By Ann Charles
CHAPTER ONE
Wednesday, August 11th
"What do you mean we have to hoof it?" Claire Morgan asked as she slid out of the passenger side of the old green Ford pickup. She joined her grandfather, who stood grimacing at a front tire that looked like it had melted under the setting sun. "Can't you just throw on the spare so we can get out of here before the storm hits?"
"There is no spare," Harley Ford growled as he reached for the three grocery bags in the pickup bed.
Claire fanned her T-shirt and squinted through her blue-blocker sunglasses at the puffy white cumulus cloud growing like a microwaved marshmallow as it raced toward her. Lightning lit the massive cloud in papparazzi-style from within.
Across the valley, just past the dusty pit-stop of Jackrabbit Junction, a towering vortex of dust swirled and churned devilishly. Gusts of sunbaked air whooshed past her, pelting her cheeks with invisible grains of dust, garnishing the roadside barbed-wire fence with white plastic bags and balls of tumbleweed.
“Maybe we should just wait this out,” she said, wiping at the sweat dripping down the side of her face.
Hours ago, the August sun and gravy-thick humidity had liquefied the little bit of makeup she’d brushed on this morning. While she didn’t relish standing tall amongst the desert scrub when the lightning hit, she couldn’t wait for the storm’s cool rain to take the sizzle out of the evening air. Monsoon season in southeastern Arizona offered trial and tribulation in biblical fashion: floods, sandstorms, and lightning. Throw some locust into the mix, and it would be an Armageddon tailgate party.
“We could just sit in the cab and watch the storm pass," she suggested.
"Next you'll want to hold hands and sing campfire songs," Gramps said as he lowered a bag full of oranges to the ground next to her flip-flops.
“Is that how you wooed Ruby?” Claire shot back, referring to her soon-to-be step-grandmother. Her grin widened as his eyes narrowed. “Serenaded her with ‘Koombyah’ and ‘Do Your Ears Hang Low’ until she agreed to marry you?”
“My love life is off limits to you this visit, wiseass. Don’t forget it.”
Thunder grumbled across the valley, sounding out an early warning. A violet curtain of rain hung from the colossal cloud, veiling the mayhem behind it.
“I don’t want to walk, Gramps. I haven’t stretched and warmed up yet.”
“Christ, girl. It's not even a mile to the R.V. park.”
“And I’m not exactly wearing cross-trainers, you know.” She pointed down at her pink thongs.
“Quit wasting time whining and grab your stuff. Besides, I have something to tell you, and I'd rather not be sitting within arm-length when you hear it." He started toward the Dancing Winnebagos R.V. Park at a fast gait--well, as fast as a seventy-year-old with a trick-hip can giddy-up.
Claire frowned after the ornery goat. Crap. After the last time he’d poked the bear, she’d needed a six-pack of Dos Equis and a box of MoonPies to find her happy place. This called for an emergency fix. She leaned into the cab and popped open the glove box. Scrounging through the nest of garage estimates, ink pens, and fast-food napkins, she grunted in satisfaction when her fingers found the pack of menthols she’d stashed.
She peeked once more at the brewing storm before scooping up the bag of oranges and flip-flopping along the asphalt after him. The back of his mint green shirt was patchy with sweat by the time she closed the distance between them. “All right, Gramps. Let me have it.”
He glanced over at the lit cigarette dangling from her fingers, his lips tilted in a disapproving scowl. “I thought you’d quit.”
“I did.” That was before her love life had taken a Tazmanian-Devil-inspired spiral. “This is just a figment of your overheated imagination.” She savored the slight cough-drop taste before blowing out a lungful of smoke. Damn, she had missed smoking. Gramps’s scowl spread to his forehead. “Quit stalling and spill,” she pushed.
“You remember me mentioning that somebody broke into Ruby’s place through the office window?”
“What?” She stopped in the middle of the road, momentarily forgetting about the thunder, the wind, and the sore spot between her toes where her plastic shoes were scraping away skin. “I remember you mailing me a new key last month with no explanation included.”
Ruby’s office was practically a museum, full of wall-to-wall, expensive antiques collected not-so-legally by her first husband, who had overdosed on potato chips, Marlboro cigarettes, and stress several years back and been taking a dirt nap ever since. To Claire’s knowledge, only three people in this corner of the state had any inkling of the treasures hidden down in Ruby’s daylight basement, and two of them were about to get drenched.
“I can’t believe you’re just now telling me this.”
“Move your ass, child,” he yelled through the whistling wind. “In case you didn’t notice, Mother Nature is about to dump her dirty bathwater on us.”
