Calamity Jayne Heads West (16 page)

“You think the bad guys are after that grotesque guy with the gargantuan gonads?” she asked, and I raised my shoulders slowly. “I don’t know much about art or artifacts,” Sophie finally continued, “but it didn’t look like it was what you’d call a work of art, if you know what I mean.”

“Agreed,” I said, “but I can’t think of any other ex-planation for this particular series of events,” I told her. “And although I’m not what you’d call a great mathematician, the random acts of thievery alterna-tive theory just doesn’t add up. Too coincidental. Too convenient,” I added.

Sophie seemed to be considering my words—and maybe the coincidental chronology. Or maybe she was just making sure she had her giggles under control be-fore she opened her mouth again.

“I suppose we could have my dad take a look at it,” she finally said. “He’d be able to tell you if it was worth anything.”

“We?” I asked.

She nodded. “We.”

I felt all warm and gooey inside.

“So, what do you hope to find out from the roadside vendors again?” she asked.

“I just want to know how they acquired the piece and who wanted them to save it for him and under what circumstances. Maybe this information will shed some light on why it may have become such a coveted commodity,” I said.

“And all you’re going to do is ask questions. Right?” Sophie replied. “That’s it?”

I pointed to my mug. “Would this face lie?”

“I feel so much better,” Sophie said.

“Hey! Look! Over there! There they are!” At a differ-ent location and on the opposite side of the highway, it was the same blue van with the same striped pull-up awning and the same wares displayed on the same ta-bles. “That’s the one!” I yelled. “Quick, pull over!”

Sophie complied. I grabbed my backpack and got out of the car, checking traffic before I jogged across the highway. A breathless Sophie joined me.

“Oh, look! They have more Duke bobbles!” I said, hurrying over to pick one up, tapping his Stetson with a finger. “Ah, Duke, it’s good to see you’ve bounced back from your brush with those rude ruffians. High-fives!” I said, slapping a hand against Duke’s gun hand.

Sophie cleared her throat.

“Uh, sorry,” I apologized. “I’m cool. I’m cool.”

By this time the woman who had waited on me the first time had vacated her lawn chair and was heading in our direction. She glanced at the John Wayne bob-ble head in my hands and her gaze flew up to my face. Her mouth flew open and her eyes grew larger than my pastor’s when Gram presented him with massage certificates to the Sahara Spa for him and the wife on Pastor’s Appreciation Day.

Her stride slowed and then faltered, as if she’d stubbed her toes. Her approach appeared wary rather than welcoming. Suspicious rather than sociable. Cau-tious rather than convivial. In a word: unwelcoming.

“May I help you?” she asked, her tone suggesting she looked forward to it about as much as being poked with a hot branding iron. Geez, had my Duke bio mo-ment ticked her off that much?

“Yes, please,” I said with an engaging smile. “You do remember me, don’t you? From the other day?” At her blank expression I held the Duke bobble head out in front of me and couldn’t resist jiggling it. The cowboyhat bounced up and down. “I bought one of these—and gave you a little thumbnail sketch on Duke. I tend to get a little—” I curled the fingers of one hand in-ward like claws—“ ‘rrreeeaaar’ when folks get their facts wrong on Wayne,” I said. “Uh, sorry about that, by the way.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, her expression im-passive. I frowned. Like I haven’t heard that a time or two. I shook it off.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “What I really need, be-sides another J.W. bobble, is some answers,” I said.

“Answers?”

I nodded. “When I was here the other day I pur-chased a statue, a kind of fertility figurine, but not,” I said. “You remember. You had it sitting back there.” I pointed to the shelf that had held Kookamunga the previous day. “Someone had requested you hold the item for them, but the gentleman who works with you agreed to sell it to me. What I need to know is where you got the statue and who asked you to hold it for him.” I opened the side pocket of my backpack and pulled my digital camera out and turned it on, hitting the review button. I thrust the picture of Raphael in front of her face. “Was it this gentleman?” I asked. “Did he ask you to hold the statue for him and tell you he’d be back for it? Was it him?”

