was a sixty-eight-year-old former drug dealer, he was as big of a gossip as any female busybody. And he told me everything he learned.
“Maria’s on the mend and back at preschool, thanks for asking. Also, thanks for hiring Ginger to clean Hank’s house. We could really use the money and, well…” His cheeks flushed. “Thanks.”
Hire her to clean Hank’s house? Hank would never have made such an arrangement. For one, he didn’t have the money, and for another, I earned my room and board by cooking, cleaning, and helping take care of Hank. If someone was cleaning his house, that meant I wasn’t meeting my end of the bargain.
“Is there a problem?” Junior asked with a worried look.
“No, none at all,” I said. “And I should be thanking Ginger. With all my hours at the tavern, some days I struggle to keep up.” Was Hank unhappy with my contribution? He hadn’t said anything, and he definitely wasn’t shy about expressing his opinions.
“Wyatt said it would make it easier for you.”
That put a twist in my stomach. Had Wyatt done it to help me, or did he want to win me back? Did it matter?
Junior looked appeased, even if I was far from it. “I hate to run off on you,” I said, taking a step backward and pointing down the sidewalk toward the tavern. “But I’m already late. It was good seeing you, Junior!”
“You too, Carly.”
I hurried down the sidewalk, realizing I should have had Marco drop me off to save time and body heat. I couldn’t hightail it straight into the tavern either, because my work shirt was still in my car around back, along with Ruth’s purchases—and surely Ruth would be less pissed if I came bearing gifts—so toward my car I sprinted, working a stitch into my side. Just as I was about to turn the corner to the tavern’s back parking lot, a man in a dress coat exited one of the rooms at the Alpine Inn and got into the driver’s seat of an idling black BMW sedan.
It was Neil Carpenter, the man Bart Drummond had met for lunch.
What in the world was a guy like that doing in the negative-one-star-rated Alpine Inn?
He backed his car out and turned right, heading east, toward White Rabbit Holler and the overlook.
According to his business card, Neil Carpenter was from Nashville. What was he doing on a road that would land him in North Carolina in about fifteen minutes?
He didn’t seem to notice me as he passed, and even though I knew I needed to get to work, I was beyond curious about what he’d been doing.
On a whim, I bolted across the street and across the motel parking lot.
The brick building was L-shaped. The office was on the street, at the end of the short part of the L, but it was permanently closed, with a sign instructing guests to check in across the street at the tavern. Max ran the place for his father and rented the first two units to permanent guests—Jerry and a man they called Big Joe. Their rooms and two others were next to the office, and twelve units made up the longer section of the building. (The first room on the long side started with 8 instead of 5.) The fateful night I’d witnessed Seth’s murder, I’d been on the end in 20. Seth had been hiding in 17.
Neil Carpenter had come out of room 16.
My stomach cramped as I marched up to the door. Maybe I was acting crazy, but I wouldn’t rest until I knew why he’d been hanging out at the seedy Alpine Inn. I was sure it had something to do with Bart, and my distrust for the Drummond patriarch went beyond my broken agreement with Wyatt. I strongly suspected Bart had been involved with Carson Purdy’s scheme, which meant he was partly responsible for Seth’s death. That gave me a reason all my own for wanting him to see justice.
If Bart’s crony was coming out of the Alpine Inn, it couldn’t be for respectable purposes. Maybe this was the first step to figuring out what he was up to.
Steeling my back, I rapped on the door, realizing that there was a good chance no one would answer. And for a few seconds no one did. I was about to turn around and head over to the tavern when the door cracked open, revealing a young woman’s face and scantily clad body. She was wearing a pair