“If that guy had…”
“I’m fine,” I said, adjusting my purse strap. “He only pinned me to a wall.”
I could tell he wanted to say more, but he remained silent for a couple of seconds. “So you and Marco…” His gaze held mine.
“My love life is no concern of yours, Wyatt Drummond.”
“I’m not asking for myself, Carly. I’m askin’ because there’s a chance he’ll be assigned to help with the investigation of the body out at the lodge construction site.”
I blinked. “What?”
“He holds a loyalty to Max that might make him…partial.”
“Are you suggesting that Marco might try to cover up murders to protect your father?” It was laughable, but if I said so, he’d just scowl or suggest, again, that Marco and I were involved.
“Just be careful, Carly.”
I laughed, but it was bitter. “Oh, that’s rich comin’ from you. What are you so worried about?” And because he was fraying my last nerve, I couldn’t resist adding, “You don’t think Todd Bingham will have my back?”
His eyes flashed in surprise. “Will he?”
“You tell me, Wyatt. You’re the one who suggested I was on his payroll now.” After we’d officially broken up, Wyatt had accused me of being on Bingham’s payroll, and I hadn’t seen fit to correct him. He’d made up his mind without asking, which had only confirmed I was making the right decision.
He grimaced. “I said a few things that I now regret.”
“Well, that’s all in the past.” Part of me was still disappointed things hadn’t worked out with him, if only because his promise to help me expose my father had given me hope at a time when I’d sorely needed it. But he’d reneged on that promise as quickly as he’d made it. “I’m goin’ home.”
“Is the fact I’m workin’ at the bar gonna be a problem?” he called after me.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Wyatt,” I called over my shoulder. I got in my car and started the engine. He stood at the doorway, watching me pull out of the parking lot.
Working with Wyatt was going to be a challenge, but hell would freeze over before I admitted it.
Chapter Four
The next afternoon was busier than ever. The construction site was still shut down for the sheriff’s investigation, and since the crew had nothing else to do, they came to the tavern. Lula called in sick, and part of me couldn’t help wondering if Bingham was circling his wagons. I’d presumed the body was connected to his father, but Todd Bingham himself had made several people disappear.
We were all thankful that Sweetie Pie was working, which was saying a lot. Even so, we were too shorthanded for the crowd, so Max made a limited menu that he posted on a whiteboard. Their options were a hamburger or cheeseburger and fries, a club sandwich and fries, or the special of the day—a pulled pork sandwich and fries. No special orders were allowed. They had to put on their own condiments, and if something came on it that they didn’t like, they could take it off themselves. We had a few grumpy customers, and I was worried we’d send them off to Watson’s Café, which was a block down Main Street, but most were drinking beer, a beverage they couldn’t get at the ’50s themed restaurant.
Jerry, my friend who lived in the Alpine Inn—and was a regular for practically every meal—came in early and sat at his usual lunch perch at the end of the bar. The other patrons came in between noon and one, setting up at the tables and booths and not making any move to leave as the afternoon wore on. Thankfully, there was no sign of Blake or his friend.
“We can’t keep up like this all day,” Ruth finally complained around two thirty. “When are we gonna be able to take a break?”
Max studied the room with a frown. “How about you both take off for an hour, and I’ll just tell them it’s self-serve? They can come to the bar for their drinks.”
Ruth frowned, clearly worried Max wouldn’t be able to keep up with the drink orders, but I was all for it, especially since I hadn’t been to the library in a couple of weeks.
Ruth took off soon afterward, saying she had some errands to run, and I grabbed my sack lunch and headed down the street, casting a glance at the nearly empty Watson’s Café. I knew some of the men were frequenting the place, but the majority had been coming to Max’s.
I wondered if Greta, who was a waitress at Watson’s, would be interested in making a move. Of course, she and Max had history—of the one-night stand variety—so I doubted it would work. Greta might have been interested in him before her kidnapping, but she hadn’t been coming around to the tavern. I suspected her new allegiance to Todd Bingham had something to do with it.
