Buried in Secrets

by Denise Grover Swank

  I gave him a skeptical look. “Since when did you become a philosopher?”

  “Sittin’ on the porch has given me plenty of time to think, but you know I ain’t wrong. If that fiancé of yours hadn’t screwed you over, you wouldn’t be standing here now.”

  I put my hand on my hip. “You’re pretty wise for a cranky old fart.”

  He belly-laughed. “Some would disagree with that.”

  “Not about the cranky part,” I said, picking up his empty plate. “Since you’re so contemplative, I’ll let you have one of the brownies I’m about to make for Sandy Steadman.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Since when were you friends with Sandy Steadman?”

  “We’re not exactly friends. She’s a customer at the restaurant.”

  “Why are you bringin’ a customer brownies?”

  While I suspected Hank didn’t know anything about Pam, it wouldn’t hurt to ask him. I sat down in the chair next to him. “A woman killed a man in Ewing a couple of days ago.”

  “And that has something to do with Sandy Steadman?”

  “Yeah, sort of. Sandy’s one of Pam’s best friends. They had lunch together every other week or so at the tavern.” I paused. “I’m taking her brownies because I hope to get information from her.”

  “Am I going to regret asking why?”

  “Probably,” I said with a small smile. “Pam Crimshaw shot a man in cold blood in his insurance office, then drove to Sonic and waited for the police to come arrest her.”

  His startled look slipped into a frown. “Why’d she do that?”

  “She didn’t give a reason. She said she just felt like it.”

  “She just felt like shooting a man in his office?” he asked in disbelief.

  “Pretty unbelievable, right? Marco doesn’t think the detectives on the case will dig any deeper, but it sounds awfully fishy to me. To both of us.”

  He was silent for a couple of seconds. “You think it’s a Bart Drummond favor.”

  “Yes.” When he didn’t say anything, I asked, “Do you know anything about Pam? Her husband’s name is Rob.”

  He frowned again, then shook his head. “Not much, but I knew a Stewie Crimshaw. He had a couple of sons. They’d be in their forties about now.”

  “That would fit. Anything you remember about him that might help?”

  “Just that he was a mean son of a bitch. He beat his wife and kids.”

  “I hear Rob’s not so nice himself.”

  “The apple doesn’t usually fall far from the tree,” he said.

  That wasn’t something I could ask Pam’s daughter, Ashlynn. Did your father beat you? wasn’t exactly a good conversation opener. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if I should talk to her at all, but I decided to take her the casserole anyway. I lived in Drum. I was part of the community, and I needed to act like it. I’d take it from Hank and me.

  “You could be gettin’ yourself into trouble with this one,” he said gruffly. “While I suspect a lot of the things that have been blamed on Drummond over the years had nothin’ to do with the man, the favors are real, and he holds people accountable.” He gave me a look that reminded me that Bart Drummond considered keeping my real name quiet a favor, and he would expect to call on that someday too.

  “Why would people put themselves in that position?” I asked. “He asks for horrible things in return.”

  “Not always. Sometimes the favors are as simple as deliverin’ an envelope to Knoxville.” He turned his head to face me. “Like you said, if they were all bad, no one would ask. There aren’t enough people in town desperate enough to go to him, knowing they’ll be asked to commit murder in exchange, but it’s a lot like playin’ Russian roulette. You just never know what you’ll get.”

  “And no one’s defied him?” I asked.

  “I’m sure some have tried, but he retaliates by getting another person who owes him a favor to take care of them.” He paused. “Or he got his right-hand man, Purdy, to do it.”

  Carson Purdy, who’d tried to kill me and Marco and Wyatt. Who’d supplied the tainted drugs that had killed Hank’s daughter and been an accessory to his grandson’s murder.

