Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (36 page)

I thought about the museum, how many times I'd visited, the exhibits—and occupants—that I enjoyed most. Like the old-time doctor's office with the mannequin doctor and nurse and the old-time instruments. Or the dentist with his vintage chair and mannequin patient with his mouth wide open. Or the parlor exhibit with the old-time settee and antique rocker that featured a mannequin family wearing the latest in pioneer fashion, (Lord, did they have dinky feet back then!) The old-time switchboard with the redheaded mannequin operator that always reminded me of Lucille Ball in her
I Love Lucy
days.

There was an early aircraft exhibit, a barbershop with a barber poised to give that first whisker cut, and a music exhibit with old time organ and phonographs.

The post office, located in the general store a few buildings down, was another favorite. I always remember being caught off guard by the bespectacled postmaster peering at me from behind the window. They had a checkerboard set up on a barrel table with two old men mannequins squaring off. Quaint, but in a creepy kind way.

The exhibit I didn't care for was the wildlife one with the stuffed red fox and coyote and other taxidermied creatures of the prairie. The one that really bothered me was the mother wolf with her pups. It always made me sad to see them rolling about their sawdust stuffed mother, knowing they never got a chance to run and jump and play.

I hissed through my teeth.

I couldn't ignore the infernal itching any longer. I had to scratch, or I'd jeopardize the mission. Okay. I'd abandon the mission if I didn't scratch.

Then I remembered it. The quirt. I still had it. Throughout the evening I'd used it to scratch. I'd hung the quirt loop from the grip of my fake gun in my fake holster on my fake gun belt.

Ever so carefully, I rolled to my side and attempted to pull the quirt loop up and off the faux firearm. I managed to maneuver the quirt free of the gun and slowly eased it down my pant leg and into my right boot.

"Ahh!" I couldn't prevent the moan of ecstasy when the tip of the quirt found its way to the itch.

"Shh!" I heard from below me and frowned.

I stiffened, feeling like an old-time corpse being transported to an old-time undertaker.

Nothing fancy, Jedidiah. A simple pine box'll do
.

Who was that?

Sister or…
sister
?

I texted Taylor.

Is that you?

She texted a question mark back.

I tried again.

Farm exhibit
?

Yes
.

I'm in the wagon.

I know. Everyone else probably does too.

Nice.

We'd figured just prior to the two a.m. rendezvous time, we'd leave our hiding places and arrange to have one pair of us near the front door and the other pair, at the rear. That way, no matter what door The Sisterhood tried to break and enter, we'd have it covered.

Literally.

Once they stepped inside, we planned to throw a blanket over their heads, surprising the burglars and limiting their movements. Then one of us would run to the light switch and turn on the lights, our signal alerting the authorities outside to move in.

Give me a
B!
Give me a
U!
Give me an
S-T-E-D.
(No, I didn't say, "give me an STD." You people.)

What's that spell?

Busted!

I decided it was time to "come out, come out, wherever you are!" so I pulled myself to a sitting position, wincing at every creak and groan the wagon made.

"Shh!" I heard again.

I lifted my leg to climb off the end of the wagon (not a simple task in the dark) when I felt a sudden sharp tug at my waist, my belt catching onto something and leaving me hanging, harnessed to the side of the wagon by my gun belt.

I managed to pull my cell phone out.

Got hung up. Literally. Dangling from wagon. Help appreciated.

A few seconds later I felt hands on my legs.

My hero!
I texted.

Taylor's grunt telegraphed that there would be no text in response.

"What have you managed to do now?" she whispered.

"Can we discuss my foibles later?" I whispered back. "Just give me a boost up and off the corner," I said.

"Seriously?"

"Just do it!" I hissed.

"Where do I grab?"

"My butt! Push it upwards."

"That's easier said than done!"

"I'll remember you said that. Put your shoulder into it! Now push!"

Taylor managed to give me just enough of a heave-ho that coupled with my own efforts to lift myself up and off the corner of the wagon, I managed to slip off and drop to the ground like the scarecrow in Oz.

I got to my feet and grabbed Taylor's hand.

"This way to the back door!" I whispered.

"Now she whispers," Taylor hissed.

