Calamity Jayne Rides Again (29 page)

"Hell's bells, no!" Gram's voice came to me from where I sat trying to come up with a game plan to extricate the two of us
from this latest predicament and foil the bad guys. "I wouldn't give them the satisfaction."

"Atta girl," I said, trying to figure out if the coast was clear outside our dark little igloo. I squinted at the wall of
black around me. This was not going to be the piece of cake I thought. My heart began to pitter-patter, and not in a good
way. The freezer was getting colder—or maybe it was just me. I realized if I was going to pull off a Houdini-esque escape
for my grammy and me, I'd better get to it. If I waited much longer, I'd be stiffer than Gramma is after a three-hour car
ride, and she'd be able to do a stint as a backboard.

"I think you'd better get up and move around, Gram," I said. "Do jumping jacks. Run in place. Anything to keep the blood circulating,"
I suggested, getting to my feet and wishing I'd worn jeans and tennis shoes that day rather than the shorts and sandals I
had chosen. I pulled off my T-shirt and handed it to her. "Here, wind this around your head, Gram," I instructed. "We lose
more heat through our heads than anywhere else, you know." I'd picked that up from some mountain-climbing-expedition-gone-bad
movie.

"What about you, Tressa?" she said. "Won't you get cold quicker?"

"I'll have us out of here in no time," I said, hoping I spoke the truth. I stuck out my hands in front of me and shuffled
forward slowly. I felt like one of the living dead. "Brains," I whispered. "Brains..." Then decided that was not what I wanted
to be thinking of in a cold, airtight room where I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.

"Of course you have brains," Gram said. "You're my granddaughter."

I let my fingertips do the walking over the shelves filled with tubs of flavored ice cream and frozen yogurt. I found the
various bins piled high with frozen novelties (at least we wouldn't starve) and felt my way over to where I thought the door
was located. With both hands, I made like Helen Keller and traversed the length and width of the wall, shuffling slowly along,
until I located the doorway.

"Think. Think." I prodded my memory, trying to recall exactly where Uncle Frank had installed the interior light switch so
I could locate the unlocking mechanism—you know—the one the bad guys didn't know about. The one that was going to save our
frozen giblets. If I ever located it, that is. "Where was that switch?"

"What switch?" Gramma asked.

"The one Uncle Frank installed so nobody would get locked in the freezer again."

"You mean the one he installed so you wouldn't get locked in again," Gramma replied. Nice.

I pawed around some more, shivering from the intense cold that transformed my fine motor skills into palsied movements, and
began to think I really was going to end up a corpus delicious, when I finally found the light switch. I gave frosty thanks
and flipped on the light. Then I proceeded to pound on Uncle Frank's freezer door that would probably require a bunker buster
to take out.

"Help!" I hollered. "Help! We're in the freezer! Please, let us out!" I figured if our cold-storage specialists were still
out there, they would expect some pounding and screaming and yelling, and who was I to disappoint? I thought I was pretty
convincing as a damsel in distress. Okay, okay, so I've played the "Perils of Pauline" before and brought hands-on experience
to the role. Or on-the-job training, maybe.

"What the devil are you doing, Tressa?" Gramma had got to her feet and was chewing on a Nutty bar.

"I'm acting like a helpless, hapless female," I said, "just in case the bad guys are still out there."

"And you think that they're going to open the door and let us out?" Gram asked.

I shook my head. "Of course not! I just don't want to open the door and walk out there and find they're still sitting out
there, gun in hand, waiting for us."

Gramma's eyes got bigger. She dropped the ice cream bar on the floor and hauled ass to the door and started beating on it.
"Help!" she screamed. "Help! Get us out of here! I'm old and frail and have osteoporosis and a touch of rheumatoid arthritis
and my joints just give me fits when the cold settles in them. Help! Let me out!" Gram turned to me. "How was that for acting?"
she asked.

