Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (16 page)

Stan sat back in his chair and looked at me.

"Okay, so it's me. And, yes, it looks like I was dancing," I said. "And I was. Sort of. Kind of. But what I was really doing at the senior center Halloween party was working on the Howard story. For you. For the
Gazette
. For God and Grandville!"

Stan rolled his eyes. "So now you're auditioning for a role on
Masterpiece Theatre?
What did you hope to accomplish at the senior center on the Howard story?"

I reminded him about Joe Townsend's connection to the author and how I'd planned to exploit--utilize--that connection to gain access to the author.

"So when you think about it, I was on the clock and so I really should be paid for my time that evening," I pointed out. "And probably I should file a workers'-compensation report regarding the little spill I took. I did pick up a beauty of a bruise."

Stan continued to stare at me.

"We can talk about this later," I said.

Stan nodded. "Speaking of work, there's a special county supervisor's hearing I'd like for you to attend." He slid a piece of paper across the desk to me. "Apparently there's a major disagreement over whether access to one of the old boat ramp areas should be restricted. Residents say folks are using the area for drunken parties and smoking dope, and even allege they've discovered the beginnings of a portable meth lab. Fishermen and nature enthusiasts object to a gate being erected across the road and say the residents pushing the restriction--who just happen to own land adjacent to government land, by the way--are trying to pull a fast one. Should make for a good story."

I took the paper. "The clash of opposing interests," I said. "What time is the hearing?"

"Ten o'clock. Snap pictures, of the board and of a couple of the more articulate folks who address the board, and quote 'em in your piece. And nail down that other story. Pronto."

I nodded. "I'm working on it, Boss," I said. "I'm working on it." I turned to leave.

"By the way, Turner, you do know if you file a workers'-comp claim, your injuries have to be photographed, right?"

I stopped. "Photographed?"

Stan nodded. "As in, documented for viewing by folks with the workers'-compensation board, as well as the employees here who do the paperwork."

"Injury? What injury?" I said, and left before I caused another red-flag moment.

I spent some time writing up an article to go with Joe's prom picture, giving some background about the situation leading up to the prom date and about Joe's unsuccessful yet plucky attempt to reestablish contact with the famous author. I couldn't help but be disappointed. The article could have been so much meatier and more substantive. (Yes, thanks to online dictionaries and thesauruses--or is that "thesauri"?--I am expanding my vocabulary daily.)

I finished up, grabbed my backpack and camera, and headed for the courthouse. The county supervisors met on the third floor, which meant either a long climb on worn stairs or a long wait for the lone elevator. When I saw the gaggle of folks waiting for the elevator, I opted to take the stairs. Besides, I'm always kind of ashamed to use the elevator unless I'm going, like, a gazillion floors. Especially when I see folks a lot older than I am climbing the stairs without wheezing like asthmatics when they get to the top. I know what you're thinking: "Stop eating the chocolaty, peanutty ice cream bars for breakfast, you twit.' I get it. I get it.

I made it to the third floor, found the correct meeting room--not hard, considering there was only one--and checked my watch. I still had ten minutes to kill, so I zoned in on the M&M dispenser and put in fifty cents for a handful of the candy-coated chocolates. I munched away and searched my brain for a great no-fail way to approach Courtney Howard for the interview. One that was legal, that is. Well, mostly legal.

I finished my candy and was searching for another quarter to get some peanuts from the other dispenser when a hand appeared in front of me, holding out a coin. I looked up. Drew Van Vleet smiled down at me.

"Need a quarter?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Not from you," I replied.

"Oooh, where's the hostility coming from?" he said. "I'm just trying to help you out. Do a good turn."

I looked at him. "You want to do a good turn?" I asked. "Go over to that railing and take a sharp left."

Drew grinned. "You saw the senior center photos," he said. "They turned out better than I hoped. I couldn't have planned it better myself. To have the old guy drop you like that. I'm sure it will give our readers a good laugh over their coffee and doughnuts tomorrow morning," he said. He checked his watch. "Are you covering the supervisors' hearing?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Stan sent you instead of Smitty?"

I frowned. "Yeah. So?"

He shrugged. "This can't be the big story you said you were working on," he said. "How did you put it? 'High-profile'?"

I shrugged. "You never know where you'll find a compelling story," I told him.

"Come on, Turner. You know you've struck out with your scoop of the century. It's time to step aside and let the professionals have a crack at it."

