I’ve never claimed to possess any great mechanical aptitude, but I realized I wasn’t exactly sure what purpose a muffler served when the smell of burning rubber tickled my senses. “Are we on fire?” I shouted over the engine.
“It’s not us,” Yuri shouted back.
“Look!” Genevieve pointed.
We rounded the souvenir factory and the motel came into view—with a thin column of oily smoke threading up from behind the office. Yuri floored it, and the truck burst forward with a fierce roar. We screeched to a stop right in front and piled out of the truck, then dashed around the corner of the building to see what was going on…only to find Olive sprawled in a covered deck chair beside a fitfully smoldering planter with a half-empty bottle of tequila in her hand. She was wearing the same pantsuit as yesterday, and it looked like she hadn’t slept a wink.
“This is horrible,” she moaned. “I thought I was doing myself a favor when I bought planters made from recycled tires instead of wood. And now look where my lofty ideals got me.”
Stunned, I said, “I had no idea rubber could just randomly burst into flames.” Yuri nudged my ribs and pointed to an empty tin of lighter fluid beside the planter, then I noticed the green plastic lighter in Olive’s other hand and I realized what I was seeing. “Oh.”
Genevieve was less worried about sparing anyone’s feelings. “Why on earth would you set your own place on fire?”
“I’m going to lose it anyway. Might as well collect the insurance.”
“But you can’t burn this place down,” Genevieve said. “It’s gorgeous. A shining example of midcentury Americana. There’s got to be another way.”
“The food. The linens. The incidentals. I’ve done the math. It’s no use. Once payday comes around—once I pay everyone for all the overtime they’ve had to work, cleaning up after the freeloaders—that’s it. I’m done.”
“But we have your tortillas,” I said.
Olive moaned. “Get them out of my sight.”
Genevieve casually took the lighter from Olive’s unresisting hand. “What you need is an infusion of cash. One that’ll still leave your motel standing.”
“Taco eating contest?” I suggested.
No one else seemed to hear—sometimes that happens when an idea is just too good. But before I could repeat myself, Genevieve glanced around the motor court and said, “How many rooms are in this place? Thirty?”
Olive sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately, yes. You wouldn’t think there’d be that many unethical birders around—but you’d be wrong. And now that the titmouses are gone, all of them are empty.”
“But this is perfect! My family reunion is coming up next week, and our venue fell through. I need thirty rooms.”
Olive fanned the grudgingly smoldering rubber planter. “Then you’ll have to go to Grimford. By this time next week, the Masa Motel will be nothing but a toasty memory.”
Luckily, at this rate, it would take all week for the place to burn down.
“I won’t take no for an answer,” Genevieve said, in that stunningly confident way in which she pronounced all the things she was entirely sure of. “In fact, if you stop fanning that flame, I’ll put down a deposit right this minute.”
At the promise of money, Olive perked up. “Fifty percent?”
“Done.” Genevieve snatched away the paper Olive had been using to fan the flames and handed it to me…and a tingle shot up my arm so sharply it made me stagger.
Watercolor. India ink. Hot-pressed cotton rag. The Seen was a bunch of flesh-colored dots that looked like they’d been doodled by a bored kindergartener. Over the Seen, inked in ragged lettering—the word Plethoric.
I cut my eyes to Yuri. He scowled at the Crafting and gave his head a subtle shake.
At least I wasn’t the only one who’d never encountered that particular word before. We’d need to get rid of the Crafting before flaming dinosaurs popped out of the planter. But as I turned to stow it in the truck bed with all the others, a bit of dried ink flaked off the paper and fell away. I gave it a shake, and more ink came loose. It crumbled before my eyes and dropped off, leaving me with nothing but a dumb little painting…and a lot of questions.
Olivia let Genevieve walk her back to the office to make that deposit, leaving Yuri and me beside the planter. Although the fire was pretty much done, I pulled out my water bottle and doused what was left. The smoldering died with a grateful hiss.
“Now we know what happened to the motel,” Yuri said triumphantly.
I was as glad to find stray bits of Spellcraft as anyone else. “But I’ve never heard of a Scrivening falling off. Is it even a Crafting anymore without the words?”
Yuri held up the painting horizontally and scrutinized the surface. “I think it is just a Seen now. Potential Spellcraft—like gasoline without a car. I made many of these in Russia to work off my debt. But I would not risk re-using this particular piece.”
I shuddered vigorously. “Me neither—especially when I could get a much more appealing one from you. Let’s put it with the rest of the screwy Spellcraft.”
We headed back to the truck. Once we ditched the ugly painting, Genevieve came out to meet us. “I thought I’d started off this trip on the wrong foot,” she told us, “but it just goes to show that every cloud has a silver lining.”