We passed Lucy, the phone operator, her lips dark against her pale face, the effect terrifying in the limited light. I let out a gasp, willies running down my spine, when the doctor in his white coat and his anorexic nurse appeared next.

Holy house of wax! The historical museum may be kicks and giggles during daylight hours but at nighttime it was a total freak show of horrors.

"What's wrong?" Taylor asked.

I shook my head.

"Nothing."

But no way in hell was I planning to walk by the dentist's office with his howling patient. Or those poor, stuffed wolf cubs.

No flippin' way.

A sound to our left stopped me in my tracks.

"Did you hear that?" I asked.

"It sounded like a groan."

Or a growl, maybe, I wondered, thinking of the mama wolf.

"This way," Taylor said.

"No, this way!" I said, wanting to avoid the wild kingdom. You know. Just to be safe.

Another strange grunt-groan and I grabbed Taylor.

"That wasn't human," I whispered.

"Get ahold of yourself!" Taylor said.

My butt vibrated, and I pulled my phone from my back pocket and displayed the text so Taylor could read it.

It was from Kari.

Need help!

Help with what?
I texted back.

Dixie. She's stuck!

Where?

Under the bed in the boudoir exhibit.

I looked at Taylor.

"The pioneer bedroom."

Dixie's wedged. Need help lifting bed and pulling/pushing. Can't do both.

Okay. I admit it. I giggled. Chalk it up to nerves.

We made our way as quietly as we could to the boudoir. I looked at the tiny bed, still amazed by how little pioneer people used to be. Kari was kneeling on the floor and peering under the bed.

I leaned down and looked myself and winced.

So not a pretty sight.

"How—?"

"Never mind with hows or whys!" Taylor hissed. "Let's just get her out!"

Kari and Taylor took opposite ends of the bed prepared to lift on command. I got the ugly job. Pulling Dixie the overstuffed under-the-bed-box out from under the bed.

"Don't. Say. A. Word." She warned when I got in position. "Not. One. Word."

I shrugged.

It could wait.

I grabbed hold of Dixie's belt with one hand and propped one foot against a nearby chest of drawers to provide support.

On the agreed "three," Taylor and Kari lifted, and I tugged.

"Three!"

Again.

"Three!"

And once more.

"Three!"

Thwap!

Dixie the human dust bunny was freed from her dusty prison.

I helped her to her feet. She dusted herself off, flexing and stretching and rotating various body parts.

I shook my head and took my phone out.

Did you eyeball those dimensions at all?

A second later she was texting back.

I got under it didn't I?

Fluke.

It was after two now. Anyone still in the museum was either deaf or we'd lost any element of surprise we had.

And then I heard it. A strange creaking sound.

"Stations!" I whispered, grabbing the blanket off the bed and motioning to Taylor to follow.

Kari and Dixie peeled off in the direction of the front door. Taylor and I continued to the rear and in the direction of the sound.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak
.

I motioned for Taylor to get ready.

We approached the last exhibit before the back door. The parlor exhibit.

Creak. Creak. Creak. Creak
.

We crept closer.

Creak! Creak
!

Closer.

I squinted at the parlor scene.

Father. Mother. Sister. Brother.

I stopped.

Recounted.

One. Two. Three. Four.
Five. Six
.

My gaze slid to a figure on the settee and another one in the rocker whom, I was pretty sure, hadn't been there before.

Creak. Creak. Creak
.

The rocking chair began to rock.

A flashlight beam hit me square in the face, and I stumbled forward.

"They're here!" I yelled. "In Merchant McCall's parlor!"

I lifted the bedspread and felt Taylor grab one end.

"Get 'em!" I yelled as we charged forward, blanket aloft. We descended on the parlor, a drunken sharpshooter and a prude of a pioneer. We lifted the blanket high and gave it a toss, casting it down over the heads of the trespassing gangstas like a big ol' dragnet.

"We got 'em!" I yelled! I ran to one of the villains in this little dime store western—the one who had been rocking out—and plopped down on her lap. I heard a loud grunt. Taylor twisted the other end of the bedspread around suspect number two and held on.

