to ignore was being groped. She gave her uncle a sidelong glance as he carved a golden-brown turkey.
“You’ve posted signs warning your customers about carrying concealed handguns, bringing in open bottles of beer and liquor, and not serving alcohol to anyone under the age of twenty-three. What you also need is a sign prohibiting customers from groping the help.”
“It’s not going to happen again.” Bobby’s voice had taken on a hard edge. “The next man who puts his hands on you will be barred from coming here, but that’s only after I kick his ass.”
Greer rested the warmed plate on the towel looped over her forearm. “I don’t need you getting arrested for assault.”
Bobby snorted loudly. “The sheriff and I were in Nam together, so I doubt if I’ll get arrested.”
“So it’s like that, Uncle Bobby?”
He winked at her. “You’ve got that right. Folks around here have asked me to run for mayor, but I have no patience for politics—or should I say poli-tricks.”
She returned the wink. “I’ll be back for the turkey.”
Greer shouldered her way through the swinging door, heading for the table with Chase Bromleigh’s order. She had come to know many of the regulars and Chase was one. He came to Stella’s Tuesday and Wednesday for dinner, always ordering the day’s special.
Chase was one of two men she’d placed on her mental watch list; the night before when she’d stepped out to get some air, Greer had observed Chase exchanging a package with a biker in the parking lot. It had been too dark to see what he’d given the other person. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions and say either he or the man were dealing guns or drugs. Even if she couldn’t recognize the biker’s face, she was more than familiar with the make and model of his bike. Unfortunately she hadn’t seen it again parked in the lot. At no time could she forget that she was on the job. The only difference was, this time, it would be as an observer. Becoming an observer was akin to a civilian informant. She would observe, while eavesdropping and gathering information, which data she would eventually pass along to the Seattle office.
She was relieved not to have to go undercover in Mission Grove. After her involvement with a group purchasing guns in Virginia and transporting them along I-95 to gangs and drug dealers in Philadelphia, New Jersey and New York, Greer didn’t want to repeat that scene less than a year later. Then, she’d been Jaylee Roseboro, supposed stepdaughter of undercover DEA drug trafficker Malcolm Kelly. She had made the drive once a week, each time in a different car, the stash of weapons hidden in a compartment under the trunk. If she’d been stopped by turnpike police, she would’ve given them her boss’s name and number, but that wasn’t possible because at no time had she ever been in the vehicle by herself. The man supplying the guns always had one of his men accompany her as insurance so she wouldn’t be tempted to take off with his merchandise. She delivered the guns, while her tagalong partner picked up the money. It was the supplier’s way of having them watch one another. His mantra was “Deliver the goods and come back with my money or else I’ll hunt you down and kill you, but not before I kill someone in your family.”
It had taken Greer nearly two years to gather enough information for the U.S. Attorney to issue warrants for the gun smuggling ring that netted six men and two women. She was rounded up with the others, processed and held without bond in protective custody for several days. The day before she and the others were scheduled for arraignment, jail officials announced she’d hung herself in her cell. Greer was whisked away under the cover of darkness to a safe house; she removed the contact lenses, false teeth, braided extensions and began a strict diet to lose the twenty pounds she’d gained while undercover. Indulging in a spree of eating fast food had wrecked her regimen of healthy eating. She was reassigned to a desk in a field office in Phoenix, becoming a glorified clerk.
Relocating to the Pacific Northwest was as different as night was from day when she compared the geography of the Southwest to the rugged untamed forests and the majestic splendor of Mount Hood. Waking up in the bedroom she’d occupied during her childhood summer vacations was like stepping back in time when she’d slept with the windows open because there was hardly ever a need for air-conditioning.
She had the entire two-story house to herself. Bobby claimed he could no longer stay there since losing his wife of nearly forty years. He now lived in one of the two apartments above Stella’s. The other apartment was occupied by an Iraq War veteran recovering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Bobby had hired Danny Poe to clean the restaurant and stock the bar and kitchen pantry. Danny, who was undergoing counseling, usually kept to himself, spoke when spoken to and accomplished his chores in record time.
Stella’s had begun as a family restaurant, but over the years it was also a sports bar and a favorite hangout for locals, college students and tourists. It opened six days a week from noon to three for lunch and five to nine for dinner; buffet-style dining was available only on Thursday, Friday and Saturday, with the kitchen closing at midnight. Sundays from ten to three featured a country-style buffet and table-service dinner until eight.
Thursday nights were set aside for karaoke when the number of customers increased appreciably with those wanting to showcase their vocal talent, while a live band provided entertainment on Friday and Saturday nights. If Greer had grown bored sitting at a desk, the same couldn’t be said when she found herself on her feet waitressing.
Maggie Shepherd, a single mother with two school-age children, worked the lunch shift, while Greer assumed the responsibility for serving dinner along with two college students who came in Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
Greer set the plates down in front of Chase, her eyes meeting those of the man seated opposite him. A slight frown creased her smooth forehead before she caught herself staring. She’d recognized Chase’s dining partner. What is Jason Cole doing in Stella’s? she mused.
She’d seen enough photographs and television footage of the recording executive to recognize him immediately. Although he’d been identified as a music industry celebrity, he’d managed to maintain a low profile without hordes of paparazzi shadowing his every move. Questions swirled inside Greer’s head as she wondered what was his connection to the man she had on her mental radar?
Forcing a smile, she angled her head. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Chase?” she asked the taciturn man who usually dined alone.
Chase stared at the plate of food, then glanced up at Greer. “Nothing for me, but I’d like you to get my friend a beer.”
Reaching into the pocket of her apron, she took out a pen and a pad. “Good evening, sir. Would you like to order something to go with the beer?”
A slow smile found its way across Jason’s face, dimples deepening in both cheeks. Greer didn’t know why, but she found the expression to be more of a leer than a smile. Curbing the urge to roll her eyes at him, she wanted to tell him she wasn’t one of his adoring groupies, ready and willing to do anything to get him to spend time with them. What she had to admit was that he was pretty, an adjective she rarely attributed to a man. However, his patrician features, deeply tanned olive complexion and large brown eyes with pinpoints of gold were mesmerizing.
Jason’s smile grew wider as he pointed to Chase’s plate. “I’ll have what he’s having, but I don’t want the peas and carrots. What other vegetables do you have?”
Greer held his steady gaze. “Beets, spinach, smothered cabbage and—”
“I’ll have the spinach,” Jason said, interrupting her.
She
