Calamity Jayne Rides Again (21 page)

"Like yesterday, at the emporium with Luther Daggett," Aunt Reggie said, and she slowly stood, her back as straight as the
temporary flagpole Uncle Frank always erects at the campsite. She took the newspaper and carefully folded it. "You girls better
run along now. You don't want to be late opening up," she added, turning and heading for the RV.

"Well... that wasn't very tactful, girl," Gram said, rapping my knuckles with her spoon.

I did a double take. "You were the one who told me to spit it out," I reminded her.

"That's because I didn't know there was anything to spit out!" she said. "I was just being dramatic. Adding a little spice
to the dialogue."

"You mean adding fuel to the fire." I groaned. "Aunt Reggie is really upset, isn't she?"

"I dunno," Gram replied. "Is not blinking for five minutes normal?"

I shook my head. "I am in so much trouble. Uncle Frank is gonna think I'm responsible for that photograph."

"Well, technically, aren't you?" Kari asked. I gave her a dark look.

"You're a big help, friend," I said.

"Well, this is turnin' out to be one lollapalooza of a fair. First our Oscar Meyer disappears, then the pranks. Now we have
a real-life love triangle in our midst. You remember that rumor I heard, the one about the two concessionaires getting it
on? Well, I'm wondering if that talk was about Frank and Lucy."

"Frank and Lucy are only getting along, not getting it on, Gram," I snapped. "Uncle Frank loves Aunt Reggie."

"Maybe." Gram made a
t
sking sound. "But you know that sayin', 'Don't come a-knockin' if the trailer's a-rockin'?'" I nodded. "Well, let's just say
that's gonna take on a whole new meanin' tonight when Mr. Front Page gets back."

"Uncle Frank must be going through a midlife crisis," I thought aloud.

"I know something about midlife crises," Gram replied. "It tested the bounds of your grandpa Will's and my matrimony," she
admitted.

"That's
bonds
, Grammy," I said. "But do tell. What did Paw Paw Will do? Did he have a passionate affair? Did he gamble your life savings
away? Did he buy a bright red sports car or have a tummy tuck?"

"Yes, Hannah," Kari joined in. "How did your husband's midlife crisis manifest?" I gave her a sideways look. "Being a bride-to-be,
it's nice to know these things," she explained.

"What are you two chattering about?" Gram got to her feet. "Paw Paw Will never had a midlife crisis," she said, and headed
for our trailer. "Now, should I wear the lavender or the hot pink today?"

"She's scary," Kari said.

I agreed.

Uncle Frank was already at the emporium making coffee and those yummy little breakfast burritos with the sausage, cheese,
and egg that only the Emporium serves on the fairgrounds. At a buck-fifty each, they were a big seller, and Uncle Frank made
a respectable profit.

"You're up and at 'em early," I greeted him, wondering how on earth I was going to break the news that he was on the front
page of the hometown paper sipping beer with a woman other than his wife. I pulled an apron on over my white tank top and
tan skort. (You know, a cross between a skirt and shorts. I wonder who ever thought of
skort
in the first place. It's so clever.)

"I had a breakfast business meeting," he said, and I looked over at Kari, who shrugged. What kind of business did Uncle Frank
have to conduct without Aunt Reggie around to translate for him? Let's face it: Uncle Frank was not the brains behind the
business, although his talent in the kitchen was the basis on which the Bar-lowe empire was built.

Bravely, I asked, "Oh, yeah? That's strange: Aunt Reggie was still up at the campgrounds. Did she know about your business
breakfast?"

"It came up at the last minute," Uncle Frank answered, a certain gruffness to his voice that didn't encourage further discussion.

"Uh, guess what, Uncle Frank?" I said, joining Kari in the kitchen, where she was wrapping burritos in white plastic paper.
"You got some free advertising in the
Gazette
," I told him. "Front-page photo and the works."

Uncle Frank followed me into the kitchen. "How'd you sneak that by Stan?"

I concentrated on rolling my next burrito. "It was all Stan's doing," I said, making sure he knew where to lay the blame when
the time came. "You remember he's running a fair feature at the end of the fair and I'm supposed to send him pictures and
small write-ups? Well, he ran a preview in the paper, and out of the selection of possible photos I sent him, he ran one of
you. It says 'Frank Barlowe, local businessman' and everything! Totally cool."