  Exhaustion crept into Hank’s voice. “Like you, I suspect Purdy wasn’t acting on his own. Once I retired, Drummond saw Bingham as his biggest threat, and maybe he thought he could move into his market. Money’s been tight for Drummond, and runnin’ his land ain’t cheap. His ‘spa’ in Ewing ain’t bringin’ in money, and neither is the Alpine Inn in town. It stands to reason that he’d try to find a new source of income, and he let Purdy be the face of it.”

  “Do you think he’d ask his new manager to pick up where Purdy left off?”

  He turned to me in surprise. “Has he hired someone?”

  I swallowed, my small hairs standing on end. “Jerry Nelson.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re kiddin’.”

  A lump formed in my throat. “I wish I were.”

  He was silent for several seconds as he studied the bird feeder. “Jerry wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “He killed Carson Purdy,” I countered.

  “That was different,” Hank scoffed. “He was protectin’ you and Marco.”

  “What if Bart convinces him he’s protectin’ someone?” Sure, Marco thought Jerry knew what he was doing—that he might even be playing Bart—but I couldn’t see that man as anything but an innocent. I took a breath. “Maybe this makes me sound like a narcissist, but I can’t help thinking Bart hired him because of me. He was hired at the tavern, of all places, and they kept giving him more and more responsibility. Drummond told him he was promoted to the overseer position as a reward, both for his hard work and for protecting Wyatt, but what if he did it because he wanted something else over me?” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I know I sound crazy, but Bart Drummond has made it clear there’s a target on my back, so is it really that far-fetched?”

  Hank petted the kitten in his lap, his gaze far-off. “Maybe not,” he finally said. “Drummond’s definitely playin’ the long game here. He’s gonna keep tethering you to him with hooks until he’s ready to call in that favor. Maybe he thought he could use Wyatt to hold you, but when that fell through, he set his sights on Jerry.”

  “And you,” I said, deciding to put all my cards on the table. “He’s threatened to expose you.” He’d made that threat back in November, and I’d kept it a secret, but I realized Bart had probably expected me to do just that. He’d isolated me by putting up barriers between me and the people I cared about, presuming I’d keep my silence to protect them. So far his plan had worked, but I was done playing by his rules. I was making my own, and the first step was to make Hank part of my team, not treat him like someone I needed to protect.

  “Expose me?” he asked with a chuckle. “What exactly is he plannin’ to expose? Everything’s out there in the open.”

  “Then why aren’t you in prison?”

  “Because I had my own deals with the sheriff’s department back in the day, and because there’s no proof at this point, not to mention the statute of limitations.”

  “What if he has proof?”

  He snorted. “Trust me, if Bart Drummond had evidence that could put me in prison, he would have used it by now, especially back in the nineties with Reagan’s War on Drugs. He can’t hurt me.”

  “What’s the statute of limitations for selling drugs?”

  Releasing a chuckle, he said, “The hard stuff? Fifteen years. I’m just about out of prosecuting range.”

  “But there’s no statute of limitations for murder.”

  Hank’s face lost all expression. “I did what needed to be done.”

  I was referring to the man Hank had killed last fall. One of his grandson’s killers had broken into the house to murder me, and Hank had gotten to him first. It had been self-defense, but if Bart had somehow caught wind of it, he could find a way to construe it as cold-blooded murder. But Hank’s choice of words
implied there were more crimes that could be used against him. I suspected I wasn’t the only person he’d protected in that way.

  “What if Bart has evidence of a murder? Even if it’s concocted?”

  “He would have used it by now,” he said. “Just like I would have used anything I had against him.”

  “Turned him in?” I asked with a short laugh. “Somehow I doubt it. Something tells me you’d handle things more like Bingham.”

  He was silent again. “I think it’s fair to say I was a mix of the two. I could play the role of the gentleman, but I was ruthless when necessary.”

  I’d already come to that conclusion. His past had come up before, and the more I learned about how he’d conducted business, the more I learned that the man I currently knew was very different than the man he’d once been.

  And some days I wasn’t sure what to think about that.

