Calamity Jayne Rides Again (8 page)

I did a last-minute spot check of the place, grabbed my digital camera from the back room, locked up, and left, deciding I
didn't give a cowgirl's yee-haw how bad I'd feel once the cold beer met and mixed with the Rocky Road, Tin Roof, Fudge Ripple,
Chocolate Bon Bon (okay, so I'm partial to chocolate), and assorted other ice cream flavors currently taking up space in my
tummy. I needed a cold beer!

I sniffed an armpit, wondering if anyone would notice that the twenty-four-hour roll-on that promised to keep a marathon runner
desert-dry and non-offensive had left the race four hours earlier. I shrugged. Chances were there'd be smellier folks than
me hankering for a cold one.

I'm a regular at the Bottoms Up beer tent. No, I'm not a lush or anything, although I do enjoy the occasional lite beer, like
most good ole girls. I go mostly to watch people cut loose and have a down-home good time. Lots of concessionaires stop in
for a cold draw before they call it a night, so it's like old-home week. This particular night, however, I also needed to
snap a few pictures to send with a short article about opening day at the fair. Since most of the venues were closed other
than the beer tents and the midway (and no way was I going near that with a belly full of dairy), the beer tent was the natural
choice. I figured I could snap some shots, add a couple of lines about the hot weather, the great food, and speculate (as
everyone did yearly) if we would break the attendance record this year or not. This heartland hoedown attracts a million visitors
annually. Much depends, of course, on the weather. Weather is always an important topic of conversation among folks whose
living depends on Mother Nature. If all else failed, I could always go with the weather.

I entered the beer tent and found the Good Ole Boys Band in the middle of a boot-scooting set that had couples out on the
rectangular dance floor Texas two-stepping while single gals without a dancing partner did a simple line dance along the edge.

The smells of beer, popcorn, hot-and-spicy chicken wings, and body odor met and mingled in a country sunshine kind of way.
I smiled and nodded to acquaintances but didn't make prolonged eye contact with anyone, and made a beeline for the bar.

"Well, it's about time!" Rhonda Gable, a longtime fair fixture at Bottoms Up greeted me. "Folks were laying bets that you
would be a no-show this year. I told 'em, naw, nothing keeps Calamity Jayne from the Bottoms Up on opening night. So, how's
the ice cream cone business, kiddo? I hear Frank's been having a run of bad luck. Frankie running off. The freezer fiasco.
The Emporium turning into a sauna. I gotta tell you, kid, early betting gives Luther Daggett four-to-one odds to take the
prize this year."

Rhonda handed me a lite draw and I took a long swallow. "Ah, just as good as I remember," I said, wiping my mouth. "Thanks,
Ronnie."

She smiled. "Beer don't change all that much," she said. "But I guess the same can't be said of you. What's all this I hear
about you helping expose a murderer? Weren't you scared shitless?"

I nodded. "That about sizes it up. But I was so pee-ohed I think that helped." I took another long drink. "So, where'd you
hear about Uncle Frank's, uh, series of unfortunate events?" I asked.

"Why, from Frank himself, of course."

That took my attention away from my beer. "Uncle Frank was in here?" I said, torqued that Uncle Frank had decided to stop
and smell the roses—or the beer nuts—while I was stuck in the fiery furnace of his Ice Cream Emporium.

Ronnie shook her head. "Is in here."

"Huh?"

"Your Uncle Frank's been here for a couple of hours now."

"Uncle Frank? Here?"

Ronnie nodded toward a darkened corner of the establishment. "He's over there. And he's not alone." She performed an inquiring-minds-want-to-know
eyebrow thingy.

Still confused, I turned in the direction she'd indicated and, sure enough, there was Uncle Frank, all co-zied up in the corner
and appearing to take great interest in Lucy's trinkets or treasures. Or both.

"What the heck—?"

"They came in together about eight or so. Been sitting back there ever since."

My eyes never left the couple. "What's he drinking?" I asked.

"Same as you. Lite beer. A pitcher an hour, tops. No chug-a-lugging there."