She jogged up next to him. “What did they steal?” She would have grabbed the first edition of Moby Dick. No, Treasure Island.
“Nothing.”
That made no sense. Unless they were kids. While Jackrabbit Junction was nothing more than a spit-wad on the county map, Yuccaville was just twenty miles up the road and rumored to have one roving gang. Although, with seventy percent of Yuccaville’s population in high school when Gunsmoke premiered and now required by law to wear restrictive lenses while driving, Claire suspected the gang was just a pack of wild dogs.
“Looters?”
“Nope.”
“A Johnny Cash fanatic?” she asked, thinking about the velvet painting that hung on the office wall. The man in black lured all kinds of nuts.
“Huh-uh.”
“Are you sure somebody broke in?”
“There were crowbar dents in the window sill and the lock was broken.”
“Then why?” Claire stumbled, avoiding a pink and brown Banded Gecko skittering across the black asphalt.
“We’ve been asking that ever since it happened.”
“Did you call Deputy Sheriff Droopy?”
“I didn’t want to, but Ruby insisted, what with Jess living there with us.”
On the threshold of her sixteenth birthday, Ruby’s daughter, Jess, was at that impressionable, know-it-all, boy-crazy age where her mother swung back-and-forth between loving her unconditionally and wanting to duct-tape her mouth shut and send her to a convent.
“But with nothing missing and no clues,” Gramps continued, “his hands are tied.”
“His hands aren’t tied. They’re super-glued to a Big Mac.”
“Don’t start again, Claire.”
“You know Droopy couldn’t find his shadow on a sunny day in Death Valley.” She’d regressed, as usual, when it came to the county sheriff’s pathetic choice for a local lawman. “You think they were after the money?”
“Ruby doesn’t, but I do. Jess isn’t the best at keeping secrets.”
The National Enquirer kept secrets better than Jess. Ruby needed to deposit the money somewhere safe, but her hatred of banks rivaled Willy Nelson’s sentiment of the IRS.
Lightning flashed off to their left. A resounding crack of sky-splitting thunder followed much too quickly. Claire winced and flipped-flopped faster, the smell of rain and wet earth hung heavy in the wind.
“So, what’s Plan A? Track down the burglar?” There had to be some clue left. Something someone experienced at sleuthing, like herself, could find.
Gramps groaned. “You see, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Have you checked for fingerprints yet?”
“I knew you’d go off half-cocked—”
“All you need is one hair for a DNA test.”
“—and end up getting into trouble, as usual.”
“I’ve been suspicious for months about that guy with the Billy Ray Cyrus mullet and blue Care Bear tattoo who runs third shift at Biddy’s Gas and Carryout.”
“But Ruby insisted I tell you—”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before the trail cooled.”
“—since you and Mac are going to be taking care of the R.V. park while we’re on our honeymoon.”
Claire opened her mouth and shut it. Now was not the time to mention that her relationship with Mac, Ruby’s nephew, was kind of on the rocks—well, more like on the pebbles, but there were some definite rocks ahead. Maybe even boulders.
“When is Mac going to get here?” Gramps asked.
Thunder boomed again, a teeth-rattling forewarning this time.
Claire leaned into the wind, protecting her cigarette with her body. “Friday night. He’s working four-tens right now, Tuesdays through Fridays.”
“We’ve set you guys up in my Winnebago.”
“What’s wrong with the spare bedroom?”
“It’s occupied.” Gramps’ face looked pinched, like he was sucking on an unripe grapefruit.
“Oh. Ruby has family coming for the wedding?”
“No.”
Was it her imagination or was Gramps walking even faster. “Then who’s staying in the spare room?” Gramps and Ruby had been sharing a bed since day one, so unless they decided to spend a little time apart before the big day, the bed should be available.
“Well, that’s the thing I needed to tell you about.”
“I thought the break-in was the bad news.”
“This is worse. Katie is coming down to visit for a few weeks.”
Claire blinked in surprise, then chuckled. “Come on, Gramps. Kate isn’t so bad.”
As far as younger sister’s go, Kate was the typical spoiled favorite who never seemed to do anything wrong and could lie better than a used car salesman. Claire usually enjoyed Kate’s company, unless there was a good-looking man in the room. Taking second to her taller, thinner, smarter blonde sister grew old quickly.
Lightning cracked and sizzled. Thunder crashed.
“I agree. Katie is an angel.”
He would say that. Kate never mouthed off to Gramps.
“But she’s not coming alone,” he continued, practically running now. “She’s bringing your mother.”
Claire skidded to a stop.
“Oh shit!” She lifted the cigarette to her lips.
The sky fell.