One Foot in the Grave: Carly Moore #3 Read online

  My brow lifted. “Lula and Bingham would probably beg to differ.”

  A solo customer walked in, so I broke off to wait on him. After I placed the guy’s order with Tiny, Ruth and I headed behind the bar to count out the tip money from the lunch rush.

  “We need to find a new waitress,” I said to her quietly. “This is gettin’ to be too much.”

  She stopped counting the cash in front of her, then turned to me. “I haven’t minded, to be honest. I think part of me is afraid you’ll take off as soon as we hire someone.”

  I snorted. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.” Of course, technically speaking, I could leave. Last fall, I’d only stayed in Drum because my car had broken down nearby and I’d lacked the funds to fix it. But I had a new car—well, a new used car—and I could drive away whenever I pleased. Technically. Unbeknownst to anyone except Marco, Bart Drummond had summoned me to his house to blackmail me into sticking around Drum—if I left, Bart would give information to the sheriff that would incriminate my landlord and friend, Hank Chalmers, and lock him away for the rest of his life. Sadly, the information likely wouldn’t be hard to dig up given that Hank had once been the largest marijuana distributer in Eastern Tennessee. Bart seemed to think I could be useful to him one day, but I had no intention of letting that happen.

  “Schedule those interviews,” I said with a sigh, “or I’ll hire someone myself. I need a day off.”

  She frowned, then left the bar to carry a handful of dirty dishes to the kitchen.

  While we were both pulling doubles, one or the other of us would get a few hours off in the afternoon, and it was Ruth’s turn today. So she headed off, and I kept busy enough until she came back at five for the dinner shift.

  Dinner was usually even busier than lunch now that the construction crew was staying in and around Drum—there was nothing else to do—but tonight, five o’clock came and went with only a handful of the usual customers. By five thirty, I was beginning to wonder what was going on. Then Max took a phone call and his face lost color. I hurried over to talk to him.

  He hung up the phone, scowling. “Work’s been halted at the construction site.”

  “What?” Ruth asked. “Why?”

  “They found a body buried on the property. It’s now the site of a murder investigation.”

  Chapter Two

  Max looked like he was going to be sick, and I had to wonder why. Was he worried about his father? The resort was being built on Drummond land, but a portion of the acreage was a disputed section that the Drummonds and the Binghams had fought over for years. When I’d seen Bart early last December, he’d told me that he’d won a court case granting him ownership, something that had allowed him to proceed with the construction. The question was, which side had the body been found on?

  Ruth gave Max a long look. “Now, don’t go jumpin’ to conclusions.”

  “And what kind of conclusions would I be jumpin’ to?” Max snapped, his eyes flashing. “Do you think my father’s stupid enough to bury someone and then put a resort over ’em? He’d go to the trouble of movin’ them first.”

  I scowled. Like that was any better. Then again, I suspected the number of people Bart had actually killed was pretty low, not that he wasn’t culpable for quite a few deaths.

  I’d learned that Bart ran a kind of barter system—a favor for a favor. The deal was that the person who’d asked for a favor—or, in my case, been cornered into it—had to do whatever Bart requested, no questions asked. I’d done some investigating over the past few months, and I’d found at least eight murders over the past two decades with loose ties to Bart Drummond. Of course, none of the articles mentioned him by name. I’d connected the dots myself.

  After my chat with Bart in December, I was fully dedicated to bringing him down. Something that would probably have been easier with reliable access to the internet. I’d spent what little free time I had at the tiny Drum library, searching the online records of the Ewing Chronicle for articles about murders over the past two decades. Hours and hours of research. At first, I’d ignored the murders that had been “solved,” but it soon occurred to me that I might be underestimating Bart’s craftiness.

  I knew enough to understand that Bart Drummond was a careful man. Which meant that Todd Bingham’s father had probably put the body there. According to Marco, Floyd Bingham had been a mean drunk and had likely killed multiple people. Rumor had it he’d buried them on his own property, two of his wives and his youngest son included.

