben aside and let him have a crack at Kookamunga, and motioned to Sophie that I was heading out to Uncle Ben’s studio. She nodded and made her way over to where Uncle Ben sat conversing with my father. I barely gave Ranger Rick any notice at all as I marched by him. He sat in a nearby chair with one Nike-covered foot rest-ing on a blue jean-clad knee, looking very southwest-ern in a turquoise three-button polo shirt, his black shades sitting on the top of his dark head. Honest, I hardly noticed him at all.

I said a quick “Hullo, how’s it goin’?” to the other occupants of the room and escaped to Uncle Ben’s room. He’d done a decent job of clearing away the de-bris, and I scolded myself for not helping out.

I hurried over to the long table in the middle of the room and pulled my bag off my shoulders, set it on the counter and unzipped it. I carefully removed Kooka-munga and set him gently on the counter. I stood there for a long moment just looking at the fertility-enhancing fellow.

Less than a foot tall, the crude (in more ways than one) statue stood on a large base made to look like a rock or desert sand. Behind him was a large moon and a black silhouette cut out of not the prickly pear cac-tus that was indigenous to this area, but the taller, skin-nier, more familiar saguaro cactus from Sonoran re-gions. I put a fingertip on the figurine, softly tracing a path from his head to his phallus.

I’d watched
The Antiques Roadshow
. I’d seen people bring in items that looked like rejects from the local thrift shop their Great-great-aunt Ernestine had given them—or a piece they picked up for five bucks at a garage sale—and walk away stunned when they learned their little impulse purchase was worth thousands of bucks. It could happen.

I cocked my head and continue to appraise the ob-ject before me. Could I be looking at a priceless work of art created by a master? A genuine artifact from prehistory that ended up somehow in a dusty little roadside stand—and, as luck would have it, in my hot little hands?

“Okay, Kooky.” I tapped his Johnson. “Spill it. I want to know all your secrets,” I said.

“What’s this? A Tressa Turner testicular torture tech-nique designed to extract the truth from the well-endowed males in her life?” I heard from behind my right shoulder. “I’m one part intrigued and one part fearful as hell.”

“You forgot one part jackass,” I added, wondering why my Ranger Rick radar hadn’t picked him up.

Rick moved to stand beside me. He lifted the statue and turned him around, examining Kooky from vari-ous angles.

“And you’re convinced this is the little prize every-one is after?” he asked. “Gotta tell you, Calamity, I’m not seeing the attraction.”

I grabbed Kooky from Townsend and set him back on the table. “That’s because you’re not an expert in objects of art,” I told him. “You’re more of an author-ity on wet T-shirts, NCAA tournament brackets, andridiculous reptiles, so I’ll leave the art appraisals to ex-perts like Uncle Ben.”

Townsend grinned. “The rice guy?” he asked.

“
My
Uncle Ben, you dorfwad,” I told him.

He looked at me. “You’re going to have your Uncle Ben assess that thing’s worth?” He pointed at Kooka-munga. “Art expert or not, I can tell you exactly what it’s worth. Fifty hard-earned ranger bucks,” he said. “And that’s with a bobble head thrown in,” he added.

“I’ll file your considered opinion where it belongs,” I told Townsend. “In the cabinet right next to my gammy’s fleet enemas and glycerin suppositories.”

Townsend winced. “Thanks for the visual,” he said. “I thought maybe in the light of day you’d reevaluate your hasty conclusion of the other night.”

I shook my head. “On the contrary. This day’s events have only served to reinforce my earlier theory,” I told him. “That’s why I’m having Uncle Ben take a look at this piece. Something about it has aroused a whole lot of interest.”

“Interesting choice of words, considering the fel-low’s obvious attributes,” Townsend observed. I made a face. “So, what happened today that makes you think you’re right about Special K here?” he asked.

I explained about the encounter with the roadside vendor. Townsend stared at me once I’d finished.

“You went back to that roadside stand and grilled the sales lady?” he asked.

