by Ann Charles
“Ah, ha!” She stared at the base of the wall where dirt had been disturbed recently. “Look at that.”
“What? Loose dirt?”
“No, proof. This must be where Henry dug his way out.”
Mac squatted down, pushing a potato-sized chunk of igneous rock to the side. “You said he was muddy?”
“Yep.”
Mac scooped up a handful of the loose soil and let the dirt trickle through his fingers—reddish-brown, powdery, no clumps—clay with a mix of alluvial sand. “If the ground had been wet, we should be seeing some paw prints.” But there were none.
“Maybe it’s muddy on the inside?”
“Or maybe Henry splashed through Jackrabbit Creek and rolled around on the muddy bank before hopping in Mabel,” he rationalized.
“Then why is the door padlocked?”
Mac rose and wiped his hands on his pants. He glanced around, noticing a chicken crib on the other side of the house. “Maybe she throws her chickens in here at night to keep them safe.”
“It’s mid-afternoon,” her tone was blatantly skeptical.
“My point is there could be a logical explanation for the lock.”
Claire rested against the shed and squinted at him. “If you’re going to tag along with me, you need to at least try to play along with my suspicions.”
He placed his hand next to her head, leaning into her, breathing in the smell of her sun-warmed hair. “If you’ll remember, I’m not here by choice.”
She smiled, lifting her chin, her eyes wicked and inviting.
Mac gulped. “Now is not the time, Claire.” He pushed away from the shed. “Sophy could be home at any moment, and what I want to do to you will take several hours to do right.”
He heard her suck in her breath and nearly slammed her up against the wall, anyway—Sophy be damned, but he had no desire to be caught with his pants down. He grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the wall. “Come on. Let’s go get my truck. Rattlesnake Ridge is waiting for me.”
She tugged on his hand, stopping him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not after what happened to your brakes.”
“I reported the incident to Sheriff Harrison in Yuccaville this morning. He can’t arrest anyone until whoever is doing it is caught in the act. What more can I do?”
“Not go out to the mines.”
“Claire, I’m not going to sit on my hands while you convince Ruby not to sell those mines.”
Her eyes narrowed, flashing in anger. “That’s not what I meant, you big bozo.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“Working in those mines is dangerous.”
The warmth tingling under his skin had nothing to do with the spring sunshine. He draped his arm over her shoulders and led her toward Mabel. “So is spending time with you, but I can’t seem to stop.”
She elbowed him lightly, chuckling when he grunted. Halfway to the car, Claire ducked out from under his arm and jogged toward Sophy’s house.
“What are you doing?” he called after her.
“Running a security check.” She slipped around to the back, out of view.
“Damn your curiosity, Claire.” Mac chased after her, wondering why he couldn’t be attracted to meek women who were afraid of their own shadows.
He rounded the corner just as the screen door slammed shut behind Claire. Mac paused on Sophy’s back stoop, rubbing his jaw. Why would Sophy padlock her shed but leave her back door unlocked?
Opening the screen door, he stepped inside a plain old laundry room—no bubbling cauldrons, crystal balls, or pentagrams chalked out on the cement floor. The smell of stale cigarette smoke filled the still air, no doubt from years of it drifting throughout the house, clogging every porous surface.
“Claire?” When she didn’t reply, Mac squeezed through the half-opened door leading into the kitchen.
The window above the sink looked out at the cedar shed, yellow padlock and all. Wayne Newton salt-and-pepper shakers sat centered on the sill. Magazine cutouts and postcards of Las Vegas plastered the refrigerator and surrounding cupboard doors.
Dragging his gaze from the images of gaudy fountains and flashy casino fronts, Mac tiptoed across the vinyl flooring, wincing with every creak.
The dining room was ticking.
With the blinds shut snugly, soft shadows lurked in the room, especially the corners. Mac skirted the round oak table to get a closer look at the clock. Red dice took the place of the numbers and two elongated Greta Garbo cigarette holders made up the hands. Viva Las Vegas was painted on the face. A classic piece, he mused, undoubtedly available only at Tiffany’s.
