Calamity Jayne Heads West (19 page)

“What about my ticket?” he asked.

I looked at him.

“I never said I’d pay,” I told him.

He gave me a Dark Lord Fauntleroy look and pulled a billfold out of his front pocket. My jaw dropped when I saw the wad of cash he had. Why did everyone have discretionary income except me?

He purchased his ticket.

“See, I was right. You are a cheapskate,” the runt said.

“I’m just selective about who I spend my moolah on,” I corrected. “I pamper my pooches and ponies.”

“Yeah. And stick your grandma with some Viagra dude.”

“How does a ten-year-old even know about Viagra?” I asked.

“Hello. TV.”

We waited for our turn to take the shuttle. A skiing facility, the Snowbowl does double duty as a sightsee-ing excursion from May through Labor Day. The sce-nic skyride takes you to an elevation of 11,500 feet. It’s an especially colorful ascent when the fall colors are turning. You can even spot the north rim of the Grand Canyon from that elevation.

“You’re not afraid of heights or anything, are you?” I asked the kid as we plopped our bottoms on the lift. “Because I’ve had some experience with that sort of thing with a close relative, and it wasn’t oneof those mustn’t-miss moments.” Unless you were a fireman looking for some rescue experience or a good laugh.

He gave me a strange look. “I’m ten. I live for stuff like this,” he said. “So, what exactly are we looking for once we get to the top?” he asked.

I took out the clue and read it again. “My guess is something to do with eagles,” I said. “Or hearts maybe.”

“And don’t forget the pig snout,” Nick said with a devilish grin.

“Like you’d let me,” I told him as we headed up the mountain.

“You know, you might get further with my uncle if you kissed up to me a little bit,” Nick observed. “Most of his other girlfriends do, you know. They pat my head and pinch my cheek and say how cute I am and buy me stuff. How come you don’t do that?”

“My gag reflex is too strong,” I responded.

He looked at me. “Huh?”

“And there’s always the blind horse factor,” I added.

“What does a blind horse have to do with sucking up?” he asked.

“You see, kid, when I buy horseflesh I like to know what I’m getting for my money,” I told the youngster. “Nothing worse than thinking you bought one thing only to learn later you’ve been scammed into some-thing else entirely. I expect that holds true when scout-ing for a boyfriend or girlfriend. I wouldn’t want some guy clowning around with my hounds and giving them treats and pretending to like them just to get in good with me. That’s dishonest. And not the way I operate. I’m way more Popeye than Calamity Jayne, truth be told,” I said.

“Huh?”

“I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam,” I clari-fied. I looked at him. “Don’t you want people to like you for you—not for who you think they want you to be?” I asked. “ ’Cause I’m thinking anything else is false advertising.”

“Maybe,” Nick conceded. “Still, Uncle Rick doesn’t seem to mind, because he buys an awful lot of blind horses,” the kid added.

And Rick probably got more than a little cheek pinching and head patting in the process, I thought to myself, feeling depressed yet determined not to lose my focus. Or my heart.

“When you’re older you’ll understand that, just like with Kookamunga, beauty is only skin deep,” I told the lad.

“My dad says that’s just what ugly girls say to give themselves hope,” he pointed out. I shook my head. I had my work cut out with this one.

We kept our conversation limited to
ooh
s,
ah
s, and
look at that
s or
wow
s for the remainder of the twenty-five minute ride. It grew noticeably cooler the higher we went and I was glad for the warmth of my hoodie. I noted the kid had thrown on a heavy Iowa sweatshirt, as well.

At the top we jumped off and I looked around at the scenic vista before us. The peaks were breathtaking and the view spectacular, but there was no time to ap-preciate God’s bounty. I was on a mission.

“Okay. Let’s see.” I read the scroll again. “Eagles. Warriors. Eyes. Hearts,” I mumbled, half to myself.

“And bowling balls, snowmen, and pig snouts,” Nick reminded me.

“Right.” I noticed the Peakside Café attached to the ever-present souvenir store along with an information booth, and grabbed Nick’s shirtsleeve.

“Let’s start there first,” I said.

“Why there?”

“Because it’s a souvenir and gift shop. It’s bound to have all of the aforementioned items.”

“Even the pig snouts?” Nick asked.

