The Wild Turkey Tango (Jackrabbit Junction Humorous Mystery)

by Ann Charles

  Kate didn’t hesitate. She reached for the shovel handle.

  “What are you doing?” Claire asked.

  “You don’t think I’m dumb enough to open that with my bare hands, do you?” She handed Claire her flashlight.

  “What do you think is in there? A bunch of scorpions?”

  “I’m not taking any chances.” She unhooked the clasp and then used the shovel to lift the lid and flip it open.

  Claire and Ronnie both shined their lights inside. Mac cursed under his breath while Butch let out a low whistle and Grady groaned.

  “Are those what I think they are?” Ronnie whispered.

  “If you mean large bars of silver,” Claire replied, “then yes.”

  “I had no idea they could be so big,” Kate said, reaching out to touch one. “They’re as big as a bread loaf pan.”

  Claire crossed her arms over her chest, frowning at Mac. “Who do you think Joe stole these from?”

  “Someone who is undoubtedly missing them.” Mac looked across at Butch. “Are the numbers on them troy ounces or some sort of numerical identifier?”

  “Both is my guess.” Butch said. “Grady, I suppose you’re going to tell me these came from Pancho Villa, too.”

  Grady reached into the box and lifted one of the solid silver bars with both hands. “Damn, they’re heavy.”

  “If they’re .999 pure silver bullion,” Mac said, “they should be close to seventy pounds each.”

  He would know with all of those geology classes he had in college, Claire thought with a smirk.

  Grady lowered the silver bar back into the box after nobody else showed an interest in holding it.

  “You know,” Grady said to Butch, “you may have something with that Pancho Villa idea. Villa stole 122 silver bars from a train heading north out of Mexico back in the early 1900s.”

  “You mean the infamous train robbery of 1913?” Claire asked. What were the chances of these three bars being part of the 122 that Villa and his men had stolen?

  Grady tipped his hat back and stared up at her, his brow arched in surprise. “You know your Southwest history.”

  “Claire has taken more college classes than all of us put together, probably,” Ronnie explained.

  “I thought the story of missing silver bars was fake,” Mac said. “A tall tale to keep treasure hunters busy.”

  “Seems like I read something a while back that only 93 bars were returned,” Grady told him. “Villa claimed the rest of the bars were taken by his men, and he didn’t know their location.”

  “Is there a way to tell if they are part of the Villa train robbery?” Claire asked.

  Grady shrugged. “I can research the robbery and see if I can find a copy of the original manifest listing the numbered bars. If my memory serves me right, the silver belonged to various mines down in Mexico, but I’m not sure if they were owned by American or Mexican mining companies.”

  They all stared down at the three silver bars.

  “So what do we do with these for now?” Ronnie asked.

  “We could bury them again for safekeeping,” Claire suggested, not wanting whoever might come looking for them to find them too close to the R.V. park.

  “I could store them in evidence,” Grady offered.

  “But then your deputies will have access to them,” Kate returned, her tone clear on how she felt about his deputies.

  “I could keep them in my safe for now,” Butch said.

  Ronnie frowned at him. “You mean that small one in your office at The Shaft?”

  “No. The one built into my basement wall at home.”

  “He does have the best security system around,” Grady said.

  Mac chuckled. “Kate and Claire can vouch for that.” His reference to the time they got busted for sneaking around Butch’s place, ending up in jail, earned him a playful slap from both sisters. He laughed even more.

  “I vote for Butch’s safe,” Kate said. “These won’t fit in the wall safe in Ruby’s basement.”

  Nor did Claire want them there. “I second that. All in favor?”

  They all raised their hands.

  “Great.” Mac looked at Butch and then Grady. “Now who’s going to cart this heavy sucker all of the way back to the campground?”

  “What do you say, Veronica?” Grady asked, standing and tugging Ronnie toward him by one of his long flannel jacket sleeves. “You feel like showing me your big muscles again?”

  “I’ll save that for later, Sheriff Hardass.” Ronnie patted him on the chest. “I’d rather watch you do the dirty work and make smartass comments about your performance.”

  After filling the hole back in with sand and dirt, the three guys took turns carrying the ammo box two at a time with one on each end. Ronnie led the way while Claire brought up the rear.

  As they neared the R.V. park’s fence, Claire’s anxiety level rose, making her stomach tighten.

  Kate walked along beside her, quiet as well. “We figured out another one of Joe’s mysteries.”

  “Sort of, but sort of not.”

  “What do you mean? The messages in the bullets led us to the silver bars.”

  “Yeah, but he left several questions unanswered.” As was usual for the dead man, Claire thought with a frown.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as where the silver came from, when he took the bars, and why he thought it was a good steal.” A rustling sound in the brush behind them made her glance over her shoulder, half expecting to see somebody holding a gun on them.

  Nobody was there. It was probably just some little critter, but the shitty thing of it was now she had a whole new reason to keep watching over her shoulder.

