Calamity Jayne Rides Again (24 page)

"Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie aren't going to get a divorce," I told them.

"Not now," Gram said, giving Joe's hand a squeeze. "Frank Barlowe would be a fool to file once he got hold of the dirt we've
got on him. You know the saying a picture paints a thousand words? Well, our pictures speak volumes."

"Hand over the camera," I told them, holding out my hand.

"But we're not done. We still have five more days to photograph!" Gram objected.

"Hand it over," I repeated. "Or I tell Mom you switched the fat-free cream cheese with the regular kind," I told Gram.

"Oh, all right, here it is," Gram said, pulling the camera out of her less-than-fashionable fanny pack and handing it over.
"But don't you delete those pictures! They're evidence, you know."

"Evidence that you two spend too much time watching
Unsolved Mysteries
reruns and reading whodunits," I replied.

"I'm gonna call it a night, Hannah," Joe said, getting to his feet. "If your granddaughter is done chewing my back end, that
is," he added.

I nodded. "Go ahead," I told him, making a point of looking at his backside. "You're lookin' a little lean there, so I'm cutting
you some slack." I looked down at the camera, too tired to view their handiwork. "I suppose you two were so busy shooting
pictures of Uncle Frank not having an affair, you didn't get any for my fair feature," I said.

"Oh, we got your pictures, dear," Gram said, getting to her feet. "And that giant bull..." She shook her head, "I swear, his
testicles are the size of cantaloupes. Aren't they, Joe?"

I made a face. "You didn't get that in the picture, did you?" I asked.

Gram looked at Joe, and he shrugged.

"Well, it was kinda hard to miss 'em, if you know what I mean." And saying that, he left.

Half an hour later, tucked in my tiny little crypt at the front of the trailer, I thought about the snake and again wondered
how, of all the gin joints in all this campground, it had found its way into bed with me.

Townsend's explanation about the snake crawling in unnoticed was possible, but in view of the events leading up to the snake
scare my gut told me this was one of those Jaws moments. You know—as in, "This was no accident!"

I fell asleep about midnight, thinking that never, ever again would I complain about having the bed in the nose-bleed section
of the trailer.

CHAPTER 20

I ended up sleeping right through my wrist alarm and didn't awaken for my hoot-owl shift at the Emporium until nearly four.
I finally woke, took one look at my watch, said a few really bad words in my head, and slid off my bed. I threw on a blue
Country Chick T-shirt I'd laid out that featured an adorable, fluffy yellow baby chicky, and pulled on a pair of blue jeans,
shoving my feet into my walking shoes. I quickly gathered my keys, my camera, a cell phone, and a penlight flashlight. Hands
full, I prepared to depart.

As I was leaving, I caught a glimpse of Gram's pink fanny pack draped on the coat hooks by the front door. It had been kind
of nice to have my hands free, I thought, and that might well prove exceptionally handy if the need to defend myself arose.
Or, say, I wanted to eat a slice of pizza bread and wash it down with a diet soda at the same time. I looked back at the sleeping
occupants of the sofa bed, ready to leave the pack hanging if they woke before I'd pilfered it. (Hey, I have a reputation
to uphold that doesn't jibe with hot-pink fanny packs, folks.)

I lifted Grammy's pack off the hook and was out the door and down the hill before I let my breath back out. I jogged up to
the Emporium and stopped. The front door was standing wide open. I looked around for a friendly trooper-type patrolling the
fairgrounds, or even a hardworking sanitation technician picking up trash but didn't see either. I moved to the door and sidestepped
my way into the darkened restaurant, crouched in a defensive posture, hoping I looked like I was ready for action. I probably
looked more like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I sucked in my breath when I detected movement behind the counter. I could make
out the weak beam of a penlight at the cash register. Holy shine-oly, a robbery in progress!

I smacked myself around mentally for a moment, telling myself it was my fault the criminal had had the opportunity to break
into the Emporium in the first place, and that it wouldn't have happened if I'd been there, but I finally made up with myself
after I realized I'd probably have slept right through the break-in if I had been on the floor behind the counter. And how
totally lame would that have been if I'd been stepped on by the perp?

I heard some whispered swear words that seemed kind of wussie for any hard-boiled felon type, and decided the element of surprise
was a great advantage in a situation like this. Of course, so was a nine-millimeter, but with my luck, I'd shoot a hole clean
through my Skechers and obliterate a big toe. (I'm kinda partial to having two big toes. Face it: You're limited in footwear
choices when you're minus a big toe. No open-toe shoes ever again, no way.)

I reached out and grabbed a heavy metal napkin dispenser from the counter to my right, got a good grip on it, and hurled it
at the figure by the register, putting enough cheese on it to drop a moose.

Whack, pow, thump, crash! The dispenser hit the guy near the top of his head, and he dropped like the price of sidewalk salt
in late March.

