Calamity Jayne Rides Again (26 page)

Townsend rubbed a tanned jaw. "Because I don't intend to insert myself into a highly personal matter that is clearly between
a husband and his wife—and I suggest you do the same, Tressa."

I rolled my eyes. Townsend was always full of s... suggestions.

"All this marital discord has put me off my bagel," Gram said and got to her feet. "How about you, Joe?" she asked. "You put
off, too?"

"I confess I'm having a difficult time chewing mine," Joe admitted. "But I could go for a warm cinnamon roll. If you're up
to it We covered a lot of ground yesterday."

"I'm fine," Gram assured him. "I'll just go grab my fanny pack."

I made a face when I realized her fanny pack was still strapped around my gut. I emptied it with one hand and unhooked it
with another, sliding it along the picnic bench until it was a safe distance from me.

"Here it is, Grammy. You must have left it outdoors." I handed it to her.

"Thank you, dear," she said, and patted my arm. "You're a good granddaughter. I need to tinkle, then we'll be off," she told
Joe. He stood.

"Come to think of it, I'd better make a quick stop, too. The prostate ain't what it used to be."

When they were gone, I smiled at the ranger across from me. "Did you hear my grammy, Townsend? She said I was a good granddaughter."
I did a dimple thing with an index finger on each cheek. "That's me. A good girl."

Townsend snickered. "Yeah, right. A good girl who pilfers from her grandmother, then lies about it. A good girl who plays
detective and then plays fast and loose with the truth when questioned about it. A good girl who has more secrets than the
CIA. You're good, all right," he said.

I looked over at the guy I called such things as carp cop and bass buster, and with whom I'd made an outrageous raccoon tattoo
bet earlier this summer and sighed. Someday I really needed to sit down and figure out when I was planning to attain adulthood.
But for now I shrugged. I was still several years behind Craig; I'd worry about it when I was his age.

"This good girl has a favor to ask," I told Rick. "And it involves one of those secrets you just referred to."

"Go on," Townsend said slowly, as if not quite sure he really wanted to hear.

I told him about the break-in at the Emporium that morning and how I'd run into Frankie, adding that he was in disguise at
the time and that was why I'd beaned him.

"Was he hurt?" Townsend asked.

"There was an egg-sized lump forming," I admitted, wincing at yet another fowl joke. "But he seemed okay."

"He should have seen a doctor," Townsend said, and I could only imagine how the attending physician would have reacted if
I'd walked in with a tall, lanky chicken in hand.

"And your uncle is cool with this?" Townsend asked.

"Probably he knew I'd go ahead and find a way to watch the joint anyway," I said. "He got all huggy and friendly when he found
out we'd been watching his places." I shivered. "It was creepy."

"So you're gonna do this with or without my help, right?" Townsend asked.

I nodded. "I have to," I told him. "For the family."

He looked at me for a second. "What's in it for me?" he asked.

"Apart from the pleasure of my company all night?" I batted my eyes at him.

"Yeah. Apart from that," he replied. I stopped the eye thing. Apparently, compared to Taylor, my flirting was more closely
read as dry-eye syndrome. "What's in it for me?" he asked again.

I chewed my lip. "Food. Conversation. We could play poker."

Townsend's eyebrow did an up-the-flagpole move. "Strip?" he asked.

"In your dreams," I told him. "Oh, but I'll throw in one promise to butt out and let Craig and Kimmie try to handle their
own marital issues."

Townsend considered the package I'd put on the table.

"Pinky-swear?" he asked, cocking his little finger in my direction.

I stuck my finger out and we locked digits. "Pinkyswear," I said, feeling the heat from the paltry contact as if someone had
lit a sparkler way too close for comfort.

I made the mistake of looking into Townsend's eyes and imagined I saw my own heat reflected there, even magnified. I suddenly
remembered the night Townsend had wanted to be alone in the Emporium and had to wonder if planning to spend the night with
him there the following night was such a hot idea after all.

I'm a good girl, I am
, I reminded myself.

Keep tellin' yourself that, Tressa.

