Jackrabbit Junction Jitters

by Ann Charles

  Jess pushed through the curtain. “Mom, have you—” She paused. Her eyes narrowed as she studied Ruby, then Mac. “What?”

  “Nothin’, sweetheart.” Ruby’s smile looked brittle. She grabbed her purse from the counter. “You ready to go?”

  “No, I can’t find my library books.”

  “We’ll return them another day.” Taking Jess by the arm, Ruby propelled her toward the door.

  “Fine, but they’re due tomorrow.” Jess slammed outside. The bells over the door jingled in her wake.

  Ruby turned back to Mac. “Don’t worry about this. I have it under control.”

  Mac dug his keys from his pocket. “Sure you do.”

  “What are you doin’?” Ruby asked as he walked over and opened the door for her.

  “Driving you to Yuccaville. I want you to explain to me how you have this ‘under control.’”

  “Now, Mac—”

  “Let’s go. Besides, I want to hear all about this break-in that has Claire digging for bones again.” Shooting a wink back at Claire, he said, “Stay out of trouble, Slugger.”

  Claire watched the three of them rumble off in Mac’s truck. In just four short months, they’d become more of a family to her than her own flesh and blood. Leaving them would cut deep, and playing with knives always made her armpits clammy.

  Christ, she needed a smoke. She stared at the packs of cigarettes lining the display shelf next to the cash register. Nobody would know if she bought a pack and slipped out back for a few minutes …

  Groaning, she grabbed Jess’s copy of the latest glam magazine from under the counter and settled onto the stool. She’d picked a hell of a year to try to quit smoking.

  Three nicotine-free hours later, Claire looked up as Kate breezed into the store, along with a gust of hairdryer-hot air. “What are you reading?”

  Claire lowered the copy of Ohio: Travel Smart—one of Jess’s missing library books. “A book.”

  “Jeez, Claire. If you’re going to run, don’t move to Ohio.”

  “What do you have against Ohio?”

  “Who’s moving to Ohio?” Gramps swished through the curtain, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

  “Claire.” Kate pointed at the book.

  “What?” Gramps snatched it from Claire’s grip, holding the copy under his nose. “Why? Is Mac being transferred?”

  “No. I was just …” Claire paused, biting her lip. Gramps didn’t know about Jess’s Cleveland plans, and Claire didn’t want to be the one who let that rattlesnake out of its tank.

  “She’s thinking about leaving Mac.”

  Gramps lowered the book, his pale blue eyes frosty. “Damn it, Claire. I knew this would happen. What’s wrong with Mac? He has a good job, a nice house, and a savings account.”

  Claire snatched the book from his hands. “It’s not—”

  “I told her the same thing last night.” Kate lifted her chin like she was a good little girl who deserved a chocolate-chip cookie and a pat on the head.

  Claire would give her a pat all right. A solid whack with the library book should ring her bell. “Listen, I never—”

  “I know.” Gramps said. “You never stay with one man for more than a couple of months. What did Mac do? Ask you to take your coat off, unpack your bags, and stay awhile?”

  She slammed the book on the counter. “He said he loves me.”

  “Oh, well then.” Gramps crossed his arms, a smirk on his face. “By all means, you’d better start running, Chicken Little, because the sky is surely about to fall.”

  Kate giggled.

  “Would you two shut up! I’m not leaving Mac.” At least she didn’t think she was, not yet anyway.

  “Then what’s with the book on Ohio?” Kate asked.

  “It’s Jess’s.” Damn them both for needling her.

  Gramps stared at Claire for several seconds, then he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not that again.”

  “Yeah, that again.”

  “What?” Kate’s gaze darted back and forth between them.

  The phone shrilled on the wall next to Claire. She picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to say the name of the store when you answer the phone?”

  “What do you want, Chester?”

  “I need to speak to Harley, Miss Crabby-Ass.”

  She held the phone out to Gramps.

  “I’ll take it in the rec room.” He pushed through the curtain.

  Claire waited to hear his voice on the line and then hung up. Kate flipped through the book on Ohio, whistling.