I blinked. Van Vleet knew about Elizabeth Courtney Howard? "Over my dead body," I said, and almost immediately regretted those words. Given my recent history, it probably wasn't the smartest response.

Van Vleet's eyebrows lifted. "I see you're still suffering from the delusion that you really are a reporter," he said. "Might I suggest therapy?"

"Might I suggest you bugger off?" I told him, picking up on Joe's earlier phrase.

Van Vleet straightened his collar. "See you in the funny papers, witchie-poo," he said, and walked into the hearing room.

I sneered at his back. I'd show Drew Van Vleet just what this reporter was made of. There was more to Tressa Turner than ol' beater cars, ice cream confections and a string of bad luck long enough to fly a kite to Omaha. And Elizabeth Courtney Howard held the precious key to proving that.

Why did I get the feeling that securing the brass ring in this case was gonna make rescuing Dorothy, Toto and the ruby slippers from a witch's castle guarded by flying monkeys and armed soldiers seem like a day at the spa?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Contrary to what Drew Van Vleet had implied, I was fully capable of following the rather heated discussion in the county meeting room. Between my scribbled notes and my tape recorder, along with my photos, I felt I had a representative sampling of both sides of the gate versus no gate issue. I was surprised at the vehemence of the fishermen who'd voiced their objections. Many of them had been fishing at that particular area of Silver Stone Lake for longer than I'd been alive, and I sympathized with them over the possibility of losing access to something that had become a familiar--and obviously long-enjoyed--tradition.

The hearing broke up around noon, and I hightailed it down the stairs, trying to decide where to eat lunch. That's one of the things I look forward to each day: deciding where I'll eat and what I'll order when I get there. Simple pleasures and all that.

I finally decided on the Meat Market, a mom-and-pop place that sold meats, cheeses and deli items, and also served lunch daily. I hurried into the store, hoping to beat the rush of high school kids who descended on the place over their lunch hour. It was Wednesday, so that meant the specials were chef's salad and taco salad. Since I partook of a good share of food items with south-of-the-border ingredients, I decided to go with the chef's salad. Besides, it would be a healthy change from my usual fare.

Unfortunately the high-schooler in line in front of me sabotaged my healthful selection by ordering a tenderloin with the works. Once I got a whiff of that baby, my previous intention to dine on rabbit food was but a fleeting memory.

I was sitting at a back table in the tiny seating area and ripping into my tenderloin like a
Survivor
contestant tears into the food they win in a reward challenge, when I heard the bell on the door. I looked up to see my friend Kari Carter hurry in.

Kari is a language arts teacher at the middle school. She's been my best bud since elementary school. We've made our share of mischief together. Okay, so I was the one who actually initiated the mischief and then dragged my friend Kari into the fray, but she was more than willing to participate. Kari is engaged to be married to Brian Davenport, a physical education teacher at one of our elementary schools. The wedding is set for spring break. Originally Kari was supposed to walk down the aisle in December, over Christmas break, but I think she realized having an anniversary so close to Christmas wasn't a smart move, gift-wise. You know, there's just way too much temptation for the man to simply combine two mega-gift-giving occasions. And with men who are notorious for not being power shoppers anyway, it was just tempting fate.

"Kari! Yoo-hoo!" I called out to my friend. "Kari!"

Kari saw me and rushed over. "Tressa, hi! I'm on my lunch half-hour. Let me place my order, and I'll visit with you on my way out."

I nodded, stuffing more tenderloin into my mouth and washing it down with a swig of Coke. Kari was back in no time, sliding into a chair across from me. She'd ordered the chef's salad, I noticed.

She has an expensive wedding dress to fit into, I told myself, and then remembered I had a bridesmaid's dress to fit into, too. My chewing slowed until I reminded myself that I had five months to lose enough weight to fit into my dress. I decided to ignore the fact that the holiday season--along with all the stuffed turkeys, pumpkin pies and homemade candies that went with it--was just over yon horizon.

"So how are things at the middle school?" I asked. "Are you ready yet to do something a little less stressful? Like locate land mines or track terrorists?" I remembered what I was like during those adolescent years, and could only admire those brave souls who ventured into a classroom one hundred eighty days a year without regular, intense therapy. No wonder my folks gave my teachers such nice gifts each year.

"It's a crazy week, with homecoming. The sixth-graders are hyper about the dress-up days. And there's the parade and game on Friday, of course."

I nodded, remembering those fun homecoming traditions and creative pranks with a fond smile.

