“Because we’re not,” I said good-naturedly. “We’re just very good friends. Marco was the one who helped nurse me back to health after the whole…situation with Lula, and we bonded over it, is all.”
Her smile faded as her voice lowered. “I’ll never be able to repay you for savin’ me.”
We rarely spoke about it—especially in public—but I suspected hearing about Heather’s murder had made an impact on both of us.
But her bounce wasn’t gone for long. “You two are like an old married couple, and if you’re not sleepin’ together, I sure as Pete don’t know why not.” She shook her head. “What can I get you?”
My thoughts were lingering on her comment about us sleeping together, and I shot Marco a long look as he ordered the special—fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Why was it so weird for a man and a woman to just be friends? And why didn’t Marco seem annoyed by the constant questions about our relationship status?
Greta turned to me with an expectant look, and I realized she was waiting for me to order, not an explanation about my love life or lack thereof.
I asked for a chef’s salad, which historically consisted mostly of iceberg lettuce, but the only vegetables at Max’s Tavern were the potatoes Tiny used for fries and cucumbers made into pickles. I craved a good salad, but a mediocre one would suffice.
As soon as Greta walked away Marco turned serious. “What happened with Bart at the construction site?”
I ran my fingertip over the condensation on the outside of my iced tea glass. “Bart knew I planned on looking into Heather’s murder, and he wants me to tell him what I find before I turn it over to the sheriff.”
His gaze darkened. “So he can destroy the evidence?”
“He didn’t say.”
“How’d he know you were lookin’ into it?”
“I don’t know, but he knew. And he invited me to have tea with Emily today at three. He told me I was free to ask questions about Heather and Wyatt.”
“Are you plannin’ to go?” he asked in shock.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m tempted, but I’m also supposed to be at work at three.” I gave him a questioning look. “What do you think I should do?”
“Obviously you don’t go,” he said as though explaining something to a fool. “He’s playin’ you.”
I pursed my lips. He was right.
“You’re considerin’ goin’ anyway,” he said, his voice tight.
Looking up at his blue-green eyes, I said, “I guess I am.”
His emotions shuttered. “Why is he so important to you?”
For a moment I wasn’t sure who he was referring to. Bart was important to me, but only in the sense that I wanted to make him pay for all he’d done. For all he planned to do. Then it occurred to me that he meant Wyatt. “Wyatt’s not important to me in the sense you’re thinking. But I would hate to see him railroaded.” I lowered my voice and leaned closer so I couldn’t be overheard. “And I realize this is a good opportunity to get more dirt on Bart.”
His face paled.
“Surely you knew I was looking to find some.”
“Yeah.” He looked like he was about to be sick. “And while I understand why, I’m still worried, Carly. Bart Drummond is not a man to be trifled with.”
“And that’s why this is good cover to be lookin’,” I said. “So truth be told, I have ulterior motives for doing this.”
He gave me a long, hard look and twisted in his seat, glancing around the room. Lifting his hand, he called out, “Greta, we’re gonna need our lunches to go.”
She gave us an odd look but nodded. “Okay.”
Marco was silent while we waited, his jaw tight.
I watched him, worried I’d pissed him off.
Greta brought out our food and Marco took the ticket, something he usually did when we ate together, and slapped down some cash. He told Greta to keep the change and was out of the booth in a flash.
I followed him out the door, my nerves a tangled mess. I knew he was upset that I was putting myself in danger, and while I wanted to ease his concerns, I couldn’t. I refused to give this up.
Out on the sidewalk, he stared down at me, still holding our lunches. “We need somewhere quiet to talk. Why don’t you get in my car and we’ll drive over to Old Mill Park so people aren’t gawking at us while we eat.”
“Okay.”
I got into the front seat of his sheriff’s car, and he drove the short distance to the edge of Drum’s downtown, then turned onto a road that ran along a creek at the edge of downtown proper. A couple of blocks north was a dilapidated waterwheel attached to a small building with faded red paint. Rumor had it the Drummonds had built it for the town over a hundred years ago as a gift—and proceeded to use it for their moonshine business.
I took it as a reminder that if someone was offering you something for nothing, they usually had other motives in play. Especially in Drum.
Turned out I was adopting that philosophy as my own.
The building needed to be torn down, but a few women had created a historical society and convinced the citizens it was an important part of Drum history. And while the townsfolk had agreed to keep it, they hadn’t loosened their purse strings to fix it up either.
You couldn’t go in it, nor anywhere close to it—it was surrounded by a chain-link fence, covered by a thick canopy of tree branches—but there was a picnic table a few feet from the fence. There was a small parking area in front of it—trampled grass—and it was a known picnic area…or make-out spot. Often both.
“Did you
