Calamity Jayne Heads West (7 page)

I frowned. On hold? From a rolling flea market?

“Another customer asked you to hold this item for them?” I asked.

“That’s right,” she said.

“Well, then, do you have another one I could see?” I asked, my patience becoming as strained as the Ger-ber baby plums I used to snitch from time to time when I babysat the Parker twins. Trust me, it’s good stuff. Uh, but let’s keep it between the two of us, okay?

The woman shook her head. “It’s one of a kind. Very rare. Unique piece.”

Right. And just about now I should be hearing about some prime ocean-front real estate. Or a terrific time-share opportunity.

I put my woe-is-me face on and tried again.

“Please? It’s a wedding gift for two dear old seniors who have finally found each other after fifty years apart,” I said, trying to convince her. “Pretty please?”

“You want to give
that
as a wedding present? What’d the ol’ couple do to you?” the woman asked.

Just my luck. Another Rosie O’Donnell wannabe.

“Well, you see, my grandmother and
his
grandfather have recently been reunited,” I said, jabbing a finger at Townsend. “After many years of being married to other people, they are now both free, and they re-cently became engaged and made plans to marry. Since my Aunt Kay and my Uncle Ben live in Flagstaff—Aunt Kay is a librarian and Uncle Ben is a fairly well-known artist hereabouts—maybe you’ve heard of him? Ben Stemple? Well, anyway, my gammy decided on a Grand Canyon wedding and the whole family is here to celebrate the tying of the knot at The Grand Titan Hotel in three days time. The wedding party and entourage will then fly off for a week-long celebratory cruise with Carousel Cruises. Olé!” I said, finishing and putting my fingers up like castanets.

It took a bit for the woman to process my narrative. Once she did, she shook her head again.

“Sorry, it’s sold,” she said.

“But there’s no sold sign on it!” I insisted. “And are you sure there’s not another one just lying around in that van of yours? Could you take a look for me?”

“I’m sorry. I told you. That’s the only one.”

“Better get packed up. Looks like rain.”

A tall, big-boned, slightly balding man with what hair he had pulled back into a ponytail stepped under the overhang from around the side of the van and ad-dressed the woman.

“Please. Could you check for me?” I tried one last time before the perfect gift rode out of my life like Rooster Cogburn rode away from Mattie Ross of Dard-anelle in Yell County at the end of
True Grit
. And what a tearjerker that was!

“Check for what?” the guy asked the woman.

“She wants to see that figurine,” the woman told the newcomer, pointing to the let’s-do-it statue.

“So, show it to her,” he said.

“It’s sold,” the woman replied. “Remember the guy that stopped by a couple days ago and told us to hold it for him? Told us under no circumstances were we to sell it to anyone, that he’d be back to get it.”

The man started to box up his wares. “He said he’d be back yesterday. Have you seen him? Show her the statue.”

“But that guy was pretty insistent about us not sell-ing it,” she said. “Almost like he was warning us not to sell it.”

“We’re merchants. We sell stuff. That’s what we do.” The fellow walked over and picked up the bizarre-looking figurine and slapped it into my hands. “Sixty bucks and it’s yours, blondie,” he said as I examined the homely and horny collectible that Hellion Han-nah would absolutely, positively adore. Still, sixty bucks was a little pricey for this cowgirl—unless she planned to live on beans and weenies for the next cou-ple months.

“Sixty bucks? For this? How much was the other guy paying?” I asked.

“Okay. Fifty bucks,” the merchant said.

“But was he also purchasing a John Wayne com-memorative bobble head?” I asked, with a let’s-make-a-deal smile.

The guy grunted. “Fine. Fifty bucks and I’ll throw in the bobble head,” he said. I smiled.

“Sold!” I said, clutching my find to my chest. “Now pay the man, Townsend,” I ordered. “We’re burnin’ daylight, Mr. Ranger, sir.”

Townsend pulled out his wallet.

“Low maintenance, my ass,” he said with a snort.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Ranger, sir,” I said. “We’ll settle uplater. And I’m sooo good for it,” I told him with a cou-ple come-up-and-see-me-some-time lifts of waxed brows.

“That remains to be seen, Calamity,” he said. “That remains to be seen.”

