Calamity Jayne Rides Again (5 page)

"How's your Grandma Hannah doing?" Joe asked, and I paused in my scientific study of how many donuts you can dunk, then swallow,
in three minutes or less, and looked over at the man from Gram's past.

"Same as ever," I said, looking around for a napkin to wipe my mouth. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just curious," he said. "Has she arrived at the fair yet? I was thinking she said she'd be up this morning bright and
early."

I tried not to smile. Joe and my Grandma Hannah shared a complicated history. His father had been mayor of our hometown at
the same time my greatgrandfather had been police chief, and the two had feuded for years. As a result, whatever feelings
Gram and Joe harbored for each other had never been allowed to develop. By the time Joe Townsend got back home from the service,
Gram had married Paw Paw Will, and a few years later Joe Townsend tied the knot with a local girl he'd met upon his return.
I always got a little teary-eyed when I considered the circumstances that had kept the young people apart, despite their assurances
later in life that they had both been content with their choices. Recently, the two had started to show up at the same events
on a semi-regular basis. It was kind of cute in a scary way. Considering the seniors involved, I wondered if some sort of
public safety announcement should be made. You know, something along the lines of "When these personalities interact, results
could be unpredictable."

I nodded. "Gram arrived in top form this morning. She was primping when I left the trailer," I said, declining to mention
the nail polish color she'd chosen. Let Joe get a load of her toes himself. Knowing him, though, he was probably into the
goth look. Or he would be shortly.

"Mom was finalizing the work schedule, trying to cover for a possible no-show on Frankie's part." As soon as the words were
out of my mouth, I wished them back. I took a large gulp of coffee and stuffed a couple of donuts into my jumbo-sized mouth.

"No-show? Frankie? Is the boy still AWOL?" Joe asked.

I coughed, and coffee sprayed across the picnic table. "How'd you know about Frankie?" I asked, wiping the table off with
a wad of napkins.

"Rick told me this morning before he left," Joe explained. "Said Frankie went off and left the stand unmanned and he'd spent
two hours filling in. That boy was still steaming this morning. But he did mention he had a new appreciation for what you've
accomplished."

I felt a warm sensation in my chest. Ranger Rick appreciated my accomplishments? I frowned. Just what accomplishments was
he talking about?

"Yep, Rick said you could peel and split a banana in record time. And I think he admires your dancing abilities."

I looked over at Joe, puzzled. "What makes you say that?" Line dancing and the two-step were about it for my repertoire.

"He said you tap dance around your feelings better than Shirley Temple, and your side-stepping is Ginger Rogers quality. And
there was some reference to a roach rumba, whatever that is."

I felt my lip curl. So Ranger Rick didn't care for my fancy footwork, huh? Well, too freakin' bad. Ginger here was going to
keep dancing as fast as she could.

I snorted. "Your grandson is a legend in his own mind," I said, licking the cinnamon and sugar from my fingers.

"Funny. That's just what he says about you," Joe replied, sucking on his own sticky digits.

"Hardy har har," I said. I'd been smart to take it nice and easy with Ranger Rick. Well, okay... so I was still working on
the
nice
part. Considering our history of gorilla warfare (yeah,
gorilla
) I was finding that as awkward as conversation at family reunions. You know what I mean. When you're a kid, adults can get
away with saying, "You're growing like a weed," if they haven't seen you in a while and can't come up with anything else to
say. That almost always works. However, one can't use the same lines back. Often, those people have either shrunk in size
due to osteoporosis or gained a ton of weight. Even a generic, "My how you've changed!" won't work in those situations. That's
why I generally just stick pretty close to the food tables.

Yeah, right, Tressa
, you're thinking. Uh-huh.
That's
why. I can't pull a thing over on you guys, can I?

"So, when do you clock in?" Joe asked, looking at his large sports watch with all the bells and whistles strapped on the outside
of his windbreaker. "It's a quarter to eight now."

I took another gulp of coffee and wiped my mouth. "I guess I better be hoofin' it, then. I have to be at the mini-freeze at
eight to open up and get things going."

"Your Uncle Frank got that bet going with Luther Daggett again this year?" Joe asked.

