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“Gaiman says the jewels in those three cases are worth close to a million.”
Andi’s mouth slackened. “A million in three cases? In a Jeopardy Falls gallery?” The town held several high-end galleries, but she hadn’t expected that high-end.
Papers rustled on the other end, followed by the tapping of fingers on a keyboard. “Tad Gaiman is insured for ten million dollars.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, but that includes his Albuquerque and Taos galleries too,” Grant said.
She increased her speed after the car in front of her turned offand the road ahead opened up. “I’ll call you with all the details when I wrap up the initial assessment.”
“Or you could debrief me in person. Say ... tonight in Albuquerque?” Grant said.
Please,no. She gripped the steering wheel tighter.Not this again.
“Natalie really wants you home for the balloon fiesta. We’re all going to be there through the weekend. It’s less than a two-hour ride down, Bells.”
She couldn’t help but smile at the nickname he’d given her when she had to have been no more than five, wearing little bells on her shiny red shoes. But ...
“It really weirds me out when you call my mom Natalie.” Despite Grant basically being family—her big brother’s best friend as far back as she could recall.
“I’m thirty-two. I think it’s okay to drop theMisspart. But back on topic, your mom insisted you come home.”
Her mom could insist all she liked, but she wasn’t going home. It stopped being a safe haven the minute her life fell apart.
FOUR
ANDI SLOWEDas she entered Jeopardy Falls and the speed limit on Juan Tabo dropped to thirty. She cruised along the two-lane road running through the center of town. Last time she’d been here, it was with her bestie, Harper. After a day of perusing the fun and quirky shops, they’d shared dinner on the outdoor patio of a cozy restaurant with white twinkly lights strung overhead. Good memories. At least she had a few post-devastation, and that was one of them.
Shifting her gaze down a half dozen or so blocks, she kept an eye out for Gaiman’s business. If she recalled correctly, the four art galleries in town each straddled a different corner at the intersection of Juan Tabo and Comanche Street, which the locals had dubbed “gallery corner.”
Passing the feed store, she spotted cowboys heading in and out. She halted at the crosswalk, letting one strapping, handsome cowboy pass by. He thanked her with a tip of his hat and a wink. She smiled despite herself. Continuing on, she passed the lone Italian restaurant in town, along with a slew of Mexican restaurants serving New Mexican–style cuisine. Sadie’s was her favorite, and their green chile stew was to die for.
Her stomach grumbled just thinking about it. She’d rushed out without breakfast, but food would have to wait. She had a job to do, thanks to Grant’s pity or compassion. Either way, she owed him everything. He’d given her purpose when hers had died.
Banking right at “gallery corner,” she noted the steady stream of folks heading into Frannie’s Diner. Rumor had it she made the best biscuits west of Charleston.
Glancing catty-corner, Andi spotted the Gaiman Gallery. But how could she not? It had the most ostentatious exterior. The building was painted a textured cobalt blue, but it was the mirrors in random shapes plastered about the gallery that gave it that “blingy” feeling. Not to mention the murals—all done artistically in a Picasso-esque style with vibrant colors. For housing such an expensive gallery collection, it was quite the odd exterior.
Pulling into the parking lot, she spotted a silver Porsche Panamera and a sheriff’s vehicle.
Taking what she hoped would be a calming breath, she whispered a prayer and stepped outside. The warmth of the rising sun swarmed around her, enveloping her in its beautiful heat after such a chilly night.
Halfway across the lot, she paused, the hair on the nape of her neck tingling.Odd. She ignored it and continued across the newly paved lot, but within a handful of steps forward, a shiver brushed across her skin. She stopped and surveyed her surroundings. The only people visible were those heading in or out of Frannie’s, and none seemed particularly interested in her. Chalking it up to nerves, she strode toward the building, rounded a brick wall ... and nearly plowed into the sheriff.
“Oops. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting...”
The sheriff tipped his hat. “All good.”
Her gaze darted to the other man present, outfitted in genie-style striped pants and a purple satin shirt sprinkled with colorful geometric shapes. He paced the terracotta-tile entryway much like a coyote did when searching for its next kill.
The sun glinted off the man’s bleached-blond hair feathered back in ’70s style. Or was it the ’80s? Whichever it was, it certainly wasn’t this century. She’d place him in his early to mid-forties, so it seemed a fitting style for his growing-up years.
“Sheriff Brunswick.” The six-foot-tall man with blue eyes, weathered skin, and a crinkly smile extended his hand.
“Andi Forester. It’s a pleasure.” At least she hoped it would be. Law enforcement either treated her with professional courtesy or they ridiculed her, but she had a good feeling about Brunswick—though that odd uneasiness of being watched burrowed deep in her gut and wouldn’t let go. She tried to shake it off but to no avail. She turned to the other man. “Mr. Gaiman, I presume.”
He stared at her, green eyes blinking.
