“Did the twins remain at the bar late?” Scott asked.
Buck looked to the side, as if trying to remember. “I don’t remember. I mean, it was St. Patrick’s Day and we were slammed. I’ll ask around for you, though, Millie.”
“Thank you.” She released his hand, making a mental note to bring him ointment for the liver spots. “I appreciate it.”
Buck leaned to stare over her head. “She’s not really in trouble, is she?”
Millie looked over her shoulder at the man standing tall as her current bodyguard. Scott’s expression revealed nothing. “She could be. So please keep your ear to the ground, and if you find out anything, let us know.”
“You’ve got it,” Buck said. “I wish we had security cameras, but they’re just too expensive right now. By the way, it’sentirely possibleyou had too much to drink and ended up sleeping in the back room here.”
She planted both hands on the bar. “They found me with the knife, Buck,” she said gently.
“That’s just it.” He warmed to the subject. “I might’ve seen Clay with your knife—say he borrowed it and then left. You woke up this morning and I could’ve told you that Clay had your knife.” He leaned toward her. “So you went over there and maybe the real killer knocked you out with chloroform like on TV.” He looked at Scott. “Right?”
“No,” Scott said shortly.
Millie patted Buck’s hand. “I appreciate it, Buck.”
“Just keep my idea in mind,” Buck said. “It’ll be okay, Millie, I promise.”
It was sweet that he was making promises nobody could keep. “Thanks.” She hopped off the stool and walked out into the cloudy day with Scott on her heels. “I wouldn’t have left with Clay Baker on purpose.” She needed him to understand that for some reason.
“I got that impression,” Scott said dryly. “Why don’t we grab something for dinner, take it to your place, and talk this through?”
She couldn’t believe Scott Terentson planned to stay at her house. But Aunt Mae had insisted, and there was no way around that woman. “I guess that’s our plan.”
Just as she started toward the passenger-side door, a dented gray Ford pickup careened around the corner and shot into the parking area, the driver hitting the brakes so hard they squealed. Two men instantly jumped out of the vehicle.
“Oh crap.” She set her stance.
“You bitch,” Silas Baker yelled, spittle spraying from his mouth.
“I didn’t kill him,” Millie said, looking at Clay’s brother. Where Clay had been smooth, Silas was coarse. Oh, they both had started out as rough diamonds, but Clay had found some polish.
Silas had not. He stood about six foot four in a large red flannel shirt with a thick black beard matching his hair. He possessed beady eyes and beefy hands. “You slept in his bed all night.” Silas’s face turned red.
“I didn’t kill him.” She had to avert the disaster she saw coming as Silas glared over her shoulder at Scott. All of the Bakers were known to hit first and ask questions later. “I don’t remember leaving. Somebody drugged me.”
His brother Lonnie stomped around the other side of the truck. “Oh, we know you killed him. You’ve hated him for years.”
“That stems from him being a jackass,” she said. “But I didn’t kill him.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Silas immediately shot toward her and she held up her hands to defend herself.
With no warning, Scott nudged her with his hip and instantly stood between her and both men.
“Scott,” she yelled, but it was too late.
Silas swung his monstrous fist toward Scott’s head. She screamed, and then it was as if Scott became somebody else. He ducked the punch and volleyed a series of hits at Silas’s midsection that had the man doubling over in pain and falling back against his truck.
Without even seeming to move, Scott jumped up, pivoted, and kicked Lonnie beneath the chin. Lonnie flew backward and landed hard. Scott performed a backflip in the air and landed on the ground, his stance wide and his body seemingly relaxed.
Silas roared and leaped up, hitting Scott midcenter, lifting him, and ramming him against the solid door. The metal protested with a loud crunch. Scott slammed both elbows down on Silas’s shoulders, forcing the mammoth to drop him, then using elbows, fists, and knees, smoothly, almost gracefully, propelled Silas back against his truck. A perfectly executed roundhouse kick nailed Silas in the jaw, throwing his head sideways and slamming his temple against the vehicle with a loud thunk.
Silas dropped to the ground, unconscious.
Lonnie snarled, came up on all fours, and leaped at Scott. Scott, almost casually, looking bored, slammed his elbow on the back of Lonnie’s neck. Lonnie flopped on the dirt, his mouth spitting dust.