For the last thirty years, Uncle Frank and Daggett's Cone Connection concessions had competed for top sales at the state fair,
with the loser expected to donate something to beautify the state fairgrounds in the name of the winner. There are nice new
park benches all over the fairgrounds with Uncle Frank's and Aunt Reggie's names prominently displayed on a gold nameplate.
There's a new butterfly garden along the stairs to Exhibition Hill that proclaims Uncle Frank as the benevolent benefactor.
One small gazebo, two purple gazing balls, three wood sculptures, four trolley signs, and a partridge in a pear tree—sorry,
I got carried away there—such items are a testament to Uncle Frank's record of successes when it comes to soft-serve sales
at the fair. The first year Luther Daggett managed to beat Uncle Frank was the very first year they competed. That year the
loser took the winner out to dinner. Cheapskate that he is, Uncle Frank catered the meal himself, serving chili dogs, shakes,
and fries. The only other time Uncle Frank suffered defeat was when straight-line winds whipped through the fairgrounds in
'93 and the poor unfortunate mini-freeze ended up on the porch of the old administration building. Apart from that, Uncle
Frank has retained his soft-serve king title.

This year a new horseshoe-pitching venue was scheduled to be erected before the next fair. Devotees of the sport, both Uncle
Frank and Luther Daggett wanted dibs on the project as this year's ultimate prize—and to see their name front and center on
the new and much improved horseshoe pitching facility. Uncle Frank had talked of nothing else for weeks.

"We can't let our guard down for a minute, people," he had stressed at a church picnic three weeks earlier. "That Luther Daggett
will do anything to take the prize this year," he said. "Anything. That guy has a set on him the size of those coconut-covered
pink marshmal-low snowballs Tressa likes so much." Unfortunately for Uncle Frank, the minister had chosen that moment to stroll
by, leaving Uncle Frank in the unique position of trying to convince the good reverend he'd been discussing a set of new frozen
taste treats.

I thought about that conversation, and about how it might relate to the cockroach caper at the emporium the night before.
What better way to sway the contest in your favor in a bug way—I mean
big
way—than to contaminate the competitor's premises with hordes of hideous, dirty, disgusting, business-busting bugs? So there
was another person besides Frankie who stood to benefit from a dramatic dip in Uncle Frank's cone sales: Luther Daggett d/b/a
Cone Connection.

"You okay?" Joe's question brought me out of my mental musings. "A donut didn't go down cockeyed, did it? The way you were
wolfing them down, it's no wonder."

I shook my head. "Just thinking," I said.

"Ah, that explains it," Joe responded. I gave him one of my often-practiced but never mastered one-eyebrow-raised looks and
he went on. "The slightly wrinkled brow. The somewhat pained expression—like the one I get when I haven't included enough
fiber in my diet."

I winced. I reckoned my intense concentration look needed some work.

"So, is the bet on again this year?" Joe asked. I nodded.

"And the stakes are higher than ever," I said. The knot in my stomach had almost nothing to do with a large coffee and a jumbo
order of mini donuts.

CHAPTER 5

I left Joe finishing up his donuts and coffee and trying to figure out where he'd have the best chance of running into my
grandma by accident. This was so cute, I thought; what modern-day romance needed was less in-your-face aggression and more
sneaky subterfuge.

"Stay put," I told Joe, sharing the benefit of my vast experience in the matter. "I guarantee she'll hit Dottie's first thing.
That is, if she's clever enough to lose her assigned keeper for the day." My bets were on Hellion Hannah all the way. My grandma
has an independent streak so big it can be seen by the astronauts in space. And the lure of Dottie's donuts among my family
was legend.

"I reckon we'll be down your way for a cold refresher later on," Joe warned me. "And between the two of us we could mind the
store if you wanted to take a little break."

I hoped he didn't detect the sudden dilation of my pupils or the hoarseness in my voice as I bid him adieu.

Just the thought of the dynamic duo doling out dairy gave me acid reflux.

I jogged the last block to the ice cream stand, the coffee sloshing around in my stomach with each step. I gave myself a mental
head slap. Why had I swilled all that coffee when I was about to be cooped up for five hours selling root beer and soda pop?

I hurried up to the Dairee Freeze satellite stand and stopped when I saw the side door ajar. I frowned. I'd locked that door
last night. I knew I had. I'd taken special care to do so once I figured how grumpy Uncle Frank would be when he found out
about Frankie. I didn't want to give him additional cause to chew this cowgirl's be-hind.

"Frankie?" I called out, moving to pull the door open. "Uncle Frank?"

The moment I stepped over the threshold, I caught a sour smell ten times worse than the chronic projectile spit-up of the
Parker twins I used to babysit in my teens. The unmistakable done-gone-bad odor nearly knocked me over. I put a hand over
my nose. Whatever it was, something had exceeded its expiration date—by a good month, easy. I took a step inside. Make that
two months.

