“You shouldn’t have walked so quietly,” she suggested. He would have found her awake. She hadn’t slept a moment until long after his final splash.
Cash pulled two slices of toast from the toaster, buttered them, and scooped the eggs out of the pan and onto two plates. He carried the plates and silverware to the table and beckoned Christie to sit down.
Breakfast was companionable. When they finished Christie asked, “Do you have anything planned for today, or are we going to fly back to the Bay Area early?”
“I told my insurance agent I would stop by this morning to review a policy. To save you from boredom, I’ll drop you off at Tlockapocke and you can browse through the shops. If you’re interested, you might find a bargain on some fine Indian jewelry. When I’m finished with business, I’ll swing by and we can have a late lunch before heading to the airport.”
At the southwestern-style enclave, Christie sought out the Indian crafts store Cash had recommended. Before she located it, she came upon an art gallery and an outdoor exhibit of oil paintings caught her attention. A small rendering of a red-tailed hawk soaring high above a singular cactus caught her fancy. She checked the price tag and was surprised to see that it was not out of her range.
A sun-bronzed man dressed in a gingham cowboy shirt, a paisley scarf tied loosely at his neck, lounged on a beat-up wooden bench. His faded jeans, fastened by wide red suspenders, were slung low over a rounded belly. He stroked a thick, graying beard as he observed Christie’s interest in the painting. His hands were gnarled by age or work, and deep, weathered grooves ran across his forehead.
“These are very nice,” she said.
“Local artist,” he replied. “Teaches classes at the Art League. Ran into him painting on location in Carefree. He was working on that.” He hitched his thumb in the direction of the painting.
Christie tried to read the signature at the bottom of the painting, but the letters were cramped. She wondered if it was the artist she and Margo had met in the plaza. It was a sweet painting, small but captivating. Maybe she would forgo an Indian bracelet.
She considered the price, her savings account, and the bill she would be presenting to Cash. The painting would be a splurge, but only a minor one. Impulse buying wasn’t her style—perhaps she should walk some more, think about it. As though reading her thoughts, and not wanting her out of his reach, the art dealer spoke.
“You look like you really want this picture. I could probably shave twenty dollars off the price without upsetting the artist; he’s a real nice sort. I’ll just cut my commission a bit to make him happy.”
Christie couldn’t resist; she lifted the painting from its easel. “I’ll take it. It may be a bit extravagant, but I know it will bring me more pleasure than a fancy bracelet.”
She went inside the store, paid for the painting, and waited for it to be wrapped. She recognized that she had acted impulsively after all, but the painting hadn’t cost any more than a fine Navajo or Zuni bracelet. She laughed; by the time she met up with Cash, she would have talked herself into believing the picture was a steal.
She carried the package under her arm and continued a few doors down to look in the Indian store’s window. Brightly inlaid bracelets, stones set in silver, beaded necklaces, squash blossoms with turquoise flowers, sand paintings, and leather goods were displayed. Inside, three showcases of jewelry spotlighted local artisans. Christie was amazed at the intricate designs, but she held her painting close and felt no regret about her purchase.
She glanced at her watch; Cash would be meeting her soon. She hurried to the restaurant and was relieved that he hadn’t arrived yet. He undoubtedly counted on punctuality. She was sipping a glass of iced tea when Cash joined her.
He eyed her package. “Looks too big to be a bracelet. What did you buy?”
“A painting. I’ll show it to you when we get back to the city. I don’t want to remove the wrappings now.”
“You’ll need bolt cutters to get through that.” He poked with his thumb.
“The shopkeeper went a bit overboard when I told him I was transporting it in a private plane. I think he visualized something out of an old war movie. You know, the one where you pull the cockpit hatch over your head. I’m surprised he didn’t insist on insuring it. It will be a nice reminder of my visit here,” she added.
“You sound as though you will never be back. I’m hoping this will get to be a habit.”
Her gaze locked with his. The golden glints in his eyes seemed to sparkle as he stared at her, his entire attention riveted on her face.
“Christie?” His voice was low and provocative. “You will be back…”
The waitress appeared, and Christie was relieved for the break in conversation. They gave their orders and soon the plates were set in front of them. Christie toyed with her food. Once again she found herself at a loss for words.
Looking for common ground, she said, “I don’t understand how you can resist the laid-back attitude that pervades this town. If I had a hideaway like yours, I would be completely relaxed by the time the weekend was over. Yet you look like you’re poised for flight. I’m sure that you’re already ticking away a list of appointments for tomorrow.”
“Today.”
“What?”
“I was correcting you. I have an appointment with a new client late this afternoon. He’s being held on an old, unpaid traffic warrant, but he’s actually a suspect in an arson investigation. Will you go with me? Take notes or something?”
“What drives you so hard, Cash? Surely you aren’t trying to live up to your name.”
He laughed. “Grandmother Cash would wag a finger and warn you not to make light of the family name.”
“I was worried that it had been hung on you because you pursued wealth.”
“I work hard for my fees, but the money is secondary.” His expression turned serious. She hoped she hadn’t overstepped with her remark. “I’m sorry. I was teasing.”
“I know you were. Can I count on your help this afternoon?”
“Of course.”
“Then let’s be on our way. Here, let me carry your package.” He dropped some bills on the table and picked up her painting.
Ninety minutes later, they arrived at the airport. Buckling herself into the cockpit seat, Christie realized how perfectly the aircraft suited Cash. He packed so much activity into each day, it was necessary to be able to go where he wanted when he wanted. That way a weekend getaway could be transformed into a workday on demand.
The flight back to San Francisco was smooth, and the landing uneventful compared to the hair-raising drop onto the Sedona runway.
San Francisco Airport was busy as always, and Cash impatiently waited his turn out of the parking lot. When there was a break in traffic, he swung the SUV onto the freeway, his foot heavy on the gas pedal.
When they reached the county jail, it was obvious by the number of police cars in the parking lot that crime did not take weekends off. Inside they were put through a security check and then ushered into a consultation room.
Cash’s new client was brought into the room in handcuffs. Twenty-year-old Bobby Moreno wore tight jeans and a black T-shirt that molded to his lean but muscled chest. His appearance suggested that a public defender would be more appropriate than an attorney of Cash’s caliber.
Cash appeared impervious to the disparity, treating Moreno with the same deference he would any other client. His attitude encouraged confidence and the youth opened up, spilling anger, frustration, and fear.
When the interview was completed, Christie was confused about Cash’s motivation in agreeing to represent the young man. Moreno did not fit the profile of high-powered cases that Cash had a reputation for defending. There would be no promise of publicity or a fat fee.