Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 17

"You talk to me, not to him!" Keelie demanded. "And you d.a.m.ned well know what I'm referring to. The perverted little departing gift you and your sister left me."

I looked at her, over at Manny, back at Keelie, and raised my shoulders. I had nothing.

"Why would I give you a gift?" I said.

"Why? Because you're sick. That's why!"

I looked at Manny. "You're gonna have to help me out here," I said. "'Cause, I got nothing."

"I'm talking about this!" Keelie grabbed the box Manny held and shoved it at me. "Your furry friend!"

I stared down at the box. Obviously not chocolate.

"Open it!" Keelie shrieked. "Go ahead! Open it!"

I shrugged and pulled the lid off and looked inside. I felt my insides do a trap-door number. A dead rat peered up at me.

"Did you see the note?"

It was kind of hard to miss. It was attached to the poor rodent with a pin and was written in bright, red ink.

Happy Bike Trails, Keelie!

I was just about to observe that, indeed it was someone's idea of a cruel, sick joke, but certainly not mine, when I spotted the product lettering on the side of the box.

Chocolate sandwich cookie-generic variety.

A chill that had nothing to do with my recent water ride sent a shiver down to my soggy bike shoes.

I didn't need to see the business name on the box to recognize some sobering truths: One: Uncle Frank was using the cheap Freezee cookie fillers again.

And two: Someone was out to turn this reality ride into a case of real-time road rage.

How do you say "roadkill"?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

"Pump! Pump!"

"I'm pumping! I'm pumping!"

Head down, thighs burning, I fantasized various payback scenarios specifically designed for a certain short, balding, grouch of a boss who'd orchestrated this week-long sweat fest. Scenarios featured in my "road rage revenge" ranged from lame pranks featuring fake p.o.o.p and angry, red insects, (or, alternatively, sneaky, sleepy ones) and over-the-counter aids designed to increase the movement of waste through the colon. Okay. So I wasn't as diabolically creative as Nine to Fivers Judy, Violet, and Doralee. I was plotting under pressure here.

Rather than, "Pump, pump!" my mantra became "Payback, payback!"

We all have our own motivational tools, right? And revenge? Gotta be near the top of the list.

I had no clue how long we'd been riding or how many wheel revolutions we'd put between the Mo River and us. It was all I could do to pedal and breathe at the same time.

"Come on! Pick it up a bit."

"Hey! I'm operating on impulse power back here," I yelled.

And my impulse reserves were how-low-can-you-go.

"We're falling behind," El Capitn barked.

"So what?" I hollered back. "You don't get brownie points for time."

"No. But the brownies could be gone if we're late for the noon meal."

"Brownies?"

"Obviously, you haven't heard about the TribRide fare."

"Remind me again." I had heard some delectable rumors, but none had yet been confirmed.

"Baked goods galore. Brownies. Bars. Cookies. And pies of every type. Berry. Custard. Chocolate."

"Chocolate?" My formerly dry mouth began to water.

"And that's just dessert. The entrees? They are out of this world."

"Such as?" I could feel my legs pumping faster.

"Well, for lunch you've got your brats, your barbecued chicken and beef, pulled pork. Subs. And dinner-" He paused.

"Yes! Yes!"

"Carbs are king. That's when you get your pastas. Plates piled high with spaghetti, hot, cheesy, lasagna, and b.u.t.tery, garlic bread."

I pushed myself harder.

"And then you have the church ladies' specials like chicken and noodles, or beef and noodles. And there's pizza, fried chicken, steak."

"Steak?" I stepped into it even more. "Pump! Pump!" Now I was leading the charge.

"Well, would you look at who we have here? The rat-killing rodeo queen. Off any rodents lately?"

I hazarded a quick look to my left. Keelie Keller sat astride a bicycle that would have cost me six months' salary to pay for. Close on her heels...er wheels...biked pals, Tiara and Langley, shadowed by several reality TV crewmen with cameras mounted on their bicycles and helmets.

I'm pretty sure my mouth did one of those "no-friggin'-way" jaw drop numbers here. Keelie Keller looked like she'd just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. No sign of armpit perspiration. No blotchy, sweat-smeared mascara. No dirt streaks or sunburned noses. Not one freaking hair out of place.

Keelie Keller does TribRide?

My battered b.u.t.t. This biker babe was getting the star treatment and-I suspected-frequent shuttle service.

I sent a disgusted look at Manny on her left.

"How's the babysitting gig going?" I inquired. "Any super-dooper security vulnerabilities? You know. Like, broken fingernails. Smudged makeup. Unglossed lips?"

Manny's lips twitched.

