by Ann Charles
“That shaft is hundreds of feet deep. You’re not going to see any further than ten feet, fifteen most, with this light.”
Why must he fight her on everything? “Just shine the light down there. Please.”
He stood close to the edge and pointed the penlight toward the water. Several feet down, something silver glinted.
Claire leaned further over the shaft. “That looks like—”
“My compass,” Mac finished, his tone clipped.
“Uhh ...” Claire licked her lips. Guilt warmed her cheeks. “Just how expensive was that particular toy?”
“Five hundred dollars. On sale.”
“Oops.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, Claire parked Mabel next to a beat-up, green VW—the old slug-bug kind—in front of Creekside Supply Company, Jackrabbit Junction’s hardware, gun, and liquor store. Everything a cowpoke or miner needed for a hunting expedition or a romantic date could be found under one roof, including perfume and several varieties of mule deer piss.
She left the car windows down to keep the interior from reaching meltdown and crossed the gravel toward the glass entry doors. Despite Mac’s attempts throughout the morning to convince her otherwise, she still had trouble swallowing the idea that Joe was just a traveling salesman.
Pretending to admire the landscape, she checked to make sure nobody had noticed her, then slipped around the side of the white cinderblock building. Charlie’s Angels had nothing on her.
Two-foot high shrubs of flat-top buckwheat waved pink flowers while tiny blue and orange butterflies danced from bloom to bloom. Patches of knee-high thistles tipped with pinkish purple blossoms scratched across Claire’s khakis as she tromped through them to the back of what used to be Joe’s antique store.
Standing on her toes, she peeked through a dust-ridden screen into the empty store. Sunshine poured in through the two large storefront windows and spilled across the wood slab floor and white stucco walls.
The place was empty all right. Not a single Louis XVI armchair or French oval side table in sight.
Claire slunk around to the far side of the building. A tall grouping of paloverde trees with long branches hid her from Interstate 70. The ground inclined several feet as she moved toward the front; the window at eyelevel.
She peered in at a small rectangular room, probably eight feet wide by ten feet long. A monster-sized, 1970s style metal desk and an aluminum chair with green padding furnished the room. A cardboard box had been shoved into one of the corners.
Above the desk hung a painting of a young Johnny Cash on black velvet, his right profile instead of straight on, like the one in Joe’s office back at Ruby’s. Joe must have had a thing for the man in black.
What was inside that desk? Without ripping the screen and breaking the window, Claire wasn’t going to find out.
She skirted the trees and stepped onto the boardwalk that spanned the front of Joe’s store and the Creekside Supply Company.
Maybe she could meet with the realtor, see about touring the place, fake interest in starting some kind of business. Southwest pottery and dreamcatchers would be believable, or a cheap cigarette shop.
She walked past the front door, pausing in front of the steel plate where a deadbolt used to reside. Or maybe, just maybe ...
She raced to Mabel and swiped Gramps’s laminated picture of Tammy Wynette from the visor.
Back at the front door, Tammy’s picture slid smoothly into the doorjamb. With a little jiggle, the knob turned freely and the door popped open. “Thank you, Ms. Wynette,” Claire whispered and stuck Tammy in her back pocket.
After glancing both ways, she sneaked in and locked the door behind her. The air inside, slightly cooler than outside, smelled of beeswax with a hint of varnish. The floor creaked under her feet as she crossed to the backroom.
Fingers tingling with excitement, she hauled open the middle desk drawer. The drawer was empty except for a notepad advertising Motel 6 on every sheet and a yellow pencil with a chewed eraser. The two drawers on each side held only paper crumbs in the corners.
Crap.
She moved to the box in the corner. An old pair of canvas tennis shoes filled with spider webs leaned against a wire coat hanger.
That left Johnny. Claire lifted him from the nail and flipped him over onto the desk, tearing into the backing. No duct tape secured anything to the back of this one. Maybe Joe had jammed something between the painting and the frame.