A chest-high stack of newspapers sat on the table. Mac picked up the top one—the Las Vegas Sun, dated three months ago. What was with Sophy’s obsession with Vegas?
A dull thud came from the next room, followed by a “yowch!”
He dropped the paper back on the pile. “Claire?” he whispered and stepped through the archway leading into the living room.
Beige shades diffused the sunlight blasting through two big windows and cast a tan-colored glow. The smell of smoke mixed with perfume filled this room. A glass coffee table sitting askew—that must have been what Claire bumped into—separated a brown couch, worn on the armrests, from the huge 1970s console television. Above the T.V., one of those light-up pictures hung on the wall.
Mac peered closer, shaking his head as he recognized the Las Vegas Strip. Maybe Sophy was an ex-showgirl.
A gasp of surprise resounded from a hallway lined with four doors, all closed except for the one second from the end.
“Claire?” Mac headed down the hall, stopping abruptly in the open doorway. Stacks of furniture packed the room in sardine-style. Green drapes shuttered out most of the sunlight.
“Look at all of this,” Claire said, rising on to her toes to squeeze between a tall armoire and a large dresser chest—both unquestionably antiques.
The room smelled of old varnish and stale upholstery. The gloom and heat felt almost tangible, claustrophobic.
Several more antique dressers were squeezed into the center of the narrow room, along with a fancy, tasseled couch. Three pansy-covered chairs, a glass door bookcase, a large desk, a dark-colored sideboard, and two identical nightstands stacked on top of a round, claw foot table edged the room.
“Why does she have it all packed in here?” Mac asked.
Letting out a low whistle, Claire leaned over the large desk. She pulled open one of the drawers and closed it, the wood gliding smoothly in its track. “These aren’t just any old antiques, you know.” She glanced from piece to piece, rubbing her hands together. “These are worth a pretty penny.”
“Let me guess, Antiques 101, right?”
“No, smartass. My mom records every episode of the Antiques Roadshow. She plays that show 24/7.”
“So how old are we talking?”
Claire pointed at the tall armoire. “That’s a Louis XV Walnut Armoire, probably dated around the late 1700s. I bet it’d run close to $17,000 at Sotheby’s. This dresser is a George III ‘Secretary’ Chest-On-Chest, made sometime around 1800. I’d price it around $15,000.”
Mac didn’t doubt Claire’s estimates, but why were these expensive antiques in the spare bedroom of the owner of a small-town diner? Had Sophy been in business with Joe, and Ruby didn’t realize it?
He watched Claire’s gaze bounce around the room. “Would you look at that ...” she said, her eyes locked on the nightstands stacked on top of the claw foot table. With a frown etched on her brow, she scrambled over the writing desk toward them.
“What?” Besides the top drawer missing a knob, he didn’t see anything striking about them. “Hey, what are you doing?” he asked as Claire unscrewed the knob on the lower drawer.
“Nothing.” She pocketed the knob and crawled toward him.
The sound of tires crunching on the gravel outside made them both freeze.
Claire’s eyes were as wide as quarters as she star
ed back at him. “Uh, oh,” she whispered.
“Don’t move.” Mac crept back to the living room and peeked outside. A white Chevy S-10 with a Tucson Electric Power decal on its door sat parked behind Mabel.
He stepped back from the window at the sound of footsteps crossing the wood porch.
Someone knocked on the front door. Mac stood still, holding his breath.
The screen door creaked open, then more knocking followed by a deep “Hello?”
If he and Claire made it out of this without getting caught, Mac was going to bury her up to her neck in sand and not dig her out until he was finished with the mines.
The screen door slammed shut. Footsteps thudded across the porch. Seconds later, the pickup growled to life and the truck disappeared back down the drive.
His heart still rattling in his chest, Mac returned to the room. “Claire, we are leaving.” His tone allowed no arguments.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m stuck, and I think I ripped my pants.”
