Calamity Jayne Goes to College (15 page)

Once Patrick left, Frankie fixed a questioning eye on me.

"So, just what is going on with you and Dawkins?" he asked.

I thought about it for a second. "I wish I knew, Frankie," I finally said. "I wish I knew."

While we finished our drinks, I borrowed Frankie's phone to check in with Stan and pitch my DPS Academy prep story. He started
the conversation much as Townsend had the night before.

"Where the hell are you?" he asked.

I quickly explained that my Carson College crime story was taking me in a totally unexpected direction, but promised that
it would be well worth his wait. I also reminded him of my ongoing maid of honor duties that week.

"You need to talk to Lucy," Stan said. "Some lady keeps coming in asking for you. It's getting to be a damned nuisance."

"Lady?" I felt my mouth become dry. "For me?"

"Older woman. Good size. Hair pulled back. Loud. Know her?"

I grimaced. In a manner of speaking.

I assured him I would be in that afternoon and ended the call. Things just kept getting better and better.

We prepared to leave and I searched around for my book bag.

"Did I bring my bag in with me?" I asked.

"I don't think so," Frankie said. "I paid for your drink," he reminded me.

"I probably left it in the car," I said, but when I checked, it wasn't there.

"I was in such a hurry to meet you guys after class, I must've run off and left it in the classroom," I said, silently chewing
myself a new one. "I'll have to swing by and get it before I head out to Camp Dodge. It's got my driver's license in it and
we need our photo IDs to get in."

"Take Dixie with you," Frankie said. This was getting to be a habit. A bad one.

"Why?" we both asked.

"Until they find out who is responsible for what's going on, I don't want either of you on campus by yourself," Frankie said.
"I'll go on out to Camp Dodge, check in at the gate, and tell Dawkins you two will be along." He bent to give Dixie a kiss.
I didn't think I'd ever be able to witness their displays of affection without becoming slightly queasy. "See you," he said,
ruffling her hair.

Dixie smiled at him as he left, but when she turned her attention to me all traces of affection were gone. Thank goodness.

"You ready to roll?" she asked. I nodded.

"You still have a problem with me where Frankie is concerned, don't you?" She asked on the ride back to Carson. I looked over
at her, surprised. "It's not like you hide it," she continued. "You don't think I'm the right girl for him."

Actually, I didn't think she was the right girl for me. Hey, hold it a second. Don't get any pervy notions here. Give me a
chance to explain.

You see, I'd never had a great relationship with Taylor, and ever since Kari met Brian, I could feel her slipping away from
me. So, being as close to Frankie as I was, I'd always hoped he'd pick a gal who not only would be right for him, but, in
a way, right for me, too. You know, someone who not only shared his interests and passions, but mine as well. Someone who
loved horses and dogs. Who adored clothes and was mad about shopping. Someone for whom eating was a pleasure not a curse,
and--maybe most importantly-- someone who was okay with the fact that she was never ever going to be the one to set the curve.

In other words, someone just like me.

Instead, Frankie had chosen a coarse, cantankerous, mule-stubborn girlfriend with a predilection for pathos and a personality
that would make her an ideal mate for Oscar the Grouch.

Okay. So, how to put that diplomatically?

"Can I be frank with you?" I asked. "Uh, not Frank as in Uncle Frank-frank, but as in sincere?"

"I'd prefer it," she said.

"You wouldn't be my first choice," I heard myself saying. I was shocked--okay, and slightly embarrassed--by my honesty.

She sat for a second and said nothing.

"I suspected as much," she finally said. "I appreciate your candor," she added.

I couldn't leave it at that. For some reason I wanted her to understand where I was coming from. Why I was disappointed in
Frankie's choice of mate. Maybe so she wouldn't take it quite so personally.

"It's not really about you," I told her after I'd pulled into a parking space outside the English building. "It's sort of
about me," I said slowly. I explained my admittedly selfish hope that I'd personally benefit from Frankie's acquisition of
a significant other, and how I'd been disappointed when that hadn't happened.

Dixie turned in the car seat to look directly at me.

"My God! You're lonely!" she exclaimed, and I stared at her.

