Calamity Jayne Rides Again (28 page)

He crossed his arms. "We'll share,"' he said.

"Like hell," I responded.

"Just unzip it, and it should be big enough for us both to lie on."

"Maybe. In your fantasy world," I told him.

"Oh, for God's sake, Tressa," he said, crossing the floor, unzipping the bag, and unfolding it to full length. "I'm not going
to jump your bones on the floor of your uncle's ice cream shop," he said.

I raised an eyebrow. "Too tired from last night's exertions?" I said, tapping a sandaled toe.

"Too tired of your insecurities," he retorted, lying down and putting his arms under his head. "Are you going to turn the
lights out so we can get this over with or what?"

"Ah. Mr. Romance," I said, giggling, thinking that was more what a tired wife would say to her sex-seeking hubby after a day
chasing the kids.

He grinned. "I could be, you know."

"I'll take your word for it, Mr. Ranger, sir," I said. Then I flipped off the lights. "I'll just take your word for it."

I settled down on the side nearest the counter and lay there, listening to the whistle in Townsend's nose.

"I never noticed it before, but did you know you have a nose whistle?" the ranger asked.

"I do not!" I said.

"Do too."

I flicked on my penlight and shot the beam right in Rick's face.

"What the hell?"

"Just making sure you haven't migrated to my side of the bag," I said, turning the light off. "And I don't whistle."

I heard a big sigh from next to me, and could feel the heat of Townsend's body sink into the sleeping bag and work its way
over toward me. I turned on my side, realized I was facing Townsend, turned to my other side, and then flopped onto my back.

"I need to change sides," I told Townsend.

"What?"

"Sides. I need to be on that side."

"Why?"

"Because I like to sleep on my left side," I told him.

"So? Sleep on your left side."

"But that would be facing you," I explained.

"So?" he said again.

"I can't sleep when I'm facing someone."

"Oh? What are you gonna do when you get married? Turn your back on your poor spouse all night if he insists on taking the
wrong side of the bed?"

"My dearly beloved husband will insist that I take whichever side I am most comfortable with," I told him. "He will be understanding
and considerate of my feelings. He will be loyal and devoted and loving ..."

"Sounds like your mutts, Butch and Sundance, back home," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous," I snapped. "My dogs are hardly considerate. Have you seen my sofa? But my husband, my life partner,
will be gallant and tender, and always put me first. He will indulge my every whim and place me on a pedestal—"

"In other words, he'll be pussy-whipped."

I sat up. "That's not true! Sensitive doesn't mean wussie," I told him. "Anyway, you're not a woman," I pointed out. "You
don't know what women want."

He laughed. "I know that once you got your tender, gallant, indulgent, pussy-whipped husband, you'd be bored out of your gourd,"
he told me. "You, Tressa Jayne Turner—Calamity—need a challenge. Someone who isn't afraid to butt heads with you, or put up
with your line of BS; who'll love you unconditionally and deeply enough to tell you 'no' and mean it when it's in your best
interest, and who knows you enough to know you don't tolerate 'no' easily and, therefore, to follow through in order to save
you from yourself if necessary. In other words, a warrior."

I tried to think of a pithy comeback, but his words knocked the pith right out of me.

I lay back down. "Okay, all right, I was just making small talk. You know, daydreaming at night. Sheez. I didn't expect a
detailed analysis of my marital horoscope in response," I said. "But thanks."

Townsend let out a long, loud gust of air. Suddenly, I was grabbed and physically moved from my side of the sleeping bag,
across Townsend's body and to the other side. His residual body warmth in the fabric seeped into me like I'd just reclined
on a full-body heating pad. Against the light coming in the window I could see Rick's silhouette. He lounged on his side,
looking down at me.

"There's nothing going on between your sister and me," he said. "Other than friendship," he added.

I waited for him to continue.

"She couldn't sleep last night with your grandma having leg aches, so she asked if she could bunk at our place. Pops was already
asleep. She slept on the pull-out, and I took the single."

I still didn't say anything.

"Your sister just needs someone to talk to. I don't know why she picked me—"

I did. Who wouldn't choose to confide in the hottest guy in Knox County?

"But as I said before, we're just good friends."

Why wasn't that reassuring? Probably because every guy who'd said it to a wife or girlfriend ended up sleeping with the "good
friend" at one time or another.

"What about the clinch?" I finally asked.

