by Ann Charles
The truth was that Mac still wasn’t sure what had happened under those drooping branches. One minute he was warning Claire to stay away from the mines. The next, her mouth was exploring his.
Between the banana air freshener and tequila, she’d smelled like a tropical margarita, and Mac had wanted to lick so much more than just her sweet, soft lips. But before he’d had a chance to taste-test further, she’d pulled free, stumbled over to Ruby’s patch of daisies, and thrown up all over them.
“So much for you two not being an item,” Harley muttered.
“We’re not.” Induced vomiting was not a reaction he’d label as “progress” in any kind of mouth-to-mouth experiment.
“Come on, cough it up.” Manny elbowed Mac’s ribs. “Did she let you get to second base?”
Harley’s lips tightened. “What’s your definition of second base?”
Second base? With Claire, even practice swings while standing on deck tempted bad mojo. That woman was the cover model for Trouble magazine, but dammit, he couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d look like in a wet T-shirt and Daisy Dukes.
“Second base means tuning her radio,” Manny explained.
Harley shot Mac a frosty glare. “There will be no radio tuning until you ask for her hand in marriage.”
“Not a problem,” Mac said, happy to see the waitress carrying meatloaf toward him. A plate of food would give him something to bury his burning face in.
“Come on, Ford. How are the kids supposed to have any under-cover fiestas if you keep laying down these nineteenth century laws?”
The waitress dropped Mac’s plate in front of him. The cheap China clinked. A fork clunked onto the table next to it. After shooting him a withering glare, she strutted away, wordless.
What in the hell had he done to her? He brushed aside her animosity and turned to Harley. “Ketchup, please.”
“Hey, sweet buns,” Chester said, standing over the table.
Mac groaned, glancing up at the third musketeer.
“Word on the street is that you scored a little tongue action last night.” Chester shoved in beside Harley.
“Where’d Blondie go?” Harley’s scowl showed his unhappiness with being pushed toward the window.
“The little girls’ room.” Chester eagerly leaned across the table toward Manny. “Did you see Sophy’s garters today? They’re pink.”
“Ay yi yi,” Manny chewed on his knuckle. “Such a classy chassis. What I wouldn’t do to lube her engine.”
“Who’s Sophy?”
“The long-legged brunette who brought you your dinner,” Chester said. “She owns the joint.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope,” Harley said. “She’s been here for decades.”
“I usually eat at Ruby’s place.”
“Maybe you should lay off my granddaughter and spring for Sophy. I’ve seen her leave The Shaft with men too young to grow sideburns.”
Cringing, Mac shoved a forkful of meatloaf in his mouth.
“Now that you’ve had a chance to cop a feel with Claire,” Chester waggled his eyebrows at Mac, “Carerra and I have a little wager we need your help with. Harley, plug your ears.”
Mac stopped chewing. This couldn’t be good.
* * *
“You weren’t exaggerating when you talked about the dust in here,” Claire told Ruby while glancing around Joe’s office.
The dust fairies had thrown one hell of a wake for the man, liberally coating the mahogany Queen Anne-style partners desk and everything else in the basement room. Doily-like cobwebs draped across a tall bookcase, screening faded cloth book spines and various antique knick-knacks.
“Yeah. I’d rather do anything than dust,” Ruby said, setting a plate of brownies on the corner of Joe’s desk.
Claire grabbed a warm brownie. “I used to date a guy who was into antiques.” She stuffed half of the brownie in her mouth and leaned back in the leather swivel chair. It squeaked in protest at being forced out of retirement, or from the weight of her ever-growing ass. Damn Ruby and her need to bake when stressed.
“What kind of antiques?” Ruby asked, blowing the dust off a 1900s black Kodak box camera and placing it on a bookshelf.
Claire’s nose itched from the dust.
“The Marilyn Monroe kind. Autographed photos and one-sheets, a mauve and teal pair of her spiky-heeled pumps, three big round hair curlers with strands of her hair still stuck in them, a pair of diamond teardrop earrings she’d worn to the debut of The Seven Year Itch in 1955, and a tiny gold pillbox full of what he swore up and down were her toenail clippings.”
