Buried in Secrets

by Denise Grover Swank

  I sat up and turned in my seat to face her. “Could they have arrested the wrong person?”

  “Sadly, no. There’s a surveillance video that shows her parkin’ her car in the Palmer’s Insurance parking lot and then leaving less than twenty seconds later, the gun still in her hand.”

  “And they’re sure it was her?”

  “I recognized the green shirt,” Sandy said, her voice breaking. “It’s her favorite.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. “It just seems so random,” I finally said. “Was he even her insurance agent? One of the rumors goin’ round is that Jim Palmer was her agent when her youngest son got a DUI.”

  “No, she’s had Travis Keeling since Ashlynn started driving. Their insurance went up, and Travis got her a better deal.”

  “Could she have switched from Jim to Travis?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said with a frown, “but I don’t remember. We didn’t make a habit of discussing our insurance.”

  So that theory was out.

  If there was no direct connection between them, it suggested Bart had been involved, but a new angle occurred to me. What if Jim had represented the driver of the car Thad had hit? But Sandy looked like she was getting suspicious of all my questions, and I doubted she’d be able to clear up that particular issue.

  I sat back in the chair, shaking my head again. “Sorry for the twenty questions. I just have this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.” I put my hand on my abdomen and pressed hard. “It’s literally all I can think about.”

  Sandy’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t know you were so close to Pam.”

  “I’m not,” I admitted. “That’s why I don’t understand why I’m so upset.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “It’s a tragic thing that Pam has done, and I think we all have questions. I’m just not sure we’ll find the answers we’re lookin’ for. Pam has been dealing with depression. Maybe one of her meds made her do it.”

  “How long has she been depressed?”

  She let out a defeated sigh. “I’d like to say ever since Thad’s accident, but I think it goes back farther then that. That’s just when she started taking medication.” Reaching over, she patted my hand resting on the arm of the chair. “The best thing you can do is support her family.”

  “I was planning on taking a casserole to Ashlynn.”

  Sandy nodded. “That’s a good idea. Ashlynn’s not much of a cook, and those boys barely know how to turn on a microwave, but don’t tell Diane that you’re messing with her schedule.”

  Oh, crap. How had I forgotten? I gave her a wry look. “Then would you like a chicken and rice casserole for dinner? I don’t want to upset Diane.”

  Sandy laughed. “I know for a fact that Diane penciled in Nora Burgess for today. She could burn boiled water. Trust me. Those kids’ll thank you.”

  “Then that settles it,” I said. “I’ll drop it off after I leave here.”

  She gave me a warm smile, but I saw the worry in her eyes.

  I leaned forward. “Do you know if Pam’s family has enough money to pay for her legal fees?”

  Her upper lip curled. “They don’t have two pennies to rub together. She’s using a public defender. Some guy just out of law school.”

  Which meant he was inexperienced and overworked.

  “Should we try to raise some money to help her find a better one?” I asked.

  “What’s the point?” Sandy sank back into her chair and sounded defeated. “She confessed. She did it.”

  “A good attorney could mean the difference between getting twenty years or life in prison.”

  Sandy gave me a pointed look. “What difference does it make, Carly? Her life is over either way.”

  I swallowed a lump in my throat and blinked back tears. “Yeah, I guess.”

  Her expression softened. “You have a good heart, but Pam’s a lost cause.”

  I didn’t respond, because while I knew it was true, logically speaking, my heart wasn’t willing to accept it. Sure, I was looking into the murder because I wanted ammunition to bring down Bart, but I realized part of me was also hoping to find a way to get Pam out of this. Still, Marco was right: no matter what her reasoning, she’d killed a man. She’d stolen him from all the people who loved and cared about him. There was no fixing that. Maybe she deserved to spend the rest of her life in prison while his family lived in the prison she’d created.

  Sandy patted my hand again. “When you live in Drum long enough, you’ll realize it’s the way of things.”

