Page 21 of The Summer We Made Promises (The Destin Diaries #3)

“We’ve recently learned that Roger’s case wasn’t just a police matter,” Maggie said. “The FBI was involved, making it a federal investigation. All the files—every last one—went missing from his attorney’s office.”

Frank still didn’t look up.

“Do you have any idea why, Frank?” Maggie asked.

“Course not,” he said quickly. “But I don’t know why you can’t let the past be past. Who gives a hoot what happened thirty years ago?”

“We do,” Maggie and Jo replied in perfect unison.

“Well, we just don’t know,” Betty said, trying again to push her chair out. “But we have three grandchildren who?—”

“Look, Frank.” Maggie narrowed her eyes at him. “We know you used to run numbers at the deli. And we’re not here to judge, but was Roger ever involved in that? Was Artie?”

“Artie?” Frank snorted so hard, he coughed. “Mr. Goody Two-Shoes?”

Jo Ellen smiled. “He was ethical, but we have to know everything.”

Another long silence pressed on the room until Frank sighed then looked at his wife with a question in his eyes.

“Go ahead,” she said softly. “They want answers…”

Finally, Maggie thought with a huff of breath.

He closed his eyes, looking trapped. “Yes, I was a bookie,” he said. “I ran a side hustle at the deli. Took bets on horses, football, you name it. I’m not proud of it, really.”

“Well, I was proud of the fur coat it got me,” Betty said sheepishly.

“I’m sure you got so much use out of that in Florida,” Maggie cracked. “Please, go on, Frank.”

“I never got caught,” Frank said. “I skirted the law and I swear to God this had nothing to do with either of your husbands. Well, Roger…”

Oh, heavens. “Roger what?” Maggie demanded when he didn’t finish.

Frank shifted in his chair. “It doesn’t matter, Mag?—”

“It matters!” she exclaimed, the sound of her voice reverberating through the kitchen. “We want to know.”

He groaned, leaned back, and scratched his chin. “It really doesn’t matter, ’cause Cotton Ramsey is deader than a doornail now and his whole operation has been gone for years.”

“Cotton…who?”

“And I honestly don’t know what happened between them, but?—”

“Make some sense, honey,” Betty said, putting a hand on her husband’s arm. “These ladies don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He nodded and took a sip of coffee, looking like he’d kill for it to be something stronger.

“The gambling operation was run—and owned—by a group out of Biloxi.”

Jo Ellen and Maggie exchanged a look. Biloxi . That was where the FBI investigation was based.

“They were what used to be known as the Dixie Mafia,” Frank said softly. “Have you heard of them?”

Maggie choked. “The Mafia ?” Chills blossomed on her arms. “You were involved with the Mafia, Frank?”

“The Southern version, which is mostly good ol’ boys who used to make moonshine and then they moved into betting and…you know, other stuff.”

Maggie had no idea what “other stuff” meant and wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“Anyway, the guy at the top of the food chain was a fellow named Cotton Ramsey, and he went to jail a few years after Roger and the whole thing fell apart, thank God. Betty and me, well, we just wanted to lay low. Closed the deli, moved out here…very sorry for anything we’d done.”

No one spoke as both Maggie and Jo Ellen tried to process this unfathomable news.

Then Betty got up, taking the untouched plate of cookies, and walked toward the counter.

“What on Earth was Roger’s involvement with these people?” Maggie managed to ask.

“He, uh, he came to me once,” Frank said, running stubby fingers through his white hair. “I think it was not that last summer, but the one before. Maybe 1994. He was in a bind. Something about moving money from one client to another and things getting lost and…I can’t recall all the specifics.”

Maggie stiffened. The specifics, she thought, were no doubt listed in excruciating detail in the missing federal files. As she understood his crimes, her husband had essentially stolen from one man to pay another, and couldn’t pay the first one back.

“Anyway, he needed some cash. A lot of it. I put him in touch with Cotton.”

“And?” Maggie asked.

“I never heard another word. Honest to God, I swear, Maggie.” He raised his right hand, his expression pained but serious. “I have no idea if anything happened between them. Roger never mentioned it again and neither did Cotton’s guys.”

Maggie narrowed her gaze, her heart rate skyrocketing. “You sent my husband to the Mafia ? For a loan?”

“I didn’t send him. I gave him a name. He made the choice.”

Maggie wanted to argue, but couldn’t. Every bad decision Roger made was his own, and she could look past her love for her late husband long enough to see that.

She looked over at Jo Ellen, who was staring at her with the same stunned expression, proving she’d known nothing of this.

“Does that help you girls?” Betty asked as she returned to the table.

“I don’t see how,” Maggie replied, pushing up, since she just wanted to get away as far and as fast as possible. Forget small talk and grandchildren and memories.

Jo, bless her heart, was already gathering her bag for the same speedy escape.

No one tried to stop them as they pushed their chairs in and muttered their thanks.

Frank looked a little shellshocked, and stayed seated when they walked out of the kitchen with Betty, mumbling his goodbyes.

“I’m sorry if you found out some upsetting things,” Betty said as she opened the front door.

“Well, I have one more question,” Jo Ellen said, pausing to turn to Betty.

“I’m not sure I can?—”

“Yes, you can,” Jo Ellen interjected, proving that she sure could have a backbone when she wanted to. “Why in God’s name would you tell Kate and Eli some trumped-up nonsense about us having affairs with each other’s husbands?”

Betty stared at her. “Well, me and Frank agreed that for the rest of our lives, which might not be that many more years, that would be our cover story if we were ever asked by any of you.”

“Why would you need a cover story that involves us?” Maggie demanded.

Betty looked hard at her, her eyes sad…and scared. “Yes, the Dixie Mafia is long gone. Cotton Ramsey is dead. But we don’t ever want anyone coming after us. And if Frank’s associated with Roger…well, we were just scared. So that was our excuse for why we didn’t talk to you anymore.”

“Well, that’s just dumb,” Maggie said. “And it makes no sense.”

Betty sighed and stepped back, ushering them out the door with one hand. “You be careful, girls. You dig deep enough, you’re bound to find things you don’t like.”

With that, they left, cold and unsatisfied despite the May sunshine that poured over them.

A moment later, they got into the car and shut the doors, silence pressing between them.

“Have you ever heard that name before?” Jo Ellen asked. “Cotton Ramsey?”

“Never in my life,” Maggie said. “I thought I knew everything about Roger. Turns out I know…nothing.”

“We’ll tell Peter about it,” Jo Ellen said. “See what he can dig up.”

Maggie started the car, noticing that her hands trembled, making the mottled surface of her skin look old and fragile.

They weren’t Nancy Drew or the Murder She Wrote lady. They were just two aging women with sunspots and aching backs and stubborn hearts. Just two old ladies who wanted answers.

But for the first time since she laid eyes on Jo Ellen after thirty years of missing her, Maggie wasn’t sure if she wanted these answers anymore.