“She went through a rough patch with Thad, but even then she seemed sweet as pie.”

I shook my head. “Carnita mentioned something about Thad getting into trouble. Do you know any details?”

“Just that alcohol was involved and he totaled Pam’s car. Everybody lived, thank goodness.” She paused. “I can’t believe she’d kill anyone.”

She started to head off, but I grabbed her arm and lowered my voice. “Did you talk to the person you were considering for Molly’s job?”

“No. I decided to wait until I found out Max had actually done the deed. Honestly, I was sure he’d chicken out. Did you prod him to do it?”

“No, he was in the process when I showed up. In fact, it must have gotten heated because Ginger fled to the garage.”

She lifted her chin. “Well, I’m proud of him. I’m gonna go tell him so.” She turned toward the bar, then said, “And I’ll cover Molly’s lunch shift tomorrow. You come in at five.”

“Thanks.”

She went to congratulate Max for firing her nemesis, but he didn’t look grateful for her praise.

Kids started arriving for Tutoring Club at three-thirty. Most were elementary aged, but I also had a couple of reluctant middle schoolers. I had the older kids practice some math problems on mini-white boards I’d picked up at the Target in Greenville, and the younger ones worked on addition and multiplication worksheets. When the younger kids finished, we discussed which book we should read for the next book club meeting. (Captain Underpants for the win. I knew Carnita had three copies and I had two. Hopefully, I’d be able to pick up a couple of other books in the series by next week.) I let the two middle-school students pick their own books—Hatchet for the seventh-grade boy and a copy of a Baby-Sitters Club book for the sixth-grade girl. Both students struggled with reading, enough so that I’d suggested to their mothers that we set up some one-on-one sessions every other Monday, a half hour before the start of Tutoring Club. I wasn’t a reading specialist, but I planned to do some research on working with middle-school students. Helping these kids was giving me a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt in a long time.

While the kids were working, I could hear the mothers whispering about Pam. I tried my best to eavesdrop, but the kids needed too much help. I wasn’t sure what was going on in Drum Elementary, but it didn’t seem to involve a whole lot of teaching. Of course, I was sure they didn’t have many resources, but so many students were behind it seemed like the school itself was offering insufficient instruction. In any case, I didn’t hear anything of use.

My next hope was the evening dinner crowd…which proved just about as useless. People were discussing the murder—gossiping was a huge form of entertainment in Drum—but I didn’t hear anything I hadn’t already learned. Pam had killed Jim Palmer. No one knew why. Diane Lassiter was organizing a meal train. There was plenty of speculation that Pam and Jim had been carrying on an affair, but no one had ever seen them together.

Jerry showed up at around seven, looking tanned, dirty, and tired. I headed over to take his order as he plopped down on a barstool at the counter.

“Hey, Carly,” he said, beaming. “How’re you doin’?”

“I’m about as tired as you look. How’s the new job goin’?”

“Great,” he said with a soft groan as he settled onto the stool. “In fact, I just got a promotion.”

“Wow! That’s wonderful!” I meant every word of it. His job at the construction site had given him a new sense of purpose. He felt needed and productive, and for the first time in a long time, he actually had some money. “What will you be doing now?”

“I’m workin’ for Bart Drummond himself.”

The blood rushed from my head. I felt like I was going to pass out.

“You don’t look so good,” he said with worry in his eyes. “Maybe you should sit down.”

While part of me really wanted to, I’d draw all sorts of attention. Instead, I leaned against the counter, trying to look as nonchalant as I could manage. “I’m okay,” I said with a dismissive wave. “What sort of things will you be doing?”

He hesitated. “Things on his land. Stuff Carson Purdy used to do.”

“Wow…” I forced myself to smile, but it felt a little wobbly. “How’d that come about?”

“Well,” he said slowly, as though he was having second thoughts about telling me.

I widened my smile to encourage him, but the look in his eyes suggested that I looked like a makeup-less Joker. “I’m sorry, Jerry. You just caught me by surprise. You must be doing an amazing job at the worksite if you’re workin’ for the man himself.”

“Mr. Drummond invited me up to the big house for lunch—me and my foreman—and he asked us both about the job and how things were goin’. Mr. Drummond told me he’d heard I was doin’ good work, and he thought good work should be rewarded. Then he asked me if I wanted a promotion.”

“Wow…”

“It even comes with a house, Carly,” he said, warming to the topic again despite my lack of enthusiasm. “On the Drummond property so I can be there to oversee things.”

I swallowed my rising bile. “Jerry… It’s Bart Drummond.”

Uncertainty wavered in his eyes. “He told me he knew about my involvement in the Carson Purdy mess. He said if nothing else, he owed me a job for savin’ his son.”

“But Jerry…”

“I know what people say about him, Carly,” he said softly. “But he believes in me. He was the one who got the foreman to give me a job in the first place. He wanted to see how I handled the responsibility.” The pride in his eyes was nearly my undoing.

“I’ve always believed in you, Jerry,” I said, past the lump in my throat. With every fiber of my being, I believed Bart Drummond was using him—possibly so he could use him against me at some point—but I couldn’t take this victory from him.

Leaning over the bar counter, I called Max over. He headed toward us, giving me a worried look as he took in my expression.

“Everything okay?” he asked, wiping his hands on a bar towel.

“Jerry needs a drink on the house,” I said, forcing cheerfulness into my voice as I held Max’s gaze. “He just got a promotion. He’s taking over Carson Purdy’s job.”

Max’s eyes flared, and then he cast a glance at Jerry, forcing a smile of his own. “Well, now, that is news. How’d that come about?”

Jerry told him about his lunch with Max’s father, adding more details than he’d shared with me—he’d served steak and baked potatoes!—and Max didn’t look any less horrified than I felt.

“Why ain’t you two more happy for me?” Jerry asked, sounding hurt.

I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “Jerry, it’s Bart Drummond.”

“You already said that.”

I turned to Max for help, and he stared at me like a deer in headlights for a solid ten seconds before he forced a grin. “You’re right, Carly. This calls for a drink on the house.” Then he headed down the bar to pull a draft.