"And there's the mixer tonight," Kari went on. "You did remember that you agreed to be a chaperone for the youth project mixer this evening. Right?"

I needed to get a Palm. Or a secretary.

"Uh, sure," I said, searching my mental inventory of excuses for all occasions, which I referred to on a semiregular basis, most frequently so that I could skip church and sleep in on Sunday mornings. "What time was that again?"

"Six to nine at the community center. You're not thinking of backing out, are you?" she asked, giving me one of those scary teacher looks that communicate the sentiment "don't make me get ugly" without saying a word. Can you believe it? A teacher for less than two years, and already she had the look down pat.

"I'll be there," I said. "But no way am I dressing up." I'd had more than enough costume parties to last for some time. Plus, I didn't want to open up the
New Holland News
to find I'd made the front page again.

"No costume required," Kari said. "But you may want to bring along some ranger repellent," she added.

"Huh?"

"Brian asked Rick to chaperone as well. Will that be a problem?"

Only for Rat Fink Rick.

"Not at all," I assured Kari. "In fact, I'm looking forward to visiting with the ranger."

"There isn't going to be any, uh, drama, is there?"

I put down my tenderloin. "Drama?"

"Between you and Rick. Children will be present."

I shook my head. "Any drama-queen baggage will be left at the door," I told her.

"Great," she said, and looked at her watch. "Oh, look at the time. I've got to go. See you at the center tonight. Come around five-thirty if you can, to help get set up."

"You got it," I replied. "By the way, what's on the menu?"

"Sloppy joes, chips, cookies and caramel apples," she told me.

She'd had me at sloppy joes, but the caramel apples closed the deal.

"See you there!" I said.

I spent more than an hour writing up the county supervisor story and called my house to check on my grandma. When I couldn't get an answer, I called my folks, but the line was busy. I figured since I'd be tied up that night, I'd go ahead and stop by home and do the chores. Plus, that would give me a chance to check up on Hellion Hannah and get cleaned up before I went to the mixer. I decided I'd take my camera along and shoot some pictures to stick in the paper. Secretly I was hoping to get a really terrible picture of Ranger Rick to run in the paper, but I knew the odds were against me. The guy was just too hot to be nonphotogenic. So not fair.

My cell phone rang as I pulled out of the parking lot. I made the mistake of answering it.

"H'lo," I said.

"Where the heck have you been?" It was Shelby Lynne. Her bellow almost blew out my eardrum.

"Duh. Working," I replied.

"What happened to you last night? I called your cell for hours."

Sometimes I missed the good old days when folks couldn't reach out and touch me twenty-four-seven.

"Low battery," I said--my patented excuse when I either forgot the phone or didn't want to chitchat.

"I want to know what's going on," she told me. "Did you go back to the Holloway house again without me?"

I turned on my radio and tuned it to an out-of-range station that only picked up static. I put the cell phone over the speaker and let the static take over for a few seconds, then turned the phone in my direction. "You're breaking up, Shelby. What was that?" I turned the phone back to the radio. "Can't hear you," I said. "I'll call you back when I change location."

I hit the "end" button.

Hey, don't judge me. Tell me you haven't pretended to be the babysitter, your sister or your mother when someone calls who can't pronounce your last name. Same diff.

I'd just passed the Coffee Clatch, a nifty little eatery that served five different kinds of cheesecake and beaucoup varieties of coffee, when I spotted my gramma coming out. I almost ran into the car in front of me when I saw Romeo Jack Rivas follow her out onto the sidewalk. I sighed. Apparently Gram had been serious about entertaining male friends. Funny me. At the time, I thought she'd meant Joe.

I drove home, changed into grubbies, fed the horses, loaded poop, romped with the dogs and decided to check in at the "main house" before I took a shower and dressed for the mixer.

My dad was at work. He's worked for the phone company forever. My dad likes solitary work, going off and doing his own thing. He loves to putter around acreage, working on his tractors, planting and tending his garden, and hunting with my brother, Craig. My dad is also keen on trapshooting. No, I don't mean running off at the mouth. I mean, as in blasting bright orange clay targets with a shotgun. He's pretty good, too. He's even won several trophies. I tried to shoot trap once, but only succeeded in hitting the top of the trap house. Good thing they're like bunkers and made of concrete.

"Howdy! Anybody home?" I walked through the sliding doors off the cement patio at the back of the house and into the dining room. "Mom! You here?" I crossed the dining room, moved through the kitchen and stopped short at the living room door. "Mom?"

