Her Scream in the Silence: Carly Moore #2

by Denise Grover Swank

  I grabbed the food bags and headed to the entrance, holding the door open so Marco could hop outside.

  “Should we go see Melody first?” I asked. “I mean, if Greta stayed somewhere else last night, there’s no reason for us to risk pissing Max off.”

  He shook his head. “I know for a fact Greta doesn’t have a boyfriend right now. My gut tells me we need to talk to Max first, then Melody.”

  “Marco,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach. “Do you think…?”

  “We just need to talk to Max,” he said in a no-nonsense tone. I had to give him credit for insisting we go to Max first, especially since I knew how Max was likely to react, but surely it also meant he believed in his friend’s innocence.

  “Okay,” I said with a nod. “I’m going to walk, but why don’t you drive down and park behind the tavern? It will be easier on your leg.”

  “You don’t want to ride with me?” he asked in surprise.

  “No. I need a little fresh air to clear my head.”

  I took off toward the tavern, my stomach sinking deeper with every step I took.

  Max was my friend. I didn’t want to think badly of him, but something strange was going on. Marco was right about one thing—hearing about Neil Carpenter had set Max off. It had also made him pissed about the whole Lula thing, when he hadn’t much cared about it before. But why?

  Well, no borrowing trouble until we talked to him.

  By the time I made it to the parking lot, Marco had already parked and was heading, slowly, toward the back door.

  “I presume you’ve got keys?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I handed the take-out bags to him, then dug the keys out of my purse. After I unlocked the door, I took the bags and held the door open.

  “I bet he’s asleep,” I said as I followed him in and let the door close behind me. “I don’t think I should be the one waking him up.”

  “I’ve got that part covered.”

  I gave him a nervous glance. “How are you going to get up those stairs?”

  “Don’t you worry about that. Go start a pot of coffee.”

  Coffee was a good idea. Max was going to need plenty of it. Shoot, I needed it. I set the food bags on the counter in the kitchen and then found Tiny’s stash of industrial-strength coffee and started some brewing.

  I heard clomping on the stairs going up to the apartment. Marco hadn’t explicitly asked me to stay downstairs, and I figured I should probably hear what they said to each other. I couldn’t forget that Max was the son in good graces with his father, and Marco was Max’s best friend. There were motivations at work I didn’t understand. Besides, I’d never been up to Max’s apartment before, and I had to admit I was curious. Grabbing the take-out food bags, I started up the narrow stairwell, wondering how Marco had made it up with his crutches.

  When I reached the landing at the top, I found the door to the left partially ajar. I pushed my way through the opening into a large, loft-style living room facing the street. It ran the full width of the building and had an industrial look. I could see that a wall had been ripped out—the wood base was still attached to the unfinished wood floor. Opposite the wall of windows was a kitchen that looked like it had come from a salvage yard—old cabinets that obviously were not original yet were so worn I couldn’t figure out why they had been dragged in, a newer stainless steel refrigerator, and an old avocado-colored stove.

  The walls on either side of the space were brick, and I could see the ceiling had been ripped out, exposing wood beams, but they weren’t evenly spaced and looked like they needed to be ripped out rather than salvaged.

  As far as seating went, the large living room only had a brown sofa and a fake brown leather recliner. Against the far wall was a long wood cabinet that held a TV that was likely too small for such an oversized room.

  Bart Drummond had money, yet none of the businesses he owned seemed to be thriving, and both of his sons lived frugally. At least, if I ignored the fact that Wyatt had paid for Seth’s funeral and somehow found the money to buy his garage after getting out of prison.

  Max was lying on his side on the sofa, shirtless and wearing a pair of jeans. His arm hung over the edge, his hand resting on the hardwood floor next to a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam.

  Marco was standing next to him, poking his shoulder with the tip of a crutch. “Wake up.”

  The room was so bright from the uncovered windows it was hard to believe Max was still asleep. I suspected the Jim Beam had something to do with it.

