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Her nose wrinkles as she plucks out a few pieces of watermelon, which she places beside the water dish for the cat. “I don’t know about that. Matty has his share of secrets, even from me. But my best guess is he’s doing some kind of…politically sensitive work.”
“Like being a spy,” I say, deciding to lay it out there.
I’m gratified when Mel’s eyes widen and she hisses, “Yes! Oh my God, yes! Exactly. How are we the only people who suspect this? My parents and brothers just think Matty’s some kind of problem child who didn’t live up to his early, genius-level potential.”
“When really, he’s an international man of mystery,” I agree, nodding along with her. “And clearly in the middle of some kind of super-secret spy mission.” I glance down at Clyde, who’s loudly purring as he devours the watermelon. “Which, for some reason, involves a cat celebrity.”
“What?” Mel cocks her head to one side.
I briefly explain who Clyde is and how I came to be spending Thanksgiving evening with Matty and a kidnapped feline he rescued. I tell her about the Cassie Ann Sweetwater connection and the guy who grabbed me this afternoon, as well as the beeper message that had Matty running back into town. “And that’s why I’m here, I think,” I finish. “He didn’t want to leave me alone, just in case one of the mob guys is still on his tail.”
Melissa’s eyes are nearly as big as the poppies on the cake slices, she’s maneuvering onto plates for both of us. “Crap. This is bad, Nora. Really bad.”
I pull in a breath through bared teeth. “Yeah, it isn’t good. If he’s telling the truth, and he’s actually in deep with the mob, that’s obviously bad. And if we’re right and he’s a spy stuck in the middle of some crazy operation with career criminals, that isn’t great, either.”
Mel curses beneath her breath. “I should have stepped in sooner. I knew something was up with him the past year or so. But I was so wrapped up in my own drama with the divorce and everything, I didn’t stick my nose in when I should have.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” I say. “You’ve had a lot going on and Matty is very secretive. He nearly had me convinced I was a crazy person for even considering the spy thing.”
Her lips twist. “Yeah, he’s good at that. My brother has always been an excellent liar, in any language. I used to be able to spot his fibs, even when no one else could…” She sighs. “But maybe I’m losing my touch.”
“Or maybe he’s getting better at being a dirty rat,” a raspy voice croaks from the shadowed doorway leading into the front of the shop. It’s the place where clients would usually enter, to check out the menus and pay their bill.
But this man isn’t a client.
He’s a mountain of a human even bigger than Wimpy, with long, dirty blond hair tied back in a ponytail that makes his prominent nose look even more aggressive. He steps out of the shadows with a smile, revealing a mouthful of braces that seem out of place on a mobster.
But this man is definitely a mobster, a fact he proves by calling over his shoulder in a rough voice, “Come on, Wimps. Let’s get this done and get back to the house before the road washes out. Lucy’s saving me a piece of pumpkin pie.”
Another shadow materializes from the darkness behind him. It’s Wimpy. His dark eyes glitter my way, as he murmurs, “Hey there, Blondie. I knew we’d meet again.”
“Run, Nora!” Mel shouts as she grabs the whistling teapot from the stove and hurls it in Brace Face’s direction.
He ducks, causing the pot to collide with Wimpy’s chest and scalding water to spray onto his arms. He screams and Brace Face turns to see what’s happened.
That’s the last thing I see before I grab Clyde from beneath the prep table, clutch him to my chest without letting the bad guys see him, and dash for the door.
Chapter Ten
MATTY
I’m halfway to the truck stop at the edge of town where I typically meet my handler—a man in a tattered Gull Lake baseball cap named Al, who’s old enough to be my grandfather—when I suddenly whip into the Country Time Buffet’s abandoned parking lot and turn back the way I came.
I don’t know why my tongue is snarling into a stress cramp at the rear of my throat, but I know what it means.
Something isn’t right.
I’ve made a bad call, and I need to retrace my steps.
Every officer I’ve spoken to throughout the years has some version of my tongue cramp, a physical manifestation of their deep, inner knowing that the shit is about to hit the fan. Normal people have it too—that flutter in your stomach when you’ve neglected to lock your car or the brain tingle when you’re about to forget your spouse’s birthday—but for the layperson, ignoring that “something’s off” feeling doesn’t usually end in people getting seriously hurt.
The one time I ignored my tongue tingle, I was made by the man I was following and nearly thrown into a windowless van in Sioux City, Iowa. Luckily, I wasn’t working alone that time around. The rest of my team swooped in, and the man and his accomplices were arrested before they could snatch me off the street, but the close call taught me a lesson.
Never doubt the tongue cramp.
Especially when it comes to the well-being of the people who matter most.
As I push the speed limit back toward the catering company, I curse myself for getting my sister involved in this. Nora wandered into the middle of my op, but Mel was safely at home, about to make apple pie ice cream to ease the pain of spending her first holiday away from her son. I should have left her alone and found somewhere else for Nora to hide while I learned what urgent development Al has to share.
