Chapter 3

      Greer spooned a generous portion of fluffy mashed potatoes onto a heavy cafeteria-style dinner plate. She added two thick slices of meat loaf, along with peas and carrots, and then ladled au jus gravy over the meat and potatoes. Reaching for a pair of tongs, she placed a generous serving of corn bread on a separate dish. It had been exactly two weeks since she’d come to Mission Grove to work in her uncle’s restaurant. During that time, she’d learned to ignore the gawking, and occasional crude overtures from some of the men, but what she refused 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