CHAPTER 22

I spent the remainder of the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon dead to the world. My mother insisted I take the back
bedroom to catch up on my rest, and one doesn't argue with my mother. Besides, I wasn't crazy enough to refuse a queen-sized
bed for one the size of an army cot.

I roused around three and padded to the bathroom, then out into the living area, but no one was about. I decided this would
be an ideal time to get some additional photos for the fair insert for the
Gazette
. I sure didn't want to have to end up running a picture of a bull with melon-sized male parts. I wasn't sure what kind of
reaction I'd receive from the older readers in my small town, but the youngsters would have a field day.

I took a quick shower, secured my hair in a French braid down the center of my back, and dressed in denim shorts and a white
T-shirt with a pair of Indian pink and turquoise Tony Lama boots on the front. Way cool boots. Though, like, four hundred
and fifty dollars or so beyond my present means. Still, the T-shirt only cost nineninety-five, so I was okay. I pulled on
some white socks and slipped into my boots and was ready to go.

I raided the refrigerator and found a container of ham salad and some bread, and made a quick sandwich. I washed that down
with a bottle of water, then collected my camera and keys and sunglasses and stood trying to figure out how I was going to
carry everything with me. I found myself thinking that a fanny pack wasn't all that horrid of an invention. It beat a backpack
hands down.

I rifled through the tiny closet, trying to find something that would transport my valuables efficiently. On tiptoes, I reached
up on the closet shelf and found two umbrellas, a Hawkeye baseball cap, and, to my amazement, pulled out a bright red fanny
pack, the one that Gram had worn at last year's fair and had sworn Abigail Winegardner had pinched at the Labor Day parade.
I searched through it and discarded a couple of toothpicks wrapped in clear plastic, a really old package of Spearmint gum,
three plastic-wrapped star mints, and eight dollars and twenty-seven cents.

I wrote a quick note for Frankie to let him know his dad was now on board and tucked it in my back pocket. I strapped on the
tomato-red fanny pack with almost no degree of shame and filled it with my necessities. I'd just meander through the fair
and snap whatever jumped out at me, I told myself, sticking on a khaki visor and fairly dancing out the door, happy to finally
have some time to enjoy my surroundings. I'd call it a night early, I told myself, as I might not get much sleep the following
night, bunking up with Rick Townsend. All alone. All night. Just the two of us. I stared down at my feet. Geez, my toes were
curling already!

I waved to the shuttle riders as I headed down to the fairgrounds, content to walk, my stride light and bouncy. Next I skipped
to the horse barn, located my cousin's private little message board, lifted the poster,

and discovered a note from Frankie. I replaced his with mine, then skipped back out onto the sidewalk. Life was good. I opened
Frankie's note and scanned it.

Olde Mill Stream. Nine sharp. Come alone.

I rolled my eyes. Who'd Frankie think he was, anyway—Deep Throat? I seriously hoped he wouldn't come dressed as a chicken
to the Tunnel of Love ride. A chicken escorting a cowgirl wearing a bright red fanny pack was bound to attract attention.

I spent a delightful afternoon on my own, with a quick stop at the mini-freeze to say hi to Mom, then was back on my mission
to find photos for Stan. I snapped more than a few equestrian events. (Okay, so I'm biased—tell me the mainstream media isn't.)
I shot some really disgusting pictures of the pie-eating contest and one of my old friend, the Tooterville Trolley. I got
the neatest photo of a kindergarten-age girl with long blond pigtails, her face stuck in a big pink mass of cotton candy,
and one of the talent show in progress, where a high-school girl decked out in cute cowgirl attire sang—or rather, tried to
sing—the "Boots Are Made for Walkin'" song.

I found myself outside Lucy's Trinkets and Treasures, and I wandered through the stalls, handling the assorted mood rings,
different-colored bike horns, and fiddling with the crepe-paper fans and tiny little dream catchers.

"Well, look who's gracing my humble stand," I heard, and noticed Lucy near the back of one of her larger tents on a stool
near the cash register. "Find anything of interest?" she asked.

"Lots of interesting things, but no money," I told her. "How's business?" I asked. Every concessionaire always wants to know
how others' businesses are faring so they know if a downward trend is "due to the economy, stupid," or their stupid concession.