  “Is there any word on who they found?” I asked. “A man? Woman? A child?”

  Max shook his head. “Not yet. All I heard was the word body.”

  “It’s probably someone Floyd Bingham killed,” I said, trying to reassure him, although for the life of me, I wasn’t sure why. “I bet that’s where Floyd buried his bodies.”

  “How do you know about the rumors?” Ruth asked.

  I snorted, giving her a sassy look. “Please. People tell me all sorts of things.” Then I added, “Marco told me last winter while we were looking for Lula.”

  The Baxters, a family of semi-regulars, headed in and sat in my section, and I broke away to greet them. I made small talk, asking the two elementary-aged kids how school was going. The little girl, Zelda, told me she was having trouble with her third-grade math, something her parents couldn’t help her with since they didn’t understand the way her teacher wanted things done.

  I winked. “I think I can help you with that. I used to do some tutoring back in Atlanta.”

  Which was my cover story. Really, I was from Texas, but only a few people knew that.

  I checked on a few of my other tables and circled back. Squatting next to Zelda, I ripped a ticket out of my pad and showed her—and her parents—how to break the numbers down into tens and ones before multiplying and adding. We went through several problems I made up off the top of my head.

  Understanding sparked in Zelda’s eyes, and the knowledge that I’d helped made me nostalgic for my old life. A year ago, I’d been teaching my third-grade class, preparing the kids for their spring PTA performance while I planned my August wedding to my best friend. My father had stolen it from me. On the night of my rehearsal dinner, I’d heard him talking to my fiancé, Jake—it turned out they secretly concocted a savage plan together. Jake would marry me to become my father’s heir in his illegal enterprise (something my father didn’t need given he was already wealthy several times over with oil money), and then they’d kill me.

  I’d done the only thing I could think to do and run.

  Six months ago, I’d thought that life—the life of Caroline Blakely, the teacher—was lost to me forever. Then I’d met Wyatt Drummond. He’d discovered my real identity and vowed to help me bring down his father and then my own. Only Wyatt had reneged on our agreement.

  I wasn’t sure if that meant he’d changed his mind about destroying his father, or only about letting me help, and I didn’t care.

  I intended to handle this situation on my own. Mostly.

  Marco knew that Bart had discovered my secret, and also that I was digging for dirt at the library. He was trying to come up with a plan to protect me, but he hadn’t mentioned it in the last month or two. I suspected his efforts had been fruitless.

  Both of us worried about what would happen if Bart tried to call in his “favor,” but Marco had assured me that I wouldn’t have to face him alone.

  Todd Bingham was the only other person who knew what I was up to, and since he probably hated Bart more than I did, he’d offered to lend his support. I wasn’t naive enough to think the offer didn’t come with strings, but I’d deal with those later. At least Bingham still didn’t seem to know about my real identity.

  For now, my plans, such as they were, provided a much-needed light at the end of the tunnel. And helping Zelda reminded me of what I was fighting for. That I didn’t have to settle for a life on the run.

  The front door opened and more nostalgia wash
ed through me as Wyatt Drummond, the reneger himself, walked in.

  My breath caught as he turned toward me, our eyes locking for a couple of seconds, but he turned away and headed for the bar. As soon as Max saw Wyatt, he slid out from behind the bar, and they headed to the back, presumably to Max’s office. Although the brothers had been all but estranged before the Lula incident, they’d made up. Wyatt came in from time to time, but usually stayed away from me, although he seemed to watch me plenty.

  “Carly?” Zelda asked, obviously confused by why I’d zoned off.

  “Sorry,” I said, turning back to her with a smile. “You get it now?”

  She nodded.

  “Good,” I said. “Next time you come in, bring your homework with you. I’m always happy to help, okay?”

  Her mother beamed at me. “Thank you, Carly. You’re a lifesaver.”