  Ah hell, she was going to turn into Ronnie, wasn’t she? All skittish and squinty-eyed, waiting for the sound of a bullet to whizz by her head.

  “But we can figure out those answers,” Kate said, “especially with Grady helping us.”

  Claire nodded, still frowning. “Sure, but the biggest question he won’t be able to answer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Who’s going to come looking for the silver?” Claire looked up at the velvet black sky, wishing she could blend in with all of the stars twinkling up there. “And when?”

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning blew in with a storm riding on its tail. Rain and wind battered the General Store, making Claire’s job of repairing some of the fence line along Jackrabbit Creek a freezing cold bitch-fest.

  They’d survived another Thanksgiving dinner. Nobody had gotten sick or started a fight, and not a single person ended up stabbed with a fork. In Claire’s book, that was a success, but she was damned happy to see the back side of the holiday.

  After agreeing to tell Gramps and everyone else who’d stayed at the house during the treasure hunt that they’d come up empty on the search, Butch had secretly hauled the silver bars back to his place. According to Kate, they’d locked them up in the safe after noting all distinguishing numbering on each bar to give to the Sheriff.

  Grady left to take his aunt home after promising Ronnie a rain check on something that made her blush and her eyes twinkle.

  This morning, life was back to normal at the Dancing Winnebago R.V. Park with Deborah hung over, Chester and Manny bickering about who was faster at changing a flat tire, Ruby chastising Jess about her choice of shorts and a tank top on such a cold day, and Gramps growling at what he read in the morning paper.

  “Hey, Slugger,” Mac’s voice cut through the wind. Zipping his coat up to his chin, he joined her along the broken fence line. “Your nose is red.”

  “I thought the desert was supposed to be hot and dry,” she said, setting a cedar rail into place. “What’s with this cold and wet crap?”

  “It’s called vacation weather.”

  Her nearly frozen ears must have heard that wrong. “What?”

  “Come to Tucson with me for the weekend. It’ll be like a mini-vacation.”

  She grabbed a
screw, dropped it thanks to her cold fingers, and then picked it up again. “What’s in Tucson that we don’t have here in the big town of Jackrabbit Junction?”

  He laughed, holding the board for her as she sank the screw and then a second one into the wood. When she finished, he ticked off on his fingers for her: “A king size bed, a large flat screen television, a boxed collection of all six seasons of Mr. Ed, and a bag of tamales from your favorite tamale shop.”

  “Oh, wow,” she set her drill down. “You sure know how to sell Tucson.”

  “Did I mention the bed?”

  She grinned. “You did.”

  “And your own personal masseuse?”

  “That you did not mention.” A freezing gust cut through her work jacket, chilling her so deeply her spine shivered.

  “How about it, Slugger?” Mac pulled her into his arms, kissing the tip of her frozen nose. “You feel like taking a couple of days off for some talking-horse and beer-filled debauchery?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s it going to take to sway you to the dark side?”

  She smiled up at him. “For starters, a kiss.”

  He acquiesced, warming her lips and several other partially frozen areas with his skilled touch. When he pulled back, he asked, “What else?”

  “MoonPies.”

  “I have two boxes in the cupboard at home just waiting for you.”

  “Okay, but I’m going to need a naked man in bed next to me.”

  His smile widened. “Did you have a preference on the naked man? Because I think Chester is a big fan of Mr. Ed, too. We’d have to grab some chili con carne at the store on the way home, though, if we want to keep him happy.”

  “You’re a funny man.” She slipped her freezing cold hands up inside his jacket and shirt, plastering her palms on his warm stomach.

  He sucked in a breath. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Swap you for Chester in the bed and I can be packed and ready to roll in sixty minutes.”

  “Consider it done, Slugger.”

  He helped her put away her tools and load the spare fence lumber into the back of Ruby’s old pickup to take back to the shed for dry keeping.

  “You want to take your Jeep?” he asked.

  “Nope. Kate promised to have it detailed this weekend. I left the keys with Ronnie.”

  “Why didn’t you leave them with Kate?”

  “Because she’s crazy.”

  “Right.”

  An hour later, Claire was true to her word. She climbed in his pickup and shut the door. “All right, Don Juan, let the weekend of sin and depravity begin.”

  He leaned over and kissed her, long and slow. “I forgot to mention the bathtub,” he whispered against her lips.

  “I know all about the tub, McStudly.”

  “No, you don’t.” He narrowed his gaze. “But when I’m through, you will.”

  She captured his free hand in hers, lacing her fingers through his. “Is that a warning?”

  “It’s a promise, Slugger.”

  The End … for now

  (Note: No turkeys were harmed in the writing of this book, but the Jeep took a beating.)

  About Ann Charles

  Ann Charles is a USA Today Bestselling author who writes award-winning mysteries that are splashed with humor, romance, and whatever else she feels like throwing into the mix. When she is not dabbling in fiction, arm-wrestling with her children, attempting to seduce her husband, or arguing with her sassy cat, she is daydreaming of lounging poolside at a fancy resort with a blended margarita in one hand and a great book in the other.

