Jackrabbit Junction Jitters Read online

  “… a fun, fast, sexy ride!”

  Lois Lavrisa, Bestselling author, Liquid Lies

  JACKRABBIT JUNCTION JITTERS

  by Ann Charles

  A Corvallis Press Book

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  Dear Reader

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  Dear Reader,

  I wrote the first draft of Jackrabbit Junction Jitters in 2006, after my son was born. Because I couldn’t finagle a trip to Arizona at that time, I did the next best thing and read books about Southeastern Arizona geology, fauna, and flora. I scoured the internet for write-ups about the area from other travelers. I watched movies set around Tucson.

  The result was a very long sequel to Dance of the Winnebagos with a few too many details about rocks, animals, and plants. But it was written. And then it was shelved after publishers rejected the first book in this series time and again. When was I going to learn that mixing my genres would not land me a publisher?

  Apparently, I was too hard-headed to accept that because at this point in my writing career I wrote the first in my award-winning Deadwood Mystery series, Nearly Departed in Deadwood, which mixes mystery, romance, humor, and paranormal.

  Last fall, Corvallis Press published Dance of the Winnebagos, the first book in the Jackrabbit Junction Mystery series. I was thrilled for many reasons, especially since I knew that Claire’s second book in the series would see the light of day. So, off the “shelf” came the book in your hands.

  As I began to read through and make edits on this story, I realized that what the book and I both needed was a trip to Southeastern Arizona to really soak up the setting and give the book a desert polish. Well, that’s the excuse I gave to my family when I was talking them into going with me on a road trip “to the desert.”

  Fourteen days and five-thousand miles later, we returned home from our Arizona ‘research’ trip, covered in dust and filled with wonderful memories of cacti and sunshine, wild flowers and tamales, frybread and canyon-filled landscapes. I had stood at the location where I’d placed my fictional town, Jackrabbit Junction. I had looked over the huge open pit mine that I’d used as a basis for the Copper Snake Mining Company. I had found the ravine where Ruby’s Dancing Winnebagos R.V. Park was located. Finally, I could hear and smell and see the setting for this story and could smile wide at the knowledge that all of my previous research had paid off—I’d gotten it right.

  Now, it’s finally your turn to read Claire’s continuing story and return to the Southeastern Arizona desert, where the Grackles chatter, the coyotes howl, and the monsoons thunder.

  As always, beware of deadly critters, including over-bearing mothers whose good intentions are delivered via razor-sharp tongues.

  Welcome back to Jackrabbit Junction!

  www.anncharles.com

  Dedication

  To my sisters …

  For taking care of me and teaching me so much.

  For helping me learn how to lose and still have fun.

  For sharing life’s highs and lows.

  For guiding me through motherhood and more.

  For keeping me laughing through it all.

  I’m lucky to have so many wonderful women in my life.

  Chapter One

  Wednesday, August 11th

  Jackrabbit Junction, Arizona

  Sometimes life tossed Claire Morgan a bone—other days it walloped her upside the head with it. Today was turning into a real knockout, the flat tire on the old Ford pickup the final bonk on her noggin.

  Claire dragged her ass out of the passenger side of the truck, joining her grandfather who stood grimacing at a front tire that appeared to have melted under the desert’s sun.

  “What do you mean we have to hoof it, Gramps?” she asked. “Can’t you just throw on the spare so we can get out of here before the storm hits?”

  She fanned her T-shirt and squinted through her sunglasses at the cumulus cloud puffing like a microwaved marshmallow as it raced toward her. Lightning lit the inside of the cloud in paparazzi-style.

  Harley Ford reached for the grocery bags in the pickup bed. “The spare is flat.”

  Of course it was. Claire swiped at the sweat dripping down the side of her face. The August sun and gravy-thick humidity had liquefied her modicum of makeup hours ago.

