Calamity Jayne Rides Again (23 page)

"If I'd had my camera," I told Manny. "I'd have nailed them with hard evidence."

Manny almost chuckled. At least, I thought it was a chuckle. I'd never seen Manny smile before, let alone laugh, so I wasn't
real sure. "Camera versus blade," he said. "You're funny. Barbie."

"Blade?" I gulped. "What blade?" Since my run-in with that murderer, I had issues with knives and the people who wielded them.
"Knives aren't allowed on the fairgrounds!" I told him. "It's posted at all the gates!"

Manny shook his head. "What knife?" he repeated. "The knife sharp enough to slide in and out between your ribs before you
can say, 'Knives aren't allowed,'" Manny elaborated. "That's what knife."

I grimaced. Manny didn't mince words.

"Barbie needs to be more careful," he went on. "Or start packin' serious heat," he suggested.

I shook my head. "Firearms aren't allowed either," I told him with a long sigh.

"'Zzat right?" Manny replied, rubbing his chin. "Huh."

I stared at him. "You aren't packing now, are you?" I looked him over but couldn't see any bulges that didn't have a physiological
reason to be there.

"So, your great-grandpa was a cop," Manny said, completely changing the subject. I tried to catch up.

"How did you know that?"

"Your grandma," he said, and started to walk away.

"About that," I said, hurrying after him, having to run to keep up. "What kind of business exactly did you have with Gram
and Joe? I get kind of nervous when the two of them collaborate. You remember what happened to you when the two of them decided
to work together?" I saw him wince, but he kept walking. "Just tell me if they're into something that might give Joe the chance
to indulge his fantasy obsession with crime-fighting."

"Seems harmless enough," Manny responded.

I frowned. "That's what I thought the time you ended up being Maced," I told him. I grabbed his elbow and was carried along
with his powerful stride. "You gotta tell me what they're up to, Manny!"

He stopped suddenly, and I was left dangling on his arm. "They wanted some expert advice on how to get the goods on a cheating
spouse," he said.

I stared at him. "Cheating spouse?"

"Your uncle."

"Uncle Frank?"

"Guess so."

"They plan to get the goods on Uncle Frank? What else did they say?"

"They talked a lot about leverage," Manny said.

"Leverage?"

"Proof of infidelity to use in court. Dates and times. Photos."

I slapped my head. "My camera! Those ... those stinkers! Like they were ever gonna take a picture of the big boar for me.
Ha!"

Manny looked down at me, one eyebrow slightly raised above the other. "Big boar, Barbie?"

"Never mind," I said. "I need to track down those two crackpots before they do even more damage to an already shaky marriage."
I rubbed my forehead, all thoughts of thick juicy steaks and buttered taters ripped asunder by two senior citizens who thought
they were running the Cheatin' Heart Detective Agency.

Lord have mercy.

CHAPTER 19

I decided the best place to waylay my grammy and read her the riot act was the trailer; she'd have to return there sometime,
so I planned to lie in wait. I took the trolley up to the campgrounds (thank goodness it was a different driver this time)
and found the trailer unlocked and unoccupied. I wouldn't want this to get around, but we often leave our RV unlocked. We've
never had a problem with break-ins. Folks who pull their trailers or set up tents in the fair campgrounds are either retired
persons or folks raising families, and generally low-risk when it comes to burglary. At least, that's what we tell ourselves.
Besides, with so many people coming and going, it's impossible to issue enough trailer keys.

I jumped in the shower and hosed off, donned an oversized Cyclone T-shirt and shorts, took a long swig of cranberry juice
from the container (please don't tell my mom), and then decided I'd sack out and try to get some sleep before Gram got back.
I flopped down on the sofa, stuffed a pillow under my bed, and grabbed the maroon throw that took my grammy ten years to complete
and represented her solitary foray into needlework that couldn't be completed on her ancient Singer sewing machine, and hoped
I wouldn't dream about switchblade knives that could slide between my ribs like butter or nosy nellies who got picked up on
criminal trespass charges for sticking their cartilage where it didn't belong.

I dreamed instead of creeping vines: long green lengths of foliage that curled around my ankles and slid up my leg to wrap
themselves around me. In my dream I reached out to pull the clinging flora away from my body only to find it creeping back
to ensnare me. I finally woke to a dark room, with light from the campground outdoors shining through the window near the
sofa. I yawned and punched the button on my watch to read the time.

Ten p.m., and still no Grammy. I frowned. Where was everyone? I wondered, deciding I might as well continue to veg out on
the couch for a while; the family would be draggin' in any time.

I had just closed my eyes when I felt myself slipping back into the coiling plant dream. I could feel it twirl around one
ankle ever so slowly. I shook myself out of the dream and opened my eyes. I lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking how
weird it was to fall back asleep and into the same dream so quickly, when I suddenly felt something slide against my ankle.
I frowned. I was awake, wasn't I? I sat up and looked down at the outline of my afghan-covered torso. I felt something slip
around my ankle, and flipped on the built-in wall lamp. Slight movement between my feet made faint ripples in the covers.
Curious, I pulled the blanket off and threw it to the floor. There, curling around the bottom of my right leg was a thick,
dark ankle bracelet. And it was moving.