  Connect with Me Online

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  twitter.com/AnnWCharles

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  Table of Contents

  Start Reading

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  Connect With Me Online

  Also by Ann Charles

  Acknowledgments

  BONUS READ from Jacquie Rogers

  Copyright

  Chapters

  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

  Copyright

  The Wild Turkey Tango

  Copyright © 2016 by Ann Charles

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means now known or hereafter invented, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, Ann Charles.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

  Cover Art by C.S. Kunkle

  Cover Design by Sharon Benton

  Editing by Mimi the “Grammar Chick”

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2016

  Ebook 978-1-940364-41-4

  ISBN: 978-1-940364-07-0

  BONUS READ from Ann’s friend:

  Award-winning Author Jacquie Rogers!

  Hot Work in Fry Pan Gulch

  Book One of the

  Honey Beaulieu—Man Hunter Series

  by Jacquie Rogers

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  How I Ended Up Working For Marshal Fripp

  1879 – Fry Pan Gulch, Wyoming Territory

  “Honey’s too scrawny to whore—and damned smart, too—so you need to hire her to rid yourself of that there paperwork you curse to the devil.”

  That was my mama, owner of the Tasty Chicken Emporium. She served as business manager, madam, and in days past, working girl.

  Mama crossed her arms and glared at Marshal Fripp as she tapped her toe. I was nervous as all git-out. Couldn’t decide if I wanted him to say yes, or no. The money sounded good, especially if I didn’t have to earn it on my back, but I hadn’t ever lived on that side of the fence.

  “I dunno.” The marshal leaned back in his chair and propped his boots on the desk, strewn with all manner of papers—some printed, some with scribbles, and more than a few wadded up.

  “Honey does know. She’d have this mess cleaned up inside of an hour. Besides, if you don’t hire her, I’m limiting you to only one free visit a week.”

  He surely enjoyed his three free pokes a week. Sometimes he even paid for extras. One thing about tending bar at the Tasty Chicken—I knew the particulars of what every man in this lousy town liked to do with women. Two or three times, when the train brought more visitors than normal and Mama was shorthanded, or short-pussied to be more on the mark, I helped out. But I’d only do it regular. None of that peculiar stuff for me.

  So that’s how I ended up working for Marshal Fripp.

  You could say I’m a mite scrawny. That comes from my papa’s side. He’s tall and rangy, and handsome, too. I expect that’s why he was Mama’s one and only once they’d two-stepped. They never married, though. Papa’s a pistoleer, and he said that was no life for a family. Well, I got news for him—a whorehouse ain’t no picnic, either.

  It’s been a month since Mama hauled me into the marshal’s office. Took me three weeks to scrub the whiskey, coffee, and other unidentified dried liquid that I didn’t want to know what was off the floor and his desk.

  Some of the papers stuck. He didn’t have no idea what half the papers was for. I found a coffee cup that he’d been missing for six months and a set of false teeth that he didn’t know was there. Said they ain’t his, so I screwed them on the privy door for a handle.

  Finally, I picked out the wanted posters, leastways the ones that hadn’t stuck to the wood, and threw the ripp
ed and wadded papers in the burn barrel.

  Then I got out the mop bucket and a good stiff brush. The place smelled a whole lot better once I got the floor and walls scrubbed with lye soap. Marshal Fripp didn’t seem to notice one way or the other. Since he made himself scarce the biggest share of the time, I purtied up the office the way I wanted it, although he wouldn’t tolerate posies on his desk. That was an easy fix—I went and bought my own danged desk.

  The more I did around the office, the less often he was there. Said he had rounds. Lots of those rounds involved a working girl’s begonias at the Tasty Chicken. It made no nevermind to me, though, on account of it was a lot more peaceable when he was elsewhere.

  Until the mayor came in with the tax papers.

  Mayor Tench had a shiny bald head except for two hairs that he combed from his right ear to his left ear, then glued down real good with pomade. What he lacked on top, he made up for with the bushiest mustache I ever did see. No wonder his wife was such a grump.

  “Tell Marshal Fripp to collect these monies from the town businesses.” The mayor handed me at least twenty papers. “The last city council voted to collect taxes twice a year.”

  Likely they needed the money to pay their whore bill. “I’ll give these to the marshal when he comes in.”

  “When’s he due?”

  “I expect when he’s done with his rounds, he’ll be in.” I knew exactly where to find him, and what he’d be doing. My only surprise was that the mayor hadn’t seen him there. The girls said the mayor liked it by mouth. I shuddered at the thought.

  “I want that money collected by the end of the week.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see that the marshal gets your message.”

  “And the papers.”

  “I’ll see to it myself.”

  “See that you do.”

  That man always had to have the last word, so I didn’t dare say good-bye when he left, lest he repeat himself.

  Just about quitting time, the marshal ambled in like a satisfied cat. I handed him the papers and he gave them right back.