She dropped the frame to the floor, stepped on one corner, and yanked on the opposite. The wood splintered and cracked. The velvet peeled away from the boards like skin from a ripe peach. Nothing, again.
“Sorry, Johnny.” She leaned the broken frame against the box.
Scanning the floor, the walls, and the ceiling, she searched for any crack or bulging seam or loose board, but came up empty. Out in the main room, she found an earring back and a handful of dead flies.
Deflated, she trudged back to the front door.
Maybe Mac was right. Maybe she was trying to stir up some exciting mystery in Jackrabbit Junction to keep from twirling her hair all day.
An old boyfriend had once said she had the uncanny ability to create fiction out of fact. Even if the bastard had been lying about sleeping with his boss’s wife at the time, he had a point. Her imagination shouldn’t always run the show.
After making sure the coast was clear, Claire stepped out, shut the door behind her, and crossed the parking lot. The hot sunshine on her shoulders beat her into the ground.
Ten feet from Mabel, she stopped so fast her toes crunched against the front of her shoes. Holy frickin’ moly!
Henry sat in the driver’s seat, looking out at her.
She blinked, then coughed out a laugh. “Henry! Where in the hell have you been?”
He wiggled and whined in excitement, tail wagging back and forth, swishing against Mabel’s white leather. He looked like he’d been dipped in a vat of mud and hung out to dry, but his eyes were as bright as ever.
Claire grinned and grabbed his face, raining kisses over his bony head, then caught a whiff of him and paused. She leaned into the car and sniffed again.
“Ran off my ass,” she told Henry, remembering Mac’s words as she scratched the dog behind the ears. “If you ran away, why do you reek of perfume?”
Chapter Eleven
Sophy sat in her Suburban, binoculars up, staring across the valley at the dark hole in the side of Apache Mountain. A sinking crescent-moon bathed the valley in dim blue light.
From her birds-eye view on the opposite hillside, she watched as a flashlight beam bounced around inside the black mouth of Socrates Pit, like a firefly fluttering inside a soup can.
Ruby’s nephew was very busy in there, nosing around where he didn’t belong. On her way to the mine, Sophy had spotted his white pickup, mostly hidden behind a grove of mesquite. If he was trying to be sneaky, he needed lessons.
According to her watch, ten o’clock had just come and gone. That left her three hours to get some work done, if Mac Garner would just remove his ass from the mine.
She popped a couple of NoDoz and took a swig of cold coffee. Spending her nights in Socrates Pit for the last month had her feet swollen and her joints screaming every morning, but finding that loot would be worth the pain.
A cool breeze wafted through the open window.
Ever since Mac had come to town, Sophy had been hiding her tools near the mine’s mouth. The chance of him finding anything valuable in its walls was slim, but it didn’t pay to be careless this late in the game. She’d already underestimated that damned beagle’s digging abilities.
She’d about dropped a tray of burgers and fries when she saw that mud-covered mutt bee-line across Interstate 70 toward Harley Ford’s Mercury, parked in front of Creekside Supply Company. Through the diner window, she’d watched Ruby’s brunette friend rumble off toward the R.V. park, the dog on the seat next to her.
Lowering the binocul
ars, she took a deep drag from her cigarette. If that mutt came nosing around again, she’d see if it could find its way home from the other side of the Mexican border.
An owl hooted nearby, breaking up the monotony of cricket chirps. She lifted her binoculars for a quick look. Light flickered briefly inside the hole. There was no sign of Mac leaving anytime soon.
She tapped her cigarette ashes out the window. There was no way she was going to sit here every night while Mac tried to figure out what those holes in the ground were worth.
Sophy already knew that answer. It was just a matter of digging up the proof.
* * *
“What do you mean I have to leave?” Towel-drying her hair, Claire stepped out of the Winnebago’s cramped bathroom. “It’s a quarter-after-ten, for crissake.”
Gramps, dressed in an orange Hawaiian-style shirt and green Dockers, lounged on the couch. Next to his bare feet, Henry lay sprawled out, cleaning his doggy jewels—the one area on the little shit that Claire had refused to scrub earlier.
