Jackrabbit Junction Jitters (30 page)

Rattlesnakes could strike in under a second. His chance of
pulling Claire away fast enough to avoid a bite didn’t look too good.

“It’s not hissing.” Mac observed.

“It looks plenty pissed off to me.”

“You should’ve slammed the door on it as soon as you saw it.”
Before it had time to prepare to strike.

“Yeah, well, I sort of froze. Snakes freak me out.”

“You might be able to move out of its range if you take it
slowly.” He peered through the open window at the snake.

The snake opened its mouth and hissed.

“He disagrees,” Claire whispered. “And I’m with him.”

“What are you going to do? Stand there all afternoon until
you pass out from the heat?”

“Maybe he’ll go to sleep.”

Mac thought about going around to the other side if his
pickup and trying to distract the snake, but worried he might scare it into
striking Claire instead.

Reaching out slowly, he placed his hands on the door panel,
the metal almost too hot to touch. “Claire, I want you to take a very small,
very slow step backward.”

“Uhhhh, no.”

Mac heard the screen door squeak open. “What’s going on?”
Kate asked.

“Claire is about to get bitten by a rattlesnake.” Jess
informed Kate matter-of-factly.

Mac shot Jess a shut-up glare. Her candid play-by-play wasn’t
helping.

“There’s a snake out here?” Kate’s voice was high and
squeaky, like she’d channeled Minnie Mouse. She opened the screen door and
slipped back inside, watching through the mesh.

“My sister’s support is amazing,” Claire muttered under her
breath.

“Claire.” Mac focused on the snake again. Its head had
lowered slightly. “Whether you meant to or not, you’ve cornered the snake. You
have to make the first move.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not face-to-face with a set of
fangs.”

“Trust me.”

Several seconds passed, the rattling of the snake’s tail
filling the void.

Claire’s shoulders lifted and dropped as she took a deep
breath. “Okay.”

She took a tiny step backward.

The snake’s tail rattled harder.

“Mac?” Claire’s voice shook.

“It’s okay, Slugger. Take another step.” Two more and she’d
be clear of the door.

She followed his instructions.

The snake hissed, its fangs threatening.

Claire froze. “If he bites me—”

“He won’t.”

“—I’m gonna bite you and pass on the poison.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“You’re twisted.”

“One more step to go, baby.”

A butterfly flitted in front of Claire’s eyes. She jerked
and stepped back. Mac shoved the door, catching sight of the snake throwing
itself up and forward as the door slammed closed.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Claire brushed off her arms and stomach,
shuddering visibly. “That was close.”

“Are you okay?” Mac reached for her.

Jess shrieked from her spot on the porch.

“What now!” Mac whirled to scowl at his niece.

She was pointing at the pickup door, where the head of the
rattler hung next to the door handle by a thick thread of flesh.

“Damn.” He scrubbed down his face. “That was way too close.”

“What in the hell are you doing with a rattlesnake in your
glove box?” Claire was still rubbing her forearms.

Dragging his gaze from the blood dripping onto the gravel,
he stared at Claire. “That was in my glove box?”

She nodded.

Mac grabbed the door handle.

“What are you doing?” Claire stumbled back several feet.

“That’s where I had the envelope.” He opened the door. The
dead snake slid out onto the ground, its tail still twitching.

“Ewww!” Jess made a great audience.

Mac kicked the carcass under the pickup, then leaned inside
the hot cab and rifled through the glove box, which now stunk like snake piss
thanks to his dead visitor.

“Well?” Claire asked from over his shoulder.

“It’s gone.”

“Are you sure that’s where you left it?”

“One hundred percent.” He slammed the truck door shut. All
of the information he’d gathered to date on the Lucky Monk was gone, stolen. A
week’s worth of research wasted. Son of a bitch!

Claire cursed along with him, doing a much more thorough job
of it. Then she asked, “Is there anything else missing?” Like Gramps’s
mysterious package?

Mac shook his head.

“Who would steal that envelope?”

“Somebody who knows I’m digging for proof on the Lucky Monk.
I shouldn’t have left my windows down yesterday when I was picking up stuff for
Harley in Yuccaville.”

“Did you see anyone suspicious?”

