Dance of the Winnebagos

by Ann Charles

  Ah, sarcasm—her favorite.

  “Quit being smart with me and answer the question.”

  The door handle on Ruby’s pickup gleamed in the sunlight. Claire yanked open the door with more force than necessary, wincing at its rusty scream. “What? I turn into the Wicked Witch of the West?”

  “No, you lose interest.”

  She slid behind the wheel. “I do not.”

  “What about that Higgins boy?” Gramps blocked the door so she couldn’t slam it shut. “You broke up with him less than a week after your mother caught you two in the pool shed.”

  “He was immature.” The guy had cartoon rockets wallpapering his bedroom. Claire was willing to overlook peculiar tastes in exchange for a chest of rock-solid muscles, but when he’d called her “mommy” in the midst of sex, she’d zoomed out of there faster than the Road Runner without even a courtesy “beep beep.”

  “And what about that boy with the old Chevy you were so fond of?”

  So she had a weakness for classic trucks, especially 1959 Chevy pickups painted Plum-Crazy Purple. “He liked his guns more than his girls,” she explained. With over eighty pistols, rifles, and shotguns hanging on the guy’s basement walls, she hadn’t wanted to stick around to see how he ended arguments.

  “Then there was that foreign kid ...”

  She dragged her fingers through her hair, tugging on it, growling deep in her throat. If they were going to analyze each and every relationship she’d bungled over the past two decades, they’d be there until sunset.

  “Gramps, he was from Hawaii. Part Samoan. That’s not foreign. And I broke up with him when I found out he was just using me to get closer to Natalie.”

  “Leave your cousin out of this. She has plenty of her own problems when it comes to men. ”

  Claire’d had just about enough of Gramps’s version of This is Your Life. “What’s your point with all of this shit?”

  “That you’re going to ride out of here with me in a couple of weeks and leave Mac in the dust with a broken heart.”

  Claire inhaled a big breath of desert-fresh air. Why had she ever quit smoking? “Since when did you get all soft-hearted about my boyfriends?”

  “Since you chose Ruby’s nephew as your latest mark.”

  Okay, truth or not, that stung. “Oh, I see. It’s all about Ruby and you. Who gives a damn about good ol’ Claire’s feelings. Her heart’s made of rubber. She’ll bounce back like usual.”

  His blue eyes clouded over. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “While we’re being so honest,” she gripped the steering wheel like it was bendable, “let’s talk about what you’re doing sleeping with one woman while screwing around with another on the side.”

  Gramps stepped back, his face flashing an angry red. “Watch your tongue, young lady. That’s no way to talk to your elder.”

  He was right. Her grandma would’ve dragged her through the house by the ear if she’d heard Claire talk to Gramps that way.

  “Fine.” If he was done rubbing her nose in her past failures, she had a job to finish.

  She slammed the door shut and cranked the window halfway down to keep the air flowing. Her internal radiator needed all of the help it could get to keep a meltdown at bay.

  Claire would be the first to admit that her history with men rivaled Mt. Rushmore in rockiness, but this thing with Mac felt different, more comfortable—like well-worn cotton. But only fortune tellers and palm readers had a clue what the future held for her and Mac, and she’d be damned if she’d spend any more time bickering about it with her grandfather.

  She started the engine.

  “Where are you going?” Gramps asked.

  “Yuccaville.” The lie came easily this time.

  She shifted into gear and spun out of there, glancing back once to catch a glimpse of her grandfather’s puckered brow as he watched her drive away.

  Half a mile down the road, she pulled onto the shoulder and let the engine idle while she dug out the two pieces of paper that had been hidden in the day planner.

  With Mac watching her last night when she’d first picked up the papers, she’d barely had time to do more than give them a glance before he was wondering what was more interesting than taking turns getting carpet burns. She’d managed to distract him with her mouth long enough to cram the papers in the pocket of her shorts lying on the floor next to them.