  Claire had been waiting for this opportunity all morning. “Kate, I need you to watch the store for a bit.”

  “Why? Can’t Mom do it?”

  “None of your business why, and Mom’s taking a nap.”

  “Claire, I’m in the middle of a good tan. I just stopped in for more lotion.”

  “Too bad. You said you’d help out if I stayed, remember?”

  Kate cursed. “Fine.” She rounded the counter as Claire headed for the curtain. “But don’t take forever.”

  Claire tiptoed past Gramps, who had his back to her while he grunted out Yes’s and No’s into the phone. She crept down the steps and closed the door to the basement office behind her.

  Ten minutes later, she had the bookcase partially emptied and light enough to move without hemorrhaging a kidney. As she grabbed the side to lift it, Kate slammed into the room. “What are you doing, Claire?”

  Claire stood, wiping her damp hands on her shorts. “Nothing.”

  “Oh, bullshit.” Kate edged around Claire. “What’s that?” She pointed at the door in the wall.

  “A door. Who’s watching the store?”

  “Ruby’s back.” Kate crossed her arms over her chest. “And don’t patronize me, Claire. I know you’re up to something. Your eye is ticcing.”

  Claire touched her eyelid. She couldn’t feel it ticcing.

  “Ha! Gotcha. Are you trying to sneak into Ruby’s safe?”

  “It’s not Ruby’s.”

  Claire lifted the bookcase out of the way. There was no use trying to sidetrack Kate now. She was like a badger—once she’d sunk her teeth in and locked her jaws, short of cutting off a limb, there’d be no getting rid of her.

  “I don’t think Ruby even knows it exists,” Claire told Kate. “And if you tell anyone about this, I’ll play barbershop again while you’re sleeping.”

  Kate shot her a dirty glare. “Touch my hair and die.”

  “Nobody needs to know about this door, especially Jess.” Claire emphasized her point with a finger poke to Kate’s shoulder. Jess tended to follow in Paul Revere’s footsteps when it came to spreading news. “Got it?”

  “Sure, whatever.” Kate waved off Claire’s warning. “It’s Joe’s, isn’t it?” Kate’s knowledge of Ruby’s dead husband came from Claire, so she knew all of the dirt and none of the gems.

  “Yep.” Claire squatted in front of the door. She frowned at the keypad in the bottom left corner. “Shit. We need a code.” At least they didn’t need a thumbprint. Claire hadn’t exhumed a body before, but she was all for learning new trades.

  Where in the hell was she going to find the code? Joe wasn’t exactly a chatterbox these days, and Johnny Cash, whose profile had been painted on black velvet and hung on the wall next to the door, didn’t share secrets.

  “Well, that sucks.” Kate echoed Claire’s thoughts.

  “What sucks?” Jess asked.

  Claire looked up to see Jess peeking over Kate’s shoulder.

  “Hey, I bet that’s where Mom’s keeping that money you found last spring.” Jess nudged Kate aside and squatted next to Claire. “Cool, it even has a keypad.”

  Claire closed her eyes and groaned.

  * * *

  “I don’t know why you have to drive me to the Franklin’s place,” Jess said to Kate as they drove under the Dancing Winnebagos R.V. Park sign and sped toward Jackrabbit Junction.

>   The tires hummed along the asphalt, not quite drowning out the whir of the air conditioning blowing lukewarm air from the vents. Kate swiped at the sweat beading on her upper lip. The back of her legs stuck to the leather seat.

  “I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.” Jess popped her bubblegum, polluting Kate’s Volvo with the grape scent.

  Kate gritted her teeth, not exactly thrilled to be driving Jess anywhere. The girl didn’t stop talking long enough to breathe. But with Ruby minding the store, Gramps nowhere to be found, Mac heading to Yuccaville to “take care of something,” and Claire trying to fix one of the campground toilets that had overflowed again, Kate had drawn the short straw.

  Jess channel surfed on the radio with the same fingers she’d just used to pull and twirl her gum. “Claire says you’re a teacher.”

  Not anymore. Kate fished a napkin from her glove box and offered it to Jess, who stuffed it in her pocket.