  Chapter Ten

  Hank knew where Sandy lived, so finding her address was easy. She would have been able to direct me to Ashlynn, but I didn’t necessarily want to ask. A lot depended on how our talk went. So instead I called Greta at Watson’s Café, knowing she was on the morning shift on Wednesdays.

  “I hope I’m not getting you into trouble calling you at work,” I said.

  “Not at all,” she said in a cheerful tone. “We’re past the morning rush. What’s up?”

  “I heard about Pam Crimshaw and I feel just terrible,” I said, which was true. “I wanted to take her daughter Ashlynn a casserole, but I don’t have her address. Do you have any idea who might?”

  “I can help you there,” she said. “Ashlynn was younger than me, but I dropped her off after school a few times.”

  “Thanks, but I need to know where she’s livin’ now.”

  “It’s the same place,” she said, then added, “well, kind of. She and Chuck live in a trailer on her parents’ land.”

  “Oh.” That was actually better. It gave me an excuse to see where Pam lived. I was about to thank Greta and hang up, but I couldn’t help wondering what she knew about the whole situation. Even if it was just hearsay, I could sort out fact from fiction later.

  “I just can’t believe Pam would do such a thing,” I said in a sympathetic tone. “She used to come into the tavern a lot, and she always seemed so quiet and meek around her friends. But then you probably knew her because of her daughter…”

  “I didn’t really know Pam,” Greta said. “But the few times I saw her, she was with Ashlynn’s dad, and he’s not a very nice man, if you know what I mean.”

  “He’s angry?” I prodded. “Short on patience?”

  “That and more—rude, overbearing. I think he hit his wife and kids. It wasn’t all that unusual for Ashlynn to show up to school with bruises.”

  “And no one reported it to child protective services?” I asked in disbelief. As a teacher, I’d been a mandated reporter of suspected abuse. Then again, I’d heard worse stories about Drum, including that Todd Bingham’s little brother had disappeared, possibly murdered by his own father.

  “If they did, nothing came of it.”

  “Do you have any idea why Pam would kill someone? I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it.”

  “She probably just snapped,” Greta said matter-of-factly. “Everyone has their breaking point. Even nice people. Especially nice people. They stuff it all down until they can’t anymore.”

  Maybe she was right. Maybe Pam had been beaten and berated one too many times, but if that was so, why hadn’t she killed her husband?

  Greta gave me directions on how to get to the Crimshaw property, then said, “You, me, and Lula should get together soon and have a girls’ night out.”

  Her suggestion caught me by surprise, but then so did my elation. While I had Marco, I was lonely for female friends. I saw plenty of Ruth at work and Carnita at the library, but it wasn’t the same as hanging out socially. “Yeah,” I said eagerly. “I’d really like that.” But I couldn’t help wondering what a girls’ night out in Drum would look like. The only things I could come up with were going out for drinks at Max’s Tavern or hanging out at the Methodist church on quilting night, although it was rumored they drank wine while they sewed.

  After spending an hour and a half in the kitchen, I was finally ready to go. I wrapped up Sandy’s brownies on a paper plate, saving some to bring to work and two for me and Hank, then covered the casserole dish with tinfoil. I’d have to pick up another one at Target the next time I went to Greeneville. I didn’t expect to get this one back.

  The food went into a basket, and I went out the door.

  “I left you a brownie on the kitchen table,” I said to Hank, who still sat in his chair watching Letty. I’d already warned him I wouldn’t be back that night. His response had been to ask if I was sleeping with Marco or just teasing him. “And I put out fresh food and water for the kittens.”

  “That damn hellcat’ll have to come inside to eat it.”

  I laughed. “Unless she eats a bird.”

  He shot me a dark look.

  “I made a chicken and rice casserole for you too, and I portioned it out into containers for your meals.”

  “You’re lettin’ me have rice?” he grumbled.

  “Don’t get too excited. It’s cauliflower rice mixed in with the real stuff, but be sure to check your blood sugar.”

