She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but we don’t take walk-ins. Reservations only.”
“Would you be willing to make an exception just this once? I tried, but it’s impossible to find you on the web to make a reservation.”
“We rely on word of mouth only. The closest hotel is about fifteen miles south. Shall I call and see if they have any rooms available?”
What? The parking lot wasn’t nearly full, and there weren’t throngs of people milling around. What hotel wouldn’t have an Internet presence? It didn’t make any sense.
Megan didn’t talk about her family much, but she’d told him they ran the hotel and owned most of the real estate in the town. And something about the woman’s smile seemed familiar. Meg was a petite brunette with stunning blue eyes. This lady’s eyes were brown, and she was tall and slender, but her smile and hair color were just like Meg’s. “Did Megan put you up to this?”
Her eyebrows spiked. “Who’s Megan?”
She was good. But he hadn’t been called the human lie detector for nothing. A momentary flash in her eyes revealed she was covering. “I just want to see her and Haley. I’m not here to cause any trouble.”
At the mention of Haley, the woman’s hand had fisted around the pen she held. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I’m sorry, but I don’t have a room for you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Josh Granger. If you see Megan, tell her I just want to talk. And if she runs, I’ll find her again. I’ll be at the diner I saw down the road if she wants to make this easier on everyone.”
Josh picked up his bag and headed for the sliding glass doors.
Maybe he’d come on a little too strong. This wasn’t Denver; it was a small town. Debating a less aggressive tactic, he glanced over his shoulder in time to see her furiously tapping out a message on her cell. Good. Spread the word, because Megan’s cell phone indicated she was just north of the hotel. The driveway had a gate and a sign professing to shoot trespassers or he would have gone to the coordinates his tracking software had guided him to first. He’d sleep in his truck at the end of the driveway if he had to so she wouldn’t be able to bolt. Or maybe Megan would make this easy and meet him at the diner.
Two minutes later he pulled open the glass door of Good Eats and Better Treats. The home-cooked scents filling the air reminded him he’d skipped lunch. The diner was packed but for two empty stools at the counter.
The décor, contrary to the rustic Daniel Boone theme he’d expected from a mountain town, was straight out of the fifties. It had alternating black-and-white tile on the floors, red vinyl booths and stools, and lots of stainless steel behind the counter that was either original or a damned good restoration job. It even had little jukeboxes at every Formica-topped table.
The waitress behind the counter was somewhere between fifty and seventy-five. She wore a pink bowling shirt with the name “Gloria” stitched across her chest. Her hair was all piled up on top of her head like Marge Simpson’s. Gloria had five—no, make that six—pens sticking out of that bird’s nest. But it was the blue eye shadow and the hot-pink lipstick that completed what would be one hell of an impressive Halloween costume.
She held out a plastic-coated menu. “What can I get you? The chocolate mousse pie’s to die for.”
That was Megan’s favorite flavor of pie. She used to eat it in bed after they’d work up an appetite. The sexy moans she made while devouring it made up for the crumbs she’d leave on their sheets.
He slid onto a barstool next to an older man and drew a deep breath.
Patience. Small town. Reel it back.
He returned the menu to Gloria without looking at it and remembered to smile. “Why don’t you bring me whatever you like the best and then the pie for dessert? I trust you.”
Her eyes squinted as she studied him. “Aren’t you the charmer? It’s no wonder Me—”
The old guy sitting next to him cleared his throat, cutting her off as he stuck his hand out. “Hi. Name’s Zeke. What brings you to Anderson Butte?”
He shook the man’s hand. “Josh. Nice to meet you. Have you lived here long?”
“My whole life.”
“Then you must know the woman I’m looking for. She grew up here. Megan Anderson?”
The old guy frowned and scratched the stubble on his wrinkled cheek. “Nope. Can’t say I recognize the name. But wait. Half the town is here tonight ’cuz of the fish and chips special.” He stood and placed two fingers in his mouth, blowing out a shrill whistle an NFL referee would be proud of.