Dance of the Winnebagos

by Ann Charles

  Uhhhh ... “Sure,” Mac said.

  “Good.” Harley walked over to the door and pulled it open. “So, now that you know what to do, go out there and get started.”

  Mac pushed to his feet, not sure at all what to do about Claire. One thing was certain, he needed to get the hell out of Dodge and ponder the inside information Harley had just shared—after he deciphered it.

  He hesitated at Harley’s side. “While we’re discussing intentions this morning, maybe you’d like to explain what yours are in regard to my aunt.”

  Harley’s eyes widened for a second, then narrowed. “That’s none of your business, boy.”

  “As Ruby’s nephew, I think it is. Despite the fact that you went out with another woman last night, I’d have to be blind not to notice that you’re warm for my aunt.” Mac crossed his arms over his chest. “What I want to know is, are you in it for the long run?”

  * * *

  Claire escaped the magnifying glare of the late morning sunshine and slipped into the shadow-filled tool shed. She was beginning to feel like the greasy-smelling sweat hut was her home away from home, what with the Winnebago being Gramps’s territory and all.

  As usual, the floor board creaked as she walked to the workbench.

  Something had crashed through the fence in the north end of the canyon, and Ruby wanted Claire to fix the broken rails before some local rancher’s stock explored the campground and left cow pies as calling cards.

  Claire grunted as she lifted the metal toolbox from the bench top. She took three steps toward the door and the heavy chunk of steel dive-bombed to the floor, corner first, the handle still clutched in her grip.

  The resounding crash of metal tools clanging together made her ears ring as the guts of the toolbox spilled across the floor.

  “Well, shit,” she muttered, then noticed that in the impact, the box had broken the creaky floor board in half. The opposite end had been forced up, pulling the nails free of the subfloor.

  Great, now she needed to fix the floor, too.

  Squatting, she righted the toolbox and shoved the wrenches and chisels and screwdrivers back into it. With the claw end of a hammer, she yanked the splintered floor board completely free and stopped, board in hand.

  Under the subfloor, tucked away in a lidless cardboard box, was a briefcase.

  “Holy Peter, Paul, and Mary,” she whispered, gaping down at the silver piece of metal while bees buzzed excitedly in her stomach. Joe’s briefcase! She’d found Joe’s briefcase.

  Claire brushed off the spider webs and blew off the layer of dust, coughing as it coated her lips and tongue and filled her throat and nose. Okay, so that wasn’t her smartest move of the day. She searched twice for scorpions and black widows before hoisting out the briefcase.

  Both latches were locked, the combination dials on each side showing different numbers. She flicked them to all zeros, but the latches still didn’t budge.

  On to Plan B—a chisel and a hammer. The first latch gave way in five blows, the second in just four. There was more than one way to open a briefcase.

  The hinges squeaked in protest as she lifted the lid, her heart thumping in her ears. The black, velvet-lined interior was stuffed with Baby Ruth candy bar wrappers and empty potato chip bags. She should’ve had Henry sniff around in the shed.

  Claire picked up a sour cream and onions bag, grimaced at the crumbs lining it, and tossed it onto the floor.

  “Crap.” She glared at the crinkled wrappers and bags. Another brick wall. This was getting old.

  She kicked the briefcase, sending it spinning across the floor. Wrappers flew and bags fluttered, and when the case stopped, a dark tan book lay in the bottom.

  Claire grabbed the leather book, holding her breath as she unzipped it. She opened the front cover, and a matchbook dropped into her lap. The front cover had a pink flamingo on it with Key Largo Estates written in fancy cursive writing underneath. She recognized the name immediately—it was the same community where the Florida convict’s mom lived, the woman she had talked to several days ago.

  Inside the matchbook cover, written in pen were the words:

  Jackrabbit Junction

  The Shaft

  9/28 8 p.m.

  Joe Martino

  The handwriting wasn’t Joe’s. She’d seen his penmanship on several of the documents in his office, and this was more round and loopy than his. She guessed it belonged to the guy currently sitting in a Florida prison cell, which meant he’d been right here in Jackrabbit Junction at one time. But why? What would Joe need with a convict? Claire had a feeling the answer to that question would in no way benefit Ruby.