"Don't like serial killers get their start killing small animals?" Keelie asked. "I read that somewhere."

Read it? She read it? Oh, puhleaze. She picked that little tidbit up from the drop-dead gorgeous profiler Derek Morgan via Criminal Minds like the rest of us.

"I did not send you that rat," I responded. "And, for the record, neither did my sister."

One of the cycling cameramen turned his camera in my direction.

"Says you," Keelie fired back.

"Yeah. Says me."

"Miss Keller. Drew Van Vleet. New Holland News." Drew turned briefly in Keelie's direction and put a hand to his visor. "I want to a.s.sure you I had nothing whatsoever to do with the unfortunate rat incident. My riding partnership here is professional, not personal."

Van Vleet sold me out quicker than my uncle Frank sells out day old coney buns and ice cream cakes nearing their expiration date.

"Is that right?" Keelie said.

"I'd love it if you would let me interview you." Van Vleet gushed. "And I a.s.sure you, I wouldn't be the kind of low life who would write a hit piece or anything-unlike a certain compet.i.tor I could name."

I resisted the temptation to deliver a sharp jab to his ribs. There was that collateral damage to consider if we took a spill, after all.

I could see the headlines now: Newsflash: Newshounds On the Trail of a Story...Literally.

"So, you're not...a couple?" Keelie's eyes shifted back to me.

"Gawd, no!" I wasn't sure who screamed the denial first or louder-Van Vleet or me.

"We write for competing small town newspapers in the same county," Van Vleet explained. "The ride was our bosses' collective brainchild."

Collective brainchild? Try collective brain fart.

"Isn't that special, Tiara?" Keelie said. "Pedaling paparazzi!"

Tiara giggled.

"And look at their cute little Trekkie tees!" Keelie went on. "But, oh no! A red shirt?" She clicked her tongue. "Not a good omen."

If I hadn't been focusing on keeping my feet on the pedals and sucking oxygen into my deprived lungs, I'm sure I could've come up with a snarky comeback. As it was, all I could manage was a gravelly grunt and a disgusted shake of my head.

"Aren't you like, really far behind?" Tiara asked. "You know. The back of the pack. Bringing up the rear? Last place?"

"Losers," Keelie offered. "At the a.s.s end of the line."

"It's her fault. She had to wait until her soggy b.u.t.t dried out," my teammate whined from the helm. "Consequently, we got a late start."

Traitor.

"Obviously we weren't the only ones late out of the gate," I huffed, irritated that we were being labeled slackers. "That is, presuming you all began at the starting line."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Keelie asked. "Are you suggesting we didn't begin the race where everyone else did?"

I managed a shrug. "All I'm saying is you all look way too...fresh to have twenty Iowa-in-July bike miles behind you. That's all."

By now-and this is just a guess since I hadn't actually sniffed an armpit or anything-I imagine I looked and smelled like someone who didn't survive Survivor. But, again I'm just guessing.

"Maybe we're just in better shape than Team Trekkie," Keelie said. "Or maybe we don't perspire like Team Trekkie."

"Yeah, and maybe you just got out of your air-conditioned luxury bus and hopped on your bike a mile back," I suggested. "'Cause, unless you're a cyborg or have serious glandular issues, Toots, you're gonna sweat. Buckets."

"I resent your implication," Keelie protested.

"Resent away."

"Now, now, ladies," Langley Carlisle III chided. I raised an eyebrow. Between the neon green bike shorts and matching neon and white tee, the funny little Brit looked like he'd raided Joltin' Joe Townsend's closet. Even his bicycle was a funky green. "Can't we all just be friends? Or at least, friendly? No need for fisticuffs."

I made a face. Fisticuffs? Really? Next Keelie's bosom bud would be suggesting we hold hands, braid each other's hair, and strike up a chorus of k.u.m ba Yah.

"Friends, Langey? Be friends? With someone who has armpit stains that reach her waist?" Keelie stuck her tongue out in an ew-gross face. "I'll pa.s.s. Come on, Manny. Let's pick up the pace," she said, and off she went.

Manny pedaled alongside. He put a hand up, the middle finger and ring fingers forming a V-the Vulcan equivalent of the fist b.u.mp.

"Live long and pedal Barbie," he said.

I gritted my teeth. Oh, for a phaser set on stun about now.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Van Vleet and I pedaled in silence for the remainder of the morning. He sulked. I steamed-in more ways than one. Obviously, I hadn't logged nearly enough pre-TribRide road miles. My rear felt like a flank steak my gammy had taken the tenderizing hammer to after enjoying too many tipples of the cooking sherry.