Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (2 page)

"You're sorry, my skinny rear," Joe said. "You can't even keep a straight face."

"Honest, Joe—"

"Listen, missy. You're on the hook, too, you know. She's going to enlist your assistance with this little gnome hunt next. It's just a matter of time." He scratched his chin. "In fact, that's not such a bad idea. You do have a certain knack. And it'll get me off the hook."

"You wouldn't!"

"Oh, wouldn't I?"

We eyeballed each other across the table—at an impasse—until I realized Joe was right. My gammy
was
almost certainly going to drag me into the great gnome caper. It
was
just a matter of time. I might as well negotiate for the best terms possible.

I took a deep breath.

"You've heard the term quid pro quo, right?"

Joe nodded. "I'm listening."

"You do me a solid, and I do you one."

"Still listening," he said.

I cracked my knuckles.

"I'm working on a project that requires…finesse, and I could use your expertise," I said, aiming straight for his big ol' bull's-eye of a male ego.

Joe sat a little straighter in his chair and puffed his chest out. He reminded me of the banty roosters that used to strut around my great-grandmother Blackford's backyard.

"When you say 'project'—"

"Manny DeMarco," I blurted.

Joe sat back in his chair and pursed his lips.

"Go on."

"Here's the deal. I did a favor for Manny. In return I get to ask him five probing questions, and he's promised to answer them truthfully."

"And?"

"I don't want to squander them."

"Huh?"

"I want to come up with the five most brilliant, airtight, can't wiggle out of 'em questions Manny DeMarco has ever been asked. By the time that man-o-mystery has answered question five, I want to have unmasked the real Manny DeMarco-Dishman-whatever his legal name is."

Joe's eyelids lowered, and he rubbed his chin.

"So you want to pull a Perry Mason on Manny."

I frowned. Perry who?

Joe shook his head.

"Your generation's ignorance of truly groundbreaking television is so sad. Perry Mason is an iconic defense attorney created by author Earle Stanley Gardner who was known for his 'gotcha' moments on cross-examination."

"Good to know. Now, can we get back to the issue at hand? Creating our own 'gotcha' moment for Manny DeMarco."

"It won't be easy to pin him down," Joe said. "We'll need do our homework, do some legwork before we dive in."

"Legwork?" I already didn't like the way this collaboration was going.

"Of course. You want to get the best bang for your Five Questions buck, don't you?"

I did. But…homework?

"Your big ol' breakfast," Donnie said, placing a heaping helping of Hazel's hometown cooking in front of Joe.

I closed my eyes and savored the aroma of bacon like a
Survivor
contestant who's won a steak fry in an award challenge.

Donnie turned to me. "I'm surprised you're still here, what with all the activity on the police scanner."

I frowned.

"Activity?"

"Police got a call about the taggings over on the east side of town by the alternative high school," Donnie said.

"Taggings?"

 Joe's snort of derision was only marginally muffled by the mouthful of biscuit and gravy he'd shoveled in his mouth.

"Some investigative reporter. Maybe I better reconsider this tit-for-tat quid pro quo."

"Huh?"

He shook his head. "Tagging is when somebody vandalizes homes, automobiles, buildings, and what have you using spray paint. They 'tag' that property," Joe explained. "It's often gang-related."

"And there are reports of tagging on the east side of town?"

"Apparently so, Ace Cub Reporter," Joe said.

"And you heard this on the police scanner?" I asked Donnie.

"Yep. Nothing gets past Hazel's."

Apparently not.

I tore off a sheet from my notepad and slid it across the table to Joe.

"Your assignment, Joe Townsend, should you decide to accept it, is to brainstorm questions for Mission—Manny DeMarco," I said. "Email me, oh, twenty questions for a start. I'll review them and get back to you."

"Now who thinks they're Agent 99?"

"Who?"

"Never mind, Blondie."

I grabbed my bag and got to my feet.

"Oh, look! It's my gammy!"

Joe's head did an
Exorcist
head-spin number in the direction of the door. I took advantage of his gullibility and poached the bacon from his plate before boogying out Hazel's back door.

Now that's what you call beating a "tasty" retreat!

