Calamity Jayne Rides Again (30 page)

EPILOGUE

The last day of the fair had arrived, and not a minute too soon. I was looking forward to reuniting with my animal family
back home—as opposed to the traveling circus I'd spent the last two weeks with—and the opportunity to enjoy the final dog
days of summer.

A large crowd of us were assembled inside the grandstand, and the Powder Puff Derby, that non-po-litically correct demolition
derby for drivers of the female persuasion, was scheduled to begin shortly. A cluster of television reporters flanked by their
respective camera personnel thrust microphones at Gram and me, peppering us with questions like, "How did it feel to be put
on ice?"

"How do you think it felt?" my gammy responded. "It was colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra," she said, garnering a general
consensus that this eyewitness observation probably wouldn't make the ten o'clock news but would almost certainly end up on
some bloopers show down the road.

I'd phoned Stan Rodgers shortly after my heroic horse race and lassoing of Lucy had ended, and had filled him in on the excitement.
By the time Lawless Lucy was cooling her fake moccasins in the same Port-A-Cell Manny had previously occupied, Stan was on
the scene putting together a special edition of the
Gazette
, hitting the wires with an exclusive that other print-media types could only grumble about and pick up—with appropriate credit,
of course.

"I understand you were actually responsible for exposing Lucy Connor as the person behind all the incidents targeting Frank
Barlowe's businesses," a reporter said to Gram. "How did that come about? How did you figure out it was Mrs. Connor?"

Gram looked over at me. "How
did
we figger that out?" she asked.

"Why, by brilliant detective work, of course," I said with a wink. Actually, it was Joltin' Joe and Hellion Hannah's brilliant
Cheatin' Hearts detective work. While following Lucy around trying to get the goods on her and Uncle Frank, the dynamic duo
snapped various shots of Lucy. And there, in living color, was a photo of Lucy and the great Bobo. And how did I know it wasn't
Frankie, you're wondering? Glad you asked. In earlier photos Gram had inadvertently got a couple of Garth Wayne, Frankie's
country-western alter-ego. Judging from the date and time of the photo, it was impossible for Frankie to have been the Bobo
in the picture with Lucy, which nailed Lucy as the villain. The Great (or Evil) Bobo, as it turned out, was Lucy's boyfriend,
Alberto Munoz: a wanted felon who for obvious reasons couldn't easily show his face at an event a million people attended,
and where you can see a trooper every hundred yards or so. The Bobo character had provided both a terrific disguise for Munoz
and a little added income from the dunk tank booth.

"And what was Lucy Connor's motive?" another reporter asked.

"The oldest one, of course," I said. "Greed."

Gram looked at me. "She wasn't hot for Frank's body?" she asked, and I shook my head.

"She was actually hot for the Emporium," I explained. Lucy wanted to expand her Trinkets and Treasures from her hot, uncomfortable
tent location, and felt the best way was to appear as if she wasn't interested in acquiring the building at all. Meanwhile,
every chance she got, she fed Uncle Frank's suspicions about Luther Daggett, throwing in just enough uncertainty about Frankie
and the Li boys to make her the obvious choice if and when Uncle Frank decided to sell. From the clown horn left at the Emporium
to whispered innuendoes in Uncle Frank's ear, Lucy worked both sides of the fence. She even got her old pal, Sonya the Seer,
in on the act, feeding her enough information so her readings would point to disaster for the family if Uncle Frank didn't
sell his fair holdings.

"What about the freezer incident? I understand there was a similar incident last year? Can you speak to that?"

"There was an unfortunate incident last year that left me in the freezer for several hours. However, after that Mr. Barlowe
upgraded the walk-in freezer with a new safety latch inside, so I knew we would be able to get out if they put us in there,
and was actually relieved when they did."

I'd actively lobbied for the freezer confinement by doing my best Brer Rabbit and the briar patch performance. Thankfully,
it worked like a charm. It was just fortunate that, in his tete-a-tetes with little Lucy, Uncle Frank had failed to mention
the new safety latch he'd installed, or Gram and I might still be defrosting on a slab somewhere.

"And what about those charges against Frankie Bar-lowe Jr? I understand his father had his son held at the jail," the reporter
asked.