"Clinch? What clinch? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I saw you two," I found myself saying, my voice really tiny and so unlike the way I'd imagined informing him he'd been caught—what
was it Gram called it: in flagrante delicto? In my mind's eye I'd seen me announcing it on banners trailing behind planes,
transmitting it via the cable news networks, or broadcasting it from the studio of the Iowa radio station that set up shop
at the fair each year, the fifty-thousand-watt voice of the Midwest. Instead, I sounded more like Oliver Twist asking for
more gruel.

"What do you mean, you saw us?"

"Tuesday. Sevenish. I was on the trolley on my way back to the campgrounds and it was then I witnessed— the clinch." I could
see Townsend's head move back and forth.

"I'm still not clear on this clinch thing. What do you mean, clinch?"

I rolled my eyes. Men are so clueless sometimes.

"A hug," I said. "No, not a hug. More like an embrace. But not just an embrace, a romantic embrace. An embrace with romantic
underpinnings—i.e., a clinch."

Townsend shook his head again, and I saw one hand go up to his forehead. Not a good sign.

"Listen, Tressa, what you saw might have been an embrace, but it had no underpinnings other than friendship. Your sister is
going through a difficult time. I'm just being her friend. That's all."

I sat up. "You've said that before. About Taylor having a difficult time. What's going on? Is she all right?"

Townsend lay back. "I'm sorry, Tressa, I'm not free to discuss her business."

"But I'm her sister!" I told him. "Maybe I can help."

"No, ifs not that kind of problem," he said. "It's something she needs to figure out for herself."

Exasperated and propelled by nosiness out of control and, of course, out of concern for my sister, I decided I'd do whatever
it took to get the truth out of Townsend. No matter how difficult and unpleasant the task.

I leaned over the prone ranger and let my breath fan his cheeks. I was glad I'd popped one of Gram's star mints earlier, after
the onion rings. "You do know I

want to support my sister, don't you, Ranger Rick— Rick? But how can I support her if I don't know what the problem is?" I
put a hand out and touched his jaw. "She wouldn't mind if you told me."

He laughed, a deep, husky laugh. "She specifically told me not to tell you," he said. I frowned.

"She needs her family at a time like this," I said, reaching down to kiss his cheek, then jerked back. "Ohmigosh! She's pregnant,
isn't she?" I yelled. "My baby sister is going to have a baby! What will this do to my parents? And my grammy! And wait 'til
the congregation at Open Bible hears about this—"

"Oh, for God's sake, Tressa! She's not pregnant. She just wants to drop out of college!" Townsend said.

"Yes!" I said, raising a fist. I still had it. "I knew I'd get it out of you!"

"What the—? Why, you little—"

"Now, now, now, Mr. Ranger, sir. You don't want to be saying something you might later regret/' I cautioned, blown away by
Townsend's news. So, honors grad and full-ride scholarship recipient Taylor Turner wanted to drop out of college. The you-know-what
was gonna hit the fan. And you-know-who wanted a front-row seat.

"I have no intention of doing anything I'll regret later," Townsend said, sitting back up, an edge to his voice that wasn't
exactly comforting.

"I'm beat," I said, preparing to roll to my left side and away from the ranger.

"Oh, no, you don't. Now that you've educated me on clinches," he said, "let me show you what a real clinch is, Calamity."
He took me in his arms, and I felt the heat of his body and the warmth of his breath on my face. He covered my mouth with
his.

I gave myself to the exquisite feelings Rick Townsend set off within me. I felt my toes curl as he slid his hand down my thigh,
and back up to the area of my left breast. With each kiss and each caress I grew hotter and hotter. Townsend reached beneath
my T-shirt to caress my stomach, which I naturally sucked in as much as I could. Oh, come on, you gals do it, too. We learn
to hold it a long time, too. With our tight jeans, sucking in our gut is the only way to get them fastened and keep them fastened.

"I've waited a long time, Tressa," Townsend said. "But I think you're gonna be worth the wait."

Ya think?

He kissed me again, and I forgot his typically male, totally doofish comment as his arms and heat enveloped me. Oh, buddy,
was it hot tonight.

"Fire! Fire!"

I frowned, wondering if I'd yelled that aloud like some women yell "Yes! Yes!" during intimate moments, but Townsend had taken
a break in exploring my tonsils, too.

"Fire! Fire! Tressa! Are you in there?"

Townsend and I jumped up and, to my horror, saw the back door of the Emporium ablaze. The curtains of the back door caught
and started to burn, and I raced to grab the fire extinguisher. Townsend took it from me and started spraying the flames.

