Calamity Jayne Heads West (8 page)

She shrugged. “I wanted to make sure we got a good one for your centerfold,” she said, and I cringed. Ye gods! Had I said that aloud?

I reached over and patted her head. “Good one, Kels,” I said, giving Townsend a sickly smile. “Good one.”

She looked up at me, her eyes glazed with confu-sion. “Huh?”

“So you took these pictures?” Whitehead asked Kelsey, and she nodded.

“Tressa was right, too, wasn’t she? He is hot, isn’t he?” Kelsey asked.

“He is at that,” Whitehead said, finally turning to give me the benefit of her full attention—and hard, searching gaze. “He is at that,” she repeated. It oc-curred to me that something about the photo had cap-tured this Oak Creek officer’s attention. Something beyond the pretty face, that is.

“And what did this individual take, exactly?” she asked. “You still have your camera.”

“He took her cake,” Nick said, an impertinent smile spreading across his face.

“Cake?” she said, looking to Ranger Rick for help.

He nodded. “Cake,” he said.

“Oh, but not just any cake,” I told her. “It was a slice of triple chocolate fantasy cake from the Oak Creek Grill in Tlaquepaque. The fiend made off with it be-fore I even had a chance to take one bite! He needs to pay, I tell you!”

“Why would someone want to steal a piece of cake?” she asked.

“Hello. Did you miss the ‘triple chocolate’ part?” I said, although now that I thought on it, the guy didn’t look much like a chocoholic. “Still, now that you mention it, it does seem kind of strange.” Strange, yes, but not out of the realm of possibility when it came to a serious chocolate addiction. Annu-ally, beginning around February 15th, I started haunting the local stores, hounding them to unpack their Easter candy and put the Cadbury Creme Eggs out already. I’d been tempted to camp out in front of Bargain City until they got sick of seeing me there and obliged.

“And you’re very sure that’s all he took?” Whitehead asked again.

“That’s it,” I said. “But thanks to bobble head Duke, Kelsey the kid, and Terrible Tressa, that varmint will think twice about coming between a gal and her chocolate again.”

“Don’t you mean Kelsey the kid and
Calamity Jayne
?” Nick Townsend asked with a smirk. “That’s Tressa’s nickname,” he told Whitehead. “Calamity Jayne. ’Cause she’s always getting into trouble. Last summer at the fair she got chased up a giant slide by a dunk-tank clown, and when she slid back down she got this humongous burn on her—”

Townsend slapped a hand over his nephew’s mouth, saving me the trouble.

Whitehead looked at each of us. “Never been to Iowa,” she said. “But it sounds like an interesting place to visit someday,” she added with a look at Ranger Rick that settled on his lips.

“Y’all come up and see us sometime,” I told her. “I’ll put on a chicken.”

“Maybe she just thought he was hot like you did,” Townsend suggested with a peeved sidelong look at me. “Maybe she thought he’d make a good pin-up.”

“Oh, puh-leaze! I saw the way you looked at RangerService Barbie back there,” I countered. “Tell me you didn’t think she was attractive. And as frequently and for as long as you stared at her chest, I’m surprised you didn’t memorize the service year from her name tag,” I added with a sneer.

“ ‘Serving since 2004,’ ” Uncle Rick and Nephew Nick recited together in unison. Like a choral reading but not. I stared at both of them in turn.

“Nice, Townsend,” I said. “Real nice. Teach the kid to ogle women,” I said, folding my arms across my own inadequacies.

“What’s ogle?” Nick asked, leaning from the back-seat to shove between us.

“It’s rudely staring at a person’s . . . person with the intent to objectify that individual in a negative or de-meaning way,” I said, quoting from something I’d read about some women’s group attacking porn.

“What does ‘objectify’ mean?”

I turned around in my seat.

“Do I look like I have ‘thesaurus’ printed on my forehead?” I asked.

“Why would you have a dinosaur on your fore-head?” Nick the twit asked, and I gave him what I hoped was a reasonable representation of a
did your
mother have any children who lived?
look and turned back around to the front.

