Read Online Calamity Jayne Rides Again by Kathleen Bacus - Free Book Online
Authors: Kathleen Bacus
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problem," I said, looking to Uncle Frank for help. "Is it, Uncle Frank?" He gave no indication he heard
me. "It's just that Frankie can't be reached at present," I said. "He's, uh, out of town."
"Out of town?" The trooper rubbed his perfect jaw.
"But he was here yesterday, right? At least long enough to give your uncle, here, the idea he might have had something to
do with the vandalism he's experienced. So, where is he?"
I shot Uncle Frank my own version of the look-what-you-did-now look that is usually directed toward me and turned back to
the trooper, who was looking less and less taken with me each minute.
"Well, you see, he—uh—had, uh—"
"The boy took off," Uncle Frank announced. "Split. Took a powder. Flew the coop. Got the heck outta Dodge."
"Now we don't know that for sure, Uncle Frank. You know how Frankie is. I'm sure he's just off somewhere sulking. He'll show
up. I know he will."
"When was the last time anyone saw your son, Mr. Barlowe?" Trooper Dawkins questioned, snapping his little pad open again.
"That would be Tressa here. She saw him up at the campgrounds after we'd finished cleaning the emporium. About what time was
that, Tressa?"
I wanted to shush Uncle Frank but couldn't figure how to do it without the trooper seeing. And my foot didn't bear as much
weight as his.
"Around four a.m. I guess," I said, shuffling my feet, not only because I was nervous but because the tall coffee I'd consumed
earlier was making its presence known. Big time.
"And what was he doing the last time you saw him?" the peace officer inquired, his blue eyes prepared to miss nothing about
my delivery.
"Tell him, Tressa," Uncle Frank instructed. "Just tell him."
I looked over at Uncle Frank and tried to spin it the best way I could for Frankie.
"He was running as fast as his long, skinny, bird legs would carry him," I said, and winced. Note to self: You suck at spin.
"And why was he running, Miss Turner?" the trooper asked.
I hesitated. How could I explain to this young police officer who had so obviously known what he wanted to do from an early
age how hard it was to try to find out just where you belonged, what you were meant to be and do, when you were a square peg
trying so hard to fit in somebody else's round hole?
"I think he's on a vision quest, Trooper P.D. Dawkins," I said. "You know, to seek his path, find his destiny, live the life
he was born to live." The "huh?" look on the officer's handsome face was one I'd seen often enough to describe to a sketch
artist. "Or maybe he's just lost," I finished on a lame note.
The trooper handed a card to Uncle Frank and one to me.
"You will give me a call when you hear from Frankie, won't you?" he asked, tipping his brown Smokey Bear hat with two tanned
fingers. "I'll leave you to your cleanup. Mr. Barlowe. Miss T. J. Turner."
I watched the trooper walk off, admiring the cut of his dark tan pants, which hugged his muscular legs and tight rear.
Uncle Frank snapped his fingers in front of my face. "Snap out of it, Calamity," he said. "We've got work to do."
I nodded, taking one more look at the trooper's hindquarters, trying to convince myself that his der-riere was no better than
the average bear's.
Yeah, right, Yogi.
CHAPTER 6
Cleanup took a little longer than it had the night before, mainly because I did it with a clothespin pinching my nostrils
and had to stop and release the pressure every so often. Aunt Reggie had the insurance agent on the phone, had a claim filed,
and had arranged for a new shipment of frozen ice cream treats and hot dogs before the polish on Gram's toes had dried, all
while covering the Emporium. I stand in awe of such organization. Most days I have trouble finding two socks that match.
While Uncle Frank helped unload the new inventory, I ran a damp mop over the floor for the ninth time. We were back in business
shortly before the lunch rush.
I was sitting on a stool letting the fan blow on me while
me. "It's just that Frankie can't be reached at present," I said. "He's, uh, out of town."
"Out of town?" The trooper rubbed his perfect jaw.
"But he was here yesterday, right? At least long enough to give your uncle, here, the idea he might have had something to
do with the vandalism he's experienced. So, where is he?"
I shot Uncle Frank my own version of the look-what-you-did-now look that is usually directed toward me and turned back to
the trooper, who was looking less and less taken with me each minute.
"Well, you see, he—uh—had, uh—"
"The boy took off," Uncle Frank announced. "Split. Took a powder. Flew the coop. Got the heck outta Dodge."
"Now we don't know that for sure, Uncle Frank. You know how Frankie is. I'm sure he's just off somewhere sulking. He'll show
up. I know he will."
"When was the last time anyone saw your son, Mr. Barlowe?" Trooper Dawkins questioned, snapping his little pad open again.
"That would be Tressa here. She saw him up at the campgrounds after we'd finished cleaning the emporium. About what time was
that, Tressa?"
I wanted to shush Uncle Frank but couldn't figure how to do it without the trooper seeing. And my foot didn't bear as much
weight as his.
"Around four a.m. I guess," I said, shuffling my feet, not only because I was nervous but because the tall coffee I'd consumed
earlier was making its presence known. Big time.
"And what was he doing the last time you saw him?" the peace officer inquired, his blue eyes prepared to miss nothing about
my delivery.
"Tell him, Tressa," Uncle Frank instructed. "Just tell him."
I looked over at Uncle Frank and tried to spin it the best way I could for Frankie.
"He was running as fast as his long, skinny, bird legs would carry him," I said, and winced. Note to self: You suck at spin.
"And why was he running, Miss Turner?" the trooper asked.
I hesitated. How could I explain to this young police officer who had so obviously known what he wanted to do from an early
age how hard it was to try to find out just where you belonged, what you were meant to be and do, when you were a square peg
trying so hard to fit in somebody else's round hole?
"I think he's on a vision quest, Trooper P.D. Dawkins," I said. "You know, to seek his path, find his destiny, live the life
he was born to live." The "huh?" look on the officer's handsome face was one I'd seen often enough to describe to a sketch
artist. "Or maybe he's just lost," I finished on a lame note.
The trooper handed a card to Uncle Frank and one to me.
"You will give me a call when you hear from Frankie, won't you?" he asked, tipping his brown Smokey Bear hat with two tanned
fingers. "I'll leave you to your cleanup. Mr. Barlowe. Miss T. J. Turner."
I watched the trooper walk off, admiring the cut of his dark tan pants, which hugged his muscular legs and tight rear.
Uncle Frank snapped his fingers in front of my face. "Snap out of it, Calamity," he said. "We've got work to do."
I nodded, taking one more look at the trooper's hindquarters, trying to convince myself that his der-riere was no better than
the average bear's.
Yeah, right, Yogi.
CHAPTER 6
Cleanup took a little longer than it had the night before, mainly because I did it with a clothespin pinching my nostrils
and had to stop and release the pressure every so often. Aunt Reggie had the insurance agent on the phone, had a claim filed,
and had arranged for a new shipment of frozen ice cream treats and hot dogs before the polish on Gram's toes had dried, all
while covering the Emporium. I stand in awe of such organization. Most days I have trouble finding two socks that match.
While Uncle Frank helped unload the new inventory, I ran a damp mop over the floor for the ninth time. We were back in business
shortly before the lunch rush.
I was sitting on a stool letting the fan blow on me while
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