  “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  Withdrawing her hand, she shifted in her seat and seemed to think over her words. “Drum’s like a whole other world, almost like we’re stuck in time. Sure, some things change, but the sorrows of this place remain the same. It doesn’t make it right, but we’ve become accustomed to it.”

  I wasn’t accustomed to it, and I didn’t want to be.

  “If you hear of anything I can do to help in any way, be sure to let me know, okay?” I said.

  A warm smile lit up her eyes. “I will. And thanks for the brownies.”

  I got in the car and took off.

  The Crimshaws lived on a side road off the highway to Ewing, which meant it was on the way to the nursing home where Thelma lived. It also meant I had to drive through Drum. As I approached downtown, I decided to make a stop that was bound to make me uncomfortable. I’d spent the better part of the drive from Sandy’s house thinking about Hank’s definition of true love—that you would be willing to give up something of yourself to make the other person happy—and I realized he didn’t just feel that way about romantic love.

  I turned off into the Drummond Garage and pulled into a space in the front parking lot. One of the garage bay doors was open and an older pickup truck was parked inside, its hood up. I headed toward the door to the waiting room, but Wyatt walked around the side of the truck toward me.

  I stopped in the entrance to the garage, suddenly nervous, although I had no idea why. I knew he wouldn’t refuse me. Maybe that was why I felt so on edge. In a way, I was using him.

  “Carly, is everything okay?” he asked, squinting. The sun was at my back.

  “Yeah,” I said with a weak smile. I almost asked him if he could say the same. Something had driven him into the tavern to talk to Max, whether it was related to one of their father’s favors or not, but I decided to hold that card for later. “I’m here about Hank.”

  He held his hand up to his forehead to shield his eyes. Still, I could see the concern blooming there. “Is he okay?”

  “Yes and no.”

  Why was this so hard? Probably because I hated asking him for anything, even if it wasn’t for myself. I gestured toward the garage beyond the pickup. “Do you want to go inside for this conversation?”

  “Yeah.” He stepped to the side to allow me to walk past him, and he followed several feet behind until we stood in front of the vehicle, out of view from people driving past. I glanced over at the other two bays, surprised to see them empty.

  “Do you want to go into my office?” he asked, still looking worried.

  “No,” I said, my brow wrinkling. “Sorry, I think I’m making this into a bigger deal than it needs to be, so let me get to the point.” I gave him a tight smile. “Obviously I didn’t know Hank before his leg was amputated and Seth was killed, so I have no idea what his life used to be like. Did he leave the house much? Did he hang out with friends? He just sits at the house all day long, mostly by himself and…I’m just worried that he’s lonely.”

  He leaned his hip against the side of the truck, the tension leaving his face. “He didn’t leave much the last six months or so before the surgery. He was dealing with the sores on his foot and ankle, which made it hard to walk and drive. I’d been spending time with Seth and Hank since Barbara died, but I went out there more in those last few months.”

  My chest tightened. While I hadn’t outright made Hank choose between me and Wyatt, he’
d chosen anyway. “I took you from him.”

  “Hey,” Wyatt said softly, pushing away from the truck and closing the distance between us. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “He chose me over you, and you were the one who’d been there for him for months.”

  “That’s not it, Carly. He didn’t approve of the way I was treating you. There’s a difference.” He grimaced. “He didn’t just tell me to stop comin’ round. We had a discussion about it. He knew I was keepin’ things from you, and he told me to come clean. I told him I was protectin’ you, but he insisted that you deserved the truth. It was after the Lula mess that it all came to a head. He said I was hurtin’ you and that I needed to stop comin’ round for a while.”

  Hank had given up part of himself to make me happy. While I loved him for it, I hated that I’d put him in that position.

  I turned away, running a hand over my head.

  “I think you remind him of Barb,” he said softly. “How she was before she started using drugs. She had this sweet, generous spirit. Just like you.”