“Are you in preschool? Ten isn’t late,” Gramps said. “Hell, most stag parties don’t even get hopping ‘til midnight.”
“I don’t care about stag parties. I have to work tomorrow.”
“You can sleep at my place,” Manny offered. He rested his feet on the opposite booth seat, a Cheshire cat grin on his lips. “I have a big bed.”
“Not big enough,” Claire said.
“I’m not asking you to stay away all night, only a couple hours.”
This “couple hours” to romance a woman business was bullshit. What happened to the good old days of ten-minute, backseat romps? Getting kicked out of her bed every other night so Gramps could do things that Claire would rather gouge out her eyes than think about was making her fingers itch to strangle someone—any old man would do.
She hung her towel on an empty peg next to the door. A petite-sized, yellow knit sweater hung next to Gramps’s bomber jacket. “Is this hers?” she asked, holding the sweater up by her index finger.
“Whose?”
“The woman coming over tonight.”
“That’s none of your business. Rule number five states that questions regarding clothing left behind are not allowed.”
On a whim, Claire buried her nose in the sweater.
“What in the hell are you doing, girl?” Gramps asked.
The fabric, downy-soft against her skin, smelled of lavender and hyacinth. “Seeing if she smells like Henry did.”
“¿Por que?” Manny asked.
“Don’t ask,” Gramps muttered.
“I’m looking for his dognapper.” Claire returned the sweater to the peg. “He smelled like a French whore when I found him.”
“I told you to drop it, Claire. I like French whores.”
Manny chuckled. “I can vouch for that.”
“Besides, Henry’s back, so there’s no need to go pointing fingers. It’ll only ruffle feathers.”
“Ooh la la. I wouldn’t mind seeing Hot Cheeks with her feathers ruffled.” Manny winked at Gramps.
Gramps grinned, blushing slightly.
“Who’s Hot Cheeks?” Claire asked.
“Rosy Linstad—the owner of that sweater you’re holding,” Manny said. “Chester gave her the nickname. He’s got a thing for her ass.”
Claire shook her head. Chester needed a hobby—collecting toy trains or building model airplanes, something besides chasing skirts. “Am I being ousted because Hot Cheeks is coming?” she asked Gramps.
“I told you, it’s not your business.”
“No,” Manny answered for him. “Nasty Nurse Nancy is making a house-call tonight. Harley needs a physical.”
“Damn your bucket mouth, Carrera.”
Claire grabbed her jean jacket from the wall. “I can’t believe you’re kicking me out of my bed so you can perform some kinky procedures with a nurse.”
“Oh, Nancy’s not a real nurse.” The smirk on Manny’s face said a thousand dirty words. “She’s just good at playing one.”
“Oh, come on.” Claire yanked open the door. “That’s just icky.”
“Don’t come back until after midnight,” Gramps hollered at her as she stepped outside.
“Hey, what about Henry?” Manny asked.
She glanced back to see Manny holding up the dog’s leash. “Henry stays here. You two can get your rocks off by watching Nasty Nurse Nancy take his temperature.” Claire slammed the door behind her.
* * *
“Thanks again for taking me in,” Claire said to Ruby fifteen minutes later. “Gramps, uh ...” She didn’t want to tell Ruby that while they were drinking Coke floats in Ruby’s rec room, Gramps was playing doctor with some Internet floozy.
Earlier that afternoon, Ruby had off-handedly prodded Claire regarding Gramps’s dating life. Claire had a sneaking suspicion there was more smoldering under the Arizona sun than the top of her head.
“Gramps and the boys smoked me out,” she finished.
“Please, Claire. I appreciate you tryin’ to spare me the truth.” Ruby placed three different bottles of perfume on the bar in front of Claire. “But I’d have to have my head buried in a pile of sheep shit not to see what your grandfather and his friends are fixin’ to do, what with all of these brassy broads swarming around here.”
Claire picked up a tall, skinny bottle and spritzed the inside of her wrist.