I nodded. "That's good," I said, wondering why Uncle Frank was sharing a cold beer and a table in the back with Lucy when
he should have been taking care of business up the hill a piece and saving his nieces from dehydration.

Ronnie picked up the digital camera I'd put on the counter. "Whaf s the camera for?" she asked. "Oh, this is one of those
digital numbers, isn't it? You can see your picture immediately. I keep telling Jack he's gotta get one of these. How does
it work?"

Ronnie turned on the camera and held it up. "How do you set it so you can see what you're shooting on this little black screen?"
she asked. I monkeyed with it for a second, then handed it back to her.

"You can see what you're taking right there," I said. "And all you do is push the button on top."

Click. Flash.

"Well, looky here. Don't that beat all? There's the picture I just took! I've gotta get me one of these!" She snapped a couple
more before I could get the camera away from her.

"That is just awesome. You can just delete the stinkers," she said.

I nodded. "And you know what that means," I said.

Ronnie shook her head.

"No more blackmail pictures!" I said, pointing at the camera. "No more threats of sending around pictures where you look like
you've just completed your thirtieth night on 'Survivor.' No more closed eyes and open mouths. No more slipping bra straps
showing or thigh spreads that make it look like you can't get your knees together anymore. A truly miraculous piece of technology,"
I said, and bowed my head in mock reverence.

"Fill 'er up, Ronnie," I heard over my left shoulder and turned to see Ranger Rick holding an empty cup in each hand. It was
a photo op I couldn't pass up. I snapped a picture and received the added bonus of the ranger's open mouth.

"Ah, the two-fisted style, I see," I said, motioning at his beer cups needing refills. "Hitting it kinda hard there, aren't
you, Mr. Ranger, sir?" I added. "What's the deal? One of your prehistoric pets didn't tolerate the transport well? Or did
you just learn you have to bunk up with your gramps in the ole RV? Do tell."

Townsend grinned and placed the cups on the counter. "Actually, only one of these is mine. The other is for your sister over
there." He cocked his head toward the patio area and I followed his nod. My little sis sat perched on a long-legged, wrought-iron
stool at one of several tall white tables, surrounded by a gaggle of cute guys. I immediately got a picture in my head of
a young queen and her court. Jesters, I told myself. Jesters. "She is twenty-one now and legal," Townsend continued.

I hoped the reaction I felt wasn't translating into all kinds of little crinkles on my forehead.

"This isn't usually Taylor's scene," I said, annoyed that my sister was encroaching on my territory. And I wasn't just talking
about Townsend here. "She usually goes for more, uh, higher-level activities. You know, like reading and studying psychotherapy."

"She's been under a lot of stress lately," Townsend said, pulling a wad of bills out of his jeans pocket and placing several
on the counter. "Maybe she just wants to unwind a bit. No harm in that."

Oh, so Ranger Rick was now Taylor's confidant. And what stress was Taylor under? I was the one who probably held the record
at the IRS for largest number of employers in one tax season and, as a result, was no doubt on some government watch list
somewhere high up. I was the one who'd found three corpses in a week's time and ended up in the cross-hairs of a murdering
psycho and an irate ranger. I was the one who had lived in the shadow of two do-no-wrong siblings, acting the fool (okay,
so I didn't need Academy Award-quality acting ability to assume the role) and being labeled Calamity Jayne, the cockeyed cowgirl
of Knox County, since before puberty. Compared to my life, the little princess hadn't even broken a good sweat.

I couldn't think of a sufficiently snarky comeback, decided it was because I hadn't had enough to drink, and grabbed my beer
to take several long, successive gulps. I swept my hand across my mouth and let out a lusty belch.

"Shouldn't you be getting that beer back to your date?" I said. "You can't impress someone who hasn't acquired a taste for
beer with a warm drink. It tastes too much like cow piss—or so I've heard," I added.

"It's not a damned date, Tressa," Rick said. "Just a bunch of friends hanging out." I could almost hear his teeth grinding.
"You're planning to join us, aren't you?"

I took another look at Taylor, who had showered, didn't smell like the big boar down at the Avenue of Breeds, and had reapplied
makeup to a face that didn't need it. Yeah, right. Who wouldn't want to join the group under those circumstances?

