Her Scream in the Silence

by Denise Grover Swank

  “Was she doing something illegal, or was she associatin’ with people who wouldn’t like a deputy sniffing around?”

  “Both.”

  I sat back, pressing my lips together as I thought her predicament through. “Marco assures me he’s just looking as a friend. He’s still on medical leave, so this isn’t official.”

  She snorted. “What else would you expect a cop to say? It’s unofficial until he finds something good.”

  She had a point.

  “Marco protected her,” I said, still hoping to convince her. “A few months ago. She stayed with him after an ugly breakup. Why would he have given her a place to stay if he was so interested in busting her?”

  Her frown deepened.

  “Especially when it likely put him on Todd Bingham’s bad side.”

  Her jaw dropped like a trapdoor, but she quickly recovered, jerking her gaze around the room.

  “Who told you she was seein’ him?” she whisper-shouted as she leaned forward.

  “Bingham himself.”

  Her face paled.

  “So Bingham’s the father?”

  Leaning an elbow on the table, she covered her mouth with her fingers. I could tell she was frantically sifting through her options. She landed on belligerence. “I don’t believe you. Bingham doesn’t talk about his personal business with anyone, let alone an outsider.”

  She had a point, and now that I thought about it, I had to wonder why he’d been so open. Had I caught him by surprise? That seemed highly unlikely. Todd Bingham hadn’t gotten where he was today by being sloppy.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” I said. “I knew she was scared of him last night, and now she’s missing. He seemed to be a likely suspect, so I paid him a visit.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “You’re either reckless or a fool, and neither option is good.”

  I suspected I was both.

  “Greta, yer order’s up,” a man called from the back.

  Greta slid out of the booth as quickly as if a zombie were trying to bite her on the butt. I reluctantly followed her, and she grabbed the bag from the server’s ledge and thrust it at me. “That’ll be $14.60.”

  Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her, but when she grabbed hold of it, I didn’t let go.

  “I know you don’t trust me, Greta, but I swear I only want to protect Lula. If you can think of anything that will help me find her, I’m begging you to tell me.”

  Her response was a glare.

  I’d screwed this up. I should have given my approach more thought, but I hadn’t, and now Lula would pay the price.

  My voice wavered as I pushed past the lump in my throat. “If you change your mind, I’ll be at the tavern until it closes. You can come by and see me or you can call. I’ll stop whatever I’m doing to talk.”

  Her determination seemed to waver for a second, but then the steely resolve returned to her eyes. She tugged harder on the bill and I released it, making her stumble backward a half step.

  “I’ll get your change,” she snapped.

  “Keep it,” I said as I turned my back to her and headed out the door

  I was back at square one, and I only had myself to blame.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marco was tapping his thumb on the steering wheel when I walked up to his Explorer, singing along to a country song I didn’t recognize. I opened the door and climbed in, grateful for the warmth of the interior.

  “That took a while,” he said, turning down the volume so the music was in the background. “But I won’t complain since it looks like you brought food.”

  I was about to tell him that some of it was for me, but a quick glance at his dashboard clock confirmed it was 5:02. If I walked in with food from Watson’s, Ruth would have my hide.

  I shoved the bag at him. “Greta was there. She’d just started the dinner shift.”

  “No shit!” he exclaimed in excitement. “What did you find out?”

  “Not much.” I spilled our conversation.

  “Okay,” he said. “You didn’t get confirmation that Bingham is the baby’s father, but it wasn’t nothing. We filled in a few blanks.”

  “But I didn’t get anything that will help us find her,” I protested in frustration.

  “Don’t you worry, little bulldog,” he said with a grin as he peered into the bag. “We’re not givin’ up. I’ll pick you up at Hank’s at nine, and we’ll drop by Watson’s for breakfast, just like we planned. I know for a fact she’s workin’ the Saturday morning breakfast shift. We’ll keep tryin’ until we wear her down. It might take a few days, but she’ll spill.”

  “Thanks for not tossin’ in the towel,” I said in relief.

  “Slow and steady wins the race,” he said as he popped a couple of french fries into his mouth. “Ain’t you never read the tortoise and the hare story?”