The echo of the Crafting I’d penned earlier rippled across my shoulder blades. Sure, it was a common enough expression—unlike the word Plethoric—but, still.
“Come, Genevieve,” Yuri said. “We will fetch your luggage.”
“But I never got to take an up-close look at the Big Taco. Can we swing by there first?”
Yuri wanted to say no, I could tell. Probably tired from running around all day—and eager to take advantage of the jacuzzi tub. But since Genevieve was nice enough to give us her room…. “Please, Yuri? It won’t take long. It’s just a few minutes away.”
Yuri grumbled something in Russian—but in English, what he eventually said was, “Fine.”
Conversation over the roar of the engine was difficult, to say the least, but I managed to call out, “Why are you so interested in the Big Taco? Are you a roadside attraction enthusiast?”
“Not at all—I think they’re eyesores. But I’m interested in what’s inside.”
Yuri cut his eyes to me. I think he was still a little spooked by that clown. He turned onto Salsa Lane and we began our ascent, and the engine cranked up its volume to extra-loud, discouraging all further attempts at conversation.
We climbed out of the cab and silence rang in our ears. That, and the distant sound of chirping.
“Hear that?” Genevieve asked. “Long-tailed field cricket. Common from here to North Dakota.” She whipped out a pair of impressively long tweezers.
The past day had not been kind to the Taco. Even in the starlight, the holes pecked by the titmice were apparent. The yellow-pigmented adobe was more brownish-gray inside, and the whole Taco looked sad and moldy. Probably like the gluten-free tortillas would soon, unless someone put them in the fridge.
Genevieve started digging in one of the titmouse holes with great purpose. I got up close and personal to see what she might find, while Yuri fell back a few paces looking vaguely ill.
“Aha!” Genevieve plucked something from the hole with evident relish. It was fascinating—in the way those YouTube pimple popping videos are fascinating. “Just as I suspected! An articulated mudmucker. Do you know what this means?”
“Honestly? No idea.”
“This is the first sighting north of Kansas. What are the odds?”
Given the crumbling, messed-up Spellcraft in the truck bed, probably pretty good.
“Is that bug still alive?” Yuri said queasily.
“This?” Genevieve brandished the insect heartily. “This is just a discarded pupa.” She waved the thing under Yuri’s nose. “See? No more larva.”
Yuri looked a bit green in the starlight.
“If that’s just a shell,” I asked, “where’s the bug?”
“In the belly of a very satisfied crested carrion titmouse, no doubt. Those birds will definitely pick at carrion till the cows come home. But they have a field day when the articulated mudmuckers pupate.”
One can only absorb so many new words in a day, and my head was feeling alarmingly full. Even so, I had to ask. “These bug things…they wouldn’t happen to be endangered too, would they?”
“Heck, no! Articulated mudmuckers are an invasive species, like zebra mussels or brown marmorated stinkbugs.” Wait, that wasn’t a real thing, was it? She had to be pulling my leg. I waited for the punchline, but it never came. “The mudmucker eggs spread through clay soil. In this case—the authentic Arizona adobe clay.”
“But I don’t get it,” I said. “The Big Taco has been around for years, and the mudmuckers are only now a problem?”
“It’s one of the few species with a proto-periodical life cycle—like the cicada, only invasive, and without the pretty nighttime mating call. Every thirteen years—bam.”
That didn’t surprise me. Everyone knows the number thirteen is terrible luck.
Genevieve dropped the bug-shaped casing in a plastic baggie and tucked it into one of her many cargo pockets. “I was worried they’d got a toehold in Minnesota, so I came out to see if we should do a mass fumigation—which can wreak havoc on beneficial pollinators, too. I’m thrilled to find the titmice handled it. They really did this town a favor.”
I gave the Big Taco a critical once-over. “Too bad it left the town’s main attraction in such a sorry state.”
“This? No big deal. My brother-in-law teaches natural building techniques for the state extension. He’s crazy good with adobe. I’ll have him take a look at it when he comes in for the reunion. But my guess is that a minor skim-coat will have the Big Taco looking good as new in no time. Especially with all the perforations the titmice left behind.” She gave the adobe an affectionate pat. “It’ll give the new finish something to hold on to.”
I peered into one of the titmouse holes to see if I could spot the pupa inside. “You never mentioned which member of your family is into bugs.”
“That would be me. Oh, I know a little bit about everything, but insects are my main field of expertise. My bread and butter, so to speak.”
I personally wouldn’t use the term “bread-and-butter” to describe creepy crawlies…but, to each his own. “How do you make money with bugs?”
“I’m an entomologist, of course.” She gave me a meaningful look and added, “A traveling entomologist.”