"We got 'em!" I yelled. "Hurry! The parlor! The parlor!"

Kari and Dixie ran up.

"What happened? Oh, my gosh! You caught them!" Kari exclaimed. "You really caught them!"

"
We
caught them," I corrected. "This ought to teach you not to try to rewrite history," I scolded the desperadoes. "What's that? I can't hear you," I said when the perp I was sitting on tried to talk beneath the heavy bedspread. "Yell a little louder!" I cheered.

"Uh, Tressa. I'm not so sure we aren't celebrating a big prematurely," Taylor said.

"Huh?"

"Look at their shoes."

The culprit's flashlight had dropped to the floor, light still on, beam pointing at the shoes of the rocker.

Orthopedic shoes.

Senior citizen orthopedic shoes.

I shook my head.

Since when did cheerleader gangs wear best balance shoes with comfort arch supports?

I'd just gotten to my feet and was about to pull the blanket away and expose the miscreants when all hell broke loose outside the museum.

Sirens sounded. Red lights flashed. The roar of an engine accelerating.

And we hadn't even turned the lights on to signal for help yet.

I ran to the back door, flipped the dead bolt back, and opened the door.

I was about to advise that the situation was under control when I noticed the two black-hooded figures with their hands up illuminated in the squad car headlights.

"You got 'em! Whoo-hoo!" I was about to let out a victory cry until I got a good look at the faces in those hoodies. Then I just wanted to cry.

"Joe? Gram!" I flipped the light switches on. The LED lights lit up the back lot like daylight.

"Gram? Joe?" I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

"Hold it there. Keep your hands where I can see them." The female deputy that always seemed to have office duty had her flashlight on the seniors, her other hand hovering near the grip of her holstered gun. "Nice and steady now."

"It's all right," I said, not sure it was at all. "That's Joe and Hannah Townsend. They're my, uh, grandparents."

The deputy approached them and did a pat down. I was hoping against hope that this time Joe wasn't packing an unregistered Colt Python.

"What are you doing here?" I asked the couple once they had been officially cleared.

"We're after that bum," Gram said.

"Bum? What bum?"

"Abigail's bum. The homeless hobo! Her gigolo!"

"Why are you looking for him here?" I said.

"'Cause that's where he's at."

"What bum are you talking about, ma'am?" the deputy asked.

"The one that Joe and I saw go into the museum and never come out."

I felt the beginnings of an eye twitch, and my sphincters started to do their clench number.

No. It couldn't be!

I turned and ran back into the museum. I ran up to the Mr. Merchant's parlor in time to see the blankets being pulled from the heads of our suspects.

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see it. And ran over an object directly in my path.

I fell.

Hard.

I opened my eyes and shoved the hair away from my eyes.

Grinning maniacally down at me was Cedric, the Homely Lawn Gnome from Hobgoblin Hell.

I shook my head.

How do you say
Night in the Museum?

I kind of felt sorry for Deputy Carruthers, the female deputy who had set up the surveillance. I knew how it felt not to be taken seriously. It niggled at you like an itch you couldn't scratch.

Once a thorough search of the museum turned up no one else playing hide-and-seek, the law enforcement officer found herself in the middle of a real life rumble, senior citizen style.

"I told you I didn't steal that butt-ugly troll," Gram said. "And there's your proof!" She pointed at the now-you-see-him-now-you-don't gnome.

"Well, you can't say there wasn't reason for me to suspect you, Hannah," Abigail said. "Every time you walked by Cedric, you spat on him."

"Cedric? Who's Cedric again?"

"The gnome," I reminded her.

"'Oh. Well, scuze me for having to 'specterate. Ever hear of sinus drainage?"

"Explain again what you two are doing here?" the deputy asked Uncle Bo and Abigail.

"I spotted old Cedric here when Abigail was gettin' ready to lock up," Aunt Eunice said in her best good ol' boy speak. "See, Abigail's on the historical society. When I saw the gnome in question, I remembered what Tressa here told that snooty sheriff of yours about the gnome showing up at Harve somebody or other's place just like another place that got trashed. I figured she might be on to something, so Abby and I conducted our own surveillance. Know what I'm sayin'?"