Her brow furrowed and righteous indignation flashed in her eyes. “If we have one, it’s gonna be in aisle 6. That’s where we keep the electronics, but some of them are pretty vintage, if you know what I mean.”

Thanking her, I headed to aisle six, trying not to get my hopes up. It was no surprise when I encountered a table covered with rummage sale rejects—huge, blocky computer monitors and some computer towers. A ragtag assortment of keyboards and mouses, old cassette players, and even a knockoff Walkman. Off to the side sat a handheld recorder that looked like it had seen better days. The buttons were well-worn, but there was a cassette inside, even if it wouldn’t work when I pressed the play and fast-forward buttons.

“You’re gonna need to get batteries,” a man said from behind me.

I turned to see a guy in his twenties pushing a broom. His name tag said Red.

“We have to take the batteries out, but you can ask Tammy at the front to pop some in to verify it works before you buy it.”

I tightened my hold on it. “Thanks.”

Sure enough, when I headed to the front, Tammy—the cashier I’d spoken to upon entering—fished out AA batteries to stick in the back. Once she pressed the play button, we could hear a man’s voice droning on about the American Revolution.

“Sounds like a stuffy lecture,” Tammy said.

“Agreed,” I said, eager to make my purchase and record my conversation with Mitzi.

But Tammy took the batteries out and put them in her drawer. When she saw my crestfallen face, she gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Batteries aren’t included.”

“That’s okay,” I said as I dug out my wallet. “I’m just thankful you had a recorder.”

She rang me up and I handed over a ten-dollar bill to cover the six-dollar device. I dropped my change into my purse along with the recorder as I headed for the exit.

“I hope you nail the bastard to the wall!” she called out after me.

For a moment, I thought she meant Wyatt, but then I remembered my cover story. Some PI I was turning out to be. I gave her a wave. “Thanks.”

She held up a fist. “Solidarity!”

I grinned at her and held up my fist too. “Solidarity.”

As I walked to my car—mindful that Wyatt was parked in the next lot over—I wondered how much solidarity Bart Drummond had left in Drum. Despite the promise of the new resort, many people were disillusioned with him. That might work to my advantage.

I needed to get to Mitzi’s house quickly so I’d have time to pay a visit to Gladys and Thelma.

But first I had to get batteries. Groaning in frustration, I turned on the car and headed to Dollar General, where I picked up AA batteries, two new puzzles that had shown up since the last time I’d scoured the puzzle assortment, and a bag of candies I knew Thelma liked.

After I inserted the batteries and made a test recording to ensure the recorder worked, I plugged Mitzi’s address into the GPS built into my car. It told me it was a five-minute drive to her house on the other side of town.

Wyatt was trailing behind as I headed to Mitzi’s. I parked in front and turned off the car. I started the recorder and tucked it into my purse. I wasn’t sure it was legal to record a conversation with another person in Tennessee without their knowledge or consent, but it wasn’t like I planned to hand it over to the sheriff. Any recordings I made were for my own personal notes.

I started walking toward the front door, fully aware that Wyatt was parked at the end of the street. When I approached the porch, a man in his late thirties stepped out of the house. He wasn’t tall, but he looked muscular. His light brown hair had begun to recede. He was wearing a T-shirt that read, Live Hard, Die Young, and his hands were fisted at his sides. Not a good sign.

“She ain’t gonna talk to you.”

I stopped short, caught by surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Abby said you was comin’ over, but now Mitzi’s a nervous wreck all over again. I ain’t lettin’ you talk to her.”

“I’m not here to upset her, Mr.…” I figured his name wasn’t Ziegler, but I hadn’t gotten Mitzi’s married name… if she had one. For all I knew this was her brother, not a significant other.

“My name ain’t important,” he snarled, then spat into the bushes in front of the porch. “What’s important is that you realize you ain’t talkin’ to her.”

“Did someone tell you not to talk to me?” I asked. “Was Mitzi threatened?”

He marched down the steps and pointed a finger only a few inches from my face. “Get the hell off my property,” he said through clenched teeth. “You stay away from Mitzi, or I’ll make your life a livin’ hell. Trust me, girl, I’ve got the power to do it.”

I took a step back, holding my hands up next to my head but maintaining eye contact with a nonthreatening gaze. “I don’t want to upset her or put her in harm’s way. I only want the truth.”

“Well, you ain’t gettin’ it here.”

I took another step back. “If Mitzi changes her mind, tell her to call Carly Moore. I work at Max’s Tavern. She can reach me there.”

His upper lip curled. “I knew you worked for them.”

Then he turned around and walked into the house, slamming the door behind him. Seconds later, a baby started crying.

Damn. I should have considered that the fact that I worked for a Drummond might paint me in a bad light.

I’d started toward my car when I realized Wyatt was making a beeline for me.

So much for keeping his cover.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes blazing.

“I’m fine,” I said in a huff, although I had to admit it was nice knowing that if things had gotten hairy with Mitzi’s enforcer, I would have had backup of my own.

Nevertheless, I was back to square one.

Or was I?

“Meet me at the Dairy Bar,” I said, not giving him a chance to respond.

The glare he shot me told me he didn’t like being bossed around.

Too damn bad.

Chapter Thirteen

I was at the counter ordering a hot fudge sundae when Wyatt pulled into the parking lot. He walked up behind me and slapped cash on the counter to pay for my order before I could get out my wallet.

“I would have gotten something for you, but I realized I didn’t know you well enough to know what you’d like,” I said in a curt tone.

The older teen who handed me the ice cream bowl gave me a confused look. “No need to get me anything. We get to eat ice cream for free.”

I gave him a tight smile, realizing Wyatt had already drifted away, then turned and headed for a picnic table at the edge of the outdoor dining space, away from a couple eating at a table on the other side, not that I needed to be too concerned with them overhearing. They were too wrapped up in each other to take notice.

Wyatt sat across from me, resting his forearms on the table, waiting.

I took a bite of my sundae, then said, “You lied to me.”

“About what?”

“Heather’s going-away party.”

He didn’t show a single sign of remorse at being caught. “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you.”