The Rowdy Coyote Rumble (Jackrabbit Junction Humorous Mystery Book 4)

by Ann Charles

  “How do you know we aren’t already?” Greta asked, placing her spy glasses back into her bag and returning to knitting what looked like a muffler.

  “What do you suggest I search for?” Ronnie asked all three.

  “For one thing,” Aunt Millie said, “if these women you took the eyeballs from were mules, you need to dig through the border patrol records about drug mules and past busts.”

  Ruth pointed a needle at Ronnie. “And don’t forget to look for any Spanish articles about the same topics. There are several newspapers in the border towns that may have write-ups about stolen treasure trafficking and what the federales have confiscated.”

  She had a good point. Ronnie hadn’t thought about what might be available on the other side of the border. “Can any of you read Spanish?”

  “Grady can,” Aunt Millie said.

  “He speaks English, German, and Spanish?” Sheesh! Ronnie struggled with English most days.

  “His German is sketchy but passable,” Greta critiqued.

  “But his Spanish is spot on from what I hear,” Ruth said.

  “From whom?” Aunt Millie asked.

  “Juanita Chavez. You know, that busty, pretty young thing with the dark red lipstick who works behind the counter at the post office.” Ruth leaned forward, her smile conspiratorial. “I think she has a crush on Grady, because whenever I bring up his name, her cheeks get all rosy.”

  Ronnie was going to have to pay a visit to the post office and get a look at this Juanita Chavez and her big boobs and red lips. After all of the stress thanks to Lyle’s misadventures with the law, Ronnie had dropped twenty pounds and a solid cup size, darn it.

  “I can’t go to Sheriff Harrison with this,” she told the gang. Where could she find someone who spoke Spanish that could keep a secret …

  Oh, duh!

  Manny!

  Her wonderful new stepfather.

  Now that he was family, he’d be doubly sure to keep his lips locked about this. If not, Ronnie would sic his lovely wife on him.

  “I’ll figure out something for the Spanish stuff,” Ronnie fibbed.

  The suspicion in Aunt Millie’s gaze spoke volumes, but she nodded and aimed her needle at the row of computers. “You’d better get busy before the senior center bus comes by and drops off a herd of old goats who want to check their email accounts for letters from their grandkids.”

  Ronnie hopped up, not needing to be told twice.

  A half hour later, Katie pulled up in front of the library windows and honked once.

  Ronnie gave her sister a one-minute finger and deleted the internet temporary files, cleared the cache, stuffed her printouts in her purse, waving goodbye to the Geritol gang on her way out. “See you all soon.”

  “Give Grady our love,” Aunt Millie called after her.

  Grady’s aunt had once caught Ronnie and Grady kissing during a stakeout. There was no pretending she and Sheriff Hardass were just good ol’ enemies in front of Aunt Millie, no matter how hard they tried.

  The librarian was snoring when Ronnie placed change on the counter for her printouts.

  Outside, the senior citizen center bus was unloading at a fast crawl. On her way to Katie’s Volvo, Ronnie dodged a very round lady who smelled like she’d been rolling in a tub of baby powder.

  The November sunshine warmed the top of her head. She could get used to these Arizona winters real quick-like. Jeans and a T-shirt were her standard uniform now that the blazing heat of summer had mellowed into fall. A comfortable breeze ruffled the shoulder length curls she no longer needed to keep pulled into a ponytail so her neck wouldn’t roast. She slid her sunglasses on, striding over to where Katie waited for her with the car still idling.

  “How’d it go?” Katie asked.

  Ronnie had told her sister about searching for Claire’s Humdigger mine but hadn’t mentioned she was also looking into the diamonds. While Katie knew about the diamonds, the less Katie was involved in Ronnie’s messes the better, especially since her youngest sister’s gut instinct was almost always dead wrong.

  “Not so good. I found some information on a Humdinger Mine in Oregon and another one in Arizona, but nothing on a Humdigger mine. Every time I typed those two words in the Search field, unrelated results with ‘mine’ in them filled page after page.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Why?”

  “Claire’s going to get obsessed again.” Katie took off down the road, but instead of turning toward Jackrabbit Junction, she went in the opposite direction, cruising along a back street in one of Yuccaville’s dingier neighborhoods.

