Read Online Trapline by Mark Stevens - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Stevens
Tags: Mystery, Mystery Fiction, Colorado, West, mystery novel, wilderness, alison coil, allison coil, allison coil mystery, mark stevens
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thought, but more of a sharp sensation, like the lightning-quick pain from a mean cramp, that he was captured prey.
ten:
monday afternoon
Trudy Heathâs view of Down to Earth was probably not how they taught you to think about profit and enterprise in business school.
She cared deeply about the business. Up to a point, she wanted it to flourish. A strong regional brand would be plenty. But soon it could lose its personality and it could morph into one of those other labels that had vaulted from regional specialty to bland, ubiquitous national nothing.
For now, Down to Earth clicked along. They did well in Meeker and Craig, to the north. They were well known in Paonia, Hotchkiss, Delta, and Grand Junction in a broad arc to the south and west. Their distribution reached Eagle along the I-70 corridor to the east. She had resisted the staffâs push for Montrose, Ouray, Telluride, or maybe even Durango, but she might cave. Basically, the heart of western Colorado was the market for now. She had teamed up with a local distributorâfilling up space on trucks already making their roundsâso she didnât feel any less green or any less local. In fact, she pictured her business with a bit of wonder and awe. It was like trying to figure out precisely how shoveling coal into the engine of a locomotive would propel steel wheels down the tracks.
It didnât compute. She tried to imagine all the transactions that had to happenâretail transactions, cash and credit cards changing hands. Phone orders, online orders, one bank account dipping while anotherâDown to Earthâsârose. People must have been telling each other, because no advertising had been bought. Sheâd been lucky with well-placed newspaper articles, glowing ones, and that was that.
The organization mushroomed like one of those videos on the nature channel that condense three weeksâ of growth for a morel into thirty seconds. She had found the sweet spot of demand and product. But it wasnât really her. Sheâd given the green light on a new bottling contract in Grand Junction. She had okayed a new, expansive greenhouse plan in a field halfway to Rifle. But the man behind it all, the man who had come crawling back contritely, sheepishly, sweetly, gentlyâhe had given her a month to pause and reflectâwas Jerry.
Jerry Paige.
He said all the right things, apologized from the heart and removed the pressure, said he didnât want to lose her as a friend. Of course, five minutes later, after a kiss, they were all tangled up and laughing and how could she not grant a big old governor-size pardon on the spot. His crimes had been misdemeanors of the heart, of unchecked zeal. This was after the fallout, when he had done his over-the-top and too-pushy speech in front of the school board, embarrassing the whole erstwhile band of reformers and causing the team and its agenda to implode on the launch pad.
But weeks of space and quiet was plenty of time for Trudy to realize she hated loose ends, despised grudges and loved closure. Especially closures with Jerry, who was an excellent physical companion.
As the business blossomed, Jerry had offered guidance and suggestions and before she knew it he assumed the role as the unofficial manager of Down to Earth, the new company borne out of The Growing Season, Trudyâs line of pesto products and marinades. The pesto and marinades remained hot items, but now Down to Earth sold organic fresh herbs, organic produce, gardening equipment, soils, mulch, shrubs, trees, bushes, ground cover, birdhouses, and a whole line of sculptures and other outdoor decorations created by local artists. Down to Earth conducted classes for the home gardener. Down to Earth encouraged the home gardener to take care of herbs and produce them at home, so they no longer had to shop at Down to Earth. It was anti-selling and in some crazy way it worked.
Down to Earth had promoted a corporate giving
ten:
monday afternoon
Trudy Heathâs view of Down to Earth was probably not how they taught you to think about profit and enterprise in business school.
She cared deeply about the business. Up to a point, she wanted it to flourish. A strong regional brand would be plenty. But soon it could lose its personality and it could morph into one of those other labels that had vaulted from regional specialty to bland, ubiquitous national nothing.
For now, Down to Earth clicked along. They did well in Meeker and Craig, to the north. They were well known in Paonia, Hotchkiss, Delta, and Grand Junction in a broad arc to the south and west. Their distribution reached Eagle along the I-70 corridor to the east. She had resisted the staffâs push for Montrose, Ouray, Telluride, or maybe even Durango, but she might cave. Basically, the heart of western Colorado was the market for now. She had teamed up with a local distributorâfilling up space on trucks already making their roundsâso she didnât feel any less green or any less local. In fact, she pictured her business with a bit of wonder and awe. It was like trying to figure out precisely how shoveling coal into the engine of a locomotive would propel steel wheels down the tracks.
It didnât compute. She tried to imagine all the transactions that had to happenâretail transactions, cash and credit cards changing hands. Phone orders, online orders, one bank account dipping while anotherâDown to Earthâsârose. People must have been telling each other, because no advertising had been bought. Sheâd been lucky with well-placed newspaper articles, glowing ones, and that was that.
The organization mushroomed like one of those videos on the nature channel that condense three weeksâ of growth for a morel into thirty seconds. She had found the sweet spot of demand and product. But it wasnât really her. Sheâd given the green light on a new bottling contract in Grand Junction. She had okayed a new, expansive greenhouse plan in a field halfway to Rifle. But the man behind it all, the man who had come crawling back contritely, sheepishly, sweetly, gentlyâhe had given her a month to pause and reflectâwas Jerry.
Jerry Paige.
He said all the right things, apologized from the heart and removed the pressure, said he didnât want to lose her as a friend. Of course, five minutes later, after a kiss, they were all tangled up and laughing and how could she not grant a big old governor-size pardon on the spot. His crimes had been misdemeanors of the heart, of unchecked zeal. This was after the fallout, when he had done his over-the-top and too-pushy speech in front of the school board, embarrassing the whole erstwhile band of reformers and causing the team and its agenda to implode on the launch pad.
But weeks of space and quiet was plenty of time for Trudy to realize she hated loose ends, despised grudges and loved closure. Especially closures with Jerry, who was an excellent physical companion.
As the business blossomed, Jerry had offered guidance and suggestions and before she knew it he assumed the role as the unofficial manager of Down to Earth, the new company borne out of The Growing Season, Trudyâs line of pesto products and marinades. The pesto and marinades remained hot items, but now Down to Earth sold organic fresh herbs, organic produce, gardening equipment, soils, mulch, shrubs, trees, bushes, ground cover, birdhouses, and a whole line of sculptures and other outdoor decorations created by local artists. Down to Earth conducted classes for the home gardener. Down to Earth encouraged the home gardener to take care of herbs and produce them at home, so they no longer had to shop at Down to Earth. It was anti-selling and in some crazy way it worked.
Down to Earth had promoted a corporate giving
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