"How many vehicles does that make?"

"An even dozen."

"And they all have the same tag?"

"Affirmative, Chief."

I crept alongside the uniforms surveying the colorful collection of graffiti and pulled out my cell phone and started clicking away.

"Hey! Hold on there! What do you think you're doing?"

I snapped a couple more pictures before fumbling around for my press credentials.

"Tressa Turner,
Grandville Gazette
," I said, waving my card in front of the officers.

"Uh, newsflash. That's a sub sandwich punch card," the officer nearest me pointed out. "Congratulations. Looks like you're one punch away from a free sub."

I snatched the freebie card back, confirmed his observation (sweet!), and shoved it into a pocket.

 "We know who you are, Miss Turner," longtime chief of police, Dan Scott, said, stepping forward.

Sad…but true.

It was Chief Scott who'd responded the time I got buried beneath an avalanche of pumpkins searching for the most sincere one. It was also Chief Scott who took the call from the car wash owner complaining about the mess I made when I hosed the horse trailer out in one of the bays. Chief Scott had also regularly pulled me over for one equipment violation or the other, the occasional lead foot, and one time for littering when my horse, Joker, left a pile of fresh poo outside City Hall on parade day, and the chief stepped in it on his way to his patrol vehicle.

That incident didn't represent some kind of governmental protest, you understand. Droppings…happen.

"Good to see you, Chief," I said, noticing he did not return the sentiment. "So a total of twelve cars, huh?" I pulled out my notepad.

Neither officer jumped to issue a confirmation or denial.

"What time did it happen? How many vehicles had windows broken out? Did anybody see anything? When you say 'tag'—"

"It's too soon to comment. The investigation is ongoing." Chief Scott snapped.

"When you say 'ongoing'—"

His portable radio crackled. "Excuse me," he said, moving away.

Left alone, I walked down the street, examining the damage and taking more pictures. Besides broken windows and cracked windshields and flattened tires, each car had been targeted with spray paint graffiti. I walked around what used to be a red Ford Focus, shaking my head.

"Holy
Fantasia
!" I whispered. The car looked like it had been driven through a psychedelic carwash—kaleidoscopic streaks of color turning the family sedan into perfect clown parade transportation.

I moved to the hood of the car and blinked. A ginormous pink whirligig that resembled a tornado covered the hood. The hot pink cyclone stood out like my gammy's pink polyester Easter ensemble two years back.

"What messages do you suppose
that
is supposed to be sending?"

I looked to my right. Shelby Lynn Sawyer, freshman college student and part-time
Grandville Gazette
gopher and apprentice, peered down at me.

At six-foot-two, Shelby's a big girl. Shelby and I had done a bit of female bonding last fall when we teamed up to score a coveted interview with hometown girl turned big-name reclusive author Elizabeth Courtney Howard. Our…er…collaboration had its ups and downs, and despite a wee bit of um, career insecurity (encouraged by Drew Van Vleet, my counterpart at the rival
New Holland News
) that had me keeping an eagle eye on my coworker and our boss for signs of employment shenanigans, Shelby and I had formed a friendship of sorts—professional paranoia notwithstanding.

"What do you mean 'message'? You mean the
foo foo
artwork?" I motioned at the canvas in question.

"You call that art? It looks like something my nephew makes in preschool and my sister hangs on her fridge," Shelby pointed out. "No, I'm talking about the commonalities among the vehicles."

I gave her a sideways look.

"Commonalities, Profiler Sawyer?" I asked.

Shelby shook her head.

"The pink tornadoes, Ace Reporter," she responded. "Didn't you take a good look at all the vehicles? They all have the hot pink cyclone symbols."

I shrugged. "So, they're rabid Iowa State fans gone loco."

"Why here? Why now? The college kids are back on campus. Football season is still weeks away." She scratched her chin. "No. This is something else."

"Do you want my job?" I heard somebody blurt and discovered the blurter was me.

"Wait. What?"

I bit my lip. Yeah. I know. Too late, Miss Blabbermouth.

"Do you have designs on my job?" I followed up. You know. In for a penny and all that.

