Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome

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What the critics are saying about

Kathleen Bacus's
Calamity Jayne Mysteries
:

"Fans of Janet Evanovich will be glad to see that you don't always have to go to the burgh for mirthful murder and mayhem."

—Booklist

"Filled with dumb-blonde jokes, nonstop action and rapid-fire banter, this is a perfect read for chick-lit fans who enjoy a dash of mystery."

—Publishers Weekly

"Fun and lighthearted with an interesting mystery, a light touch of romance and some fascinating characters."

—RT Book Reviews

"Throw in two parts Nancy Drew, one part Lucille Ball, add a dash of Stephanie Plum, shake it all up and you've got a one-of-a-kind amateur sleuth with a penchant for junk food and hot-pink snakeskin cowgirl boots. A word to the wise: if you're prone to laughing out loud when reading funny books, try not to read Calamity Jayne when you're sandwiched between two sleeping passengers on an airplane…sometimes we learn these things the hard way."

—Chick Lit Cafe

"Bacus provides lots of small-town fun with this lovable, fair-haired klutz and lively story, liberally salted with dumb-blonde jokes."

—Booklist *starred review*

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CALAMITY JAYNE

AND THE

SISTERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING LAWN GNOME

by

KATHLEEN BACUS

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Copyright © 2015 by Kathleen Cecil Bacus

Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahalliday.com/Halliday_Publishing/

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

To my soon-to-be English lit grad student son, Erick, the best first reader/proofreader money doesn't buy. :) I'll miss you, Bub—especially our
I Love Lucy
marathons. I know you're gonna be awesome! And, no. I won't be addressing you as "Professor."

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Blonde triplets were witnesses to a crime, so they went to the police station to identify the suspect. The police chief said he would show them a mug shot of someone for thirty seconds then ask each one for a description. After showing the photo to the first blonde sister, he covered it and asked her how she would recognize the suspect.

''Easy," she replied. ''He only has one eye.''

The chief was stunned. ''He only has one eye because it is a profile shot! Think about it!''

He repeated the procedure for the second blonde and again asked how she would recognize him.

''He only has one ear,'' was her answer.

''What is the matter with you people? You're looking at a profile shot! You're seeing him from the side!''

He repeated the procedure for the third blonde, then said, ''How would you recognize the suspect? Now think before you give me a stupid answer.''

After viewing the photo, the third blonde thought for a minute.

''He's wearing contact lenses," she said.

This took the chief by surprise. He studied the picture closely and couldn't tell if the suspect had contacts or not, so he went into the database and looked at the report. Sure enough, when the mug shot was taken, the suspect
was
wearing contact lenses!

The officer went back to the third blonde. "How could you tell he was wearing contact lenses?" he asked. "Nobody else in the precinct saw that!''

''Well,'' the blonde said, "With only one eye and one ear, he can't wear regular glasses, can he?''

I touched the tip of the pencil to my lip and began to brainstorm.

"What do you do for a living?"

"Where were you born?"

"How did you really score that TribRide bodyguard gig?"

I made a face. "Brainstorm" might have been a reach. I could just about predict the way Manny DeMarco would respond to these "probing" questions.

"Facilitator."

"Hospital."

"Manny knew a guy who knew a guy."

I crossed out each lame-oh interrogative one-by-one.

"Nope."

"Nooo."

"Negatory, good buddy."

"Okay, okay. I hear you. No refill."

I looked up. Hazel's Hometown Café proprietress, Donita, hovered over me, coffee pot in hand.

"What? Oh. No. Fill 'er up," I said.

Donnie raised a brow and obliged.

"Working on a story?" she asked.

Yeah. A super secret story—the story of Manny DeMarco's life.

"It's a special assignment," I hedged. "Very hush-hush."

Just like the subject of the story.

"What's it about?" She asked.

"Secrets," I said.

She frowned.

"Secrets? In Grandville? Where gossip reigns and busybodies rule?" Donnie made a raspberry sound. "Right." She moved on to the next booth.

I sighed. Donita had a point. In small-town Iowa the latest dirt traveled faster than cornhusks down a farm lane after fall harvest.

I sipped my coffee, muddling over the question mark that was Manny DeMarco and the circumstances that had brought us together. Manny and I did not have a conventional first meeting. Far from it. I guess you could say Manny—a guy I'd first met during my ace cub reporter debut when I was out to convince authorities (and everyone else) that somebody stashed a dead body in the trunk of a car I'd mistaken for my own—was my first confidential informant. A confidential informant I'd bailed out of jail in exchange for information. That…happenstance had turned out to be life changing—and lifesaving.

Literally.

In the last year our relationship had morphed from the Midwest's answer to Woodward's and Bernstein's
Deep Throat
to our own cockeyed version of
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?
where my role was one of faux fiancée to my former CI. I'd recently broken off the bogus betrothal, but not before I'd come to realize Manny had developed feelings of an…er…tender nature for his dream date who—as it turned out—just couldn't resist a certain ranger's charms.

You're following, right? Let me know if you need me to clarify anything.

I'd known Manny for more than a year now. I'd worn his ring. I'd shared my feelings, my family (gladly), and my fears. I'd faced down his marriage-minded Aunt Mo without flinching. Okay, okay. So I flinched. Big whoop.

Manny had seen me at my best and at my worst. Up and down. Hot and cold. Happy and sad. Terrified and freaked out. (I'm pretty much a what-you-see-is-what-you-get cowgal.) But Manny DeMarco? He kept his cards so close to his vest he had an Ace of Spades imprint on his chest.

And oh, what a chest!