The overcast sky started to drizzle as I crossed the street, so I ran and ducked through the library door, smiling when I saw the middle-aged woman at the desk opposite me.
“Carly,” she said warmly. “I’ve missed seeing your friendly face.”
“And I’ve missed you, Carnita,” I said, noticing all three computers were occupied, not that I was surprised. The library was one of the only places in town where people could reliably access the internet, so it wasn’t uncommon for all three to be in use at the same time. There was usually a waiting list.
“I would have reserved one for you if I’d known you were comin’,” she said apologetically, “but you haven’t been here…”
“Don’t worry. We’ve been slammed with no end in sight, so Max gave me an hour off.”
“And this was the first place you thought to come?” she asked with a chuckle.
“I’m behind on my research.” And I wasn’t going to make much progress today…then again, I could look for some older deaths in articles predating the internet. “Do you have older copies of the Ewing Chronicle on microfilm?”
“Sure do, but it’s spotty,” she said, heaving herself out of her chair. “A few years ago, someone cleaned house while I was on vacation and threw out some of the records, but I’ll show you what we have.”
She led me to a machine in the corner that looked like it was straight out of the mid-twentieth century. “No one’s used this in quite some time. I hope the bulb still works.” Leaning over, she flipped a switch, and the fan turned on as well as a light bulb. “Success! Do you know how to use it?”
I nearly told her that I’d reviewed plenty of microfilm when I’d done a research paper on education in the fifties back in college, but that was Caroline Blakely, the woman I’d been for thirty-one years. Carly Moore had waitressed and worked in retail. So I simply nodded. “Yeah.”
“Then I’ll grab the film rolls out of the back. Is there any particular year that interests you?”
“How about beginning of the year before the online records kicked in?”
“Sounds good.” She beamed at me. “I love that you’re taking such an interest in Drum and Hensen County history.”
I smiled back, hating that I was deceiving her, but there was no way I could tell her I was trying to find evidence Bart Drummond was a murderer once removed. For all I knew, she would wholeheartedly support my endeavor—plenty of people had become disillusioned with Bart—but I needed to keep this quiet.
Carnita went to the back, and I took a seat and opened my sack lunch. Max let us eat whatever we wanted from the tavern kitchen, but most of it was high-calorie, fatty food, something I didn’t eat much of anymore. Hank’s diabetes had already cost him his leg, and in taking care of him, I had set out to change his diet, incorporating more fruits and vegetables and lean meat. Both of us had become accustomed to eating that way, although he’d never admit it.
Thankfully, Carnita was forgiving of me eating in the library, so I didn’t have to feel guilty when she walked up with a box. “Here you go. When you’re ready to leave, just put the box on the counter and I’ll take care of it.” She set the box down, then gave me a questioning look. “Do you think you’ll be using this one again?”
“I’ll let you know when I leave,” I said as I stabbed a forkful of salad in my glass container. “Thank
you, Carnita.”
She rested a hand on my shoulder. “You let me know if you need anything else.”
I set my lunch aside, pulled out the first roll, and threaded the strip into the machine.
The microfilm was dark and sideways, and scanning it was slow going. I was on my second roll when a small article caught my eye on page seven. It was an update on the disappearance of a Drum Lumber employee, Richard Schmidt, who had left work three months prior and hadn’t been seen since. Bart Drummond had set up a five-thousand-dollar reward for information that helped the Hensen County Sheriff’s Department find him.
Pulling out my notebook and pen, I jotted down the pertinent information, including the fact that the article had been written in February, seventeen years ago. A quick glance at the clock told me I’d been gone an hour, so I put the film back in the box and headed back to the tavern, bidding Carnita goodbye and telling her I’d use the microfilm reader the next time I came in.
Ruth was waiting tables when I got back. Some of the men had left, but the ones who’d stayed were watching ESPN.
A young woman with long dark hair came in close to four. She glanced around the room before walking up to the bar to see Max.