  I knew I should counter that statement somehow, especially since I wasn’t feeling very sweet or generous. It felt like I kept hurting the people I cared about—Marco, Hank, and even Wyatt to some degree.

  “But you’re different than her,” he said. “You’re stronger. I think Hank wishes Barb had been more like you.”

  I spun around to face him. “You’re sayin’ I’m his substitute daughter.”

  “Yeah.”

  I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. Being a daughter had never worked out very well for me, and it made me feel Hank’s affection for me wasn’t for me, per se, but for the role I filled.

  He studied me with a look of consternation. “That’s a compliment, Carly.”

  It sure didn’t feel like one, but I wasn’t here to discuss me. This was about Hank and his happiness.

  “I just want Hank to be happy,” I said, “and I’m gone more often than I’m home, which means he spends hours and hours alone. My goal is to restore some of his independence. He should be able to take care of himself and become less dependent on me.”

  His body stiffened slightly. “Are you thinkin’ about leaving Drum?”

  I propped a hand on my hip. “What makes you ask that?”

  “It just seems like you’re paving the way to make your departure.”

  “By trying to give Hank his independence? It’s more like I’m the Eugene to his Rapunzel.”

  He blinked hard. “What?”

  “Obviously you haven’t seen Tangled ten million times,” I said, thinking back to my teaching years. “I’m not leaving Drum”—no, his father had seen to that—“but I think we should encourage him to drive and go places.”

  “We?”

  “I don’t have the foggiest idea of how to make his car more accessible to him, and once it’s properly equipped, he’ll need to learn how to drive it with the new additions.”

  “You want me to teach Hank how to drive.” The corners of his lips lifted a little. “Do you have any idea what kind of grief I’ll get when I suggest such a thing?”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said with a sigh, “but I’m askin’ you to do it anyway. I’ll be happy to pay for whatever needs to be done to his car—”

  He jolted, his back ramrod stiff. “I’m not takin’ your money to help Hank,” he said in disgust.

  “I’m sure if the car needs to be altered—”

  “I’m not takin’ your money,” he said, less angry this time. “But I will make a trade.”

  “What kind of trade?”

  “You have dinner with me.”

  “Excuse me?” I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re using your friend to try to win me back? If that’s your goal, this is the absolute worst way to go about it.”

  “Then make it breakfast or lunch, and it’s not so I can win you back. Hank’s not going to yield unless he thinks you’re comfortable having me around. If he knows we’re spending time together, he’ll welcome me back over and I can hang out with him in the evenings again.” His mouth twisted to the side. “I miss the old fart.”

  Dammit. He had a point, although I couldn’t help thinking he also hoped to wear down my defenses. Nearly three months ago, he’d told me he thought we belonged together, and that had been four months after our three-week-long relationship. I suspected he hadn’t suddenly given up on me, especially since I still saw the wistful looks he shot in my direction at the tavern when he thought I wasn’t looking. If I’d learned anything, it was that these Drummonds all played the long game.

  “No dinner. I’ll spend an hour with you, although I can’t tell you when. I have to work until closing, and I’ll probably be covering the lunch shift tomorrow since Max fired Molly.” I glanced over at Junior’s empty bay. “Where’s Junior?”

  “The baby’s sick, and he’s going to watch her while Ginger works the lunch shift.”

  I grimaced. “Seems like Junior makes more than Ginger.”

  “You’d be surprised; besides, we didn’t have a car for him to work on this morning.” He paused. “What about breakfast tomorrow?” he asked. “You can come to my place. I’ll make pancakes and this time you can eat them.”

  His house was the last place I wanted to go. He was sure to get the wrong idea. I considered suggesting Watson’s Café, but then the town would get the wrong idea. “Come over to Hank’s. You say we’re doing this for his benefit, so it makes more sense for him to see us together rather than hearing about it.” Plus, he could chaperone.

  “But I planned to cook for you, not the other way around.”