The scream that ripped from my lips was loud enough to wake my grammy from a sleep after she'd polished off three margaritas
(without my parents' knowledge, of course) and was just a tad above the decibel range that recommended ear plugs, but not
yet to the shattering-glass stage. I'm not sure, but I think I may have broken a record for the longest scream not part of
a
Chainsaw Massacre
movie, too, but since there is no way to verify that, I guess we'll never know.

I catapulted to my feet and frantically shook my right foot, trying to dislodge my serpentine ankle adornment from hell. I
hopped up and down on one leg like a psycho pogo stick. I finally managed to fling the long, butt-ugly snake to the floor
and onto Grammy's prized, one-of-a-kind, crocheted blankie.

I watched as the uninvited trailer guest recovered, far more quickly than I did, and headed again in my direction. I screamed,
but resisted the temptation to jump up on the sofa, thinking that if I didn't corral the cunning creature before it slithered
out of sight, it would be the very devil to find. And if the reptile wasn't removed from the premises, this here good ole
girl wasn't about to step another foot in the trailer ever again—even if I was wearing chest-high waders and carrying a ten-foot
electric cattle prod.

Frantic, I stared at the dark, reddish-brown, blotchy rope that moved swifter than a lightweight adolescent did going down
the giant fair slide, and wondered how on earth I could contain the speedy serpent—and yet not come within arm's length of
it. I spotted the Swiffer mop thingy that my mom uses to clean the linoleum in the kitchen and dining areas. It's so handy:
You just stick a pad on the bottom, push it into the slots, and take off. Dust and dirt stick to it like Hillary sticks to
her hubby at social functions. Then you pull off the pad and pop that in the trash. Ah, the benefits of good old American
ingenuity!

I grabbed the mop and quickly clobbered the snake on the head a couple of times. Garnering an evil hiss in return, I clobbered
it again, praying my handy little moppy thingy didn't snap before I stunned the snake into submission. He flipped over, exposing
a cream-colored belly with dark markings, then quickly recoiled. I could swear I heard a rattling sound.

It suddenly tried to change direction on me, heading for the bedroom, and I raked it back onto grammy's blanket, thumping
it a couple more times for maximum stun effect, then quickly brought the edges of the blanket together in a makeshift bag,
trapping the still-squirming creature inside.

"That will teach you to invade my space," I told the writhing bag, which I held at arm's length while praying my grammy's
handiwork was stronger than it appeared. I was heading for the outdoors to release my captive when the door burst open and
Rick Townsend filled the doorway. Behind him I could see my grammy and the brim of a goofy, bright yellow hat that I knew
could only belong to Joe.

"We heard screaming. What the hell are you doing?" Townsend said, stepping into the trailer with Gram and Joe on his heels.

I shoved the sack of snake at him. "Your job," I said. "The good ranger will have one sack of five-foot squirming serpent
to go," I told him, and he continued to stare at me. "Snake!" I yelled, pointing to the bag and jumping up and down.

He took the makeshift bag. "What the hell?" He started to open the top to look in.

"Not in here!" I yelled, pushing him past Grammy and Joe and out on the tiny porch.

"What the heck is Townsend doing with my afghan?" Gram asked. "It took me almost a decade and ninety-two calluses to crochet
that thing."

"He's releasing a snake from it," I told her. "At least I

hope he is. Knowing Townsend, he'll be playing with the damn thing." Now that I'd faced my fear and vanquished my foe, my
legs were like Slinkies. I wanted to sit but wasn't ready to trust the couch. Where there was one snake...

"What the Sam Hill was a snake doin' in my blankie?" Gram asked.

"Scaring your granddaughter out of what little wits she has left," I told her.

"How'd it get in here?" Gram asked. She looked at me. "Did you let it in?"

I stared back at her and started nodding. "Yeah, Gram, being such a longtime fan of the snake species, I saw this one passing
by and decided to invite him in for a spell. Hello! I have no clue how he got in."

I flicked on the outside light. "Is it poisonous?" I asked, looking on from a safe distance as Townsend examined the occupant
of the makeshift enclosure.

He shook his head. "It's a bull snake," he said. "They're harmless—actually, one of the most beneficial snakes in the Midwest.
They consume a huge number of rodents."

I wrinkled my nose. Beneficial or not, a varmint crosses my threshold and it's snakeskin-boot time. "How did it get in?" I
also wanted to know.

Townsend shrugged. "In hot weather, they sometimes feel the air conditioning escaping from the bottom of a screen door and
will crawl up on the porch to curl right underneath the door's edge. If a person isn't paying attention, it would be simple
for it to slide right in after you." I shivered at the idea of possibly stepping right over a snake and not knowing it.

Townsend knelt and took another look in the bag. "What the hell did you do to him? He looks like he went a couple rounds with
a hawk."

"I used the Swiffer thingy on him," I explained,

pointing to my weapon of choice and wondering why the home invader was getting all the attention and the victim was left to
defend herself. "I had to subdue him somehow," I told the ranger, who was now holding the snake and examining him more carefully
than I did my checkbook math.

