Jackrabbit Junction Jitters (2 page)

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.

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 skin 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.

Chester lifted the binoculars again. “Shit, Carrera. We’ve
been having our reunion down here during the wrong season all these years. I
always figured bird-watching women wore support socks and hair nets, not
Coppertone and red nail polish.”

“Speaking of nails,” Manny said, looking up at Claire. “I
hear your
madre
is coming for the wedding.”

Claire groaned and fished a cigarette from her pack. She’d
sooner deal with a life-ending asteroid headed straight for Arizona than her
mother’s visit. There had to be some lie that would get her out of this.

“Well, Lord love a duck, here comes a third little bird.”
Chester handed Manny the binoculars. “Take a look. She’s definitely
Viagra-worthy.”

“Don’t you two have something better to do than ogle women
this morning?” She stuck the cigarette between her lips.

Chester settled back in his seat with a cock-of-the-walk
grin. “For your information, we’re working on official pre-wedding business.”

“Let me guess,” Claire said around her cigarette as she
pulled a book of matches from her back pocket. “You’re picking out bridesmaids
for Ruby so neither of you have to dance alone at the reception?”

Sighing, Manny lowered the binoculars. “Ah, always the
groomsman, never the groom.”

“No, Miss Smoker.” Chester snatched the cigarette from her
lips and broke it in half.

“Damn it, Chester. Those aren’t free.”

He waved away her scowl. “We’re planning Harley’s bachelor
party.”

Uh, oh. This couldn’t be good.

“What do you think of bikini mud wrestling?” Manny asked.

“Too slippery,” Claire said. “Somebody will break a hip.”

She fingered another cigarette. If she wanted a hit, she
needed to do it while walking to work. Gramps had forbidden her from lighting
up in Ruby’s place, even though he and the boys filled the rec room with cigar
smoke on a nightly basis.

“Good point,” Manny said. “How about a wet T-shirt contest?”

Chester nodded. “Or a game of naked Twister?”

And that was Claire’s exit cue. “I’ll talk to you two later.”
She glanced one last time at the three women they were wet-dreaming about. “Stay
out of trouble.”

She headed toward the General Store at an almost-trot. While
jogging to work was a surefire way for her to catch a ride in Yuccaville’s only
ambulance, the scorching sunshine punished dawdlers. Humidity rippled the air
in front of her as sweat soaked into the waistline of her shorts. Any urge to
smoke evaporated under the skin-blistering sun.

Henry sat in the shade on the General Store’s porch, panting
at Claire as she climbed the steps. He must have followed the creek to the
store. She made a grab for his collar, but he darted out of reach.

Crossing her arms, she leaned against the porch rail. “I
guess last night didn’t mean anything to you after all.”

Henry yawned and watched a grasshopper bounce across the
drive.

“Typical male.” She tossed the leash onto the floor next to
him and stepped through the front door into the combined campground store and
house.

A breath of cool air fanned her warm cheeks. The scent of
freshly brewed coffee beckoned. Jess sat on a stool behind the counter reading
a book. A faded, olive green curtain divided the aisles full of camping whatnot
from the rest of the three-bedroom house.

Jess looked up from her book and smiled. “Mornin’, Claire.”

With her shoulder-length, curly red hair pulled back in a
ponytail and her freckled face free of makeup, she looked twelve, not two weeks
away from sixteen.

The wooden floorboards creaked as Claire strolled down the
aisle that featured potato chips and pretzels on one side and boxes of candy on
the other. The buzz of the overhead florescent lights nearly drowned out
Emmylou Harris singing “Two More Bottles of Wine” on Ruby’s old clock radio
above the cash register.

“Hey, Elvis.” Claire patted the life-size cardboard cutout
of the King wearing his white jumpsuit, holding a can of Diet Coke. She grabbed
a can of soda pop from the wall-length cooler at the back of the store. Hot
coffee would come later, after she’d stopped sweating. Her breakfast of
champions needed a serving of grains according to the good old USDA, so she plucked
a pack of Twinkies from the shelf on her way to the counter.

“What are you reading, Jess?”

Jess flipped the book over long enough for Claire to read
the title,
Today’s Job Market
.

“Is that for school?” Claire dug a couple of dollars out of
her back pocket to pay for her meal.

“School hasn’t started yet.”

“Then why are you reading that?”

Why was she reading at all? Jess wasn’t really the bookworm
type of girl. Her nose was usually busy rummaging through somebody else’s
business, and most of the time that somebody else was Ruby.

“I need a job.”

“I thought you were babysitting the Franklin triplets this
summer.” Claire would rather hammer nails through the tips of her fingers than
spend four hours with those three little hellions. They made Chucky-the-doll
seem like Winnie-the-Pooh.

“I am, but I need more money.”

“Why?”

“To buy a car.”

Jess had made it no secret that she would be tearing up the
roads in a few weeks. It was practically the front-page story in the
Yuccaville
Yodeler
.