  “Maybe.” Ronnie looked over at Katie. “You missed our turn back there.”

  “I know where the damned turn is. I’ve been down here longer than you, remember? I want to show you something.”

  “Okay, sheesh, don’t bite my head off.” Ronnie settled into the plush leather seats; Katie’s taste in vehicles always had been good. Too bad her taste in men leaned toward chain gangs. At least it had until Butch.

  Several blocks later Katie frowned at the rearview mirror. “We have a tail.”

  Who? Sheriff Harrison? Ronnie’s heart giddy-upped. Grady hadn’t stopped by last night, undoubtedly because Claire had been there cleaning up again.

  She was torn. After spending years as an untouched trophy wife, she didn’t want to be polished and put out on a shelf to shine under the spotlight any longer. Matter of fact, she wanted to be good and tarnished. But she didn’t like being tarnished and tucked away, hidden from the public eye. Was it so much to ask to be treated somewhere in between trophy wife and clandestine lover? A plain-Jane girlfriend, maybe?

  She turned in her seat to see who it was and cursed at the blue pickup following them. “It’s that damned FBI cowboy.”

  “I thought he drove a red pickup.” Katie took a quick right.

  The cowboy followed.

  “He keeps changing vehicles,” Ronnie said, still watching through the back window. “Apparently blue is the new red.”

  “How can you be sure it’s him? Maybe it’s someone even worse with a briefcase full of sharp surgical instruments or an electric dental drill in his glovebox.”

  “Jeez, Katie. A dental drill?”

  “Sorry. I watched Marathon Man the other night when I couldn’t sleep.”

  “You need to stick to happy movies for a while. As for how I can tell it’s my FBI buddy, he always wears his cowboy hat tipped to the right.” Ronnie saw a cloud of smoke seep out through his window. “He also smokes hand-rolled cigarettes like they’re doling them out for free down at the Bureau.”

  “He sounds like the Marlboro Man. What’s he look like?”

  Ronnie had seen him close up only once, and she’d been about four gin and tonics to the wind at the time, but she remembered him being better looking than most of the rat bastard Feds she’d come across. “He’s hot in a chain-smoking, cowboy-skirting-the-edge-of-the-law sort of way, but he carries a badge.” In Ronnie’s book that meant he might as well be carrying the plague.

  “What a no-good, lousy jackass!” her sister snarled into the mirror.

  Ronnie did a double-take. “I don’t know that he’s that bad of a guy.”

  “Your FBI douchebag just threw his still-lit cigarette butt out the window.”

  “He’s not my douchebag.” She faced forward in her seat.

  “Doesn’t he know how dangerous that is in the desert?” Without warning, Katie slammed on her brakes so hard Ronnie face-planted the dashboard.

  “What the hell, Katie?!!” she said, rubbing her forehead.

  Her sister grabbed something orange from the door pocket and was out of sight before the FBI guy’s pickup tires stopped skirrrrch-ing.

  “Katie!” Ronnie called out the driver’s side door after her sister. “Where are you going?”

  A horn honked from somewhere behind them, followed by a “Move your truck, asshole!” A diesel flatbed truck rumbled past Katie’s car, the drive
r’s middle finger held out for the world to see.

  Ronnie shoved open her door and jogged back to where her sister was tapping on the FBI guy’s closed driver’s side window with one of those orange emergency glass breaking hammers.

  Katie’s lips were wrinkled in a scowl, her cheeks red and blotchy. “If you don’t get out of that truck right now and go pick up that cigarette butt you threw out back there, I’m gonna break your freaking window, drag you out by your Federal Bunch of Idiots badge, and kick your smoking ass all of the way back there!”

  “Lady, are you off your meds?” Mr. FBI hollered through the glass. “If you don’t get back in your Volvo, I’m calling the sheriff.”

  Shit! Ronnie didn’t want Grady to be dragged into this. It would give him another reason to frown about the infamous Morgan sisters.

  Katie didn’t even blink about getting the law involved. “And then I’m going to cram that butt so far up your nose that you won’t be able to blow it out ‘til next Easter.”

  He held up his phone and pointedly looked at Ronnie. “You need to get your Shih Tzu back on her leash.”