"First my one-of-a-kind blanket, and now your mom's Swiffer broom. What next?" Gram asked.

"You'd prefer I left him there in the bed with you for the night?" I asked. "I'm sure that can be arranged. Oh, Townsend,
it appears my grammy has developed a soft spot for Mr. Bull Snake. Do you suppose you could release him to her custody for
the night?"

Gram grunted. "Now, I wasn't complaining about the way you handled the situation, Tressa Jayne." My grammy backpedaled quicker
than a politician after he's been elected. "Just making observations."

I nodded. "You two are good at that, aren't you?" I said, remembering what I'd wanted to discuss with them earlier.

"What are you talking about, girlie?" Joe said, lighting up the night in his yellow shirt and matching hat.

"Observing. Manny tells me you two asked his advice on how best to ... observe and document your observations."

"What's she talking about, Pops?" Townsend said, getting to his feet, snake still in hand. "Tressa, what are you talking about?"

Joe gave me a panicked look and made a slashing motion across his throat. "You remember, Rick," the old man said, "Hannah
and I were going to take some fair photos for Tressa, since she's been working such long hours for Frank."

"Yes, I remember. But what does an ex-con biker have to do with taking fair photos? Does he have a hidden talent I don't know
about?" Townsend asked.

I nodded, thinking how he'd supported a traumatized, dangling blonde of average height and weight (hey, now, be nice) with
one meaty arm while sending two young yahoos packing without breaking his stride or breaking a sweat. That made him a pretty
gifted individual.

"He, uh, has had prior experience with photography," Joe explained, pulling a hankie from his back shorts pocket and wiping
his brow.

"What kind of experience?" Townsend asked. "Mug shots?"

Joe looked at Gram, then at me. "Actually, he really wanted to know about Tressa here," Joe said. I looked at him.

"Me? What would he want to know about me?"

Joe looked at Gram again and seemed to have difficulty with what came next. Not too hard to understand when you were spinning
a yarn more tangled than the threads in my grammy's maroon afghan.

"He wanted to know if you and Rick had an understanding," my grandma said, looking pleased with herself.

"An understanding?" I repeated, my brain still slow to recover full function after being forced to face my very own
Fear Factor
challenge. "An understanding about what?"

Gram patted my cheek. "A relationship, my dear," she said. "Don't be obtuse." This coming from a woman who, to this day, still
doesn't understand why Rock Hudson and Doris Day never married.

"Well, what did you tell him?" I asked, not believing the little cover-their-tails bit of fiction the two had concocted.

"Yes, what did you tell him?" Rick asked, much to my displeasure still coddling Mr. Swiffer.

"What could we tell him?" Joe asked. "We know squat. Except that you two set off sparks hotter than

Frank's belly burners." He stopped and slapped a hand to his mouth.

"Did you go ahead and eat one of those after you promised me you wouldn't?" Townsend said, placing the bull snake gently back
in the middle of the blanket and then tying the ends together.

"He absolutely did not," Gram interjected. "He split one with me," she said, making me once again eternally grateful that
Taylor would be the one with the pleasure of our grammy's nighttime company.

"What are you doing with Mr. Swiffer?" I asked Townsend, watching him pick up the wriggling bag.

"I'm gonna take him down to the DNR snake display, and put him in with another bull snake we have down there. Give him a chance
to recover a bit before I release him."

I sighed. "Ranger Rick, reptile rescuer," I said.

"Care to join me?" he asked. I considered it, snake notwithstanding, until I remembered the hug I'd witnessed between the
snake charmer here and my kid sister.

I shook my head. "I'm beat. Since your friend there kind of disturbed my nap, I think I'll turn in early."

He looked at me and seemed to want to argue, then nodded. "Have it your way," he said. "You heading back to the trailer, Pops?"
he asked Joe.

"I'll be along," his grandpa answered. "But don't wait up for me." He gave Gram a big wink and she giggled like a schoolgirl.

I waited until Townsend was out of earshot before I cut loose on the maniacal meddlers.

"What were you two thinking, following Uncle Frank around like friggin' paparazzi?" I said after I sat them down on the couch
like two recalcitrant kids. "Are you trying to submarine that marriage or what?"

"We're trying to save that marriage," Gram said. "That fool Frank is so dense when it comes to women, he don't see when a
woman is makin' a play for him—though why any woman would want him is one of them mysteries that will probably never be solved."

I paced back and forth in front of them. "Explain to me again how taking pictures of Uncle Frank in semi-compromising situations
is going to help his marriage."

"When a perpetrator is confronted with the evidence against him, he either comes clean, repents and reforms, or he chooses
to continue the activity until he's brought into a court of law and that same evidence convicts him," Joe explained. That
sounded way too law and orderly for my comfort.

"What court?" I asked. "Having a fling isn't illegal last I knew." Unless you did it in the Oval Office and then lied about
it under oath.

"
Divorce Court
," Joe said. "As in, proof of infidelity where the injured party gets the house, the car, and beaucoup alimony."