  “You don’t look like a teacher.”

  Kate wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. “Really?” She let off the gas pedal as the STOP sign came into view.

  “No. You’re too young looking.”

  A compliment, how sweet. She might get along with her soon-to-be aunt yet. “Thank you.”

  “And you don’t have as many gray hairs as Claire.”

  That was because she didn’t land ass-deep in trouble as often as Claire. Besides the occasional rotten boyfriend, Kate’s life was relatively stress-free.

  “But you really should wax those sideburns.”

  Kate gasped as if she’d been pinched. Sideburns? She tipped the rearview mirror down and turned her face from side to side. What sideburns?

  “Stop! Pull in here!” Jess yelled, pointing at the hardware store’s gravel drive they were about to blow by.

  Kate swerved into the drive and stomped on the brake pedal. Her anti-lock brakes thumped, while the gravel crunched under her tires.

  From out of nowhere, a pickup appeared in front of her.

  Jess screamed and covered her face.

  Kate tromped harder on the brakes. She winced as the passenger side of the truck filled her front windshield right before she crashed into it.

  The impact slammed her forward.

  The airbags exploded with a deafening bang.

  Then there was silence.

  Chapter Five

  “I’d like to talk to the president, please, Edith,” Mac told the gray-haired receptionist, a name plaque and tall counter separating her from the reception area. He added a wide smile to his request in an attempt to sprinkle on some charm.

  Edith was new since March, the last time Mac had stormed into this office. Her perfume reminded him of the rose-shaped soaps his grandma had kept in a basket on the back of her toilet.

  On the green wall behind Edith, the words Copper Snake Mining Company hung in thick letters, made of the very metal the company had mined daily for the past one hundred and twenty years.

  Edith looked up at him, her rhinestone-rimmed reading glasses resting on the tip of her pinched nose. “Do you have an appointment, Mr. …?” She had a raspy, two-pack-a-day voice.

  “Garner. And no, I don’t.” He hadn’t wanted to alert the big tuna until he’d baited his hook and cast his line.

  The wrinkles above her upper lip deepened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Garner, but you need an appointment to see Mr. Johnson.” She flipped open a small leather book and trailed her finger down one page and then another. “He has an opening next Wednesday at three. Would that work for you?”

  “No. I’d like you to call him right now and tell him Mac Garner is here to see him.”

  “Well.” She sniffed. “I can try, but he may still be at lunch. Even if he’s not, I doubt he’ll be available. He’s a very busy man, especially on Friday afternoons.” She picked up the phone and punched in three numbers.

  Mac glanced around the empty reception room. Things hadn’t changed much in five months. The plush burgundy carpet still smelled new and the cherry-wood chairs and coffee table still gleamed under the florescent lights. Sepia-toned pictures of huge, land-moving mining trucks and excavators—machines that made engineers shiver and environmentalists shudder—dotted the walls, along with before-and-after pictures of Roadrunner Mountain and Paloverde Hill, now both vast open pits.

  “Mr. Johnson,” Edith said. “There’s a Mac Garner here to see you.”

  Mac stared down at Edith, waiting to see if Johnson was going to grant him five minutes of his time or play hard-to-get.

  “No, he doesn’t have an appointment.” Edith lifted her chin, challenging Mac with a glare. “I explained that to him, but he’s insisting on meeting with you right now.” She listened for several seconds, nodding, smiling in victory. “All right, I’ll see what you have available next week.”

  Hard-to-get it was.

  Leaning over the counter, Mac snatched the phone receiver from Edith.

  “Hey!” Her face contorted, mottling with a purplish-red hue.

  “Listen, Chuck,” Mac spoke into the receiver. “I’m here to discuss selling Ruby Martino’s mines. This is a one-time deal. If you won’t see me now, I’m sure Nick Black down at the Copper Star in Sierra Sol will.”

  Silence hissed through the receiver for several heartbeats.

  Edith, now standing, held her hand out for the receiver, her eyes narrowed.

  “Okay, Mac.” Chuck Johnson’s nasally voice sounded amiable, yet wary. “Come on back. The door is open.”

