Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (24 page)

"I don't know. I've got this feeling—"

The sheriff held out a hand.

"Spare me your feelings, Turner," he said. "I imagine they're about as credible as Dusty Cadwallader's E.T. sightings. Now, if you'll excuse me, I want a front-row seat for the second half so I don't miss your turn at bat. Or that of your cousin, that skinny Barlowe kid. That alone is bound to be worth the price of admission."

I resisted the urge to make an offensive hand gesture and settled for wishing a case of flaming hemorrhoids and a massive chiggers offensive on his person. Under my breath, of course.

I snared my caramel apple and made my way back to the bleachers, this time avoiding my sister-in-law and my best friend, plopping my fanny down next to my gammy and Joe.

Generally a mistake.

"So, what's the latest skinny on the crime wave?" Joe asked. "And don't tell me nothing because I saw you handing over those evidence bags to Knox County's head honcho. What was it anyway?"

"Like you said, 'evidence,'" I told him.

"That's it? That's all you're giving me? After all I've done to assist you—"

I looked at him.

"Assist me? Hmm. That must mean I have a list of can't fail 'gotcha' questions for Manny DeMarco. Let's see. Maybe they're in my bag here. Nope. No questions. Maybe someone emailed them. Nope. Nothing in my Inbox. Hmm. Perhaps said assistant is prepared to hand them over now." I put my hand out. "Oh, look. Nothing."

"I've been busy," Joe said, squirming in his seat. "I'll get to it."

"You're retired, dude. What could possibly take up so much of your time?"

"Joe tellin' you about our little project?" My gammy leaned across Joe and nudged me in the ribs. "We've been tailing Abigail Winegardner and her gigolo."

I blinked.

"Gigolo?"

"The mustachioed tramp—not Abigail. That other tramp."

I winced.

"Gram!"

"We're keepin' a logbook, aren't we, Joe?"

"A logbook?"

"Dates, times, locations," Joe supplied.

"
Oo
kay. Why are you keeping book on your neighbor lady and her…male friend?" I asked.

"'Cause I know that tramp!"

"Abigail?"

"No! The other one! There's something about that feller. I know that bum from some place. I just know it!" Gram said. "That's the main reason I'm sitting on this rock hard bench with my butt growin' numb. We're keeping an eye on our targets, aren't we, Joe?"

"Abigail and Au…her friend are here?"

Gram pursed her lips.

"They're down there near first base."

I followed her pointing finger. Sure enough, Abigail and Uncle Bo watched the festivities at ground level.

"They brought padded lawn chairs," she added. "How come you didn't think to bring lawn chairs, Joe?" she asked.

"We didn't know they were coming here when we started following them, Hannah," Joe said.

She thought about it for a second.

"That ol' Abigail. She's a sly one, she is," Gram said. "Luring us out here to sit on these god-awful hard seats."

"You do know there are penalties for stalking, don't you?" I asked Joe.

He winked.

"Only if you get caught."

"You clear my name yet, Tressa?" Gram asked.

"Say again."

"You find Quasimodo yet?" she clarified.

"No. Not yet. But I'm hot on his hand-painted, cast iron tail," I told her.

"Beats me who would want to take the ugly little Smurf in the first place," she said. "Must be some kind of mess-o-kist."

Thank goodness Ranger Rick picked that time to drop onto the bleacher beside me so I didn't have to respond. I got a whiff of outdoors, sweat, donkey, and the ranger's aftershave—a heady mix.

"Hail the conquering donkey soldier!" I said and gave a dippy salute. "Glad to see you're still in one piece, Mr. Ranger Sir. I must tell you, there were times I had doubts."

He took his baseball cap off and ran a finger through his sweat-soaked, dark brown hair.

"Damned stubborn asses," he said, and grinned. "I lost track of how many times I hit the ground."

"Eight, but who's counting?" I supplied.

"Nice," Townsend said. "But still flattering to know you couldn't take your eyes off me."

I smiled. "Who could? You looked like a bottle rocket being launched." I made a shrill, whistling sound followed by a dramatic crescendo.
"Pissh! Boom!
"

He rubbed his rear end.