The woman stared at the digitalized image, her nos-trils widening and then narrowing. She shook her head.

“I’ve never seen this man. And I’ve never seen you. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, and I stared at her.

“What are you talking about?” I said. “I was here just yesterday. I was with a very handsome man—who actu-ally paid for the purchase and is nuts about me, a sweet young girl with big brown eyes, and a whiny littlesnot of a ten-year-old with behavior issues. You couldn’t have forgotten. It was just yesterday.”

She shook her head. “I have no recollection,” she said.

“How could you not recall? How many of your cus-tomers buy John Wayne bobble heads, haggle over the price, and provide a personal lesson on how John Wayne got his nickname?” I demanded. “Huh? How many?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I think you had better leave.” She put a hand to her throat and took a step back. Like I somehow posed a threat.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked, totally puzzled. Yeah, I know. You’re shocked by that admission, right? I rubbed a hand over my eyes. “Look, ma’am. You can’t get all that many customers to your little travel-ing tradeshow here,” I pointed out. “And let’s face it, with our own little traveling sideshow from the other day, we’re kind of hard to forget, so what gives? Why do you insist on pretending I was never here? Who are you protecting?”

I stopped, noticing the quiver of her lower lip. “Oh my gawd! You’re protecting yourself, aren’t you?” I said, the woman’s reluctance to acknowledge me now making perfect—and disturbing—sense. “Someone else has been here, haven’t they? Haven’t they? Some-one asking questions about that statue you sold me.”

While the woman didn’t confirm my revelation in so many words, it was clear from her expression I’d struck pay dirt.

“Who? Who was it? Was it the man in the photo I showed you? What did he want? What did you tell him? Why is that statue so important?”

A car drove by slowly, and the woman’s eyes got large and frightened as she tracked its passing.

“I don’t know! I don’t know anything! I can’t tell you anything! Please, please, just leave!” She thrust the bobble head into my hands. “Here, take this and just go! Please! I have a family. Children. Please, go!”

I felt Sophie tug on my elbow. “Come on, Tressa,” she said. “It’s time to leave.”

I opened my mouth to protest, saw the fear in the saleswoman’s eyes and stopped. I nodded. “You’re right, Soph,” I said. “It’s time to go.” I took my billfold, withdrew a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the woman. “Thank you,” I said.

She slowly took the bobble head and put it in a bag. She turned back to give me the sack. I reached to take it from her and she held on to it for a moment.

“Keep it secret. Keep it safe,” she whispered, and re-leased the bag.

I stepped away. A frisson of fear rippled the length of my spine. Wasn’t that what Gandalf said to Frodo just before he was mercilessly hunted by a gang of ruthless dark riders and misshapen “orcses” in pursuit of a shiny ring?

Oops! I’d done it again, precious.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sophie and I made the short trip back to Sedona in si-lence. Once Sophie parked the car and pocketed the key, she turned to me.

“So. Where is the horny little devil anyway?” she asked.

I patted my backpack.

“You brought him with you?” she said.

“I thought he’d be safer with me,” I told her.

She made a couple quick blinks. “What about us? Are we safe with him?” she asked. “Because I’m getting the feeling we’d be a heckuva lot safer without him,” she said. “What if someone comes looking for him and we have it with us?”

I did a few rapid blinks of my own. “What if they come looking and we don’t?” I countered.

“A valid point,” she said. “So, what do we do? Do we tell the others?”

I shook my head so hard my fillings were in danger of coming loose. “Absolutely not!” I said. “First of all, if we tell Gram it’s like posting on MySpace,” I said. “Secondly, I’m really not in the mood to hear one of Taylor’s ‘I knew it’ lectures. Not today.”

Sophie nodded. “So, we act like nothing has hap-pened? Like we’re not in possession of God-only-knows-what that God-only-knows-who wants and we just go ahead and shop ’til we drop?”

“Whew, for a minute there I didn’t think you’d un-derstand, but you’ve so got it,” I said. “That’s perfect. And just what we’re going to do.”