Ruby’s eyebrows wrinkled. “Toenails?”
“Yep, cranberry red nail polish and all.” Claire swallowed the last of the brownie, wiping her fingers on her blue jeans. “He gave off kind of a creepy-weird vibe, you know.” Almost as creepy-weird as knowing the last person to sit in this office was now six feet underground. “But he had these Paul Newman blue eyes that made your heart skip a beat.”
“Kind of like your grandfather’s?”
Claire shot Ruby a surprised glance. Ruby was too busy drawing stars in the dust blanketing Joe’s desktop to notice. “Yeah, sort of.”
“Sexy peepers or not,” Ruby said, “I’d have been racin’ out the door as soon as I laid eyes on those toenails.”
“I should have. But after years of being accused of suffering from commitment phobia, I was determined to stick it out, even after he tried to clip my toenails while I was sleeping.”
“But when he arrived for the showing of Some Like It Hot at the old Pluto Theatre wearing a blonde wig, a painted cheek mole, and a knock-out replica of Marilyn’s famous white, exhaust vent dress, I ran for the door.”
“You’re kidding!” Ruby grinned wide.
“Nope. And you know what? That rotten, cross-dressing bastard looked better in a dress than I did.”
Even Ruby’s laugh sounded southern. “Speakin’ of boyfriends, Jess said she saw you and Mac kissin’ under the willow last night.”
If Claire had the ability to create a black hole in the floor of Joe’s office, she’d have dived into it head first. Her face burned, no doubt turning the shade of chili powder. “Uhhh, about last night—”
Ruby waved her off. “No need to explain yourself. Mac’s a big boy. He could use someone to shake up his life, make things happen.”
Claire sat forward in Joe’s chair. “Listen, we’re not—”
“And I’ve seen his legs—he’ll never look better in a dress than you, honey” Ruby added, winking.
That was a relief. Claire tried again. “Last night was—”
“I best mosey on back to the store. I left Jess in charge, and a flea has a longer attention span than that child lately.” Ruby closed the door behind her.
Claire groaned and thumped her forehead on the desktop. When was she going to learn not to mix alcohol and men? The hangovers were humiliating.
Pulling open the left-hand desk drawer, she decided to get down to business. She’d deal with the Mac Situation when she had time for self-abuse.
Thumbing through bank statements, stock dividend results, and credit card bills, she found nothing extraordinary. Joe may have been reckless about his health, but he kept his finances semi-organized, at least until his stroke, judging by the dates on everything.
She moved to the middle drawer and shut it after seeing nothing more than the usual jumble of paper clips, rubber bands, pens, and thumbtacks. In the right-hand drawer, she rifled through a stack of doctor and lab bills, most with outstanding balances and dates less than two years old.
Under the bills was a yellow envelope with “Mercedes” scrawled on the front. Inside was the original sale’s receipt, a 30,000 mile check-up receipt, and a warranty for the alarm.
She paused, frowning, then looked at the sales receipt, again. $95,655.92 was typed next to Total. She scanned the receipt. From what she could tell, not only had he paid a large chunk of change f
or the car, but he’d paid for it with a wad of green.
No financing for Mr. Joe Martino when it came to buying luxury cars. No, sirree.
She had assumed the Benz Joe had wrecked was older, used, with faded carpet in the back window and stone-chips on the bumper. Not a brand-spanking new, silver metallic SL500 Roadster filled with luxury conveniences like charcoal gray leather seats, multi-function keyless remote, automatic climate control, and concierge services.
Where did a traveling salesman come up with these liquid assets? She’d have to talk to Ruby, see if she knew anything more about the car.
Too bad he’d totaled the Mercedes. Selling it might have helped Ruby limp along a little longer. The man apparently had been allergic to the word insurance.
