Calamity Jayne Rides Again (15 page)

I finally roused myself enough to crawl out of my hole in the wall and stand beside my bunk, my head resting on the bedcovers.
When I felt my eyes crossing and my mouth pop open, I shook myself and remembered the mission I was on—to catch the Dairee
Freeze saboteur in the act and exonerate my cousin before he permanently joined a freak show. (Mission impossible, you're
thinking, right? I see how your minds work.)

I pulled up a pair of blue jeans over my navy blue bikini undies, and grabbed Townsend's uniform shirt from underneath my
pillow and put it over the white tank top I'd worn to bed. I slipped my feet into a pair of white New Balance walking shoes
with navy blue stripes, grabbed my grammy's pink fanny pack, and stuffed it with keys, camera, and cell phone. (Oh, just so
you know, if you plan on telling anyone I wore a hot pink fanny pack, I'll deny it to the death.) I stuck a navy blue Cubbies
baseball hat on my head and left the RV, careful not to disturb the occupants of the sofa pullout. It was fortunate my grammy
got up so much in the night; everyone in the trailer expected to hear someone awake and about every couple of hours.

The night felt cool after the heat of my bunk. I was glad for the warmth of Townsend's shirt. On impulse, I sniffed the sleeve,
half-expecting to detect the smell of Townsend's cologne. Or the scent of Townsend himself, maybe. I thought about Rick, wondering
if he was enjoying a good night's rest with his grandpappy, wondering if Joe was wearing his boxers this night, wondering
if Townsend slept in the buff like my grammy. I pinched myself, right along the waistline, where your love handles like to
hide, and where it hurts really bad when someone pinches you. I did not need to be thinking about Townsend in bed nekkid when
I should be thinking of how I was going to pretend to be a sanitation worker sanitizing the same section of fairgrounds for
a three-hour period.

I moved past the Emporium, wondering if Frankie was asleep on the floor behind the counter and proclaiming myself all kinds
of stupid that I hadn't called dibs on that place first.
I
could be the one sacked out in there, dreaming sweet dreams of Rick Townsend dumping his snake menagerie and promptly professing
his undying love. What? For me, of course.

I continued down the hill, my arms swinging at my side, and decided a fanny pack wasn't all that hideous a fashion accessory
after all—if worn between the hours of two a.m. and five a.m. and only on dark, deserted fairgrounds, that is. Or as part
of a Halloween costume.

The Grand Concourse was deserted as I approached the mini-freeze. I tried the door and it was secure, so I moseyed around
the stand to check the exterior. In stakeout talk, I reckon that would be called doing a sweep of the perimeter. Either way,
all appeared co-pacetic. Figuring I'd have a better chance of getting decent pictures of the perp if I put some distance between
me and the staked-out premises, I headed across the wide paved street, foregoing Frankie's trash-collecting suggestion, deciding
that a corner of the small stage just outside the main gate to the grandstand would work fine for my purposes. It was doubtful
anyone walking down Grand would see me curled up in the dark corner of the stage, and almost impossible for someone coming
behind the stage to see me at all. I drew my shirt— Townsend's shirt—around me and hunkered down for a three-hour marathon
that was sure to drag on worse than a lousy grandstand opening act.

I should've brought my CD player, I thought, settling down for an uncomfortable and boring hundred and eighty minutes. And
why hadn't I thought of snacks? I called myself ten kinds of stupid. I should've brought snacks. Quiet ones, though. Nothing
that crunched, crackled, or required slurping of any kind and/or resulted in burps, the need to urinate, or suck on antacids
afterward. Since I was already bored, I muddled over possible choices.

Let's see, what snack items didn't make noise or promote some urgent bodily reaction? Donuts, I thought, then discarded the
idea. I'd eaten way too many donuts already and, frankly, the thrill was gone, even if consumed at two a.m. and trailing crumbs
down Townsend's DNR shirt. Twinkies, I decided, then shook my head. The wrapper was too noisy. A corn dog was quiet, I decided,
but, unfortunately, also unavailable at this hour. Ice cream? Too cold. Plus, I'd want a cup of coffee afterwards, and the
coffee would make me have to whiz. Yogurt? Too healthy. Pixie Stix, I decided. It had to be Pixie Stix. They were quiet. You
just tore off the end of the straw, tilted it upside down over your tongue, and started pouring. Yummy.