  With the rest of the evening and wee-hours of the morning spent tasting every inch of scrumptious male flesh and writhing around under Mac’s electric touches, there’d been no time for reading.

  No time for cigarette cravings, either.

  No time for anything but sex and sleep and more sex and less sleep. She needed a few hours to regroup both mentally and physically before seeing Mac again. A few hours to work through some of the crazy thoughts and emotions he’d ignited in her last night.

  Claire glanced in the rearview mirror as she unfolded the papers. Sun shimmers and lizards garnished the cracked asphalt. The old Ford rumbled low and deep, grumbling at being forced to sit still. She locked the doors.

  The first sheet turned out to be a hotel bill for one Señor S. Martino from somewhere called El Gato Verde.

  She flipped the bill over and found the same handwriting as the signatures on the passports. After the hours she’d spent pouring over those pictures and names, she’d recognize those squished little “o’s” with the curly loop-strings anywhere. Sidney Martino must have liked to write in cursive.

  The words on the back of the bill made about as much sense as those on the front.

  Chichis Cantina

  Los Conejos

  Fri, 9

  box 10 carrots

  Didn’t anybody write full sentences in the Martino family? Claire tossed the sheet of paper across the bench seat, which left her with the other piece of paper. It looked like a letter or note, the handwriting feminine, or done by a man with serious closet issues.

  I’ve been watching you. I know what you’re up to and have pictures for proof. Unless you want me to tell the sheriff, meet me tonight at midnight up on Juniper Ridge at the Cowlick Creek bridge. Don’t tell Joe!

  Don’t tell Joe?

  Claire chewed on her lower lip. The day planner must not have belonged to Joe, but rather to Sidney. But why had Joe hidden it in the briefcase? And if Joe had been the one who had hidden it, did he know about this letter?

  Claire flipped the paper over, finding nothing but fold marks. Then she noticed the faint smell of something sweet, exotic in the cab. She lifted the paper to her face, practically wiping her nose with it, and sniffed.

  “Holy frijoles,” she whispered under the sound of the rumbling motor. She knew that perfume—Tabu, still clinging to the paper after all of these years. The leather day planner must have preserved it.

  So, the letter was from Sophy. But why would she want to meet with Sidney? Now Claire had two links between Sophy and Sidney—the driver’s license in Sidney’s wallet and this letter. But what did that prove besides that they’d known each other?

  Claire scanned the words of the letter again, searching for something between the lines, but found nothing more than white space.

  With a grunt of disgust at her inability to figure out what the hell had been going on ten years ago between Joe, his cousin, and Sophy, she shoved both the bill and the letter back into her pocket. There was one other place to check, and the bolt cutters she’d hidden under the seat yesterday were her entry ticket.

  A loud bark beside the truck made her jump and hit her elbow on the horn.

  A blaring honk spliced through the clear desert air. So much for sneaking about; she might as well have tied cans to her bumper.

  Two more barks followed, then the sound of toenails scratching on metal.

  Claire leaned her head out the window and gave the mutt sitting outside the door a fur-scorching glare. “Henry,” she used her boss-the-dog-around voice, “go home.”

  Henry cocked his
head to the side and stared at her.

  “Go! Shoo! Get outta here!”

  The dog glanced toward the R.V. park and whined. He turned back to her and barked again.

  What did he want? Most days, he didn’t even spare her a glance. “Dammit, Henry. Go home!”

  Henry crouched on his haunches then leaped into the bed of the pickup in a single bound.

  Claire gawked at the ground where he’d been sitting. Gramps needed to lay off watching those professional dog shows—Henry was getting too big for his britches.

  Whirling in the seat, she stared at the mutt through the dirt-fogged back window.

  Henry circled twice before dropping onto his belly. He lowered his head onto his paws and peeked up at her briefly before closing his eyes and pretending to go to sleep.

  What did he think? She’d graduated from the Stupid Academy?