"Fair to middlin'," Lucy said. "The weather has cooperated so far, so that helps. Everything settling down over at Frank's?"

I shrugged. "Sure, yeah, everything is back to normal," I lied, thinking that if Lucy thought she was going to pull any information
about Uncle Frank from me, she was living in La La Land. A tiny toddler grabbed a cowboy hat from a table down a piece and
stuck it on his head. It dropped over his eyes and made his cute little ears stick out. I took my camera and snapped a picture.

"So, you're picture-taking," Lucy said—stating the obvious, I thought. "Isn't that the same camera your grandma had yesterday?
She said she was taking pictures for a scrapbook or something."

More like for a civil action.

"Gram wants to capture some memories," I explained. Or manufacture some.

"Funny. Everywhere I went, Hannah and her friend turned up. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were following me." She
laughed. I joined in with a fake laugh of my own.

"For folks of a 'certain age,' they do get around," I said. "But they're basically harmless." It was a lie. The pair was about
as harmless as termites in a new construction project. "Well, I still need to snap a couple more photos for this fair article
I'm putting together," I told her, "so I'll see you around." I walked away, thinking that the private eyes hadn't been private
enough if Lucy kept spotting them.

I spent a leisurely afternoon wandering the fairgrounds. At eight-thirty I stopped in at the Emporium to see if Craig and
Kimmie were getting along any better.

I entered and took a seat at the counter. Craig was handling the food orders and Kimmie the customers. The place was still
pretty busy, and I considered helping out until I realized most everyone had been served and was at the consuming stage.

"You want something?" Kimmie asked. I shook my head.

"No, but thanks for asking," I said. "I feel like a real patron."

She smiled. "Thanks for, well, you know," she said, casting a look over her shoulder at her hubby.

"Think nothing of it," I replied. "I fully enjoy each and every opportunity to hassle my big brother that presents itself.
After all, Craig never misses a chance to diss me."

"So I've noticed," she said. "And I'm sorry I was a bit insensitive when we spoke earlier in the week. I didn't realize until
later how what I said about having Taylor talk to him must have sounded. It's just that you and Craig have a much more volatile
relationship."

"That stems from years of abuse at the hands of Caveman Craig and his Neanderthal sidekick, Rick Townsend. Of course, I always
retaliate in kind," I assured her.

She laughed. "Family dynamics are so—"

"Sucky?" I suggested, and she laughed again.

"Exactly."

I spent a few minutes giving Craig a hard time over his grill cleanup skills—or lack thereof—used the rest-room, and then
headed out to the Olde Mill ride to meet Frankie.

Located off to the right of the entrance to the midway, it was one of the oldest rides at the fair. I remembered Gram telling
how she and Paw Paw Will had made whoopie during the ride. I'd thought it was so cool to think of them as young lovers exploring
and acting on those potent emotions.

Until I'd learned they'd both been nearly sixty.

I stood for a moment and looked around, wondering when Frankie was going to show and if he was going to strut and scratch
the ground, walk bow-legged and with a gimp, or ride up on a unicycle.

"Pssst!" I heard, and looked over to see Frankie the clown get on one of the boatlike carts that moved through the ride. He
motioned for me to follow.

"Oh, good grief," I said, handing the ticket-taker my fare and taking a seat next to Frankie. The car moved forward and took
us into the darkened interior of the romantic ride, which featured glowing depictions of a shore at night.

"This is like really lame," I told Frankie. "Why all the Serpico stuff? Did you get my note about Uncle Frank? Did you read
his message?"

One minute Frankie sat there looking at me and the next he was all over me like Joe Townsend on a sticky bun.

I pushed him away. "Frankie! What are you doing?" I asked. "Have you lost your mind?"

I struggled with him for a few more seconds before he lunged for my torso again. "Stop it, Frankie!" I yelled. "Get your hands
off me!"

It took a few more seconds for me to realize that he wasn't after my beauteous bod but rather after my gaudy red fanny pack.
On the heels of that light-bulb moment came the realization that the groping clown was not Frankie.

