Calamity Jayne Rides Again (2 page)

I giggled and gave Uncle Frank a quick peck on one whiskered cheek. "At least you can't complain of boredom when I'm around,
Uncle Frank," I boasted.

"Boredom? Who has time to be bored? We'll never be ready by tomorrow!"

I left Uncle Frank shaking his head and muttering, and started down the hill, pausing to wave at other state fair fixtures
along the way. The fair is like a family reunion in many respects. Once a year we all get together and catch up on what's
happened during the three hundred and fifty-five days since we've last seen each other. It's like old home week.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Calamity Jayne! Hello there, Tressa. I wondered if you would be here this year. After all that
excitement, I thought maybe this old state fair would seem dull as dirt to you."

"Welcome back, Mrs. Connor," I said, pausing to greet Uncle Frank's next-door concession neighbor, Lu-cinda Connor, who ran
a large tented souvenir stand that featured everything from mood rings to feather-trimmed tomahawks. Lucy was a decade-long
transplant from the "left" coast, no doubt acquiring much of the knowledge necessary to push felt cowboy hats, multicolored
Indian headdresses and plastic horse figurines from "B" Hollywood movies and trips to the racetrack-casino. "It's nice to
see you again. You look younger every year," I lied. In reality, Lucy's true age was a bit dicey to gauge. She could be anywhere
from thirty to fifty-five years old. Her dark, leathery skin brought to mind the texture of one of my Western saddles. The
antique one. I suspected too much beach time with too little sunscreen was a contributing culprit. That and the chain smoking.
This year Lucy sported a bleachy blonde 'do. In past years she'd shown up as a brunette, a redhead and a strawberry blonde.
Lean and toned, Lucy kind of reminded me of what a retired aerobics instructor might look like.

"Aren't you sweet? I've been hearing the most delicious things about you," Lucy continued. "Is it really true you found four
dead bodies?"

I shook my head. "Only three. One I found twice."

"I couldn't believe it when I read about it in the paper. I told all my friends, 'Why, I know that girl. I know Calamity Jayne!'
Of course, they were dying to hear all about your state fair exploits. Like the time you knocked the tail off the butter cow.
And when you deflated the giant beer can outside the beer tent. And there was the time you—"

"Oh, gee, I have to run." I made a point of looking at my wrist, even though I'd forgotten to put on my watch. "I have to
relieve Frank Junior down at the other stand in a few minutes. Nice seeing you again."

"You're relieving Frankie? That's funny. I could swear I saw him heading out the Grand Avenue gate over an hour ago. Well,
you go on now. We'll have plenty of time to catch up later."

I nodded, making a mental note to self to avoid Lucy's Trinkets and Treasures. I was trying to move away from my past faux
pas. I wanted to project a new image, cultivate a new reputation. One of maturity. Common sense. Competency. Okay, so maybe
I'd shoot for paying all my bills on time for six months and work from there.

I made my way to the mini-freeze via the Guess Your Weight or Age booth, thinking it might be fun if Lucy could stump the
pro. I also wanted to check out how much weight I'd gained since last year. (Sorry, folks. That info is not for public dissemination.)
I stopped by Tony's Taffy to say howdy-do. Of course, I had to sample each of the flavors and try this year's new offering,
French Vanilla Cappuccino. (A big, but sticky, thumbs up!) I grabbed a corn dog from Carl, a lemonade from Louie, and a caramel
apple from Ada. By the time I got to Uncle Frank's, I was ready for the antacid stand.

I frowned when I saw the line snaking its way down the sidewalk outside the mini-freeze. What was Frankfurter doing, anyway,
the little wiener? The line was longer than the one at the Bud tent on fifty-cent draw night.

I hustled to the back of the tiny, white square building about the size of a one-half car garage, jerked the door open, and
stepped inside.

"What the heck is going on, Frankie?" I asked the figure in white cotton, his back to me. "You've got customers lined up from
here to the pretzel place next door. What's the deal?"

"I owe you an apology, Calamity," said the tall figure in white, struggling to construct something that resembled an ice cream
cone. "These damned curlicues are not as easy to make as I thought."

I took a step back. My jaw did a trap-door motion. I gasped as the man turned and slapped a soggy, misshapen cone into my
hand.

"I quit."

I looked up from the drippy mess oozing down my wrist to the kaleidoscope of color splashed across the front of the white
apron across from me.

"Ranger Rick?" I stared at the gooey, ice-cream-covered man. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm splitting this pop shack," he said, pulling off his apron. "And pronto."

I shook my head, trying to process the picture of the tall, dark, and deadly handsome ranger splitting bananas and drizzling
nuts.

