He didn’t need much. A coffee shop with a decent French roast. More importantly, one a couple of blocks off the beaten path where there was no possibility of running into anyone he might be investigating. Most importantly, no chance that they might come up behind him and read his notes as he typed them into his tablet. Seneca Lake, however, was different. Gray found it all but impossible to be alone, no matter how hard he tried. Or how often. For a lakeshore strung out along thirty-eight miles, it sure felt small. He’d started at the bottom of the lake, in the library. Whereupon the librarian piled him with brochures about local attractions and events, and tried to sit down and bend his ear about the winery her uncle ran. And, of course, worked in a plug for him to visit it. She couldn’t have been nicer, but he still fled after ten minutes. The patio at a winery halfway up the lake didn’t work either. The busload of senior citizens should’ve provided a big enough distraction.
