Buried in Secrets (Carly Moore #4) - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,8
I just couldn’t see Pam committing cold-blooded murder.
“I don’t know,” Martha said with tears in her eyes. “It’s not lookin’ so good.”
“I’m sorry I’m late!” Sandy called out as she slid into the chair between the two women. She was wearing a pair of shorts and a dirt-smudged T-shirt. Most people didn’t dress up around Drum, especially when they came to Max’s Tavern, but these women had always made an effort to wear makeup and choose nice blouses. Not today. Sandy had dirt smudged on her cheek.
Diane gave her a disapproving look. “Really, Sandy. Did you roll around on the ground then hop up and get in your car to come to town?”
“I’ve caught a mole eatin’ my potatoes,” she said, as though it was explanation enough. She glanced up at me. “We’re gonna need our usual margaritas. Stat.”
“We’ve decided margaritas are crass given what’s goin’ on,” Diane said with an upturned chin.
“Now is not the time to have a bee up your tight ass, Diane,” Sandy said matter-of-factly, then her face softened as she looked up at me. “Good to see you, Carly. We’ve missed your happy face. Now run along and get that pitcher.”
Effectively dismissed, I went to the bar to place their order, but Max was already mixing it up.
“Something’s goin’ on with the ladies club,” I whisper-shouted, using the name we’d unofficially given them. “They said Pam was arrested for murder!”
He gave me a look but didn’t say anything.
“You already knew?” I asked in surprise.
He turned on the blender, blocking any further conversation in a way that felt intentional. Taking the hint, I checked on the orders for my other tables, carrying out more tuna melts than I ever wanted to see again in my lifetime.
But I couldn’t get my mind off the fact that mild-mannered Pam had supposedly committed murder, and Max already knew about it. But how?
Then it hit me like a black iron skillet to the head.
What if Pam had fulfilled one of Bart Drummond’s favors?
Chapter Four
I checked on a couple of other tables, then delivered the margarita pitcher and glasses to the ladies club.
“What’s the special?” Sandy asked as she took the pitcher out of my hands.
I set the glasses on the table and tried not to make a face. “Tuna melt.”
She gave me a look of disgust. “Then I’ll have a burger.”
“Sandy,” Diane admonished sternly. “Have you no decency?”
“You want to talk about decency?” Sandy asked, her brows practically shooting up to her hairline. “Serving tuna melts is the epitome of indeceny. In fact, I’d appreciate it if none of you ordered one either. I’d rather not sit at a table with that fish smell.”
“I’m not talking about the special. I’m talking about your concern over eating and”—she lifted her nose—“drinking.”
“People still gotta eat, Diane,” Sandy said with a sigh as she poured herself a drink. “Now order, Martha.”
Martha’s mouth rounded as she glanced from Diane to Sandy, then back to me. Her expression turned apologetic. “Since I can’t have the tuna melt, I’ll take a club sandwich.”
I turned my attention to Diane.
Her jaw set and she gave me a defiant glare. “The tuna melt.” She turned her glare on Sandy. “Now what are we gonna do about Pam?”
“We can organize some meals for Rob and the kids,” Martha said, worry filling her eyes.
“That’s a good idea,” Diane said, pulling out a notebook from her purse. “I’ll create a list of people who might want to participate, and I’ll start making calls after lunch. Those boys still gotta eat.”
Sandy snorted. “Meals? She needs a good lawyer. She needs bail money.”
“Has she been arraigned?” I asked.
Diane shot me a dark look to let me know my input wasn’t appreciated.
“We don’t know.” Sandy took a big gulp of her drink, then shuddered. “Maybe we should have gotten a pitcher on the rocks.” She glanced at Martha. “Brain freeze.”
Diane’s glare now suggested she thought I’d made the drink extra cold to interrupt their meeting.
I got the hint. I wasn’t welcome, not to mention I had other customers who needed my attention. Besides, it could be pure coincidence that Pam had killed someone within a few hours of Max and Wyatt’s closed-door meeting the night before. I needed to know what had happened before I could jump to any conclusions.
While I wanted to stalk their table, my other customers kept me busy, so I didn’t get back to the ladies club’s table until I brought out their food. (I’d changed poor Martha’s club sandwich to