Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 14

"Hey. Chill, would you? It's gonna be fine. Your big sis has everything under control."

"Oh, G.o.d." Taylor groaned, and Dixie put her arm around her.

"Come on. We could both use a lemon-lime soda to settle our stomachs," Dixie said, and led my sister away.

I smiled.

Mystery. Romance. And a touch of Hollywood glam thrown in for good measure.

Is this the left coast?

h.e.l.l, no.

It's Iowa, pilgrim.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

While not exactly working the room, I spent the next hour meeting, greeting, and eating-not necessarily in that order. I'd taken Manny's advice and switched to cola-my TribRide bracelet ent.i.tled me to free drinks and munchies, and I aimed to take advantage of that perk.

I eat when I'm nervous. Okay. So I also eat when I'm not nervous. However, the looming specter of a fifty-mile bike ride the next day had my mindless bingeing on hyper-drive-not a great idea when restroom facilities could end up being miles down the road.

How do you say "cornfield"?

I belched again, put a hand to my mouth, and looked around to see if anyone heard. I didn't need to worry. Everyone's attention was on a bus pulling into the parking lot next to the tent. Curious spectators crowded around the s.h.i.+ny, mile-long motor coach.

"Somebody's arriving in style," I heard.

"Ugh. Don't tell me it's some politician already out politicking for the caucuses next January," another person said.

"Maybe it's Elvis," another partier weighed in.

I migrated in the direction of the front window and took a seat at a recently vacated table. I looked out in time to see Manny muscle his way to the bus through the cl.u.s.ter of onlookers beginning to gather.

The bus door opened. Keelie Keller stepped out. She paused on the top step and looked down on the a.s.sembling crowd as if surveying her royal subjects. The sudden click, click, clicking of digital cameras and the hum of excited onlookers served as the cue for Keelie Keller to begin her slow descent from the bus.

Stocky men with cameras perched on their shoulders aimed their bright lights at the striking redhead as she made an entrance fit for the Reality TV royalty she appeared to be.

I took a final swallow of cola, wiped a hand across my chin, permitted myself a quiet burp, and watched the princess of prime time greet her gaping, giggling groupies with a smile, a nod, and a wave. Towering head and shoulders (and, oh, what shoulders!) above Keelie, Manny DeMarco made like a human border fence, separating celeb from serfs. Close on Keelie's heels came her reality show cast of characters: feisty, finicky Tiara Fordham, and long-suffering Langley Carlisle.

"Just look at her! Ohmigos.h.!.+ She's even more beautiful in person than she is on TV!"

I turned. The guy sharing the cheap seats with me stared at the star and her entourage with the same level of intensity my gammy showed when she was spying on Abigail Winegardner. A ginger himself-the short, freckled, and pasty-pale variety-this fan was practically panting at the sight of the glamorous redhead.

"Isn't she amazing?"

I couldn't resist an eye roll, followed by an "Oh, gawd."

"What? You don't think she's amazing?"

Uh-oh. The Ginger's ire was on the rise.

"I don't see what the big deal is. We all pull our britches on one leg at a time," I told him.

"How can you say that? Just look at her! She's...an...an angel."

A rather loud, prolonged raspberry escaped my lips before I could m.u.f.fle it. "Puhlease."

"You don't know her like I do," the fan insisted.

I looked at him. "Really? You know her?"

He shrugged. "We sort of have a connection."

"Oh? What kind of connection?" I gave him a look of friendly interest, hoping I hadn't inadvertently insulted someone who might have some pull with the reality star that could help me score an interview.

Righto. And maybe I'd finish this bike ride in one piece, win the Pulitzer Prize for journalism, and unravel the snarl that was my tangled love life. (Betcha thought I was gonna say tangled hair, didn't you? Gotcha!) "It's, uh, well, it's more along the lines of an, uh, psychic connection."

"A psychic connection?"

Bye, bye Pulitzer.

"It's hard to explain, but there's something special, something real between us, and when I heard she was going on TribRide, I just knew."

I frowned. "Knew? Knew what?"

"Knew that our paths were meant to intersect on TribRide," he explained. "It's providence. Destiny. Fate."

"Ah." I nodded. "I see."

What I saw was a star-struck dude several spokes short of a Schwinn.