She looked at me. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “We stick with the plan: Help Gram get a dress. Have a nice meal. Do a little shopping. Then, once we get back we’ll take your dad aside and have him check Mr. Kookamunga out. See if he has any idea why this little gentleman holds such a fascination for someone that they’re willing to swipe from young chil-dren, steal from unsuspecting speed daters, and scare the suede off some poor souvenir-stand worker just to get hold of him. Agreed?”

Sophie nodded. “I suppose so. I wonder if we should bring law enforcement into this. You know. The profes-sionals. The people who get paid to investigate things like this. Who have badges and bullet-proof vests and guns—and can legally carry them—and who do this kind of thing for a living.”

“And what proof do I have that any of this is true?” I asked. “If Ranger Rick won’t even believe me, how can I expect law enforcement officers will?”

Sophie looked at me. “Ah, so that’s what you and Rick argued about, and why you came home all hot and bothered.”

I shrugged. “So what? Big deal. It’s not as if it’s the first time the good ranger has doubted my credibility.” Or sanity.

“I’m still waiting for an explanation of why yousmelled like a swimming pool,” Sophie said, and I shook my head.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I responded.

She smiled and pulled out her cell phone, and called Kimmie’s cell while I got out and stretched, pulling one backpack strap over my shoulder and holding on to it with a firm grip. Sophie exited the car a few minutes later.

“Kimmie and Taylor are about ready to pull their hair out,” she said. “Gram wants to meet with a spiri-tual advisor.”

I wasn’t surprised. Every year Gram dragged me to the latest and greatest psychic on the midway at the Iowa State Fair. Last summer the psychic had come up with the startling revelation that I courted chaos and attracted trouble. Like Mr. Potato Head couldn’t pre-dict that after reading my press last year.

“Seems harmless enough,” I said. “And you know Gram. If we don’t take her, she’ll stub ’til next June.”

“You’re right. And what could it hurt?”

I winced. I said that—or a variation on the same theme—regularly. And regularly discovered it could hurt like the very devil.

We met up in a courtyard outside a string of eater-ies. No one carried a garment bag, so I suspected the dress-shopping hadn’t been a resounding success.

“Where’d you two hightail it off to?” Gram said, and gave Sophie and me one of those glares she usually re-served for my mother. Or for my happy hounds when they almost knock her off her feet. “You were sup-posed to help me pick out a dress.”

I walked over and put an arm through hers. “Get real. You’ve seen my clothing. Do you really want me selecting apparel for your blessed nuptials?” I asked.

She harrumphed and turned to Sophie. “Whatabout you? I’ve seen the purses you carry. You got fash-ion sense. Why did you bolt?” she asked.

Sophie looked around, as if for guidance, and de-cided none was on the way. She finally threw her hands up. “I’m fat. I buy my dresses from Tent City,” she said. “My waist hasn’t seen a belt around it since I tried on Tressa’s plastic cowgirl gun-belt and holster in the first grade. And I had to poke an extra hole in it to let it out enough to buckle.”

I blinked. “So that’s where that extra hole came from,” I said. “I blamed it on Craig and his beast of a best friend, Townsend. As I recall, I filled their shoes with horse manure. Guess I owe someone an apology, huh?”

“I was telling Kimmie and Taylor that I’d like to see one of them spiritual advisors, get a reading, make sure all my auras and chakras are in the pink before I take my final vows,” Gram said, making it sound like she planned on entering a convent.

If only she were Catholic. She already had the un-derwear thing down pat.

“So I’ve heard,” I said.

“You got a problem with that?” Gram asked, giving a defiant lift of her wrinkled chin.

defiant lift of her wrinkled chin.

I shook my head. “Should I?”

“You remember what happened when we went to Psychic Sonya,” she said.

I shrugged. Lightning didn’t strike twice in one place. Besides, it was all a bunch of hooey. Almost a year later, and I was still in a romance rut that made Oak Creek Canyon look like a plowed corn row.