  She grabbed the door handle. The sight of a car heading toward her from town made her pause. She didn’t want anyone stopping to see if she needed any help. “Screw it,” she said and let go of the handle. The dog would have to join the search party. She just hoped he didn’t freak out when he realized where she was heading.

  Grinding into first gear, she dumped the clutch, stomped on the accelerator, and spit gravel into the ragged bunch of sage lining the ditch.

  It was time to find out what Sophy had locked in that shed.

  Ten minutes later, she killed the engine in front of Sophy’s place.

  Nothing had changed since Claire had last trespassed—same cinderblock house, same patch of daisies in the front yard, same shed with a yellow padlock. So how come chills were crawling up her spine?

  Judging from the growl coming from the pickup bed, she wasn’t the only one feeling a little apprehensive.

  Claire checked the watch Ruby carried in the ashtray—six forty-five. She had hours until Sophy finished at the diner, she needed only twenty minutes.

  Stuffing her undies in the glove box, she slipped her shoes on. With a grunt of courage, she climbed out of the pickup and grabbed the bolt cutters from behind the seat.

  * * *

  Mac reached across the bed for Claire and found nothing but cool sheets and an empty pillow.

  His lids shot open. As he stared at the popcorn ceiling, a hazy memory of Claire standing at the door replayed in his head. Where had she said she was headed?

  His stomach tightened and twisted, and it had nothing to do with the smell of Ruby frying bacon down in the kitchen.

  He shoved back the sheet and reached for his jeans. Minutes later, he buttoned his shirt as he trod across the rec room, the shag carpet tickling the skin between his toes. He could hear Ruby singing in the kitchen.

  He paused in the doorway and watched his aunt flip bacon in the cast iron frying pan. She was smiling, her cheeks glowing. He hadn’t seen her looking so happy in years. Not since she’d first married Joe.

  “Morning,” he said, smiling back at her. He crossed the green and white checkered linoleum, crumbs sticking to the bottom of his bare feet, and kissed her cheek. “What are you so happy about?”

  “Oh, nothin’ much. Just the typical stuff this morning. You know: the sun is shining, the jays are singing, and the old willow’s branches are swinging in the breeze.”

  Sounded like the setting for a Disney movie. Mac had an idea her mood had more to do with the crotchety old guy he’d run into on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night than the weather.

  “What time did Harley leave last night?”

  Ruby’s face flushed. She kept her eyes on the pan in front of her. “I’m not sure. You want some eggs?”

  “Thanks, but bacon and toast are plenty. Have you seen Claire this morning?”

  “Nope, but she took the pickup.”

  “Without asking you?”

  “She asked last night. Said she had some errands to run this morning.”

  Mac frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that.

  Claire was hiding something—something she’d seen on those two pieces of paper that had mysteriously disappeared while she’d turned him inside out with her mouth. Knowing Claire, it was probably something that would make his blood pressure shoot sky high. He needed to speak to the one person who would know all the details on where Claire had headed off to this morning. “Is Jess up?”

  Ruby shook her head. “I heard her alarm go off, but she probably won’t drag her butt down here for another half hour.”

  Until Jess got up, he might as well sit and enjoy his breakfast. He poured himself some orange juice and dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, the padded vinyl hissing under his weight.

  “How’d you sleep last night?” she asked.

  Mac grabbed the Arizona Daily Star newspaper from the opposite side of the table. Sleep had taken a back seat to exploring Claire’s body.

  “Fine,” he lied, swallowing the juice, flipping to the For Sale section.

  Ruby carried the pan over to the table and dropped a piece of crispy bacon on his plate. “Really? Just ‘fine’?”

  Mac looked up to find her grinning at him. “Yeah, why?”

  “Because your neck looks like you spent the night fighting off my vacuum cleaner.”

  * * *

  Claire stood in the bright morning sunshine, heat pounding down on her like a sledgehammer. Sparrows chirped and chattered around her while goose bumps raced up and down her limbs.

  Now that she stood in front of the cedar-planked shed, her nerve wavered. Her feet wanted to turn around and climb back in the pickup, with or without the rest of her.

