Abby’s face lit up. “Then I’ll put in a good word for you. You can leave the kittens in the pen when you’re done and just walk around back to your car. Sasha’ll be out later to bring them in. The fresh air and space will do them good.”

Then she went inside.

I hoped I’d just bought myself an interview.

Chapter Eleven

I was five minutes early, but Marco was already sitting at a table at Watson’s.

“I need to wash my hands before I sit down,” I said, placing my purse and my messenger bag in the booth seat opposite him. “Get me an iced tea if Angie or Greta comes by to take our drink order.”

“Already did,” he said with a grin.

I hurried off to the bathroom to get cleaned up, and when I returned, there were two drinks on the table.

Marco gave me a suspicious glance. “What were you up to?”

“I figure it’s pretty obvious what happens in a bathroom, but my main reason for going was to wash off the kitten germs.”

“Kitten germs?”

“I was playing with kittens.”

The look on his face made it clear he thought I was lying.

“I swear,” I said, holding up three fingers. “Girl Scouts honor.”

“I’d call your bluff on being a Girl Scout, but I suspect you actually were.”

“I was until my—” I cut myself off, realizing I was about to reveal a fact about Caroline’s life rather than Charlene’s made-up backstory.

But Marco knew my truth and must have realized why I’d stopped myself. He reached across the table and placed his hand over mine. “I’m sorry, Carly.”

I held his gaze, and the understanding and warmth 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 to go.”

She gave us an odd look but nodded. “Okay.”

Marco was silent while we waited, his jaw tight.

I watched him, worried I’d pissed him off.

Greta brought out our food and Marco took the ticket, something he usually did when we ate together, and slapped down some cash. He told Greta to keep the change and was out of the booth in a flash.

I followed him out the door, my nerves a tangled mess. I knew he was upset that I was putting myself in danger, and while I wanted to ease his concerns, I couldn’t. I refused to give this up.

Out on the sidewalk, he stared down at me, still holding our lunches. “We need somewhere quiet to talk. Why don’t you get in my car and we’ll drive over to Old Mill Park so people aren’t gawking at us while we eat.”

“Okay.”

I got into the front seat of his sheriff’s car, and he drove the short distance to the edge of Drum’s downtown, then turned onto a road that ran along a creek at the edge of downtown proper. A couple of blocks north was a dilapidated waterwheel attached to a small building with faded red paint. Rumor had it the Drummonds had built it for the town over a hundred years ago as a gift—and proceeded to use it for their moonshine business.