"Let me get this straight. You want me to get a positive ID of a lawn gnome from the Colbys."
I nodded. "And show it to the Keefers while you're at it. It might jog a memory loose."
"I don't know if it will jog any memories loose, but it'll likely set off a gag reflex or two," Shelby said, grimacing at the scanned image I'd printed for her. "Why exactly are we doing this again?"
Great question. Now how to respond? Why was I pursuing this line of inquiry as the Brit crime shows put it?
"Well, you see, that little beaut disappeared from Abigail Winegardner's yard, and she seems to be operating under the misapprehension that her new neighbor—my dear, sweet gammy—purloined the little fellow."
"Oh. And did she?"
I shook my head.
"I doubt it. Too much effort. Cedric weighs a ton."
"Cedric?"
I nodded. "That's right. Apparently Cedric is very valuable."
We both did one-man's-trash-another-man's-treasure shrugs.
"I'd like to locate the gnome. You know—prove Gram didn't take it, and restore peace and civility to that neighborhood." I scratched my head. "What's weird is that I could've sworn I saw a similar figurine next to Harve Dawson's mailbox last night," I told Shelby. "But this morning when I was there, there was no sign of it, and Harvey swore he didn't know anything about it."
"Had you been drinking at the time?" Shelby asked. "I've heard of people seeing pink elephants but never lawn gnomes that only Stephen King could love."
"I was perfectly sober, thank you very much. Oh, and while you're out and about, drop by Dawson's and find out what kind of damage he had and get some pictures."
"Ookay. So while I'm out soliciting gnome sightings and leading people to question my sanity, what are you going to be doing?" Shelby asked.
The door to the alley slammed shut. Our fearless leader had returned. Make that spineless leader.
"I'm going to have a little story development meeting with Mr. Rodgers," I told her. "And trust me. It's not gonna be a beautiful day in his neighborhood."
Stan had poured himself a cup of coffee and planted his rear in the chair when I pounded on his door.
"Who are you, and what have you done with my boss?" I yelled.
Stan jumped in his seat, coffee dribbling over the sides of the cup and onto the front of his shirt.
"Christ, Turner! What's the idea? Can't you see I'm busy?" He shuffled papers around on his desk.
"Busy taking a scalpel to perfectly good reporting?" I countered. "You did a Dexter on my article, man!"
Stan frowned.
"Dexter? Who's Dexter?"
"You eviscerated my article, Stan! Ripped it to pieces. Sliced and diced it!"
"Huh?"
"You cut out all the good stuff!"
Stan sighed.
"This is about the vandalism item then?"
"Ding, ding, ding! Give the alien life form a one-way trip to Ceres."
"Now listen, Turner, I know you're not happy with the editorial changes I made—"
"Editorial changes? Try extraction with maniacal precision! Snip! Snip! Snip!" I said, making a rock-paper-scissors scissors with my fingers.
Stan's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
"Listen Turner, law enforcement requested we hold off on releasing certain information—"
"Don't you mean 'facts,' Stan? And have you forgotten the last time you took the county's advice on a story?" I asked. "Let's just say the term bum steer comes to mind."
"I don't see what the big deal is, Turner. They wanted us to give them some time, and I figure folks are smart enough to come to their own conclusions on whether the same people were responsible and to act accordingly."
"That's a cop-out, Stan. In more ways than one," I pointed out. "And weren't you the one who told me, we don't get to decide what's news and what isn't. We report and then let folks decide if we've done right by them. Isn't that what you said, Stan? Isn't that the newsman's mantra?"
Stan put his coffee cup down with a thud.
"Geez, Turner. I didn't know you were listening," Stan said, a surprised look on his face.
"Well, I was not only listening, Stan, I was taking notes. And I don't recall ever writing down that the Gazette permits law enforcement to censor our stories?"
"Law enforcement agencies ask the media to withhold certain details of an ongoing investigation all the time, Turner," Stan pointed out.
"Yes. If they're tracking a killer or a terrorist or there's something more nefarious afoot," I said. I stopped. "Wait. Is there something more nefarious afoot? Is that why you didn't run the original article?"
"Maybe I just did the cops a solid, Turner."
I shook my head. Something wasn't right here.
"You heard about Harve Dawson's place getting hit last night, right?" I asked. "Shelby Lynn's on her way to get some pictures. I suspect we'll have additional proof that the same vandals are responsible. What then? Do we sit on it some more?"