  “Littering is a misdemeanor fine, you Federal dickhead.” Katie tapped on his window again. “Not to mention this desert is a damned tinderbox full of tumbleweeds and other dead stuff.”

  “Katie, come back to the car.” Ronnie grabbed Katie’s arm, but her sister tugged free.

  “Just because you work for the government doesn’t mean you’re above the law, you stupid monkey butt.”

  Monkey butt? Okay, it was time to wrap up this freak show and move the circus to the next town.

  Ronnie caught Katie again, this time with a firmer grip. “Kathryn Lynette Morgan,” she used her best impression of their mother’s voice and tone. “Get back in your—”

  The whoop-whoop of a police siren cut her off.

  Ronnie froze, her eyes widening. “No,” she whispered.

  Kate whirled, her little orange hammer still raised.

  “Is there trouble here, ladies?” said a voice nowhere near as deep as Grady’s.

  Her knees weak with relief, Ronnie turned slowly, wearing a smile so wide her teeth were probably visible from space.

  Deputy Dipshit. Thank God it was only Claire’s nemesis rather than the sheriff himself. The deputy had come from the other direction. His cruiser idled in the middle of the street while he eagle-eyed them from above his double chin through his driver’s side window.

  “No trouble at all, Deputy,” Ronnie said.

  “Then why is your vehicle stopped in the middle of the roadway?” His gaze swung to Katie. “And what is she holding?”

  Katie pointed her orange glass breaker toward Mr. FBI. “This son of a—” she started.

  Ronnie shoulder bumped Katie.

  “Hey! Knock it off.” She turned back to the deputy. “I was making a citizen’s arrest. This asshole threw out a lit cigarette butt and that’s illegal.”

  The deputy’s face split into a grin. “A citizen’s arrest by a Morgan sister for littering?” He chuckled. “Awesome. This doozy is sure to win me the pot in this week’s pool.”

  The door to the blue pickup swung open. A pair of long jean-clad legs appeared, topped by a black T-shirt and a crooked cowboy hat. Ronnie stared at Mr. FBI, fighting down the heartburn that bubbled up her throat every time she got too close to a badge-carrying member of the cocksuckers who’d taken her easy snow globe life and shaken the holy hell out of it before smashing it on the ground.

  “Sorry about this, Deputy.” The sound of his voice was smoother than she’d remembered from that night when they’d danced and he had warned her about the Husky and the Polar Bear. He flashed his badge at Grady’s deputy and then approached the window with both hands clearly visible. “My cigarette accidentally slipped out of my fingers,” Ronnie heard him explain. “The ladies here were helping me find it.”

  Katie sputtered, but Ronnie covered her sister’s mouth. “Not now.” Not with a Spanish article about Mexican drug mules from a Nogales newspaper stuffed in her purse.

  Shoving Ronnie’s hand away, Katie wiped her mouth with her summer knit sweater. “I hope you washed your hands before touching my mouth.”

  “I’ll walk back,” the FBI guy continued, “and go find that cigarette butt if it’s okay with you.”

  “I’m not sure that’s necessary, Special Agent.” Deputy Dipshit said, kowtowing to the FBI.

  “It can’t hurt to look.” Mr. FBI thumbed in the direction of his idling pickup. “I apologize for any inconvenience this little incident caused. It won’t happen again.”

  “Not a problem.” Deputy Dipshit smirked toward Ronnie and Katie. “We have special instructions to keep an eye on these Morgan sisters. They tend to land ass-deep in trouble without even trying.”

  Special instructions from whom? Ronnie’s jaw tightened. She had a good idea who had given that order.

  The deputy’s hillbilly-like cackle of laughter echoed out through the open window as he rolled away. Claire was right. The deputy needed to be taken down a notch, and Ronnie was just the woman to do it … if Claire didn’t beat her to it. Maybe they could tag team his ass.

  Mr. FBI hit Ronnie with a glare. “You need to take your sister home. I wouldn’t be surprised to see her start foaming at the mouth any minute now.”

  Ronnie bristled. Katie might be rabid today, but no FBI sonofabitch was going to insult her little sister. “You better mind your own mouth, cowboy, or I’ll bust your lip.”