"You look good in confections," was all I could think to say.

"Hell," he managed.

"What are you doing here?" I asked again. "Where's Frankie?"

"How should I know? I came over to get a damned dip cone and the place was unlocked, open for business, but empty as that
greasy egg roll stand across the way. I figured Frankie stepped out to use the john, but I've been manning the order window
for two freaking hours!" The ranger threw the apron on the counter. "I'm outta here."

"Hey! What? Where are you going?"

"Back to the comfortable and familiar world of reptiles and raptors. And as far as I'm concerned, if I never see another freaking
ice cream cone it will be okay by me." He headed toward the exit.

"Hey, Mr. Ranger, sir!" I yelled. "You forgot your dip cone!"

I giggled a bit and then caught a look at the line of angry customers with facial expressions reminiscent of a group of disappointed
sports fans about to tip something over. Or Democrats after their 2004 presidential election exit polls proved unreliable.
I sobered. Where the devil was that Oscar Meyer cousin of mine, anyway?

CHAPTER 2

I closed up around midnight, too tired to even snitch a treat for the road. I was still royally ticked at Frankie and suspected
his little disappearing act had everything to do with his campaign to show Uncle Frank he was serious about passing on the
passing on of the family business. Enough complaints to the Fair Board, and they might decide not to renew Uncle Frank's business
license!

I made my way in the direction of the Ice Cream Emporium. I wanted to let Uncle Frank know his son had deserted his post,
and to warn Frankie to maintain a low profile where Ranger Rick Townsend was concerned—at least until the ranger defrosted
a bit.

The Emporium was dark as I approached, and I frowned, thinking it was way too early for Uncle Frank to call it a night, especially
on the eve of opening day. I made my way to the front door, pausing when I saw it standing open. I stood for a moment, nibbling
my lip, recalling my recent past of stumbling upon dead bodies and murderers. I shook my head. Nah. Lightning didn't strike
in the same place twice. I'd found my quota of stiffs. The chances of that happening again were about the same as the odds
of finding a good-looking cowboy wearing nothin' but a smile and a Stetson, waiting up for me in my folks' camper.

I inched the door open. "Uncle Frank? Frankie? Hello? Anybody here?" I stepped into the ice cream parlor and reached for the
light switch. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," I said, and flipped the switch.

The floor seemed to come alive. Dark shapes scurried toward the corners and under the tables. I stepped in and heard a pop
and a crunch and felt a tickling on my toes. I looked down to see several large, butt-ugly cockroaches skittering across my
bare foot. I screamed and stomped my foot.
Snap, crackle, pop!

I gazed about the room. There were hundreds of the filthy things! Several ran a race across Uncle Frank's shiny white countertop.
More scrambled off the refrigerated unit where we kept the most popular flavors for scooping.

I ran around the counter, grabbed Uncle Frank's pushbroom, and started sweeping the gross bugs up, shaking stragglers off
my feet and trying not to gag. When I had a huge pile of the disgusting buggers collected, I swept them toward the door.

"Good God! What the hell?"

I grimaced when I recognized the person belonging to that voice.

"What is this shit?" preceded more stomping and
snap-crackle-crunching.

I shook my broom over Rick Townsend's tennis shoe-clad foot. "They're cockroaches!" I said, still grossed out by that reality.
"Hundreds of them. Everywhere!"

"How the hell did this many cockroaches get in here?" Townsend asked, taking mincing steps across the floor and behind the
counter. "Jeezus. What an army! What's going on here?"

I shook my head. "Don't ask me. I was on my way up to the campground and decided to stop and see if Frankie had performed
his mea culpas with Uncle Frank, and found the door wide open. When I switched on the lights, it was like I was the Orkin
man or something!"

"Where's your uncle?" Townsend said, grabbing a state fair guidebook and flicking roaches off the counter onto the floor,
popping them under his heel. Squish. Squirt. "What about Frankie? He ever show up?"

I shook my head, herding another group of invaders toward the door. "Haven't seen hide nor hair of him. You?"

Townsend kicked a roach across the room. "That little twerp knows better than to be within cow-chip tossing distance of me.
Hell, I can't even face a bowl of ice cream after that experience."

"I'm worried, Townsend," I said. "First Frankie disappears without a word and now we've got cockroach central here and no
Uncle Frank. He'd never go off and leave the place unlocked. Never. Lots of times he pulls an all-nighter getting ready for
opening day."

I wasn't really worried about the Frankfurter. I suspected he was keeping a low profile in case Uncle Frank found out about
his labor stoppage, but the icky infestation was definitely a cause for concern.

