Blind Tiger

“No thanks, I’ll walk.”

“I’ll drive you.”

* * *

Once underway, the sheriff said, “Strange day.”

It was clear to Thatcher that Sheriff Amos still harbored some suspicion of him. If it hadn’t been for that goddamn diamondback… But it had happened, and the sheriff had seen it, and now he’d tossed out a remark that Thatcher didn’t think was offhanded. Unsure of how he was expected to respond, he didn’t.

“For instance,” the sheriff continued, “on my way to the office this morning, I came across Irv Plummer. That old truck of his was pulled off to the side of the road.”

“Broken down?”

“Overloaded.”

Thatcher was curious, but pretended not to be.

The sheriff said, “He was moving.”

“Moving what?”

“Domiciles.”

Thatcher looked over at him then. “Domiciles?”

“He’s rented a house out on the north side of town. With a sickly grandbaby, he thought it best to be closer in.”

“They were moving today?”

“He said his daughter-in-law had put her foot down.”

It would be a small foot, but Thatcher could envision her planting it firmly and issuing an ultimatum, spine stiff, chin angled up. It was an image he would enjoy dwelling on if he were alone. He said, “Did he say how the baby’s doing?”

“They took her to Dr. Perkins. He gave her some medicine.” The sheriff made a right turn and honked at a spotted dog that was trotting down the center of the street.

“Then,” he said, picking up where he’d left off, “after releasing you, and while I was at home having lunch, I got two telephone calls. The first was to notify me of a homicide.”

Thatcher’s heart thumped. “Mrs. Driscoll?”

“No. No sign of her yet, and the search parties are getting weary.”

“They can’t stop looking.”

“My office won’t. But volunteers are just that: volunteers. They’ve got businesses to run, farms to work, cattle to tend. In all truth, Mr. Hutton, we may never know what happened to her.”

“People don’t just vanish.”

“Actually they do.”

That was a depressing thought. Not only because of the effect the unsolved mystery could have on his future, but it distressed him that he might never know the kind woman’s fate.

“A fellow named Wally Johnson.”

Thatcher had to clear his mind of Mrs. Driscoll before the sheriff’s words sank in. “Sorry?”

“The murder victim. Well known around here.” The sheriff went on to describe the volatile temperament of the deceased and the disreputable family that had spawned him.

Thatcher took it in. “Sounds like you need to find the killer before his kinfolks do. Cream doesn’t rise to the top. Bad blood does.”