  “Not a problem.” I got up and greeted another family walking through the door, then headed to the back to check on the Baxters’ order.

  Some of the construction guys finally came in as I was taking food orders from the new family. The already boisterous men were pulling several tables together, the tables screeching on the wood floor.

  “Hold your horses!” Ruth shouted at them, but they ignored her, still talking while they took seats.

  Those guys had likely just come from the construction site, and I needed to get over there and find out what they knew. Although I was working on the presumption that the body at the construction site had been buried there by Floyd Bingham, there was still a chance Bart was involved. And if he was, I fully intended to stick it to him.

  One of the three tables had come from my section, even if it was now over the imaginary line separating Ruth’s side from mine, so I figured that gave me the right to approach them.

  “How’re y’all doin’ tonight?” I asked with a flirty grin.

  “We’re doin’ great!” one of the guys said. He’d been around for over a week, and I was pretty sure his name was Rusty. “Had a bit of excitement on the job today.”

  “Do tell,” I said, propping a hand on my hip. “What happened?” Sure, I knew from Max, but I wanted to hear it from the guys who’d experienced it firsthand.

  “Blake was running the bulldozer, and the next thing we know, there was a pile of bones,” said a man with a mop of red hair and a stout chest.

  Bones. Which meant the body had been there awhile.

  “So they called the sheriff,” another guy said. “Even though the foreman insisted they were deer bones.”

  “But they weren’t?” I asked, trying to sound like I had nothing beyond a friendly interest. Blake had found them. The crew wasn’t large enough for there to be two men by that name. That meant he’d be able to tell me more if he came in.

  “Hell, no, definitely human,” Rusty said.

  “They were bones?” I asked. “Not like a decomposing body?”

  “Yep,” the guy with the beard said. “Just a bunch of bones.”

  So how long had the bones been there? I had no idea how long it took for a body to decompose, but thinking about it made my stomach turn.

  We got busy after that. Thankfully, Max came out soon, and to my utter surprise, Wyatt worked with him behind the bar.

  I stared at him in shock for a few seconds, and Ruth came up to me and said, “Did hell just freeze over and somehow I missed it?”

  “I have no idea…” I turned to face her. “When was the last time you saw Wyatt working behind the bar?”

  “Back when he was runnin’ the place.”

  Nine years. But based on how deftly he was handling his orders, I never would have guessed it had been that long.

  I quickly turned away before he caught me watching him.

  The baseball game started and the tavern began to fill. The place was packed, partially because of the game, partially because the construction workers had nowhere else to go, but also because word had gotten around about the body at the construction site. A whole lot of gossiping people wanting to hear the scoop. Every seat in the place was filled.

  Ruth and I ran ourselves ragged.

  Blake and his friend showed up and filled the last seats at a table, but they sat in Ruth’s section. It soon became apparent that I wouldn’t need to talk to him in person—he told his tale, loudly and proudly, to anyone who asked, and his version was no more elaborate than what I’d already heard. He tried to gain my attention a couple of times, but I was busy enough that I had an excuse to ignore him.

  Blake was a popular guy with his new coworkers. They bought him multiple rounds to celebrate his discovery of the bones. He eagerly accepted them, getting drunker and drunker as the night went on.

  Marco showed up around nine, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and looking beat. I took a moment to greet him after he walked in the door.

  “You look exhausted, Marco. Maybe you should go home.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I know it’s a school night, Mom, but I promise to leave by ten.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry for carin’.”

  His face softened. “I’ve had a shit day, and I needed to see my friend.”

  Warmth stole over me, and I gave him a hug. He seemed surprised, and I realized he probably meant Max. They’d been best friends since the first day of kindergarten, and they’d stayed best friends until Max had hidden Lula away and kept it from everyone, Marco (and me) included. They were still friends, but their relationship had been strained ever since. Still, the body had been found on Drummond land, and Marco was probably worried about Max.

  I leaned back and grinned. “I know you meant Max.”

