Calamity Jayne Goes to College (21 page)

CHAPTER 18

Patrick sprang me from the campus equivalent of a holding cell with the promise that if the university chose to file formal
charges, I would present myself at the appropriate time. I also got an uncharacteristic butt chewing from Dawkins. It smarted
like you-know-what, and got me to thinking maybe he wasn't as accepting of me just the way I was as I'd thought.

"I didn't see an alternative," I told him. "I just wanted to disrupt that lecture."

"You sure did that," Patrick said. "But unfortunately not before she'd covered some of the lecture notes on homicide."

"So it may all have been for naught?" I said.

Patrick shrugged. "I guess we'll find out."

Once I'd been officially released, Frankie and Dixie took off--after more chewing of my butt, especially from Dixie Doodle.
Guess she didn't like the idea of being branded Calamity Jayne's little filly. It wasn't as if I was any too crazy about folks
thinkin' that the Daggett heifer was the best this cowgirl could lasso either, but I'd been desperate. And desperate times
call for desperate measures.

By the time I was a free woman, I was more than ready to head for home. I decided on a quick stop at Burger King first. Being
arrested gave one an appetite, I'd discovered. I drove to the nearest drive-through restaurant, and while I waited to place
my order, I checked my cell phone, discovered it was still off, and turned it back on to check for messages. The battery blinked
to signal it needed a charge. It started to play before I could shut it off.

"H'lo," I said, hoping it wasn't Townsend.

"Tressa? Tressa, where are you?"

I frowned, recognizing the voice--and the incoming number--as belonging to the bride-to-be. "Kari?" My friend sounded more
frazzled than ever.

"Yes! Are you still in Des Moines?" Kari asked.

"I was just leaving," I told her, somewhat evasively, thinking surely news of my Tressa monologue hadn't made it back to Grandville
already. "Why?"

"You're not going to believe this, but my grandmother's half sister, Great-aunt Trudy, got a wild hare and decided to fly
in from Arizona for the wedding. Can you believe it? Eighty-eight years old with a history of coronary artery disease, cardiac
episodes, and recurrent respiratory infections and the old lady decides at the last minute to get on a plane all by herself
and fly out here! Between the mints being the wrong colors, bridesmaids going on starvation diets, and Brian and me almost
breaking up over a place called Big Burl's, I'm about ready to go postal!" She hesitated. "Your dress fits fine, though, right
Tressa?"

I winced. Perfectly fine--if it was to be a body stocking.

"Sure. No sweat. Fits like a glove." Like the glove at the O.J. trial, that is. If it doesn't fit, you must acquit. Yikes.

"Well, that's a relief," she said. "I guess I'd better let you go. I have a million and one things left to do."

I frowned at the phone. "Uh, why did you call again, Kari?" I asked, thinking I might've missed something along the way. Yeah.
It happens.

"Ohmigosh! I'm a total basket case here! I need you to run to the airport and pick up Aunt Trudy," she said. "Her flight number
is 666 and she should be arriving at the airport within the next hour," she said. "We're so far behind with things here that
I don't have anyone free to pick her up and deliver her. If I'd known she was coming in advance, I would have added it to
the itinerary," she added.

I made a face. You had to have an itinerary to get married? Note to Tressa:
Elope!

"Hang on," I said, fumbling around for my legal pad and a pen. "Give me her name and the flight info again."

"Her name is Trudy McNamara and she's arriving on flight 666 out of Phoenix."

"Flight 666? Isn't that like a bad omen or something? You know, Satan's lucky numbers?"

"Just pick her up, will you, Tressa? And drop her at my folks' house when you get back in town. She'll probably need to rest."

"What does she look like? So I don't approach someone else's elderly great-aunt and scare the old lady pants off her," I said.

"I haven't seen her in ten years, so how the hell should I know?" Kari snapped. "She's old, short, and bent over. You figure
it out."

Uh-oh. Bridezilla was rearing her scaly head.

"Uh, Kari, at that age they
all
pretty much look that way," I replied. "Some specifics would be nice."

I heard Kari consulting with someone in the background. "She wears a really awful blond wig and carries a cane. She has these
black-framed cat's-eye glasses and wears a chain around her neck so she doesn't lose them. But there can't be all that many
elderly ladies flying on their own," she pointed out.

