Cheyenne McCray - Point Blank (Lawmen Book 4)

by Unknown

  Anything original, she sold on consignment from the artists themselves, or purchased from a gallery in Tucson. She also had a different supplier for the chocolate mini saddles and suckers in a variety of western shapes, including saguaros, western hats, boots, and horse heads. Those sold well and were something her customers could purchase for their kids.

  “Thanks.” She tucked hair behind her ear. “Another two crates of twenty-five statuettes each?”

  “Four crates for a total of a hundred.” Mark chuckled. “They’ve been selling so well, I know you can move them.”

  “Let’s stick with fifty.” She really hated those things and didn’t want to worry about shipping those that didn’t sell back to Arizona. “I think that’s more than enough.”

  She wasn’t sure she imagined it, but she thought he had a hard edge to his voice. “They will sell, Natasha, and your commission will be exceptional.”

  The commission was what had sold her on the idea in the first place. She was accumulating a good savings and a “mad money” account.

  He sneezed again, and she was glad they were talking over the phone and not in person. The last thing she wanted to do was catch a cold. “Uncle Mark knows best, Nat.”

  She rolled her eyes to the store’s open ceiling. She did not like being called Nat by anyone outside her family, much like Christy hated to be called Chrissy.

  Natasha let out a sigh. “All right. But since I didn’t order them, you will take them back if they don’t sell. They don’t move in my shop.” But he did seem to have a “Spidey sense” when it came to moving product at the tradeshows.

  “Of course.” Mark still sounded jovial despite his sniffing. “However, I have complete faith in you.”

  “We’ll see what happens.” She glanced at the clock, surprised it had grown so late. Being around her cousin made time fly, and stores closed relatively early in a small town like Bisbee. “I’ll call you when I get back from Denver. I may get a hold of you sooner if all four crates sell.”

  “Good girl.” Mark sniffled. “Have a great trip and a prosperous show.”

  After Natasha disconnected the call with Mark, she turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED. She slipped into her coat, grabbed her bright yellow cloth purse with its fringe along the bottom, and left the store.

  A stroll down Main Street sounded nice, and she locked the door behind her before heading down the sloping street in the fading light. She could have gone out the back door, but she enjoyed looking into other shop owners’ windows and seeing what new things might be for sale.

  She liked to support her fellow business owners and operators, and had purchased handmade dinnerware from The Potter, furniture from Chic Antiques, and crafts from various shops. Her favorite boutique, Soul Made, carried the style of bohemian clothing Natasha loved. She fit in well with the artists’ colony that had made Old Bisbee a tourist destination and a thriving section of the town.

  Chill air bit at her cheeks and nose, but considering she was from Indiana, this was nothing compared to the winter cold of her home state. She stopped by the post office at the bottom of the sloping street, grabbed her mail from the old-fashioned brass box with its small window, and stuffed the mail into her purse.

  After waving to a few people she knew, she went to the parking lot up the hill, where she had left her new yellow VW Beetle. Bisbee was situated in, around, and on the surrounding mountains, so most streets were sloped and steep. The one time she had crashed her old car into the second floor of a two-story home had been one time too many, hence the new car.

  It wasn’t long before she reached her VW, climbed into the chilly vehicle, and drove home. Her house was on a canyon road above a big white fire station on Main Street. Homes peppered the side of the canyon, but she had become accustomed to driving along the narrow road to the parking area above her home—even if she still had the occasional nightmare about her brakes giving out and her car flying off the parking area and onto the houses below.

  She parked in front of the old railroad ties in the parking area designated for her and her neighbor, with a little room left over for any guests they might have. After she set the parking brake and turned off the car, she grabbed her purse, locked the Beetle, and jogged down the set of concrete stairs to her home’s kitchen door.

  The house had been built on the mountainside over seventy years ago, and strangely enough, it didn’t have a front entrance. One door led into her kitchen, and the second door was off of one of the bedrooms. It was a bit of an odd house on a weird-shaped lot, but she loved it.