After stuffing everything back into the drawer, Claire moved to the bookcase and ran her finger along several worn book spines. The blue gilt-stamped cloth was frayed at the edges, the gold print on Moby Dick and Treasure Island rubbed and faded.
She pulled out Treasure Island and flipped open the cover. The binding creaked, like an old ship rocking. Her eyes skimmed the words, London Cassell 1883, First Edition, her grip tightening on the book. A first edition! How much was a classic literature first edition worth these days?
Her mom might know. The woman watched Antiques Roadshow religiously every Monday night.
Deftly drawing out Moby Dick, Claire opened the slightly tattered, blue cloth cover, and under her breath read, “Harper & Brothers, 1851. First American Edition.” Blowing out a low whistle, she gently tucked the books back onto the shelf.
Did Ruby have any idea of the value of some of the antiques sitting in her basement? Claire doubted it. If Ruby liquidated, she’d probably add a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand to her savings account. That wasn’t enough to pay off the bank, but it was a hell of a running start.
Stepping over to the modern, black filing cabinet, she tugged on the top drawer, expecting it to be locked. It rolled open, the tracks smooth.
She flicked through folders, months and years scrawled across the manila tabs. Nothing unusual, just folders with old electric, water, and other month-to-month bills. She shut the drawer.
The bottom drawer opened as easily as the top. Years worth of Antique Collector Monthly magazines were stacked in the front of the drawer. Toward the back, unlabeled folders leaned against the magazines. She grabbed a handful.
Most of them were empty, but one contained two articles. The first one read:
Gold Boxes Stolen from Waddesdon!
At approximately two a.m. on Tuesday, June 10, Waddesdon Manor in Buckinghamshire England experienced a break-in and theft. Over 100 gold boxes and other precious items, mainly 18th century French and some English, were stolen. All of the items are unique and immediately identifiable. The National Trust is offering a reward up to £50,000 for the safe recovery of these objects and for information that will lead to the arrest of the people responsible for the theft.
The bottom of the article listed the contact information. Claire flipped through eight stapled pages containing pictures and information about each of the boxes.
The second article was written in German, which meant it could have been in Martian for all she knew of the language. The black and white picture on the front looked like some medieval castle, all gray stone and turret-topped.
Why had Joe collected these tidbits and stored them in his filing cabinet? Curiosity?
She shrugged, stuffed the articles back in the folder, and shoved it with the others. Shutting the drawer, she glanced around at the antiques cluttering the room.
A picture of Johnny Cash painted on black velvet hung on one of the two interior walls. An image of a safe tucked away in the drywall popped into her head.
She crossed the room. Johnny’s frame lifted easily in her hands, the wall behind him seamless. Well, it had been worth a try. Her grip on the picture slipped as she tried to hang it back up. She caught it halfway to the floor, the paper backing tearing under her tight grip.
She placed Johnny face-down on Joe’s desk. The paper backing had torn loose from the upper left corner. She lifted the thick paper. Maybe Elmer’s glue would fix it.
Something blue under the brown paper caught her eye. She tore the paper backing a little more and found three passports, duct-taped to the back of the portrait.
“What have we here, Mr. Martino?” she said.
She carefully lifted the passports free and flipped one open. A round-faced, black-haired man stared up at her, his eyes narrow, his lips thin. His face looked squished, like he’d had his head stuck in a vice clamp for too long.
Funny, she’d figured with the weight issue Ruby had told her about, Joe would’ve had jowls, or at least a double chin. The man in the picture had slight hollows under his cheekbones. She scanned the name below the photo: Anthony Peteza. Who? The rest of the book was empty—no stamps from foreign countries.
She grabbed the second passport. The same face stared up at her, this time with a goatee. She looked down at the name—Alonzo Basilio. This one had a stamp from France.
The third passport had the same guy wearing a sad excuse for a moustache and a green shirt instead of blue. He’d changed his name again—to Arturo Enzo. Two stamps from Japan were the only other contents.
“What the hell?” She tossed the passport on top of the other two.
