Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“Seen him.”

“Where?”

“He came up to our place yesterday morning. He—”

Laurel said, “Never mind that,” and rushed across the room to Dr. Driscoll. “Thank God you’re here.”

The Plummers’ sudden and disruptive entrance had roused the doctor from his stupor. He stood up unsteadily. “Mrs.…?”

“Plummer. My baby, Pearl. Remember? You treated her for croup a week and a half ago. I gave her the cough syrup, but it hasn’t helped. She’s worse. You’ve got to help her.”

He seemed at a loss. “I—”

“We went to your house,” she went on. “No one answered the door. An old lady who lives across the street saw us and came over. She told us that your wife disappeared last night. I’m sure she got that wrong, but she said that you would probably be here. You’ve got to examine Pearl.” She’d spoken so rapidly and breathlessly, she had to pause and inhale deeply before adding, “Please.”

The doctor didn’t react, only looked at her blankly, as though he hadn’t sensed her anxiety or understood a word she’d said.

The mayor interceded. “Mrs. Plummer, was it? I’m Mayor Croft. Dr. Driscoll is indisposed. He’s not seeing patients this morning. I could recommend several fine physicians who—”

“I tried that,” Irv said, interrupting. “She was bent on finding Doc Driscoll on account of he’d treated Pearl before. There was no sayin’ no to her. The baby’s in a bad way.”

“She can hardly draw breath.” Laurel looked pleadingly at the doctor, but, as before, he seemed to be in a trance. With a soft cry of desperation, she turned away from him and took in the scene as though just now grasping the significance of the situation she’d barged in on.

“His wife really has disappeared?” She addressed the question to Sheriff Amos.

“Last night. A search is underway, but currently Mrs. Driscoll’s whereabouts are unknown.”

“The neighbor lady said she’d been abducted.”

The mayor loudly cleared his throat. “We’re trying to ascertain that. From Mr. Hutton.”

When Laurel’s gaze moved to Thatcher, embarrassment bloomed hotly inside his chest. She focused on the handcuffs, then looked up into his eyes with misgiving. “I thought surely the old lady was senile, talking nonsense.”

Thatcher said quietly, “You told me where to look for the advertisement. I went to the address on the card.”

“It was Dr. Driscoll’s house?”

“I was seen talking to Mrs. Driscoll.”

Laurel’s father-in-law made a grunting sound, as though this news was confirmation of the low opinion of Thatcher that he’d already formed.

The sheriff said, “Mrs. Plummer?” She shifted her attention away from Thatcher and back to Bill Amos. “We met on the occasion of your husband’s demise. It was such a difficult time for you, I wasn’t sure you would remember.”

“Of course I do.”

He nodded solemnly, then gestured toward Thatcher. “What can you tell me about Mr. Hutton?”

She scooted the baby up onto her shoulder and tried to shush her. “Nothing, except what Irv already told you. He showed up at our place yesterday.”

“What time was that?”

She thought on it. “Around eleven, but it could have been thirty minutes either side of that.”

“How did he get there?”

“On foot.”

“From which direction?”

“I didn’t see, but I guess from the south. The railroad is in that direction from us, and he told me he’d jumped off a freight train.”

“Did you believe him?”

She hesitated, then said, “It made no difference to me if he was lying or not.”

“It did to me,” Irv said. “Poking around where he didn’t belong.”

The sheriff turned to him. “He poked around?”

“No, he didn’t,” Laurel said, giving her father-in-law a look of asperity. “He asked for a drink of water. I gave him one, and told him how to get to town, then sent him on his way.” The baby began to cough. Laurel patted her on the back. “That’s all I know, Sheriff Amos. I’ve got to get Pearl to a doctor.”

“A couple more questions. You told Mr. Hutton about the Driscolls’ room for rent?”

“I didn’t know it was theirs. I just remembered seeing the notice in Hancock’s window, and mentioned it to him when he asked if I knew of somewhere he could stay.” She cut a glance at Thatcher, then said to the sheriff, “This really has nothing at all to do with me.”

Without a blink, the sheriff continued. “Altogether, how long was he there?”

“No more than a few minutes. Ten maybe.”

“Did he look beat up, like he’d been in a fight?”

“He had a bump on his head. His hand was wrapped in a handkerchief. The shoulder seam of his coat was ripped.”

“What was his demeanor, Mrs. Plummer? How did he act toward you?”

She took another quick look at Thatcher, and he figured this was where she would tell them about the rooster’s attack and what had happened after. But she didn’t relate any of that.