Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“Good work, Thatcher.”

“Knowing what you’re likely to find under those rocks, it doesn’t feel good. Not good at all.”

Bill waited a beat before continuing to theorize. “On his way back into town, Gabe’s conscience grabbed hold.”

“Or terror of being caught.”

“Either way, he realized the magnitude of what he’d done and headed to his mistress for solace. Then what, Thatcher? Did Miss Blanchard know he’d killed Mila, or not? Did she calm him down and coach him on what to do next, what to say and how to perform when questioned?”

“Mrs. Kemp doesn’t think so.”

“She could be lying. She may know all too well that Norma was complicit.”

“Could be.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“If Norma had lived, maybe her sister would’ve lied to cover for her. But why would she lie for her now?”

“To protect baby nephew Arthur from disgrace? Hell, I don’t know.” Sighing, he covered his face with both hands and pressed his middle fingers into his eye sockets, his weariness evident. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Two things you know,” Thatcher said.

Bill lowered his hands and looked across at him.

“One. Norma Blanchard can’t be held accountable even if she masterminded the murder. Second thing, you’ve finally got a piece of evidence. It’s not a decomposed body, but that apron trim might be enough to bring Driscoll to his knees.”

“He’s proven to be mule-headed.”

“Won’t hurt to try.”

Bill took the strip of cloth with him as he entered the cell block. Thatcher followed him to the last cell, where Driscoll was reclined on the cot, eyes closed, pale hands clasped over his stomach. “Unless you have a defense lawyer with you, go away.”

“You’ll want to see this, Gabe.”

Thatcher and Bill waited him out, and his curiosity got the better of him. He opened his eyes and levered himself up on his elbows.

Bill dangled the strip of red cloth. “Recognize this?”

“No.”

“Thatcher did.” Bill explained how Thatcher remembered seeing the ruffle on Mila’s apron.

Driscoll shrugged. “She wore an apron every day of her life.”

“In the kitchen while baking shortbread,” Bill said. “Around the house as she was dusting the furniture. But why would she wear one to Pointer’s Gap?”

Mention of the landmark sparked a stunned reaction. His gaze darted to Thatcher, then back to Bill. “What was he doing out there?”

Bill ignored the question. “He found this caught in a pile of rocks. What do you know about it, Gabe?”

“Nothing.”

“Explain to me how a ruffle off Mrs. Driscoll’s apron got stuck between two rocks all the way out there in no-man’s-land.”

“Why are you asking me? Why don’t you ask him?” He came off the cot and charged the cell bars, shoving his hand through two of them and grabbing Thatcher by his necktie. “Do you really think he just wandered out there and accidentally found this? Where’s your common sense, sheriff? He knew where to find it, because he buried Mila’s body out there. It was him all along. Don’t you see?”

A crack of thunder startled them all. Driscoll actually let go of Thatcher’s tie and fell back a step away from the bars, as though they’d suddenly been electrified.

The first clap was followed by a second, then a third. And then a salvo. Simultaneously, Thatcher and Bill realized that it wasn’t thunder.

It was gunfire.





Fifty-Three



Chester Landry watched from the shadows as Laurel Plummer bade the O’Connor brothers goodbye. Even from this distance, he could tell she was anxious about sending them out tonight. She touched each of them on the arm, and clung for a moment, like a mother reluctant to wave her children off to school for the first time.

Final instructions were issued and goodbyes said, and the pair drove away in their truck. From the outside, it looked like a rattletrap held together with baling wire and crossed fingers.

But as it drove past Landry, he was close enough to feel the vibration of the new engine the twins recently had had installed. The swap-out had been done in a barn on a farm that had been foreclosed on years before. The mechanics, who’d helped themselves to the empty space, catered to moonshiners and bootleggers who were trying to outdo, or at least to equal, the horsepower had by lawmen, government agents, and each other.

He wondered if Mrs. Plummer was aware of the new oomph under the battered hood of the O’Connors’ truck. He would guess she wasn’t. The O’Connors were too cocksure of themselves by far. Brimming with piss and vinegar, they took needless chances, seemed to thrive on excitation, and routinely flirted with calamity.

But he couldn’t fault them. He reveled in risk-taking.

Lights were on inside, affording him a view through the window into the kitchen. He watched Mrs. Plummer drink a glass of tap water at the sink. Then she moved about the room nervously, picking up this or that, setting it down, opening a cabinet door only to close it without putting anything in or taking anything out.

He saw her actually wring her hands. At one point, she lifted her pocketbook off a peg adjacent to the back door, as though she were about to leave, then changed her mind. She seemed troubled and restless, feeling compelled to do something, but unsure of what she should do.