Barton Reed sat hunched at a table next to a window. He was staring out at the gondola, the ski racks, and the folks making their way to the bistro. Just the way he had at Cinda’s Cinnamon Stop, he was clutching something in his hand and seemed to be looking for someone—someone in particular. When he turned to scan the restaurant, I ducked.
The waitress placed sputtering kabobs of grilled shrimp, cherry tomatoes, and onion quarters in front of Marla and Arthur, and a bread bowl heaped with steaming chili in front of me. While she was placing a basket of rolls onto the table, I glanced uneasily at Barton, whose earrings sparkled in the chandeliers’ light. He had poured a bottle of Mexican beer into a tall glass and was sipping it while keeping his eyes glued to the out-of-doors. One of Reg