  Max grunted and batted the crutch away. He tried to roll over to face the back of the sofa, but Marco put the tip of his crutch against the sofa cushion, blocking him. “Wake up, Max.”

  “Leave me the fuck alone,” Max slurred, batting at the crutch again.

  I inched deeper into the living room, reluctant to leave even though I felt like I was intruding.

  “We need to talk to you,” Marco said in what I presumed was his deputy voice.

  “I don’t have anything to say,” Max mumbled with his face buried in the cushions.

  “I’m not playin’ around, Max,” Marco said, sounding pissed. “Get up.”

  Max finally shifted to look at him, blinking as if the light had suddenly flooded the apartment. “What the fuck is so important that you had to wake me up at this ungodly hour?”

  “Ungodly hour?” Marco asked. “It’s nine thirty in the morning. Don’t you need to be up to open the tavern in about two and a half hours?”

  “Exactly. Which means I should be able to get another two good hours of sleep.” Max buried his face deeper into the sofa cushion.

  “I need to talk to you about Greta Hightower.”

  Max released a long groan. “That damned Carly needs to stay out of everyone’s business.”

  “I’m giving you five minutes to get your shit together, then you can have some biscuits and gravy and hash browns from Watson’s Café.”

  “That’s your favorite breakfast from Watson’s, not mine,” Max said, his face still buried. “And if I eat anything right now, I’ll puke it up in thirty seconds.”

  “You now have four minutes and fifty seconds,” Marco said. “And then we’ll give you a hot cup of coffee to help clear your head.” He gave me a pointed look.

  I set the bags on the kitchen counter, then turned around and headed back downstairs. Max was groaning as he tried to sit up, and I was pretty sure he hadn’t realized I was there.

  The pot was finishing up, so I fixed a tray with three coffee cups, creamer, and the carafe, and brought it up to the loft.

  When I walked into the living room, Marco was sitting on the square coffee table with a Styrofoam container, digging into his breakfast. His crutches were propped against the table behind him. He glanced up at me. “He’s in the bathroom. Pukin’.”

  Sure enough, I heard the sound of retching.

  I made a face. “How can you sit there eating while he’s throwing up less than twenty feet away?”

  He grinned as he shoved another bite into his mouth.

  I set the coffee tray on the kitchen counter, poured him a cup of coffee, then handed it to him. “You took it black at the café…”

  He snatched the cup and took a sip, then yelped like a scalded cat. “It’s hot.”

  “I just made it. Of course it’s hot.”

  The toilet flushed and I heard running water. A few seconds later, Max appeared in the door. His eyes widened when he saw me. “What’s she doin’ here?”

  “Bringin’ you coffee,” Marco said good-naturedly. “Now come sit down so we can have a chat.”

  “Only if you get that shit out of my face,” Max said in disgust, waving to the Styrofoam container as he sat back down on the sofa.

  I poured coffee and creamer into one of the cups, then took it over to him.

  He accepted the mug, but he refused to look at me. “You gettin’ Marco to fight your battles for ya, Carly?”

  “No,” I said, trying to stifle my ange
r. “We’re here for an entirely different matter.”

  “Seems like you’re a few people short for an intervention,” Max said dryly, then took a tentative sip of his coffee.

  “We’re here because I need to know what happened when you walked Greta to her car,” Marco said in a breezy tone. He followed it up by taking a big bite of biscuit.

  “Are you kiddin’ me?” Max spat. “You woke me up to grill me about my love life?”

  I’d noticed that Marco had withheld the part about Greta not showing up to work today.

  Did that mean he was suspicious too?

  I inhaled deeply. What was I thinking? This was Max. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  But that wasn’t precisely true. I knew he’d hurt people before, but he only took his anger out on people who deserved it.

  There was no way he had anything to do with Lula’s or Greta’s disappearances.

