“The guy who worked at Mobley Funeral Home?”
“That’s the one, but Ruth knew the friend as Charlie. We know that Dwight was having drugs smuggled into the area in caskets delivered from Atlanta. We need to ask Pete Mobley, the funeral home director, if he recognizes Charlie.” I turned to him. “Did your friend at the sheriff’s department find anything?”
“No, but if his real name’s not Shane Jones, then I’m not surprised.” He turned onto the road. “If we don’t find out much from Mobley, then we can stop by the nursing home and ask for more information about Charlie from his boss.”
“Sounds good.” I said, my mind whirring on to the next concern. “Have you talked to Max since yesterday morning?”
“No.”
“After Wyatt took me home, he left to check on Max. Tiny said Max left with him, and he hadn’t returned by the time we closed up.”
“Did you call Wyatt to check on him?”
“No. With the way we ended things after he dropped me off, it doesn’t seem like a good idea. I think we need to take a break from each other.” After what I’d learned from Ruth, I felt even less optimistic about our prospects. But I’d come to the conclusion that my feelings were much too complicated to sort out while we were looking for Lula and Greta.
When Marco didn’t say anything, I said, “No comment?”
“What’s there to say? You two seem to fight more than you get along. Maybe it’s for the best.”
“Maybe.” I needed to change the subject. “I’m still trying to figure out the dynamic between the Bakers, Bart, and Hank. Turns out Louise worked for Hank for a short time, processing his pot, but he fired her after he figured out she was spyin’ for Bart. He fired her the day before she shot Walter.”
“So she probably went over to the Drummonds’ to tell Bart she’d been fired.”
“I’m presuming, but what did he do for her? And why was Walter drowning his daughter? I still have so many questions. Bingham suggested I talk to Louise herself.”
“Go to Nashville?” he asked in surprise. “That’s probably a good idea. I’ll get her attorney’s information. See if maybe we can get her to call you and save a trip.” Then he grinned. “I’m starvin’. Let’s get some breakfast at Watson’s, then head to the funeral home.”
I wasn’t looking forward to going back there, but I was hoping Mobley would have some much needed answers.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
There was nothing appealing about the Mobley Funeral Home. It was a one-story brick building in the nondescript style typical of architecture from the 1960s and 70s. The asphalt parking lot surrounding the building was empty except for two cars on the side of the building—an older green sedan and a shiny black Lexus.
“A Lexus?” I asked when I saw it. “In Ewing?”
Marco shrugged as he pulled into a parking spot in front of the building. “You were with Hank when he buried Seth. Did you ever hear how much the funeral cost? It takes a small fortune to bury a body these days.”
“I never heard,” I said softly. “Wyatt paid for it all.”
“Really?” he asked, turning to me in surprise. “Where’d he get the money?”
“I don’t know.” My mind was racing. I knew the garage didn’t bring in much of a profit. Where had Wyatt gotten the money? It struck me that I didn’t even know where he’d gotten the money for his garage. He hadn’t said, of course, and I’d presumed it had come from his father in some way. But Marco and I were here for our investigation, and I didn’t have time to think about Wyatt’s secrets just now. “I take it the Lexus belongs to Pete Mobley.”
“I don’t know for certain, but it’s a good presumption,” Marco said. “The question is why he’s here on a Sunday morning.”
My eyes widened. “You didn’t expect him to be here?”
“No. It’s Sunday morning and a funeral home director needs to have a good reputation in town. Which means he should be in church, especially since one of his men was caught smuggling drugs into the area using the caskets he uses to bury the townsfolk.”
I’d only been in the area for a month, but I’d already learned one of the stark contrasts between Ewing and Drum—other than spotty cell phone coverage—was that the people in Ewing weren’t as blind to illegal activity as the citizens of Drum. Perhaps it was because Ewing housed the sheriff’s department. Whatever the case, I was sure Marco was right. Pete Mobley needed to polish up his reputation, and being seen in a church pew was one surefire way to do it.
“If you didn’t expect him here,” I said, “then what are we doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to some of the employees about Charlie, and get their take on Dwight and Mobley. I figured we’d take what we learned and go to Mobley.”
“Wait,” I said, turning to him. “You’re not just asking to find Greta and Lula. You think Mobley had something to do with those drugs.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re damn right I do. I never bought that he was a victim.”
“But he was cleared of all wrongdoing.”
His brow lifted. “And look who cleared him.”
“Hensen County Sheriff’s Department.” I pushed out a sigh. The corruption in this area ran deep. Fighting it felt like pushing a boulder uphill. “So what do you want to do? Wait?”
He stared at the building for a few moments. “No,” he said, “but we need to think of a reason to be here asking questions.” He shot me a glance. “What if we ask him something about Seth’s funeral?”
It was a good idea, but what could we ask about that he wouldn’t see through in a second?
“Oh,” I said. “We never found the guest book. I told Hank we should call and ask about it, but he said one of the ladies in town likely had it.”
“That’s perfect,” Marco said, his eyes glittering. “Let’s go.”