I nodded. “And she freaked out, Townsend!” I told him. He nodded. “She was scared to death!”

“I know the feeling,” he said. “You can be pretty frightening at times.”

I frowned. “Not ofme, you lunatic. The bad guys. She clearly felt threatened if she disclosed any information.”

“So, she didn’t really tell you anything, right?” Town-send said. “And you’re interpreting that refusal as the result of something with sinister overtones,” he said.

“You didn’t see the woman, Townsend,” I pointed out. “Ask Sophie. She picked up on the vibes right away, too. We were both looking over our shoulders the rest of the time, I’ll tell you that,” I told him. “It al-most spoiled my meal at The Wrangler. As it was, I couldn’t do justice to my dessert.”

Townsend shook his head and was about to add what I suspected was another typical rejoinder when Uncle Ben and Sophie joined us.

“Well, Tressa, Sophie here tells me you’ve got an art piece you’d like me to take a look at,” Uncle Ben said, and I nodded, watching Townsend fold his arms and lean his hips against the edge of the table.

“As a matter of fact, yes I do, Uncle Ben,” I re-sponded. “For a number of reasons I think this object may be of some value,” I told him. “I’m hoping you can confirm that.”

“Well, let’s have a look at this objet d’art,” he said, and I moved aside so he could get a good look at Kookamunga.

Uncle Ben’s steps faltered as he approached the table. His eyebrows came together above his nose. He pulled his eyeglasses from his pocket, stuck them on his nose and bent down in front of the figure. He got one of those
Who cut the cheese?
looks on his face and straightened. He looked at me and then at his daugh-ter. He picked Kookamunga up as Townsend had done earlier, turning him this way and that as he in-spected the idol.

I held my breath as he looked at my discovery for several long minutes.

“You paid how much for this?” he asked, and I felt my breath hitch in my throat.

“Fifty dollars,” I said.

“
My
fifty dollars,” Townsend elaborated.

“I see.” Uncle Ben set Kookamunga down and bent over to take another long look at him. After several more anxious moments, he straightened and removed his eyeglasses.

“Then you’ve got a problem, Missy,” he said, and I stared at him.

“I do?” I asked.

He nodded. “Because this little eyesore on a good day should only bring about half that,” Uncle Ben an-nounced. I blinked.

“Come again,” I said. “You mean to say Kookamunga is basically worthless?”

“Kookamunga?” Uncle Ben frowned. “Who the dev-il is Kookamunga?”

I pointed to Kooky. “That’s Kookamunga.”

“Oh.”

“He’s not priceless?” I asked. “Not an authentic arti-fact? Not a one-of-a-kind find?”

Uncle Ben scratched his head. “He’s certainly not priceless, but he may well be a one-of-a-kind item,” he said, picking Kooky up again and looking at him. “I sure haven’t seen anything quite like it—him,” he said. “And I’d remember a piece like this,” he said with a frown. “That I’m certain of.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I was so sure, so con-vinced he was a valuable commodity—a hot property—and that’s why all the theft attempts were occurring. I don’t get it.”

I avoided eye contact with Townsend, afraid I’d see the
Good ol’ Calamity, she’s always good for a laugh
look.

“Don’t feel alone, Tressa.” Sophie tried to comfort me. “The way that woman acted I was convinced we’d found ourselves in a
Da Vinci Code
remake. Well, maybe parody,” she amended. “She sure acted weird enough.”

“People have a habit of doing that after even limited exposure to the cub reporter here,” Townsend ob-served. He started to twitch. “As a matter of fact, I was perfectly normal before I started hanging around the Turner household,” he said. “Now look at me.”

Sophie tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle. Nice.

“And you’re sure the statue has no significant value, Uncle Ben?” I asked, just to make sure.

“Other than the obvious one as a conversation piece?” He shook his head.

“He could also make a nifty holder for your house keys,” Townsend said, eliciting more giggles from So-phie.

“Single, easy on the eyes, and funny, too. What more could you want in a guy?” she observed rhetorically.