  She tucked the matches in her shirt pocket and lifted the book. It was a day planner, and a fancy one at that. Gold-edged, thick paper, and a soft, cow-hide exterior. Joe had expensive taste, as she already knew from the Mercedes.

  Fanning the pages, she scanned the dates, her brow tightening as her eyes searched for ink.

  “Hi, Claire,” Jess said.

  Claire jerked. A defibrillator would have caused less of a jolt to her heart. She needed to hang a bell around the kid’s neck

  “What’re you looking at?” Jess skipped over and stared down at the day planner.

  Claire snapped it closed. She didn’t want Ruby to know what she’d found until she had a chance to look through it and judge the possible effects any contents could have on Ruby’s life. “Uhhh, it’s just a diary—my diary.”

  “You keep a diary, too?”

  “Sure,” Claire lied, tossing the book into the toolbox and gathering the remaining tools scattered about the floor.

  “What do you write in yours? Do you talk about Mac?”

  Claire paused, a screwdriver in hand, and frowned.

  Apparently, there was no such thing as a secret in Jackrabbit Junction. “Of course not. Why would I want to write about him?” she said, as if her mind hadn’t been busy lately conjuring all kinds of wicked ideas involving the hazel-eyed man.

  Grabbing the tools she needed and throwing the rest in the handle-less toolbox, Claire walked out into the sunlight.

  Jess followed and waited next to Ruby’s old Ford as Claire placed the tools in the bed. “Because I saw him kissing you.”

  “You did?” Claire wiped her dirty palms on her shirt, trying to act like sharing sugar with Mac was last year’s news.

  “Uh-huh. Just like I saw your grandpa kissing my mom.”

  “He was?” There was hope for the ornery old coot yet.

  “Yep. On the lips. I think he stuck his tongue in her mouth, too.”

  Claire winced. Grandparent sex—ugh. She’d been able to block out the idea of Gramps with a woman since they’d arrived. No need to break through that barrier now. “Don’t tell me any more. I don’t think my stomach can handle it.”

  She ruffled Jess’s hair and dropped her arm over the girl’s shoulder, leading her toward the cab of the Ford.

  The itch to scan through the day planner tugged on Claire, but she could tell by Jess’s attitude that the girl was going to stick to her side like peanut butter for the day, or at least until lunch. Claire would have to save the book until later. Maybe lock herself in Gramps’s bathroom and then delve into it.

  Jess climbed into the cab, then flashed Claire a devilish grin. “Manny said they caught you snogging with Mac last night.”

  Claire blushed clear down to her purple toenails. “Manny has a big mouth,” she muttered and climbed behind the wheel.

  Jess giggled and peeked at Claire from under her eyelashes. “So have you gone to second base with Mac yet?”

  * * *

  “What’ll ya have, Willis?” Sophy asked as she set an iced tea on the counter in front of the hardware store owner. He’d bathed in English Leather again. The sharp tang of his cologne overshadowed the ever-present grease hanging in the air.

  “Just the usual today.” He took off his cowboy hat and dropped it on the barstool next to him.

  Sophy yel
led through the order window. “Two German pigs, make ‘em cry and smother ‘em with Wisconsin wax.” She turned to find Willis frowning at her over the top of a copy of the Yuccaville Yodeler.

  “Why don’t you just say sausage and onions, covered with cheese?” he asked.

  Sophy smiled. “Wanna chase that with a bucket of cold mud?”

  He lowered the paper. “Now you’re doing it on purpose.”

  Winking, she tossed a packet of Nutrasweet in front of him.

  He tore open the packet and dumped it in his tea. “Oh, hey, do you remember that guy who used to work with your ex-husband at the antique store?”

  Sophy froze, ketchup bottle clutched in her grip. “Why?”

  “Some girl came in the store the other day asking about him. She had that picture they ran in the paper years ago. You know, the Grand Opening one?”

  Sophy knew exactly which picture, and she knew exactly who was asking. Claire was at it again. The girl didn’t know when to stop.