I raised an eyebrow. "Don't give up your day job," I told her. After a few more minutes of beating up on Mr. Indestructo Door,
the novelty had worn off—and the cold was really beginning to seep in. I was starting to feel like Jackie Frost, and imagined
Gramma was feeling much the same. My face was so cold, if I remained in the freezer much longer I'd have the same array of
facial expressions as Dorothy's Tin Man, or an aging actor after too many Botox injections.

I took a deep breath, saw it leave my body in a white fog, and decided to heck with it. I wasn't about to let my grammy come
down with a case of pneumonia. Joltin' Joe Townsend would never forgive me.

"We need a weapon," I said, looking around for anything I could use to defend myself and the golden girl beside me. "See what
you can find."

"How about a frozen pig?" Gram asked.

I stopped looking through boxes of ice cream bars. "A pig?"

Gram nodded. "Frank always has a hog roast at the end of the fair to thank everyone for helping out. He's probably got the
pig in here somewhere. That would make a pretty impressive dent in someone's skull," she added.

I nodded. "I'm just not sure I'm up to wielding a two-hundred-pound hog, Gramma," I told her. "We need something easier to
handle. More compact. Less—ugh." I gave a pronounced shiver.

"What about turkey legs? I bet he has some of those around here, too. He always buys a bunch of them from Pearson's Poultry
every fair season. If we could locate those suckers, you could inflict some serious damage to someone's noggin."

"Turkey legs." I nodded. "That might just work," I said. "Just don't tell the PETA people."

Several minutes later, killer turkey legs raised and kick-ass attitudes firmly in place, I, Calamity Jayne, and her rusty—I
mean trusty—sidekick, Hellion Hannah,

let go with our family's traditional war cry and flung open our frosty prison door, our loud chant echoing throughout the
darkened Emporium. "Dead meat!"

CHAPTER 25

"So, when do we jump out again?" Gram asked, pulling on my arm.

"We don't jump out," I explained for the tenth time. "Uncle Frank opens the freezer door and discovers us. Then we simply
walk out."

"We don't get to jump? How about a stumble? Or we could scream. You know, like we did when we thought the crooks were still
waiting outside the freezer for us. When we used the turkey legs as weapons."

I shook my head. "We don't need to jump, stumble, or scream," I told her. "All we need to do is show up alive."

"That's it? I gave up the yodeling contest for this?"

Gram and I were again huddled in Uncle Frank's freezer, but this time the temperature wasn't how-low-can-you-go low. We were
bundled up like two Midwestern bag ladies in January.

"Yodeling. Since when do you give a flip about yodeling?" I asked. "Besides, the police already told you you didn't have to
be here. Apparently, all they needed was one of us alive."

"I still don't get it. We pop out: 'Hey, we're alive!' Then what?"

"They're hoping when confronted with the evidence of their crimes—you and me being exhibits A and B— the guilty party will
break down and make some kind of admission or react in an otherwise guilty manner." I wasn't too clear on this alternative
to a confession but figured the pros were up to speed.

"In other words, we're messin' with their minds. I like it," Gram said. "Wish I'd thought of it."

I nodded. "Me, too." If all had gone as planned, outside in the Emporium our family would be nervously waiting for word regarding
our disappearance. The State Patrol and Division of Criminal Investigation would be on hand to interview family members and
concessionaires who last had contact with us—er, the missing women. At some point, when everyone was assembled and the time
was right, Uncle Frank would open the freezer and out we'd pop.

"What's taking them so long?" Gram asked. "Even with all this paraphernalia on, I'm getting frostbit."

"It's only thirty-two in here, Gram, and you've only been in here forty-five minutes."

"Seems longer. And they should have a chair in here."

"In a freezer?"

I rolled a large ice cream bucket over to her. "Here, Your Highness," I said. "Your throne."

She took a seat, asking, "What about that trooper out there? You gonna see him again?"

I blinked. Gram changed subjects so frequently, I needed a scorecard to keep track. "Huh?" I said.

"Trooper Dawkins. He's quite the stud muffin. Do they still say stud muffin?" she asked. "I wouldn't want to be outdated."

I shrugged. "Stud muffin's cool. And, for the record, Patrick and I are really just friends."

Gram was silent for a second. "What about Rick Townsend?" she asked. "Are you two really just friends?"