I was doing the roach rumba, jumping up and down and squealing at each bug vanquished, when soft laughter drew my attention
to the door. I looked up to see Uncle Frank sashay in arm-in-arm with Lucy Connor of Lucy's Trinkets and Treasures. I stopped
in mid-roach eradication and stared at the twosome in the doorway, my eyes narrowing as I took in the tall, icy cold beer
I would have sold my firstborn for clutched in Uncle Frank's meaty fist

"Where the hell have you been?" I shouted.

Uncle Frank stepped over the threshold and,
crunch
, onto a pile of recently departed insects. He looked down at his blue canvas shoe, up at me, broom in hand, and across the
floor of his ice cream parlor, where diehard bugs still zipped back and forth across the room, Townsend in hot pursuit.

The plastic cup in his hand began to jiggle. Beer erupted over the sides and down his arm. I licked my lips. Uncle Frank remained
inert, unmoving, except for that thing going on with his hand. I couldn't imagine what thoughts had to be filling his head.
I suddenly felt sorry for yelling at him.

"Uncle Frank?" I moved forward and touched his arm, removing the beer from his unresisting hand. I took a long swig, wiped
my mouth, then took another one and belched. "Are you okay?" I asked.

He looked at the beer in my hand, then at Townsend, who was swearing and slapping the bugs zipping up and down Aunt Regina's
frilly red and white checked curtains. He grabbed the beer from me, tipped his head back, and downed the remainder of the
alcohol in long, successive gulps. He crushed the empty cup in his hands.

"Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?" he said, shaking a large cockroach off his tenny. "What the hell
have you done to me this time, Calamity?" he asked. "What the hell have you done to me now?"

I took a step back, a hand unconsciously moving to rest over my heart. It figured I'd get blamed for this. That was nothing
new. But acknowledging the pain that came along with the finger-pointing was. I was still learning how to give voice to my
true feelings, how to strip away the hedgehog prickles that protected a soft, gooey center—
my
soft, gooey center—to explore a range of emotions I'd stifled way too long. To articulate an answer to the how-does-that-make-you-feel
mantra the TV psycho-babble gurus loved to ask their lab-rat guests. Hmmm. Okay. Let's see. How did Uncle Frank's accusation
make me feel? Pissed off, that's what!

"Listen, Mr. Misty," I snarled, shaking a roach from my foot. "I stopped by to see if you needed any help finishing things
up, and what do I get? An insect ambush of epic proportions, asinine accusations, and the distinct probability that I'll never
enjoy a bowl of Rice Krispies again with the same enthusiasm." I shook a finger at him. "Woe to you if that extends to marshmallow
treats."

Uncle Frank shot me an uncertain look, and then looked past me to Townsend in the background, doing his own unpolished version
of the roach rumba.

"What do you know about this, Townsend?" he asked, grabbing the broom out of my hand and playing hockey with some bugs.

"All I know is, I'm staying way the hell away from your Dairee Freeze concessions for the remainder of the fair, Frank," Townsend
replied. "Far, far away. First I'm left to man your other stand for hours with no help and no prior experience in cone-top
curlicues, and then I stop by here and get caught up in a freakin' roach round-up." He slapped at his pantleg.

"What do you mean, you manned my other stand?" Uncle Frank asked. "Where were you, Tressa?"

"She was there," Townsend said, before I could defend myself. "Frankie wasn't. I thought he'd just stepped out for a second
and he'd be right back, but he never showed. I was left in that damned box for hours. I didn't know what the hell I was doing."

"I can attest to that," I remarked. "You should've seen his apron. He looked like he'd just had a food fight with Ben & Jerry.
And lost big time."

Ranger Rick gave me a sour look. "Where the hell was Frankie, anyway?" he asked my uncle.

"I don't know what the devil you're talking about," Uncle Frank said. "I haven't seen Frankie since early this morning up
at the campgrounds. You mean, he left the other stand open and just went off?" A muscle in my uncle's jaw jumped.

"Oh, I saw Frankie earlier this afternoon," Lucy chimed in, putting a taloned hand on Uncle Frank's arm. For a while I'd forgotten
she was even there. Now it occurred to me to question why she was there. With Uncle Frank. Sharing a beer at this time of
night. "Remember, Tressa dear? I told you I'd seen Frankie leaving through the main gate when you were taking off to relieve
him. I thought it was odd at the time. After all, Frank does at least ten percent of his total ice cream sales before the
fair opens. Don't you, Frank?"

I looked at Uncle Frank and then back at Lucy, wondering how she would know such a thing, then realized that Uncle Frank must've
discussed his sales with her— something, paranoid that he was about Luther Daggett besting him, he generally didn't share
with outsiders. I looked at Lucy's hand on Uncle Frank's arm again. Maybe she wasn't as much of an outsider as I assumed.
I frowned at that hand, and Lucy must've noticed, because she let it drop to her side.