“No, just a few kids on skateboards and that dickhead
Rensberg heading into his bank.”

“Rensburg. You mentioned that name before.”

“He’s the vice president who gave Ruby grief a few months
ago.”

“But why put a snake in your glove box?”

Despite the late morning sun blazing a trail across the sky,
a chill prickled Mac’s spine. “As a warning.”

* * *

“I need to visit the little girl’s room,” Kate heard Claire
yell over the roar of The Shaft’s Saturday night crowd.

She nodded, waiting until Claire had weaved through the
throng of bodies before turning to Gary, the bartender. “Is Butch around?”

She fanned herself with a cardboard coaster. If the
smoke-filled air didn’t choke her by the end of the night, she’d surely keel
over from the heat. The place had to be spilling over the maximum occupancy
level. Who knew there were so many people hiding under rocks around these
parts.

Gary shook his head. He leaned over the bar as he dried a
shot glass. “He had to run to Yuccaville, but he’ll be back in—oh, shit! Not
again.”

Throwing down his towel, he dashed out from behind the bar.

Whistles, catcalls, and hoots of laughter erupted from a
table near the dance floor. Kate spun on her bar stool and watched, her mouth
gaping, as a lanky young redheaded cowboy proceeded to perform a striptease for
his well-soused buddies and anyone else interested in watching. His jeans
ringed his ankles before the bartender managed to part the sea of drunks and
flag Mr. Tighty-Whities’s attention.

Kate’s window of opportunity slid open. With a glance toward
the bathroom to make sure Claire was out of the picture, she hopped off the
stool and stole to the door leading to the kitchen.

The hinges creaked as she inched it open and peeped into the
florescent lit room, the air hazy with grease and thick with the scent of fried
meat. Across the room, a man stood at the stove with his back to her while he
flipped burgers and whistled to Johnny Cash’s,
Walk the Line
, which
blared from the radio perched nearby.

Kate checked over her shoulder to make sure nobody had
noticed her. The stripper had managed to shuck his shirt in spite of Gary’s
attempt to wrestle him down off the table. The group of cowboys and cowgirls
watching the show cheered at the sight of the kid’s pale, bony chest.

Slipping through the door, Kate tiptoed across the kitchen
and down the hall on the other side. Three doors lined the corridor—one on the
left, one on the right, and one at the end. A mop and yellow bucket filled with
sudsy water leaned against the wall near the last door.

The door on the left had a window in it, but the light was
off inside. Kate doubted this was Butch’s office, but she reached for the doorknob
anyway. A flick of the light switch revealed a large storage room, filled with
metal shelves lined with warehouse-sized bags of flour and hamburger buns,
among other sundries. Kate peeked through the window to confirm the coast was
clear before easing back into the hall.

The door on the right had an EXIT sign above it. It led out
behind the bar next to the dumpster, a grease bin, and a small section of the
parking lot all bathed in an orange glow from the overhead nightlight.

That left the door at the end of the hall.

Her heart sank at the sight of a deadbolt lock and a keyhole
in the doorknob, but it twisted freely in her hand. She knocked lightly, just
in case the bartender had been wrong about Butch’s whereabouts, and pushed the
door open. Shadows greeted her.

With one last glance behind her, she darted into the room.
She closed the door and leaned against it, catching her breath. Breaking and
entering had always been Claire’s forte. Kate usually just ran interference.

A feeble orange smear of light leaked in from the small
window across from her. She fumbled along the wall and flipped on the light
switch, expecting florescent lights to buzz to life overhead. Instead a desk
lamp flickered on, along with a couple of recessed lights overhead, casting a warm
glow over the room and Butch’s antique-looking desk.

As she waited for her heart to stop racing to win the
Kentucky Derby, she studied the room in which Butch undoubtedly spent many
hours. Well-polished, fine grained oak lined the floor. On the other side of
the antique desk, a red leather chair—the high back dotted with brass tacks—rested
against the wainscoting covering the bottom half of walls that were painted
cactus green.

Oak filing cabinets lined the wall to her left, a shiny
black stereo system sitting on top, the LCD display emitting a dim blue light.
A 42” flat-screen TV hung on the wall.

