Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 43

I made a "let's get this over with" face and waited while she attempted to hide my ma.s.s of hair under the wig.

"Is there a problem?" I asked, wincing when she shoved a handful of hair beneath the wig and my head bent sideways. "Ow! Take it easy!"

"This'll never work!" Keelie said. "You've just got way too much hair."

I turned and looked up at her. "Don't get any ideas, Miss Great Clips," I said.

"I've got it!"

She ran into the folks' RV and was back before I could say, "Okay, Scotty. I'm ready. Beam me up this instant, or you're fired!"

"This'll do the trick!" Keelie pulled a section of panty hose over my head and down over my eyes.

"Hey!" I yelled.

"Oh. Sorry." She readjusted my makeshift hair concealer and stuck the basket weave wig on my head again. "That ought to do it," she said, "if I can just get it on straight." She battled the wig for a few more minutes. "Good! Bobbie pins, please, a.s.sistant!"

I gave her a.s.sistant a "whose mother are you anyway?" look.

"There! Perfect!" Keelie exclaimed.

I frowned. It felt like I had several, heavy, wrapped towels sitting on my head. I got to my feet, and the wig dipped to one side, its weight sending me leaning in that direction.

"Hey, careful! Don't undo my handiwork, please!" Keelie ordered.

I looked at her costume and back at mine.

"Wait a minute. Why do you get the modern movie version of the little red dress and I get stuck with the not-so-flattering cut of the original design?" I asked.

"Because, Yeoman Rand hasn't been in any of the recent major motion pictures. We want to be as close to the real thing as we can."

"Oh? Then why aren't you wearing a black wig?" I asked. "Uhura has black hair."

"I can't wear wigs. I have a scalp condition," she said.

Right.

"Mom, would you do the honors?" I handed her my phone. If I had to role-play at a Star Trek street party, I was going to make it count.

My mom took a dozen pictures before I found one of me where I didn't resemble a certain leaning tower.

"Ready to role play at Trekkie street dance with the Red Queen! Lights! Camera! Action!" I posted.

"Let's go!" Keelie grabbed my arm.

"Shouldn't we wait for Manny?" I asked. "You know. Your bodyguard."

"I'm done waiting. He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. He'll catch up to us on the square. We've got the cameraman. We're good to go."

"I'm not sure-"

"Come on, or I'm going without you!"

I looked at my mom and shrugged and let myself be dragged off.

First stop: the sign that announces, "Future Birthplace of Captain James T. Kirk, March 22, 2228."

Next, we strolled the Interplanetary Marketplace, sampling interesting s.p.a.ce dishes such as Spock sorbet, Romulan ribs, and Tribblemisu. Keelie hammed it up for the camera, stopping to hug a startled Mr. Spock, moving on to shake her groove thing with a Gorn on the dance floor. A swarthy Romulan attempted to cut in, but you know how testy those Gorns can be.

And Carmen Miranda with her basket on her head? Dance? You're joking, right? It was all I could do to walk upright without toppling over.

I'd just polished off the last of the Romulan ribs followed by a bottle of Blue Moon (an appropriate choice considering the s.p.a.ce theme and all) when my cell phone rang. I looked around for something to wipe my barbecue-sauce-coated fingers on, gave up and stuck them in my mouth, before I answered.

"H'lo?"

"Barbie. Manny. You cool?"

"You know me. I'm always cool," I said.

"Manny means are you and Keelie doing okay?"

"Oh." I licked another finger. "Yeah. We're fine. We're pigging out." Rather I was pigging out. Keelie had the appet.i.te of a picky three-year-old. "You need to get here and try some Final Frontier fare. The 'gorn' on the cob is the best I've ever had! Where are you anyway?"

"They found Jax," he said.

I took a step back, and my wig sent me back a few more.

"Oh, my gosh! Where? How?"

"Manny's getting answers. Gonna meet with law enforcement and then catch up with you two in a few. And Barbie?"

"Yeah?"

"Hang with Keelie 'til Manny gets there."

"Aye, Aye!"

I put my phone back inside my bra.

"Who was that?" Keelie asked.

"Manny. He said to wait here for him. He'll be here in a few minutes," I hedged.

"What else did he say?" Keelie asked.

"What makes you think he said anything else?"

"The barbecue sauce all over your face and the 'oh, my gosh, where, how?' when you answered the phone," she said.

