Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

Thatcher took time to choose carefully what he was going to say and how he was going to phrase it. He turned slightly in his seat to better address Bill and gauge his reactions.

“Describe Norma Blanchard.”

“Late twenties, I’d say. Dark hair, parted down the middle, all knotted up in back. Not pretty, but… Just say men would take to her better than women would.”

“She came to the doc’s house last night.”

Bill gnawed on that as Thatcher figured he would. “After office hours?”

“At eleven twenty-eight.”

He shrugged. “Could’ve been an emergency.”

Thatcher said nothing, just looked at him.

“But you don’t think so.”

“No, I don’t, Bill. She was dropped off at the street, and seemed in perfect health, best as I could tell by the way she walked.”

“How’d she walk?”

“Like she owned the place. Knocked on the door the same way. The doc was up, or at least his bedroom light was on. Drapes were drawn but there was light around the edges of them, which was why I hadn’t left yet.

“He came to the door in his pajamas and a bathrobe. It appeared to me that he wasn’t altogether happy to see her. In fact, when she tried to step inside, he blocked her. They didn’t raise their voices, or tussle, but there was a lot of angry gesturing. Eventually, he let her in.”

Bill kept his eyes on the road and didn’t comment, so Thatcher continued. “I don’t know where they spent their time while inside, because no other lights in the house came on. If she’d come for medicine or something, they’d’ve gone into his office, don’t you think?”

“How long did she stay?”

“Almost an hour. The car came back at twelve-fifteen. She walked out to it and got in, it drove off. A few minutes later, the upstairs bedroom light went off.”

“She didn’t have the baby with her?”

“No. Could have been in the car, I guess.”

“Did you see who was driving?”

“Another woman.”

“Her sister, no doubt. Patsy Kemp. They live together. Mrs. Kemp’s husband is off working somewhere. Montana, Alaska, somewhere like that. Which is why Norma is living with her, I guess.”

“Norma isn’t married?”

“I didn’t ask, but she wasn’t wearing a wedding band and no reference was made to a husband.”

“Did you see the baby?”

“He was sleeping there in a basket in the living room. She showed him off to me. If he was born out of wedlock, she gave no sign of being ashamed about it.”

“What did she tell you about Dr. Driscoll?”

“What she’d told Scotty when he questioned her, which matched what Gabe had told us. He paid her a house call earlier in the day while she was still in labor. On his way home from Lefty’s, he stopped there again to check on her. In the meantime, she’d given birth and all was well.”

Thatcher took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I feel like a damn peeping Tom.”

“It feels like that sometimes.”

“What feels like that?”

“Detective work.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“Then you are a peeping Tom. Swear to God, Thatcher, I ought to arrest you again.”

Thatcher shot him a look.

“Well then, tell me what’s compelled you to go over there every night for the past week?”

“I wish now I hadn’t. I wish I’d left it alone.”

“No you don’t.”

Thatcher gave him another hard look, which didn’t dent Bill in the slightest. He said, “If you had wanted it left alone, you wouldn’t have told me about Norma’s late-night visit.”

Thatcher didn’t have a chance to form a comeback. They had arrived at the roadhouse. There were twenty or thirty vehicles parked around it, and yet only weak light shone through the screened windows. Built of unpainted clapboard, the structure was as square as a box of saltines and totally without character. A set of warped wood steps led up to the entrance.

It looked nothing like the speakeasy Thatcher had been to in Norfolk, which had had the classy veneer of the haberdashery and an aura of intrigue.

“You seem let down,” Bill remarked.

Thatcher shrugged. “Doesn’t have much atmosphere.”

“Oh, it’s got atmosphere.” He reached beneath his car seat and came up with a Colt revolver. “A hostile atmosphere.”





Twenty-Eight



Bill passed the pistol to Thatcher. “It’s loaded.”

“Will I need it?”

“Depends.” He didn’t say on what.

Even though Thatcher had been told the gun was loaded, he checked the cylinder before pushing the pistol into his waistband and buttoning his jacket over it.

He and Bill got out of the car and walked toward the porch steps where two men sat smoking. As they went around them in order to reach the door, Bill addressed the men by name. They kept their heads down and replied to his greeting with surly mumbles.

The instant they stepped inside, the low rumble of conversation died. Bill acted as though he didn’t notice and pointed Thatcher toward an empty table. They sat in adjacent chairs, both facing out into the room, their backs to the wall.