“Why did that officer lady give you her card, Uncle Rick?” Nick suddenly asked, snaring my attention once again.

“She gave it to me in case we need to contact her,” Townsend said.

“But why did you give her your card, Uncle Rick?” Nick asked.

“I wrote down our contact information so she could reach us, squirt,” Rick said, flashing me a smile that was long on teeth and short on truth.

“But why did she write down her home phone num-ber?” Nick said. “And why did she write down the word ‘Numbers’ with an address, Uncle Rick?”

Uncle Rick hesitated a second too long.

“Yes, Uncle Rick. Do tell. Why did Officer White-head give you her home phone number, and what spe-cial significance does ‘Numbers’ have relating to our official investigation?” I asked.

“Sit back and buckle up, Nick,” Rick barked, and his nephew quickly complied. I blinked at Townsend’s un-characteristic shortness with his nephew. The pip-squeak had obviously struck a nerve.

“So?” Townsend looked over atme. “She invited us for drinks,” he said, with a shrug that looked a tad bit tense.

“Us?” I frowned. “Oh, really. When were you going to tell me about this little invite?”

He shrugged again. “What’s the big deal? It wasn’t as if I—we—were going to go.”

“Oh? Why wouldn’t
we
go?”

Townsend gave me another quick look. “Aw, hell. All right. She asked me. From what Nick told her, she gathered you and I weren’t together.”

“I see.” Only, I didn’t. Obviously Townsend hadn’t corrected Whitehead’s assumption. This left me won-dering if I’d mistaken Townsend’s ardent interest in me for something more than a natural inclination to explore new, unfamiliar—and challenging—territory. The possibility hurt me more than I cared to own up to.

“Look, Tressa, I never intended to go,” he said. “She just mentioned that a group of her friends were meet-ing there this evening and said if I liked I could stop by for a drink,” he said.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” I said, with a toss of my head. “Like you said, we aren’t to-gether. And it’s your vacation, after all. You should go. Explore the possibilities.”

Townsend gave me a long look. “Do you really want me to do that, Tressa?” he asked. “Explore the possi-bilities?” “Hey, it worked for Lewis and Clark,” I said, trying to defuse a situation with levity yet knowing I was only prolonging the inevitable showdown. I shook my head.

Coward. Calamity Jane would so not approve.

A muscle in Townsend’s cheek twitched and I could tell from long acquaintance that his teeth were clen-ched. “Maybe you’re right, Tressa,” he finally said. “Maybe you’re right. There’s still the little matter of your inconvenient engagement,” he added. “After all, you’re not even available. So maybe I will check out Numbers tonight. Who knows? Maybe I’ll strike gold exploring those possibilities you mentioned.”

“It’s a free country,” I shot back, and turned my at-tention to the world passing by the car window. For the next few miles Townsend refused to look at me or talk to me, and reserved his short, terse remarks for his niece and nephew. My eyes begin to water as stupid tears pooled. I avoided blinking so as not to send any of the drops trickling down my cheeks, and pinched my nose to keep from sniffling.

I’m usually not a crier. By circumstance and design. In fact, I’m generally the first one to poke fun at women who get all teary-eyed and watery at the drop of a hat. My family refuses to watch sad, sappy movies with me because I sit there and crack jokes at those touching, somber moments. Little do they know that later I’ll watch the same movie in the privacy of my own little domicile and bawl my way through a box of tissues.

I’m not a neat, petite crier. I’m messy as hell. Andwhen I’m done I look like I’ve just survived a serious allergic reaction. My eyes are puffy and red and my lips are swollen and huge. My nose rivals Rudolph’s in the crimson department.

Even as a child I had issues with crying in front of people. Maybe because it didn’t fit the persona I’d fashioned for myself. Maybe because I equated crying with vulnerability, with letting my guard down and let-ting my mushy insides show with weakness. All of which were big no-nos, as far as I was concerned.