“Absolutely. Piggy banks are very big with tourists,” I told him. “Very big.”

“Good. I thought maybe you were hungry again. Uncle Rick says he wonders where you put it all.”

“Oh really? What else does Uncle Rick say?”

“That you drive him to Distraction sometimes. Where is Distraction? I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s because it’s a product of your uncle’s trou-bled psyche,” I said.

“Huh?”

“It’s all in his head.”

“Oh.”

We entered the tourist buildings and I caught a whiff of deep-fried something or other, but I stoically ignored it. Despite what I’d let on, I wasn’t sure what exactly we were looking for. I’d hoped it would turn out to be one of those
you know when you see it
kind of things.

“See?” I pointed at the collection of porkers pro-moting the Snowbowl and Arizona. “Pig snouts. Not to be confused with pork rinds, of course,” I added. I did warn you food is frequently on my mind.

We moved through the building, checking out the gift shop. We checked all the books that looked like they might have eagles or Native American warrior types in them, with no success. We checked out the ce-ramic section and even went through the tedious task of picking up and examining each pot, but with no luck. We made our way to the informational portion of the indoor space. I stopped and stared. There it was. On the opposite wall: a huge picture of our na-tional bird in living color, its large striking eyes alert and intent.

I whistled.

“Talk about your eagle eyes,” I said. “I’m thinking that’s where we need to look. What about you?” I asked the kid.

“I guess. But how?”

“Well, if I was going to hide something like a note, I’d slip it behind the painting—so I’ll need to take it down or at least lift it enough so I can get a look be-hind it,” I said. “See if there’s maybe a hollow or cut-out place on the back of the frame.”

“How are you gonna do that without people notic-ing?” he asked.

I looked around the place. Business was brisk. A big, burly man with hands the size of boxing gloves flipped through several magazines, while two women chaper-oned a group of eight youngsters. While the lone clerk would probably keep her eyes glued to the kidlets, I didn’t think I’d be able to yank the picture down, take a look at the back and then replace it without her noticing.

“You’ll have to create a diversion,” I told Nick, and he just looked at me.

“A what?”

“A diversion. A disturbance or ruckus of some kind. Something to put the focus on you long enough to give me time to yank the picture off the wall and take a quick look-see behind it.”

“You’re giving me permission to cause a commo-tion?” Nick said. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

“Well, nothing illegal,” I said. “Maybe you could get sick and barf again like you did on the plane,” I sug-gested. “That would sure draw some attention.”

“Great. Only problem is, I wasn’t the one who barfed. You were,” he pointed out.

“Oh yeah.” I was becoming such a good prevaricator I even had me believing my whoppers. “You could pre-tend to choke on something,” I said.

“Yeah. And have that ham-fisted dude over there perform the Heimlich on me and break a couple ribs. What else you got?”

I chewed my lip. “You’re the annoying little brat here. You create chaos and pathos as a pastime. Surely you can come up with something that’ll work.”

“I could go put soap in my mouth and collapse and pretend I’m having an attack or fit or something and even foam at the mouth,” he said.

I shook my head. “Too risky. You could end up with a comb pressing down your tongue or that same beef-fisted Good Samaritan doing chest compressions and blowing in your mouth.”

He made a face. “Yuck. No way. Maybe I could trip and fall down and pretend to be hurt,” he suggested.

I thought about this possibility. “Can you cry if nec-essary? Complete with tears and snot, that is.”

“Piece of cake. I pull this one on my Grandma Clare and Grandpa Ed at least twice a year, once at Christ-mas and once during the two weeks during summer vacation I stay with them. It’s usually good for ice cream, video game rentals, and a couple bucks.”

What a manipulative little mooch.

“Okay, but make sure you do it around the corner and over by the door so everyone will move in that di-rection. That’ll give me time to do my snooping.”

“What happens if you’re wrong?”

I shrugged. “We keep looking, I guess.”

He nodded.

“So, are you ready for your acting debut?” I asked.

“I usually get compensated for this kind of thing,” he reminded me. “What are you offering?”

“A Happy Meal on the way to the hotel,” I told him.

He looked at me. “That’s it?” he said.

I tipped an imaginary hat. “Miss Cheapskate here. Remember, pal?”