  “She wanted to know his name, and for the life of me, I can’t remember. This damned steel plate,” he knocked on his forehead, “makes my brain short out.”

  Pretending to think, Sophy placed the ketchup bottle down in front of Willis.

  “Anyway, I thought you might remember who he was, being that he was so chummy with your ex.”

  Sophy remembered all right, but there was no way in hell she was sharing that information with Willis, or that interfering woman. “Can’t say that I do. It’s been a long time since I thought about Joe, not since the funeral.” May he rot in hell, the lying bastard.

  “Order up!”

  She grabbed Willis’ meal from the order window and dropped the plate in front of him with more of a clang than she’d intended.

  Willis didn’t seem to notice. “Well, let me know if it comes to you.” He lifted his newspaper with one hand and picked up his fork with the other, digging into one of the sausages.

  “Sure.” Never.

  Beads of sweat formed on the back of Sophy’s neck. She busied her hands drying cups to hide her shaking.

  Time was short, her luck in the mine was running dry, and Mac had somehow managed to dig his way out. Sophy didn’t need Claire poking around in her past, but stopping the nosy bitch without drawing a crowd was going to take some finesse.

  * * *

  Sunday, April 25th

  Mac parked his pickup in front of Ruby’s store. He glanced at the sky as he crossed the drive. The sun hadn’t taken on its hard-pan glare yet, but the cobalt sky held the promise of another road burner.

  His boot heels thudded on the porch. The smell of bacon hung in the air, making his mouth water. He hadn’t stopped for breakfast on the way through Tucson.

  “Don’t you walk away from me, Jessica Lynn!” Mac heard Ruby yell as he reached for the door handle.

  Jess shoved out through the screen door, nearly slamming Mac in the nose with the screen. Her face was red and blotchy, tears threatening. “I hate you, Ruby!” she screamed, leapt down the steps, and grabbed her ten-speed leaning against the porch. Without a backwards glance, she sped across the bridge and peddled toward town.

  Mac shook his head. Poor kid. Growing up without a father was tearing her apart. He stepped inside the General Store, letting the screen door bounce shut behind him.

  Ruby burst through the curtain, a yellow dishrag thrown over her shoulder. Her mouth was tight, her face looked tired. “Listen, Je—” She paused when her gaze hit Mac. “Oh. Hi.” Her mouth twisted into a grin. “Welcome back to Serenity Haven.”

  “What was that about?” Mac nodded toward the door.

  “Just the usual breakfast chatter. You know—I’m an evil, heartless bitch bent on destroying everything good in Jess’s life.”

  “She doesn’t want to go to school in Tucson, I take it.”

  “She’d sooner have me pull her teeth out with pliers.”

  “Why are you pushing her to go then?”

  Ruby sighed and pulled the dishtowel from her shoulder. “The high school in Yuccaville doesn’t have the extra programs offered by city schools. I want her to have opportunities I never had.”

  “But what about what Jess wants?”

  She folded the towel and dropped it on the counter. “This parenting business feels like eating nails some days. Worrying about her future keeps me awake at night. All of these ‘what-ifs’ instead of fluffy white sheep leaping around in my head.” She frowned, her green eyes looked troubled. “How do you do what’s best for your child and not hurt her at the same time?”

  Crossing the floor, Mac grabbed the damp dishtowel. “I don’t know anything about raising kids,” he said, gently nudging Ruby back through the curtain and following behind her. “But I do know a thing or two about being an only child. Jess wants to be with her family—namely you. You’re all she really has. Now you’re threatening to take that away again. If I were her, I’d be doing some kicking and screaming, too.”

  Ruby leaned against the bar. “But what if she winds up pregnant, poor, and stuck here in Jackrabbit Junction?”

  “Better here than pregnant, poor, and stuck in some strange city all alone. Besides, Jess is too smart to get herself into that situation. She’s like her mom.”

  “Yeah, I’m real smart. I’m nose-deep in debt with the bank calling me every other day. I wouldn’t wish that on her even when she’s tellin’ me what a rotten mom I am.” She looked over at him. “What did you find out about those samples?”