Stan shook his head. He looked tired.
"No. When we've got the proof, we'll run with it."
I frowned. "Stan, is everything okay?" I asked.
"Sure, Turner. Just peachy. You pick up the city and county arrest reports yet?" he asked.
"Just getting to that," I said.
"Don't forget we've got the Pioneer Days celebration at the County Park. You and Shelby got the donkey ball deal and the Wild West shindigs covered?"
"We're on it, boss."
The Historical Village celebration and fundraiser sounded like fun. The first night featured a donkey softball game pitting the city of New Holland against Grandville. And the next night, a Wild West masquerade party in the Knox County Historical Village that included a concert, dance, and silent auction. I smiled. I'd get to dress up in my best cowgirl regalia, enjoy cold beer and mouthwatering country cuisine, and boot-scoot the night away to toe-tapping music—oh, and get a paycheck for doing it.
Food, beer, shopping, and compensation. What's not to love, pilgrim?
I turned to leave.
"Oh and Turner?"
"Yeah?"
"You're right. We report. Readers decide," he said. "Thanks for the reminder."
Ahh. I felt a pitty-patter in my chest.
"Now, get your fanny out of my office and get to work!"
I sighed.
These boots were made for…gettin' the heck out of Dodge.
* * *
I listened to the hum of the dryer as I peered over the material I had spread out on a card table in the lower level family room at my folks'. I'd decided if I was going to have a houseguest, I better tidy up my place a bit. Which started with—laundry. Sigh.
Next to the card table, I'd set up a dry-erase board. Using fun dry-erase marker colors, I'd constructed a timeline of recent vandalism incidents with dates, times, and locations. By backtracking through various jurisdictions, Shelby Lynn and I had discovered additional incidents of property damage linked to the same group of vandals.
I stared at the whiteboard trying to make my own connections.
"I see we've taken doodling to the next level," I heard. "Soon you'll be ready for Sudoku."
I turned. Taylor stood grinning behind me.
"What are you doing down here?" I asked.
"Apparently not my laundry," she said and set her hamper on the floor. "What are you working on?"
"Just trying to put some pieces together on the vandalism story," I said. "See the big picture."
Taylor dropped onto the sectional beside me. She stared at the whiteboard and then thumbed through the photographs, examining each of them before going to the next. She turned her attention back to the whiteboard.
"I thought I heard voices in here." My mother, dressed in business casual even though she worked from home (I'd be in shorts and a tee) entered the family room. She looked at the mess I'd made. "What do we have here?"
"Tressa's getting the big picture," Taylor said.
"I see." My mom stared at the whiteboard. "Hmm," she said.
"Hmm? Hmm, what exactly?" I said.
"I was just looking at your timeline."
"Yes?"
"These incidents began several weeks before school started."
"Okay. Yeah. So."
"That could suggest a group getting back together. Reconnecting. Reestablishing relationships that might have lapsed over summer. You know. A reunion of sorts."
I winced at the mention of a reunion.
"Go on."
"Or, maybe you have the formation of a new dynamic going on," she added.
"Dynamic?"
"I see what you mean," Taylor said.
I wished I did.
"New relationships forming. A kind of bonding going on. A group identity being forged," Taylor added.
"It's certainly possible," my mother said, hovering behind us as Taylor flipped through the photographs again.
"Look at the vandalism," Taylor said, pointing at the spray-painted images. "It's organized yet there's an adolescent component to it. An immaturity. Pictures, but no words. I think you're looking at a group of teens here."
I blinked, impressed.
"Anything else?" I asked, thinking Taylor's undergrad psychology studies were paying off.
"Well, consider the spray-painting." She picked up one photograph. "The frenzied rainbow colors. The tornadoes. With pink so prominent. It makes we wonder if we're dealing with a group of girls. You know. Teen girls."
Oh, man. She was good.
"We need to narrow that down a bit. Teen could mean anyone from thirteen to eighteen," I said, looking at the timeline again.
My mother took a seat beside me on the arm of the sectional and shook her head. "Not necessarily," she said. "Not with the times and locations of the incidents you've noted."
"What do you mean?" I asked our very own in-house numbers gal.
"It seems likely that the individuals who did this had to have access to a motor vehicle. At least one of them had to be old enough to drive. And that means—"
"High school girls," I finished, triumphant and bilious at the same time.
Holy Mean Girls and The Faculty.
It was Back to the Future all over again.