"Uh, actually, I still need to put a quick piece together for Stan the Man at the
Gazette
before I call it a night," I said. Hey, I have my pride. "You run along and keep Taylor's jesters—I mean
courtiers
in line. And remember, she's not used to drinking, so keep an eye on her. Hear?"

What was I saying? The last thing I wanted was for Rick Townsend to keep an eye on Taylor. Or anything else, for that matter.

He hesitated for a second, then shrugged. "Have it your way, Calamity," he said. "Have it your way."

I watched him walk away, tempted to take a shot of his nicely sculpted fanny, but settled for zooming in on Taylor and her
group of admirers and clicking off a couple of pictures, figuring I could use Taylor and Townsend in my fair piece and wouldn't
have to worry about someone getting bent out of shape over having their photo in the paper.

I picked up what was left of my beer and headed over to the couple in the corner I'd wondered about earlier.

"Hey, Uncle Frank." I stood at the table and looked down on the twosome sharing a still half-full pitcher of beer. "Where've
you been? Taylor and I were both sweltering in that incinerator you call an Ice Cream Emporium. I thought you were going to
fix the AC."

Uncle Frank looked up at me. He looked a little sheepish, I thought. Of course, maybe he just had to pee.

"Oh, howdy, Tressa," Uncle Frank said. "As a matter of fact, I was just on my way up there and stopped in to have a quick
drink since it's so sweltering."

"Sweltering?" I said, surprised that Uncle Frank felt the need to play fast and loose with the truth. "Try sitting cooped
up in a brick building with refrigerated units running, no ventilation, and no air conditioning. It got so hot in there, I
had to wring out my underwear. Twice. Ronnie says you've been in here for over two hours."

"Nosy old—"

"Uncle Frank!"

"Your uncle has had a long day, Tressa," Lucy Connor spoke up. "I'm sure you agree there's nothing wrong with knocking back
a couple after a long day's work. After all, you're here for the same reason, aren't you?"

As much as I hated to admit it, Lucy had a point. It just occurred to me that Uncle Frank shouldn't be knocking back anything
with any woman other than my Aunt Reggie. Okay, so maybe I'm a bit old-fashioned when it comes to things like wedding rings
and marriage licenses. Until yours is legally proclaimed null and void, you best limit socializing to the guys or the little
woman.

"Yeah, well, opening night at old B.U. here is a bit of a tradition," I said. "One that Uncle Frank has studiously avoided.
Until today, that is," I added.

Uncle Frank's uncomfortable look grew more intense. Major bladder pressure, I thought.

"Tressa's right, Lucy," Uncle Frank said, and got up. "I've got to hit the trail. I need to check out that cooling unit and
see if I can rehabilitate it. Then I need to get on up to the campgrounds and get a little shut-eye."

Lucy gave me a smile frostier than a fresh pitcher of beer and got to her feet. "I'm ready to take off, too, Frank," she said,
grabbing her pack of cigarettes and lighter from the table. "Good night, Tressa," she said.

"Night, Mrs. Connor," I said, opting for a more formal reply. "Do you need any help, Uncle Frank?" I asked.

My uncle turned and gave me a long look. "If you happen to see Frankie," he said, "tell him—" He stopped. "Never mind," he
said, and left the beer tent, little Miz Lucy at his side.

I sat down at the table and considered the beer still left in the pitcher. Thrift was a virtue, I told myself. Waste not,
want not. I filled my glass and raised it.

"Where ever you are, Frankie," I said, "this Bud's for you!"

CHAPTER 8

"Stan Rodgers e-mailed. He wants to know where your fair article is. He says you're holding up the presses."

I struggled to open one eye, succeeded, but decided it was way too early and way too bright to expose my other eyeball to
the harsh realities of morning. I covered my head with the sheet. Due to my cramped quarters, I'd slept like I was in the
chrysalis stage, my sheet tucked tightly in around me so I couldn't thrash about and bump my noggin, bruise a kneecap, or
roll off the bed and onto the floor. Still, it was better than bunking with my grandmother.