"Okay, okay, I'll pick her up for you, but you're gonna owe me big. I'm getting down to the wire here on my journalism project
and I need to get moving on it," I told her.

"You didn't wait until the last minute again, did you, Tressa?"

"You know I work better under pressure. And don't you worry about Aunt Trudy. I'll deliver her directly to your doorstep safe
and sound, care of Tressa Jayne Turner," I promised.

"At least I don't have to stress about your dress fitting properly," she repeated. "I appreciate your self-control."

"Can I take your order?" the drive-through speaker blared.

"Is that a drive-through speaker, Tressa?" Kari asked. "What are you ordering, Tressa? Tressa?"

I turned the car radio on, twisted the switch to broadcast static, and stuck my cell phone near the car speaker.

"Listen, Kari, my battery's going. I can't hear you, Kari. Chat later! Buh-bye!"

I placed my order, going with a Diet Coke rather than the real thing--a bone to toss to Kari--along with my chicken strips
and fries. I went with the strips and fries as they can be eaten more easily while negotiating the city streets and thoroughfares.
Okay, so it's not foolproof easy eating. By the time I got to the airport, I wished I'd worn a black hoodie so the barbecue
sauce and ketchup wouldn't show.

I pulled into short-term parking. Before 9/11 there was a chance you could get away with parking at the front doors to run
in and pick up your party. Now? No way. Airport security gives you the evil eye as soon as you drive onto airport property,
and keeps closer tabs on you than my gammy does on Rick Townsend's granddad Joe.

I parked the car, keeping my driver-side door open a scosh. I wasn't sure Kari's aunt would be okay with me lurching across
the seat or crawling in the front from the back. I hurried into the airport, checking the monitors to find that Aunt Trudy's
flight had already arrived. I noted the number and hoofed it to the arrival gate. Passengers were beginning to disembark by
the time I made it through the security checkpoints. I cooled my heels while I waited for Aunt Trudy to emerge.

It didn't take long. I saw the cane first. She used it like the white stick blind people use and whacked the heel of the guy
walking in front of her. He turned around and scowled, but I sensed Aunt Trudy hadn't picked up on it. Especially since she
jabbed him in the hiney with her next cane stroke. The fellow hurried his pace to put distance between him and the weapon-wielding
senior. I shook my head. By the time I delivered her great-aunt Trudy into Kari's hands, she'd probably owe me her firstborn.
From the looks of things, the hour's drive back home could be a bumpy one.

"Mrs. McNamara! Hello! Mrs. McNamara!" I hailed the old woman who wore a bleach-blond wig that looked like it had been pilfered
from Dolly Parton. I received no response to my hails. "Aunt Trudy!" I yelled and jumped up and down, finally getting the
old girl's attention. I waved to her again and hurried over.

"Welcome to Des Moines!" I greeted her, reaching out to take her small carry-on bag, but she stopped me with a jab to my knee
with her cane.

"You've changed," she told me. "Packed on the pounds. And what have you done to your hair?" she asked as I rubbed my knee.

"I'm Tressa Turner," I explained. "I'm a friend of your great-niece, Kari--actually, her maid of honor. She asked me to pick
you up and deliver you to her folks' house."

She gave me a long look. "You make it sound as if I'm some parcel to be dropped at the door," she accused. "Fine thing, having
a stranger pick me up. Maybe I should just get back on the plane and head home."

I looked at the cane. It sounded like a plan to me.

"Did you want me to check on returning flights?" I asked.

"Here." She reached out and smashed her bag into my midsection. "It's getting heavy. All my medications, you know."

I took the bag from her. "We can collect your other luggage this way." I pointed in the direction of the baggage area. "Then
we'll be on our way."

"So you're the maid of honor," she said as we headed from her gate. "You that gel who found the stiffs?"

Some claim to fame, huh?

"Yep. That was me."

"So, people have a way of getting dead around you?"

I shook my head. "The getting was already gotten by the time I found those bodies. I happened along after the fact. Except
for the time I was very nearly a murder victim myself. But you don't want to hear about my tale of woe," I said.

"You married?"

