She nodded. “Okay.”
Thinking about Marco had me worried, so I left her and headed behind the bar with my drink tickets, cornering Max while he filled a soft drink order.
Wyatt was a few feet down the bar filling a beer mug.
“Have you heard from Marco?” I asked, my worry seeping into my voice.
“No,” Max said with a frown. “Last I heard he was one of the deputies workin’ at the construction site.”
“Any word on that situation? Will they be able to start construction back up soon?” While the additional business was great, we couldn’t keep up at this pace, and a third of the guys in the room had been there all day, getting drunker by the minute. It was bound to turn ugly.
“I heard they took the bones to the state crime lab. They think it’s a woman.”
“Not a child?” I asked. When he gave me a horrified look, I quickly added, “I wondered if it was Floyd Bingham’s son. Or one of his wives.”
His brow furrowed. “What do you know about Rodney Bingham?” He released a loud groan. “Let me guess. Marco.”
Wyatt gave us an inquisitive look, but a customer waved at him from further down the bar, capturing his attention.
“He told me about it when we were looking for Lula. And then your father told me that he’d won a court battle over some disputed land on the Bingham-Drummond property line. I just presumed the body had been left by Bingham Senior.”
Max’s eyes brightened. “Hey. You’re right.”
I raised my brows. “You thought your father was responsible, didn’t you?”
He didn’t say anything for several seconds. “We both know that Carson Purdy was a murderer.”
The story went that Carson Purdy, Max’s father’s right-hand man, had gone rogue and attempted to start up his own drug empire under Todd Bingham’s nose by hauling in drugs from Atlanta in caskets delivered to a funeral home in Ewing. Carson’s gang had killed Hank’s teenage grandson for trying to get proof to implicate them, and I had witnessed his murder, which had set me in Purdy’s crosshairs. Purdy had shot Marco while trying to get to me, but Jerry had ultimately saved us all.
Bart Drummond had denied all culpability, but I sure wasn’t taking his word for it.
The look on Max’s face shifted to concern. “When did you speak to my father?”
Wyatt glanced toward us with a blank expression.
I hesitated. “Back in December. When Marco and I were looking for Lula.”
“Marco never mentioned it. And neither did you.”
I shrugged. “He wasn’t with me when I saw your parents, and I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”
“You saw both of them? Together?” Max asked. “Where?”
“Does it really matter, Max? It happened four months ago.”
He gave me a dark look. “Humor me.”
“I was at Walgreens in Ewing, picking up a blood pressure cuff for Marco. Your parents were there picking up a medication for your mother. She saw me and said hello.”
“And my father just happened to mention that he’d won a court case?” Max asked in disbelief.
I shrugged again. “He was in a sharing kind of mood.” Without knowing more about his situation with his father, I couldn’t risk telling him about his father’s threat to Hank, let alone that Bart knew my secret. Besides, Max didn’t know my story—he’d only guessed there was one.
“So,” I said, eager to change the subject, “since they’re done digging up the bones, do you think they’ll start construction back up again?”
Max lifted his worry-filled eyes to mine. “I sure as hell hope so.”
Was he eager to bring more jobs and money to Drum, or was he worried about his father’s investment? Probably both.
Wyatt walked past us. “I’m goin’ to get more ice,” he said. Then he headed to the back.
I cast a glance out to the dining area, and I could see the drinks were getting low at a table of construction workers. “Will you let me know if you hear anything from Marco?”
“You’re worried about him?” Max asked in surprise. “He’s literally watching a hole in the ground. There’s no danger involved. If anything, he’s more likely to die of boredom.”
While I knew Max was right, I couldn’t help worrying. Marco had almost died on the job, trying to protect me, no less. He’d gone back to work in January, and ever since, I’d lived in constant terror that he’d be shot again. It didn’t ease my mind any to know he’d made me one of his emergency contacts.
I was about to head back to my tables when two sheriff’s deputies I didn’t recognize walked through the door, both wearing serious expressions. They were here for a purpose, and it wasn’t a good one.
My heart lodged in my throat, and I pressed my hand to my chest. “Oh, God. Marco.”
I felt like I was going to pass out.
Max shot me a horrified look, then turned to the deputies as they approached the counter. The taller deputy stepped up to the bar between Jerry and another of the local customers, his gaze on Max’s face.
“We’re looking for Wyatt Drummond,” the deputy said with a blank expression.
Relief swept through me, making my knees weak, but it didn’t last long before a new concern reared its head.
Max froze, then sidestepped to stand in front of them. “And may I ask why?”
“Are you Wyatt Drummond?” the deputy asked.
I didn’t hide my surprise. The Drummonds were well-known in these parts, and while Wyatt and Max had similar eyes, Max was blond and Wyatt had dark hair.
“No, I’m Max Drummond, the owner of this establishment.” Max leaned his arm on the bar. “Wyatt’s not here at the moment.”
“Have any idea where he could be?”
Max’s face scrunched up as he leaned to the side. “Well…”
Wyatt walked out of the back, carrying a bucket of ice, and paused in the doorway when he saw the deputies. But he only stopped for a second before continuing toward us.
Max shot him a quick glance, then turned back to the deputies. “What’s this all about, anyway?”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss the matter with you,” said the deputy taking the lead.
Wyatt walked behind the counter, keeping an eye on the deputies as he dumped the ice in the bin.
“Wyatt Drummond?” the deputy asked.
Wyatt stood straight, resting the bucket on his hip. “That’s me.” He shot his brother a warning look. “What can I do for you?”
“We need you to come to the sheriff’s station to answer a few questions.”
Wyatt’s face gave nothing away. “And what would those questions be about?”
“Heather Stone.”
Chapter Six
Max looked on in confusion. “What’s there for him to answer? Heather left town nine years ago.”
The deputy’s mouth twitched. “We’d like to discuss this down at the station.”
“Is he under arrest?” Max asked.
“No,” the deputy said. “We simply want to ask him some questions.”