  He chuckled. “I’ve seen you hit.”

  “Then you know I’m not bluffing.”

  “What the hell is her problem?”

  Katie waved her hand between them. “Hello! I’m standing right here.”

  “She’s pregnant and not feeling like herself lately.”

  “Oh, Christ.” He shook his head as if Ronnie had said Katie had thirty days left to live. “That’s even worse.”

  He took off down the street, his strides long, his boot heels clunking with each step.

  Katie huffed. “I’m going to go kick his skinny ass.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re getting back in the car. I don’t need to have Grady breathing down my neck right now.”

  “I thought you liked it when he breathed all over you.”

  “Shush up.” Ronnie took Katie’s keys.

  “Give those back.”

  “Not until you’re behind the wheel.”

  “Fine.” Katie stalked back to her Volvo. The slam of her car door echoed down the block.

  “Here.” Ronnie handed her the keys through the window. Out of the clear blue Arizona sky an idea hit her. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where’re you going?”

  “Just wait for me.” Ronnie met Mr. FBI guy halfway back to his pickup, the now-squished cigarette butt in his hand. “We need to talk,” she told him.

  “Only talk? You mean you’re not going to slam my face into the asphalt, yank my arms back, and ride me like I’m a rodeo bull?”

  Crap. Ronnie winced. He must have heard about that incident last month at The Shaft. “I leave the ass-kicking to the pregnant bruiser these days.” Ronnie held up her finger at Katie, who was leaning out her window, muttering something while gesturing with her hands.

  “What do you want to talk about?” he asked.

  “Not here.” Ronnie glanced around at the houses lining the street, the windows shadow-filled. “Somewhere more private.”

  He stopped next to his pickup door. “Private, huh? Did you learn something we need to know?”

  We? As in the holier than thou, leave no secret hidden FBI? Yes, she’d learned she didn’t want to be used as bait anymore. “Maybe. Meet me tomorrow night at The Shaft.”

  “What time?”

  “Closing time. Outside the back door.”

  Katie honked the horn.

  “That’s kind of late.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize the FBI had an early curfew. How about I offer to read
you a bedtime story in exchange for a moment of your time.”

  He grinned. “I like your fire, Veronica Morgan. I’ll be there in my favorite pajamas.”

  Ronnie would bet they had lassos and horses all over them.

  Her sister honked the horn again, long enough to be heard clear down at the Sheriff’s office.

  “Keep your pants on, Katie! I’m coming,” Ronnie hollered. “Don’t be late,” she told Mr. FBI and returned to the car before Katie really did start foaming at the mouth.

  “What were you talking to that jerk about?” Katie flipped off Mr. FBI as he rolled past them.

  “I’m tired of playing defense.” She buckled her seatbelt.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m going to take the bull by the horns.”

  “Quit using metaphors and just say what you mean.”

  “Fine.” Ronnie watched the blue pickup make a left and disappear around the corner. “I’m going to have a meeting with Mr. Long Tall Glass of FBI and explain to him that it’s time to start working with me instead of using me.” And if that didn’t work, she was going to threaten to bust him in the kneecaps with the baseball bat Butch kept tucked away behind his office door.

  “You think getting into bed with the FBI will help you bring down the Polar Bear?”

  Katie slowed in front of a slightly run down, 1960s era motor lodge called The Rowdy Coyote Motel. The No Vacancy light was half burned out, the stucco walls cracked and peeling. There had been a pool, but now it appeared the hole in the ground was being used as a boat graveyard with a rusted hull and cabin sitting next to the bones of what had been a small vessel. Buoys and old nets decorated the half torn down chain link fence.

  The Rowdy Coyote … why did that sound familiar?

  “I’m not going to sleep with him,” Ronnie explained, trying to place where she’d heard the name of this motel before. “Just join forces.”

  Katie pulled into an empty parking spot across the street from the motel and rolled down her window. “You know what I mean.”

  “Now who’s using metaphors?” When Katie cut the engine, Ronnie frowned across at her. “What’re you doing now?”

  Katie pointed at the two-story line of concrete block stucco rooms with chewed and rust speckled brown doors. “Check out Room 9.”