  So why hadn’t Marco just come out and told him the truth?

  Max shot a look of disgust at his best friend. “And I’m not sayin’ another word until you get that shit out of my face. Otherwise, I won’t be responsible for barfin’ on your shoes.”

  Marco shoveled a couple of final bites into his mouth before holding the container out toward me.

  I was about to snap and tell him I wasn’t here to wait on him, which was when I remembered the bullet wound in his leg. Grumbling under my breath, I snatched his trash from him and dumped it. He nodded at the other bags, so I handed him the one with the hash browns and bacon.

  He reached inside and pulled a piece of bacon out of the smaller container. “Grease is great for hangovers, Maxwell. Now tell me what happened when you walked Greta to her car.”

  Max snatched the piece of bacon from Marco and took a bite. “I asked her why she was scared, but she brushed it off, so then I told her why I hadn’t called her after our previous rendezvous. I asked if she’d be willing to go out with me again. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no. She just said she’d come by the tavern next week.” He took another sip of his coffee. “There. Are you happy now? That hardly seems like a good reason for disturbin’ my sleep.”

  “Did she say when she’d come by to see you?” Marco asked.

  “Were you listening to me?” He snorted. “She said she’d come by next week.”

  “Did she say where she was goin’?” Marco asked.

  “No, but I presumed she was goin’ home.” His eyes narrowed. “Why are you askin’ me all these questions?”

  Marco was silent for a moment. “Greta didn’t show up for her shift at Watson’s today.”

  Max took a bite of the bacon, then said, “She called in sick? Are you warnin’ me that she has some nasty virus she might have passed to me?”

  “No,” Marco said. “I’m telling you that she didn’t show up to work. No callin’ in sick. She was just a no-show. Her sister told Angie she never came home last night.”

  The color leached from Max’s face, and he tossed what was left of his bacon on the coffee table.

  “You’re sure she didn’t mention anything about what had scared her at the bar?” Marco asked.

  “Why did you stick your nose in this, Carly?” Max shouted. “You had to stir up a hornet’s nest by lookin’ for Lula. You couldn’t leave it alone.”

  “Don’t just blame her,” Marco said. “We’re both lookin’ into Lula’s disappearance.”

  “What the fuck, Marco?” Max asked in disgust. “Why?”

  “Because I think Carly’s right. I think someone took her this time.”

  “Then you’re both fools.” He stood and set his cup on an end table. “You need to leave it all alone!”

  “I can’t do that, Max,” Marco said, regret heavy in his voice.

  That set Max off.

  “Get out,” he said, pointing to the door. “Get out!” He began to pace the middle of the floor, unsteady on his feet.

  Marco grabbed his crutches and stood up. “What the hell is goin’ on here, Max?”

  “You,” Max said, turning his fury on his friend. “You should know better.”

  Marco’s face went expressionless. “What does that mean?”

  Max shook his head, then swung his attention to me. “And you? You’re fired.”

  “Max,” Marco protested. “Think this through.”

  “You stay the fuck out of it!” Max shouted. “I’ll hire and fire whoever the hell I want!”

  I’d never seen him so angry, but I also saw past the anger. I saw a man wracked with guilt. “Max, please.” My voice broke. “I don’t care about the job. I care about you.”

  His face lost even more color, and he looked like he was close to throwing up again.

  “You’ve been nothin’ but trouble since you showed up on my doorstep, Carly, and I’m done.” He waved his hand toward me and nearly fell over, and I realized he was still drunk. But it didn’t matter. His words had hurt me to the core.

  “Max,” Marco said slowly, “Do you know what happened to Lula?”

  “I am not havin’ this discussion at nine thirty in the morning while I’m fightin’ a hangover from hell.”

  Marco’s entire demeanor changed, and if I had been Max, I would have thought twice about sassing him. “Why are you so shit-faced drunk, Max?”

  “That’s none of your goddamned business,” Max snapped.