  Mac schooled his features. While the news hadn’t been overwhelmingly positive when it came to extracting the copper at a minimum cost, there was an unusually large amount of high-quality turquoise in those chunks he’d taken from Rattlesnake Ridge and Socrates Pit. He still needed to get out to Two Jakes and see how deep that vein of amethyst ran before giving Ruby the red or green light.

  “I need to go over the figures, do some math, read up on the market forecast for raw material.” Slipping behind the bar, Mac grabbed a soda pop from the mini-fridge and opened it.

  He also wanted to figure out why Sophy didn’t want him in the mines.

  Suspicions buzzed in his head, tainted with myths he’d heard over the years of lost and hidden treasures. Had Sophy found gold? Buried treasure? Odder things had happened in the Arizona mountains. He sipped the sweet soda.

  Ruby’s eyes widened. “Mac, you know I have to have an answer for the mining company tomorrow at five. How long is this going to take?”

  “As much time as I can find.” He squeezed her forearm. “Trust me. I’m not going to let you lose this campground.” Even if it meant him taking out a second mortgage on his house and cashing out his retirement funds—all of which were now in reach. After spending most of yesterday at the bank and on the phone with his stockbroker, it was just a matter of a few signatures.

  “I just want to make it through this next week without collapsin’ into a ball of weepy putty.” Ruby squeezed her temples. “Claire was right—damn Joe and his lack of foresight. He hadn’t thought about anyone but himself.”

  The mention of Claire’s name made Mac’s chest tight. She was the other topic horning in on his thoughts over the last twenty-four hours. If he told Ruby to sell, he’d be helping the mining company, and Claire would be pissed. Add Harley’s warning to the growing list of Mac’s Claire-based anxieties, and the tension knotting his shoulders and back cinched up another notch.

  “Where is Claire?” he asked, hungry to see the Siren in spite of his apprehension.

  “I don’t know. She asked for the day off. Said something about needin’ to run some errands.”

  Mac frowned. What kind of errands? Most stores in Yuccaville were closed on Sunday. It sounded like a typical Claire distraction.

  “You want some bacon and eggs?”

  “Sure.” His stomach growled at just the mention. “Did Claire take Harley’s car?” He hadn’t seen Mabel in town.

  Ruby flashed Mac a knowing grin. “No, she took my
old Ford. After catching you two exchanging good vibrations Friday night, Harley grounded her from driving his car.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Claire stared into the dark mouth of Rattlesnake Ridge mine, sucking in musty air while clutching the pain in her side. Eating that jelly doughnut for breakfast this morning probably hadn’t been the best idea.

  At least this time she wasn’t seeing shooting stars, unlike a couple of hours ago when she’d climbed to Socrates Pit.

  Any fear she’d had of being watched by an unseen nemesis had evaporated under the rays of sunshine burning holes in her skull. She’d thrown stones at the vultures that had circled mockingly overhead, taunting her with screeches.

  As luck would have it, no Al Capones or Cruella DeVilles had been waiting for her inside Socrates Pit. Unfortunately, no clues about Joe’s past had been waiting, either; nor had any sign of Sophy’s presence. At the rate Claire was going, her odds were better at finding the Holy Grail.

  She used her T-shirt to dry the sweat on her face and scanned the valley below, looking for any followers. Though Sophy should still be waiting tables at the diner, Mac might be back from Phoenix. If he caught her in the mines, she expected he’d chain her to the tool shed and feed her gruel and moldy bread for the next week.

  The coast was clear as far as she could tell.

  Claire grabbed her pack and the rope she’d dragged along and crept into the mine. She moved deeper down the throat of the main tunnel, shadows lurking just beyond her flashlight’s beam.

  She sniffed, then sniffed again, pausing every few feet to listen in the quiet dark. The last time she’d trekked back in this mine, she’d gone head to head with a vile smelling she-pig from hell. Another encounter like that would cost her a clean pair of underwear.

  Grimacing with guilt as she passed the shaft where Mac’s compass had fallen to its watery grave, she continued around several more bends before reaching the craters dotting the walls and ceiling.

  Her thorough inspection of each cavity produced nothing but rat turds, nests of dried sage, and a furry ball of coarse gray hair—which she promptly threw down.