“Oh. My Word,” Ruth said, sidling up to me. “That’s Molly McMurphy.”
“Should I know who she is?”
“I haven’t seen her for years,” she said with a frown as the woman sat on a stool and leaned forward. “But she is as flighty as they come, and it looks like Max is interviewing her for a job.”
A burst of excitement shot through me. If we found another full-time waitress, more of my time would be freed up. “You know we need the help.”
“But Molly McMurphy?” she asked in disgust.
“It could be Santa Claus for all I care,” I said. “As long as I can stop working doubles and get a day off. Hank has a doctor’s appointment in another week.”
She gave me a snide look. “You’ll be changin’ your tune when you think you’re gettin’ a day off and she doesn’t show up to work.” Leaning closer, she lifted her eyebrows. “Just like Lula.”
That sobered me. As much as I liked Lula as a semi-friend, she wasn’t the most reliable employee. Then, before I could stop and think about what I was asking, I said, “How do you know her?”
Ruth rolled her eyes and turned away.
Fair enough. She knew most people in this town.
Max spent about five minutes talking to her, then waved me over. He was grinning ear to ear when I reached him.
“Carly, this here is Molly McMurphy. She’s our new waitress, and thankfully for us, she’s startin’ tonight. Will you show her around, then get her a couple of work shirts?”
“Shouldn’t Ruth be doin’ that?” I asked, shooting a nervous glance over my shoulder.
“Nah. I want you to do it,” he said, but I heard the strain in his voice.
Ruth was watching us with suspicion, and I felt all the pressure of being caught between a rock and a hard place. Well, crap. Ultimately, while Ruth was the de facto manager, Max was the owner. If he said she was our new waitress, then I wasn’t about to tell him he was wrong, especially since we needed the help. Besides, I knew Ruth could be hard on people. She hadn’t cottoned much to Lula before I’d shown up, and it turned out that Lula had really needed a friend. And yeah, she was a little flighty…okay, a lot, but still…
“Sure,” I said, plastering on a smile and stuffing down my concerns as I turned to the woman next to me. She looked like she was around my age—late twenties, early thirties—and she had a friendly enough face, but her blue eyes looked guarded, not that I could blame her if she and Ruth really did have issues. “I’m Carly. Welcome to Max’s Tavern. We’re happy to have the help.”
Some of the iciness left her eyes. “I’m Molly. Nice to meet you. And I’m thankful to be here. I could really use the job.”
That made me feel better. Times were tough in Drum, and the fact that she needed a job meant she would likely put in the effort to keep it. “If you want to come to the back, I’ll show you where the lockers are and introduce you to Tiny and Sweetie Pie.”
She laughed. “Sweetie Pie?”
Grinning, I said, “Tiny, our short-order cook, gives all the cooks nicknames.” I nearly told her not to worry about getting to know Sweetie Pie that well since she probably wouldn’t be around much longer, but I didn’t want to scare her.
Ruth was shooting daggers in my direction as we walked to the back. I showed Molly the back room and where we kept the extra T-shirts. Then I told her she could pick any of the open mini lockers to store her things. After she went to the restroom to change, I took her to the entrance to the kitchen, making sure to tell her that Tiny didn’t like anyone in his kitchen during working hours and we weren’t supposed to cross the imaginary line at the threshold.
“Tiny,” I called out. “This is Molly. Max just hired her as a waitress.”
The large man glanced over his shoulder. “Well, I’ll be damned. So he actually did it.”
“Did what?” Molly asked me in an undertone.
“Hired another waitress,” I said. “There’s been some resistance.”
“From Ruth,” she said in a dry tone.
I hated to speak ill of my friend, so I said nothing. I struggled to understand Ruth’s attitude, but I knew she had trouble trusting people. Which meant she didn’t want anyone new coming in and messing with the status quo. Even if we were working ourselves ragged.