  Across the valley, just past the dusty pit-stop of Jackrabbit Junction, a towering vortex of dirt churned. Gusts of sun-baked air whooshed past her, pelting her cheeks with invisible grains of sand, garnishing the barbed-wire fence with plastic bags and tumbleweeds trying to escape from impending doom.

  “Maybe we should just wait this out,” she said. “Sit in the cab and watch the storm pass.”

  Monsoon season in southeastern Arizona offered trial and tribulation in biblical fashion: floods, sandstorms, and lightning. Throw some locusts into the mix, and it would be a plagues of Moses tailgate party.

  Gramps passed her one of the grocery bags. “Next you’ll want to hold hands and sing campfire songs.”

  “Is that how you wooed Ruby?” Claire grinned, referring to her soon-to-be step-grandmother. “Serenaded her with ‘Kumbayah’ and ‘Do Your Ears Hang Low’ until she agreed to marry you?”

  Thunder rumbled across the valley, sounding an early warning. A violet curtain of rain draped from the colossal cloud, veiling the mayhem behind it.

  “My love life is off-limits to you this visit, wiseass,” Gramps grumbled. “Go roll up your window and grab your stuff. It’s not even a mile to the R.V. park. Besides, I have something to tell you, and I’d rather not be within arm’s-length when you hear it.” He raced toward the Dancing Winnebagos R.V. Park as fast as a seventy-year-old with a trick-hip could skedaddle.

  Claire frowned after the ornery goat. The last time he’d spread some joy with one of his announcements, 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 ink pens and fast-food napkins, she grunted in satisfaction when her fingers touched the pack of menthols she’d stashed.

  Her flip-flops slapped the asphalt as she followed him, the back of his green shirt patchy with sweat by the time she caught up. “All right, Gramps. Let me have it.”

  His forehead wrinkled in a disapproving scowl at the lit cigarette dangling from her lips. “I thought you’d quit.”

  “I did.” But that was before her love life had been sucked into a huge, panic-inducing maelstrom. “This is just a figment of your imagination, so stop stalling and spill.”

  “Remember I told you somebody broke into Ruby’s place through the office window last month?”

  “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 thongs rubbed.

  Ruby’s office was practically a museum, full of expensive antiques collected not-so-legally by her first husband Joe. Years ago he’d overdosed on potato chips, Marlboro cigarettes, and stress and had been taking a dirt nap ever since.

  To Claire’s knowledge, only four people had any inkling of the treasures hidden in Ruby’s basement, and two of them were about to be drenched with Mother Nature’s dirty bathwater.

  “I remember you mailed me a new key, no explanation included.” She couldn’t believe he was just now telling her this.

  Gramps glanced over his shoulder. “You’d better move your butt, girl, before a bolt of lightning zaps it.”

  She jogged up next to him. The wind whistled around them. “What got stolen?”

&
nbsp; Personally, she would’ve grabbed the first edition copy of Moby Dick. No, Treasure Island.

  “Nothing.”

  That made no sense. “Anything get destroyed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then why did they break in?”

  “We’ve been wondering that ever since it happened.”

  She took a drag from her cigarette, savoring the cool, cough-drop taste before blowing smoke into the wind. “What makes you so certain it was a break-in?”

  “Crowbar dents in the window sill and a busted lock.”

  “Did you call Deputy Sheriff Droopy?”

  “Yep. Ruby insisted since Jess lives there, too.”

  On the threshold of her sixteenth birthday, Ruby’s daughter Jess was at that know-it-all, boy-crazy age that caused her mother to fluctuate between loving her unconditionally and wanting to ship her to the nearest convent.

  “But since nothing’s missing,” Gramps continued, “the deputy’s hands are tied.”

  “His hands aren’t tied. They’re super-glued to a cheeseburger.”

  “Don’t start again, Claire.”

  She had trouble biting her tongue when it came to the sheriff’s choice for a second-in-command. “You think the burglar was after the money?”

  A few months ago, Claire had found a wad of cash in Ruby’s office, stuffed in an antique desk—a goodbye gift from Joe.