Unfortunately, this firm control over my emotions over a long period of time occasionally results in a major meltdown. My grandpa’s funeral is a great case in point. I loved my Paw Paw Will. His sudden death was a shock to the entire family. At the funeral home viewing when Taylor went up to pay her last respects, she broke out in this high-pitched, shrill, cat-in-heat caterwauling that I so didn’t expect to hear. Nor did I expect the strain of keeping a tight rein on my own emotions would result in the sudden, uncontrollable onset of a fit of hysteria so potent and explosive I started to laugh. Effusively. Infectiously. Unforgivably.

I ended up having to conjure up this chest-crushing cough to cover up the giggles, and clapped a hand to my mouth and ran out of the funeral home, mortified.

I still remembered Townsend’s reaction. He’d fol-lowed me out and chased me down the block and heckled me so effectively that my fit of laughter dis-solved like Alka-Seltzer in water and I’d returned to the funeral home with tears of anger in my eyes. Later, in the privacy of my room, I cried into my pillow—long, silent, sloppy sobs of grief.

For the first time I wondered if it was possible that Rick Townsend had been such a jerk to me that day to jolt me out of my manic mirth so I wouldn’t make a to-tal ass of myself. I looked over at him, hoping he would look my way, but he kept his eyes on the road.

Damned men. Who needed them, anyway? Nowa-days women did very nicely on their own, thank you very much. Modern women brought home their own bacon, fried it, and cleaned up afterwards with no help from men. Modern women made home repairs and serviced their own automobiles—among other things—without a man. Women got pregnant and gave birth and raised children, and all without a man in their lives.

I stopped. I sounded like an infomercial for
Lesbian
Lifestyles
.

I glanced in the outside rearview mirror and through moisture-blurred eyes noticed a black Toyota following us. I frowned and squinted at the car’s re-flection. I could’ve sworn I’d seen a car just like that pull out behind us as we left Oak Creek Canyon Vista. The car in question had sported a dream catcher on the inside mirror. I squinted harder to see if I could make out the decoration in the mirror, but the dis-tance was too great.

“What are you doing now?” Townsend asked. “Spot another hot guy? Isn’t one engagement ring enough? You want me to stop so you can add another to your collection?”

I shook my head, watching the car as it kept two lengths distance between us.

“I think that car is following us,” I told Townsend.

“That’s because it is,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s behind us—i.e., it’s following us.”

I shook my head.

“No. I mean, I think it has been following us since we left Oak Creek Canyon,” I told him. “I’m almost certain it’s the same car.”

Townsend’s gaze shifted to the inside mirror. “So? It’s pretty hard to pass on those switchbacks. If he’s head-ing back to Flag, he’s pretty much stuck behind us.”

“I guess,” I said, peering back at the driver but only making out distorted facial features, feeling unsettled but not sure whether it was due to the earlier incident or my disagreement with Townsend. Or both.

We rode along in silence until Townsend pulled into my aunt and uncle’s driveway to drop me off. I opened the door to get out.

“Uh, thanks for lunch and for the sightseeing,” I said, suddenly nervous as my mom when my gammy asks to use her computer, credit card in hand. “And thanks for stopping so I could get my bobble head and Gram’s gift—not to mention treating me to a scenic southwestern snatch-and-grab. Gram’ll love Kookamunga, by the way,” I told him, avoiding eye contact. I shifted my attention to the back seat. “And remember, guys, it’s our little secret,” I said. “So mum’s the word.”

“Who’s mum?” Nick asked.

I took a deep breath.

“See you, kids,” I bade adieu to the tired younguns in the backseat. “Enjoy that luxury hotel, would you, and don’t you worry your little heads one itty bitty second about Tressa here bedding down on a lumpy ol’ sofa bed in a dark, ol’ basement,” I said. ”I’ll be just fine.”

“Tressa, about Whitehead and Numbers,” Townsend said, leaning across the front seat toward the passen-ger side.

“Hey, don’t sweat it, Townsend,” I said, grabbing my backpack and pulling it on over one shoulder. “I’ve got your number, you know,” I said.

He looked at me for a long time and I knew just when his gaze shifted to my lips. Lips that I bit to keep from quivering. And I suspected he knew it.