Lonely? Lonely! Where had this come from? Who had time to be friggin' lonely?

"Are you nuts? What are you talking about?" I asked. "I can assure you I am anything but lonely. In fact, I have been known
on occasion to hide out in the barn for extended periods of time just to get away from people," I added.

She continued to study me.

"I think we both know that a person can be lonely in a roomful of people, don't we?" she said.

I thought about it. Was it possible?
Was
I lonely? For as long as I could remember I'd fill my days to the brim with activity after activity, running from one place
to another, one job to the next, running, running, running until I fell into bed exhausted only to get up and do the same
thing the next day. Was it possible? Could Dixie be right? Had I really been running from loneliness the entire time? The
possibility was not a pleasant one, and good-time girl that I was known to be, I rejected it.

"I don't have time to be lonely," I said, and turned the car off. I tried to open the driver door with a shove from my shoulder,
but it wouldn't budge. I looked over at Dixie and she sighed and got out. I slid across the seat and exited from the passenger
side.

"I'll be back in a flash," I said, running into the building to retrieve my book bag, hoping and praying it was still there.

I ran into the classroom and over to the desk I'd sat in. My bag was nowhere to be seen.

"Looking for this?" I turned to discover Professor Stokes sitting at the front of the room, holding my bright red book bag.

"That's exactly what I was looking for." I walked over and reached out to take the backpack from him. "Thank you, Professor,"
I said.

"Do you have a minute, Miss Turner?" he asked, keeping hold of the bag.

"I guess I have a couple of minutes I can spare," I said. "I do have a friend waiting in the car," I added. One could never
be too careful these days.

"I must admit when I went through the backpack to see whose it was, I took a peek at some of your article notes," he said.
"I'm impressed. You have the makings of a compelling article."

I stared at him. "I do?"

He nodded. "Journalism is an interesting field," he went on. "Certainly a person needs basic technical skills relating to
writing, but it takes something more to really shine in this field. It takes guts."

I blinked. "Guts?"

He nodded. "Determination. Tenacity. Resolve. Those qualities are even more vital than being able to construct a grammatically
correct sentence. Have you ever wondered why I ride your tail so much in class, Miss Turner?" he asked.

To be honest, I hadn't noticed much difference from my previous classroom experiences. I was used to being chewed out. I shook
my head.

"Because I have, at times, seen this dogged persistence, this drive in you, Miss Turner," the professor went on. "On those
occasions when you manage to stay awake, that is," he added.

"You have?" I said.

He nodded. "Sometimes what one doesn't have in natural ability, one more than makes up for in sheer obstinacy," he said.

I frowned. Obstinacy?

"Is that like a compliment?" I asked.

Professor Stokes smiled. "It is. Good luck with your story, Tressa," he said, letting go of the backpack.

"Thank you, Professor," I said, feeling tears sting my eyes at the unexpected--and rare--attagirl. Someone in a position to
know thought I, Tressa Jayne Turner, had sheer obstinacy. Sweet.

I hurried back to my car. Dixie leaned on the hood, waiting for me.

"I see you found your bag," she said. "You're lucky. My sister put her bag down in the mall to try on shoes the other day
and, while her back was turned, some scumbucket ran off with it."

"I didn't know you had a sister," I said. "How come I never met her at the Cluck'n Chuck or at the fair?"

"Vanessa's a model," she said. "Working around grease makes her break out."

I looked at her. "You have a sister who is a model? As in fashion?"

She nodded. "Hard to believe when you look at me, right? She got the looks. I got the brains. I'm okay with that."

I nodded, thinking it was weird we both had beautiful sisters. I didn't want to have anything in common with Dixie, didn't
want to feel a bond. I liked our relationship just as it was: seventy-five percent open hostility, twenty-five percent tolerance.

I caught sight of a man just getting out of a vehicle across the street.

"There's the morgue worker guy you two Sherlocks had me tail the day I ended up playing Dr. Quincy, Medical Examiner," I said,
pointing to the dapper fellow walking to the parking lot. "I still owe you for that one. What was his name again?"

