Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 1

CALAMITY JAYNE.

AND THE.

TROUBLE WITH TANDEMS.

by KATHLEEN BACUS.

CHAPTER ONE.

Two blondes are riding along on a tandem when suddenly the blonde in front slams on the brakes, gets off, and starts letting air out of the tires.

"Hey! What are you doing that for?" the blonde on the back yells.

"My seat's too high, and it's hurting my b.u.t.t," the first blonde replies. "I want to lower it a bit."

The blonde on the back has had enough. She jumps off, loosens her own seat, and spins it around to face the other direction.

Now it's the first blonde's turn to wonder what's going on.

"What are you doing?" she asks her friend.

"Look," says the blonde rider in the back, "if you're going to do stupid stuff like that, I'm going home!"

Buyer's remorse.

That's what it was. A case of buyer's remorse. Okay, so I wasn't exactly a buyer and the remorse part had nothing to do with the quality of the...er...transaction. In fact, the delivery of the, um, goods left no room for complaint. No room at all. On the contrary. The entire experience was one of pure...satisfaction.

Which, of course, was the very reason panic set in. With a vengeance.

And me? I did what I do best.

I booked. No. Not as in visiting the local library. I amscrayed. Vamoosed. Took a powder. Boogied. Got the h.e.l.l outta Dodge.

Okay. So I ran like a little girl. Sue me.

In case you haven't caught on yet, I'm not talking about a consumer retail exchange that falls under the auspices of a consumer fraud agency even though the words "let the buyer beware" and "too good to be true" have a certain prophetic ring to them.

No. I'm talking about it: the S word.

You know. The one that rhymes with "vex". Or...hex.

Yeah. That word.

And it was incredible. Moonlight and roses. Shooting stars and fireworks. Bombs bursting in air. In fact, it threatened to become as addictive as Cadbury Creme eggs at Easter (Okay, and beyond the wabbit holiday, if you buy extra and freeze them.) And it scared the h.e.l.l-o out of me. Hence, my own slightly modified version of a Julia Roberts flick.

Tressa Jayne Turner. Runaway cowgirl bride.

Except-despite hearing wedding bells in my head that almost turned into death knells, (so another story) I didn't actually make it anywhere near the altar.

And, of course, I'm no Julia Roberts. Sigh.

I know. I know. I've lost you, right?

What else is new?

"How much longer do you think Stan's gonna pay you to sit there and mope, Miz Rodeo Queen Runner-up?" A hand on the back of my ergonomically-approved office chair spun me around. "You've been OD-ing on angst ever since you got back from the honeymoon cruise. What gives?"

I had to look up, up, up, to meet the way too perceptive scrutiny of Shelby Lynn Sawyer, recent high school graduate and last year's underdog homecoming queen and part-time intern/reporter for my employer, the Grandville Gazette. I feel a certain sisterhood with Shelby Lynn. Much like yours truly, Shelby's had a history of nickname nightmares. A carrot-topped Paula Bunyan-type who can stand eye-to-eye with the high school varsity squad's center, Shelby got tagged "Sasquatch," compliments of the mean girl factions at Grandville High. I figure Calamity Jayne is tame in comparison.

Last fall Shelby Lynn and I became involved in a very high-profile investigative journalistic coup relating to a reclusive mystery author. Okay, so Shelby actually blackmailed me into including her in the scoop of the century. (I'd use the term "strong-armed" here, but my, er, statuesque a.s.sociate can get a wee testy when it comes to those kinds of characterizations.) Our professional collaboration had led to more than a few Abbott and Costello contretemps, a bit of female bonding, and, as my own moniker implies, the odd moments of abject terror and mortal danger. Shelby Lynn recently filled in for me at the Gazette while I took a long overdue vacation to see my grandmother tie the knot. If anyone can fill my shoes, it's Shelby Lynn and her size twelve wides. (Oops! Sorry. Couldn't resist!) Following the Arizona nuptials, the wedding party set sail aboard the cruise ship Epiphany, which promised fun in the sun, splendid and bountiful cuisine, and to-die-for sunsets.