I took another step, felt my sandaled foot slide out from under me and grabbed wildly to gain my balance, putting a hand on
the freezer to right myself. I checked out the floor to see what I'd slipped on, and a nervous little pulse started to throb
in my neck. My gaze followed a gooey, sticky pattern of light browns, off-whites, and pinks that turned the floor into a modern
art project. You know—where the artist tells you what he painted and you have to take his word for it? I reached out and patted
the front of the freezer with the palm of one hand, then slid both hands along the sides of the upright. The pulsing in my
neck had turned to a full-fledged tom-tom beat. I took another look at the floor.

"Holy shite, what now?" I said, grabbing hold of the freezer door handle and opening it just a tig-tag and with the same level
of enthusiasm with which I opened my mouth at the dentist. Or my legs for a Pap smear.

The smell had told the true story. I took a deep breath (through the mouth—not the nose) and threw open the freezer door.
When I saw all the sad little sunken tubs of ice cream, all the depressed little plastic novelty bags and lonely little Popsicle
sticks, I wanted to cry. All of Uncle Frank's Dairee delights were downright deflated!

I examined the temperature gauge inside the freezer. It was set on the right temperature. I shook my head. Talk about your
bad luck: to have a freezer just stop running like this. I prepared to close the door again to save my nostrils from further
abuse when I noticed the thick, gray cord that ran from the freezer to the plug-in, a cord that normally was never in sight.
I slid over the sticky surface to the electric outlet at eye level and gasped. The freezer wasn't even plugged in! I stood
there for a moment, trying to figure out how the cord could have become unplugged and knowing for certain it had not been
that way when I left the previous night. I did an Ice Ca-pades move over to the soft-serve dispenser, my eyes narrowing when
I saw that it, too, had been tampered with. I pulled on the twist ice cream lever and rancid, baby-pookie-brown ice cream
soup dribbled out. I quickly turned the lever to the off position and stared at the melting mess around me, one thought first
and foremost in my head:

At least I won't be blamed for this one.

I quickly sobered when I realized who would be taking the heat.

Can you say "weenie roast"?

* * *

"So the door was open and everything unplugged when you got here?"

"Huh?" I seemed to be having difficulty following the conversation. Of course, it had absolutely nothing to do with the totally
hunky state trooper who'd arrived to take the incident report on the latest mischief directed at Uncle Frank's concession
stands.

The trooper looked up from his notepad. "The door. Open? Right?"

I nodded, wishing he would take his sunglasses off so I could get a peek at his peepers. You can tell so much about a person
from their eyes, you know. Like, if they are looking at you or not. "Yeah," I replied, "it was standing ajar."

"And you're sure you locked it up last night?"

My eyes narrowed. My reputation couldn't have preceded me this quickly. Could it?

"It was locked tighter than Uncle Frank's grip on his wallet," I said. I elaborated for the trooper's benefit, "We're talking
lug-nut tight. And everything was plugged in, turned on, and in working order," I added, anticipating his next question.

"And you left at what time?"

I paused, trying to recall what time I had left Uncle Frank's smaller establishment and started playing shuf-fleboard with
that collection of cockroaches. "Well, I left here around ten-thirty or so, I'd say. I discovered the insect infestation at
the emporium around eleven or thereabouts."

I felt a heavy pressure on my toes and looked down to see Uncle Frank's white tennie on top of my foot. Uh-oh. I guessed that
information was like my grammy's age: limited to family members, her personal physician, and the Social Security Administration.

The dishy trooper finally removed his shades, tucking them into the flap at the top of his uniform. I almost swooned when
two beautiful, clear, sky-blue eyes settled their intent gaze on little ole me.

"Insect infestation? You had some difficulty last night, as well?" he asked.

Uncle Frank increased the pressure on my wee little piggies.

"Nothing significant," Uncle Frank interjected. "Someone's idea of a joke. Just a few unwelcome visitors was all. We had the
place spic and span and back to rights in no time." Uncle Frank slapped me on the back with a robust motion. If I hadn't been
anchored by his fat foot, I would've fallen forward, face-first. "No big deal, right, Tressa?" he asked.

The trooper's eyes never left my face. I was wishing I'd taken more time with my makeup. And hair. And clothing. And choice
of kin.

I looked up at Uncle Frank. "I think we should level with him, Uncle Frank," I said. "After all, we want to find out who's
behind the monkey business, don't we?"

Uncle Frank removed his foot from mine and ran a hand over his buzz cut, then looked at me. "Do we?" he said.

My mouth did an open-closed-open movement. (Please note: My mouth tends to always end in the open position. What? You'd already
noticed?)

"You can't believe Frankie had anything to do with this ... this malicious mischief!" I said, surprised that Uncle Frank could
still entertain the idea. "He's your son! He wouldn't do something like this, Uncle Frank, even though he despises the ice
cream business and would rather be poked in the eye repeatedly with a sharp stick while listening to Rosie O'Donnell sing
the National Anthem than take over from you!"

