“How long did she stay?”
“About an hour. Maybe a little longer.”
“Is that the first time you’d seen her since Mrs. Driscoll disappeared?”
The doctor’s eyes darted furtively between Thatcher and Bill, then he confessed to the late-night visit Thatcher had witnessed. “She came uninvited then, too. I didn’t want to let her in, but Norma could be persuasive. A little pushy, even.”
“A little pushy.” Bill assumed a thoughtful expression. “Did her pushiness ever lead to arguments? Did you part on good terms the last time you saw her?”
There was a noticeable hesitation, before he said, “Yes. I enjoyed having that time with my son.” When Bill didn’t continue, but only steadily watched him, he blurted, “But I told Norma that for appearance’s sake, I would come to her from then on.”
“Did you go to her yesterday afternoon, Gabe?”
Driscoll shot a look toward Thatcher, looking like a creature who’d just realized he’d been cornered.
Going back to Bill, he said, “You think I did that to Norma? That’s what this is about?” He lurched to his feet and, with contempt, took a swipe at the sheet of paper on his desk and sent it flying. “I would never, could never, do that to her. I loved her.”
“Sit down, Gabe.”
“How can she be dead?” he said, his voice cracking. “I did not harm her.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Sit down and tell me about yesterday. Where were you midafternoon, say between one-thirty and three-thirty?”
The doctor assumed a posture of righteous indignation. Bill waited him out. After half a minute, Driscoll lowered himself into his chair. “I haven’t called on my rural patients since Mila’s been missing. I resumed my route yesterday.”
“Why yesterday? Any particular reason?”
“I felt it was time that I stopped dwelling on my…my personal tragedy and got back to work.”
“Can you provide us with the names of the people you saw, and the route you took?”
“Of course.” He took a fountain pen and paper from his lap drawer and began listing names. When he finished, Thatcher sat forward, took the paper from him and pocketed it.
“Thank you, Gabe,” Bill said. “I’ve talked myself dry and could do with a glass of water. Mr. Hutton?”
“Sounds good.”
Thatcher could tell that Driscoll saw through the ploy and didn’t like leaving them, but his other choice was to appear overly nervous. “Of course.” He got up and left the room. His footsteps echoed down the hallway toward the back of the house.
Bill leaned toward Thatcher, his eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.
“He believes the baby is his,” Thatcher said quietly. “He’s convinced that her love was true and that he was her only lover. He’s lying about them parting on good terms, though. There was something there.”
“I caught that, too. Maybe she was being pushy about marriage plans. He was afraid of public opinion. That would have given him a motive to shut her up, and yesterday’s route gave him opportunity.”
Thatcher stated flatly, “I don’t think he did it.”
Bill was taken aback. “Why not?”
“If he’d’ve inflicted those injuries, he’d’ve come apart while he was talking through them.”
“He lied to Bernie about seeing Norma only one time. He gave a good performance of an hysterical husband the morning after Mila’s disappearance.”
“But he wasn’t at the scene of the crime.” Thatcher bent down and picked
up Dr. Perkins’s list from the floor. “This amounts to the scene of the crime. I don’t believe he did these things.”
“But?”