He got out of the car and grabbed his crutches from the backseat. When I met him at the front of the SUV, I said, “No overdoing it today, Marco. You’re no good to me if you’re half dead.”
He grinned. “But I’ve still got it even when I’m half dead…which reminds me that your clothes are still at my house. I meant to bring them to you and forgot. Want me to call Wyatt to come pick them up?”
I shot him a glare.
“You know he’s jealous as shit, don’t you?” he asked. “He hates that you’re hangin’ out with me. Especially with my reputation.”
“Maybe so, but that wouldn’t stop me. He doesn’t have any say over what I do.” Especially now.
I started to walk toward the front door, but he blocked my path with the tip of his crutch.
I looked up at him in exasperation. “Marco. This doesn’t seem like the time or place to be discussing Wyatt.”
His gaze held mine, his expression unusually serious. “If you find yourself in trouble, you call him. Broken up or not, that man will drop everything and come runnin’. Got it?”
His statement humbled me. He was right. Things were different today. We were getting closer to the truth, which also meant we were getting closer to whoever had kidnapped and maybe hurt two women. And while I might not trust Wyatt Drummond with my heart, I could trust him with my life. “Yeah.”
He’d left his coat unzipped, and I noticed the dark brown leather strap across his chest. Given what he’d just said, I knew what it meant.
His gaze dipped to his chest before rising back to my face. “I’m carryin’ today, but we can’t count on me to save us. With these crutches and my lack of balance…if things get hairy, I need you to do as I say. Can I count on that?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Let’s go in.”
We walked across the parking lot. I could tell Marco was feeling better by his faster gait with the crutches, but it wouldn’t be smart of me to forget how quickly he’d lost strength yesterday. The same thing could happen today if we weren’t careful. I held the front door open for him, the tinkle of the bell on the door announcing our presence.
Mobley appeared in the long hall to the back within moments, popping through a door. While I’d previously guessed him to be in his late fifties based on the gray in his dark hair, he looked much older now. His eyes were sunken and bracketed by deep wrinkles, and although he was dressed in an immaculate dark suit and pale blue tie, his posture was slumped. The Dwight incident had aged him.
“Carly Moore,” he said in a friendly tone as he approached, but I sensed hesitation. “I hope bad news hasn’t brought you to my door.”
“Oh, no,” I said, forcing cheerfulness into my voice. “Nothing like that. I happened to be in Ewing and decided to stop by and ask about the guest book for Seth’s funeral. Hank and I want to send thank you notes to everyone who attended, but we can’t find the book.”
“Hmm.” He tilted his head to the side, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as his face screwed into a look of concentration. Something must have dropped into place because he finally straightened and said, “I’m fairly certain we gave it to the sister of the minister. I think her name was Paisley?”
“Miss Patsy,” I said with a smile. “I’ll check with her. Thank you.”
“No problem,” he said, his eyes turning wary. “But you could have saved yourself a trip and called.”
“And that’s exactly what she wanted to do,” Marco said, pinning his crutch under his armpit as he reached out and put his hand on my arm. “But you know us men. I wanted to take the more direct approach.” He dropped his hand. “Go straight to the source.”
“There’s something to be said for frankness, Deputy Roland.”
“You know who I am?” Marco asked. He’d kept his tone neutral, but I could feel the tension in his body.
“How could I not?” Mobley asked. “Your face was all over the newspapers. They called you a hero shot down in the line of duty.” He glanced between us. “Are you together now?”
It seemed like an odd question. What difference could it possibly make? Then again, Marco seemed to be purposefully creating that impression. I suspected he wanted to discourage Mobley and whoever he was working with from messing with me. Even in a place like Hensen County, there was still some protection to be had from being a cop, or being with a cop.
Marco leaned closer and snagged my hand, lacing our fingers. “There’s something about trauma that draws people together.”
Mobley’s gaze dropped to our linked hands, then darted back up to our faces, completely devoid of emotion. “We find comfort where we can, especially after a tragedy. I tell my clients that there’s no one-size-fits-all approach to grief, so if they find someone soon after the death of a spouse, it means no disloyalty to their lost loved one.” He took a step back. “If you’ll excuse me, I have something I need to attend to.”
Marco dropped my hand and took a step forward. “On a Sunday morning? I don’t envy your workin’ hours, Mr. Mobley.”
“Well, the dead don’t sleep,” Mobley said with a short laugh.
“Some people would say they sleep eternally,” Marco said.
Mobley blinked, though it looked more like a flinch, then took another step back. “Yeah. I guess so. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
He turned and started walking back down the hall.
I shot Marco a frustrated glance. We hadn’t gotten a single piece of information. Why was he just letting Mobley walk away?
Marco had already spun around, however, and he flicked his eyes toward the front door.
He’d insisted I follow his lead, and I’d agreed, so I gritted my teeth and walked out, holding the door open for him. I waited until we were in the car to let loose.
“What the hell, Marco? Why didn’t you ask him about Charlie?”
“Because it’s plain as day that man is guilty of something, and we’re gonna tail him.” He started the car and steered us out of the parking lot. “Carly,” he said when he saw I wasn’t appeased. “We weren’t gonna get a confession out of him.”