Oooo-weee! Apparently the little trinket in my hands wasn’t the only male in these here parts who had a hankerin’ to sow a few wild oats.

Yippee-kai-yay, Ranger Rick!

CHAPTER SIX

“So, are we through with the history lessons?” Nick whined as we piled back into the SUV. “Can we finally go look at some cool stuff now?”

I carefully placed the wedding gift in my backpack (I’d officially dubbed the statue Kookamunga) along with the John Wayne bobble, sticking my chocolate cake in the bag the roadside clerk had given me. I pat-ted my backpack. I didn’t want Gram getting a look at her gift until she and Joe unwrapped it together. And I wanted my digital camera handy to catch the exact moment Joe laid his cataract-clear peepers on it. It would be one heckuva snapshot for the wedding scrap-book. Just bee-yoo-tee-ful.

We continued our drive along Oak Creek Canyon, stopping at several overlooks to let Nick see Steamboat Rock, Courthouse Butte and Bell Rock, and to admire the incredible beauty of the area from different van-tage points. I snapped a bunch of photos, thinking I could maybe make a picture album or scrapbook for Gram and Joe. Hey, I can stick photos in an album as well as the next person.

Oak Creek Canyon Vista was our last stop before we headed back to Flag. The vista featured even more shopping opportunities, with various souvenir stands lining the paths, a fact that delighted young Nick to no end. Naturally Kelsey and I were drawn to the jew-elry and trinkets. Uh, okay and the food, too.

The menfolk moved on ahead, deciding to explore a pathway that didn’t feature anything that could be used as a fashion accessory or consumed. Or both. Kelsey and I left a stand hawking dream catchers and Snowbowl snow globes when I decided my stomach was empty enough to accommodate my dessert and we took a seat at a nearby table. I opened my bag and took Duke out and set him on the table. The bobble head bounced like my gammy before she put on her forty-eight-hour steel-reinforced support bra.

“And I say that’s bull-talk for a one-eyed fat man,” I told the bobble head, quoting a favorite
True Grit
line, pulling out the bag that held a little bit of chocolate heaven.

Kelsey gave me a puzzled look and I winked at her. I was going through my backpack for a handy wipe or tissue to clean up with when Kelsey nudged my elbow.

“That guy’s been staring at you for, like, ever, Tressa,” she said.

Okay. I have to admit initially I didn’t pay all that much attention. I’m used to being stared at. Okay, so it’s usually because I’ve got something gross and green stuck in my teeth after I’ve eaten, or something long and white plastered to the sole of a shoe after I’ve used a public restroom. Or—well, enough about me.

When I finally cast a casual look in the direction Kelsey motioned, I almost wet my pants. (I’m chalking this up to the beer.) Kelsey was right! A very good-looking guy had his dark, brooding gaze locked on lit-tle ol’ me. A much younger, black-haired version of Fabio, my admirer had shiny dark hair, parted in the middle, falling to rest on a set of broad, muscular shoulders that shouted lots of sweaty hours in a gym. I sighed. The Arizona Department of Tourism wasn’t wrong about the scenic splendor of the Oak Creek Canyon area. Talk about your breathtaking natural beauty. Hubba hubba.

I decided to respond with my coy cowgirl look, which included a crooked little half smile and fleet-ing eye contact. The corners of my ardent admirer’s mouth turned slightly upward in response, so I let my smile have its head and displayed the full power of my pearly whites in all their ever-so-slightly prominent glory.

I sucked my breath in when the Oak Creek Canyon hunk started our way.

“Ohmigosh, he’s coming over, Tressa!” Kelsey said. “And he’s so hot! Take a picture! Take a picture!”

I looked over at her. “He is pretty hunkariffic, but I can’t take a picture, I’d look like a hick,” I said. Yet I was thinking what a spectacular addition to my gammy’s scrapbook this southwestern hunk would make. Centerfold placement, for sure. “I can’t, but you can!” I said, pushing my camera across the table toward Kelsey.

“Me? Why me?”

“Nobody is going to pay attention to a young girl taking photos. Just snap a couple and ‘accidentally’ get him in one—or ten—of them.”

“He is really cute,” she agreed. “But I get a copy to show my friends.”

“Done,” I said, shaking.