  It was much warmer inside her home, and she shed her jacket. She retrieved the mail from her purse and hung the yellow cloth bag on the back of a chair.

  One of her least favorite things to do was cook, so she threw together a salad. She’d been a vegetarian since high school, much to the distress of her meat-loving family. She’d considered going vegan, but didn’t have a problem with cheese, milk, and eggs. However, they had to come from organic farms.

  She took her salad and a glass of ice water, along with her mail, and sat on the colorful Bohemian chair in her living room.

  The chair was near one of her favorite mixed media pieces. The artist had named the framed art “Explosion of Butterflies” and that was what it looked like. A countless number of the small creatures in brilliant colors shot upward to the yellow-tinted sky.

  She settled her glass on the round solid mango wood table. While she munched on her salad, she flipped through her mail and tossed it a piece at a time onto the table. Advertisement, advertisement, advertisement—she hated the use of paper spam. In this day and age no one should be chopping down trees when electronic mail was so much easier and efficient, and saved paper.

  She paused and set her salad bowl on the table when she reached the last piece of mail, an envelope with her name hand printed in blue ink, a cancelled first class stamp in the upper right hand corner. No return address. Who mailed real letters in this day and age?

  Not one for being patient enough to get a letter opener off the desk in her spare bedroom, she tore off one end of the envelope. She pulled out a folded sheet of plain white paper with a handwritten note in bold blue print.

  She scanned the note and her mind swam. She blinked, unable to believe what she was reading. She felt like her head might float off.

  Natasha,

  I have no choice but to be cryptic in this message, in case the letter falls into the wrong hands.

  No matter what happens, do as you are told. Do not involve law enforcement of any kind, including family members and friends.

  This means especially Trace and Christie. If you tell them, their lives, and the life of their daughter, will be in danger.

  This is not a prank or a joke. You are in a deadly serious situation, even though you do not know it. If something happens at one of your tradeshows, remember what I have told you.

  Your life depends on it.

  A friend

  Natasha swallowed hard as the paper shook. It took a moment to realize her hands were trembling.

  Your life depends on it.

  She took a deep breath and gathered herself. No matter what the note said, this had to be some kind of sick prank.

  Yet she couldn’t shake it off. Why would someone send her a note like this?

  The letter slipped from her now cold fingers, onto the tabletop. She pushed her salad away and read the message over and over again. The more she read it, the tighter her chest became. She wanted to show it to Trace, but the message had warned her against it.

  This couldn’t be real.

  But what if it was?

  She bit down on her tongue, as if that would keep her from spilling a word about the letter. She should go straight to the Bisbee Police Department and show them the message.

  What if it was true? The question kept peppering her mind. What if her family and friends were in danger?

  She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. Even baby Jessica had been th
reatened. How could anyone harm a six-week-old child?

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. She couldn’t take the chance that any member of her family could be harmed, or any friends. She was grateful her grandparents lived in Florida. If something did happen, they would be safe.

  She tried to process the letter, but no matter how she worked it over, she couldn’t quite comprehend something so surreal. What could she possibly be involved in that would put people she loved and cared for, as well as herself, in such danger that their lives depended on her silence and cooperation?

  Her hands still shook as she folded the letter and replaced it in the torn envelope. She smoothed the envelope as much as possible, if only because she needed to do something with her hands.

  She got up and slipped the letter into her purse. It would remain there until she decided what to do with it. If anything.

  CHAPTER 3

  Natasha arranged her products in her WESA showroom, making the whole space look like a small gallery. One of the great things about this event was that they had showrooms as opposed to booths.

  Instead of her usual colorful, flowy skirts, she wore skinny jeans and a white peasant blouse embroidered with beautiful designs in brilliant-colored threads. It was easier to wear jeans and a comfortable top when she set up her showroom or booth. Thick gold bracelets slid along one wrist as she worked, and a slender butterfly watch-bracelet rotated around her other wrist. Since she was vegetarian, she didn’t believe in killing animals for leather, so she wore ankle boots of synthetic material.