Leaving the three passports lying on Joe’s desk, she leaned Johnny Cash against the wall, next to a wooden box with a keyhole in the front. She squatted next to the box and ran her pinky over the hole—it wasn’t made for a typical key. It looked more like a skeleton key hole.
She swept her palm down the smooth, dark wood. Walnut, she guessed by the grain and color. She picked it up. It was as heavy as a ripe watermelon. Setting it back down on the olive shag carpet, she tried to pull it open, but the lock held tight.
She’d seen a box similar in shape and size once in the Sioux City Museum on a field trip for her “History of Midwestern Pioneers” class. That one had been unfolded and spread out—a small writing desk for travelers, if she remembered right—the 1800s equivalent of a laptop.
Ruby’s clock cuckooed five times from the other room, snapping Claire back to the present.
Dang it! She needed to go to Socrates Pit to take some photos. Grabbing the plate of brownies, she closed Joe’s office door behind her. She would nose around some more tomorrow.
She slipped out the back door and stopped short at the sound of someone crying. Walking around the back of the store, she found Jess sitting cross-legged on the grass, her hands covering her face.
“Hey, kiddo.” Claire squatted next to her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Jess sniffed, brushing the tears from her lashes.
“Nothing, my butt. Come on, out with it.”
Jess handed her a piece of paper.
“What’s this?”
“A letter from my dad. He’s so busy with his new wife’s kids that he doesn’t want me around.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Claire squeezed Jess’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“My mom doesn’t want me, and neither does my dad.”
Claire knew better than that. Ruby didn’t spend all day home schooling Jess for the hell of it.
Glancing up at the hills, Claire blew out a breath. She needed to get a move on if she wanted to make it to the mine and back before sunset, but the thought of leaving Jess wrenched on her heart.
“Hey, if it’s okay with your mom, how about you and I go to Yuccaville for pizza.”
Jess nodded, standing up. “That’d be cool.”
Claire draped her arm around the girl’s shoulders as they strolled toward Gramps’s Winnebago. “Afterwards, maybe we’ll grab some ice cream.” The seams in Claire’s jeans bulged just at the mention.
“Sure.”
They walked several steps in silence, Claire feeling Henry’s trail growing colder and colder.
“Claire, what’s it lik
e to kiss a boy?”
Claire wasn’t sure it was her place to be explaining anything even remotely birds-and-bees-ish to Jess, but she decided to give it a whirl. “Sometimes it’s slimy and uncomfortable, full of jabbing tongues and gobs of slobber.”
“Eww!”
“Sometimes it makes you feel all warm and cozy inside, like a cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows.”
“Oh.”
“And sometimes ...” a certain hazel-eyed, long-legged man came to mind, “sometimes it makes your heart race and your skin tingle.”
“Really?” Jess grinned. Sunlight sparkled in the tears drying on her auburn lashes. “Is that what it felt like when you kissed Mac?”
Chapter Ten
Wednesday, April 14th
Mac strode down Ruby’s porch steps and marched toward Claire’s R.V. He’d been in Jackrabbit Junction for four days now, and he was still spinning his wheels, no thanks to Claire’s shenanigans. This morning was no different, only hotter.
The park’s road was already cooked and crispy, smelling of Arizona’s finest sun-baked powder. A pair of woodpeckers chatted with each other high above him in the cottonwoods. Their quick, stuttering trills and squeaky peeps scraped his nerves.
He now realized that Claire’s biggest threat to him as an adversary was her ability to frustrate the hell out of him by just being in the same state.
He rapped on her door. The woodpeckers quieted, as if waiting with him for the door to open.
Silence issued from inside the Winnebago.
A high-pitched, yappy dog rattled off a warning on the other side of the campground.
Mac knocked again, harder.
Seconds later, Claire wrenched the door open. “Criminy!” She stood there in a skimpy, hot pink pajama tank top with Tweety-bird’s head and the words, “Got Milk?” plastered across the front of it.
Mouth suddenly dry, eyes ogling, breath temporarily nixed, Mac’s blood pressure red-lined. All thoughts evaporated from his mind.