Uncle Frank was still frowning. Not an encouraging sign. "When did you take my picture?"

"Well, actually, I didn't," I said. "Someone else was fiddling with my camera and took one. But, trust me, it's a keeper."
For sure Aunt Reggie would be keeping it. Forever and ever.

"Where was this photo taken?" he asked, and I caught myself overfilling a poor tortilla.

"Taken? Let's see. I could be mistaken, but I think I recall it being taken at a local establishment where they serve various
appetizers and, of course, drinks to wash them down. But remember, it's free advertising, so it's all good!"

"What local establishment?" he asked.

Dang. Why did he have to choose today of all days to show an interest?

I looked at Kari, who looked back at me with a should-I-seek-cover look. "Uh, the picture was taken the other night at Bottoms
Up. But now that I think of it, I doubt very many people will notice. After all, it's not like they care about seeing Frank
Barlowe on the front page, having drinks with some strange woman or anything. Right?"

"Strange woman?" Uncle Frank's face was redder than his homemade salsa.

"Did I say strange? I meant unknown. As in unidentified. For all anyone knows, it could be your sister."

"I don't have a sister."

"But not everyone knows that," I pointed out.

"Did you bring the paper to the fair?" Uncle Frank asked Kari.

"Tressa told me to," Kari responded, and I gave her a dark look.

"Do you by any chance have it with you?" Uncle Frank asked. I could detect a hopeful look in his eye.

I shook my head. "Sorry. But you'll be seeing it later," I said, " 'cause Aunt Reggie has it."

Uncle Frank nodded. Then kept nodding. "Great. Just great. Things just keep getting better and better. You know, I've half
a mind to just throw in the towel and go ahead and retire. It seems to be what everyone wants."

Not me. I still depended on the Dairee Freeze as steady, secure employment.

"What do you want to do, Uncle Frank?" I asked.

"Depends on what day you ask me," he said.

"It's been quiet the last couple days, so maybe the prankster has pulled his last prank," I suggested.

"You ever heard that it's always quietest before the storm?" he reminded me.

I nodded. I'd found that to be true, myself.

"I'll be back later. Hold down the fort, would you, girls?" my uncle said.

I nodded, but suspected it was Uncle Frank who would need to fortify his defenses.

Kari and I ran through the burritos quicker than my grammy goes through her secret stash of M&Ms. By ten we'd sold out, and
were already preparing the beef burgers and taco meat for our two main lunch staples.

I was in the freezer grabbing another container of tin roof ice cream (okay, so this is a particular flavor favorite of mine—what
of it?) and was carrying it back to the front when I spotted Townsend sitting at the counter, looking gorgeous as usual. He
was clearly off-duty today, as he had on a white Nike T-shirt with blue trim. I couldn't tell what he had on from the waist
down, but suspected it was probably khaki shorts and his Nike tennies.

I maneuvered the ice cream into the refrigerated display case out front, feeling self-conscious and not a little flustered.
After our romantic interlude of the previous night—stymied only, I feared, by a case of
clownus interruptus
—I felt myself slipping back into my own confused version of the Safe Mode. I was backpedaling from our earlier overheated
overtures faster than the unicyclist who followed the horses in the annual state fair parade.

The Rick Townsend I knew and wrangled with had a reputation for playing the field—while I suspected I was more apt to play
for keeps. Which led to the obvious question: Once the Grandville slugger hit a couple grand-slam homers off me and rounded
my bases several times, would he decide I was—er,
baseball
was—too restrictive a pastime? And where would that leave me? High and dry with the Great Bobo. That's where.

"What'll ya have?" I said, pulling my order book and pencil out of my front pocket, opting for a businesslike demeanor. "It's
a tad bit early for lunch, but we've still got some donuts back there."

"Donuts instead of lunch? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were tryin' to do me in, Calamity," Ranger Rick said. "Or get
me out of the way by sending me off to the dentist."

I frowned at him. "Why would I want to get you out of the way?"

"Oh, I can think of a couple of reasons," he said. "And they all fall under the I-don't-want-to-go-there category."

"Oh, really? What do you think you know?"

"I know you. And I foresee big trouble ahead if you continue playing Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson with Frankie."