The back door suddenly crashed open, and there was Frankie, in his chicken costume, calling my name.

"Are you all right, Tressa?" he asked, as flames began to ignite his white fur.

"Frankie, you're on fire!" I screamed, not wanting to see my wiener cousin become chicken fricassee. "Stop, drop, and roll!"
I yelled. "Stop, drop, and roll!"

Frankie ran out, flopped down on the grass, and began to roll. I followed him outside, prepared to douse him with the garden
hose, but saw somebody else had already beaten me to it.

"Mr. Daggett?" I said, totally confused.

I ran back inside to see how Townsend was faring with the flames and was thankful to see he'd gotten most of the fire out.
I beat at several tiny flames with wet towels, trying save Aunt Reggie's curtains.

"Bet that was the hottest clinch you've ever had," Townsend said, looking over at me, wiping sweat and soot from his face.

I walked over and handed him a wet towel. "Yep, I admitted, laying my head on his chest. "But, if anyone asks, I'm pleading
the fifth," I told him.

He folded me into his arms and I didn't resist.

CHAPTER 24

It was nearly closing time Friday night, and Gram and I were the sole occupants of the emporium. Every year Gram and I spent
the last Friday night of the fair together. It was the one night of the year when Gram could enjoy a cold beer and not have
my mother hassling her. We'd go to the Bottoms Up, sit at a table up front, and listen to the country-western band. In years
past, Gram would get up and "show the young'uns how it's done" and dance a dance or two; but this time, with an ankle injury
from a fall earlier in the year and everyone's general funk over the earlier fire, my guess was that our evening would be
pretty low-key. If we went out at all.

I know I was still trying to process everything that had happened since the fire in the early hours of that morning. Police
and fire services had arrived to secure the scene, but the fire—and Frankie—had both already been put out. Frankie was fine,
but the Cluck 'n' Chuck mascot would never recover.

The troopers had escorted us down to headquarters and called Uncle Frank to verify we were all who we said we were, and that
we were at the Emporium at that time of night with his permission. When it came to okaying Frankie, however, Uncle Frank surprised
us all.

"I want him arrested for criminal trespass," he'd said, pointing to the soaking wet and scorched bird-man. "He had no reason
to be at my place of business at that time," he said. "Unless he was up to no good."

"Uncle Frank!" I said. "Frankie probably saved our lives!"

"Or risked them, when he didn't know you were in there until too late," Uncle Frank argued.

I stared at my uncle F and then walked over to put my arm around Frankie. I resisted the urge to hold my nose. He smelled
just like the fuzzy hood of my parka did when it had caught fire two winters ago when I was burning papers out back in the
incinerator and got too close. We all would have preferred Frankie remove the suit, but he'd refused to, since he was only
wearing boxers beneath the hot costume.

"I know you're not to blame, Frankie," I'd told him.

The police had also questioned Luther Daggett but released him. Interestingly enough, the Li brothers had been in the area
that night as well, but they had taken off before they could be questioned.

As Gram and I sat in the empty Emporium, Frankie was either still in the holding cell down at fair headquarters awaiting transportation
to the county jail, or already at the jail. That was, if Uncle Frank hadn't changed his mind about filing charges.

"You can't blame your uncle," Gram said. "He's just trying to do the right thing."

I nodded. "I know. But it's so unfair. Frankie was the hero here."

"That fire was started deliberately."

"I know, but not by Frankie."

"He was there. In a chicken getup, no less. I don't think he'll ever live this down."

"He's got a lot more to worry about than being seen in a chicken suit," I told her. "And don't forget, Uncle Frank's biggest
competitor was there, too," I said. "And I don't buy his story that he was looking for his daughter either. And what about
the Li twins? They took off as soon as the cops got there. I know from experience, they play rough."

"Guess we'll just have to wait and read all about it in the papers," she said. "If them reporters don't know how it ends,
they make something up."

"Hey! I'm a reporter, too, Gram. Kinda. Sorta," I reminded her.

"Speaking of which, did you ever look at Joe's and my fair pictures? We spent a lot of time and effort taking those."

"You spent more time taking pictures of Lucy Connor and Uncle Frank," I said. "But you're right, I could look at them now.
I got quite a few really good ones the other night, too, but haven't had time to check them out."

I grabbed the red fanny pack out of the back room, removed my camera, and placed it on the front counter and turned it on.
Then I ran through the early shots and deleted the dopey one of me that Joe had taken.