“Psychic Sonya sucked as a seer,” I said. Try saying that three times fast.

“I dunno. She said she saw me on a shipload of peo-ple,” Gram pointed out, “and here we are goin’ on a cruise.”

“So she was a good guesser. They’ve got sneaky methods they use to figure these things out. Besides, lots of people your age take cruises at some time in their lives, so it was a pretty safe guess,” I told her.

She sniffed. “So young and already so cynical,” she mourned. “Well, I’m fixin’ to get my palm read or tarot cards turned over or my aura realigned or what-ever, and don’t nobody try to stop me. I’m a grown woman. I know my mind.” She looked at each of us in turn. “Aren’t one of you gonna try and stop me?” she asked, and we shook our heads.

“Nobody has an objection?”

None were raised.

She looked at us again and then made a great show of looking at her watch. “Would you look at the time!” she said. “I’ve got pills to take at noon but I need to take ’em with something. I’m thinkin’ we should eat lunch and then go see the spiritual advisor. Besides, my aura could do with a shot of red meat before it gets its picture taken.”

I looked over at Sophie and smiled. “You can’t walk in wearing an anemic aura, that’s for sure,” I com-mented. “And I’m starving. That tiny little cinnamon roll I consumed this morning is down to my little toe,” I said. “So what are we up for?” I asked.

“I hear they have a restaurant that’s got 101 omelets,” Gram said, and I shook my head.

“No way. You and I change our minds on what to or-der a dozen times when there’s only a dozen items to choose from on the menu, Gram,” I pointed out. “I don’t think either one of us have the stamina—or our loved ones the patience—to take on 101 different omelet possibilities. I really don’t. Besides, I thought you wanted red meat.”

“Excuse me. I couldn’t help over-hearing, but ifyou’re looking for something you can sink your teeth into with a little local flavor, I highly recommend The Wrangler Bar and Grille.”

I turned to find a very attractive woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat, flowered mauve ties securing it be-neath her chin, in the courtyard with us. Cream-colored sunglasses covered her eyes and freshly applied rosy lip-stick covered her lips.

“The Wrangler? Is that the restaurant with the saloon-type décor that features such festive fare as rat-tlesnake skewers, cactus fries, and buffalo burgers?” Sophie asked. The woman nodded.

“There’s not a bad meal on the menu. If you want a taste of the real West, the buffalo filet mignon is very good,” the woman said. “Tender and flavorful. I rec-ommend you have it prepared medium rare. If you’re a dessert fan, they do a fabulous vanilla bean crème brulee, and their warm chocolate cake with home-made vanilla ice cream is worth the extra time on the treadmill.”

My salivary glands kicked into high gear at the mere mention of chocolate cake and ice cream. “And where can we find this here Wrangler?” I asked.

The woman smiled and removed her sunglasses. “You go down to that corner,” she said, pointing the way with a hand bedecked with rings and nails that shouted regular manicures, “hang a left, and it’s a block and a half down on your left. But I’m actually on my way there myself, so I can show you.”

“What do you say, ladies? Who’s ready to wrangle?” I asked.

“You look familiar,” Gram suddenly said, falling into step beside the woman. “Didn’t you used to be some-body?” she asked. I winced.

“Gram!” Taylor exclaimed.

“What? What did I say?”

“It’s okay. Really,” the woman said. “Your grand-mother is right. I did used to be someone.” She put out a skinny, long-fingered hand. “Gloria Grant.” She took Gram’s liver-spotted hand in hers.

“Gloria Grant! I knew it! You did used to be some-body,” Gram said, pumping Grant’s hand up and down like the handle on an outdoor spigot. “You used to be in motion pictures and on TV,” she said. She stopped. “I thought you died,” Gram said.

“Gram!” Taylor said again.

The woman laughed. “You’re not the only one to think they’ve seen a ghost when they recognize me,” she said. “But, alas, rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I’m still alive and kicking—if not with the same vigor of yesteryear.” Her smile was sad.

