inventory or priced items for the upcoming sale, but her assistant Barbara Redhorse usually took care of those matters. When she had decided to remain in New Mexico after her initial visit over five years ago, she had needed something to do, something that would occupy her time and also involve her in learning more about her Navajo roots. Her good friend, Joanna Blackwood, had been the one to suggest opening a Native American Arts and Crafts store in Gallup. So, she had delved in to her sizable inheritance from her grandfather and invested in a local business, which actually turned a profit the very first year. But today even her flourishing store couldn’t keep her focused. Having been restless and slightly on edge for the past hour, she couldn’t seem to relax. She had taken a shower and changed into her soft cotton pajamas, hoping that would put her in the mood for sleep. But she was too wired. And the odd thing was, she wasn’t quite sure why. It was as if something was wrong, but she didn’t know what. She had been prone to having uneasy feelings ever since she’d been a child. Not that she possessed psychic abilities or anything like that. Not really. She just occasionally got a sense of foreboding. And nine times out of ten, she was right.
She was worried enough to have called to check on her mother, who lived in South Carolina. But Rosemary Stephens had been entertaining a group of society friends and hadn’t had time to say more than hello and goodbye. Andi had been tempted to telephone her stepmother who lived on the nearby Navajo Reservation, to check on her and Russ. And she had even started dialing her friend Joanna Blackwood’s number before common sense took over and she hung up the phone. Joanna was expecting her fourth child, and although the pregnancy had been perfectly normal, there was always the chance that—
Stop this! an inner voice ordered. Do you hear me? Stop borrowing trouble. If something is wrong, you’ll find out soon enough. No need to make yourself sick.
Andi found herself in her small kitchen—a bright, light room, with oak cabinets, cream walls and uncurtained windows that overlooked an enclosed backyard. Tea. She’d make herself a cup of herbal tea.
Within minutes, she removed the cup of water she’d heated in the microwave, added a raspberry tea bag and dunked it several times. She preferred her tea mild and plain.
Now what? she asked herself. Try to read? Listen to music? Watch TV? Finding herself back in the living room, she sat in her favorite seat, an oversize, hunter-green leather chair. She stretched her legs out atop the matching ottoman, took a sip of tea and considered her choices. Glancing at the mantel clock, she decided to catch the late-night news and weather.
The remote lay under a couple of magazines on the side table at her right. After several clicks, she found the local channel. But while she drank her tea, her mind wandered, so she paid little attention to the series of commercials that flickered across the twenty-six-inch screen. Ever since she’d had lunch with Joanna this past week, she’d been thinking about Joe Ornelas. Joanna had casually mentioned that Joe, her husband J.T.’s cousin, had sent her a baby gift, with a sweet note attached.
“I can’t believe he picked out that adorable little frilly dress himself,” Joanna had said.
“Maybe his girlfriend chose it,” Andi had replied.
“Maybe. But J.T. says that Joe doesn’t have anyone special in his life these days.”
Yeah, sure. Like she’d believe that. Joe Ornelas wasn’t the type to live without a woman. Perhaps there was no one he considered special, but she’d bet every dime of her inheritance that living there in Atlanta, Georgia, Joe had women swarming around him like bees. She figured he probably had to beat them off with a stick. After all, Joe was a hunk. And a lot of women had a penchant for handsome Native Americans.
Oh, great! You’re batting a thousand tonight, aren’t you, she scolded herself. You go from being disturbed by uneasy feelings to mooning over a man who walked out on you five years ago. Andi Stephens, you need to get a life!
Suddenly the news story on the television caught Andi’s attention. She thought she’d heard her brother’s name mentioned. Surely, not. The newscaster was talking about a murder case.
After turning up the sound, she focused on the screen. The female news anchor switched over to a live report from the scene of a shooting in Castle Springs, a small town northeast of Gallup and situated within the boundaries of the Navajo Reservation.
“According to his neighbors, Bobby Yazzi, the murder victim, was believed to be involved in selling drugs,” the male news reporter said, while the cameraman gave a wide-angle shot of the victim’s apartment and of residents milling around on the street. “Although the police haven’t released any information about the murder itself, our sources have told us that some neighbors saw two young men running out of the duplex-apartment and into the alley behind their houses. The police have not confirmed this, nor have they identified the young men, but we’re told that the eyewitnesses know who the men are and identified them as Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn, both Navajo youths.”
Andi set her tea aside, then listened carefully, trying to absorb every tidbit of information. How was this possible? What were Russ and Eddie doing anywhere near a man like Bobby Yazzi? Russ might be a bit of a hell-raiser, but he really wasn’t a bad kid. He was a boy without a father. At sixteen, he was rebelling against his mother, his Native American heritage and anything that even hinted of adult authority.
Five years ago, her half-brother’s life had been vastly altered, just as hers had been, when their father committed suicide. Andi had suspected that Russ wanted to distance himself from what friends and family considered his father’s shame. Now this had happened. What could it mean?
She had to contact Doli. If her stepmother didn’t know about this, then Andi would have to be the one to break the news to her. Poor Doli. She’d felt lost and confused trying to raise a strong-willed boy without a man to guide him. She would blame herself for any trouble Russ had landed in this time, as she had numerous times in the past.
“This just in,” the newscaster reported. “The police have put out an APB on Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn. Both young men are wanted for questioning in the shooting death of Bobby Yazzi.”
Poor boys, Andi thought. They had to be frightened. Scared out of their minds. If they had witnessed the murder, then whoever killed Bobby would know that her brother and Eddie could identify him.
Just as Andi stood, the telephone rang. With an unsteady hand, she lifted the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Andi, this is J.T. By any chance, have you been watching TV or listening to the radio?”
“Yes, I heard. Russ and Eddie are wanted for questioning.” Andi gripped the phone tightly. “What were they doing at Bobby Yazzi’s apartment? Neither of them are into drugs.”
“I have no idea,” J.T. said. “Have you spoken with Doli?”
“No, I was just going to call her, but— Have you spoken to Eddie’s parents?”
“Yeah.” J.T. paused, took a deep breath and continued. “I’m on my way over to Castle Springs now to meet Ed and Kate at the police station. Do you want me to contact Doli?”
“No, I’ll call her and then I’ll drive over to the reservation and stay with her until we find out what’s going on.”
Andi said goodbye, hung up the receiver and huffed out a long, loud sigh. Her uneasy feeling had proven to be right, once again. Her unerringly accurate premonition of trouble had been fulfilled. That sense of foreboding had, in the past, forecast sickness, death and accidents, usually involving someone close to her. She wished that just this once she could have been wrong.
Russ hot-wired the old truck, a rusty relic from the fifties, but one that purred like a kitten when the motor turned over.
“Damn it, Russ, this is stealing!” Eddie, who sat alongside his friend in the cab of the truck, looked from side to side out the windows, then glanced over his shoulder.
“Hey, we have to get some kind of transportation, don’t we?” Russ shifted gears,