“I wonder,” was all he said, and he slid behind the wheel again, put the SUV in gear, backed out and drove away, leaving Duke, Kookamunga, and me be-hind in his rearview mirror.

I walked slowly up the steps to the front door, opened it and was about to close it when I noticed a car drive slowly past the house. I watched as the black Toyota passed by slowly, a dream catcher hanging from the mirror. A face turned to look at me. A haunt-ing face. A lifeless face.

I stepped in, shut the door and locked it behind me, turning and coming face-to-face with the kachina mask that hung on the wall just inside Uncle Ben’s door.

I shivered.

Who was that masked man?

CHAPTER SEVEN

The house was empty so I slipped down to the base-ment, shucked my clothes and took a quick shower to remove the trail dust, and thought about my yo-yo re-lationship with Rick Townsend. The guy had tor-mented me through much of grade school, junior high and high school. Best buddies to my brother Craig, Rick had enjoyed more access to our house than the family pets. And while he’d treated Taylor like a little princess, pampering her and compliment-ing everything she did, he’d generally treated me like a joke. The court jester. An object of amusement. Someone to be teased and trifled with. Someone good for a laugh.

Me? I became a jester in fact, playing one outra-geous practical joke after another. Giving as good as I got. Until it stopped being fun. Or funny. Once I reached high school and realized the cartoonish cari-cature I’d created had pretty much taken over my life—and damaged my future prospects to boot—it was too late. Too late to convince those who had wit-nessed my blonde maturation since kindergarten that I was more than just a ditz with an attitude and a talent for finding trouble. Okay. Yeah. And sometimes for making it.

I sighed as I wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and looked at myself, seeing what other people see when they look at me. And what they didn’t see: a vulnerable young woman who wanted the same things other gals wanted—a husband, a home, a family, secu-rity, a weight-loss program that included mocha lattes (not lowfat) and DoubleStuf Oreos, and waxing made painless. And not to lose who I was in the bargain.

“Is that asking too much?” I asked my reflection. “Well, is it? You’re normally not at a loss for words. Come on. Say something! Anything!”

“Tressa? Is that you? Who are you talking to?”

I recognized my cousin Sophie’s voice and opened the door. “Oh. Hi.”

She looked past my shoulder. “Do you have some-one in there with you?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I was just giving myself a pep talk,” I told her.

“Pep talk?” She looked at me. “It sounded like you were tearing yourself a new one,” she said.

“Tough love,” I explained, and she nodded.

“I hear you,” she said, and moved to take a seat on the sofa sleeper. I noticed she had on considerably less makeup than the night before. She wore a pair of blue jeans and an NAU sweatshirt. I pulled on a pair of black jeans and slipped on a long-sleeved tailored white shirt with black stripes.

“So, have you spoken to Gram yet?” I asked as I but-toned my blouse.

“You mean, am I back in her will?” she responded. I nodded.

“Something like that.”

“Yeah. We had lunch together. Mom brought Joe along so I could meet him.”

“And?”

“Scary,” she said. I nodded.

“You have no idea,” I told her, taking a seat on the sofa to pull on a pair of socks and my black Calfy boots.

“That grandson of his is quite the looker,” she said, and I looked up.

“When did you meet Rick Townsend?” I asked.

She smiled. “Chill out,” she said. “I haven’t met him. His grandfather showed me his picture. Nice. Very nice.” She winked. “I gather you two are an item.”

“Says who?” I asked. “That ol’ coot of a granddad of his and our gammy who weaves more yarn than the lo-cals who sell their wares to tourists hereabouts?”

She shook her head. “You just did,” Sophie said with a grin. “With your reaction when I mentioned his name. Your eyes got big and sparkly all of a sudden, like you’d touched a live wire. Or I’d touched a nerve.” She sobered. “The rocky road to romance,” she said. I nodded.

“And we’re talkin’ some major construction, hell-ishly long detours, with movement down to a crawl at times,” I said, reminding myself to keep my eye on the road and make sure I didn’t get distracted by some good-lookin’ flagman somewhere along the line, take a wrong turn, and end up at a dead end.