“What are you stuck on?” Mac squeezed between the fancy armoire and the expensive chest of drawers, careful not to scratch them with the rivets on his jeans.
“A beaded, Italian, three-arm chandelier.”
“Can’t you just pull yourself free?”
“And break it? This thing was made in the late 1800s.”
Mac inched closer. “Is the chandelier caught on your pocket?”
“No, my hair.”
“Then why are your pants ripped?”
“Because I ate a pint of fudge nut brownie ice cream last night after I got back to the Winnebago.”
Mac chuckled.
“It’s not funny, Mac.”
“Sorry,” he said, still laughing. He crawled over the desk.
Claire held onto his ribs as he untangled her hair, its corn-silk softness feathering through his fingers. He nudged her back across the desk in front of him. As she slipped down over the desktop, something fell to the floor with a dull whop.
“Crap,” she muttered.
“I’ll get it.” Mac crawled over the desk.
He picked up what looked like a book with a snapped flap holding it closed. He unsnapped it and flipped open the book—only it wasn’t a book. Instead of bound pages, there were holes for coins. Labels marked the date and type.
“What is it?” Claire asked.
“A coin collection.”
Mac stared at the coin holes. There was one empty slot in the set. The label below it read, Double Eagle, $20 Liberty (gold) d.1879.
He frowned. “I’ll be damned.”
* * *
Sophy peered out through the kitchen order-window as Dory Hamilton squeezed into his usual booth, the one that overlooked Jackrabbit Creek.
Tucson Electric Power had been good to the man, obvious by Dory’s big belly, fat gold wristwatch, and multiple log-chain style necklaces.
She grabbed her order pad and walked over to where the Mr. T wanna-be stared out at the cottonwood trees. “What can I get ya, Dory?” She clicked her pen.
Dory turned, a surprised smile creased his thick cheeks. “What are you doing here?”
Sophy raised her eyebrows. She’d spent almost every day in this godforsaken diner for over three decades. What did he think she was doing there? Holding dance classes?
“Why wouldn’t I be here?”
“I figured you were home with your company. I just stopped by your place to read the meter and saw a sweet-looking hotrod in your drive, with lots of chrome and a flaming paint job.”
Fear and rage cramped her stomach.
Dory’s chubby forehead crinkled into deep wrinkles. “What happened to your cheek? That’s a nasty bruise.”
Sophy ignored his question. “What color was the hotrod?”
“Blue with yellow and red flames up the side. Reminded me of a car my old man had back—”
“What kind of car?” She played dumb. There was only one car in this corner of the state that fit that description, and Sophy was ninety-nine percent certain that Harley Ford wasn’t behind the wheel today.
The bruise on her cheek began to throb.
Dory shrugged, his jowls bouncing along with his shoulders. “A late ‘40s or early ‘50s Mercury. You know the owner?”
She swallowed the lump of fury in her throat and forced a smile to her lips. “Sure do. Now what can I get you?”
Sophy jotted down his order and pegged it in the order-window. Grabbing a knife, she quartered a lemon and took several deep breaths. The sharp smell of citrus cut through the grease-filled air. She was going to have to teach that nosy bitch what curiosity did to the cat.
“Hey, Sophy,” Dory called across the diner. “What’s up with your newspaper boxes? Was some stupid kid spinning doughnuts in your parking lot again?”
No. “Probably.”
She’d seen Ruby’s nephew’s pickup parked in her lot when she’d left The Shaft last night. She had little doubt as to who’d crushed the boxes. And why.
“Order up,” the cook called.
Next time she would deliver more than just a warning.
Sophy stabbed the knife into the butcher block.
* * *
“You look like hell,” Gramps said, frowning up at Claire through a haze of cigar smoke.
“It’s good to see you, too, you old fart.” Claire dropped into the lawn chair next to Manny.
The sky was filled with dark pinks and soft purples as the sun vanished below the horizon. Patsy Cline’s sweet voice rang out from inside Gramps’s Winnebago, singing about walking after midnight.