What this novice sailor got was a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of V-8 served with restricted portions of low-fat fare, a shipboard mystery, a near burial at sea, and my very own shiver-me-timbers epiphany concerning a certain swashbuckling ranger-type. That ranger-and our eventual Love Boat, this-has-been-coming-for-a-long-time, consummation on the final night of the cruise was what had me channeling Debbie Downer at present.

"You haven't said much about the happy honeymoon cruise," Shelby observed.

"More like haunted honeymoon cruise," I muttered. "Minus one s.e.xy Captain Jack Sparrow ghostie. Unfortunately."

"So...exactly what happened?" Shelby Lynn pressed. "Or are you still experiencing selective amnesia?" This, a reference to my shipboard, soap-opera-inspired stint as a fake amnesiac hatched in the haze of post-concussive desperation-a Bermuda-triangle brainchild designed to save me bootie from unknown danger on the high seas.

"Funny," I mumbled, and recited a condensed version of my very own odyssey at sea.

"Let me get this straight," Shelby said, holding up a hand to tick off each item on fingers Shaquille O'Neal would die for. "You were on the cruise. Rick Townsend, the guy you've had this loath/l.u.s.t/love relationship with since grade school was on this cruise. And Manny DeMarco, your buff, brawny, bad-boy bogus beau ends up on the same cruise."

"You're forgetting Manny's marriage-obsessed Aunt Mo with a history of cardiac episodes and the single-minded determination of a Navy SEAL when it comes to her mission in life."

"Mission?" Shelby raised an eyebrow.

"Mo's Matrimony Mission," I elaborated. "She's determined to get her beloved nephew wedded and with a Manny Jr. on the way."

"Holy S.S. Minnow!" Shelby exclaimed. "The t.i.tanic's got nothing on you."

I winced. "'Twas indeed an ill wind that clipped me sails and left me foundered on the jagged rocks of destiny aboard ye S.S. Epiphany. Arrgh!"

It was Shelby's turn to wince.

"Ugh. I heard all about your penchant for 'pirate prattle,' as Joe Townsend put it. He said that made him more bilious than the combined effects of the lo-cal cruise cuisine and the rocking of the ship."

"Alas, one of the few perks the cruise afforded," I lamented, adding a woe-is-me sigh.

"So where do you stand? With the men in your life, that is?"

I grimaced. Limboland. Where all commitment phobes love to hang out and procrastinate. That's where.

I'd taken a Bigfoot-sized (oops!) leap of faith when, on the final night of the cruise, I'd signed on as Ranger Rick Townsend's cabin mate. And that enlistment was...unforgettable. Wine and roses. Soft candlelight and breath-stealing caresses. Wooing words and seductive kisses.

My own white flag moment: surrender.

The next morning reality hit me like an anchor upside the head, and I'd found myself hip-wader deep in "where do we go from here?" doubts and misgivings.

You know the ones, ladies.

Like, "Oh, G.o.d. Now he'll see my body in the unforgiving light of day and turn away in disgust."

Or the oldie, yet often apt, "Smart moove, Bessie, ol' gal. You go ahead. You give that milk away for free."

And, my personal favorite, "Is this love or l.u.s.t?"

"I'm no longer a faux fiance," I finally mumbled a response.

"Oh. I see. Should I offer congratulations or condolences?"

"Manny and I have an...understanding." I bit my lip, remembering the look on Manny's face when I delivered that news.

"Is that why you're down in the dumps? You're no longer Manny DeMarco's on-again-off-again bride-to-be?" Shelby asked.

"I was never really engaged to Manny, you know, Shelby. It was a ruse. A scam. My kind and caring attempt to grant a dying wish to a sweet, sentimental woman."