I frowned. Ah, that wouldn't work either. I usually choked myself by getting the sugar too far back in my throat. I shook
my head and drew Townsend's shirt closer around me. Selecting surveillance fare wasn't as easy as it sounded, and I decided
to switch to something a bit less challenging.

I was reciting the alphabet backward in my head for the eighth time when I noticed a shadow move along the corner of the Varied
Industries building, which sat roughly fifty feet back behind the rows of concession stands that ran the length of the concourse.
I was stuck on R anyway, so I sat up and trained my eyes on the spot where I'd observed movement. I carefully removed the
digital camera from my grammy's fanny pack (yes, the same fanny pack I'll never admit to wearing) and held my breath, waiting
for the soft-serve saboteur to show himself.

I caught a quick peek at a denim-clad leg, and a few seconds later, a full torso and head came into view. My gosh, the Frankfurter
had been right: His stakeout plan was working!

This shady character, however, was much shorter than the horn-blowing clown. He wore a dark baseball cap and a black T-shirt.
Obviously, the person was trying to blend in—something I had strived a lifetime for but never seriously achieved. The figure
moved to the door of the Dairee Freeze, looked around briefly, then grabbed the doorknob. I raised my camera, poised to snap
a photojournalistic caught-in-the-act front-page pic. The persistent perp twisted the doorknob, and it squeaked and he stopped
and looked around again. I switched on the camera, adjusted for night photography and zoom capabilities, and brought the camera
to a ready position.

The doorknob rattled again, but the door didn't open. The perp tried once more, placing a hand, palm down, on the door, quietly
rapping against the wood. He then placed an ear against the door, and I picked up a hushed inquiry. What was he doing, chanting.
"Open sesame" to Uncle Frank's mini-freeze door?

A few more low queries and the figure moved around the corner of the white building and out of my line of sight. I got to
my feet, not about to give someone the opportunity to wreak more havoc on my aunt and uncle's livelihood. Plus, I loved working
the fair, and if Uncle Frank sold out, where would that leave me? I'd be forever relegated to paying regular price for fair
admission plus all that food. Not to mention no sneaking in free to grandstand shows.

The injustice of it all—including the sobering reality of having to pay full price for donuts for the rest of my life—got
me revved up quicker than my horse, Black Jack, gets before a barrel race. I sprang out of my crouch like an unleashed tiger—or
a Jerry Springer guest confronted by her boyfriend's ho who happens to be a him, and propelled myself off the end like some
demented superhero in khaki.

I flew across the concourse, my fun new sneakers proving to be more than adequate for running and worth the investment I'd
recently made but couldn't afford. I approached the corner of the Dairee Freeze, slowing up to surprise the mischief-maker
with a photo, and then run like hell just like Frankie had advised. A momentary sense of doom settled over me like the hot-pink
knit hand-crocheted poncho I'd bought to wear with my hot-pink-and-turquoise cowgirl boots I hoped soon to be able to afford.
(Hey, the poncho was marked down 50 percent. That's a deal!)

I crept to the corner of the mini-freeze, my body pressed against the building like you see on cop shows. I eased toward the
edge, sidestepping a little at a time. The only thing missing was a service revolver held securely in my shaking hands. Oh,
and a badge. And legal authority to be doing what I was doing.

I heard heavy breathing and held my breath. Nothing. I let my breath out, listened for a moment, and heard the breathing again.
I sucked in my breath again and waited. Nothing. After I'd held my breath a good half a dozen times, I finally figured out
it was me making like Darth Vader with a respiratory infection. I shook my head. Some sleuth.

I straightened my spine, thankful it hadn't deserted me, and jumped out from the corner in a really retarded Kung Phooey move
I'd seen Joe Townsend execute with only slightly less panache. I frowned. No one was there. I adjusted my ball cap and wiped
my perspiring brow. Okay, so where was the phantom of the fairgrounds anyway?

I took a tentative step forward—and felt a sharp object jab me between the shoulder blades.

"Don't move," a voice commanded. As if I was capable of anything but keeping myself from tinkling down my leg.

"Raise your hands."

I complied, thinking no matter who was behind me, I was screwed. Big time.

"So, what do you have to say for yourself?" the voice at the back of my head asked.