  “Ruby doesn’t, but I do. Jess doesn’t keep secrets well.”

  The National Enquirer kept secrets better than Jess. Ruby needed to deposit the cash somewhere safe, but her hatred of banks and bank vice presidents, especially Yuccaville’s one and only, rivaled Willy Nelson’s sentiment about the IRS.

  Lightning flashed to their left. A resounding crack of sky-splitting thunder followed within a couple of heartbeats. The smell of rain and wet earth hung in the air.

  Claire winced and flipped-flopped faster. “So, what’s Plan A? Track down the burglar? There has to be some clue left behind.”

  Gramps groaned. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “Did Deputy Droopy check for fingerprints?”

  “I knew you’d go off half-cocked.”

  “All you need is one hair for a DNA test.”

  “You’ll end up getting into trouble again.”

  “That guy with the mullet and Care Bear tattoo who works thirds at Biddy’s Gas and Carryout is up to something shady, I’m sure of it.”

  “But Ruby wanted you to know since you and Mac are running the R.V. park while we’re on our honeymoon. When is Mac getting here, anyway?”

  Thunder boomed again.

  Claire leaned into the wind, protecting her cigarette with her body as she took another drag. Now was not the time to mention that her relationship with Ruby’s nephew Mac was on the rocks—well, more like on the pebbles, but there were some definite rocks ahead. Maybe even boulders.

  “Friday night.” Mac had been working four-tens at his engineering firm, Tuesday through Friday, for the last month.

  “We’ve set you two up in my Winnebago.”

  “What’s wrong with the spare bedroom?”

  “It’s occupied.” Gramps’s face looked pinched, like he was sucking on an unripe grapefruit.

  “Ruby has family coming for the wedding?”

  “No.”

  Was it Claire’s imagination or was Gramps walking even faster? “Then who’s staying in the spare room?” Gramps and Ruby had been sharing a bed for months, so unless they had decided to spend a little time apart before the big day, the spare should be available.

  “That’s the thing I needed to tell you.”

  “I thought the break-in was the bad news.”

  Gramps shook his head. “Katie is coming for a few weeks.”

  Lightning flashed nearby.

  Claire chuckled. “Come on, Gramps. Kate isn’t that bad.”

  As far as younger sisters went, Kate was the typical spoiled favorite who hid her dirty laundry behind a sweet smile and sugar-coated lies.

  “I agree. Katie is an angel.”

  He would say that. Kate was taller, thinner, smarter, and never mouthed off to Gramps.

  “But she’s not coming alone.” Gramps was practically running now. “She’s bringing your mother.”

  “What?!” Claire skidded to a stop on the asphalt. The cigarette slipped from her fingers.

  Thunder crashed and then the sky fell.

  Chapter Two

  Thursday, August 12th

  Someone was in bed with her. Claire opened her eyes.

  Someone whose snores could not be muffled by the two fans that had barely kept her from melting last night.

  She rolled over and came nose to snout with Henry, her grandfather’s beagle. His pink tongue lolled against the white pillowcase. His breath rustled from between his black lips, smelling like a week-old chili bean and onion burrito. Her stomach lurched. She sat up and glared at the dog.

  Henry’s sudden need to get cozy made her wary. His world revolved around licking the calluses on Gramps’s feet and cleaning himself. Unless she was holding an Oscar Meyer wiener in her hand, he usually hovered just out of grabbing distance.

  A glance at the clock had her scrambling from the sheets.

  Henry awoke in mid-snore. He rolled onto his stomach and barked at her.

  “Can it, mutt.” Claire stepped into a pair of jean shorts. “You’ll have to eat breakfast at the store, because I’m late.” Again.

  Good thing her boss was marrying into the family, or Claire would be out of her second job this month—one more after that and she’d have a new record.

  She shut off the fans, grabbed yesterday’s bra from the floor and her Speedy Gonzales T-shirt, and dashed into the Winnebago’s closet-sized bathroom.

