The contact hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds, but it had flooded him with lust then, and remembering it did now, not for the first time. He meant no disrespect. He had no control over the fantasies about her that came to his mind, some so vivid and arousing they justified Landry’s insinuating grin.
He wished he’d punched that sly mug.
As the lights in the Driscoll house began to go out, he pushed the image of Laurel from his mind. The last light to be turned off was on the second floor, the bedroom no doubt.
Thatcher stood up and looked toward the old busybody’s house. “I guess we can get to bed now.”
He slipped out of the cover of the shed and headed toward the boardinghouse, hoping he wouldn’t be spotted walking the streets where he didn’t belong, skulking around in the dark, like a criminal returning to the scene of his crime.
Twenty-Five
Laurel pulled her Ford into the gravel drive that led around to the back of the house. Irv had told her always to park facing out toward the street in case she ever had to leave in a hurry. “It’ll probably never happen, but…you know.”
Tonight may be the night when taking the precaution would pay off.
Although it wasn’t something easily done, she executed the three point turn and killed the headlights. She reached beneath the seat for the pistol Irv had insisted she begin keeping with her. She couldn’t feature an instance where she would actually fire it, but it was a comforting weight in her hand now.
Her heartbeat thumped as she made a rapid sweep of her surroundings, then took more time to probe the shadows for a possible ambush, seeking out anyone who might have followed her from Martin’s Café, which had been the last stop on tonight’s round despite her claim of having more deliveries to make.
As she’d pulled away from the alley behind the café, she’d had no indication that she was under anyo
ne’s surveillance. Nevertheless, during the drive home, she’d half expected someone to roar up behind her.
She waited inside her car for several minutes longer, but no one showed himself, nothing stirred. Weak with relief, she dropped the pistol in her lap, placed both hands on the steering wheel, and pressed her damp forehead against the backs of them. She took deep breaths.
Of all people to happen upon: the perceptive Mr. Thatcher Hutton. While standing face-to-face with him, one of Mr. Martin’s cooks was out back retrieving four jars of moonshine from the trunk of her car.
At the sight of Mr. Hutton, her heart had almost burst. But, despite the unexpectedness of their near collision, she’d recovered reasonably well, she thought now. Mr. Martin had kept his head and had given nothing away. Of course, he wasn’t the novice that she was. Since the county had been dry for decades, Clyde Martin had been pouring illegal alcoholic beverages for drinking customers for as long as he’d been in business. Or so Irv had informed her.
Neither Mr. Hutton nor the man with him, whose name now escaped her, had seemed the least bit suspicious of her transaction with Mr. Martin, or of the order he had placed for three pies, which, in the coded language they’d worked out between them, translated to that many pies, plus twice that number of jars of corn liquor.
She’d taken her money and run, getting a nod from the cook on her way through the kitchen that the transfer of fruit jars from her car to a hidden compartment in the kitchen had been conducted without detection. Nothing had gone awry.
All the same, she felt she had escaped a close call.
Deciding it was safe to do so, she turned off the engine and got out. She let herself into the house through the back door and went directly upstairs to her bedroom, relieved that she didn’t have to explain her shakes to Irv, who was helping Ernie at the still tonight.
As she entered her room, she left the light off, being more fearful of light than of the dark. She acknowledged that was standard criminal behavior.
Hands still unsteady, she set the pistol on the dresser. The handgun was small enough to fit in her palm, but Irv had assured her that the business end of it would give pause to anyone with harmful intent. He’d also assured her that it wasn’t the one Derby had used to kill himself.
Feeling claustrophobic, she hastily undressed. When she was down to her chemise, she poured water from the pitcher into the wash bowl and sponged off a film of nervous sweat. Then, moving to the bed, she sat on the edge of it and bowed her head, if not in prayer, certainly in relief.
Over the past several weeks, she had become so wrapped up in her exciting new enterprise, that, at times, she had to pause and remind herself that she wasn’t playing a high stakes game where she was merely trying to out-trick an opponent. She was breaking the law. If caught, the penalty was steep. She did not want to go to jail. Nor did she want to be responsible for Irv and Ernie being incarcerated.
When she’d first laid out her idea to use bakery goods as a cover for moving moonshine, Irv had responded with guffaws. Then he’d put up stubborn resistance, followed by pessimistic predictions. But after talking herself hoarse, she’d finally won his grudging support to try it.
“Just for a time. If it doesn’t work, I’ll stop.”
He’d retorted, “If it doesn’t work, we’ll all be behind bars.”
Clyde Martin, the restauranteur, had been the logical choice for their first prospective client.
“He used to keep a bootlegged stock,” Irv had told her. “So long as it was only a state infraction, and a fine if caught, he poured bourbon and scotch on the sly and called it ‘Mama’s sweet tea.’ He bought his moonshine from me. But the new law spooked him. He stopped buying, and, as far as I know, has gone completely dry. I don’t figure he’s a convert to abstinence, though. Might be worth me going to see him.”
“Let me.”
Irv had argued, but ultimately relented. “All right. But… Don’t take this wrong, Laurel. When you go soliciting, wouldn’t hurt if you girlied up some.”