I shot him a dark look.

“You’re gonna drive me crazy,” he grumbled.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that my imagination is running wild about what’s going on in there.”

“For all we know, he’s up there meetin’ his new mistress for an afternoon delight. Try gettin’ that out of your head.” He made a face and shuddered.

It wasn’t a pretty image, but I’d rather think of Mobley’s sex life than worry about Greta and Lula. Bottom line: Marco was right. We had no idea which room Mobley had slipped into, and there was absolutely nothing we could do but wait.

“So you really sold your car to Bingham?” Marco asked.

“Yep. For four thousand dollars, which means I have money to buy a new one. Got any suggestions where to go?”

“Yeah,” he said in a dry tone. “If you’re wantin’ a used one, Wyatt is the best source.”

“Then how come he never offered to help me find one?” I asked defensively.

“Hell if I know. Maybe he didn’t think it was a priority. You’ve been driving Hank’s car.”

“Well, Wyatt’s not an option. Where else can I go?”

“I’ll make a few calls,” he said, then leaned forward, his body stiffening. “He’s comin’ out.”

I swung my gaze to the motel and saw a man in a suit walking out of a room at the far end of the bottom level. He shut the door behind him and hurried toward his car. Alone.

“What are we going to do, Marco?” I asked. “Follow him or stay and see what’s in the room?”

“Follow him.”

“I can stay and check the room,” I suggested. “While you follow him.”

“No freakin’ way,” he said. “We stay together. The other two cars are parked at the opposite end of the lot, so they’re likely not connected to this. We’ll follow Mobley, then come back and check out the room.”

“How will we get in?”

“My lock pickin’ kit.”

“I thought you were a deputy.”

“Well, sometimes you need a little help.”

Mobley’s car whipped backward in reverse, and he drove just as erratically getting out of the parking lot as he had coming in.

Once he was between the buildings, Marco started his pursuit.

Mobley headed back to town this time. I wondered if he was returning to the funeral home, but he drove into a residential neighborhood and pulled into the driveway of a ranch house.

Marco parked down the street, and we watched as two children ran out the front door, shouting, “Grandpa!”

Mobley leaned over and gave them both hugs, then let them tug him into the house.

I glanced over as Marco pulled out his cell phone and started swiping. Apparently he had service again. “This is Mobley’s address of record. He lives here.”

“We scared him. It makes sense that he’d run home, but why did he go to the motel first?”

Marco put the car into drive. “We’re about to find out.”

He didn’t waste any time driving to the motel, and I was a nervous wreck. Scared of what we’d find in the room. Scared we wouldn’t find anything.

Marco drove around back and parked a few rooms down from the room Mobley had emerged from.

“Wait in here,” he said, reaching for the door handle.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m not coming with you.” I opened the car door and got out.

He opened the back passenger door and got his crutches out of the back.

“Carly,” he groaned as he reached me.

“We’re in this together, Marco. That was our bargain. I didn’t insist on getting out when you told me to stay in the car with you.”

He gave me a grim look, but he didn’t try to talk me out of coming. I walked next to him as he hobbled over to the motel room. The number 134 was nailed on slightly askew in the middle of the wooden door.

“Wait over there,” he whispered, gesturing to the side of the door opposite the doorknob. Once I was in position, he knocked and then reached into his jacket and withdrew his gun.

My heart beat double time.

When no one answered, he shot me a glance, so I knocked on the door.

No answer.

“You ever picked a lock?” Marco asked.

“Do I look like the kind of person who picks locks?” I asked in disbelief.

He grinned. “Kind of.”

I rolled my eyes, but our exchange had helped settle my nerves.

He slipped his gun back into his holster and retrieved two long metal tools from his jacket pocket. Balancing on one foot, he handed me his crutch, then glanced around to make sure no one was watching. He leaned over and inserted the tools into the keyhole, and I realized we were lucky Bart Drummond had been too cheap to upgrade to an electronic locking system. Seconds later, Marco turned the knob and pushed the door open a crack, staying to the side of the door. He quickly slipped the tools back into his pocket.

Pushing the door open with the tip of his crutch, he called out, “Hello?”

My heart was in my throat as he pushed the door open wider. He stayed in the doorway, taking in the sight of the room, and I leaned around him so I could get a look.

The room had two full-size beds and the typical décor of an old motel room, complete with the stained carpet and the framed nature prints. But no people. No sign of anything unusual.

Marco walked into the room and I followed.

“I don’t get it,” I said, looking around. Even the beds were made. “What did he do when he was in here? We haven’t been gone long enough for someone to come in and clean the place up.”

“There’s a pair of gloves in my jacket pocket,” he said. “Put them on and start opening drawers.”

We checked every drawer, the closet, and even under the beds, but he’d left nothing behind.

“Look there,” Marco said, pointing his crutch toward the bed. “There’s an indentation.”

I moved closer and noticed a dent in the bedspread. “It looks like he sat down here.”

Marco stared at the spot on the bed, just beneath the pillow, then shifted his attention to the nightstand. “I think he was makin’ a phone call.”

“Why would he come here to make a phone call?”

“I don’t know,” he said as he leaned over to examine the phone. “But cell service sucks in this area, so maybe he uses it as a burner phone. He can make calls and receive messages without fear they’ll be traced back to him.”

“That’s crazy,” I said. “Who would do that?”

“Got a better explanation?” he asked.

“No.”

We were silent for a moment.

“Let’s go try to rent this room,” Marco said.

“What?”

He grinned. “Trust me.”

The office was on the other side of the parking lot, a long walk for Marco, so we drove over in the SUV and parked closer. As we headed in, he said, “Oh, by the way, we’re deeply in love.”

“What?”

He opened the door and said, “Look, honey! The office looks exactly like it did when we were here on our honeymoon.”

I glanced around the small space. If he’d claimed the wedding had been thirty years ago, I suspect he would have been challenged about our age, not about the unchanging décor.