  “Then you can cook for the both of us,” I said. “But you can’t make real bacon. Hank really shouldn’t have it.”

  He watched me for several seconds, and I was starting to squirm when he said, “Okay. I’ll be over at seven-thirty. I’d make it later, but I’ll need to be at the shop by nine.”

  “That’s fine.” I’d have to leave Marco’s house early, but if Wyatt only stayed until nine, I’d have some time to work on the case before I had to be at the tavern. “When can you start looking at Hank’s car?”

  “How about I look at it tomorrow? In the meantime, I’ll do some research on fitting cars for amputees.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling unsettled, although I couldn’t figure out why. Was it because Wyatt had made me begin to doubt whether Hank’s feelings for me were genuine or meant for a ghost, or because Wyatt had gone to new lengths to try win me back?

  Probably both.

  Chapter Eleven

  I left Wyatt and headed toward Ewing, glancing over the instructions Greta had given me. I wasn’t surprised she still remembered where Ashlynn lived. It was only four miles down the road from her sister’s mobile home, which looked even trashier than it had a few months ago now that Greta had moved out.

  The Crimshaws lived in a one-story house set about thirty feet back from the road. An old, metal mobile home sat about fifty feet to the side of the house. A small rusted hatchback was parked in the driveway to the house, and a pickup truck sat in front of the trailer. The house needed to be painted, but it looked like Pam had tried to make it inviting. Or at least she’d tried at some point. There were beds of flowers on either side of the front door, but the yard was full of weeds.

  I parked my car behind the hatchback, weighing my options. I’d planned to bring the casserole to Ashlynn, but that was before I knew she lived next door to her family. While I still wanted to talk to Ashlynn, now I also had an opportunity to talk to Pam’s sons or possibly her husband.

  I approached the house and had started to climb the concrete steps, taking note of the loose wrought iron handrail, when the front door opened and a teenage boy stepped out. A hard look filled his eyes.

  “What do you want?”

  Was this Ricky or Thad? Whoever he was, he was rude, but then again, his mother was semi-famous for murdering a man. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d had reporters knocking on the
ir door. “Hi,” I said with what I hoped was a friendly smile. “I’m Carly, and I work at Max’s Tavern. I know your mother.”

  “She ain’t here,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “She’s in jail for offin’ a guy.”

  I tried not to wince at his bluntness. “That’s why I’m here. I thought maybe y’all could use a home-cooked meal.”

  “Diane send you?” he asked, lifting his gaze and taking in the road behind me as though she might be lurking out there.

  “No, Sandy sent me. I know Diane made a schedule for people to bring you food, but Sandy said she was sure it would be okay.”

  “What is it?” the teen asked with a slight toss of his head.

  “Chicken and rice casserole.”

  “Cream of chicken or cream of mushroom soup?” a male voice shouted from inside.

  “Uh…cream of chicken,” I called out.

  “Tell her to bring it in,” the voice shouted.

  The kid stepped out of the way, letting me walk inside.

  The living room was dark, but I could see another boy sitting on the worn brown microsuede sofa, his fingers furiously clicking on the controller in his hands as he played a video game on the TV screen. Dirty plates and open cans of pop littered the coffee and end tables, along with several open bags of chips.

  “Put it on the table.” He gave me a cursory glance and started to turn toward the screen again, but his gaze jerked back to me. “Hey, I’ve seen you before.”

  “She works at the bar in town,” the first boy said.

  “The tavern,” I said. “It’s actually different from a bar.”

  “No kidding,” said the kid playing the video game. “How so?”

  “A tavern serves food.” I lifted my brow. “And lets underaged kids inside.”

  He laughed. “How do you know I’m underage?”

  “Please,” I said in a drawl as I carried the casserole dish into the kitchen. If the living room looked bad, the kitchen was worse. The limited counter space was covered in dirty dishes and pots.

  He laughed again, returning his attention to the game. “You know my mom?”