Fortunately for me, Taylor had drawn the shorter straw and was sharing the pull-out in the living room with the dear lady,
who usually embraced sleeping "as God intended." Except, with woolly socks. I get it that God originally intended us to be
happily oblivious to our—nakedness—but once Eve suckered Adam into taking that forbidden first bite—well, the rose-colored
glasses came off and the fig leaves went on quicker than I put the closed sign up on a Saturday night at the

Dairee Freeze back home. Still, you gotta wonder why the first couple were so ashamed of their bodies. After all, Eve didn't
have a Mae West or Dolly Parton to compete with. And there sure weren't any
Playgirl
centerfolds running around to intimidate a poor, inadequate Adam, so what was the big deal?

"Did you hear me, girl?" my grandma hounded. "You're holding up the news. If you need some help, I've got a tidbit or two
about opening day I'd be glad to write up for you. The things you pick up at the AARP booth."

Despite a head slightly fuzzy from too much beer and too many trips to the potty in the night, Gram's comment brought me out
of my cocoon in a hurry. "Ouch!" I rubbed my head where I'd clobbered it. I recovered, slid out sideways, and stretched to
my full body length with a deep sigh.

"That's okay, Gram," I said, cracking my neck a good half dozen times. "I've got it covered. I'm just going to write up a
piece about the weather and attendance figures from last year and estimates on this year's attendance and e-mail the digital
pics I took last night. That should do the job."

"If you want to put your readers to sleep," she remarked, slathering cream cheese on a bagel. "Now, I heard talk of a couple
of long-time concessionaires who were having a good old-fashioned fair fling. 'Course I didn't get any names yet, but give
me time and I'll not only have names, I'll have dates, times, locations, and number of climaxes."

"Hannah, really," my mother scolded from the kitchen table, where she sat in front of her laptop. "That isn't appropriate
material for a local paper."

"Seems to me it would spice up the rag a bit. I'm sick to death of reading obituaries," Gram replied. She smiled and chuckled.
"Sick to death. Get it, Tressa? Sick to death of reading obituaries? See, I could write an entertaining piece for the paper.
I've got a million of them like that."

Yeah, bless her heart. And I'd heard all of them.

"Thanks, Gram. I'll keep you in mind if I'm stuck for a topic. And I hope that's the light cream cheese you're pasting on
that bagel," I added, knowing full well she'd pilfered the good stuff.

"Hannah!" My mother reached over and took the bagel. "You know that's not good for your cholesterol. I buy the low-fat brand
especially for you." She handed my grammy another bagel and the no-fun cream cheese. "I think your son needs to have another
talk with you. I can only imagine what you're eating when our backs are turned."

Gram shoved the bagel away and looked at her watch. "Oh, my goodness, look at the time. I promised to meet Joe at the trolley
stop ten minutes ago."

"You two seem to be seeing a lot of each other lately," I observed. "Care to divulge any details? I promise I won't splash
it all over the
Gazette
," I teased.

"What's the point, then?" Gram said. "Besides, there's nothing to report. We're just enjoying each other's company. Hanging
out. Killin' time."

I hoped time was the only casualty of their cocka-mamie courtship.

"Slow and easy is good," I agreed.

" 'Course, I don't have all the time in the world either," Gram said. "So who knows? Reckon that's what they call 'sexual
tension?'" she asked. She got to her feet, stuck a straw hat with a wide brim and red and white bandanna trim on her blue
curls, hitched up her white elastic-waist shorts, adjusted her bright red top, and fastened her fanny pack. "You're at the
Emporium beginning at three, right, dear?"

I looked over at my mom, who nodded. "Taylor took the early shift at the mini-freeze until Craig and Kim-berly take over.
Frank and Reggie are at the Emporium."

My brother Craig is two years older than me and sells cars for the local dealer. His wife, Kimmie, is employed at the county
courthouse in the clerk's office. They've been married for three years and Kimmie thinks it's time for them to start a family.
Craig has yet to be persuaded, but I have faith that Kimmie will somehow convince him he's ready. Or else. I think it would
be a hoot to be an aunt. Auntie Tressa; that has a certain ring to it. Hmmm. Maybe I needed to work on Craig, too.