  Nostalgia washed through me, sweet and sappy, tugging me back into my grief over the life I’d lost. It had been part of my third-grade language unit on fables. I’d been a good teacher, but I’d never teach again unless I found some way to deal with my father. Fat chance of that. Wyatt had changed his mind, and I couldn’t even get Greta to talk to me. Tears tracked down my cheeks, and I reached up to wipe them.

  “Ah, Carly,” Marco said, pulling me into an awkward hug on the front seat of his SUV. “We’ll find her. Don’t give up yet.”

  “Thank you, Marco.” As I pulled away, I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I got dinner for myself too, but I think Ruth will pitch a fit since I’m late, so you can have it.”

  He peered into the bag and crinkled his nose. “What’s in the cup?”

  I leaned over to look. “My side salad, but there’s also a club sandwich.”

  “A salad?” he said with disgust, as though I was trying to get him to snack on rat poison.

  “Yes,” I teased with a groan. “You should give it a try.” I opened the door and started to get out. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t overdo it tonight since you’ve been so busy today.”

  “Yes, Mom,” he said with a chuckle.

  I grinned back at him, rolling my eyes. When I turned around, I ran smack-dab into Junior, the mechanic who worked for Wyatt.

  He grabbed my arm to keep me from falling on my butt.

  “Oh hey, Junior,” I said, taking a step back. “How are you? How’s Ginger? I heard Maria had a bad cold last week.” Junior’s wife helped out with Hank sometimes, and although Hank 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 in
to 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 of red lace panties and a thin white tank top that left nothing about her breasts to the imagination.

  “You came back…” Her voice trailed off when she saw me, her smile morphing into a glare. “I know you. You’re Max’s new waitress. What are you doin’ here?”

  I had absolutely no idea who she was, which made me uncomfortable. “I’m sorry for the intrusion. I was looking for someone else.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Are you workin’ in the motel now that Lula’s back?”

  Working in the motel? For one wild second, I thought she was asking me if I was doing housekeeping. Then her meaning penetrated, and so did her reason for being here.

  “No,” I said. “I was lookin’ for Jerry.”

  “Jerry?” she asked in disgust. “He’s down in number two.”

  “Thanks,” I said, already backing away. My mind was whirring. I’d heard the rooms at the Alpine Inn sometimes rented by the hour, but I’d thought that meant people brought lovers or prostitutes there. Not that a prostitution ring was run out of the motel.

  Max managed the motel. Did this mean he was a pimp?

  The idea made me queasy, but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He didn’t own the motel, just ran it for his father. For all I knew, Bart had some rooms blocked off for his prostitution ring, and Max was none the wiser.

  And I was an utter fool if I believed a word of it.

  I didn’t have time to dwell. I’d never been this late before, and I had little to show for it. It would have been quicker to head through the front door, but I still needed to get my Max’s Tavern T-shirt, plus I still wanted to get Ruth’s bag as a peace offering. So I stopped by the car, grabbing Jerry’s coat too, and then headed through the back door with the key Max had recently given me. I hung up my coat and was about to strip off my black long-sleeved T-shirt, but the thought of putting my cold uniform shirt against my bare skin made me shiver. I tugged it over my head instead, going for a layered look.

  Ruth was bussing a table by the kitchen. Her gaze jerked up as I came through the doorway. “You’re late!”

  “Sorry,” I said as I tied my small apron around my waist and scanned the room to assess what needed to be done. Three middle-aged men nursed beers at a table by the window. Not busy yet.

  Whew. That appeased my guilt, but Ruth was still madder than a wet hornet.

  She propped a hand on her hip, then said with plenty of attitude, “Now that you’ve met Lula, you think you can start pulling her shenanigans?”

  I gasped in surprise. She’d never spoken to me so hatefully before, and my first instinct was to snap back. Sure, I was seven minutes late, but she wasn’t overwhelmed, and my tardiness wasn’t a habit. But I suspected she’d been stewing about Lula all afternoon, especially since she was the one who’d had to cover her shift, and she was ready to vent.

  I was the lucky recipient.