I smiled. "My Uncle Frank is a lot more conniving than he lets on," I said. "And I gotta say, I'm impressed." After the fire
at the Emporium, Uncle Frank realized these weren't pranks anymore, but posed a very real danger not only to his family but
to his customers as well. He convinced the authorities that, in order for the incidents to stop, they had to pretend to hold
Frankie on those charges. With Frankie cooling his heels in police custody, the real perpetrators couldn't very well move
ahead with another incident and blame Frankie for it. Of course, Uncle Frank had no way of knowing that two senior citizens
with more time on their hands than should be legal were following him and his supposed mistress like a pair of past-their-prime
bloodhounds, and had snapped incriminating photos of the culprits. But Lucy and her felon had realized it, and that explained
their pursuit of me and my fanny pack. They wanted those pictures. Bad.

"What about your uncle's biggest competitor, Luther Daggett? I saw where he was at the scene of the fire. Was he exonerated?"

I nodded. "Luther and his daughter, Dixie, were in no way involved in the crimes against my uncle's property." Which had surprised
the heck out of Uncle Frank. Come to find out the most serious crimes the two Daggetts committed were ones of mistrust. When
Uncle Frank's businesses were initially hit, Dixie Daggett had been certain her father was behind the mischief, and took steps
to catch him in the act before things got out of control. That explained her being at the mini-freeze the night we'd tangled.
Luther, on the other hand, had suspected his daughter might be trying desperately to help him win the bet with Frank Barlowe,
by hook or by crook, and that was why Luther Daggett was out and about the night of the fire. He was actually expecting to
catch his daughter in the act. Oh, what a tangled web we weave...

"I've also heard references to an Asian gang element. Can you address this?"

"I have no information on that," I said. "I suspect that is pure fiction." Fiction, indeed. They had just been two misguided
sons who'd seen too many gangsta movies and desperately wanted to move their father's stand to a more advantageous location.
When their father found out how hard they had been leaning on me to help persuade Uncle Frank to sell, including letting a
giant bull snake loose in our trailer while I slept, Mr. Li went bonkers, or whatever the Chinese equivalent of that word
is. Both boys were put on permanent egg roll duty.

And in a surprising move, Uncle Frank decided to go ahead and let Mr. Li have his coveted space on the Grand Concourse, saying
he reckoned it was time to downsize. He'd apologized to Aunt Reggie, finally opening up to her and acknowledging that the
stress of running three businesses coupled with not enough time off, plus his disappointment that his only child wasn't interested
in taking over a livelihood he'd sunk his heart and soul into, had begun to take a toll. He'd been wrong to seek solace in
drink rather than confiding in her, he told her, and assured her at no time did he have an interest in Lucy Connor beyond
that of a convenient drinking partner. Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie were planning a trip to Vegas come fall. I looked over
at Frankie standing with his folks and Dixie and Luther Daggett. I expected Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie would need a getaway
once their son introduced them to their prospective daughter-in-law, Dixie the Destructor. Or maybe therapy.

And Lord only knew what they would say when

Frankie told them he'd decided on a career as a police officer and wanted to begin taking criminal justice courses in the
fall. Or what my own folks would say when Taylor finally dropped her own bombshell and informed them she wanted to decline
a full-ride scholarship and drop out of college. And whether Kimmie would convince Craig he was ready for fatherhood and if
next year at this time I might be Aunt Tressa.

As for me—I'm just thrilled Mr. Li has added lo mein to his fair menu for next year!

Gram and I concluded our three minutes of fame and the media moved away to pester Trooper Dawkins for a statement.

"So that psychic lady was a fake, huh?" Gram asked.

I shrugged. "1 guess."

"Guess this means I won't be going on the Love Boat after all," Gram said. "And you won't be having sex in the near future
like she said."

Like I needed to hear that.

"It seems every time I happen upon you two lately, you're discussing sex," Rick Townsend said, joining us and putting an arm
around my grammy. "So, who's getting it—or not getting it—this time?" he asked. His eyes were on my face.

"Who the heck knows?" Gram replied. "Now that Psychic Sonya is a fake, who the heck knows? Sonya predicted some serious sexual
conflict and hot, steamy climaxes for Tressa there, but now, well, it's anybody's guess." My grammy gave Rick a sideways look.
"What about you, Rick?" She pointed a finger in my direction. "What do you foresee for Tressa?"