"Uh-oh! Sonya the Seer better watch out, or all-knowing, all-seeing Ranger Rick will put her out of a job!" I said, gratefully
seeking the safe refuge of righteous indignation from emotions that flip-flopped more than my gammy's boobs when she went
without her foundation bra. "I'll have you know, I'm making headway on this case as we speak. I've got several suspects identified
and am getting a better handle on their motives, and even now I'm formulating a plan to bring the guilty party to light."
Well, actually, I had no plan, but since Townsend really wasn't psychic, he couldn't know that.

He busted out laughing, far more than I thought appropriate. "Geez, do you hear yourself? You even sound like Holmes! 'Even
now, my good Watson, I'm formulating a plan to bring the guilty party to light.'" He grabbed a napkin from a nearby dispenser
and wiped his eyes.

"I'm glad you find this so amusing," I told him. "I assure you, Uncle Frank isn't getting any jollies from this, and neither
is Aunt Reggie. Their marriage may even be in jeopardy."

Townsend finished wiping his eyes and nodded. "I heard about your little fair preview piece. Nice," he said.

"How'd you—? Who told you?" I asked, knowing the answer as soon as the question left my lips. "Oh, I get it: Joe told you,
and Gram told Joe."

"Bingo," Townsend agreed.

It wasn't my fault!" I complained. "Ronnie took the picture and I thought it had been deleted. I meant to have Stan run a
picture of you and Taylor."

Townsend looked at me. "You took a picture of Taylor and me? Why?"

I shrugged. "You're both cover-model caliber, so why not?"

He shook his head. "I don't think I'll ever understand how that brain of yours works," he said.

"But you're not giving up. Right?" I asked, a pitiful edge to my voice that I'd not consciously put there.

"Lucky for you, I'm known for my stamina," he said. "In more ways than one," he added with a wink.

The bell sounded. The door opened, and Gram and Joe walked in.

"I prefer them Tucks pads," my gramma was saying. "No mess. Just wipe and toss."

I looked at Townsend and made a face. "Yep," I said, "I'm a lucky, lucky girl."

"Well howdy-do, you two!" Joe helped Gram onto a bar stool and took the one beside his grandson. "Imagine finding you two
here. Together. Talking real friendly-like."

"Not so unusual," I told Joe. "I work here, and Ranger Rick likes to eat."

"You got any breakfast burritos left?" Gram asked.

I shook my head. "Had a big run on 'em. But if you wait a few minutes, we'll have beef burgers." I didn't tell her about the
tacos. Sometimes Gram and tacos don't get along.

"What? No tacos?" Gram asked, pronouncing it tackos. Sometimes I think she needs to come up with her own dictionary.

"Uncle Frank's belly burners? You sure you want one?" I asked. "The mood he was in this morning, he probably went heavy on
the hot sauce."

Gram looked at Joe. "I'm game if you are," she said.

Townsend frowned. "I think you better stick with the beef burger, Pops," he said to his grandfather.

Joe looked at Gram. "Maybe he's right, Hannah. We got us a lot to do this afternoon, and we may not have time for pit stops."

"What do you two have on tap for the afternoon?" Townsend asked, a slight tremor in his voice. I felt the same anxiety.

"Yeah, Gram, what's on the agenda?" I asked, thinking that these two let loose on an unsuspecting fair crowd could qualify
for changing the country's terror alert status to orange.

"Oh, we were hoping to take some photographs of the fair," Gram said. "You know, one never knows when it will be their last.
Look at poor Dottie: She keeled over in her donut batter one day and
puuffttth
, she was gone. We thought it would be kinda nice to have pictures. We figured we'd take photos of ourselves at the fair enjoying
various activities, and maybe make a scrapbook or photo album for you kids."

I looked at her. A scrapbook? Photographs? All her family pictures were still in shoeboxes in a basement closet. "You don't
even own a camera, Grammy," I told her.

"No, but you do. You have that digital doohickey. We could use that, couldn't we?"

I shook my head. "I need it. I've really been lax about getting pictures for Stan at the
Gazette
," I said. "I'm behind, big time."

"We could snap a few fair attractions while we're out and about," Joe suggested. "You know, the old favorites. The butter
cow. The big boar. The big bull. A shot of the sand sculpture—I hear you're not real welcome there anyway, since that time
you destroyed the Statue of Liberty. The midway. We'll shoot all the general-interest stuff. All you'll have to do is write
a few blurbs to go with the photos."