1 thought about it. "Only time will tell, Gram," I said. "Only time will tell."

She was just about to make another comment when we heard the click and slide of the latch.

"This is it!" I said, and Gram and I stood, ready to spring the Turner trap.

"Now remember," I told her, "don't yell. Don't scream or jump. Just walk out there nice and calm. Then let the police officers
do their jobs."

"All right," she said. "But after all I've been through, I should at least be permitted an 'Aaaggghhh!' or a 'Boo!'"

"Remember, Joe will be out there. You don't want to embarrass yourself in front of him," I told her.

The door opened slowly, as if the person on the other side was hesitant to find what he thought he might find. I could just
make out Uncle Frank's face.

"Oh, my God!" he said in a distressed and horrified voice. "Oh, my God!"

"What is it, Frank?" I heard Aunt Reggie say. Damn, these two were good.

"Oh, my God, how could this happen again!" Uncle Frank sank to his knees. I was blown away by his performance.

I saw Uncle Frank nod to me. Apparently, that was the extent of his acting ability.

I took Gram's hand and we exited the freezer arm in arm.

"Aaaauuugghhh!" The scream, when it erupted,

came not from Gram but from me. Honest, guys, I don't know what happened. One moment I was content to walk out all cool, calm,
and collected, and the next moment I was jumping up and down and waving my arms and yelling like a banshee.

To my left, Gram gave an exaggerated "Hmpf" and jabbed me in the ribs. "Over-actor," she snapped.

"Oh, my God. They're alive?" Lucy Connor looked like she'd just been given the news that she had six months to live—and had
to spend the whole time watching
Bozo the Clown
reruns. Her mouth flew open and her face became the color of Uncle Frank's vanilla soft-serve. She looked around wildly.
The officers had someone stationed at the front door but had neglected to post anyone at the scorched and damaged back, since
that door had been out of commission since the fire. And, of course, that was the door little Lucy headed for: She shoved
the deadbolt back and threw it open, and was out and on her golf cart before anyone moved.

"Get her!" Gram yelled, but I was already out the back door and on Uncle Frank's golf cart. I heard the hum of a vehicle behind
me and turned to discover Trooper Dawkins in hot—well, lukewarm—pursuit.

I bounced along behind Lucy as we sped past the dollar root beer place (now
that
root beer is flat) and the gyro shop. (Note to Tressa: Haven't had a gyro yet.) We proceeded down Rock Island and past a
stage, where someone was trying to play "America the Beautiful" on an accordion. We blew by one of the three foot-long stands
located on the fairgrounds and proceeded past the horse pavilion.

"Watch out! Move!" I yelled, trying to avoid hitting innocent pedestrians. Instead I took out a trash bin, sending it careening
down the sidewalk behind me, garbage spilling everywhere and, from the subsequent clattering I suspected, right into the path
of the state trooper. I winced. "Sorry!" I yelled back. At least the sanitation technicians would have steady work.

"Stop that cart!" I called out, not stopping to think just how someone might do that. I heard sirens and wondered if State
Patrol golf carts were equipped with red lights and sirens.

Lucy suddenly made a right turn and drove right into the horse barn. I cringed but followed behind her, wondering if Dawkins
was still mobile or out of service. Lucy proved to be an adept driver, squeezing through the narrow aisles, getting hung up
on a large, fresh mound of horse manure, but managing to get going again. She sped out of the west end of the horse barn,
where 4-H entrants were walking their mounts preparing for competition, then suddenly left her cart, ran to a stocky buckskin
nearby, jerked the reins out of the surprised horse owner's hands, and jumped into the saddle.

"Hey, that's my horse!" the boy of about ten, with a black hat and pants and a white shirt with a horse show entrant number
pinned to his back yelled. "Hey! That lady stole my horse!"

I looked around, hoping for similar luck in the mount department, but the only available horse I saw belonged to the fair
security person who was chatting up a blonde with a nice figure, but who had turned to look at the boy with the stolen horse.