I put my hand up to show my ring finger. "Nope."

"I'm not surprised. What man would want a gel who finds corpses?"

I'd wondered that myself a time or two this past year.

We claimed her suitcase and I told her to wait while I ran and got the car out of short-term parking and brought it around
front to collect her. I requested she remain close to the door and ready so I wouldn't get hassled by the security officers.
I quickly pulled the Plymouth around and waited, but no sign of the old lady. I honked the horn and attracted the attention
of several airport security officials. They frowned and I waved.

"Come on, Aunt Trudy. Get you and your crippling cane out here," I mumbled under my breath, smiling at the officer walking
in my direction and pointing at the door. "Come on, ol' woman. Shake an arthritic leg."

The officer came over to stand by the front passenger door. I scooted over and rolled the window down. No electric windows
for me.

"You can't park here, miss," he said, noting the obvious.

"I know, Officer. I'm just waiting for an elderly lady I'm picking up to get out here. She was just here a second ago. She's
like a gazillion years old, is wielding--er, carrying--this really hard cane, and has on a funky blond wig. Have you seen
her?"

"Not that I can recall," he said. "But you'll have to park in short-term parking and go back in to collect her. You can't
park here. FAA regulations."

I saw the woman in question appear behind the officer, but unfortunately too late to warn him of the impending assault. I
saw the guy flinch and pivot as Aunt Trudy poked him in the back with the cane.

"You may open the door for me, young man," she said, as if she were an actress and he her chauffeur. The officer's ears turned
red, but he complied.

"This is the car my great-niece arranged for me to be picked up in?" she asked once she got inside. "Does it actually run?
And it smells like stinky feet in here."

"Actually stinky dogs," I told her. "And yes, it does run. On a semiregular basis at least," I added. "It just needs some
special attention."

"Hmmpf," Trudy replied, pulling out a glass case and snapping sunglass shades over her lenses.

I pulled out of the airport and headed from Des Moines and for home. At about an hour away from the capital city, Grandville
is close enough for residents to get a bit of culture, but not too close to lose our country roots.

Ten minutes into the ride I was ready to conk Great-aunt Trudy on the head with her cane and put her out of my misery. Since
the moment she took a seat next to me, I'd been treated to snide comments about my car, my clothes, my hair, my breath, even
my shoelaces-- cute black-and-white-checkered flag laces designed to go with my black high-top Converse tennies. When the
red oil light popped on about fifteen minutes outside Grandville, I said a naughty word and gained a sharp rib poke from Aunt
Trudy's cane in response.

"Watch that mouth!" she said. "And why are we stopping? Are we there?"

I pulled over to the side of the road. "Nothing to worry about," I assured the old woman. "Just some routine maintenance.
It'll just take a second and we'll be back on the road in a jiffy."

"We better be. I've got bladder control issues."

I winced. And cane-control issues.

I pulled the hood release, pounded a frustrated shoulder against the door and popped it open, got out of the car and slammed
it, then remembered I'd have a heckuva time getting it open again. I cursed.
Whack!
The cane hit the car window, narrowly missing my fingers.

I headed to the trunk, put the key in the lock, and slowly opened the trunk lid. (Since I discovered a body doing a bad impression
of a car jack, I have a habit of opening trunks with extreme caution.) Finding only my case of oil, a funnel, and some oily
rags, I started to breathe again. I grabbed a couple of plastic bottles of 1OW-30 and headed to the front of the car. I raised
the hood, located the oil filler hole (I could find it blindfolded), and dumped two quarts in. I have this down to a science
by now.

Pound, pound, pound!

I walked around to the passenger side of the car to see Great-aunt Trudy with her cane out the window, rapping on the top
of my car. "What's the holdup?" she asked.

"I'm waiting for the oil to seep down into where it's supposed to be so I can check with the dipstick to see if I need to
add another quart," I told her.

"Dipstick? You ask me, you're the only dipstick here. How come you didn't check the oil before you came to get me? How come
you didn't wash your car and clean it out? How come you didn't fumigate it? You could have a toxic cesspool here."

I felt my ears warm. "Not to worry, Aunt Trudy." I leaned on her car door. "I had the car thoroughly detailed after the body
was removed," I assured her.