“No, but if his real name’s not Shane Jones, then I’m not surprised.” He turned onto the road. “If we don’t find out much from Mobley, then we can stop by the nursing home and ask for more information about Charlie from his boss.”

“Sounds good.” I said, my mind whirring on to the next concern. “Have you talked to Max since yesterday morning?”

“No.”

“After Wyatt took me home, he left to check on Max. Tiny said Max left with him, and he hadn’t returned by the time we closed up.”

“Did you call Wyatt to check on him?”

“No. With the way we ended things after he dropped me off, it doesn’t seem like a good idea. I think we need to take a break from each other.” After what I’d learned from Ruth, I felt even less optimistic about our prospects. But I’d come to the conclusion that my feelings were much too complicated to sort out while we were looking for Lula and Greta.

When Marco didn’t say anything, I said, “No comment?”

“What’s there to say? You two seem to fight more than you get along. Maybe it’s for the best.”

“Maybe.” I needed to change the subject. “I’m still trying to figure out the dynamic between the Bakers, Bart, and Hank. Turns out Louise worked for Hank for a short time, processing his pot, but he fired her after he figured out she was spyin’ for Bart. He fired her the day before she shot Walter.”

“So she probably went over to the Drummonds’ to tell Bart she’d been fired.”

“I’m presuming, but what did he do for her? And why was Walter drowning his daughter? I still have so many questions. Bingham suggested I talk to Louise herself.”

“Go to Nashville?” he asked in surprise. “That’s probably a good idea. I’ll get her attorney’s information. See if maybe we can get her to call you and save a trip.” Then he grinned. “I’m starvin’. Let’s get some breakfast at Watson’s, then head to the funeral home.”

I wasn’t looking forward to going back there, but I was hoping Mobley would have some much needed answers.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

There was nothing appealing about the Mobley Funeral Home. It was a one-story brick building in the nondescript style typical of architecture from the 1960s and 70s. The asphalt parking lot surrounding the building was empty except for two cars on the side of the building—an older green sedan and a shiny black Lexus.

“A Lexus?” I asked when I saw it. “In Ewing?”

Marco shrugged as he pulled into a parking spot in front of the building. “You were with Hank when he buried Seth. Did you ever hear how much the funeral cost? It takes a small fortune to bury a body these days.”

“I never heard,” I said softly. “Wyatt paid for it all.”

“Really?” he asked, turning to me in surprise. “Where’d he get the money?”

“I don’t know.” My mind was racing. I knew the garage didn’t bring in much of a profit. Where had Wyatt gotten the money? It struck me that I didn’t even know where he’d gotten the money for his garage. He hadn’t said, of course, and I’d presumed it had come from his father in some way. But Marco and I were here for our investigation, and I didn’t have time to think about Wyatt’s secrets just now. “I take it the Lexus belongs to Pete Mobley.”

“I don’t know for certain, but it’s a good presumption,” Marco said. “The question is why he’s here on a Sunday morning.”

My eyes widened. “You didn’t expect him to be here?”

“No. It’s Sunday morning and a funeral home director needs to have a good reputation in town. Which means he should be in church, especially since one of his men was caught smuggling drugs into the area using the caskets he uses to bury the townsfolk.”

I’d only been in the area for a month, but I’d already learned one of the stark contrasts between Ewing and Drum—other than spotty cell phone coverage—was that the people in Ewing weren’t as blind to illegal activity as the citizens of Drum. Perhaps it was because Ewing housed the sheriff’s department. Whatever the case, I was sure Marco was right. Pete Mobley needed to polish up his reputation, and being seen in a church pew was one surefire way to do it.

“If you didn’t expect him here,” I said, “then what are we doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to some of the employees about Charlie, and get their take on Dwight and Mobley. I figured we’d take what we learned and go to Mobley.”

“Wait,” I said, turning to him. “You’re not just asking to find Greta and Lula. You think Mobley had something to do with those drugs.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re damn right I do. I never bought that he was a victim.”

“But he was cleared of all wrongdoing.”

His brow lifted. “And look who cleared him.”

“Hensen County Sheriff’s Department.” I pushed out a sigh. The corruption in this area ran deep. Fighting it felt like pushing a boulder uphill. “So what do you want to do? Wait?”

He stared at the building for a few moments. “No,” he said, “but we need to think of a reason to be here asking questions.” He shot me a glance. “What if we ask him something about Seth’s funeral?”

It was a good idea, but what could we ask about that he wouldn’t see through in a second?

“Oh,” I said. “We never found the guest book. I told Hank we should call and ask about it, but he said one of the ladies in town likely had it.”

“That’s perfect,” Marco said, his eyes glittering. “Let’s go.”

He got out of the car and grabbed his crutches from the backseat. When I met him at the front of the SUV, I said, “No overdoing it today, Marco. You’re no good to me if you’re half dead.”

He grinned. “But I’ve still got it even when I’m half dead…which reminds me that your clothes are still at my house. I meant to bring them to you and forgot. Want me to call Wyatt to come pick them up?”

I shot him a glare.

“You know he’s jealous as shit, don’t you?” he asked. “He hates that you’re hangin’ out with me. Especially with my reputation.”

“Maybe so, but that wouldn’t stop me. He doesn’t have any say over what I do.” Especially now.

I started to walk toward the front door, but he blocked my path with the tip of his crutch.

I looked up at him in exasperation. “Marco. This doesn’t seem like the time or place to be discussing Wyatt.”

His gaze held mine, his expression unusually serious. “If you find yourself in trouble, you call him. Broken up or not, that man will drop everything and come runnin’. Got it?”

His statement humbled me. He was right. Things were different today. We were getting closer to the truth, which also meant we were getting closer to whoever had kidnapped and maybe hurt two women. And while I might not trust Wyatt Drummond with my heart, I could trust him with my life. “Yeah.”

He’d left his coat unzipped, and I noticed the dark brown leather strap across his chest. Given what he’d just said, I knew what it meant.