One Foot in the Grave (Carly Moore #3) - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,53
souls to get a favor from him—but she’d refused to name names, saying she didn’t want to air the dirty laundry of lost souls. Although I’d been back plenty of times, I hadn’t told her about my research yet, wanting to find more solid evidence first. Maybe it had been a mistake to wait. It was time to share some of my research with her and see if she’d give me some answers.
“I really do want to see you too,” I insisted.
She waved her hand. “All I do is sit in this daggum chair and knit all day. Let my mind be useful. What do you want to know?”
I pulled the recorder out of my purse. “Do you mind if I record this? It’s just for my own notes. I’ll destroy it when I’m done.”
While I couldn’t call it out to everyone I talked to, I trusted Miss Thelma wouldn’t throw me to the wolves.
“I don’t mind. No one’s comin’ for me here,” she said with a grin.
“I’d like to talk to you more about Bart’s favors. Only I need specifics. I can give you some names and what I know, and you can verify if I’m right or not.”
Her mouth twisted. “You really shouldn’t pry into that dark business, Carly.”
“Maybe so, but will you tell me anyway?” When she didn’t answer, I said, “I’ll tell you about one instance I know about and then leave it to you to decide, okay?”
She gave me a nod.
Reaching into my purse, I pulled out my notebook and flipped through the pages. “I’ve been doing some research in the Ewing Chronicle, looking for strange incidents.”
“And what would you label strange incidents?” she asked, undeniable interest in her voice.
“People getting arrested for doing inexplicable things. Such as Roger Pierce.”
Her eyes widened at the mention of his name. “What about him?”
“He killed a postal worker in a murder-suicide about twenty years ago.”
Her mouth pinched. “Unfortunate business.”
“Especially since the articles said the police couldn’t find a motive. As far as everyone knew, Roger Pierce had never met Dudley Franken. He wasn’t even Roger’s mail carrier. It was a totally random act.”
“And you don’t think it was?” she asked.
“You tell me,” I said. “Was it?”
She was silent for several long seconds, and I was sure she was going to blow me off, but then she surprised me. “Roger had a gambling problem. He made good money workin’ as a foreman at the lumber yard.”
“Drummond Lumber? That wasn’t in the news articles.”
“Well, he didn’t work there anymore at the time of the murder. His last job was at the convenience store at the corner of Walnut and Rally in Ewing. Back when he worked at the lumberyard, he was deep in debt and on the verge of losin’ his house. Then suddenly he came into a windfall, or at least enough money to catch up on his mortgage payments. There were a lot of rumors goin’ around about where he got the money, but his wife said a guardian angel had given it to them. Of course, Roger didn’t learn his lesson, as is often the way with addicts, and soon he was in debt again.”
I considered telling her that addiction was a disease but decided not to stop her.
“This time his wife left with their kids and moved to Nashville, and he lost his job. No one was surprised he killed himself. He was a bitterly unhappy man who refused to accept responsibility for his actions. It was the fact that he killed Dudley first that caught everyone by surprise. As far as anyone knows, Dudley never even went into the convenience store where Roger worked.”
“Why do you think Roger killed him?” I asked.
She gave me a pointed stare. “You’re wantin’ me to say that Bart Drummond called in a favor. I can’t tell you that, but it’s mighty suspicious. The sheriff never came up with an answer, although to be honest, I’m not sure how much they tried.”
Once again, nothing solid to link the crime back to Bart.
“Can you tell me about any others?” I asked. “I know you don’t like gossiping about things that can’t be proven, but I’m tryin’ to find people who might have been Bart’s victims. I need to figure out a way to stop him.”
“Stopping Bart Drummond is like tryin’ to stop lava flow from a volcano. It will only get you burnt to a crisp.”
“Then I’ll wear a protective suit,” I said. “Please, Miss Thelma.”