In a breathy voice, she said, “For a moment there, I thought… With the light behind him, the angle of his jaw, he looked…” She trailed off, and, turning away from Thatcher, said to her husband, “They do make mistakes. I’ve read stories.”
Bill placed his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t think it’s a mistake, Daisy.”
She looked toward the photo gallery, then pressed her face into Bill’s shirtfront, and began making keening sounds that made chills run down Thatcher’s spine.
Bill shushed her, then turned with her toward the stairs, saying to Thatcher over his shoulder, “Wait for me on the porch.”
Thatcher quietly slipped through the front door. Fucking hell. This was turning out to be some morning.
He sat down in one of the rocking chairs and stared at the gelding whose head drooped in the midmorning heat. He was too lazy even to graze at the patch of grass within nibbling distance. Thatcher actually preferred a horse that would stamp and rear and buck him off a dozen times to one he had to light a fire under.
Neither he nor the horse moved much in the ten minutes before Bill came through the door, pulling it closed behind him. He avoided looking at Thatcher as he dragged the other rocking chair over and lowered himself into it, settling heavily. He rested his head against the back of it and closed his eyes, his bearing one of utter despair and defeat.
Thatcher took his cue from Bill and remained silent.
After a time, Bill sat forward and placed his forearms on his thighs, linking his fingers between his knees and staring at the floor planks under his boots. “Daisy has a heart condition. You see? Her heart is broken. Shattered, actually.
“The ‘declines’ I told you about are actually drinking binges. When I got home late last night, she was passed out. I couldn’t wake her up. Scares me shitless when I find her like that. I stayed home this morning, waiting for her to wake up, bathe, to eat something…” He made a rolling motion with his hand. “You get it.”
Thatcher nodded, but Bill had yet to look at him, so he didn’t see the nod. He said the first thing that came to mind, and it was in earnest. “She’s beautiful.”
Bill gave a sniff of rueful humor. “First time I saw her, swear to God I don’t think I took a breath for five full minutes. It was at a community picnic on the Fourth of July. She had on a white dress and carried a parasol. I drew her attention by winning a shooting contest. She strolled over to congratulate me on my blue ribbon. I don’t remember what we said to each other. I doubt I made a lick of sense.”
He paused and smiled at the recollection. “Anyhow, I started courting her the next day. A few months later, I asked for her hand, and she said yes. I thought for sure she was taunting me, but no, she was in earnest. I marched her to First Methodist before she could change her mind. Our son Tim was born nine months later, almost to the day of the wedding.”
During his next pause, his smile faded. “But after Tim, she couldn’t conceive. That boy became the light of our lives. We loved him. Most everybody who met him did. The good die young, they say.” He gulped, and it took a while for him to continue.
“We never saw his body, didn’t have a casket. We put up a marker in the cemetery, but Daisy can’t accept that he’s gone. I know it was eerie for you, the way she was staring. I apologize. She thinks she sees Tim in every young man who’s the right age and of similar build. You do resemble him that way.
“She drinks herself into stupors. Some last hours. Some for days. Every once in a while, she can pull herself together and make an effort to be her old self, the belle of the ball. But not often.”
Thatcher shifted in his seat. “Have you thought of taking her to a sanatorium?”
“A thousand times a day. But I can’t bring myself to do it, Thatcher. I can’t do that to either of us. Being locked up might send her over a cliff to where I couldn’t reach. I wouldn’t have anything of her, and I’d rather have this than nothing.”
“Where does she get the hooch?”
He looked over at Thatcher then, and in his eyes was a shameful confession. “That’s why I told you it would be messy if I tried to charge our mayor with bootlegging. Not just messy, but hypocritical. He supplies me with the good stuff from Kentucky.”
“He might not if he knew it wasn’t for you, if he knew it was Mrs. Amos who was drinking it.”
“Oh, he knows. He takes perverse pleasure in her addiction and our sad, sad circumstance.” He gave Thatcher another rueful smile. “He was Daisy’s escort to the picnic.”
Thirty-Three
Chester Landry was in conversation with Mr. Hancock and one of his female customers. She was effusively extolling the quality and styling of her recently purchased shoes. With matching effusiveness, Landry complimented her on how well she wore them.
She simpered, Mr. Hancock suggested she buy an additional pair, and Landry’s eye was caught by Jimmy Hennessy, who was paying for a purchase at the cash register. Croft’s bodyguard tipped his head toward the door.
Landry excused himself from the merchant and the woman, telling them how badly he regretted being unable to stay longer, and exited the store. Hennessy was staring into one of the store’s display windows and didn’t even turn his head in Landry’s direction as he said, “He wants to see you.”
Five minutes later, Landry entered the municipal building through a back entrance and took a private staircase that led to a side door of the mayor’s office, bypassing his secretary. This door was used only by Bernie’s inner circle and individuals like Sheriff Amos who came to pick up their graft.
Landry tapped on the door and was told to come in. Concealing his displeasure over being marshaled, he said, “Good morning, Bernie.” He walked over to his customary chair and took a seat.
Bernie, seated behind his desk, was fiddling with a sterling silver letter opener. Landry got the sense he was testing its worth as a weapon. He said, “I understand there was some excitement at Lefty’s last night.”
“Yes. Rip-roaring.”