  “I actually meant you too.” He hugged me tight. “It really has been a shit day.”

  I released him and took a step back. “I’ll kick Big Joe out of a barstool so you can sit at the bar. He’s been here for hours.”

  He grinned. “I can find my own seat, Carly.”

  “Well, good luck with that. Every seat in the place is taken. Maybe you can sit behind the bar.”

  He glanced toward the counter and did a double take. “Wyatt’s workin’?”

  “He showed up, then he and Max went into his office, and when they came out, Wyatt started working behind the bar with him.”

  Marco shook his head. “Wonders never cease.”

  “Hey, waitress!” one of the construction workers shouted across the room, sounding pissed. “How about you stop talkin’ to your boyfriend and get me a damn drink!”

  “Duty calls,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  Marco’s brow lowered into a scowl. “When did Max start lettin’ the customers talk to you and Ruth so disrespectfully?”

  “He didn’t, and since he’s not launching himself over the bar, I suspect he didn’t hear. Go get yourself a beer, and I’ll go take care of this asshole.”

  Marco shot a glare across the room. “I’m right over there if you need me.”

  I gave his arm a playful push. “Careful or they’ll think you really are my boyfriend.”

  “I don’t have to be your boyfriend to look out for you, Carly.”

  “I know. You’ve proven that already,” I said with a soft smile. “Still, I’m capable of fighting my own battles.” I leaned closer. “But it’s nice to know you have my back if I need you.”

  I headed over to the table of the rowdy guys, preparing myself for a confrontation.

  “What the hell took so long?” the guy asked. He’d been coming around at least a week, so surely he’d heard the Max’s Tavern rules lecture, which Max had issued several times at this point.

  Putting my hand on my hip, I shot him my best takedown glare. “My name is Carly or Ms. Moore. Feel free to use either. Being served here is a privilege not a right, so I suggest you pull out the manners you learned back in kindergarten, dust them off, and start usin’ them, or I’ll kick your rude ass out onto the street.”

  The men at his table began to laugh, while the man who’d yelled at me turned beet red.

&nb
sp; “She told you, Webster!”

  “Webster’s gettin’ schooled by a girl.”

  I turned to address the man who’d made the last comment. “A girl? Do I look like a girl to you? I’m a grown woman who will kick your ass out too, so you’d do best to remember that.”

  The men roared with laughter again.

  “Now, if you’re ready to behave like gentlemen, I’ll be happy to take your order.”

  I spent the next five minutes taking down their drink and food orders, then dropped off the drink ticket at the counter. Wyatt had been filling my orders without comment for the past hour, but he stopped what he was doing and looked me in the eye. “Are those guys bothering you?”

  I released a bitter laugh. “That concern is about four months too late, Wyatt.”

  He scowled. “I don’t like how we left things.”

  Which meant he didn’t like that I’d told him I wouldn’t put up with his crap anymore, but this wasn’t the first time I’d seen him since our official and final breakup, so I wasn’t sure where this was coming from.

  “That’s a moot point, and this isn’t the time or place to discuss it. I’m a little busy.” I turned on my heels and headed to the food counter.

  Tiny was working alone tonight, but he preferred it that way. We stopped serving anything but bar food after eight, and he ran things like a well-oiled machine, slinging wings and fries and the occasional burger.

  I hung up the ticket and turned around, surprised to see Blake standing behind me, albeit a little wobbly.

  “I been tryin’ to talk to you all night,” he said, his speech slurred.

  I gave him plenty of attitude. “Well, I’ve been a little busy, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Why didn’t you come wait on me? I got something to show you.” There was a gleam in his eyes, and I knew there was a double entendre in there.

  Gross. If I hadn’t already decided I wasn’t interested in him, this would do it. Sloppy drunk was a huge turnoff for me—probably part of the reason I’d remained single for the past four months since all the men I met came into the bar. It took everything in me not to curl my upper lip in disgust.