Townsend gave me a hard look. His gaze slid past me to rest on the pink-and-white Uncle Frankmobile that was this year's Dairee
Freeze derby entry, and the hot pink helmet I had clutched in one hand. A muscle jumped in a tanned cheek.

"This soothsayer predicts a bumpy ride, Hannah," he said. "One very bumpy ride." Townsend walked away.

"Is that anything like rough sex?" Gram asked.

I shook my head. "More like tough love, I imagine," I said. And tough luck for Tressa.

The Powder Puff Derby was about to begin. The stakes were higher than ever. This was for all the marbles. Whoever's car was
left moving the longest would be the victor. And to the victor would go all the spoils— in this case, bragging rights only,
as Uncle Frank and Luther Daggett had already agreed to end their thirty-year sales competition and jointly refurbish the
horseshoe pitching venue. The next day Uncle Frank would co-host his traditional pig roast along with Luther Daggett.

Dixie Daggett and I stood toe-to-toe.

"You know, I still don't like you much," Dixie said.

"Ditto," I replied.

"We're never gonna be bosom buddies," she told me.

"Good. Dodged that bullet."

"And I'm gonna kick your ass out there on the track."

"You can try."

"
To your automobiles, ladies
!" I heard over the loudspeaker. I found myself searching the sidelines for, and finding, Townsend. He stood beside Taylor,
his arms crossed, a grim look on his face.

"Your head protection, milady." Dawkins held my helmet out to me. I paused.

"Is there a problem, Tressa?" P.D. asked. "Second thoughts, maybe?"

Was there? The sudden, sobering irony that a guy I'd just met accepted me for who I was without question, foibles, flaws and
flakiness notwithstanding, while a guy who'd known me when I'd made and consumed real mud pies still refused to do so was
not lost even on me.

I looked over and saw Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie, arms around each other, and Uncle Frank gave me the thumbs-up sign. I caught
sight of my folks, my father standing just behind my mother, one hand on her shoulder. Kimmie stood beside my mom and Craig
was next to my dad. Kimmie smiled and waved. Gram and Joe were hunched over the digital camera, no doubt trying to remember
how it worked.

"Are you okay, Tressa?" P.D. asked.

I thought about it. And do you know what? I decided I was okay. Not perfect. Nowhere even close. But for now? Okay.

"I am okay," I told Trooper Dawkins. "And I yam what I yam."

"For the record, just what are you, Popeye?" P.D. asked.

I grinned. "Why, the winner of this year's Powder Puff Derby, of course, Mr. Super Trooper," I replied, securing the helmet
on my head and hurrying to my ancient pink Oldsmobile. I resisted glancing in Townsend's direction for fear I'd find he'd
left the grandstand.

"Ladies! Start your engines!"

I cranked the key and the motor fired like there was a jet-propulsion engine under the hood. I frowned. Knowing Manny and
the car he'd gotten me ...

"Good luck, Tressa," P.D. told me, and he tapped the driver's door with his palm. "Make 'em eat dust," he said.

"Thanks, Patrick," I said, and waved him off. Dawkins saluted and backed away. The horn sounded to signal the start of the
contest.

I popped the clutch on the Olds and shoved the stick-shift into reverse. I hit the accelerator and released the clutch and
shot backwards toward the vulnerable front end of the Daggettmobile, laughing maniacally as dust billowed and rocks flew.

Boys had their toys. Men had their moose hunts. And me? I had Dixie Daggett's vulnerable front end dead in my sights.

Don't ever say cowgirls don't know how to have a good time.

Wondering what happens to Tressa, Rick and

the Grandville gang, and what Calamity strikes

next?

Don't miss:

GHOULS JUST WANT TO HAVE FUN

Kathleen Bacus

October 2006!

FROM THE AUTHOR

I have always loved fairs—from the times I blew my allowance tossing ping-pong balls and plastic rings for a chance to win
a stuffed animal at the county fair, to the time I first strutted my stuff around the state fairgrounds as a rookie Iowa State
Trooper. Oh, the tales I could tell! For the purposes of this particular story, I have taken certain liberties with the fairground
proper and the names, locations, and descriptions of certain attractions or venues. What I hope the reader gleans from this
work, however, is my great fondness for and genuine enjoyment of this one-of-a-kind annual Midwestern celebration. Our state
fair is a great state fair!