  There was something in the shed that Sophy didn’t want anyone else to see.

  Was it dead? Worse, was it still alive?

  Claire rubbed the back of her neck, not sure she really wanted to find out.

  Henry whined at her feet.

  Maybe rushing over here wasn’t the wisest action to take. Maybe she should have stayed and tried to convince Mac to come with her.

  Nah. He’d never have gone for it. This was something she was going to have to do on her own.

  She squashed the flutters of fear flapping around in her gut and strode to the shed door. With one strong squeeze, she cut through the yellow padlock and dropped the broken lock and the bolt cutters on the ground.

  Henry whined again.

  She looked back at the mutt. The old boy crouched in the shade next to the front tire, his snout resting on his front paws, his eyes glued to the shed like it might shudder to life and attack him at any moment.

  “You big wimp,” she said, while a shrill voice in her head brought up the fact that the dog had already been inside the shed and might be the wiser of the two of them.

  Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door. The screech from the rusty hinges echoed across the valley. She winced, feeling about as sneaky as a rhino on roller skates this morning.

  Shadows waited for her on the other side of the jamb.

  Something brushed against her leg. She glanced down to find Henry standing next to her, his back quarter leaning against her calf as he stared into the shed’s gloomy interior.

  “Shall we?” she asked the dog, as if someone who liked to clean himself in front of mixed company could talk any sense into her.

  He growled deep in his throat.

  A tremor shot through her before she could hold it back. “Oh, knock it off.”

  Without further hesitation, she stepped into the cool, dark building. Its metal roof hadn’t had a chance to soak up the heat yet, but in another couple of hours, the place would rival the Sahara.

  As her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, she sniffed—stale air and old grease, but no dead bodies. Well, at least no rotting ones. That didn’t rule out skeletons, though.

  Something scurried along the packed dirt floor in the far corner—a sound effect she could have done without. Henry barked twice and raced over to investigate.

  Where was the light? There had to be a light.

  She felt al
ong the wall for a switch, her fingers brushing over sticky cobwebs. Something with too many legs to be friendly scuttled over the back of her hand. She grimaced and yanked her hand back, wiping it on her pants as she wondered how many scorpions could live in a shed this size. What about brown recluses or black widows?

  She didn’t even want to think about the snakes down in these parts.

  With an involuntary shiver, she pulled out the small penlight she’d found in Ruby’s glove box and wished Jess had put the other flashlight back.

  Not five feet in front of her was a tarp-covered El Camino. The shape of the bed gave the secret away. The wire-wheels peeking out from underneath sparkled like chromed Ferris wheels.

  Claire rounded the front of the car, bypassing a long workbench covered with cans and bottles containing everything needed to wash a car and then some.

  She shined the light on the far wall. No pentacles or pentagrams, no symbols for the four elements or four seasons, no upside-down crosses or Latin words scrawled in pig’s blood, or any blood for that matter. Just tools—a shovel, post-hole digger, hand saw, pair of loppers—nailed to the wall.

  So much for her notion that Sophy was making animal sacrifices in here. Claire was beginning to feel like a first-rate fool for making such a big deal of this shed.

  She walked around the back of the car and shined her light on three, fifty-gallon oil drums sitting in the corner. A pair of thick leather gloves lay on top of one of them. She slipped them on, they were a size too large.

  Holding the penlight between her teeth, she grabbed the metal lid on the barrel closest to her, squinted, and braced herself mentally for what she was about to find.

  The lid lifted off like it had been blown off from the inside. It slipped out of her loose gloves and clattered onto the packed dirt floor, sounding like she’d dropped a tambourine in a porcelain tub.

  Henry trotted over and let out a quick bark, staring up at her as if telling her to knock it off.

  She pulled the pen light from her mouth and spotlighted his white and brown face. “Like you’re one to talk.” She glared at him, daring him to reprimand her again. “Your snores could wake the dead.”