“Selling them,” Edie Larson answered. “She can make a lot more money selling Tasers at a party than she can make selling plastic dishware.”
“My point exactly,” Bob said. “Once she sells them to everyone she knows, we’ll all be at risk. No one in town will be safe.”
“You should be grateful,” Edie said. “With the women in town prepared to defend themselves, you’ll be a whole lot safer than you were before.”
“You’re saying Frieda Rains is an authorized dealer, then?” Ali asked.
“Yes,” Edie answered. “She’s a fully authorized dealer. I went to one of her first parties here in town last week. Your father knew at the time that I was going. I told him well in advance.”
“Yes,” Bob grumbled. “But when you came home, you neglected to mention that you actually bought one. You seem to have left out that important detail.”
“Because I knew you’d pitch a fit five ways to Sunday when you found out,” Edie shot back. “Which is what you’re doing right this minute, in case you haven’t noticed. Since I knew having this argument was inevitable, I decided to postpone it until my C2 actually got here and it came time to activate it. Which I’ve done, by the way, by putting in the authorization code.”
“You’re saying that now it’s loaded?” Bob asked warily. “Are you telling me all you have to do is shoot the damn thing? Shouldn’t there be some kind of training program before you’re allowed to go around with it in your hand?”
“It isn’t a lethal weapon,” Edie returned. “And I’ve already done the training. Frieda gave me a copy of the video. I’ve watched it several times. Running this thing is as easy as pie.”
“What about a license? Shouldn’t you have one of those?”
“A license isn’t required,” Edie said. “I brought the computer over from the house so I could answer the questions on the felony check. Obviously, there weren’t any of those. Now that it’s activated, I’m good to go.”
“How about if you go out of my kitchen, then,” Bob suggested. “And take that blasted thing with you. What if it goes off accidentally and messes up my microwave?”
“It doesn’t go off unless you move back the cover and push the red button,” Edie said. “And it’s not going to hurt your microwave.”
“I don’t care,” Bob said. “I want it out of here!”
With a glare in her husband’s direction, Edie stuffed the Taser in the pocket of her apron and headed for the dining room. Bob turned on his daughter. “As for you,” he said, “if you’re looking for lunch, we don’t start serving for another five minutes. No exceptions, not even for you.”
Ali followed Edie back into the dining room. “Can I see it?” she asked. “Please?”
Edie sighed. “As long as you don’t give me any grief about it. See? This is how it works.” She held out the sleek little instrument and pulled back the plastic cover that served as a trigger guard. As soon as she did that, a bright red laser light appeared on the opposite wall.
“A lot of the time, just having that light aimed at his chest is enough to get a crook to back off. If he doesn’t, you press this button, the one with the lightning on it. You’ve got to keep the Taser vertical. The darts shoot out about fifteen feet, and they say you should always aim for the chest. The second dart hits about a foot lower than the first one. If he still doesn’t go down, you can use this as a stun gun in close physical combat, but that’s a lot harder.”
“You seem to know a lot about this,” Ali said.
“You bet,” Edie replied with a grin. “Like I said, I’ve watched the video.”
The bell rang over the door, signaling arriving customers. Without another word, Edie stowed her Taser in the locked compartment under the cash wrap next to her purse. While Jan went to seat the new arrivals, Edie busied herself with brewing a new pot of coffee. “I swear,” she said, “I think your father would be happier living in the twentieth century-the
Bob Larson’s 1972 Bronco was his pride and joy. It was also his sole means of transportation. Refurbished after being stolen and stripped sometime earlier, it now sported a brand-new coat of paint and newly acquired copper- plated antique-vehicle license plates.
Ali wasn’t about to be deflected from the subject at hand. “But why a Taser?” she asked.
“Why not?” Edie returned. “Not everybody has what it takes to be a martial-arts expert, and we can’t all be like you and carry a loaded Glock around.”
Both of Ali’s parents had objected to her having a gun and a concealed-weapon permit, although the criticism had pretty much gone away after an almost fatal shoot-out in a Phoenix-area hospital waiting room. On that occasion, the presence of Ali’s weapon had played an important part in saving countless lives.
“I used to think Sedona was the safest place in the world, but not anymore,” Edie continued. “I’m the one who takes the receipts to the bank every day. When I’m walking around with that bag of cash in my purse, I can tell you, I feel mighty leery about it. I’m the one at risk, you know. Who’s to say some would-be thief might not take a look at me and decide I’m an easy mark?”
“But Mother,” Ali began.
“No buts,” Edie said. “It’s not a lethal weapon. If someone was coming at me and I had a gun in my hand, I’d probably think about it for a minute. Do I want to kill this guy or not? And by the time I made up my mind, it would be too late. With this, I pull the trigger. And what happens if there’s a struggle and he takes my weapon away and shoots me instead? Same thing. I may be tased, but I won’t be dead. I may fall down on the ground and wet my pants in public, which would be embarrassing as all get out, but again, I won’t be dead. Big difference.”
“Let’s suppose you end up tasing a bad guy,” Ali said. “What if he gets up and comes at you anyway? What do you do then?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Edie said. “You’ve got the thirty seconds while he’s helpless on the ground to call for help and get out of Dodge. You take off and leave your Taser right there with the darts still in him. Afterward, you submit a police report about the incident to Taser International, and they replace your Taser, no questions asked. So it comes with a lifetime guarantee.”
“Interesting,” Ali said.
“Look what happened to Morgan Forester,” Edie continued. “Whoever killed her did it right there in her own front yard, and she was completely defenseless. If she’d had a Taser, maybe she could have gotten away. Frieda told me that she booked three parties for next week based on that incident alone.”
Ali had to concede that Edie had a point. Sedona wasn’t nearly as crime-free as it had once been. That lethal weapon/ shoot/don’t shoot pause in the action, the critical seconds of wrestling with the decision of pulling the trigger and possibly killing an attacker, had proved fatal for countless police officers and civilians alike over the years. And how many people died when, in the course of a struggle, their own weapons were used against them? Maybe Edie and Frieda were right-that having access to a nonlethal alternative wasn’t such a bad idea.
Edie glanced at the clock. “It drives me nuts when your father starts acting like a prima donna, but it’s after eleven now. If you want lunch, I can take your order, but didn’t you just have breakfast?”
“I need a meatloaf sandwich,” Ali said. “To go.”
“With everything?”
Ali nodded. She didn’t mention that she would be delivering it to B. Simpson at his home. That would spin off another whole set of questions, to say nothing of rumors.
Once Ali’s order was up on the wheel, Edie turned back to her daughter. “Frieda asked me if I thought you’d be interested. Next week’s parties are booked, but she said she’d be able to squeeze you in to one of them if you’d like to attend.”
“No, thanks,” Ali said. “For right now I believe I’ll stick with my Glock.”
Gradually, the Sugarloaf’s lunch crowd began to filter into the restaurant. From the sounds of banging pots and pans in the kitchen, Ali knew her father wasn’t yet over his snit, but he would be. He and her mother had their various differences of opinions, but they always got over them one way or the other.
While Ali waited for the sandwich, she tried calling Leland Brooks, hoping to see how he had fared with the tile delivery. She was a little surprised when he still didn’t answer his phone; he usually picked up after only one ring.
“Back in town now,” she said, leaving another message. “Give me a call when you get this.”
As the booths filled up, so did the stools at the counter. Blanche Sims, a teller from Wells Fargo, slipped onto a