  Strands escaped the rainbow scrunchie she’d used to hold her hair in a thick ponytail. She pulled her hair back tighter, adjusted the scrunchie, and then returned to work.

  She kept herself busy, arranging the sculptures, paintings, prints, and other pieces she had shipped ahead. Since the Ella McBride bronzes were so heavy, Natasha had enlisted help earlier in setting them up. Ella’s sculptures had been transported to Bisbee from Prescott, a good three hundred miles away.

  The ugly cowboy and Native American resin statuettes were another story. Ugh. And Mark had sent a hundred of the things. She hoped he was right and she could move them quickly. On the bright side, however, she made great commission on their sales.

  WESA ran under strict management, and it was not a “shop and take” market. Vendors couldn’t sell anything directly from their showrooms for a few reasons: collecting tax would be a nightmare for the vendor and the market organization; it would increase the possibility of thefts from the showrooms; and it would change the look of the room over the show schedule, which the powers-that-be didn’t like. They wanted the last store buyer to see the same items in the showroom as the first store buyer at the beginning of the show.

  The final reason was that it could create small side-drama due to this market organization’s rules. Showrooms had to be manned at all hours open and so on. The thousand-dollar fine was enough to keep vendors in line. Customers picked up their purchases at the last hour of the show, or later.

  When Natasha finished organizing her display, her mind flitted to the letter she’d received yesterday and her belly churned. She hadn’t successfully put the note out of her mind. She had managed to shove it back far enough that it no longer seemed real, and she could be herself. She didn’t know how to be anything but herself and she wasn’t going to start now.

  “How’s it going, Natasha?” A man’s voice came from the direction of the entrance to the showroom and Natasha looked up and smiled.

  It was Gary Grapefruit. His real name was Gary Orson, but she’d secretly called him Gary Grapefruit since he had brought her bags of grapefruit from his greenhouse in the metro Phoenix area—Litchfield Park, which was on the west side of the valley. They had met at her first show and had become good friends. They kept in contact over the months since they first met. They talked for extended times on the phone and she’d started to think of him as the brother she’d never had.

  At the start of each of the next two shows, he’d presented her with a good number of the fruit—it had become something of a game between them. Once again he was holding a large paper bag.

  “You brought me grapefruit.” She pointed to the bags. “You know the way to this girl’s heart.”

  He grinned as he walked toward her. “Is it working?”

  She laughed and brushed aside his teasing, knowing it was in good fun. “They’re sweet and not only make a great breakfast, but terrific juice, too. What’s not to like?”

  “Where do you want me to set them?” He nodded toward the table, his shaggy blond hair falling over his eyes. He shook his head back. “Under the table like usual?”

  “That’s perfect.” She moved toward him as he slipped behind the table she used to write sale contracts.

  He shoved the bag beneath and adjusted the tablecloth to cover the bag. When he straightened and rounded the table, they hugged. He always smelled like citrus and mint and was a great hugger.

  “A friend of mine, who lives here in Denver, is having a party at his place tonight.” Gary released her. “It’s not far from here, and the bigger his parties are, the happier he is. I think he likes to show off his place—it’s something else. You should come.”

  She enjoyed parties and it was always good to get out and meet people. “I’d like that.” She picked up her cell phone that was lying on the table by the tablet she used to take credit card payments. “Are you sure your friend won’t mind?”

  Gary shrugged. “He has a huge place. He doesn’t care if a hundred people show up. He’s got money and he likes to entertain.”

  “Okay.” She smiled. “Why don’t you text me the address?”

  “Perfect.” A sparkle lit his blue eyes. He looked more like a surfer dude from California than a Phoenix native. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and bent his head as he used his thumbs to type.