"Hey, don't delete them until I look," Gram ordered. "I might want a copy of something you'd just delete."

"Okay, okay," I said, "but there better not be any more shots of me."

I was just about to take a seat by Gram, so we could view the pictures together, when the front doorbell sounded and Lucy
Connor walked in.

"Good evening, you two," she said, taking the seat next to Gram. "So, how are you all doing?" she asked. "How are Frank and
Reggie holding up?"

Gram snorted. Ah, so
that's
where I got that nasty habit.

"Figures you'd ask about Frank first," Gram said.

I tried to shush her. (What was I thinking, right?)

"I'm on to you, you know," Gram went on.

"Gram," I said again.

"I don't understand, Hannah," Lucy said.

"Sure you don't," Gram sneered. "Sure you don't."

Lucy shook her head. "Am I missing something here?" she asked.

"It's been a long and difficult day, Lucy," I said. "We're all just trying to deal with things in our own way."

"You don't miss a thing, missy," Gram growled, and I grabbed one of her favorite ice cream bars and slapped it down in front
of her in an attempt to keep her lips occupied. She picked it up and unwrapped it. Phew!

But the ploy wasn't successful for long.

"Don't think we don't have the goods on you, Miz Lucy," my grammy said, " 'cause we do. Isn't that right, Tressa? It's like
I told Tressa: A picture may paint a thousand words, but—"

"I know, I know, your pictures speak volumes, Gram," I finished. "Now just eat your ice cream!"

I looked at the clock on the wall by the window. "If you want to order something, better speak now, Mrs. Connor; we're fixin'
to close. Gram and I always stay out late on the last Friday of the fair and get a little crazy—right, Gram?"

My grammy nodded. "Don't suppose I should've had the ice cream if I'm gonna have beer," she said, but she kept eating.

"No, thanks," Lucy replied. "I just wanted to see how everyone was doing, and see if I could help out in any way." She stood.
"I also thought I'd better warn you that the Li twins are still out there, and I understand from their father that they aren't
happy he was questioned by the cops. Just thought you might keep that in mind. I

hear there might be some hard feelings between you and the Lis."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind," I said.

"Take care," Lucy said, and she left.

"Guess I told her," Gram said.

"Guess you did," I replied. "Now, let's see if your photographic skills are as good as your skills at running off customers."
I flipped on the camera and ran through the pictures, standing to Gram's left as we looked at them together.

"There's Frank and that S-L-U-T at the turkey stand. Oh, and there they are at the ag building." Gram recited locations where
Lucy and Uncle Frank were together, but there weren't all that many, and all appeared completely innocent.

"I don't see any incriminating caught-in-the-act stuff here," I said. "But I bet Uncle Frank will think twice about keeping
company with another woman once he sees these," I said. "You did a nice job centering your subjects," I added.

"Joe took most of the pictures," my gram said. "He has a nice, steady hand."

1 looked over at her. "And how would you be knowing that, young lady?" I asked. She winked.

"I'll never tell," she said.

"Oh, look! You've got one of Frankie!" I realized.

"Frankie? We never took a picture of Frankie," Gram said.

I smiled at the large chicken surrounded by children in the background of the picture. "That's okay, Gram. You wouldn't have
recognized him."

We ran through the remainder of the pictures, including the big boar and the super-sized, super-virile bull.

"Told you he had a set on him," Gram said, and I stared at the picture. No way could I run this picture in the fair feature.
I'd be the laughingstock of Grandville. Again.

I hit review and looked at a few more of their pictures, then stopped on one. I stared at it and frowned. I hit the zoom button
to get a better look.

"Holy cannoli!" I said, staring at the picture on the tiny screen in front of me. "Geezalu, Gram! Forget what I said about
you not getting an incriminating picture; you got the friggin' motherlode here!"

"Huh? You still lookin' at them testicles, Tressa?" she asked. "That's not healthy, you know. It will build up an unrealistic
expectation on your part—"

The bell on the door jingled again.

"We're closed!" Gram snapped.

"That's right," I heard a rather familiar voice say, and looked up to see a white, latex-covered hand flip the open sign to
closed and bolt the door.

"Hey!" Gram said, "What are you dressed up for?"

I felt the mucus in my throat thicken. My stomach felt like it had been sucker-punched by Ali in his prime. Figuring I had
precious little time left, I slipped the memory card out of the camera and pressed it into the napkin dispenser on the counter.

"I'll take that," our worthy adversary said.

Damn. I hadn't seen this coming. Not at all.