  Mac handed the receiver back to Edith with a victory smile of his own and didn’t wait around to receive any more glares.

  Johnson stood and extended his hand as Mac approached his desk. “Nice to see you again, Mac.” His gray eyes contrasted with his white bushy eyebrows and thinning hair.

  Mac shook Johnson’s hand. “Always a pleasure,” he lied.

  Following Johnson’s lead, he dropped into one of the cushy chairs across from the mining company president.

  Johnson’s office smelled of well-oiled leather and spoke of a century of wealth built on the sweaty, broken backs of many past and present Cholla County residents. A plate glass window looked out over the town of Yuccaville, mud-brick houses and white-roofed buildings littering the narrow valley below. The black frame on Johnson’s desk displayed a picture of a smiling blonde, her arms clutching two miniature poodles.

  “So.” Johnson steepled his fingers. “Ruby is thinking again about selling?”

  Mac nodded.

  “Why the sudden change of heart? Last April, she fought tooth and nail to keep those mines.”

  “Last April, she was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, about to lose her house and the campground to the bank. The mines were her only lien-free assets.”

  Not to mention that the mining company’s low-ball offer on those mines only added insult to injury after Mac had figured out the estimated value of just two of Ruby’s four mines.

  “Which mines are we talking about?”

  “Rattlesnake Ridge and Socrates Pit.” Mac dangled the bait.

  “What’s her price?”

  “That’s still up in the air.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To test the waters, see if the fish are still biting.”

  Johnson sat back, his leather chair creaking. He stared at Mac for several seconds. “They’re still hungry.”

  Mac smiled, his chest loosening, relieved Johnson hadn’t called his bluff. “I’ll let her know.” Here was where he might lose his catch. “If you’ll give me the names and phone numbers of your attorneys, we’ll deal through them from here on and I’ll stay out of your hair.”

  Johnson reached in his desk drawer, pulled out a couple of business cards, and handed them to Mac. “How soon will Ruby be making a decision?”

  “I’m not sure, but she seems anxious to get moving on this.” Mac glanced down at the names; neither card belonged to Leo M. Scott, the lawyer from Tucson who’d sent the letter to Ruby.

>   Okay, one more lie. “She’s already contacted an attorney out of Tucson by the name of Leo Scott.” He studied Johnson’s face, waiting for some telltale sign that the mining company had done business with Leo Scott before.

  Johnson just nodded and rose with his hand extended. “Great. I look forward to working out a deal this time.”

  “She does, too.” Mac stood, knowing he’d be playing ice hockey in hell first. He shook Johnson’s hand. “Thanks for your time.”

  Mac could have sworn he heard Edith hiss at him as he walked by her desk.

  The sight of Richard Rensberg, vice-president of the Cactus Creek Bank, in the reception area stopped him just short of the double glass doors. He was reading some paper from an open folder, his forehead furrowed. Two cardboard mapping tubes leaned against the seat next to him.

  If Ruby were with him, Mac would be holding her back from beating Rensberg senseless with the tubes. The asshole had hassled Ruby on a daily basis in April for being behind on her mortgage payments for the R.V. park. Ever since, she’d used a picture of him for dart practice in the rec room.

  “Hello, Rensberg.”

  Rensberg looked up from the paper, his eyes widening as he stared back. He snapped the file folder closed, his right hand touching one of the tubes next to him. “Garner.”

  “Harassed any widows lately?”

  The bank man’s ruddy cheeks darkened visibly. “Only those who try to skip out of paying what they legally owe.”

  “What brings you to the Copper Snake? Chasing ghosts?”

  Rensberg’s great, great grandfather graced several of the pictures hanging on the reception room’s walls. He’d founded the Copper Snake, and along with his son and then grandson, built it into a mammoth monster that had gobbled up most other mining companies in the area.

  Then Rensberg’s father had taken over and sold off most of the family’s shares to support his very young, very beautiful, and very expensive wife, only to kill himself after she left him and his son years later. Last Mac had heard, the only role Richard Rensberg played in the Copper Snake’s day-to-day operation was cashing paychecks for the miners at the teller window.