One Foot in the Grave - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,26
at myself for wasting my time. He expected me to clear his name for nothing? I told myself that’s what a good friend would do. And yet, we weren’t good friends, hadn’t been for months. Where did that leave us?
“Carly!” He grabbed my arm, pulling me to a halt, and turned me back to face him. “Fine. I’ll tell you some things.”
“Some things…”
“You’re playing with fire by messing with my father,” he said with a tight voice.
“I’m well aware of the danger your father presents to me.” I shot him an icy glare.
His body twitched. “What does that mean?”
“You want all my secrets now?” I asked with a bitter laugh. “No. That’s a two-way street, Wyatt, and you don’t seem interested in walking it.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. I was about to tell him to go take a flying leap, but my gut still told me that Bart had his hand in this. That looking into Heather’s death might help me finally get a foothold, or at least a toehold, on Bart’s neck. “I’ll do it. But you need to answer my questions about Heather, or you’re on your own.”
He gave me an assessing look. “I can do that.”
I fought hard to keep from rolling my eyes. “That’s mighty big of you.”
He looked like he was biting his tongue before he said, “Where do you want to do this? I’d prefer keepin’ Hank out of it.”
Keeping Hank out of it was likely for the best, and I thought about suggesting we head back to the creek, but I wanted to take notes.
“How about we go to my place?” he said. “It’s quiet.”
I had never been to Wyatt’s place before, which was odd given we’d dated for several weeks, but I’d been working nonstop and taking care of Hank, who had been newly released from the hospital, so it hadn’t seemed strange at the time.
But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it over the last four months.
“Okay.” I was about to get answers, and probably more than Wyatt bargained for.
Chapter Eight
Hank usually let me go about my business without much commentary, but he had plenty to say when I announced I was leaving, especially since Wyatt was waiting for me outside. (I’d told him I couldn’t leave until I made Hank breakfast.) I whisked together the ingredients for an egg white, onion, and green pepper frittata, and Hank lumbered in on his crutch, leaning his shoulder into the doorway to the kitchen as he watched me pour everything into a pan.
“Does this have anything to do with the fact the sheriff’s department called Wyatt in for questioning last night?”
I turned to him with a scowl. “You’re one of the worst gossips I’ve ever met.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, now does it?”
I sighed. “Hank…”
“Do I need to remind you what happened the last time you went stickin’ your nose where it didn’t belong?”
Was he talking about when I’d gone looking for Lula? Although he knew part of the story, he didn’t know how it had ended, only that I’d “gotten sick” and stayed with Marco for several days before coming home, still sick and frail. It didn’t take a genius to figure out something had happened to me, and Hank was an intelligent man. Still, he’d never pried.
I decided to play dumb. “What are you talking about?” I asked, wrinkling my nose. “I don’t stick my nose in other people’s business.”
“Lookin’ for Lula nearly got you killed.”
Okay, so we were thinking about the same thing… “Hank…”
“I don’t know what happened to you, and this town was freakishly quiet about Lula and Greta disappearing then reappearing, but it seems mighty coincidental that the funeral home director in Ewing turned up dead around the same time. The same man who claimed he didn’t know anything about a drug cartel using his business to bring drugs in from Atlanta in his caskets.”
I shrugged as I flipped his frittata.
“Carly.”
His tone was so laden with emotion I couldn’t help turning to face him.
“You’re playin’ with fire, girl.”
What did Hank know? “I’m not sure what you’re talkin’ about.”
The bridge of his nose pinched. “Don’t play dumb with me. You’re a hell of a lot smarter than those blonde roots you’re always coverin’ up.”
“That’s a terrible stereotype,” I said as I reached for a plate in the cabinet.
“You know what I mean.” He hesitated, then said, “Bart Drummond has his hands in this, and you damn well know it. I suspect that’s why you’re about