“We could have tried!”
“No,” he said, turning toward downtown Ewing. “This is better. We made him nervous, which means he thinks we know something about him. Mark my words, he’s gonna run scared like a chicken from a fox.” He shot me a glance. “And we’re gonna follow him.”
Once we were out of sight of the funeral home, he turned left onto a side street.
“What does he think we know?” I asked. “He only landed on our radar because Ruth remembered seeing Charlie with Dwight.”
“That’s the question of the year. Like I said, I always suspected he was more involved in the drug smuggling than the department determined. But we didn’t press him for information, and it seems odd that he’d freak out at just the sight of us together. Which leads me to believe Charlie does work for Mobley, and they know we’ve been looking into Lula’s and Greta’s disappearances.” He turned again, heading down a residential street that would lead him back toward the funeral home.
I released a sharp gasp. “You think Mobley has something to do with their disappearances?”
“Maybe.” He snuck a glance at me before returning his attention to the road. “What if those packages Lula was delivering were for Mobley?”
“Why would she do that?” A sick, slimy feeling washed through my insides. “Oh. No.”
“What?” Marco asked in a sharp tone.
I shifted in the seat to face him. “Remember the other boyfriend? Lula was sleeping with an older man.” I paused and choked out, “A man of great importance.”
His face twisted in disgust. “You think Mobley’s a man of great importance?” he asked in disbelief.
“God, no. I don’t, but someone like Lula might. He wears a suit. Owns a business. Is considered respectable. Drives a Lexus.”
“Shit.” He ran a hand over his head. “That is so disturbing I might have to bleach out my brain. How old do you think that fucker is?”
“I don’t know. Maybe early to late sixties?”
Marco shuddered. “Too old to be a new dad.” His eyes widened. “Too in need of the community’s respect to knock up someone other than his wife.”
“You think he took Lula because he doesn’t want to be a father?”
“That’s been one of our working theories, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility.”
“But it’s Pete Mobley,” I protested. “Is he capable of hurting her?”
“Maybe not. That would be a reason for hirin’ someone like Charlie. It sounds like maybe he is capable of such a thing.”
My stomach churned.
The funeral home came into view at the end of the street, the Lexus fully visible. Marco pulled over to the curb and put the Explorer in park. “Mobley’s reputation is already on the line with the drug smuggling. If word gets out that he’s been cheatin’ on his wife with a woman in her twenties, and he got her pregnant to boot? I’m not sure he’d recover.”
I swallowed bile. “So he took her to keep his dirty little secret.”
Which meant she was dead.
“Hey,” Marco said, reaching over and snagging my hand. “Don’t think the worst.” But I heard the hopelessness in his voice.
“He runs a funeral home, Marco,” I said flatly. “His business is taking care of dead bodies.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I know.”
“Greta.” My voice broke, and I couldn’t stop a tear from falling down my cheek. “If Charlie took her, it’s because I was talking to her.” I released sob. “What if I got her killed, Marco?”
“Hey,” he said, turning in his seat to face me. He was still holding my hand and squeezed it. “Let’s not think like that.”
“It’s hard not to.”
“We don’t know that they’re dead. He might be keepin’ them alive somewhere. When he leaves, he might lead us right to them.” Which meant we were back to the original theory that the same people had taken them both. I hadn’t told Marco my new theory, and I decided now wasn’t the time. Mobley certainly seemed to know somethi
ng. Hopefully, he’d lead us to at least one of them.
I nodded, only because I couldn’t bear to consider the possibility of them being dead. But we had to look at this practically. What purpose would Mobley have for keeping them alive?
“Carly,” he said with an authority I wasn’t used to hearing in his voice. “Worst-case scenario, if Greta is dead—you did not kill her.”
A fresh round of tears filled my eyes. “Is this when you tell me that I didn’t pull the trigger, or however they killed her?” Oh God. What had they done to her? I couldn’t let my mind dwell on it.
“No, although it’s true. You have to remember that Charlie has been watching Greta for weeks, probably since Purdy’s death, based on when he started working at the nursing home. And he was in the café last week asking about Lula. He would have taken her whether you were askin’ questions or not."
I nodded.
“Carly.”
I jerked my gaze to his.
“This is not your fault.” The compassion on his face was nearly my undoing.
I nodded again but didn’t answer.
He pushed out a breath, probably realizing that was the best response he was going to get from me.
Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I realized Mobley was in the parking lot, practically sprinting to his car.
I sat up straighter. “He’s on the move.”
Marco sat up too, shifting the car into drive. “Showtime.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mobley headed out of the parking lot as though he were being chased by a pack of wild dogs.
“He isn’t exactly cool under pressure,” Marco said. “That will definitely work in our favor.”
Marco slowly drove down the side street parallel to the funeral home parking lot, staying back several car lengths, as Mobley sped out. The Lexus barely slowed down before Mobley turned right onto the four-lane highway, narrowly missing a car, and heading away from town.
Her Scream in the Silence: Carly Moore #2 Page 27