We sat, hands and feet bound, in the semidarkness of the Emporium, the fountain drink machine and jukebox lights the only
illumination.

"So, what about them?" The bad guys seemed to be at a loss as to what to do with Gram and me. I wasn't sure whether to be
relieved or concerned.

"We can't just let them go. They know who we are. Know what we did. We might make a case that the old one here is senile,
but that one's not just a dumb blonde anymore. Since she stumbled onto those stiffs earlier this summer, she's gained some
credibility."

Despite the imminent danger I found myself in, I got a warm, fuzzy feeling inside at the unintended compliment.
Not just a dumb blonde anymore
. Sweet.

"That's too bad. For her. Things would've been a lot less messy if she was still an airhead. As it is, she's a loose end."

I wanted to speak up and tell them there was still a lot of space cadet in this here cowgirl but thought the less attention
I brought to myself, the better. Especially considering the gun pointed at my left boob.

"It has to look like an accident."

Someone in the room snorted. "Shouldn't be too hard with her reputation. Remember when she fell into that sand sculpture in
the cultural center? Man, was that guy pissed! He'd spent three weeks sculpting Lady Liberty and had to scrap it in favor
of John Wayne."

I raised my eyebrows. Personally, I thought I'd done the viewing public a favor. His Statue of Liberty had looked an awful
lot like Hillary Clinton.

"What about the golf cart race down the concourse that time?" Our captors continued their litany of Tressa's State Fair Antics.
"And just last year she locked herself in that freezer."

An uncomfortable silence preceded four sets of eyes roaming to Uncle Frank's freezer, then back to Gram and me. They wouldn't,
I thought. Would they? I looked over at Gram, wondering just when it would dawn on her the nature of the demise these two
had in mind for Hellion Hannah and Calamity Jayne. The gruesome-twosome looked at each other, smiled, and then cast their
fiendish eyes back on me.

"You can't be serious," I said. "Nobody would find us until morning. We'd be human Popsicles. Last time I was only in there
for two hours and I had icicles hanging from my nose. And trust me, it's not a good look for me!"

They nodded at each other.

"What's going on? What did I miss now?" Gram asked.

"Listen, we can talk about this," I said, struggling against my bonds while keeping an eye on the revolver clutched by a hand
that was shaking more than my own terrified limbs. "My credibility isn't all that good, you know. Why, just yesterday I asked
the lieutenant governor if she could direct me to the restroom in the ag building. And what about the giant slide and the
Wild West Show? I'm a legend now—and not in a good way!"

I could tell my little speech wasn't having much effect on the two desperadoes. At least, not a positive one. They moved toward
Gram and, hog-tied to the chair as I was, the only thing I could do was throw myself sideways, chair and all, and hope I didn't
hit my head and pass out on the way down.

"Grab her!" Ben said to Jerry.

I tried to roll away from them and toward the door— not an easy thing when you're strapped to a chair.

"Help!" I managed, before a dirty dishrag was stuffed in my mouth. The flavor brought to mind the soy burgers Gramma grilled
on July fourth.

"Tressa!" Gram got out just before she, too, was silenced.

I found myself being dragged, chair and all, to the entrance of the walk-in freezer. I made a really lame attempt to foil
their progress by wedging myself sideways in the doorway. The deadly duo quickly righted me and shoved me to the floor of
the cold storage area, then they went back for my grandma, picking up her chair and hauling her into the freezer like ancient
royalty being conveyed through a procession upon a litter. I guess the ancient part fit.

Working as a team, the partners in crime quickly untied Gram and turned their attention on me, releasing my bindings and grabbing
the chair before they rushed out, slamming and locking the heavy freezer door behind them.

Inside the freezer, the cold, tomblike darkness settled quickly around me like a heavy, damp cloak. I thought about refrigerated
morgue tables and chilly, dank mausoleums, and shuddered.
Patooey
! I spat the offending cloth from my mouth and gulped in several deep, open-mouthed breaths. The cold air hit my bronchial
passages like an ice ball in the kisser. (I've been on both sides of those puppies in the not-so-distant-as-you'd-think past.)
I moaned and shifted my weight, wincing when my elbow impacted with the hard floor, sending pain shooting up the length of
my cramped arm.

"Tressa, are you okay, dear?" I heard ahead and off to my left.

I groped around in the dark for the only other person in the family with a mouth bigger than mine. "I can't complain," I remarked.
"Who'd listen? How about you. Gram? Did those bastards hurt you?"