I turned in my seat, as if looking for somebody-okay, anybody-to help me end the interaction without appearing rude.

"You're doing TribRide?" he asked, bringing his drink over to my table.

I nodded. "Rumor has it." I looked around some more. Where the h.e.l.l was Dixie the Demon Slayer when you needed her?

"I wouldn't miss it for anything." His gaze still followed the progress of the celebs. "You on a team?" he asked.

"Team Trekkie," I said, thinking it sounded even more lame when you said it out loud.

"Wow. Cool name! I'm a Trekkie, too! Love that show!"

"Congratulations," I said.

"You've got Post-its printed up. Right?"

"Post-its?"

"To post at each host town so people know where to find you."

"Oh, yeah. Uh, no. We don't have any Post-it thingies."

Like I wanted to draw a map so people could find me. The fewer witnesses, the better, I say.

"Maybe we'll see each other on the ride."

"Yeah, maybe."

"You got a phone number?"

"I, uh, it's a new phone, and I don't-"

"Here's mine." He pulled a business card out of his f.a.n.n.y pack.

"Oh. Thanks." I looked at the card. "Kenny's Caricatures?"

"I'm an artist. A cartoonist. I do caricatures." He took out a felt tip pen, turned the business card over, and in a few short strokes, a frizzy-haired cowgirl complete with turned up nose, a bit of an overbite, and sporting a pretty nifty Stetson stared up at me.

"Wow. How do you do that?" I asked, envying his artsy gift. I totally go all green-eyed-monster on folks who draw, paint, or create objects-de-art. The best I can manage are stick figures-and most of the time they look more like freaky looking spiders than humans. Van Gogh, I isn't.

"Name's Kenneth. Kenneth Grey." The artiste held out his hand, and I got one of those handshakes that make you feel like you've taken hold of a large, overcooked noodle. Ugh. I supposed artists, much like pianists, brain surgeons, and hand models, had to protect their hands and digits. "It's Kenny for short, like the card says. And you are?"

Before I could give him Dixie's name, my hat was yanked off my head.

I whirled around. Patrick Dawkins grinned down at me, my hat now sitting on his blonde head.

"Hey! That's my hat! Anyone know where to find a trooper so I can report a theft? Oh, wait. You are a trooper!"

Patrick grinned. "Tressa Turner. Am I glad to see you! Someone has been circulating scandalous rumors about you. I'm pleased to see they were unfounded."

"Trooper?" That got Kenny's attention. "You're a trooper?"

"Guilty," Patrick said, with a questioning tilt of his head in Kenny's direction.

"Oh. Sorry. This is Kenny Grey. He's doing TribRide, too." I showed him the business card drawing. "Kenny does drawings."

"Hey. How you doing? Oh. Look at the time. I have to go," Kenny said.

"Have a great ride," I said, staring at Kenny's back when he hurried away.

"New friend?" Dawkins asked.

I shrugged.

"Interesting fellow," he observed.

"You have no idea," I said. "So what was this scandalous rumor you made reference to?"

"You haven't heard about the wagers?"

I frowned. "Wagers? What wagers?"

"The pools at the Dairee Freeze. And the Gazette. And Hazel's."

"What are you talking about?"

"According to my sources, there are various wagers and pools being set up regarding your...TribRide experience." Patrick explained.

"Pools?"

"You know. Bets on when you'll take your first spill. How many days you'll get through before you quit. Wagers on whether you'll even show up. On how many tubes you'll go through."

"Bike tubes?"

Patrick had the good sense to look embarra.s.sed. "Hemorrhoid cream," he said.

"What! The gall! The nerve!"

The sheer moneymaking genius!

"I see your buddy, Manny, over there. Security detail, huh?" Patrick observed.

"He knows a guy who knows a guy," I explain.

"He's done the security thing before," Patrick said.

I looked at him. "What do you mean?"

Patrick shrugged. "He looks like he knows what he's doing."

"How can you tell?"

"Well, for one thing, his eyes are always moving. He's always looking. And he makes a habit of watching people's hands."

"Hands?"

"It's what pros do. They focus on the movement of a person's hands. That way, they spot a threat sooner."

"And you say professional security personnel use this, er, technique?"