Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

Thatcher went around to the passenger side. Once on the road, he asked, “What’s your wife’s name?”

“Daisy. Her bridge club meets one night a month.”

“Does she know how to play poker?”

Bill laughed. “Not with you, she doesn’t.” After a beat, he said, “I’m glad she’s having the group at the house tonight. She doesn’t entertain as often as she used to.”

That had sounded like a loaded statement. Thatcher waited for him to expand.

Bill cleared his throat. “Daisy isn’t always up to socializing. She has…declines. A heart condition.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well, you know. Life.” He gave Thatcher a weak smile. “How’s it been treating you lately?”

“Can’t complain. Me and Ulysses have finally resolved our differences. His owner is picking him up later this week.”

“Will he take to another rider?”

“We’ll see.”

Bill chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to be the first to try. Did you fill that last stall?”

“I’ve got a waiting list.”

Bill removed his pocket watch and checked the time. “I have a hankering for a juicy hamburger. Have you been to Lefty’s yet?”

Thatcher shook his head.

“Then you’re past due.” He tucked his watch away and settled into his seat. “Did you wait in the dark to see me so you could ask my wife’s name?”

“Naw.” Thatcher exhaled heavily and propped his elbow on the door ledge. “I was wondering if you had talked to that woman, Dr. Driscoll’s patient who had the breech birth.”

Bill gave him a sharp look, swerving in the process. The driver of an oncoming vehicle tooted a warning. Bill waved an apology as he passed a jalopy of a truck with two young men inside.

“Mrs. Plummer’s delivery boys.”

Thatcher reacted with a start. “Her delivery boys?”

Bill told him about the arrangement Laurel had made with Logan’s Grocery. Although Thatcher turned his head aside and pretended to be absorbed in the passing scenery, he listened with avid interest.

“I hear her pies are selling like hot cakes,” Bill said. “No pun intended.”

“I knew she’d gone into the business. One night last week, I had supper in Martin’s Café. While I was there, she came in to deliver an order.”

“Really? To Clyde?”

“Um-huh.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just that Clyde has always used his own cooks for everything.”

“I guess he prefers her pies to theirs.”

“Guess so. Have you sampled her wares yet?”

Thatcher looked over to see if there was an innuendo behind the question, but Bill had his head turned away, signaling to make a left turn. “I had a slice of pecan pie.”

“Was it good?”

“Damn good.”

Bill had turned onto a road leading away from town. “We’ve got a ways to go before we get to Lefty’s,” he said. “Tell me why you asked about Gabe Driscoll’s patient.”

“I’ve been watching his house every night for a week.”

Bill looked across at him with both consternation and curiosity. “What for?”

Thatcher started by telling him about his dinner out with Chester Landry. “He’s a shoe—”

“I know who he is and what he claims to be.”

“Claims to be?”

“Are y’all pals?”

“Hell, no,” Thatcher said. “I don’t trust that grin of his.”

“So why’d you go to dinner with him?”

“I didn’t have a reason not to.”

Bill gave him a knowing glance. “You want to find out what he’s hiding behind that grin.”

He was right, but Thatcher didn’t want to admit it. “Anyway, that’s why I was in the café when Mrs. Plummer came in. By the time Landry and I had finished our desserts, I’d had about all of his company I could stomach. I opted to walk back to the boardinghouse. But I didn’t go straight there. I circled around to the Driscolls’ place.”

“Again, what for?”

“Shit, I don’t know. But after you and I talked about the doc, the coincidences that took place that night, I couldn’t get it off my mind. I just felt led to go over there, take a look-see. I didn’t really expect to uncover anything, didn’t even know what I was looking for. But I went back the next night, and I’ve been going back.” He paused. “Did you question that woman again?”

“Her name is Norma Blanchard, and, yes, I went straight from our conversation by the creek to talk to her about that night.”

“And?”

“Have you changed your mind about becoming a deputy?”

“No.”

“Then I shouldn’t be discussing an open investigation.”

“You called it open-ended. Doesn’t mean the same as active, does it?”

Bill waved that away with annoyance. “Speak your mind, Thatcher.”

They were in the countryside now. They passed barbed wire–fenced pastures with horses and cattle grazing, farmhouses lit by lamps and lanterns instead of incandescent bulbs, chalky rock formations.