I love analogies, don’t you?

“You’re lucky,” Sophie said. “Try slapping a ‘wide load’ sign on your bumper in the process,” she said, and I winced. With my chassis, I’d never make center circle at the Detroit Auto Show, but I didn’t think I was at the point I’d be mistaken for an oversized load just yet. Although, if I didn’t cut out the chocolate . . . which naturally reminded me of the Oak CreekCanyon shenanigans and chocolate delight that was never devoured. At least not by me.

I gave Sophie a quick show-and-tell of the incident, showing her the battered but still bobbling Duke, the perfect wedding present of Mr. Kookamunga (gaining Sophie’s oath of silence not to let on to anyone about the hand-selected gift) and finally the digitals Kelsey had taken.

“You know, now that I really look at him, he’s not all that good-looking,” I told Sophie, looking over her shoulder at the photos. “His nose is too big. His hair too long. His teeth too . . . white,” I added lamely.

“I think I’ve seen this guy somewhere before,” So-phie said. I stared at her.

“You have?”

She nodded. “Yes. But I can’t remember where.”

“Think!” I told her. “Think!”

Sophie closed her eyes for a few seconds and shook her head. “I don’t know. NAU maybe,” she said. “I’m not sure.”

“Damn,” I said. “And we were so close.”

“Why are you so bent on finding this guy?” Sophie said, taking one more look at the photos before she passed the camera back to me. “Why not just forget it?”

It was a good question. Why couldn’t I ever leave well enough alone? Why did I insist on knowing every-thing that happened and why? Duh. I was a reporter. That’s why. And I hated loose ends almost as much as I hated the latest legging trend.

“I just want to find out who the guy is and find out his story, that’s all,” I said. “Something’s up.”

“We all are. Seven thousand feet worth,” she said. “By the way, what’s on tap for tonight? Obligatory fam-ily dinner, I imagine.”

I set the camera down, picked up my backpack fromthe coffee table, saw one of my
Gazette
business cards and thought for a moment.

“Have you heard of a place called Numbers?” I asked Sophie.

“Uh, why do you ask?” she hedged, and I looked over at her.

“Because I want to know?” I said.

“Why?”

I frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“Why should there be?”

Gee. Another game of Twenty Questions and it wasn’t even Wednesday yet.

“There shouldn’t. Unless there is,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Do you know the place?”

“I know of it.”

“Could you maybe take me there? Tonight?”

Sophie gave me an assessing look. “How did you hear about Numbers?” she asked.

I told her.

“I thought you weren’t invited,” she said.

“I wasn’t. That’s why I want to go,” I explained.

“And do what? Spy on your boyfriend?”

I shook my head. “He’s not my boyfriend. So it’s not spying. I’m just . . . gathering information before I make a very crucial decision,” I explained. “A decision that could very well change my life forever.”

Sophie looked at me. “You’ve got it bad,” she said, and I felt tears well up in my eyes again.

“Probably fatal,” I admitted.

Sophie sighed. “In that case—”

I grabbed her. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” I said, hugging her. I released her and picked up the camera to shut it off.

“Oh . . . my . . . gosh!” Sophie said, and I stared at her.

“What?” I said.

“I just remembered where I’ve seen that guy,” she said. My mouth flew open.

“Where?” I said.

“At Numbers!” Sophie said.

Holy smoke signals, Kemo Sabe!

“Oh, good grief,” I said. “It’s a public place, for heaven’s sake. There are people all over. What could possibly happen?”

Okay, so I’d said that very thing to folks before with outcomes ranging from harmless fracases (is that even a word?) to ones that ended with white lies, red lights and sirens, and black body bags. Frankly, my life is prettymuch a crapshoot. Sometimes heavy on the crap.

“I suppose you’re right,” Sophie said, still rubbing her chin and staring at the bright lights of the night-club. “There are a few things you should know about this particular establishment before we go in,” she said slowly, and I got one of those uh-oh feelings. Like when you agree to pick up DVDs your gammy re-served, only to find out they’re from the eighteen-and-older section in the back room. Or you agree to be maid of honor without securing veto authority over the dress.