I put a hand to my face and waved it back and forth. Is it getting hot in here or is it just me?

Manny DeMarco represented a riddle protected by rippling muscles, bulging biceps, and a quiet, unassuming intellect. Talk about your hubba-hubba Houdini.

 Several weeks ago, I'd successfully bartered a promise from Manny to answer five questions put to him that might assist me in figuring out who the guy was and what made him tick. I had one shot with Manny. Well, actually
five
shots. Five opportunities to unravel the enigma that was Manny Dishman DeMarco—Grandville, Iowa's man of mystery.

It wasn't every day you had the opportunity to get straight answers from a man who could make a mime look like a Chatty Cathy doll. I had to make each question count. Proceed carefully. Be contemplative and clever.

I tapped my pencil on the notepad.

I'd have to be diabolical and devious. Be prepared to get down and dirty.

I bit my lip. So not my strengths.

Fortunately I knew someone who did fit the bill.

"What? No cinnamon rolls!" Joltin' Joe Townsend, my newbie step-grandpappy by virtue of his recent marriage to my "gammy" aka my grandma, slid into the booth across from me. "I assume my breakfast order is coming."

I raised a brow. "Assume away."

"When someone invites a person to breakfast, the invitee expects to be fed," Joe said.

"Is that right?"

Joe nodded. "It's the only decent thing to do. Especially considering you've dragged me away from my blushing bride."

"Blushing bride" being a relative term here, I supposed, considering my gammy had probably inspired more blushes than she experienced.

"Donnie!" I raised a hand. "My breakfast guest here would like an order of steel cut oats with blueberries on the side and a glass of skim milk."

"Make that the Hazel's Deluxe Breakfast Platter with an extra side of bacon and a large orange juice," Joe said, sending me an irked look.

"Ah. You didn't have to order extra bacon for me," I told him.

"It's the only way to keep your bacon-burgling hands off mine," he said.

I grimaced.

Guilty as charged.

Joe sat back in the booth and crossed his arms across his chest.

"So what gives? What's behind this little breakfast tête-à-tête?" Joe asked. "You got something you want to tell me? Something about my grandson, perhaps?"

I made a face.

Ranger Rick Townsend, Division of Natural Resources officer and hometown hottie, and I share a yo-yo past. We were presently on the upswing, having uh, er, taken the relationship to the next level with a night of swashbuckling romance on the high seas on the final night of the wedding cruise from hell. Not my wedding, you understand. My gammy's and Joe's. I was strictly along for the ride.

And boy howdy, what a ride!

I reached for my water glass and gulped it down.

Anyway, since we'd returned from the cruise a month ago, Townsend (the younger) and I had decided to take things one day at a time, or rather, one "date" at a time. You see, I feel like it's important for a couple to
be
a couple before…er, "coupling." Do things regular couples do. Go to movies. Take in ball games. Hang out. You know. Relationship 101.

A "cockamamie cowgirl courtship" is what Townsend calls it.

Gotta love a silver-tongued man in uniform.

We were feeling our way (hey now, I know what you're thinking) and taking it slow and easy—the ideal speed for a good ol' girl who didn't want to fall too hard too soon and run the risk of never getting back in the saddle again.

"Joe. Joe. Joe," I adopted my best hangdog look—similar to the ones my pooches wear when I get home and find they've used a favorite pair of boots as a chew toy. "I don't always have to have a secret agenda in order to sup with my stepper, now do I?" I said, certain he would hate the moniker. "Can't I just ask you here simply for the pleasure of your company?"

Joe shook his head. "You can't hustle a hustler, Blondie," he said. "Spill it."

Joe Townsend, legend in his own mind. I shifted in my seat—uncertain now that this was such a good idea after all.

Joe frowned. He leaned forward. "Wait a minute. Did your grandmother put you up to this?"

It was my turn to frown.

"Come again?"

"Does she want you to put your 'investigative skills' to work on her behalf? Solve her little mystery? Save the day?"

"What? What mystery?" The dots still didn't connect. "What are you talking about?"

"That ridiculous lawn gnome, of course!" Joe said.

The picture wasn't getting any clearer.

"Lawn gnome? What lawn gnome?"

"Not what gnome!
Whose
gnome!"

What in Sam Hill? Rarely had I seen Joe this upset—and let me tell you, I've seen the old guy in some pretty tricky situations. Okay. So I'd put him in some of those tricky situations, but let's not get off topic here.

"
Oo
kay. Whose gnome then?"

"Abigail Winegardner's," Joe muttered.

"Who? Who did you say?"

Joe looked left and then right. "Abigail Winegardner," he responded, his voice hushed and low.

I gasped.

"She whose name is not to be spoken?" I whispered.

Joe nodded.

"And?"

"And her friggin' lawn gnome disappeared."

"The ugly one that sits in her front yard near your driveway?"

He nodded.

"The one your wife dubbed
Chucky
? The same gnome she tried to bribe the public works guys to toss into a pit and cover with gravel, dirt, and sod when they were working on the storm sewers? That gnome?"

He nodded. "Abigail somehow has the idea that, well, that Hannah…your grandmother has well—"

"Absconded with the little troll?"

"Gnome—not troll! And yes, that's about the size of it, Blondie. Now your grandmother is obsessed with the need to discover who pilfered the damned troll, er, gnome and prove her innocence. I've tried to help. I've looked everywhere for a replacement for the god-awful gremlin, but apparently the freaking little gnome is an antique and one-of-a-kind."

"Gee, Joe. I'm sorry," I said. "That's rough. Real rough."

Joe must've caught the amusement in my voice. He sat back.