  “I will.”

  I started down the steps, the basket slung over one arm and the bag with my work clothes and shoes over the other, but I found myself turning back to look at him. “Don’t you get tired of hangin’ out here every day?”

  Surprise filled his eyes.

  “I mean, I know you’re retired and all, but did you used to spend all your time here before the surgery, or did you do other things?”

  “I used to spend a lot of time at the hardware store,” he said, his gaze turning to the bird feeder.

  “The doctor said we could get an apparatus to help you drive. We should look into it.”

  He waved a hand as if swatting the idea. “Those things cost too damn much money.”

  “You could learn to drive with just your left foot. I’m sure it just takes practice.” When he didn’t respond, I decided to let it go for now. “Okay. Have a nice day, Hank.”

  “You too, girlie,” he said affectionately.

  I headed to Sandy’s house first. It was a one-story bungalow on the way into town, close to where Marco lived. I got out and walked up to her porch to ring the bell, but the front door opened before I reached the steps.

  “Carly, this is a surprise,” Sandy said as she walked out onto the porch, closing the door behind her.

  “I just feel awful about Pam,” I said. “I know you must feel ten times worse and, well, my mother always seemed to think food helped heal all wounds, so I made a batch of brownies and brought some to you.” I’d said the part about my mother as an excuse to show up at Sandy’s front door uninvited, but it hit me that my mother really had believed that to be true. She’d made my favorite lunch for dinner on days I was sad—chicken salad—and my favorite dessert for celebrations. She’d done the same thing for my father…before it had all turned upside down.

  “Is that why you work in food service?”

  “What? No,” I said truthfully. “Max offered me a job after my car broke down in Drum. By the time I could afford a new one, I liked the people I worked with far too much to leave.”

  “And you’re livin’ with Hank Chalmers?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

  “That’s right.”

  “No family or friends worried about you?”

  “No,” I said, wondering how this had gotten turned around so that she was the inquisitor. “I had a best friend—a fiancé—but he died.” It was somewhat truthful. Jake might not be buried in the ground, but he was dead to me. “It was hard to get close to people after that. Especially since Atlanta’s such a big city.” I wondered if I was giving her too much information. Sure, I’d eventually shared as mu
ch with Max and Ruth, who’d started asking more questions about my past. They’d been sympathetic enough about my quote, unquote tragedy not to press, but Sandy seemed like a dog after a bone.

  “You’re from Michigan, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve got relatives in Michigan.”

  “No kidding. Which part?” I asked.

  “Detroit.”

  “I grew up near Traverse City.”

  “Mighty cold winters up there.”

  I gave her a grin. “Why do you think I moved to Atlanta?”

  She studied me for a moment, then gestured to the two wicker chairs on her front porch, looking out over multiple flowerbeds. “Where are my manners? Have a seat.”

  Did that mean I’d passed a test? Or was she preparing for round two? “Thanks. I’d love to.” I handed her the plate, then lowered into the chair farthest from the door.

  Once she was settled in her own seat, I said, “I hope this isn’t an imposition.”

  “No,” she said, setting the plate on the table between us. “No one who comes calling with brownies could be an imposition.”

  “It’s just that I’m still pretty shook up over Pam,” I said quietly. “I realize I didn’t know her that well, but I’m just… Well, it’s all I can think about, and no one else seems to get it. So I thought I might come see you.” I gave her an earnest look. “You always seem like you know exactly what to say and do. I guess I hoped you could help me make sense of it all.”

  “I would do that if I understood it myself,” she said, shaking her head. “I have no idea what happened.”

  “People are saying that her husband beat her one too many times, so she lost it and went to Ewing just looking for someone to shoot.”

  “The beatin’ her one too many times part might be accurate,” Sandy said, “but Pam couldn’t even put out traps for mice. She didn’t want to kill them. I just can’t fathom her killin’ a human being.”