"No wonder they make you sign a waiver of liability," he said. "My butt will probably be black and blue by morning." He put his arm around me. "Care to run me a nice, soothing bath and give me a massage and nurse me back to health tonight?"

I felt a shiver of excitement despite the heat of the evening.

Nurse Tressa Jayne reporting for duty!

"I might be persuaded," I said, my mouth as dry as the pitcher's mound.

"By the way, I see Brian and Kari are still at odds over Miss Pom-Poms over there. And what's up with Craig and Kimmie? Craig's been in a bad mood for months."

"Miss Pom-Poms? You noticed her pom-poms?"

Rick grinned.

"Pom-poms? What pom-poms?"

I shook my head. Men.

"I don't like all this…marital discord," I said, rubbing my stomach before handing my caramel apple to my gammy who'd been eyeballing it since I sat down. Last month my folks were having problems communicating and now Craig and Kimmie and Brian and Kari. All this matrimonial strife was putting me off my vittles.

"Relationships are complex. Couples have differences," Townsend said. "They work through them."

I shook my head. Why get married at all if it was so difficult and required so much work?

"Tressa? You're uncharacteristically quiet. That's not like you," Townsend said and put a hand to my forehead. "You're not coming down with something, are you?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

What I suspected I was coming down with was a raging case of commitment phobia precipitated and aggravated by the infectious nature of the disharmony prevalent in the relationships of those in close proximity to me.

But that's only a guess.

"I'm okay. Just lots of craziness going on right now. My job. My car. This story. My brother. My best friend."

My own feelings of crippling fear and impending panic at what was required of relationships these days
.

Other than the aforementioned, I was peachy.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do regarding transportation?" Rick asked. "I know you probably don't have a lot of money saved. I could help you with a down payment on a vehicle."

I looked at him.

"You're offering to lend me money?"

He shrugged. "Call it a loan if you like. You need a car. I've got resources."

"Meaning I don't?"

He frowned.

"Do you?"

I didn't, but it irked me that he automatically assumed I didn't.

"I have a little put back." A jar of coins from beer can deposits put back on a shelf in the hall ready to be switched out for bills the next time I went to the bank qualifies as a little put back, right?

"Still, you might want to keep that as a nest egg."

Nest egg? Nest egg! When had I ever had the luxury of a nest egg? The only eggs I kept in my house were ones I fried with bacon or ones with crème filling I gorged on each Easter.

"Can we talk about this another time?" I asked, thinking when hell froze over might be too soon for me.

"Oh, look! It's time for the TSA portion of the show," Gram announced when the New Holland cheerleaders took their place on the field.

"TSA?" Townsend frowned.

"I think she means T
and
A," I interpreted. "Your pom-pom princesses on parade."

The New Holland cheerleaders did a decent job of performing to "Beat It," and the audience applauded enthusiastically.

"Hardly a showstopper," my gammy the entertainment critic said. "And that song?" She sighed. "It's been beatin' to death. What do you think, Joe? What do you give 'em?"

"Seven tops," Joe said.

"I give 'em a six," Gram said.

I shook my head. What was this? So you think you can dance with the cheerleaders?

"A six? That low?" Joe said.

Gram nodded. "Too much A and not enough T."

"Gram!"

She shrugged.

"It's lopsided," she said. "You think our team can beat the Dutch, Tressa?"

"I'm not sure I'm qualified to hazard an opinion," I said.

"Huh?"

"I have no idea, Gram. But I do like their costumes."

And I did. They were dressed like cowgirls with short tan vests that featured what looked like sheriff's stars, short denim short shorts, and suede boots.

I took my camera out and hit the zoom button.

"Panther Posse," I read on their stars. Points for theme. No points for originality.

My lens zeroed in on Martina Banfield who looked all Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader in her Grandville Heads West outfit. I blinked when I noticed the guy she was talking to—and laughing with Brian.

Kari's Brian.

Holy sis boom bummer! I could imagine how Kari was reacting to the little confab.

"Why are men so dismally and utterly clueless?" I asked no one in particular. "Why do their thought processes originate in a sexual organ rather than the brain?"

"Hold on! What are you lookin' at through that camera, Tressa Jayne? Give it to me!" Gram snatched the camera from me. "Let me take a look!"