  If R.V.s were human, Gramps’s Winnebago Chieftain would be a cantankerous old warrior, raisin-wrinkled from the sun, donning a brown polyester leisure suit and red faux alligator shoes. Back before the plaid curtains had faded and the ceiling had yellowed with cigar smoke, the R.V. had made heads turn. Now the only thing turning was the odometer.

  Claire put on her bra. She winced at the sight of herself in the mirror, but there was no time for fluffing now. She’d take care of that before her mom crossed the threshold.

  Oh, God, Mother’s coming.

  Her gut churned with dread at the mere thought of talking on the phone with the woman, let alone sharing the same square mile for the next few weeks.

  While brushing her teeth, she brainstormed escape plans. By the time Claire had rinsed the minty paste from her mouth, all she’d come up with was that Mac needed her back in Tucson.

  Henry barked behind her.

  “I know,” Claire told him as she shelved her toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. “It’s a lame plan, but until I score some nicotine and caffeine, it’s the best I can do.”

  He barked twice more, wiggling his butt as he stood next to the accordion-style door.

  “What now?”

  He whined and looked at the toilet.

  “Fine.” She lifted the toilet lid, teasing him. “Have at it.”

  He yipped and circled, whining some more, running toward the front of the R.V. and back. Henry preferred to take care of business behind the bushes without onlookers present. Gramps called it “shy bladder syndrome”; Claire dubbed it “spoiled dog disease.”

  “All right, you big baby. Let’s go.” She pulled her T-shirt on over her head on the way to the door.

  The sound of laughter outside the kitchen window made her pause. She grabbed her Mighty Mouse baseball cap and covered her messy hair.

  With Henry’s leash in hand, she opened the door. The dog dashed down the steps and across the dry grass toward Jackrabbit Creek.

  “Henry, wait, damn it!” She scooped up her cigarettes, stepped into her flip-flops, and slammed the door behind her.

  Hot sunshine smacked her in the face. The thermometer showed eighty-four degrees, but the heavy air made her sk
in sticky. The monsoon season had a firm grip on the southern half of the state, torturing it daily with raging heat, humidity, and thunderstorms.

  A wolf-whistle drowned out the woodpecker rat-a-tap-tapping away on one of the cottonwood trees behind the Winnebago. Old Spice aftershave tickled her nose.

  “Buenos dias, cupcake,” said a deep, silky voice. “Ay yi yi! I love the sight of a woman’s legs first thing in the morning.”

  Claire grinned. Manuel Carrera, one of her grandfather’s old Army buddies, lounged at the patio table under the awning of Gramps’s Winnebago. Manny was perpetually “sixty-nine,” single, and oversexed. He looked like a well-aged version of Jimmy Smits and chased women like Casanova.

  “Quit blocking the view, Claire.” Chester Thomas, the third member of Gramps’s war vet musketeers, waved her aside. Where Manny was velvet, Chester was steel wool, from the top of his spiky gray hair to the bottom of his bowed legs.

  Chester lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

  Claire moved out of his field of vision. “What are you guys doing?”

  “Watching birds,” Chester said.

  Following his line of sight, she zeroed in on his prey. Across the campground, two women sunbathed in lounge chairs next to a pop-up camper.

  “Let me see those.” Claire grabbed the binoculars from Chester.

  “Hey!”

  She peered through the eyepieces. Judging from the color of their hair and the wrinkles under their chins, both women had to be flirting with retirement. One slept, while the other read a book with an eagle on the cover. Neither should’ve been wearing bikinis, but modesty didn’t deter them—nor Chester and Manny from openly drooling over both birds.

  “You two need professional help.” She handed the binoculars back to Chester.

  “You’re right, Dr. Ruth.” Manny wiggled his eyebrows. “I’ll cough while you hold my thermometer.”

  Chester wheezed with laughter. “Good one, Carrera.”

  Claire shook her head, grinning. Growing up around Manny had taught Claire long ago not to take the old flirt seriously.