“Fair play, fidelity and unconditional faith in one’s instincts, for starters,” I suggested, picking up Kooka-munga. “Or at the very least, a reasonable pretense of same.”

Townsend unfolded his arms and moved away from the table. “If I were the kind to ignore my sense of fair play and hit below the belt, I’d probably say something like ‘Give it up, Calamity, no one is that good of an ac-tor,’ ” he commented, and Sophie barely managed to contain her mirth. Uncle Ben didn’t even try. He slapped Townsend heartily on the shoulder and they headed back upstairs.

Sophie moved beside me. “I’m sorry your theory didn’t pan out,” she said.

“Thanks. Me, too,” I said. “Do you think I’m flaky, Soph?” I asked as I stuck Kookamunga back in my bag.

She seemed surprised at my question. She looked at me. “Flaky? No,” she said, shaking her head. “A free spirit? Gotta go with a big yes there.”

I nodded. “I wouldn’t tell just anyone this, Soph,” I said, “but being a free spirit can get kind of lonelysometimes. Especially when everyone else thinks my compass is all out of whack,” I told her.

“We all march to the beat of a different drummer at times,” Sophie said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “The secret is to not march too far afield.”

I nodded.

“I’m glad I could confide in you, Sophie,” I said, hugging her back. “It’s good to have someone to share things with.” I stepped back and looked at her for a second. “Suppose I return the favor. Care to tell me how a struggling college coed can afford a seven-hundred- dollar designer handbag?” I asked.

Sophie’s smile faltered. “I told you before. Tips,” she said, and took the stairs three at a time.

As I watched her flee, I shook my head. I’d cracked tougher nuts than Sophie. Before we set sail for a week at sea I’d find out just how my cousin made all her moolah. And maybe put in an application of my own.

I sulked for a few more minutes and decided this might be a good time to place a call back home to Stan—absence making the heart grow fonder and all. It was two hours later back in Iowa, so Stan should still be at his desk. I figured Aunt Kay wouldn’t mind since it was a business call. I dialed Stan’s direct number.

“
Grandville Gazette
. Stan Rodgers’s desk. Shelby Lynn Sawyer speaking. How may I help you?”

I sank onto Uncle Ben’s stool. “Shelby? What are you doing answering Stan’s phone?” I asked. “Is every-thing okay?”

“Who is this?” Shelby Lynn asked, and I muted the naughty word that sprang to my lips before it could escape.

“It’s Tressa, of course,” I said. “What are you doing at Stan’s desk? I forgot to warn you, he’s pretty territo-rial about his work area. He’s been known to use aWeb cam to catch people invading his turf,” I warned the rookie.

“Oh, not to worry. Stan gave me permission to use his computer to scan and print some things,” she said.

“He did?” The only thing in Stan’s office he’d ever given me permission to use was the door. “Uh, could I talk to him for a minute?” I asked, getting ready to rip into him for the double standard.

“Oh, he’s not here,” Shelby Lynn said. “He took the afternoon off.”

I felt my sphincters pucker.

“Stan took the afternoon off?” I repeated, incredu-lous. Stan the man Rodgers, who hadn’t voluntarily missed a day in five years? Who refused to stay home the afternoon before his colonoscopy and stunk up the newspaper office with frequent trips to the john? Who was late for his own surprise birthday party get-ting quotes for an article on how many seats the new high school auditorium should hold? That Stan?

“Yep. He said something about going fishing. I told him we could hold down the fort,” Shelby Lynn said.

“I’ll just bet you did,” I muttered.

“What’s that? The connection went funky,” Shelby Lynn said.

“I said, ‘I’ll just bet he’s glad you’re on the job,’ ” I said. “So, everything’s cool at that end? No crises to handle? No fires to put out—well, apart from the three alarm one that made the newspaper there, of course,” I added. “Everything cool?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Shelby Lynn said. “How about on your end? Are Joe and Hannah getting excited? The big leap is just days off.”