"Uh, I really need to borrow your horse, Officer," I said, whipping the reins out of his hand and throwing myself into the
saddle. "Don't worry, son," I reassured the young cowpoke. "Nobody steals a horse with Calamity Jayne on the scene and gets
away with it."

"Huh?" both the kid and the officer replied. I slapped the horse's rear and dug my heels into the sorrel's belly, and the
race was on.

Little Lucy Connor is the first out of the gate on a magnificent buckskin quarterhorse with two white socks and a brilliant
star. Four lengths back and on a borrowed mounted reserve officer's leggy American saddlebred sporting four white stockings
is our very own Calamity fayne. And they're rounding the turn beside the flea market and circling back around the United Methodist
Church's Sit-a-Spell Sandwich Shoppe. Little Lucy is still in the lead, but Calamity Jayne is gaining. They've passed the
First Baptist Pie a la Mode booth and are heading north on Rock Island, by the big clock at the administration building. They're
taking the turn onto the Grand Concourse, and it's the quarter by a nose! The riders are at the northwest corner of the grandstand
and they've hit the dirt of the grandstand track and they're neck and neck....

In true Triple-Crown tradition, I called the race in my head as if I were watching the Derby as well as running in it. A crowd
was assembled in the grandstands to watch a tractor pull in progress. Cheers and whistles erupted from the stands, and I looked
around to see what they were all so excited about. And then I realized: They were cheering us on. How bizarre was that?

I could see Lucy's quarter tiring. Quarters are great speedsters at short distances, but the leggier saddle-breds have a clear
advantage in the mile. This beauty was just hitting her stride.

"Give it up, Lucy!" I hollered at her over the roar of the crowd and the tractors. "It's over!"

"It's over when I say it's over!" she yelled back, and kicked the buckskin cruelly, slapping it on the rear with her reins
as she headed into the first turn.

By then I sensed that Lucy was already around the bend, and remembered my pledge to bring the young cowboy's horse back to
him safe and sound. I pulled a rope from its place behind the saddle and fashioned a clunky lariat. It had been a while since
I'd thrown one. Last time I'd roped anything it had been Rick Townsend during one of his jackass moments.

The crowd was still screaming and whistling as I grew closer to the fading buckskin. Its flanks were lathered white, and bubbly
white foam spewed from its mouth. I was just about to toss my rope when, slicker than snot, another white rope loop fell neatly
over Lucy's shoulders. I threw my loop, anyway. My throw wasn't pretty. In fact, it wasn't really a throw at all. I basically
rode up behind Lucy, tossed the rope over her head, and slid it down her chest. Both ropes tightened. The next second Lucy
was in midair and sailing toward the dirt track.

I kept just enough tension on the rope so she wouldn't hit the ground too hard but hard enough to maybe knock some sense into
her, then finally took the opportunity to check out who had snared Lucy with the first rope. Sitting across from me on a palomino
that could've been kin to Trigger was Trooper P.D. Dawkins. I shook my head. Men.

I secured the end of my rope around my saddle horn, jumped out of my saddle and hurried over to the lady outlaw. Dawkins dismounted
as well, and we met at Lucy's prone figure. Rodeo queen that I am, I grabbed P.D.'s right hand and raised our joined hands
in the air with a shrill whistle and a good ol' girl "Yeehaw!" Dawkins removed his trooper hat and held it aloft.

And the crowd went wild!

"Nice throw," I told Dawkins. "You've been keeping secrets from me, Mr. Smokey," I said.

He grinned. "I did tell you my grandparents had a farm," he reminded me. "And I felt I owed you one for those so-called games
of 'chance' on the midway the other night."

"We'll talk," I promised. "And as for you, Lawless Lucy," I said and knelt down next to the prone prankster, feeling one of
those corny classic country lines springing to my lips. "Horse-stealin's a hangin' offense in these here parts," I drawled,
wagging a finger. "And even a city slicker like you should know you don't come between a cowboy and his horse."

I stood and waved to the noisy crowd again. Calamity Jayne versus Lawless Lucy was one for the record books.

What now, you ask?

Can you say, "It's Miller time!"