I grabbed the push broom—hey, the Swiffer sweeper had done all right as a weapon—flipped on the lights, and crept around the
end of the counter, poised to pummel the person with the broom if the need arose.

The first thing I saw was a set of feet—large ones, and brightly colored, but not those of a clown. These feet were orange.
Shiny latex orange, complete with three long digits, the biggest positioned between two shorter ones, and a wee little digit
on the inside of the foot. The claws were painted a brilliant white. I peered at the things, trying to figure out how human-sized
fowl feet had ended up in the Emporium. I crept to the end of the counter, broom poised, and peeked around the corner... and
still couldn't figure out what the heck I was looking at.

A fully dressed chicken ("dressed" as in attire, not as in bread crumbs and sage seasoning) was sprawled out on the floor
below the open cash register. The prone pullet, I had to admit, was rather remarkable. The polished plastic fowl feet climbed
to knee-level on this human, and from that point on up came a blindingly white, shaggy and thick furry material constituting
poultry feathers. The head of the chicken, slightly askew, was totally radical: an imposing, large, yellow-orange beak, complete
with large black beak nostrils and flanked by ketchup-red wattles and a dramatic shiny red comb. Very striking. Large, eerily
pale turquoise-colored eyes were surrounded by a bright yellow ring and traced in black, and I have to confess here, their
penetrating gaze made me a bit uneasy.

I jabbed the hen with the brush end of the broom, but it didn't move. I wrinkled my brow. How did one wake a chicken? With
a cock-a-doodle-doo?

I prodded the horizontal chicken again and finally got a response. It moaned, and the latex-crowned head moved slightly. One
red latex-trimmed wing reached across and rubbed the forehead. Another soft moan escaped the beak.

Realizing that the chicken might be seriously injured and having a difficult time breathing inside the heavy head unit, I
decided I'd have to remove it. And once I did, I'd snap a couple of shots of the culprit just in case he flew the coop before
the cops arrived. (Now
that's
a legitimate pun.)

I ran to the Emporium kitchen, grabbed a filet knife—I was dealing with poultry, after all—and hurried back to my feathered
friend. Knife in my right hand, I reached out and slowly removed the chicken head from the body with my left.

"You have got to be kidding!" I hissed as I exposed the identity of Foghorn Leghorn, our pillaging poultry perp. I ran to
the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water, some ice, and a dish towel, and returned to the semiconscious chicken.

Wrapping some of the ice in the towel, I gently pressed it to the faux fowl's forehead, where an egg-sized knot was already
forming.

"If I've killed you, Frank Barlowe, Jr.," I said, "I'm gonna kick your feathered fanny all the way to the funeral home." I
felt tears trickle down my cheeks. "You hear?"

"Oh, ow! Hello? Hello?"

"Frankie!" I said, relief that he was conscious rippling through me. "Can you hear me? Open your eyes, Frankie!" I instructed.

"Tressa? Is that you?" He opened one eye.

I nodded, saying heavenly thanks that he could recognize me and was still able to see and speak. "Yes! It's me, Frankie."

He opened both eyes. "You look like hell," he said, and I grinned.

"Well, since that comes from a real cock-up, I'll consider the source," I told him. "What on earth are you doing here? Why
were you at the cash register? I thought you were a burglar."

My words drew a vigorous response from our chicken man, not unlike the one a chicken might make when a predator sneaks into
his henhouse. Frankie sat up, put one wing on the counter, and extended the other to me, and between the two of us, we managed
to get him to his shanks and then to his feet.

"We've been robbed!" Frankie said, one hand holding the ice bag to his head, the other rifling through the cash drawer. "Cleaned
out! Shit, shit, shit. They hit us again!" He kicked out with his large, orange latex foot.

I gave Frankie a real close look. He almost never used fowl (uh, I mean foul) language.

"Where the hell were you?" He turned to me, accusation apparent in his voice. "You were supposed to be watching the place!"

"I'm sorry!" I said. "I slept through the alarm. But don't take that tone with me, Chicken Boy. You have no idea what I've
been through tonight."

"Well, it can't be any worse than being knocked out with a blow to the head. What did you hit me with, anyway?"

I bent over and retrieved the stainless-steel napkin dispenser and handed it to him. "If it had been the thief I interrupted
instead of you, his goose would have been cooked," I told Frankie. "I didn't play four years of high-school softball for nothirt'.
So, did they really clean us out?" I asked.

Frankie nodded.

"How did you come to be here?" I asked. "Who's minding the mini-freeze?"

Frankie hesitated, rearranging the ice in the kitchen towel and pressing it back on his forehead. "Dixie," he said.

"You left our biggest competitor to guard our other concession stand? Isn't that like leaving the wolf to guard the henhouse?"
I asked, making a face at the inadvertent poultry reference. Frankie didn't seem to notice the play on words.

"I trust Dixie," was all he said.