If I hadn't seen it myself, I wouldn't have believed it. There on the couch, with a box of pink tissues in one hand and a bowl of M&Ms in the other, was my mother. Clad in a gray Hawkeyes sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, she sat cross-legged on the sofa in front of the TV, dabbing red-rimmed eyes and blowing her nose.

"Mom?"

"Tressa!" My mother jumped to her feet, oblivious to the bowl of fall-colored M&Ms that flew in every direction--a kaleidoscope of orange, brown and tan that pelted the TV and hit the carpeted floor. "What are you doing here?" she asked, grabbing the remote control and hitting the power button to shut the set off. But not before I caught a peek of Humphrey Bog-art and Ingrid Bergman.

I moved to the center of the room to make sure I'd seen what I thought I'd seen. An M&M crunched under my foot. Proof, indeed.

"Are you all right, Mom?" I asked. My mother never wore sweats. Never munched on M&Ms. And never ever sat in front of the TV watching sad movies and bawling her eyes out in the middle of the day. "I came by to check in. I called earlier but didn't get an answer."

My mother blew her nose and started to pick up candy. I knelt down to help her.

"What's going on, Mom?" I asked. "Are you okay?"

She blew her nose again. "You're going to think I've lost my mind," she told me.

Like, how bad could it be?

"Try me," I said.

My mom stopped collecting M&Ms and sat down on the floor. "I can't think what came over me. I was downstairs, working as usual, and I came up to check on your grandmother--I'd completely forgotten she was over at your place."

"My" place? That remained to be seen.

"And?" I asked.

"And I walked into the living room and it was so quiet and so inviting and so... so unoccupied that I decided, what the heck, I was going to take the day off, get into some grubbies, as you call 'em, and veg out. I stuck in
Casablanca,
and the rest, as they say, is history." She started to tidy the floor again. "Don't tell your father," she said.

"Tell him what?" I said, totally understanding the compulsion that from time to time forced women to seek out large quantities of chocolate and sad, romantic movies, and sob their eyes out; yet I was somewhat thrown by the fact that my ultradisciplined mother played hooky from work to do just that. It was a side of her she rarely let even her family see--one, apparently, she preferred to let out only when no one else was around.

I helped her collect the remaining evidence of her afternoon's activities, blowing the fuzzies off a handful of the candy and popping it into my mouth. Hey, remember the ten-second rule?

We got to our feet.

"So, how is it working out with your grandmother?" my mom asked, taking the bowl of M&Ms from me. "Should I talk to your father?"

I thought about it, took one look at the fuzzy socks my mom had on and shook my head. She deserved a bit of a break from the care and feeding of one very high-maintenance senior.

"Naw, we're cool," I told her. "Besides, my guess is, come winter, Gram will have decided that fireplace looks pretty inviting and will have her stuff moved back in and her chair by the crackling fire before you can say Jack Frost."

My mother nodded. "Just keep an eye on her, Tressa. She's one wily woman."

"Tell me about it," I replied, wondering what Gram had cookin' with Romeo Rivas on the side.

I left Mom to her last few hours of "me time" with a final promise to keep the incident to myself, and headed next door to shower and change into jeans and a gray hooded Grandville sweatshirt before heading out the door to the youth center.

I arrived twenty minutes after the mixer started, and wouldn't have been surprised at all to see Kari whip out her hot pink detention pad and write me up for being tardy. Instead she settled for one of those teacher looks again, and I was off the hook.

The aroma of the center was out of this world--a combination of beef and yummy sauce--which made it completely understandable that I gravitated in the direction of the food table, similar to the way my horses converge on an open barn door after I've whistled them in from the pasture.

I picked up a festive if somewhat ghoulish plate decorated with a collection of fiendish characters on the front, and headed for the sloppy joe assembly line.

"You're late," Kari scolded as I held my plate out for a sandwich. She plopped an open bun down and dumped a spoonful of sloppy joe mixture on it.

"A double scoop, please," I told her. "That'll save me from coming back for seconds," I added when I saw her hesitate. "Who needs the extra bread, right?"

She dumped another helping on my bun.

"Thank you, Ms. Carter," I told her like a polite young lady. I moved along in line and grabbed a bag of chips, a couple of chocolate-chip cookies and a can of soda, and made my way to a table half-filled with chattering sixth-graders. I put my plate down at an empty space.