"Okay. Don't freak out or anything-"

"Oh, my G.o.d! It's not...Jax?"

My you-can-read-my-mind face gave me up.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" Keelie grabbed my arms, sending Yeoman Rand's wig a wobbling. "Is he okay? Tell me he's okay!"

"I don't know anything more. All Manny told me was that Jax had been located. Manny wanted us to wait here for him. That's it. That's all I know."

Keelie's stricken expression revealed much. It didn't take tarot cards to figure out this city mouse was in love with her country mouse.

"Maybe we should wait at your mom's trailer," Keelie suggested. "I don't feel much like partying."

I nodded. I felt the same way. Besides, the beehive on my head was giving me a heavy-duty headache. And G.o.d only knew what the hose cap was doing to my hair.

We started to retrace our earlier steps, me gingerly, Keelie stepping out like she was in Starfleet boot camp when Langley, dressed in a blue Dr. McCoy shirt paired with black Capri pants (Capris with a Star Trek shirt? Surely, a cosmic faux pas.) rushed up to us.

"Oh, G.o.d! Oh, G.o.d! Oh, G.o.d!"

I was ready to offer Lang the comfort of a soothing sitz bath when he grabbed my arm, sending my wig weaving to and fro again.

"Where's Manny? Or your trooper friend? Anybody! Hurry! It's an emergency! Tiara's been abducted!"

"What are you doing, Lang?" Keelie said. "Did Tiara put you up to another little stunt? It's pathetic. Beyond pathetic. She needs help. Professional help."

Lang shook his head.

"No! No! I swear to G.o.d, Keelie, I'm not lying! This is real! A Klingon just kidnapped Tiara!"

Keelie grabbed the neckline of Langley's Star Trek uniform. "So help me, Langley Carlisle the Third, if you're lying to me I will never speak to you again! Do you understand? Never!"

"It's true. I swear it. A Klingon ran off with her! I'm not making this up! Honest! We've got to help her!"

Keelie let go of Langley's shirt.

"Hold on a minute, Lang." I said. "Can you be more specific? Was it a Klingon circa the sixties series, or was it the more contemporary one?" I asked.

The Brit, obviously no Star Trek aficionado himself, stared at me.

"Oh, for heaven's sakes! Did he have the funky forehead ridges in the front and a disturbing pageboy thing going on in back?" I asked.

"Yes! Yes! That's the one!" Lang insisted. "That's him!"

"You mean Worf," a rather rotund Kirk nearby inserted.

I turned. "Worf?"

"A main character in The Next Generation and Deep s.p.a.ce Nine," he said. "Really groundbreaking for the time. A Klingon crewman."

I shook my head and turned back to Lang.

"How big was he? This Klingon? Was he short or tall? Tan or fair?"

Lang shook his head. "It happened so fast. He was on the short side, I think. A few inches taller than Tiara, I think. That's really all I can remember."

A short Klingon warrior. I looked around. Klingon warriors of all sizes, shapes, and colors were everywhere.

I sighed.

Why did it have to be a Klingon? Why couldn't it have been a Romulan? Or a Gorn?

My phone rang. It was Manny.

"Manny, Tiara's missing! A Klingon has her!" I blurted and explained what Langley witnessed. "He's a more recent Klingon. Think Mork on Star Trek: The Next Generation or Deep s.p.a.ce Nine," I said.

"Worf, not Mork," the portly Kirk corrected.

Keelie grabbed at the phone. "Did he find Jax? Is he okay?"

I waved her off, finished listening to Manny, and then handed my phone to Keelie.

"Manny wants to talk to you," I said. Seeing the fear in her face, I nodded. "Go ahead. It's okay. It's good news."

It was. Kind of.

Jax had been found. And, mostly, uninjured.

It was how and where he was discovered that wasn't such good news. The country crooner was discovered, bound and gagged, in a Porta-Potty. The kybo door had been duct-taped shut, a "Do Not Use-Out of Order" sign posted on the front.

I made a "eww" face, my own recent Porta-Potty nightmare still fresh in my mind.

Keelie handed me my phone.

"He's okay," she said, breathless with relief. "Thank G.o.d, he's okay."

I nodded.

That was the good news.

The bad news?

We'd eliminated our one and only stalker suspect, and our perp looked like a gazillion other alien warriors partying in Riverside.

Talk about lost in s.p.a.ce.