By this time our scrapbook pin-up protégé had crossed the path and was almost within arm’s reach—just a figure of speech here, folks—of our table. He smiled and I bit down just to make sure my tongue was still safely within my mouth and not hanging out like my dogs’ at Mighty Mutt mealtime. My breath hitched in my throat.

“Man, they grow ’em gorgeous out here,” I mut-tered under my breath.

“Hello,” he said.

Click. Click. Click. Kelsey finally emerged from her catatonia to snap several pictures.

My Oak Creek Canyon Casanova’s smile vanished quicker than gift-card credit after Christmas. A scary-looking scowl took its place at about the same time our cover model reached out and tried to snatch my cam-era from around Kelsey’s neck. Stunned, I looked wildly around for something to smack him with and spotted Duke on the table. I grabbed the novelty item and brought it down hard on the guy’s arm, smacking his wrist hard. Once. Twice.

Kelsey began to scream. The scrapbook centerfold looked around, apparently noticed we were attracting some attention and let go of the camera. He looked at me, then at the bag on the table in front of me and his eyes got big.

His hand shot by me and grabbed the bag with my cake and took off running with it.

“Stop! Thief!” I yelled. “Stop! Stop that man! He has my cake!” I jumped to my feet, prepared to run after him when I looked over and saw Kelsey crying and shaking like I do when my car’s thermostat gets stuck in the winter and the heater blows cold air. “Dammit,” I said, and sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right, Kelsey?” I asked, dry-ing her tears with a napkin, and so not wanting to have to explain to Townsend why his niece was tearstained and semi-hysterical. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m okay,” she replied, obliging by blowing her nose when I stuck the napkin in front of it. “Why did he try to grab the camera?” Kelsey said. I shrugged.

“I guess some people are just really camera shy,” I said, making it up as I went along. “And there are some folks who believe every time you have your pic-ture taken, you lose some of your life force,” I told her. “There are lots of superstitions out here.”

“Okay. But why’d he take your cake?” she asked.

Hmm. That one would require some thought.

I looked over at my John Wayne bobble head. Poor Duke. He looked like he’d just defended the Alamo for the last time—or maybe how the real Wayne looked after his movie
The Alamo
bombed big-time at the box office.

“Oh, Tressa! His head’s all twisted around and side-ways!” Kelsey wailed, tears coming to her eyes again.

I took the camera from Kelsey and hit the review button. I felt my brows lower and my teeth clench when the Oak Creek Canyon Vista Villain’s face ap-peared on the tiny screen.

“Who the devil is that?” I heard from behind, and turned to find Ranger Rick breathing hot air down my neck.

“That devil,” I announced, “is the low-down, dirty, rotten, no-good polecat who broke my bobble!”

And there wasn’t room enough in Oak Creek Canyon for the both of us.

We headed over to the visitors center and requested to speak to an officer. Fifteen minutes later I spotted an honest-to-goodness ranger enter the building and walk over to the information specialist we’d visited with earlier. She looked over at us, nodded to the em-ployee, and headed in our direction.

“Hello, folks,” the Forest Service officer said, stop-ping a few feet from our little group and giving us the once-over. Or, in Townsend’s case, the second-, third-,and fourth-over. Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared just ever so slightly when her gaze rested on Ranger Rick. Beautifully shaped mocha eyes outlined with black eyeliner flared perfectly at the edges, her bronze coloring striking against the whites of her eyes as those peepers fixated on Townsend’s manly mug. She touched her Smokey Bear hat with two fingers, keeping dark eyes on Townsend.

“I’m Officer Whitehead. I hear you had a little run-in with a scofflaw,” the attractive Oak Creek Canyon cop said. I blinked.

“What’s a scofflaw, Tressa?” Kelsey said, pulling on my hoodie.

“I’ll tell you later, kid,” I replied. Just as soon as I Googled it myself to make sure.

“It’s someone who ignores or disregards the law,” Whitehead told Kelsey with a smile. “A lawbreaker.”

“Thanks!” Kelsey said with a big smile for the female officer. I shrugged. I knew that.

“How long ago did the incident occur?” she asked, drawing a small notebook from a breast pocket.

“Fifty minutes,” I said, and she finally looked at me. “Give or take a couple.”