“I know he’s lonely,” she told Ruby, “and I don’t have any problems with him dating, but I wish he’d take things a bit slower, get to know these women first. Find out what they did in the past, what they hope to do in the future.”
She sniffed her wrist—jasmine. Too sweet. It must be Jess’s.
“Honey, what makes you think he’s not asking those questions?”
“He’s a man. I don’t think questions are a top priority when he’s alone with a woman.”
Ruby sat down on the stool next to Claire. “I’ve known your grandpa for several years now. Unlike Chester, Harley likes to take his time and test the water first.”
“I hope you’re right.” Claire’s mom would have her scalp if Gramps crossed back over the South Dakota state line wearing a wedding band.
“So, what’s the story with you and these perfumes?” Ruby pointed at the bottles. “If you’re fixin’ to find yourself a man around these parts, you’d be better off dabbing some beer behind your ears and wearing a locket filled with chewing tobacco.”
Claire grinned. “Henry’s kidnapper flea-dipped him in perfume. Determining the brand of perfume is the first step to figuring out who abducted him.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’m going to pay a friendly visit to each of your visitors and see which one of them wears the same perfume.”
Ruby poked at the scoops of ice cream floating in her glass. “You really think one of these crazy ladies kidnapped Henry?”
“Possibly. But it could also be someone who lives around here.”
“Why would someone take a dog?”
“Ransom money, animal cruelty, black market sales—Henry kind of looks like a purebred, you know.”
Claire sprayed her wrist with another bottle. She sniffed and sneezed. It smelled like she’d buried her head in a bouquet of gardenias. Eyes watering, she pushed the bottle away.
“And you’re determined to find out who the dognapper is in order to stop them from committin’ the same crime again?”
“No. I’m just pissed. These last few days have been hell. Vengefulness has always been my worst trait.”
Claire tried the last bottle. No luck. Tomorrow, she’d drive up to the hardware store and test their supply. If she couldn’t find the brand there, she’d head over to Yuccaville.
An American history book sat on the end of the bar. “Where’s Jess?” she asked Ruby.
“Upstairs. She’s supposed to be studying for tomorrow’s health test, but she’s too busy being mad at me for giving birth to her.”
Jess had chilled last
night after gorging on ice cream, but Claire knew it was only a temporary fix. Sugar might dull the pain Jess’s dad had inflicted, but only time would heal the wound. “Did you see the letter her dad sent?”
Ruby nodded. “I peeked at it last night while you two were out.”
“How did you ever hook up with Jess’s dad?”
Sighing, Ruby frowned. “I was lonely, drunk, and about to turn forty, and he looked great in a pair of Wranglers. We had one night together, and a month later, I found out I was pregnant.”
Claire frowned. “Did he want anything to do with the baby?”
“Nope. When I looked him up and told him, he laughed in my face and said the kid was my problem.”
“Nice,” Claire stirred her float. “Real nice.”
“Over the years, he’s tried not to help out with Jess, but the law has forced him to pay his part.”
“What a jerk.”
“Damn straight. But try to say anything even slightly bad about the man in front of Jess and she’ll tear you a new one.” Ruby sipped her float. “What’s funny is that she’s never even met him.”
“Really?” Jess had acted like she’d seen him off and on over the years.
“He’s sent her a couple of letters, mostly responses to the hundreds that she’s written to him, but he’s never called or tried to actually visit her.”
Claire’s heart ached for the kid.
“If I ever see him again, he’s gonna suffer for the emotional rollercoaster he’s dragged my little girl on.”
Claire pushed her empty glass away, licking the last of the sweet foam from her lips. “Did Jess get along with Joe?”
“She didn’t hate him.” Ruby shrugged. “But with him traveling and her at school, they hardly saw each other.”
“Jess mentioned she got kicked out of school. She said something about giving another girl a black eye.”
“Yeah, she has my momma’s temper. Lucky for me, the girl’s parents didn’t want anything more than an apology. But the school gave me the names and numbers of several therapists and told me to send Jess to one of them for help.”