Wow! How much did bar owners make around these parts? The
faint clattering of metal pans coming from the kitchen reminded her that she
wasn’t there to admire Butch’s furniture.

Kate tiptoed across the wood floor and rounded the desk.
Four short stacks of papers covered most of the blotter. Deftly, she began
sifting through the first stack, scanning beer vendor bills, grocery store
receipts, and quarterly tax statements.

The second and third stacks held mainly catalogs selling all
sorts of bar and restaurant accessories, several issues of a magazine for small
business owners, and last week’s copy of The
Yuccaville Yodeler
.

She dug into the fourth pile. Part way through a bunch of
invoices for some company named V.C. Enterprises, Kate found a bill from the
same repair shop where her car was being patched up. She scanned down the
paper, expecting itemized costs for fixing Butch’s pickup, curious how much her
insurance company had forked out for her little mishap. Her eyes stopped at the
words bench seat foam.

What in the hell? His seats hadn’t been anywhere near her
front bumper. She held the paper closer to her face. The next line read: cherry
red leather upholstery for bench seat.

Lowering the bill, she frowned at the television. “He’s
committing insurance fraud.”

Someone knocked on the door.

Kate almost peed her pants. Her gaze darted around the room,
her ears ringing as she sought somewhere—anywhere—to hide. The small window
beckoned.

The second knock came as Kate unlatched the window lock. She
looked at the doorknob and froze at the sight of the metal turning.

The door inched open.

“Butch?” A familiar voice called softly.

Claire stepped into the office. When she saw Kate, her eyes
narrowed. “I knew it.” She shut the door behind her and locked it.

“Jeez, Claire!” Kate’s breath whooshed from her throat. Her
face burned as she dropped into Butch’s chair, feeling like she’d leaned too
far out over the rim of the Grand Canyon. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Good! What do you think you’re doing in Butch’s …” Claire’s
voice trailed off as she glanced around the room. “Nice flatscreen.” She walked
over to the TV, then noticed the stereo and let out a low whistle. “Butch sure
knows how to outfit an office.” She ran her hand over the filing cabinets. “Hey,
that looks like a
French, Louis XV partners desk
.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I saw one just like it last spring in an old
newspaper photo of Joe’s antique store …” Claire trailed off again, frowning
down at the desk.

Kate pushed up out of Butch’s chair. “Do you think—”

“We need to get out of here.” Claire stepped backward,
rubbing her hands together. She turned to Kate. “You shouldn’t have broken in
here.”

“I didn’t break in. The door was unlocked.”

“Quit splitting hairs. You’ve been sniffing around Butch for
days now.”

Claire’s righteous attitude when it came to Butch made Kate’s
ears steam. She leaned over the desk and snatched the repair shop bill from the
top of the fourth stack, shoving it under Claire’s nose.

“Explain this, then.”

Claire glanced down at the bill. “Explain what? It’s a bill
from the repair shop, undoubtedly for his pickup, which you so kindly T-boned.”

“I remember the turn of events, thank you very much.” Kate
held up the paper, reading aloud. “Cherry red leather upholstery for bench
seat; custom paint touchup: midnight blue; custom—”

“Midnight blue?” Claire grabbed the paper from Kate’s hand. “Is
he having his pickup painted?”

“It’s insurance fraud, I’m sure of it.” Kate crossed her
arms over her chest.

Claire’s read down the page. “Holy shit.”

“I know. It’s this kind of thievery that makes all of our
premiums shoot—”

“He bought Joe’s El Camino.”

“—through the … huh?”

She handed the paper back to Kate. “Butch bought Joe’s El
Camino from Sophy.” When Kate just continued to stare at her, she clarified, “That’s
not his pickup they are fixing up, dingbat, it’s Joe’s old El Camino. Look at
the date on this bill. It’s a month old.”

Kate noticed the date in the upper left corner for the first
time. Damn. She tossed the bill on Butch’s desk.

So he bought Joe’s car. What was the big deal? Why was
Claire suddenly looking around Butch’s office as if tarantulas were crawling
out of the woodwork?

“We need to get out of here now.” Claire made for the door.

Kate grabbed the drawer handle to one of the filing
cabinets. “You go. I’m not finished yet.”