"Sweet? Sentimental? Mo Dishman?" Shelby scratched her head. "Didn't you shinny off to Arizona when sweet, sentimental Mo was hot on your trail to finalize wedding plans?"

My cheeks stung with the warmth of a blush.

"You make it sound like a posse was on my tail," I said, annoyed at her characterization of purely coincidental plans to leave the state.

"Well, Manny's Aunt Mo sure tracked you down, didn't she? All the way to the Caribbean. That's one highly-motivated individual."

Motivated and...scary.

"Face it, Calamity Jayne," Shelby continued. "You're destined to be an outlaw. Or did you let someone else la.s.so you on your little getaway?"

My face grew hotter.

"Where did you hear that?"

"A skinny little guy with bird legs so white they could blind you."

Great. Grandville's resident Ye Olde Town Crier, Joe Townsend was already out trumpeting all the news that wasn't news and sure as heck wasn't anyone's business.

I shook my head.

"Senility. Such a sad thing," I said.

"Then you didn't play 'find the bootie' with Rick Townsend?"

"I'm more interested in whether she can play 'find the story,'" editor-in-chief and publisher of the Grandville Gazette, Stan Rodgers, barked from behind me.

I whirled around in my chair, surprised to find myself in the rather unique position of being grateful for Stan's growling interruption.

"Hey. Show a little respect," I said. "Remember, I'm your ace cub reporter. Newshound extraordinaire. The sultan of scoops. A-"

"A pain in the a.s.s," Stan interjected. Then, for some reason, he looked like he wanted to laugh.

I bristled. "Nice. What other journalist has brought you the plethora of sensational stories I have in the short time I've been employed here?" I asked. "So, forgive me if I'm feeling a tad bit unappreciated here."

I did have an impressive resume. From a murder no one even believed happened, to a carnival caper turned deadly and a campus crime spree where failure was not an option, I'd delivered.

Stan stuck the cigar his wife had forbidden him to light in the side of his mouth. "Unappreciated! Are you forgetting the top of the line office furniture and the high tech upgrades you're enjoying as a result of my generosity?"

"Top of the line?" I snorted. "You got this desk and chair at a hotel auction. And correct me if I'm wrong, but the laptop, while admittedly a step up from the dino desktop I had before, was your son's hand-me-down. By the way, I won't tell a soul about the, uh, er, questionable websites little Stan Jr. visited," I said with an exaggerated wink. "That's strictly between us."

For a second, the Stan Rodgers I knew returned. His brows lowered to form a dark, furry vee above his nose. He peered at me over the top of his half-gla.s.ses and looked like he was fixing to bite clean through his cee-gar.

I waited for the gasket to blow.

Stan's customary, "Tell me, Turner. How much does it cost to keep a horse again?" broke-girl reminder.

Curiously-very curiously-Stan's thunder brows cleared, and the side of his mouth-the side without the cigar hanging out-lifted in just the suggestion of a smile.

I suddenly felt very uneasy.

"Oh, my. I see I've interrupted a discussion of, shall we say, a personal nature," Stan said, removing his gla.s.ses and sticking them in his shirt pocket. "I apologize. Please. Shelby Lynn. Feel free to continue your minute dissection of our newshound's rather complicated love life. And once you ladies have probed and a.n.a.lyzed it to your mutual satisfaction, would it be possible, Ms. Turner, for you to spare me a brief moment to discuss a special a.s.signment I have in mind for you?" He removed his cigar and performed an abbreviated bow. "Ladies."

I watched him walk away.

"Did you see that?" I asked Shelby.

"See what?"

"That...that spring in his step."

"Spring? In Stan's step? Are you nuts?"

"Something's wrong," I said, my gaze narrowing in on a spot in the middle of my boss's retreating back. "I sense a disturbance in the force."

Shelby frowned. "Huh?"

"Stan's up to something," I translated.

"How can you tell?" she asked.