“What happened to your cheek, bonita?” Manny asked.
The screen door slammed. “Mom said she walked into a barbed wire fence last night,” Jess said, stepping down from the Winnebago with a bag of fried pork rinds and two Budweisers. “But I think she looks like Tammy Marshal after Jane Miller scratched her with her nails.”
Gramps gave Claire a squinty-eyed stare, Dirty Harry fashion. “Did you get in a fight?”
“No, of course not.” Claire was grateful that the remnants of her sunburn hid her blush.
If Gramps found out the truth, he’d probably tell her mom. Then all hell would break loose. She turned to Jess. “Your mom’s looking for you.”
Jess handed Gramps and Manny the beers, then dropped onto the ground at their feet and started crunching on the pork rinds.
Gut rumbling, Claire swallowed the hunger-spurred saliva pooling in her mouth. The fried-food madness had to stop. Her clothes were bursting at the seams. She’d sooner run around in her polka-dotted skivvies than don a muumuu for the remainder of their trip.
“Mom’s trying to send me off to Tucson to some boarding school.” Jess lifted her chin, defiant. “I’m not going.”
Manny shook his head, his usual grin absent.
Gramps took another hit from his cigar and looked off toward the setting sun as though he had one last chance of seeing it tonight.
Claire leaned forward, dangling her hands between her knees. “How about I walk you home?” Somebody needed to help the girl sort fact from fiction.
Jess sighed. “’Kay, but can we wait just a little longer?”
“Sure.” Claire pushed to her feet. “I’ll take a shower first.”
“Are you planning on sticking around here tonight?” Gramps asked as she passed in front of him.
Claire nodded. If he told her she had to leave, she was going to wallop him upside the head. Respect for elders aside, the old man didn’t need that much freakin’ sex. If she wasn’t getting any, he shouldn’t, either.
“Good. I’d hate for you to run into any more barbed wire fences.” The grin on his face fell in the wisenheimer class.
“You mean you don’t have a date coming over?” She dug back.
Gramps didn’t answer.
Manny chuckled. “Oh, he has a date all right. He’s going out with Rosy Linstad again.”
“Shut it, Carrerra.�
��
“Again? How many times is this?” Claire asked.
“None of your business.”
“Three,” Manny supplied without hesitating.
Three? Claire’s heart panged for a certain redhead she’d grown very fond of.
“Way to go, dude,” Jess said, crunching away.
Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “According to the rules, one more date and I get to meet her in person.”
“Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched,” Gramps said.
Manny wolf-whistled, loud and clear.
Claire turned and stared as a long-legged, black-haired beauty strutted past in a seersucker shirt, a short skirt, and black boots that rimmed her thighs. With a toss of her waist-long hair, the Cher look-alike shot Manny a flirty smile and winked.
“Ay yi yi,” Manny said under his breath.
Claire watched the woman strut away, the wag in her hips practically rattling the windows of Chester’s Brave. “Who is that?”
“Kat Jones,” Gramps supplied. “Ex-dancer and Pilates instructor extraordinaire.”
“With that hair,” Claire said, “she looks like she has some Latino in her.”
Manny chuckled. “If I have my way, she’ll have some more Latino in her by the end of tonight.”
Claire shook her head. She should have seen that one coming.
With a grunt, Manny clambered out of his chair, his joints snapping like an automatic cap gun, and raced after Ms. Jones—well, as fast as a sixty-nine-year-old man can race.
Claire glanced back at Jess. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She shot Gramps a warning look. “Be good.”
“What? I’m always good.”
“Your nose is growing.” Claire stepped inside the Winnebago.
Fifteen minutes later, she walked out of the bathroom in the midst of towel-drying her hair and paused when she saw Gramps grabbing Henry’s leash off the wall.
He glanced over at her. “I’m taking the kid home.”
“Why?”
“It’s on my way.”
“To Rosy’s?”
“Like I said before, mind your own business.” Without another word, he left.