The clown reached out and grabbed at the strap that ran around my waist and attempted to curl his fingers around it. I raked
my fingernails across his hand and he hissed and grabbed hold of my braid and yanked. Hard. I pulled at the other hand grabbing
at my gut area and managed to throw a strategically placed elbow (completely by accident, I assure you) that made harsh contact
with the cartilage of his nose. He howled and released me just long enough for me to propel myself out of the moving cart,
landing in the gross water filling the ancient attraction. I picked myself up out of the murky depths of the water ride and
ran toward the entrance, water filling my boots and soaking my socks. The realization that my boots were probably ruined made
me almost turn and face the Looney Toon, but I recalled a story I'd read about an evil clown that turned out to be a spidery
creature thingy the size of a house, so decided to keep running.

I heard splashing behind me and knew the clown was in wet pursuit. I hoped he ruined his big old clown shoes. Those had to
cost a pretty penny to replace, too.

I sprinted out of the Olde Mill ride and did one of those things that always makes me want to yell and throw popcorn at the
movie screen in the theater. Or I would if I was ever willing to part with my popcorn. I looked back. Yeah, I know, another
one of those, if-she's-that-dumb-she-deserves-to-die moments. I confess, I did it. I think it must be instinctive. When you're
being chased, you naturally want to know how close your pursuer is, so you turn around. Which of course always slows you down.
Like, how fast can you run in one direction when your head is turned the opposite way?

Which brings us to the next opportunity to yell at our heroine. She falls. Like you knew she would. She's lying there on the
ground, and the serial killer is getting closer and closer, and she's crawling along the ground on her hands and knees and
you're yelling, "Get up, you moron! He's gonna eat your liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti," but she's all sniveling
and pathetic.

Anyway, long story short, I looked back, crashed into a helium balloon concessionaire inflating a dinosaur for little Johnny,
and knocked him clean over, landing on top of him. T. Rex went sailing off into the cosmos. Little Johnny started wailing
"My balloon, my balloon!"

and reached out and kicked me with his tiny tenny. Behind the endearing toddler, Mom and Dad gave me dual what-have-you-done-to-our-little-Johnny
looks that, truth be told, were so unfriendly I figured I was safer in the hands of the Great Bobo.

I apologized, patted little Johnny on the head, and looked back to see Bobo rounding the snocone stand, so I took off again.
I spotted the Giant Slide and flew past the ticket-taker, bolting up the stairs as fast as my soggy, water-logged boots would
take me, figuring I'd just remain along the top of the slide and wait for the ticket-taker to alert the troopers that he had
a problem patron, and all would be well.

As I was pacing on the metal walkway across the top, the two boys I'd passed on the stairs on the way up gave me dirty looks,
put their mats down, jumped on them belly first, and took off. Their screams could be heard over two speakers attached to
poles on either side of the slide.

Microphones? I looked up and, sure enough, above me were mikes designed to pick up the screams of sliders on their descent.
If screams could be heard...

"
Uh, hello out there! Yoo-hoo
!" I heard my words bounce out of the dual speakers. "
Uh, my name is Tressa Turner, and, uh, I need your help. I'm being chased by Bobo the insulting dawn, so if you could please
get the troopers over here, I would appreciate it. Hello? Did you get that?
" I addressed my remarks to the ticket guy, a scruffy-looking young man in a black Pink Floyd T-shirt. "
Yoo-hoo! Did you get that? I need the police. Now!"

I stood there a few seconds, and stiffened as Bobo appeared around the corner.

"That's him
!" I yelled toward the microphone. "
That's the clown who tried to steal my fanny pack!"

I waited for the kid to take action and alert the cops, but to my disbelief, he merely exchanged a few words with the clown
and nodded. In total amazement—-and with no small sense of anxiety—I watched Bobo walk right past the slide concessionaire
and head for the stairs. And me!

I began yelling in earnest, calling for help; then I remembered I'd been told that "Help!" didn't work (ya think?) and started
yelling "Fire!" instead. That
did
attract attention. But still no action. A small crowd had gathered at the bottom of the slide, and Bobo the insane clown
was getting closer with every step.

He ascended the final stair and was at the opposite end of the walkway. He smiled, and not a happy here's-some-candy-and-a-pat-on-the-head
clown smile. An
It
smile.