Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

As though addressing a jury, he took the opportunity to profess his innocence. “When I said I’d done a terrible thing, I was referring to my infidelity. Nothing more. I sinned against my wife. And since you and your inept staff here haven’t uncovered a single clue as to what happened to her, she’ll never know how deeply I cared for her.”

Looking at Thatcher with malice, he said, “You still haven’t definitively accounted for yourself the night Mila disappeared.” Then he turned to Bill. “I’m not saying another word without a lawyer present.”

“Do you have one?”

“Not on retainer.”

“I’ll arrange for one, then. In the meantime, you’ll wait in a cell.” He instructed Harold to lock him up. As the deputy escorted Driscoll into the cell block, Bill quietly said to Thatcher, “I’m in no rush to call the public defender. Let’s give him a while to ruminate on his sins against his wife.”

When asked, Scotty gave Bill an update on the investigations being conducted relating to last night’s events. “We ran down two more ’shiners trying to disassemble their still for relocation. I think they were relieved it was us who found them and not the Johnsons.”

“Remember that the Johnsons were the targets and suffered the greatest losses,” Bill said.

“Which is why they’ll be primed for revenge,” Scotty said. “I think we can look forward to another active night. Meanwhile…” He passed Bill a slip of paper. “Somebody from the governor’s office. He’s called twice. Asked you to call him back.”

“He say what for?”

“He said the governor wants to know what the fuck is going on out here and what in holy hell you’re doing about it. Says moonshine wars make the state look bad.”

“The governor didn’t have the guts to call and tell me himself?”

“He was giving the invocation at a prayer breakfast.”

They all had a chuckle.

Harold returned. Bill asked him to put through the long-distance call to the governor’s office. He asked Scotty to call the coroner’s office in Dallas and ask about the timing of Norma Blanchard’s autopsy, while Bill himself placed a call to his house and spoke with Mrs. Cantor about Daisy’s condition.

While they were occupied, Thatcher wandered over to the county map tacked to the wall and began to study it. He half-listened as Bill conversed with his wife’s friend and then spoke to the governor’s toady. To an outlandish extent, Bill downplayed the seriousness of the previous night’s crimes, even referring to it as “mischief.”

When Bill hung up from that call, Thatcher said, “Mind if I get back to work? I’ve got horses to exercise.”

“Of course. I’ve got plenty to do here while Gabe wallows in remorse. If I need you, I’ll come find you.”

Thatcher left, knowing that he might be hard to find for the next few hours. Neither the sheriff nor anyone else would know where to look.

* * *



Laurel and Irv transferred the crates he’d brought from the stills to the cellar where they would be stored until the O’Connors came for them that evening. Irv apologized for being unable to do his share of the lifting, carrying, and moving.

“I’d rather you let your arm heal,” Laurel told him as she put the last crate in its place.

She also loaded supplies for Corrine and Ernie into Irv’s truck. As he climbed up into the driver’s seat, he said, “We’ll have to wait and see if hell breaks loose again before we decide whether or not to do runs tonight.”

“Don’t take any chances. If there’s the least sign of trouble, lay low. Promise.”

“I promise. Keep your pistol handy.”

She patted her skirt pocket and waved him off.

The kitchen was hot, and only got hotter from the ovens as she baked and the afternoon wore on. She had just taken the last pies out of the oven and set them to cool when there was a knock on her front door.

It was too early for Davy and Mike, and they always came around to the back. Pushing wisps of damp hair off her heated face, she went through the living room to the front door. The windowpane in its upper half gave her clear sight of the callers. Her heart stuttered, but since she’d been seen, she had no choice except to open the door.

In the background, a recent model car was parked in the street, a large man standing beside it. Out of reflex, she patted her skirt pocket, but she smiled. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Plummer. You may not remember meeting me. It was a cursory introduction in—”

“The sheriff’s office.”

Mayor Bernie Croft said, “Your baby daughter was very ill. I heard about her passing. My condolences are long overdue.”

“Thank you.” Her gaze shifted to his companion, who removed his bowler hat.

The mayor said, “Mr. Landry says you two have met?”

“Briefly. How do you do, Mr. Landry?”

“Mrs. Plummer.” He gave her a courtly little bow and a smile that flashed gold.

“What can I do for you gentlemen? Sell you a pie?”

The mayor laughed. “As delicious as that sounds, we’d rather you sell us your corn liquor.”

Laurel called upon every reserve of discipline she had not to react. “I beg your pardon?”