He frowned. “What if I want a Big Mac?” he asked. “And supersized fries?”

I looked at him. “I’ll think about it.”

He shook his head. “Scrooge,” he mumbled and walked away.

I chuckled and moved over to the painting, waiting for the clerk behind the counter to gravitate in Nick’s direction. I didn’t have long to wait. I heard a big crash followed by the sound of things dropping. A few seconds later, tons of multicolored rubber balls with Snowbowl logos rolled across the floor in the direc-tion of the counter. The clerk disappeared.

Ignoring the howls of pain from the other side of the store, I grabbed the picture and pulled it toward me, running a hand along its underside. My breath caught when my fingers ran over an item near the cen-ter. I leaned down and peered beneath the picture and discovered a small manila envelope taped to the back.

Beads of nervous sweat popped out above my upper lip as I used an unpolished fingernail to work the duct tape loose.

“Wouldn’t you know? Duct tape,” I swore as I tried to pull the tape off without ripping the envelope.

“It hurts! It hurts!” reached me, and I shook my head. The kid oughta be in movies.

I finally got the stubborn tape unfastened and I re-moved the package. I stared at it for a second. Hell’s bells! I was right, after all!

I quickly replaced the picture, stuck the envelope in my backpack and zipped it up, then hurried to re-trieve my child star. I came around the corner, slipped on a rubber ball and almost fell on my butt. I spotted Nick prone on the floor, his face red and tearstained. He’d done it, the little phlegm wad, I marveled. He’d done it.

A man bent over him solicitously—thankfully not the big ’un with the king-sized mitts—and I started to step forward to claim my little man and assure every-one he would get proper medical care when the back of this Southwestern Samaritan got my attention: the long, dark, shiny silken locks that set off a familiar stab of envy that tame tresses inspire in me. The even length along the bottom that so didn’t need a trim. The chiseled profile.

Raphael. Poet and purse snatcher. Lyricist and liar.

Holy wampum.

How the devil had he tracked us?

I wanted to beat my head against the nearest tom-tom. All he had to do was stop at one of the numerous businesses I’d requested directions from and ask where I was headed, bringing him straight to the Snowbowl. He would have beat us here. And to Nick.

I retreated out of sight. A few possibilities for escape flashed through my head—and I swear to you nice folks, hardly any of them included leaving the little twerp there and taking off. The pressing problem was how to handle this new wrinkle in my rapidly fraying tapestry.

I shook my head. I’d have to wing it. I took the enve-lope from my backpack and opened it, my mouth fly-ing open as a necklace slid into my palm along with another scroll. I unfolded the note and read it hur-riedly, realizing the chance of me memorizing it under pressure was roughly the same asme losing ten pounds on the upcoming cruise. I remembered the pictures the kid had taken of the earlier clue and grabbed my digital camera, spread the scroll out and snapped a couple close-ups. I pocketed the camera and replaced the clue in the envelope. The necklace I hurriedly fas-tened around my neck, concealing it beneath my shirt. I thought of stuffing it in my bra, but sadly acknowl-edged that my cup size wasn’t up to the task.

I resealed the envelope as best I could and stuck it back in the backpack, removing my billfold and stuff-ing it in the pocket of my hoodie along with the kid’s cell phone.

I took a deep breath and rounded the corner.

Lights. Camera. Action!

“What are you doing?” I screamed. “What are you doing to my nephew?”

I ran to Nick, still on the floor, and came up behind Raphael before he could rise. Making eye contact with Nick, I pointed to the top of Raphael’s head and made a long slashing motion across my neck and stuck my tongue out, for good measure adding a gesture above my own head as if pulling on a noose to tighten it. Whether it was the slashing or the hanging that got the message to the kid, I realized it had been received when his eyes grew twice their normal size.

“Get away from him!” I screamed.

By this time Raphael had experienced his own incandescent-light moment and he got slowly to his feet and turned.

“You!”

I didn’t much care for his smile, blasted white teeth and all. His eyes roamed to my backpack and he took a step in my direction.

“Help! That guy tripped me and knocked me down, and while I was down he . . . he . . . he touched me!”

We all just looked at him.

“Down there!” Nick continued, pointing to the zip-per area of his britches.

The tone of the room changed perceptively as I helped Nick get to his feet.