“Didn’t you star in that TV series about the Siamese twin aliens who took over a hospital to force a surgeon to separate them? And there was that sitcom set in the booby hatch. What was the name of that again?”

“
Cracker Factory
,” Gloria supplied with a pained look. “It was canceled after three weeks. I never did recover from that.”

“I thought you were good in the commercial for overactive bladder,” Gram said. “Very realistic. I could swear you had to pee bad before you took that medi-cine,” Gram told her.

“I think Ms. Grant has heard enough of your Siskel and Ebert routine, Gram,” I said.

“Here we are,” Gloria Grant announced. “The Wrangler.”

“You meetin’ someone?” Gram asked.

“Uh, Gram, that’s none of our business,” I said, try-ing to steer her into the restaurant so the actress could make her escape.

“Nobody likes to eat alone,” Gram said. “So, you meetin’ somebody?”

“Well, no,” Grant said, and Gram took her elbow.

“Then you can eat with us. Mebbe we can put our heads together and see if we can come up with a new career plan,” Gram said. “ ’Course, you’ll have to take your hat off. A person can’t get within two feet of you with that sombrero on,” Gram observed.

I sighed. I was no spiritual advisor, but I felt confident in predicting two-thirds of our party would be reaching for the Tums—or a bottle from behind the bar—before this meal was over.

The Wrangler lived up to Gloria Grant’s press. The Wild West décor appealed to the cowgirl in me. The cuisine appealed to the carnivore in me. Gram pep-pered Gloria with questions about her life story, Taylor fretted over what from the menu was least likely to cause her an upset stomach, Kimmie questioned whether the buffalo meat was really lower in cholesterol and healthier than beef, and Sophie and I kept one eye on the exits, one eye on my backpack and somehow still managed to make our lunch selections and wolf them down.

“You seem fairly familiar with the area, Gloria,” I said, between shoveled bites of a cheese and sautéed onion–smothered half-pound grilled burger. “Do you vacation here a lot?” I asked.

“I actually live here,” she said, and I raised an eyebrow. Real estate in the Sedona area was reserved for the rich and famous. “My aunt owned a home here long before it became the tourist and New Age Mecca it is now,” Gloria explained. “She left the house to me several years ago, and I moved to Sedona after my career hit the skids. But I have every hope of walking the red carpets once again. My spiritual adviser, Cadence, assures me she sees such grand days ahead forme. I also draw strength and power from the energy that is all around us here in Sedona. Have you taken your vortex tour yet?” she asked.

“What’s that? Some kind of factory tour?” Gram said. “Not interested. If I want to visit a plant, I can do that back home with the meatpacking plant. Or the tape factory where Tressa worked until she got herself stuck to the wall.”

I resisted the temptation to hail a waiter and order a shot of whiskey with a beer chaser, reminding myself that in a matter of days the ol’ gal would be married and residing a good ten miles away.

Sophie shook her head. “A vortex is a funnel of spi-raling current—kind of like a tornado of whirling en-ergy,” she explained. “Sedona is said to have a number of these swirling centers of energy coming from the surface of the earth. People visit these vortex sites and try to connect to the energy of the vortex to achieve balance and direction in their lives. There are special ceremonies—drumming, meditation, channeling—to establish a deeper connection.”

“Does it work?” Gram asked.

Sophie shrugged. “Sedona attracts three million vis-itors a year, and I imagine a good number of those folks visit the vortexes. So, who’s to know?”

“Shouldn’t that be vortices?” I said, thinking this sounded a little too Roswell even for me.

“In Sedona, they say ‘vortexes,’ ” Sophie said.

“Good to know,” I replied. “Good to know.”

“Cadence has seen a miraculous reversal of fortunes for me,” Gloria said. “I don’t know what I would do without her. She has brought me from the brink of de-spair to a new awakening, a new enlightenment, and a new optimism. I have but to listen earnestly and follow faithfully the edicts of my spirit guide and all glory and fame and power and riches will be returned to me. Ca-dence has seen it.”