"You saw Frankie leave the fairgrounds when he was supposed to be working?" Uncle Frank turned to Townsend. "You filled in
for him?" He turned to me. "He never showed up later?"

I shook my head. "I haven't seen him all day. I thought maybe he would be here helping you. That's why I stopped by. To make
sure you weren't too hard on him. He can get a little muddled about things sometimes."

"Pot calling the kettle, I believe," Ranger Rick interjected.

"Bug off, Townsend," I said, flicking a straggler at him from the counter.

"Confused? About what? What's that got to do with him deserting his post and telling no one?" Uncle Frank gave the broom a
hard push.

"We all pretty much know how Frankie feels about the ice cream business, Uncle Frank," I pointed out. "He sees each year going
by as another year of his life wasted, and he's struggling to find just where he fits into this vast picture puzzle called
life. And face it, Uncle Frank—I don't think Frankie's future includes dairy. He's tried to tell you that. Maybe this was
his misguided, childish way of showing you."

Uncle Frank shook his head. "You think he's trying to sabotage my business to prove a point? How crazy is that?"

I shrugged. "I think Frankie is confused, Uncle Frank. Confused, not crazy. And confused people do confusing things."

"Pot calling the kettle again," Townsend remarked.

I ignored him and moved nearer Uncle Frank, putting a hand on his. "He loves you, Uncle Frank. And Aunt Regina. You know that."

Uncle Frank squeezed my hand, then let go. "Funny way for a son to show his love. First he abandons his post and causes me
untold business harm. Now he's let loose scads of the most hated bug on the planet in my business establishment, the sight
of just one of which is guaranteed to send customers running in revulsion. How the hell is that love?"

I blinked. Uncle Frank thought Frankie was responsible for the roach infestation? I shook my head. No. No way. The cousin
I knew might walk off in a tiff to prove a point and be too scared to face Townsend's wrath when he came to his senses, but
he would never cause the kind of irreparable harm this kind of stunt could create. Still, if not Frankie, who? And why?

"You can't think Frankie did this, Uncle Frank!"

"What else am I to think?" he asked, his normally red-tinged face ashen and pale.

"Oh, Frank, this is just awful," Lucy said, this time foregoing the hand on his arm. "But we can still put things to rights.
If we all pitch in, we can have this place ready to open tomorrow morning and no one will be any the wiser. I'm just going
to run and get my jumbo shop-vac, and we'll have those hideous things all sucked up and disposed of in no time." She gave
his cheek a pat. "Don't you worry about a thing, Frank, we'll pull this off yet."

Lucy hurried out the back door and I stared after her. She was being very helpful, I thought. Very neighborly. But maybe a
tad too neighborly for my liking—and probably Aunt Reggie's. Lucy could lend a helping hand; that was cool. But I wasn't about
to let her share any other trinkets or treasures with Uncle Frank.

Thirty minutes later I had to give Leather Lucy grudging credit. She had us organized and working in synchronized fashion.
Townsend sucked the bugs, I held the trash bags for disposal, and Uncle Frank mopped the floor with commercial-strength cleaner.
Lucy disinfected the tables, counters, and ice cream area. By three-thirty a.m. we had successfully transformed the place
from Cockroach Central back to Barlow's Ice Cream Emporium.

"You ready to head up to the campgrounds, Uncle Frank?" I asked, not bothering to stifle my yawn.

He shook his head. "Nah. You go on ahead. I have a few more things to see to and I'll be along." He came over and ruffled
my hair. "Thanks, kiddo. I owe you one. You, too, Rick," he added, holding out a hand for Townsend to shake. "I can't tell
you how much I appreciate the help."

"Oh, I imagine I'll receive adequate compensation in the future in the form of lots of ice cream cones with perfect little
curlicues on top," Townsend replied, gripping Uncle Frank's hand. "That is, when I'm back to eating ice cream without gagging.
Take it easy, Frank," he said.

"Coming?" I asked Lucy, not about to leave her alone with Uncle Frank in his tired, vulnerable state. Like I said, a helping
hand was one thing; holding Uncle Frank's was quite another.

Lucy looked at me, unmistakable annoyance in her face.

"Absolutely! Go on. Get out of here, Lucy," Uncle Frank said. "You must be tuckered out. I'll see that you get your shop-vac
back. Go on now. Scoot!"

I followed Lucy out the door and wished her good night, looking on as she made her way back to her establishment. There she
hopped into a golf cart, the fair's primary mode of transportation, and took off in the direction of the campground.