I swallowed.

“Things? What things?” I asked, my voice a tad high.

“The guy who owns Numbers has a couple other nightclubs like this in California. He opened one inPhoenix several years back and it did so well, he opened this one about a year ago. His nightclubs are theme-oriented,” she said.

“Theme-oriented?” I looked at her. “Is this a gay bar?” I asked. “Are you, like . . . gay?”

Sophie did one of those head moves where you look up to Heaven as if seeking divine guidance. Or maybe she just had a neck kink.

“No! This is not a gay bar, and no, I am not gay!”

“Because I want you to know I’m perfectly fine with it, Sophie,” I blathered along. “Perfectly fine. Live and let live,” I proclaimed, all the while recalling that dis-turbing little sofa bed snake dream.

“I am not gay,” Sophie said.

“Cool,” I said. “But cool, too, if you were. With me, that is. I mean cool with me if you were gay, not cool being gay with me,” I said, thinking my Native Ameri-can name by rights should be She Who Runs Off at the Mouth. “Cool,” I said.

Sophie shook her head.

“Numbers is a bar that caters to people who are looking to meet other new people, but don’t necessar-ily want the total anonymity and isolation of, say, an online dating service,” she said. “Numbers provides a fun, nonthreatening environment where singles can get together, mix, mingle and hang out, but in a safe and organized fashion.”

I snorted. “Isn’t that illegal in some states?” I said.

“Funny lady,” Sophie replied.

“So, where does the name ‘Numbers’ come in?” I asked.

“Glad you asked. Every seat in the bar has an as-signed number. The numbers on the chairs light up. At various times during the evening, a computer ran-domly selects numbers and those numbers are called out. The folks sitting at those numbered seats have toleave their seats and do whatever the computer selects them to do. Sometimes it’s a karaoke duet. Sometimes they have to entertain the audience with a skit. Harm-less fun,” she said. “They also have a time for inter-ested folks to participate in speed dating,” she said. I blinked, drawing a blank.

“What the heck is speed dating?” I asked.

Sophie shook her head. “You country folks need to get to town more often,” she said. “It’s a way of meet-ing people you might want to date. Women sit at one side of a long table and men at the other. A timer is set and the couples visit for five to ten minutes or so. When the timer goes off, the guy gets up and moves to the next seat and the whole thing starts all over again.”

“How much can you learn about some guy in five minutes?” I asked. I’d known Ranger Rick all my life and was still in the dark about what went on inside that carp-cop cranium of his.

Sophie shrugged. “I can pick up a book and read the first page and know whether it’s worth reading or not. I figure the same thing is true about guys to some extent. It doesn’t take long to weed out the creeps or knuckle-draggers.”

“How do you know all this?” I thought to ask. “You just turned twenty-one a few weeks ago,” I said.

Sophie looked momentarily flustered but made a smooth recovery. “I’m sure even back in Iowa they’ve heard of fake IDs,” she said.

My eyes grew big.

“I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout that, gel,” I said in my nasally, Midwestern hillbilly best. “I git my hooch from a still in that there back forty. Put hair on yer chest, it will. Er take it off if’n you perfer, little lady,” I twanged.

“You aren’t going to embarrass me, are you?” So-phie asked. “I have to live here, you know.”

I did a cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die-stick-a-needle-in-the-eye move, followed by the chill sign. “I swear I will be on my best behavior,” I told her, hoping she wouldn’t inquire as to just what my personal best was.

“And if we see Rick Townsend?”

“I’m, like, so totally cool with it.”

“And if he’s with Ranger Whitehead?”

“I’m solid as red rock,” I told her.

“And if we spot the cake bandit?”

“Piece of cake.” Triple chocolate to be exact. I slapped Sophie on the shoulder. “I feel good about our little adventure,” I said. “What about you?”

“I feel sick,” Sophie said. “And like I’m going to re-gret this in the morning.”

I shook my head. Sweet, naive Sophie. If things went south at the speed-dating Mecca, she was bound to re-gret it long before then.