for extraction of a lima bean. That’s one way to get out of eating those nasty vegetables, I suppose.
The inevitable consequence, however, of my Murphy’s Law lifestyle was the acquisition of a rather unpleasant reputation. My
mere presence was enough to guarantee one of three reactions from local residents. One, they’d snicker. Two, they’d tease
me mercilessly. Or, three, they’d run for cover. It was almost as if they thought if they got too close to me, a little white
farmhouse might come tumbling down out of the heavens and fall on them. Ding-dong. I hadn’t decided yet which reaction hurt
the most.
“I’ll follow you—see that you get home all right.” Ranger Rick pulled up to my car. I took a real close look this time just
to make sure it was my car.
“No thanks.” I mustered as much spunk as I could, considering I felt weak as a newborn filly. “I can manage on my own, Ranger
Townsend.” I hoped the chill in my voice gave him a case of frostbite.
“Be reasonable, Tressa,” he said.
After the night I’d had, I was as likely to attain reasonable as I was to land a job as a foot model for corn-remover pads.
I opened his truck door and stepped down, wincing as my tootsies made contact with the pavement. “Good night, Townsend. I
won’t forget how wonderfully supportive and helpful you’ve been this evening.”
Townsend shoved a hand through his hair. “Come on, Tressa, cut me some slack here. What do you want from me?” he asked.
“Respect,” I said. “Just simple respect. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” I paused, wondering why I’d never demanded it before.
“I’m right about Peyton Palmer, you know. Dead right. And once that is shown beyond a reasonable doubt, I’ll expect a heck
of a lot more from you than a simple apology, bucko. Let’s see, maybe something along the lines of a full-page ad in the Gazette . Or perhaps you could wear a T-shirt that says ‘Tressa Turner is not a ditz.’ Because, whether or not you and those small-town,
small-minded rumdums believe me or not, there’s trouble here in good ole Grandville. Trouble with a capital ‘M’ as in murder.”
Townsend rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Tressa, if your tale of murder and mayhem turns out to be true, I’ll have your initials
tattooed on my butt.”
“Your bum’s mine, Townsend,” I vowed, then felt my cheeks grow warm when his eyes widened and I caught a glimpse of something
there I hadn’t seen before. “Uh, that didn’t exactly come out the way I meant it to, but you get the drift. And no welshing.”
“You know, to make this a fair bet, Turner, if Peyton Palmer turns up alive and well, you’re gonna have to promise to desecrate
your flesh, too.” He tapped his chin. “Hmmm. Maybe a tiny raccoon on your tushie? How about it?”
“Sure,” I said, thinking this bet was way out there. Still it was a slam dunk for me. I knew poor Peyton Palmer was a goner.
“I have nothing to lose. I know what I saw.” I held out a hand to formalize our bet. “A raccoon tattoo to the loser it is.
But you better get those buns of steel prepped, Ranger Rick. I hear the procedure is rather painful.”
“Buns of steel?” Townsend laughed. “I’m flattered, Turner.” His grip on my hand tightened. “I never knew you noticed.”
“Oooh!” My romanticized version of Townsend dissipated like steam on a mirror. I tried to stomp to the driver’s side door
of my vehicle, but only managed to look like I’d had a few too many. I got in and shut my door. Men.
For about half a second, I contemplated hopping in the back seat and sleeping in my car since I had to be back at work in
four hours, but the lure of a light beer was one I couldn’t resist. I turned the key and was comforted by the traditional
belches, sputters and coughs of my Plymouth. Honest to goodness, guys, I almost teared up.
I pulled into my driveway with a huge sigh of relief, accompanied, of course, by
The inevitable consequence, however, of my Murphy’s Law lifestyle was the acquisition of a rather unpleasant reputation. My
mere presence was enough to guarantee one of three reactions from local residents. One, they’d snicker. Two, they’d tease
me mercilessly. Or, three, they’d run for cover. It was almost as if they thought if they got too close to me, a little white
farmhouse might come tumbling down out of the heavens and fall on them. Ding-dong. I hadn’t decided yet which reaction hurt
the most.
“I’ll follow you—see that you get home all right.” Ranger Rick pulled up to my car. I took a real close look this time just
to make sure it was my car.
“No thanks.” I mustered as much spunk as I could, considering I felt weak as a newborn filly. “I can manage on my own, Ranger
Townsend.” I hoped the chill in my voice gave him a case of frostbite.
“Be reasonable, Tressa,” he said.
After the night I’d had, I was as likely to attain reasonable as I was to land a job as a foot model for corn-remover pads.
I opened his truck door and stepped down, wincing as my tootsies made contact with the pavement. “Good night, Townsend. I
won’t forget how wonderfully supportive and helpful you’ve been this evening.”
Townsend shoved a hand through his hair. “Come on, Tressa, cut me some slack here. What do you want from me?” he asked.
“Respect,” I said. “Just simple respect. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” I paused, wondering why I’d never demanded it before.
“I’m right about Peyton Palmer, you know. Dead right. And once that is shown beyond a reasonable doubt, I’ll expect a heck
of a lot more from you than a simple apology, bucko. Let’s see, maybe something along the lines of a full-page ad in the Gazette . Or perhaps you could wear a T-shirt that says ‘Tressa Turner is not a ditz.’ Because, whether or not you and those small-town,
small-minded rumdums believe me or not, there’s trouble here in good ole Grandville. Trouble with a capital ‘M’ as in murder.”
Townsend rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Tressa, if your tale of murder and mayhem turns out to be true, I’ll have your initials
tattooed on my butt.”
“Your bum’s mine, Townsend,” I vowed, then felt my cheeks grow warm when his eyes widened and I caught a glimpse of something
there I hadn’t seen before. “Uh, that didn’t exactly come out the way I meant it to, but you get the drift. And no welshing.”
“You know, to make this a fair bet, Turner, if Peyton Palmer turns up alive and well, you’re gonna have to promise to desecrate
your flesh, too.” He tapped his chin. “Hmmm. Maybe a tiny raccoon on your tushie? How about it?”
“Sure,” I said, thinking this bet was way out there. Still it was a slam dunk for me. I knew poor Peyton Palmer was a goner.
“I have nothing to lose. I know what I saw.” I held out a hand to formalize our bet. “A raccoon tattoo to the loser it is.
But you better get those buns of steel prepped, Ranger Rick. I hear the procedure is rather painful.”
“Buns of steel?” Townsend laughed. “I’m flattered, Turner.” His grip on my hand tightened. “I never knew you noticed.”
“Oooh!” My romanticized version of Townsend dissipated like steam on a mirror. I tried to stomp to the driver’s side door
of my vehicle, but only managed to look like I’d had a few too many. I got in and shut my door. Men.
For about half a second, I contemplated hopping in the back seat and sleeping in my car since I had to be back at work in
four hours, but the lure of a light beer was one I couldn’t resist. I turned the key and was comforted by the traditional
belches, sputters and coughs of my Plymouth. Honest to goodness, guys, I almost teared up.
I pulled into my driveway with a huge sigh of relief, accompanied, of course, by
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