The trooper's eyebrows raised. I rewound those last words in my head and slapped a hand over my loose-lips-sink-cousins mouth.
I bit my tongue when the trooper started scribbling in his notebook. I knew from past personal experience this was not a good
thing.

"Ugh, what are you writing, exactly?" I stepped toward the trooper, trying to get a peek at his pad. He closed it with a quick
flip of the cover.

"So you suspect your son had something to do with this and the insignificant little incident that may or may not have been
a major health code violation the other night?" the trooper asked Uncle Frank.

I shifted my weight back and forth, wondering why Dr. Phil had never done a show on foot-in-mouth disorder. I needed a cure.
Real bad.

"I assure you, Trooper....Trooper..." I looked at the silver nameplate above his left front pocket "Trooper P. D. Dawkins.
My cousin Frankie had nothing whatsoever to do with any of this."

"I'm certain you're right, Miss T.J. Turner," the trooper responded. I caught my breath. Great looks, a sense of humor, and
no wedding ring. What were the odds?

"And I'm sure I'll feel the same as you do once I've heard it from your cousin Frankie himself," the trooper continued. "If
you'd be so kind as to tell me where I might find him, I'm sure we'll have this cleared up in no time."

I looked over at Uncle Frank. He looked at me. He had the same look in his eyes as he did when he saw Ranger Rick and me waging
battle against invading forces in the emporium the night before.

"Is that a problem?" Trooper P. D. Dawkins asked.

"Of course it's not a problem," I said, looking to Uncle Frank for help. "Is it, Uncle Frank?" He gave no indication he heard
me. "It's just that Frankie can't be reached at present," I said. "He's, uh, out of town."

"Out of town?" The trooper rubbed his perfect jaw.

"But he was here yesterday, right? At least long enough to give your uncle, here, the idea he might have had something to
do with the vandalism he's experienced. So, where is he?"

I shot Uncle Frank my own version of the look-what-you-did-now look that is usually directed toward me and turned back to
the trooper, who was looking less and less taken with me each minute.

"Well, you see, he—uh—had, uh—"

"The boy took off," Uncle Frank announced. "Split. Took a powder. Flew the coop. Got the heck outta Dodge."

"Now we don't know that for sure, Uncle Frank. You know how Frankie is. I'm sure he's just off somewhere sulking. He'll show
up. I know he will."

"When was the last time anyone saw your son, Mr. Barlowe?" Trooper Dawkins questioned, snapping his little pad open again.

"That would be Tressa here. She saw him up at the campgrounds after we'd finished cleaning the emporium. About what time was
that, Tressa?"

I wanted to shush Uncle Frank but couldn't figure how to do it without the trooper seeing. And my foot didn't bear as much
weight as his.

"Around four a.m. I guess," I said, shuffling my feet, not only because I was nervous but because the tall coffee I'd consumed
earlier was making its presence known. Big time.

"And what was he doing the last time you saw him?" the peace officer inquired, his blue eyes prepared to miss nothing about
my delivery.

"Tell him, Tressa," Uncle Frank instructed. "Just tell him."

I looked over at Uncle Frank and tried to spin it the best way I could for Frankie.

"He was running as fast as his long, skinny, bird legs would carry him," I said, and winced. Note to self: You suck at spin.

"And why was he running, Miss Turner?" the trooper asked.

I hesitated. How could I explain to this young police officer who had so obviously known what he wanted to do from an early
age how hard it was to try to find out just where you belonged, what you were meant to be and do, when you were a square peg
trying so hard to fit in somebody else's round hole?

"I think he's on a vision quest, Trooper P.D. Dawkins," I said. "You know, to seek his path, find his destiny, live the life
he was born to live." The "huh?" look on the officer's handsome face was one I'd seen often enough to describe to a sketch
artist. "Or maybe he's just lost," I finished on a lame note.

The trooper handed a card to Uncle Frank and one to me.

"You will give me a call when you hear from Frankie, won't you?" he asked, tipping his brown Smokey Bear hat with two tanned
fingers. "I'll leave you to your cleanup. Mr. Barlowe. Miss T. J. Turner."

I watched the trooper walk off, admiring the cut of his dark tan pants, which hugged his muscular legs and tight rear.

Uncle Frank snapped his fingers in front of my face. "Snap out of it, Calamity," he said. "We've got work to do."

I nodded, taking one more look at the trooper's hindquarters, trying to convince myself that his der-riere was no better than
the average bear's.

Yeah, right, Yogi.