Although the thin woman next to him seemed too intent on the food on the grill to pay attention to us, Tiny turned around to face us. “Welcome, Molly. I’m sure Carly’s already filled you in about not comin’ into the kitchen. Other than that, I’m pretty easygoin’. Just put your tickets on the wheel, and we’ll take ’em down and put ’em with the plates when the order’s up. Put the dirty plates and such in the plastic bins outside the kitchen, and we’ll load ’em in the dishwasher.”
“Y’all don’t have bussers?” she asked with a confused look.
Hadn’t she been to Max’s Tavern before? There weren’t exactly a lot of restaurants or bars in the area. Maybe she’d been scared enough of Ruth to stay away.
“Oh, honey,” I said with a chuckle. “You must have experience at a fancy restaurant. We’re bare bones here. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. It only took me a few days.”
“Malarkey,” Tiny said, turning back to the grill. “It took you less than a night. On Monday Night Football, no less.”
Molly’s brow furrowed.
“Monday nights are big in the fall and early winter, thanks to Max’s big-screen TVs. Now it’s baseball and NASCAR. You got a favorite driver?”
“Who doesn’t?” she said as though I’d asked if she knew how to breathe. Then she rattled off the name of one of the drivers I’d heard some of the guys cheer for.
I grinned. I hadn’t known the first thing about NASCAR before coming to Drum, but Marco had filled me in, giving me a list of stats and helping me pick a favorite driver. He’d told me it would rake in tips, and he hadn’t steered me wrong.
“Who is he?” Molly asked with an ornery grin.
“What?” I asked, realizing I’d zoned out for a moment.
“The guy who put that dreamy look on your face. You were thinking about someone, weren’t you?”
“What?” I practically shouted. “I was not.”
She laughed. “That’s okay. Don’t tell me. I’ll figure it out soon enough.” She pointed to her temple. “I’ve got really good radar for things like that.”
I stopped in my tracks. What on earth was she talking about? Marco and I were just friends. Close friends. When I wasn’t working double shifts all the time, we hung out at his place or at Hank’s. Or sometimes we went to Ewing to eat or see a movie at the two-screen cinema. A couple of times we’d headed to Greeneville to do some shopping and eat out. But we were only friends. Not once had Marco made the slightest suggestion that he was interested in
anything more, and he’d made it very clear that he was a no-commitment kind of guy. And me…given my track record, I’d sworn off men. Which wasn’t hard to do when I was working six days a week.
But this wasn’t the time to think about my relationship with Marco. “Well, I hope you have a good radar for all these construction workers pouring into town. Especially since the jobsite’s been shut down by the sheriff and they’ve got nothing else to do except sit in here all day and drink.”
“Good for business, right?” she said with a smile.
“Yeah,” I said, surveying the half-full room. The regular dinner customers would be coming in soon. “When Lula’s here, we split the room into thirds, although Lula’s section is admittedly smaller and includes the bar. So that seems like the best place to start you, but I’ll check with Ruth first.” That was one conversation I wasn’t looking forward to.
“Wait,” Molly said, grabbing my arm before I could head over. “Aren’t I shadowing you tonight?”
I released a laugh. “No. My first night they tossed me into the deep end, sink or swim.” When I saw her look of terror, I said, “Trust me, it’s not that complicated. The menu’s pretty limited, and there’s always a special. Just write the order down on a ticket, hang the ticket on the wheel, pick up the food about five to ten minutes later, depending on how busy we are, then serve the customers. The drinks are the same—you just take the ticket to the bar and Max’ll fill ’em.”
My explanation didn’t erase the panic on her face, and I didn’t want her to quit before she even started. “Okay. How about we work both of our sections together for a bit until you get the hang of it. Then we’ll split up, okay?”
She nodded but looked only slightly relieved.
This was going to be a long night.
Chapter Five
Molly was a quick learner, but Ruth was giving me the cold shoulder—likely for helping Molly—but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I let her watch me take a few orders, babysat her through a few orders, then set her on her own, letting her handle the bar and a couple of tables.
One Foot in the Grave Page 4