"You never did say what you were doing here. If I'd been on the floor behind the counter and you came in, no telling what
I would have done to you," I told him.

"Something worse than knocking me out with the napkin dispenser?" he asked. He dabbed at his forehead again. "How bad is it?"

He looked like he had a goiter growing out of his forehead, but I wasn't about to tell him that. "Head bumps always look worse
than they are," I told him. "You can barely notice it."
With the chicken head on
, I didn't add. But it begged the question: "Why on earth are you wearing a chicken costume?"

Frankie moved to one of the benches along the far wall and eased into a seat—not an easy thing to do when you're wearing yards
of white feather fur. "Hello. I'm still working UC," he said.

"UC?"

"Undercover."

More likely under the care of a physician, I thought, but reminded myself I'd been in lockstep with Frankie in this asinine
adventure since day one, so what did that say about my mental faculties?

"Why a chicken?"

"I have to mix it up. You know, rotate between disguises. Change my UC character so as not to attract attention."

Yeah, nothing to notice about a six-foot chicken. Keep tellin' yourself that, Frankie, I thought.

"But why a chicken?" I asked again.

"It fits in with the fair. Kids love me. You should see them smile and come up and shake my hand when I walk around the fairground.
It's so neat."

"Where on earth did you find the costume?" I asked.

"I got it from Dix," he told me. "You remember when they used to call their business Cluck 'n' Chuck?"

I nodded. I used to call it Cluck 'n' Up-Chuck, which had truly endeared me to Dixie and her daddy. "Yeah. So?"

"They kept the mascot costume. Dixie told me about it, and I figured it would be the perfect way to blend in. I thought, Who's
gonna hassle a chicken? And boy, was I right. They love me down at the Egg Council booth."

I felt a brain aneurysm coming on. "So, why did you come to the Emporium again?"

"I was starving," Frankie said. "I figured I'd get something to eat before the morning shift arrived."

"Couldn't you just chew on your wing or drumstick?" I asked with a snort.

"Funny," Frankie snapped. "So, what have you learned so far?"

"Well, I've been threatened by the Li boys, who desperately want me to jump ship and try to convince your father to sell—to
their father, naturally," I said, filling him in on my encounter with the two hooligans. "And there's always Luther Daggett
and his cantankerous—" I stopped, remembering that Frankie had professed his love for Luther Daggett's daughter, a development
I was still trying to get my head around.

"Dixie is not involved," he told me. "I know she isn't." Oh, great. Yet another psychic, I thought.

"But sometimes I feel like someone is following me," Frankie added.

"Are you sure it's not Colonel Sanders?" I asked, performing another unladylike snort and enjoying the idea of chicken jokes,
as opposed to blonde ones, for a change. Okay, so I was still a tad traumatized over the fact that I'd almost killed my cousin,
and that made me a bit loopy.

"We may have more trouble," I told Frankie, snapping back to our conundrum. "Your folks aren't getting along, and there may
be another woman in the wings to be the springboard to the old my-wife-doesn't-understand-me breakdown." Wings? I winced at
my inability to keep from mentioning poultry parts.

"Another woman? What are you talking about?"

"Who, not what," I told him. "And the who is Trinkets and Treasures's Lucy. She and your dad have been spending quite a bit
of time together. And Gram and her old friend Joe have made it their pet project to... er, protect your folks from her. They
tailed your dad like two Keystone cops all day yesterday. I may have to devote some time to keeping the two of them out of
trouble, or all heck may break loose."

"Is it that bad?" he asked. "Are Mom and Dad really struggling?"

I nodded. "It's a tough time," I said. "But I know they love each other, so they'll get through this."

He looked at me. "Sometimes it takes more than love," he said, and I knew he wasn't thinking about his folks.

"You'd better get out of here," I told him. "No telling how early your dad will get here.

Frankie got to his feet. "I could use some shut-eye," he said.

"By the way, where do you roost?" I asked, curious now that he'd been assigned the mini-freeze surveillance.

Frankie blushed redder than his shiny red wattle.

"Uh, I'm ... uh, staying at Dixie's," he said.

"You're sleeping in the Daggetts' RV?" I yelled. "Isn't that a bit awkward? And, as much as I'm sure Luther Daggett would
be thrilled to have Dixie bring someone home to meet the folks, I gotta think even Luther is gonna question a six-foot chicken
on his daughter's arm."

Frankie handed me the towel with the now-melted ice. "Luther is gone most of the day," he said, and his blush deepened.

"You are being careful, aren't you, Mr. Leghorn?" I asked. "You don't want to hatch any baby chicks before you're ready,"
I warned.

Frankie gave me an angry look, grabbed his chicken head from the counter, and marched to the back door. "Cluck you!" he said,
and put on his head and slammed the door behind him on the way out.

Wow! Beneath the ruffled feathers of Sir Cluck-n-Up-Chuck beat the heart of a hawk—well, a chicken hawk.

Who knew?