"Trevor Childers," Dixie supplied. "And you survived, so what's the big deal?"

"The big deal is I probably lost ten years off my life, that's what," I said, looking again at the brown sedan he'd exited,
my eyes widening as I noticed it was missing a rear hubcap. "Wait a minute. That's the same car Professor Danbury got into
early this morning when Barbara Billings was attacked. What in Heaven's name would a professor and a student find to do together
at that hour of the night?"

Dixie and I exchanged uneasy glances.

"Care to find out, my dear Watson?" Dixie asked, with an I-double-dog-dare-ya look.

"Indubitably, Ms. Holmes," I replied. "Lead the way, good woman."

We headed across the street in Childers's wake, catching up to him just as he took a seat in a courtyard by this seriously
messed up sculpture thingy that everyone just calls "the gross statue." If you ever wanted to arrange to meet someone at Carson
College, you'd say "I'll meet you at the gross statue" and instantly everyone knew just what you were talking about.

The statue was of this really freaked out naked angel riding a tricycle. The angel's mouth was wide open, as if he was screaming,
his eyes wide with surprise. I'd spent more than a few minutes staring at the statue trying to figure out just what the sculptor
was trying to say besides "Heh heh, you fools paid two hundred grand for this?"

Trevor pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one up.

I nudged Dixie. "You should approach him. He's in your class. He doesn't know me from dirt," I said.

"What do I say?" she asked.

"Just start with small talk and I'll pipe in when appropriate."

She shook her head and said, "Why do I get so nervous when you begin a sentence with the word 'just'?" But she walked up to
her classmate.

"Hi, Trevor," she said. "It's nice to see the sun for a change, isn't it? Feels good. This is Frankie's cousin Tressa." She
motioned to me. "She's taking some journalism classes this term."

Childers got a strange look on his face when his eyes came to rest on me. Most of the time when a stranger does this it's
because I have some kind of food item on my face or shirtfront. I was pretty sure, though, that this time I wasn't wearing
a meal, so there had to be another reason for his adverse reaction. Perhaps a debriefing from his late-night liaison, Sherman
Danbury.

"Hey," I said, holding out a hand. "Nice to meet you." He took my hand, his shake firm.

"Hello," he said.

"Lots of excitement on campus this term," I said, not much for chewing the fat when there was red meat to sink my teeth into.

"Excitement?"

"All the crimes that are occurring, and your very own professor the latest target."

He gave me another odd look. "Which professor?" he said, with just a hint of anxiety.

"Professor Billings, of course," I said. "You do know she was attacked last night, right?"

He nodded. "Oh yes. I had heard something to that effect. Sad, these violent times," he added.

"It's not the times that are violent," I pointed out. "It's the people. Have you heard that the cops think someone is using
the professor's lecture notes to plot their next crime, and that they are targeting students in the class for their nefarious
acts?"

"There has been some talk," he said.

"Do you think it's possible?"

"Anything's possible."

"The question is, why would anyone go to such elaborate lengths to plan and execute such crimes? I'm thinking it would have
to be someone with a great deal of pent-up rage or anger, wouldn't you?" I said. "Maybe even someone with a grudge against
Professor Billings. Do you know anyone like that, Trevor?"

He occupied himself with his cigarette, much like Billings had done the night before. Sometimes I wished I smoked. You know,
you can sit there with a cigarette dangling out of your mouth, looking very pensive and thoughtful while you try to think
of what to say next, and no one has to know you really don't have a clue and are just stalling for time.

"Why ask me?" he finally said.

"You work at the M.E.'s office, don't you?" I asked.

"I'm an assistant there," he admitted.

"And you're taking courses in criminal justice," I said.

"I have career ambitions," he agreed.

"So, you have a lot of insight to share, I think."

"Not really."

I took a seat beside him, my back to the gross statue.

"Trevor, I saw you with Professor Danbury last night," I said, and his eyes grew bigger than those bubblegum eyeballs they
sell at Halloween.

"What do you mean you saw me?" he asked.

"Last night. Here on campus. Around the time Professor Billings was attacked. I saw Professor Danbury get into your car."