  Max had been sitting on a stool behind the bar, reading a book, but he popped his head up, his eyes alert, looking ready to spring into action.

  I moved directly in front of her, then calmly said, “Ruth, I’m sorry I was late, and I’m sorry you had to cover for Lula today. I’m not trying to take advantage of you or Max. It was an honest mistake.”

  Her eyes were still blazing, and she looked like she wanted to pounce, but my apology had stolen some of her steam. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “And the things you asked for from Target are in the back.” I grinned. “I even got you something you didn’t request.”

  Her eyes widened, and she looked stunned. “You got me a surprise?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Why don’t you go in the back and check it out? I’ll finish bussing this table.”

  Several emotions flitted across her face, but sadness was the one that stuck. “God, you must think I’m a bitch.”

  “I think you’re stressed out and human. Now go take a break and check out your surprise.”

  She headed into the back while I cleared the table. After I dropped off the dishes at the door to the kitchen, I headed behind the bar to check in with Max.

  “Good job handlin’ Ruth,” he said, glancing up from his book. “You must be a shaman or a spirit walker.”

  I snorted. “I thought those people dealt with the dead.”

  “They wrangle evil spirits.”

  “I think it’s a bit much to compare Ruth to an evil spirit,” I said with a grin.

  He grinned back. “Says the woman who wasn’t working with Warpath Ruth all afternoon.”

  “Sorry,” I said, then leaned closer, wondering which issue to bring up first—Lula or the business across the street. I went with the safest. “Max, I don’t think Lula ran off.”

  He perked up, lowering his paperback western to the counter. “What makes you say that?”

  “I went to her house to check on her.”

  He looked startled and was about to respond when Ruth emerged from the back, smiling from ear to ear.

  “If you think this excuses you bein’ late…” she grumbled.

  “I don’t,” I said, “and I promise I won’t make a habit of it.” I knew she wanted to know why I was late, but I couldn’t risk pissing her off. She’d never approve of me looking for Lula, and if she knew I was snooping across the street, she’d tell me to mind my own business. While I didn’t need her permission to investigate either mystery, I also didn’t want to antagonize her.
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  “What’d you get her?” Max asked, genuinely curious.

  “Girly things,” Ruth said, beaming.

  Max’s upper lip curled in revulsion. “Gross. I don’t want to hear about tampons.”

  I busted out laughing, but Ruth was disgusted. “Why in the hell would I be so happy over tampons?”

  “Damned if I know how the female mind works,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “She got me bath bombs. Lavender and mint. I’d told her that I’d read about them in Women’s Day magazine, and she picked up a few for me.”

  The way she stated it made me think people didn’t usually give her little gifts. I made a mental note to give her more. I shrugged. “It was nothing. I saw them and remembered you mentioned wanting to try one.”

  “It’s perfect.” She reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing as she made a face. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch. I feel terrible.”

  “Bombs, huh?” Max said. “Does this mean you wouldn’t have been so bitchy if I’d run down the street and picked up a grenade from the army surplus store?”

  When I turned to look at him, his eyes were dancing with mischief.

  “You try getting me a grenade, Maxwell Drummond, and just watch where I put it,” she said in a stern voice, but I could tell she was fighting off another grin.

  “Don’t you worry about it,” I said. “You had a shitty afternoon. But I’m here now.” The door opened and a group of six walked in. “If you want, take a quick break before all hell breaks loose again. I’ve got it covered.”

  “You’re the best.” She headed to the back, and I was about to walk around the bar, but Max caught my eye.

  “So what will it be? Shaman or spirit walker? Or maybe just miracle worker? I like that.”

  I laughed. Leave it to Max to make me laugh after a crappy day. “I’ll settle for Queen Carly.” Cocking my head, I gave him a smug look. “I like it. It rolls off the tongue.”

  Chuckling, he said, “That title already belongs to Ruth, and I’m not havin’ any part of that battle.”

  I took the new customers’ orders and checked on the three guys still nursing their nearly empty beers. I offered to get them refills and asked if they wanted a basket of wings and fries to munch on. To my surprise, they did.