I shook my head.

"I'm looking at men behaving like fools," I said, and Townsend lifted an eyebrow. "Present company excepted," I added, giving him a playful tweak on the cheek.

"I don't see nothing," Gram said. "Hang on. Wait a minute. I see it now."

"You do?" I said, wondering how my gammy could possibly know about Kari and Brian and Martina the Mentee.

She nodded.

"'Course I do. Frankie with his hand down the front of his pants? Who could miss it?"

I winced and took the camera back a millisecond after Gram pressed the button, memorializing the moment. I snapped off another one. You know. Just in case Gram's was blurry.

The Grandville squad moved into their places. Several seconds ticked by before their music selection exploded out of the loudspeakers.

Oh. God. They couldn't. They wouldn't. They didn't dare!

They couldn't be about to ruin "T-R-O-U-B-L-E" by Travis Tritt for me, could they?

I watched the routine with my own troubled mix, one-part admiration and one-part consternation.

The routine was flawless.

In fact, the last time I'd seen such high-kicking, knee-slapping, heel-grinding, honkey-tonkin' was at the Lucky Mule in Abilene, Texas on the occasion of my twenty-first birthday. Oh, what a night!

When the girls finished, the applause was thunderous. Even the New Holland contingent was clapping like there was no tomorrow leaving no doubt that the Panther Posse had just kicked the Dutchwomen's funny little britches.

My gaze wandered over to best bud, Kari. Even from this distance I could pick up the gnashing of her teeth. When the cheerleaders ventured into the stands to pass the buckets for a donation, I could almost swear I saw Kari hock a loogie into the bucket.

I winced.

Oh, buddy do I smell T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

It was the bottom of the last inning. New Holland was up by one. My brother, apparently deciding to take another whack at taming the beast (no, not Kimmie if that's what you're thinking) had volunteered to hit again. Craig, like yours truly, was on the receiving end of more than a modest share of the Blackford "gumption" as my gammy likes to call it.

Our CPA mother has other, more analytically disturbing names for it.

I was on deck.

If Craig scored, his would be the tying run.

And me? The winning one. Naturally.

Craig stepped up to home plate and just like you've seen men of summer do since America's sport was invented—he lifted the bat and pointed it at the center field fence. As expected, the crowd's response was a combination of cheers and jeers.

I shook my head.

Cock-a-doodle Craig struttin' his stuff.

Craig drew the bat back, his gaze settling on the ball at the pitcher's mound. The pitcher made a big deal out of his windup and threw the pitch.

Whop
!

The bat connected with the ball and sent it sailing over the head of the second baseman.

"Go, Craig, go!" I yelled.

Craig ran to Willie, his designated base runner and performed a spastic belly flop, landing on Willie's back like a desperate surfer trying to mount his surfboard before the great white shark that belonged to the circling fins selected a juicy limb and went to town.

He threw his arms around the donkey's neck like it was a lifesaver and hung on. Through a series of ugly fits and starts, through sheer dint of will, Craig managed to stay on Willie all the way to second base.

And the crowd went crazy.

Great. Craig the donkey jockey had shown his mettle, but unfortunately for me he'd also just raised the bar for his sister, the rodeo queen.

It was time to call upon my skills as a donkey whisperer.

Okay, okay. So I've never actually whispered to a donkey. I figure they're close enough to a horse to understand and respond to my communication style.

Reba would be the wind beneath my wings rounding the bases. Given I had two geldings at home, I decided I'd better go the one-girl-to-another route. Plus, it was Reba after all. How hard could it be?

"Hey there, Reba. How's it going? Everything good?" I asked, spatting her neck. "Listen, Reba, can we talk?" I said, moving closer to her ear. "You see Willie over there, don't you, acting like he's all that. Just like my bro. We can't have that now can we? We can't have the male of the species show us up. It's unacceptable. So we girls have to stick together. You know. Girl power!" I raised a fist. "Oh. Sorry. I mean, donkey power!" I lifted my fist again. "So what do you say we work together, Miss Reba? No bucking, braking, balking, or bedeviling this cowgirl—and let's show these jackass males how it's really done!"