"Joe and I'll be by for a little pick-me-up this afternoon, then," Gram said. "See you both later."

She flip-flopped to the door and was gone.

"She's heading straight for Dottie's Donuts, isn't she?" Mom asked.

I nodded. "Hello. Do Uncle Frank's cones leak?" I responded.

My mother shook her head. "As if I don't have enough to worry about, I have to police my mother-in-law's eating habits and
bedtime. Last night she didn't get in until after midnight. And your father is no help. He hates friction."

I looked at my mom and for the first time noted the dark smudges under her eyes and the tiny lines crinkling the corners.
Not, I suspected, laugh lines. My mother always seems so very much in control, so untiring and—what's the word?—indefatigable.
(How's that for a big, literary word? Okay, so I typed
unflagging
into the thesaurus and saw indefatigable. I'm still expanding my vocab. Jeesh.) Mom always makes everything look so easy.
And she never breaks a sweat. I'd never stopped to wonder the cost to her own well-being and happiness. It was something I
found myself thinking a lot about these days. With Frankie. Uncle Frank. Aunt Reggie. My mom. Me.

I put a hand on her shoulder. "You okay, Mom?" I asked, not at all comfortable with the role of comforter but concerned enough
to give it a shot.

She patted my hand. "Of course. It's just the situation with Frankie and everyone having to work longer hours to cover. It's
hard. That's all."

I pulled out the chair Gram had vacated and sat down. I picked up the caloric cream cheese bagel and cut it in half, handing
one portion to my mother and taking a nice, big bite out of the other half.

"What do you think about Frankie, Mom?" I asked through the wad of bagel in my mouth. "You don't think he's the one responsible
for all the monkey business at Uncle Frank's eateries, do you?"

I watched as she seemed to contemplate her words more carefully than I did a shoe purchase.

"I don't know what to think about Frankie, Tressa," she said finally. "But one thing I do know: his behavior is taking a big
toll on my sister's marriage. Regina and Frank are hardly speaking to each other. I've never seen them so distant. So at odds.
And it worries me, Tressa. It worries me a lot. And now there's all this vandalism at Frank's. He seems to think someone tampered
with the air conditioner at the Emporium now."

I saw my usually stoic mother's eyes grow moist and thought about Uncle Frank and Lucy Connor and the cozy comer table, and
decided now was not the time to tell where her brother-in-law had been last night when he should have been getting the air
back on in the Emporium.

"I'm sure everything will work out," I said, suddenly not as sure as I was when I'd woke up that morning. "Frankie will probably
show up today, and once Trooper P. D. Dawkins talks to him, I'm positive he will no longer be considered a suspect."

My mother dropped her half bagel. "The police want to question Frankie about the trouble? Does Frank know?"

I put down my bagel, my appetite eroded, and nodded. "The state trooper spoke to Uncle Frank yesterday. He wants us to let
him know when Frankie turns up again. But like I said, that's routine, just to rule Frankie out. Then they can find out who
really has it in for Uncle Frank."

And at the top of my list was none other than longtime loser, Cone Connection's Luther Daggett.

"I hope you're right, Tressa," my mother said. "I hope you're right." She clicked her mouse a couple of times, grabbed her
cell phone and key ring, and stood. "I've got to get to the Emporium and talk to Frank. You better get that article sent off
to Stan. He's got a deadline, dear, and he's not known for his patience."

Didn't I know it? It had been harder to convince Stan to give me a second chance—all right,
third
chance— than it was convincing my dad to let me drive his brand-new Chevy pickup truck. I sure didn't want to cripple my
journalistic career before it even got out of the starting gate.

I stood and gave my mom another awkward shoulder pat. I know. I'm pathetic. I'm just not much of a hugger.

"Things will work out," I told her. "Between Aunt Reggie and Uncle Frank. And for Frankie, too. You'll see."

She smiled. "Are you predicting the future now, in addition to fighting crime?" she asked.