"I'm about to urinate?" I said, wishing I could do the gotta-go-right-now dance but afraid to make any sudden moves that might
be misconstrued. Especially with that unidentified object still making a painful indentation in my back.

"About the Dairee Freeze. Why'd you do it?"

I shook my head. "Do what?" I asked.

"Don't play dumb with me." I rolled my eyes. As if I haven't heard that one before. "What's that you've got on you? A weapon?"

I shook my head. "Digital camera, keys, and cell phone," I said. "And I think there might be some Passionate Pink lip color,
too, but it's not mine. It's my grandma's. I go more for the natural look, you know, more of a pouty gloss with just a hint
of mauve." I have a tendency to chatter when I'm nervous. Remember?

"Turn around slowly."

"I'm not sure I want to," I said, my voice pathetically wimpy even to my own ears.

"I said, turn around!"

I decided I'd better comply, so I whirled around, bringing my camera down to eye level. As I turned, I hit the button on top,
flashing a momentary blinding light in my assailant's face. I clicked two more pictures in double action before I lunged for
the jean-clad knees opposite me and tackled the as-yet-unidentified individual to the ground. I prayed when I opened my eyes
I wouldn't be staring at a badge or down the barrel of a handgun.

"Get off me!" I heard, and the voice sounded vaguely familiar and vaguely feminine. "Get off!"

I opened my eyes and focused on a face that said that if looks could kill, I'd be laid out in Ferguson's Funeral Home with
folks filing past saying things like, "I knew all that junk food would catch up to her eventually." Or "She'd just die if
she saw how they did her hair." Or "This is the only time I've seen her with her mouth closed." Sniff. Sniff.

"Dixie Daggett," I said, recognizing Luther Daggett's daughter's short, puggish nose and rather liberal eyebrows. I mean eyebrow.

"Tressa Turner," she responded in kind, a definite edge to her voice that, when translated, meant I was not one of her favorite
people. "Figures. You mind getting off me now? Those thunder thighs of yours should be registered as deadly weapons," she
growled, giving me a shove with her upper body.

I frowned. My God, had those donuts already settled on my thighs? I sat up. "I'll have you know muscle weighs more than fat,"
I told her. "It's in all the fitness books."

"How much does cellulite weigh, then?" she asked. I winced. Nice one.

"Not more than that unibrow thing you got goin'," I shot back. "What are you doing lurking around outside my Uncle Frank's
mini-freeze?" I asked, my eyes narrowing in much the same way, I suspected, that my dad's did in his trademark explain-yourself-young-lady
look.

"I might ask you the same question," Dixie replied.

"I'm doing a good deed," I said. "You?"

"Ditto," she said.

"By that, I take it you mean you're doing a good deed for good old dad?" I asked. "As in a he-can't-win-a-bet-against-Uncle-Frank-fair-and-square-so-he-puts-his-daughter-up-to-nuking-the-competition
good deed."

"I think you've found one too many dead bodies," Dixie snapped, sitting up and brushing herself off, picking up the long black
keychain she'd jabbed me with earlier. "You're inverting cockamamie conspiracies."

"Oh, really? Well those cockamamie cockroaches at the Emporium looked pretty real to me," I said, picking myself up off the
ground. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, now would you, Dix?" I asked.

"That's right, I wouldn't," she agreed, getting to her feet. "And you still haven't said what good deed brings you out at
this hour of the morning." She blinked. "Is that a hot-pink fanny pack you're wearing?" she added.

I crossed my arms, covering Gram's fanny pack, and decided to throw down the gauntlet. To put my cards on the table. To let
it all hang out—in a manner of speaking.

"I'm conducting my own investigation," I told her. "To prove that my cousin Frankie is not to blame for all the incidents
that are happening to the Dairee Freeze concessions. Hence, the stakeout. I figured if I could catch the culprit in the act,
I could clear Frankie's name." I looked at Dixie. "It appears I was right." Well, actually, Frankie was right, but since I
was the one in the line of fire, I felt I deserved the kudos.

I retrieved my camera and punched the review button. "Well, would you look at that! What do we have here? Why, I think I done
caught me a Daggett," I said, not really looking at the pictures all that closely. "I expect we'd better mosey on down to
the state patrol headquarters and have a little discussion with the brown shirts down there, don't you, Ms. Daggett? I'm sure
they would be fascinated to hear you explain what you were doing outside my uncle's concession stand at three-thirty in the
morning."