“And this was where?”

I pulled my camera out of my bag, turned it on and hit the review button.

“Right there,” I said, shoving the camera in her face to show her the pictures we’d taken just before we spotted the Canyon Casanova with camera issues.

She frowned. “What is that?” she asked, and I looked at the photo to see what she meant.

“Oh. That’s my John Wayne bobble head,” I told her. “A before picture, of course. Poor Duke’s in need of Percocet and a cervical collar now, I’m afraid,” I said, shaking my head.

She stared at me. “Bobble head?”

I nodded, pulling J.W. from my bag and displaying his sad little lopsided neck, twisted head and sideways Stetson.

“I bought him at a souvenir stand down the road a piece. I collect them. Isn’t he adorable? I’d planned to put Duke here between William Jefferson and George Dubya, but now that I think about it, maybe I’d better stick him between Mr. Clinton and Marilyn Monroe.”

More staring.

“Tressa and my niece were sitting at a picnic table just down one of the hiking paths, taking photos, when they were approached by an individual who attempted to take the camera from my niece,” Townsend told the confused canyon copper.

“Niece?” She looked at Kelsey and then over at Nick. “And I suppose you are the nephew,” she said. I noted the young boy began to redden as he had when I’d caught him staring at Taylor.

“Yeah. I’m Nick Townsend, and that’s my Uncle Rick,” Nick explained. “He’s a DNR officer back home.”

Whitehead frowned.

“DNR?” she said.

“As in ‘Ducks Need Rescuing,’ ” I quipped, and Townsend shot me an exasperated look.

“Iowa Department of Natural Resources,” he said. “Enforcement Division.”

“The Corn State, not the Baked with Sour Cream and Chives State,” I clarified, just in case.

She nodded and put out a hand to shake Townsend’s. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her broad smile signaling we’d reached a new level of under-statement in these here parts. “And this must be your aunt,” she said to Nick, throwing a quick nod in my di-rection.

“Oh, no, she’s not our aunt,” Nick disputed—way quicker than necessary, I thought. “She’s gonna kinda be our cousin soon, when our great-grandpa marries her grandma. She’s just a reporter for a dopey newspa-per back home who finds dead bodies,” he told her.

Officer Whitehead frowned.

“What Nick means is that I’m an investigative jour-nalist who specializes in crime reporting,” I said, resist-ing the urge to goose the little twerp. “I have a history of going deep undercover to get the story,” I added, “and I’ve had some success.”

“I see,” Whitehead said, her expression contradict-ing her words. “And this man who accosted you just came up out of the blue and tried to snatch your cam-era?” she asked.

“Well, we’d noticed him before,” Kelsey said.

Whitehead turned to her.

“You had?”

Kelsey nodded. “He was staring at Tressa with this really weird look on his face,” Kelsey went on. “I told Tressa and pointed him out to her.”

“You did?”

Kelsey nodded. “Tressa thought he was hot,” Kelsey said before I could shush her.

“She did?” Townsend said, and I felt my face warm.

“I don’t recall that part,” I said.

“Don’t you remember, Tressa? You said ‘Man, they sure grow ’em gorgeous out here,’ ” Kelsey responded.

Hello. What in criminy were they teaching kids in school these days? Total Recall 101?

“I think you may have misheard—”

“Then why did you want me to take his picture?” Kelsey asked, a totally sincere, thoroughly inquisitive look on her angelic but tattletaling little face.

“I think you may have misunderstood—”

“You have a picture of the man?” Whitehead inter-rupted, her eyebrows lifting a half an inch.

I nodded.

“Purely by chance, not by design, you understand,” I assured her. “We’re tourists, after all. Tourists take pic-tures. It’s what they do,” I said, suffering a sudden episode of runaway mouth. It’s what I do when I’m nervous. And when I’m trying to stay out of trouble.

Townsend looked over at me and shook his head. He’d noticed the arrival of maniac mouth, too. Damn.

“May I see the photo?” Whitehead asked, and I hit the review button.

“There he is,” I said, sensing stiffening in the pos-ture of the forest service official at my side. I hit the re-view button again. “And there. And there. And there.” I looked down at Kelsey. “For crying out loud, how many did you take?” I asked.