I shook my head. "That was a one-shot deal. I'm very content to resume my boring little existence, thank you very much."

"Speaking of boring, you'd better get something off to the
Gazette
," she reminded me, and I smiled at her uncharacteristic quip. "Lock up when you leave and don't forget your keys," she told
me, again all business.

"Ten-four," I said, hoping that meant affirmative.

Mom waved and left. I polished off the bagel remnants and washed them down with orange juice—not a compelling taste combo—then
sat my butt down in front of the laptop. Thirty minutes (and two more e-mails from Stan) later, I had a decent, somewhat generic,
opening-day article. I hurriedly uploaded the digital photographs and e-mailed them to Stan, telling him he could select the
one he wanted to run, then signed off and hit the shower.

Half an hour later, dressed in navy blue shorts, white tank top, and white and navy Skechers, I went in search of something
more substantial than bagels and a fair weather report.

What would be compelling and of interest to the hometown crowd? I wondered, acknowledging my grammy wasn't too far off the
mark with her gossip column concept. People loved to be titillated. I sighed, thinking the trouble at Uncle Frank's fair establishments
would be newsworthy but knowing I'd be running from Uncle Frank if I ran with that story.

It was still fairly early, not yet ten, but the mugginess of the morning promised a hot time at the old fair today. I made
my way down the graveled hill, opting not to take advantage of the fair trolley when I saw that the line of seniors waiting
for the next transport was longer than those waiting for flu shots when there's a shortage of flu vaccine. Besides, I didn't
want to look like a complete wimp by being the only one out of adolescence and under retirement age to bum a ride.

I watched my stride—too long to be ladylike—and admired the way my shoes matched my outfit. Definitely cool and trendy. I
checked out my legs and decided I needed a few days sunbathing to even out my tan. Swimsuit tan lines are one thing; a farmer
tan with sock lines is quite another.

I purposely avoided the area around Dottie's Donuts, as hard as that was, and tried to figure out what sounded good that I
hadn't already tasted this season. The choices were limited and it was only day two of the fair. I was as bad as my grammy.
Ultimately, I decided to go the healthy route. (Okay, you can stop laughing now.) I made my way to the Fruit by the Foot booth
where you can buy a twelve-inch slice of watermelon for a buck. And they have cute little spittoons at various locations in
case you feel inclined to try your seed-spittin' aim. I'm actually quite good. Due to years of practice, you know. I polished
off my section of melon, ordered another one, and had it up to my mouth, gobbling away, when a horn blast sounded in my right
ear. I jumped the height of a stalk of corn in midsummer and pivoted, my watermelon dropping to the dirty ground at my feet,
narrowly missing my shoes.

The horn sounded again, this time several toots in succession. I looked up to see a painted clown face just inches away from
my own.

"I have a message for your Uncle Frank," the clown with neon green hair and gigantic red sunglasses whispered. "Tell him it's
time to retire. Tell him he needs to take a nice, long permanent vacation. You know: travel. See the sights. Spend some time
with the wife. Got that, sister?"

I stared at the clown, taking in the baggy yellow polka-dotted pants and God-awful orange shirt and frowned. Apparently, judging
from his apparel, this particular clown had been getting clothing tips from Joe Townsend.

I have always hated clowns. Despised them, in fact. I think it goes back to the obnoxious rodeo clowns I've tangled with in
the past. Every clown I've come into contact with seems to pick up on my dislike for them and home in on that negativity like
flies on you-knowwhat. While other kids were having Freddy Krueger nightmares, I was fighting mutant clowns from Mars in my
dreams.

"Wh-what?" I tried to reply, but I'd bitten off more than I could chew in the watermelon department and felt several seeds
start to slide down the back of my throat. I began to gag and choke.

"This way nobody gets hurt," my painted-faced friend went on. "Nice and clean. Good for everybody. Got the message?"

I finally managed to spit and/or swallow the remains of my melon and realized that Uncle Frank's bug benefactor and the supplier
of the soured ice-milk stood before me—unrecognizable in clown paint—and could only shake my head. This joker had the judgment
of Michael Jackson to select me as the conduit for his coercion.