One Foot in the Grave (Carly Moore #3) - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,48
nervous about Drum opening to the rest of the world.”
I gave him a wry grin. “I suspect Drum isn’t opening to the world—it’s Bart Drummond’s resort. Do you think cell service is going to extend to downtown Drum?”
“Good question,” he asked. “I have no idea how far those towers send out signals.”
I laughed. “Can you imagine how many people are going to start hanging out at his resort—people who aren’t paying customers?”
He grinned, but it quickly faded. “Maybe more of a reason to leave.”
“And go where? How many remote towns will be as accepting of me as all y’all have been?” I shook my head. “No. I’m taking a stand, and it’s starting with Bart.” I reached for the door handle. “But this isn’t your fight, Marco, so maybe you should stay out of it.”
Because I couldn’t stand it if something happened to him—again—because he was trying to protect me.
I opened the door and got out before he could answer, but he rolled his window down and called out to me as I walked toward my car. “You can’t say something like that and just walk away!”
Turning to face him, I gave him an imploring look. “Just think about it, okay?”
His jaw set. “I don’t need to.”
I wasn’t going to argue with him from the sidewalk, so I waved goodbye before I turned to walk the rest of the way to my car.
He remained in place until I pulled out of my parking place, then followed me to the turnoff for Ewing before branching off and heading toward the state park.
I continued out of town, not surprised when Wyatt’s truck came into view two cars behind me, but I had more important things to think about than my tail. Like what I was going to say to Mitzi. I made a mental list of things to ask her and decided to wing it from there.
Part of me wanted to take notes, but I’d rethought the wisdom of that after talking to Marco. A gossip didn’t take notes, and it would be hard to write things down on the sly, without drawing the attention of the people I was talking to. Still, I worried about forgetting things, and my junky cell phone didn’t have the capacity to take audio recordings. Maybe I could get a smartphone at some point, just so I could use it for taking notes and pictures, something I’d also been missing, but for the time being I didn’t have enough money to justify the expense.
I decided I should try to find a handheld recorder instead, so my first stop in Ewing was at the Helping Hands Thrift Store.
I approached the woman at a register and asked, “Do you know if you have any handheld recorders?”
She gave me a strange look. “Why would you be wantin’ one of those?”
I shrugged, playing dumb. “I’m trying to record my husband talkin’ in his sleep. He keeps sayin’ another woman’s name and I want to prove it to him.”
Her brow furrowed and righteous indignation flashed in her eyes. “If we have one, it’s gonna be in aisle 6. That’s where we keep the electronics, but some of them are pretty vintage, if you know what I mean.”
Thanking her, I headed to aisle six, trying not to get my hopes up. It was no surprise when I encountered a table covered with rummage sale rejects—huge, blocky computer monitors and some computer towers. A ragtag assortment of keyboards and mouses, old cassette players, and even a knockoff Walkman. Off to the side sat a handheld recorder that looked like it had seen better days. The buttons were well-worn, but there was a cassette inside, even if it wouldn’t work when I pressed the play and fast-forward buttons.
“You’re gonna need to get batteries,” a man said from behind me.
I turned to see a guy in his twenties pushing a broom. His name tag said Red.
“We have to take the batteries out, but you can ask Tammy at the front to pop some in to verify it works before you buy it.”
I tightened my hold on it. “Thanks.”
Sure enough, when I headed to the front, Tammy—the cashier I’d spoken to upon entering—fished out AA batteries to stick in the back. Once she pressed the play button, we could hear a man’s voice droning on about the American Revolution.
“Sounds like a stuffy lecture,” Tammy said.
“Agreed,” I said, eager to make my purchase and record my conversation with Mitzi.