"Designs? On your high-paying, high-profile, highly sought-after small-town reporter gig that barely pays enough to cover the costs of keeping your herd of horseflesh in grain and hay and your hounds in kibbles and bits? That job?"

I hung my head.

"You are aware that I'm starting college," Shelby said.

"
Community
college," I countered. "And you're commuting."

"Yes. So?"

"So, you could conceivably work and go take classes. You know. Like I did last year."

"God. Let's hope not."

I winced. Nice.

Shelby reached over and put the back of her hand against my forehead.

"How long have you been suffering from these…delusions?" she asked.

"Excuse me. Am I interrupting a private moment?"

I looked up. Chief Scott surveyed us from his position near the trunk of the vehicle.

"Apparently delusions are contagious," Shelby mumbled.

"Chief Scott!" I hurried to the rear of the vehicle where a tow truck was just pulling up. "I just have a few questions. Were there any witnesses? Do you have any leads or suspects yet? Have you seen signs of gang activity in the community? If so, could this be gang-related? What are your thoughts regarding the spray-painting itself? I'm sure it hasn't escaped you that one particular symbol appears on all the vehicles." I ignored Shelby's "Oh, brother" and plowed ahead. "Any idea what the weird tag thingies mean?"

The chief shook his head and put a hand up.

"I told you before, it's too early in our investigation for me to comment," he said.

"Have you seen this particular tornado symbol before?" I asked.

He hesitated, his gaze sliding away.

"You have!" I said. "You've seen the pink tornado before! When? Where?"

A deep flush began to spread from the chief's neck upward.

"I said no comment," Chief Scott said. "Now, if you ladies would kindly move so the tow truck can hook up, we'd appreciate it."

I rejoined Shelby Lynn and we crossed the street, looking on as the tow truck operator did his thing.

"Did you pick up on the chief's reaction when I asked about the pink tornado symbol? He's definitely hiding something." I asked. "He's seen it before."

Shelby nodded. "Looks that way."

"Were there any reports of similar acts of vandalism while I was on TribRide?"

"Now that you mention it, yes. There was a flurry of incidents of malicious mischief, but most of those were out in the county—not in town."

"Oh? What kind of mischief?" I asked.

Shelby shrugged. "Random stuff. Minor property damage. Break-ins at a couple of rural residences. A detached garden shed was targeted. Miscellaneous lawn items damaged or taken. The other incident that stands out was at Country Acres Greenhouse. Planters got overturned and plants were yanked out of pots."

"Any graffiti?"

"I'm not sure."

"Not sure?"

Now it was Shelby Lynn's turn to hang her head. She shifted her weight from one size 11½-wide to the other.

"I didn't actually go and check out the scenes," Shelby acknowledged.

"So you got the information from police reports."

She shook her head.

"Not really."

"What do you mean? How did you file a story?"

That hangdog look again.

"I spoke to someone with the county. It all seemed pretty cut and dried. High school shenanigans. Kids letting loose before the new school year started. That kind of thing."

"Oh? Who was it you spoke with at County?" I asked, wondering if Shelby Lynn had somehow managed to finagle a solid source within the sheriff's department—at odds with my own somewhat shaky history with the law enforcement agency.

More Bigfoot shuffling.

"Just someone I've been cultivating," she said.

Cultivating? Who'd she think she was, Mrs. Green Jeans?

"You have a source within the sheriff's office?" I asked, suspicion beginning to rear its ugly head again.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" I raised an eyebrow. "I detect…subterfuge."

"Subterfuge? Seriously?"

"Just answer the question. Do you have a source or not?"

Shelby crossed her arms, looking uncomfortable.

"I don't have to take this third degree."

"Ooh. Now we're becoming defensive," I said.

"Would you just stop?" Shelby Lynn said. "I admit it. I goofed up. I didn't personally check out either scene. Can we leave it at that?"

I frowned. So, Shelby Lynn Sawyer had a secret source in the SO.

And me? I had an interim sheriff who held a grudge.

"Sure. No problem. The good news is it's not too late to get a firsthand account of the vandalism," I told Shelby.

"What do you suggest?"

"The personal touch. We visit every scene. Interview property owners. Find out what happened and if they took pictures."