  “You only get drunk like this when something’s eating at you,” Marco said, and I could see he was struggling between being Max’s friend and Deputy Roland.

  “Get out,” Max said in a cold, dead voice

  “Max,” Marco said, lowering his voice and hobbling closer. “You’re like a brother to me, man. You can tell me what’s goin’ on.”

  Max’s gaze dropped to the floor for a couple of seconds, and when it rose back up to Marco, he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “You haven’t wanted to know what’s been goin’ on in my life since I came back home. Why’re you gonna start now?”

  Marco looked stricken. “Max.”

  Turning to me, Max looked me in the eye. “You don’t belong here. Go home, Carly Moore, if that’s even your name. Leave Drum, and never look back.”

  His words didn’t hold the heat or anger I would have expected. He sounded like I’d utterly exhausted him.

  He couldn’t have hurt me worse if he’d plunged a knife to my chest.

  Marco’s eyes widened, and he glanced back and forth between us in confusion.

  Defeat washed over Max so hard, he looked like he was about to crumple to the floor. He shook his head and stumbled backward two steps. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

  Then he walked down the hall, leaving Marco and me wondering what in the hell had just happened.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Come on, Carly. Let’s go,” Marco said, but I could see his indecision.

  Tears stung my eyes as I stared at the spot where Max had gone around the corner. “I don’t want to leave him like this.”

  “Max needs sleep right now. He can be a mean drunk just like his…” His words trailed off and he pivoted on his crutches. “He needs to sleep it off.”

  “Just like who, Marco?”

  “Let it go, Carly.”

  “Let what go? Max? Lula and Greta? What just happened here? Should I leave town with my tail tucked between my legs?”

  “No,” he countered. “And that’s not what Max wants either, trust me. He’s totally shit-faced. When he sobers up, he’ll apologize to the both of us. If he even remembers any of this. You’ll still have your job, and it will be like this never happened. Now, let’s go.”

  There was no way I could pretend like this had never happened. Especially since Max had been acting so guilty.

  He knew something about Lula.

  We went downstairs, which was slow going for Marco. When he got to the bottom, he headed to the bar, and I wondered if he was going to pour himself a drink at nearly ten a.m., but instead he grabbed the phone out from unde
r the counter. He dialed a number from memory and waited.

  “Tiny? This is Marco. Y’all might need to close today. Max is havin’ another episode.” He paused for a moment. “Yeah. How about I put up a sign? Will you call Ruth?” He paused again. “Nah, I’ll take care of lettin’ Carly know.” A couple of seconds passed. “I’ll check on him later and let you know.”

  Marco hung up and leaned on the counter for several seconds, looking like he was on the verge of breaking down. Finally, he turned to me, his eyes glassy. “Max is a lot of things, but he’s not a murderer or a kidnapper.”

  I nearly broke into tears. “I’ve only known him for a little while, and even I know that.”

  “I’m strugglin’ here, Carly. Max knows more than he’s tellin’ us.”

  “I know.” I swallowed. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

  That snapped him out of his limbo, and he returned the phone to its place under the counter. “No. I’m even more determined to find out what happened. If for no other reason than to clear his conscience.”

  But if Max knew something about Lula’s disappearance, was easing his conscience possible?

  “We need to hang a sign,” Marco said, looking weary. “Can you make it and tape it in the window?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” But the more I thought about all of this, the more it didn’t feel right. Marco acted like this had happened before. He’d told Tiny that Max was having another episode. Was Max an alcoholic who had downward spirals that shut him off from the world temporarily?

  How often did this happen?

  Had anyone tried to intervene?

  I got a sheet of printer paper, a marker, and tape from Max’s office, then took them out to the dining room. Sitting down at a table, I uncapped the marker and said, “What do you want it to say?”

  “Closed due to illness,” he said in a tight voice.

  I started writing, the tip of the marker making a squeaky noise on the white paper. “No reopening date?”