Cold River - Carla Neggers [84]
The cousin. Grit looked across Main Street at the frozen tundra of the pretty town green. “How’d he get to Rutland, Myrtle?”
“He took the train. He got in last night.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s at a roadside motel on Route 4 just outside Rutland.”
“He’s sixteen,” Grit said. “Don’t they check ID?”
“He’s very smart. All the Neals are smart.”
Grit glanced at Myrtle, who was trembling, from nerves or the cold, he didn’t know. She definitely didn’t look happy.
“He says he has a message for you from Charlie.”
“Myrtle.”
“He’s not under Secret Service protection. Conor Neal. The cousin.”
Grit knew better. It wasn’t Conor Neal in Rutland. It was Charlie. He was up to his prince-and-the-pauper tricks again, which Myrtle, being a smart Washington reporter, was pretending she didn’t know about. “Doesn’t mean they’re not watching him,” Grit said.
“No, it doesn’t. The motel’s not busy.”
“What did he do, hitch a ride from the train station?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Up the street, a woman bundled from head to toe was walking a couple of little white dogs. Grit wondered if she had a normal life and decided probably not. What was normal, anyway?
“Let’s go inside for muffins,” Myrtle said. “You can leave me there and go to Rutland. I’ll keep an eye on everyone for you.”
The café was warm and filled with people, including various law enforcement officers. The state trooper that Jo’s sister, Beth, was dating was adding half-and-half to a mug of coffee.
Jo was already there with Elijah. Also at their table was Jo’s boss, Mark Francona, up from Washington on a frigid New England morning.
That couldn’t be good.
Grit had met Francona in Washington in November and, being an experienced Navy SEAL, suspected the senior Secret Service agent’s presence had something to do with Myrtle’s errand.
“Myrtle,” he said under his breath.
She grimaced. “I see. We walked right into the lion’s mouth. I thought we’d have more time before anyone got here.”
“So the note on my bed and borrowing a Secret Service agent’s car—”
“Shut up, Grit,” Myrtle said.
She went ahead of him to the glass case and put in her order with a frowning Beth Harper.
Elijah, who wasn’t law enforcement, got up from the table with Jo and Francona and ambled over to Grit in such a controlled manner it could only signal the proverbial shit was hitting the fan. “Francona turned up ten minutes ago,” Elijah said. “He flew in from D.C. first thing this morning. He wants to talk to you.”
“Maybe I should have stopped at the gas station for coffee.”
Beth Harper was attractive, and Grit had seen her and her sister running on the lake in skintight leggings, but he kept looking at the women in Black Falls as sisters. Jo, of course. She was Elijah’s woman. But Beth, Rose Cameron, Dominique Belair, Hannah Shay. He’d had the same reaction to each one. They were untouchables.
Grit didn’t like that. It wasn’t like him.
Myrtle took a mug and muffin to a table next to the one with the feds.
Ignoring Elijah for the moment, Grit smiled at Beth and pointed at muffins heaped on a plate inside the glass case. “What kind are those?” he asked.
“Pumpkin,” she said.
“You’re serious? Pumpkin muffins? Do they taste like pumpkin pie?”
“Similar spices. They’re dense. We make them with whole-grain flour.”
“What kind are the ones next to them?”
“Cranberry-walnut.”
“No Krispy Kreme around the corner, is there?”
Beth smiled. “No, Petty Officer Taylor, there is not.”
“I’ll go with the pumpkin.”
“Would you like butter or ricotta cheese with it?”
He stared at her. “Ricotta? You serious? Ricotta goes in lasagna and ravioli. Why would I want it on my muffin?”
“Because it’s a low-fat alternative to butter, and it’s loaded with calcium.”
Grit looked at Elijah, still standing in front of the glass case with him. “This is a strange little town.”
Being an experienced special operations soldier, Elijah wasn’t buying the distraction. “Jo and Francona want to talk to you.”
“They armed?”
“Always.”
“Why don’t they want to talk to Myrtle? Look at her. She