  A moment later her phone chimed, telling her she had a text message. She glanced at the message. “Got it.” She looked back at him. “What time?”

  “Starts at eight, but you can come earlier or later.” He slipped his phone into his back pocket. “My showroom is set. I can walk you out to your car.”

  “Thanks, but I have a few more things to do.” She gave him another hug. “I’ll be leaving in a little while.”

  She released him and he shoved his hands into his front jeans pockets. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Nah.” She pointed to the tablet. “I have a few inventory items I need to add to prepare for tomorrow. You go on.”

  He grinned at her. “Let me know if you have trouble finding the party.”

  “I have GPS on my phone, so I shouldn’t have a problem.” If she didn’t have GPS, she probably would get lost. The last time she’d gotten lost was when she’d ended up with her car parked in the master bedroom on the second story of someone’s vacation home.

  “See you tonight.” Gary turned and whistled as he walked out, his hands still stuffed in his pockets. He’d laugh if he saw his name listed as Gary Grapefruit in her contacts. One of these days she’d have to tell him.

  As far as a party, it would definitely help her get her mind off the darn letter.

  She chose a playlist on her phone and hummed along to Good Life from one of her favorite groups, OneRepublic. She sat behind the table to add the last three items to the sales app on her tablet. The app allowed her to take credit cards and email receipts to her customers after she took payment. Easy-peasy.

  When she finished, she shrugged into a heavy coat and grabbed her fringed purse. She locked her showroom behind her and strolled toward the building’s exit. A K9 officer stood by the door with a vested black Belgium shepherd at his side. The officer had Wright on a name patch on his uniform.

  “I love Belgiums.” She smiled at Officer Wright and he gave her a crooked grin. Most policemen seemed so serious, but this one didn’t. He was tall, a good-looking man with light brown hair and friendly eyes. “Belgiums are so intelligent. What�
�s her name?”

  “You’re right. They are extremely intelligent.” He glanced at the K9. “Her name is Taz.”

  “Taz.” Natasha smiled. “Do you mind if I pet her?” If the officer hadn’t appeared so friendly, she wouldn’t have asked him.

  He hesitated then nodded.

  Natasha was good with animals and they always loved her in return. She crouched and started to reach out to put her hand under Taz’s nose, so that the dog could sniff Natasha before giving permission to pet her.

  Immediately the dog snarled and barked. She pulled against her leash, straining to get to Natasha.

  Surprised, Natasha tried to stand and step away, but she fell and hit her backside hard on the concrete floor.

  She scrambled to her feet and backed away from the dog that the officer had instructed to sit.

  Eyes wide, Natasha looked at the officer. “What did I do?”

  Officer Wright frowned. “I’ll need to see your purse.”

  Natasha blinked, the request not registering for a moment as the dog rumbled. “Oh. Yeah.” She swung her purse off her shoulder and handed it to the officer.

  He searched the contents, which amounted to an egg-shaped lip balm, a pen, her checkbook, e-tablet, wallet, cell phone, and keys. Bewildered, she watched as he went through everything.

  He gestured to her. “Please take off your coat.”

  She obeyed and handed it to him. He searched her pockets, finding her gloves in one pocket and her scarf in another. When he found nothing, he scanned her figure, looking over the peasant blouse, skinny jeans, and at her ankle boots, probably checking to see if she had room for some kind of contraband in her clothing.

  He handed her coat to her and she slipped her arms in it and zipped it up before he returned her cloth purse. “Sorry about that, ma’am.” He didn’t look sorry. “If Taz gives signs that she’s found contraband, usually the person is hiding something.” His frown deepened. “Or has been handling illegal substances.”

  “I don’t know what she’s smelling on me, but it’s not drugs or any other contraband.” Natasha backed up, trying not to feel irritated. The officer was only doing his job, she knew that, but she still felt a sense of violation, and she didn’t like the mistrust. “Have a good night.”