Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 5

"Lunch now, apparently," I said. "On my brand spanking new grandpappy."

"Let me guess. You want the hot beef sandwich, right?" Donnie guessed before I could order.

"She'll have the diet plate," Joe co-opted my fare choice. "She's in training. I'll have the hot beef. Extra gravy."

Donnie raised an eyebrow. "One diet. One hot beef coming up."

"And another pitcher of water, please," I added.

"Donnie's right. A camel's got nothing on you," Joe observed, watching me gulp another gla.s.s of water. "Tandem troubles?"

I wiped the water from my chin and shrugged. "I'm getting the hang of it," I said. "I'll be up to speed in no time."

"That bad, huh?" Joe shook his head.

I made a face. "How'd you guess?"

"The skinned elbow and the rock-encrusted trim on your shirt tipped me off. That not-so-subtle look of quiet desperation on your sweaty, dirt-streaked face cinched it."

"Wow. Look at you. Going all Criminal Minds on me. Should Aaron Hotchner at the BAU be worried?" I asked.

"It doesn't take a profiler to figure out you've got tandem trouble, Missy," Joe pointed out. "Which brings me to Rick."

Uh-oh. Here it came. Danger! Danger! Senior snoop on the scent!

"How do you make the leap from my sucking at tandem bike-riding to your grandson?"

"Rick's a top notch bike rider. He can train you. Help you keep your spokes steady."

I made a face. It would take more than the ac.u.men of a certain ranger to see yours truly "looking neat and oh-so-sweet on a bicycle built for two".

"I'll keep that in mind," I said, not ready to talk about Rick Townsend with anyone, especially Joe Townsend. The wily old coot had an uncanny ability to weasel admissions from me I never intended to blurt.

"Still mum on what transpired between the grandson and you on the final day of the cruise, huh? You know I'm gonna find out eventually, Toots, so you might as well save us both a lot of time and grief and just spill it now."

"This is so...inappropriate. Do I interrogate you on your love life?"

"What do you want to know, blondie? Frequency? Technique? Duration?"

I put my hands on my ears. "Stop! Stop, before I spew!"

The geriatric Joe Friday sat back in his seat and observed me with an appraising look.

"'Fess up, sister," he said. "How many times?"

I blinked.

He couldn't be asking...

"How many spills did you really take?"

I let out a relieved breath.

"Just the one," I said.

"Please. Don't try to play a player," Joe said.

I couldn't help but sn.i.g.g.e.r. Joe was such a legend in his own mind.

"I happen to know," Joe went on, "that you were observed getting up close and personal with the pavement on at least four separate occasions at the County Park this morning."

"Are you stalking me, old man?" I asked.

"Of course not. Your grandmother informed me."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, really. And how did she happen by that information?"

"Hannah had a hair appointment at the Kut 'n' Kurl," Joe said, as if that explained everything.

"Her hairdresser outted me?"

Joe shook his head back and forth. "No! It was the gal who did her nails."

"Her manicurist?"

Joe nodded.

"She's Drew Van Vleet's cousin."

"Van Vleet told his cousin about our practice session?"

"Didn't have to. A picture speaks a thousand words."

I frowned. "You've so lost me."

"Van Vleet texted pictures to his cousin."

"Texted?"

"And there was this blog. And Facebook. Oh, and Instagram. And the Tweets."

"Van Vleet posted pictures? Of me?"

"Some very unflattering ones of you tangled up in a bicycle, all arms and legs, with what Van Vleet touted as one serious-looking wedgie," Joe said.

"Why, that...weasel!"

"What's the big deal? It's not as if this is the first time Drew Van Vleet has published embarra.s.sing photos of you. And some people might say bad publicity is better than no publicity."

Kim Kardashian might say that. Lindsay Lohan might say that. The Biebs might say that. And Keelie Keller might even say that. But Tressa Turner? She wanted to write about the news. She didn't want to be the news.

"I feel so...violated," I said, with a shiver.

"Oh, boo-friggin' hoo," my unsympathetic stepper said. "Suck it up, Nancy Drew."

"Your orders." Donnie set our plates in front of us. "Enjoy."

The nummy aroma of beef, gravy, and taters tempted my nostrils, and I inhaled deeply.

"Down, girl," Joe warned. "You've got less than two weeks to become a lean, mean, biking machine. Save your carbs intake for the bike ride."

"Don't you have to watch your sodium intake or something?" I grumbled, reaching for my fork to take my irritation out on a poor, defenseless grape tomato.

"With my rapid-fire metabolism? Not an issue. As you well know." He tucked into his meal with the enthusiasm I usually display for my own meals at Hazel's. Meanwhile, I chewed my rabbit food and watched the geezer lick gravy from his knife.

"Must you do that?" I asked.

"Do what?"

"Eat. Like that."

"Well, excuse me for enjoying my meal," Joe snapped. "Don't take it out on me because you're experiencing anxiety issues due to your inability to commit."

"Oh, so now we've gone from FBI profiling to Dr. Phil therapy."

"I'm a man of many talents," Joe said in between bites.

"How is your, uh, grandson, by the way?" I asked, striving to appear casual, succeeding only in shoveling so much lettuce into my mouth I felt like a squirrel storing nuts away in the fall.

"Why don't you ask him yourself, Ms. Gerbil cheeks?"

"Too busy," I managed.

"He's been busy, too," Joe said, his attention focused on his plate.

I frowned. "Oh?"

"Firearms recertification."

"Oh."

Joe ate. I toyed with my greens.

"You gonna talk to Rick?" Joe asked, sopping up the remaining gravy with his roll.

"I'll get to it," I a.s.sured him and laid my fork down, suddenly off my cud.

"When?"

"Soon."

"Before you maim yourself prepping for the bike ride?"

"I'm touched by your concern."

"I've got a soft spot for blondes with att.i.tude."

"You'd better, dude. You married one."

Joe leaned back in the booth and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

"You're really serious about riding double across the state with that jacka.s.s Van Vleet?"

I shrugged.

"I sold insurance for forty years. I can get you a great rate on a death and dismemberment policy," Joe said.

I winced.

Family. Oh, those ties that so bind.

"Explain why we're doing this again." I stood across the street from the newspaper office on the courthouse lawn and whined.

"Web presence, Turner." Stan the boss man Rodgers said, surveying me with a critical eye. "Social media exposure. The shorts will do, but the top?" He shook his head. "Doesn't scream biker babe to me."

I crossed my arms. "And you would know this...how?"

"I have my own history, Turner.

"You seriously want me to pose for pictures with my hair looking like this?" I tugged at what was left of my ponytail. I have hair issues. My head of hair takes the term "windblown" to a whole new level. I go through a jug of gel each month trying to tame my wild mustang of a mane. Mostly, my "do" comes out the victor.

"What's wrong with your hair? Looks the same as it always does," Stan observed.

Great. Now Stan was channeling Vidal Sa.s.soon.

"I have a professional reputation to think about," I said. "I can't be photographed looking like a blonde bozo."

Stan started to chuckle. "Blonde bozo. That's a good one. I'll have to remember that one."

"Forget the scary hair. You'll be wearing a bicycle helmet so n.o.body will see it anyway," Shelby Lynn pointed out.

I shrugged. Shelby Lynn had a point. The bike helmet would hide a mult.i.tude of hair sins.

"So. Where's Van Vleet anyway? I bet he got more notice so he could do some pre-pic primping," I said.