flooded me. He’d become so important to me. He knew about my mother’s death and how much it had changed my life, which saved me from saying the words. Flipping my hand over, I twined our fingers together. “Thank you, Marco.”
“You two are the sweetest couple,” Greta said next to our table. She was wearing a pink vintage-looking diner outfit, with a white collar and white trim on the pockets. Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. And she was beaming as her gaze went from our hands to my face.
Marco gave my hand a squeeze and released me. “For the umpteenth time, Greta, we’re just friends.”
“Friends who hold hands? And stare into each other’s eyes?” Her eyes danced with amusement. “And I know for a fact you haven’t seen another woman for over a month, Marco Roland, so why won’t you two just admit that you’re seeing each other?”
“Because we’re not,” I said good-naturedly. “We’re just very good friends. Marco was the one who helped nurse me back to health after the whole…situation with Lula, and we bonded over it, is all.”
Her smile faded as her voice lowered. “I’ll never be able to repay you for savin’ me.”
We rarely spoke about it—especially in public—but I suspected hearing about Heather’s murder had made an impact on both of us.
But her bounce wasn’t gone for long. “You two are like an old married couple, and if you’re not sleepin’ together, I sure as Pete don’t know why not.” She shook her head. “What can I get you?”
My thoughts were lingering on her comment about us sleeping together, and I shot Marco a long look as he ordered the special—fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Why was it so weird for a man and a woman to just be friends? And why didn’t Marco seem annoyed by the constant questions about our relationship status?
Greta turned to me with an expectant look, and I realized she was waiting for me to order, not an explanation about my love life or lack thereof.
I asked for a chef’s salad, which historically consisted mostly of iceberg lettuce, but the only vegetables at Max’s Tavern were the potatoes Tiny used for fries and cucumbers made into pickles. I craved a good salad, but a mediocre one would suffice.
As soon as Greta walked away Marco turned serious. “What happened with Bart at the construction site?”
I ran my fingertip over the condensation on the outside of my iced tea glass. “Bart knew I planned on looking into Heather’s murder, and he wants me to tell him what I find before I turn it over to the sheriff.”
His gaze darkened. “So he can destroy the evidence?”
“He didn’t say.”
“How’d he know you were lookin’ into it?”
“I don’t know, but he knew. And he invited me to have tea with Emily today at three. He told me I was free to ask questions about Heather and Wyatt.”
“Are you plannin’ to go?” he asked in shock.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m tempted, but I’m also supposed to be at work at three.” I gave him a questioning look. “What do you think I should do?”
“Obviously you don’t go,” he said as though explaining something to a fool. “He’s playin’ you.”
I pursed my lips. He was right.
“You’re considerin’ goin’ anyway,” he said, his voice tight.
Looking up at his blue-green eyes, I said, “I guess I am.”
His emotions shuttered. “Why is he so important to you?”
For a moment I wasn’t sure who he was referring to. Bart was important to me, but only in the sense that I wanted to make him pay for all he’d done. For all he planned to do. Then it occurred to me that he meant Wyatt. “Wyatt’s not important to me in the sense you’re thinking. But I would hate to see him railroaded.” I lowered my voice and leaned closer so I couldn’t be overheard. “And I realize this is a good opportunity to get more dirt on Bart.”
His face paled.
“Surely you knew I was looking to find some.”
“Yeah.” He looked like he was about to be sick. “And while I understand why, I’m still worried, Carly. Bart Drummond is not a man to be trifled with.”
“And that’s why this is good cover to be lookin’,” I said. “So truth be told, I have ulterior motives for doing this.”
He gave me a long, hard look and twisted in his seat, glancing around the room. Lifting his hand, he called out, “Greta, we’re gonna need our lunches