Secret Vows (Hideaway (Kimani)) (4 page)

Chapter 3

G
reer 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 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 slipped the pad and pen back into the apron pocket. “Do want corn bread?”

“Yes.”

Turning on her heel, Greer walked over to the bar to put in the beverage order. There were only eight patrons at the bar, while the bartender stood motionless watching ESPN. Of the five flat-screen televisions in the restaurant, three were always tuned to sports channels, one to an all-news channel and the remaining on the weather channel. They were muted but displayed closed captions.

“Pepper, I need a tap beer and a glass of water.”

Jimmy Pepperdine turned around, reached for a Pilsner glass and filled it with beer from the tap. A self-proclaimed hippie, Jimmy’s arms were covered in colorful peace sign tattoos and the names of the musicians who’d performed at Woodstock. He wore his graying hair in a long ponytail, with small gold hoops in his earlobes.

“It looks as if it’s going to be a slow night at the bar,” Pepper drawled.

“It’s still early. By the time we close, they’ll be standing two deep.”

The bartender nodded. “Yeah, but I get antsy just standing around.”

Pepper was antsy but Greer welcomed the lull. Those who sat at the bar didn’t yet nibble on pretzels and peanuts usually ordered from the kitchen. She picked up the two glasses, returning to the table and placing them on coasters advertising a popular imported beer. She headed for the kitchen, nearly colliding with the college student who was more than an hour late. Her uncle was usually easygoing with his employees; the exception was lateness. She overheard the young man tell Bobby his brother had taken his car without his knowledge and he’d run out of gas. Greer didn’t hear her uncle’s response as she busied herself filling orders.

The grandfather clock near the entrance chimed a half hour past ten as Bobby closed and locked the front door after the last two customers were reminded it was after closing time. Greer flopped down at a table, slipped out of her running shoes and wrapped both hands around the mug filled with hazelnut-flavored cappuccino. She took a sip, and wiggled her sock-covered toes. “This is delicious.”

Bobby sat down opposite Greer. “Pepper is the best when it comes to mixing drinks and brewing coffee.”

Greer peered over the mug, watching Danny as he stacked chairs atop tables before sweeping and mopping the tiled floor. “Did Pepper serve in Vietnam?”

“Why are you asking?”

Her gaze shifted to Bobby. “I figured him for a conscientious objector because of his peace tats.”

Bobby ran a forefinger around the rim of a snifter of Jack Daniels. “He went to Nam like most guys our age, but when he came back, he joined Vietnam Veterans Against the War, got arrested a few times, dropped out of sight for at least twenty years, then one day he showed up here looking for work.”

Greer laughed softly. “What are you running? A halfway house for wounded veterans?”

“Don’t knock the military, kid. It saved my life. I graduated high school, enrolled in college and started cutting classes. I was ready to drop out when my advisor talked me into joining the ROTC, and as they say, the rest is history. What I needed was structure and discipline, and the military was the answer. I probably would’ve become a lifer if I hadn’t met your aunt. Stella wasn’t cut out to be an army wife, so after I finished my last tour, I put in my papers and never looked back. We each worked two jobs for a couple years to save up enough money to buy this restaurant. It was nothing more than a shell, but Stella saw its potential. Every year we put aside half the profits to make renovations, and thankfully she was able to witness what she had envisioned for her namesake before she passed away.”

Greer nodded. The restaurant’s rustic exterior belied its interior. Track lighting over the raised band area and the bar, hanging Tiffany-style fixtures over each table and a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace taking up an entire wall invited patrons to come and stay awhile. A large colorful jukebox blared old-school rock-and-roll, blues, country and Pop. A pool table, dartboard and mechanical bull occupied another section of the expansive restaurant/sports bar with a dining capacity for 130.

“You’ve done well, Uncle Bobby.”

Reaching across the table, Bobby held Greer’s now-free hand. “This place is going to be yours once I decide to hang up my apron and spatula.”

“That’s not going to be for a long, long time,” she countered. Her aunt had promised Greer that the restaurant would be hers once she and Bobby retired. Every summer Greer watched Stella carefully as she prepared the dishes that perpetuated Stella’s reputation of serving the best homemade food in the region. Greer had become a good cook, but it could take years before her skills would come close to matching her uncle and late aunt’s.

“It may not be that long, kid. I’d told myself I would retire at seventy, but my knees are telling me they won’t last that long.” He held up a hand. “I know I need to lose at least fifty pounds but that’s not going to happen as long as I hang out in the kitchen.”

Greer took another sip of coffee. “I’d love to help you cook, but I have to...”

“I know why you’re here, Greer, and it’s not to be my sous-chef because I already have one,” Bobby said when her words trailed off.

“How often does Jason Cole come here?” she asked, deftly changing the topic of conversation.

“He usually hangs out here for several months, then goes back to Florida. Every once in a while he’ll sit in with the band playing piano or guitar.”

“How tight is he with Chase?”

Bobby shrugged broad shoulders as he tossed back the liquid in his glass. “They both live in Bear Ridge Estates, so that would make them neighbors. Why are you asking?”

It was Greer’s turn to shrug her shoulders. “Just asking.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “You had to have a reason, Greer.”

If her uncle had been cleared as to her assignment, then she was somewhat obligated to be forthcoming with him. “There’s something about Chase that disturbs me,” she whispered.