Having been lazy long enough, she forced herself to get up. She washed and dressed, and was pinning up her hair when she heard the back door open and the scrape of footsteps in the kitchen.
Her heart swelled. Maybe Thatcher had come back for a good morning kiss after all.
More probably, though, it was Irv, returning from the stills. She dreaded having to tell him, Corrine, and Ernie about the O’Connors, but she also hoped that they hadn’t heard the dreadful news from someone else first.
She pushed the last pin into her hair, and then started downstairs, calling as she went, “Irv?”
* * *
Once in Bill’s car and on their way, Thatcher asked after Mrs. Amos.
“Not doing good, I hate to say. I’m worried, Thatcher. No ordinary bellyache lasts this long. With all these crises going on, if I can’t take time off to get her to a doctor, I’m going to ask her friend to take her.”
“What about Dr. Perkins?”
“He’d just give her more drops. She needs to be examined by somebody born after the Civil War. Have you heard of that sanitarium in Temple?”
Thatcher shook his head.
“Couple of doctors down there—names are Scott and White—are building quite a reputation. I may look into getting her in down there.”
They drove along the road where Thatcher had last seen the getaway car’s taillights disappearing around a bend. Bill drove beyond that point, then pulled his car to the side of the road.
“This is pointless. What’s on your mind?”
Thatcher said, “Have you sent anybody out to Pointer’s Gap yet?”
“It was on my list of things to do today, but with the ambush, the fire, I haven’t had the men to spare, and you’d have to go with them to show the way. So, no.”
“Have you arranged for a lawyer for Driscoll?”
“It’s not a priority.”
Bill’s expectant expression prompted Thatcher to get on with it. “This is going to sound like I’m beating around the bush but bear with me.”
The sheriff checked his pocket watch. “It’s a busy day. Five minutes, Thatcher.”
“Last night when you dropped Laurel and me at her house, she was on the brink of a breakdown.”
“Over Davy O’Connor.”
“Sure. But also, yesterday afternoon she had an upsetting visit from Bernie Croft and Chester Landry.”
“Let me guess. They wanted her to merge her business with theirs.”
Thatcher said nothing. Bill waited a few seconds then sighed with exasperation. “They’re bootleggers, Thatcher. They wouldn’t have been interested in Mrs. Plummer’s pie business.”
“I’m not saying anything about her.”
“You don’t have to. I’ve known for years that old Irv dabbled. He didn’t cause anybody trouble, so I looked the other way. Other moonshiners did, too, because he didn’t put too deep a dent in their market. But the lady has gotten everybody riled.”
“Croft and Landry for sure.”
“She turned them down?” Again, Thatcher remained silent, but Bill nodded as though Thatcher had replied. “In return, they shot up her delivery boys.”
“At the scene of the ambush, Harold said to me that somebody had wanted to make a point. I think he was right. I think it was Croft.”
“What about Landry?”
“He was with Laurel when the shooting started, remember?”
“Now I do. I had asked her about it, but we got off on Mike O’Connor’s condition, so I never received an answer. Was he a decoy, sent to keep her occupied while the O’Connors were being ambushed?”
“That’s possible, I guess. But what Landry told Laurel was that he’d returned to make her a better offer.”
“Behind Bernie’s back? A double-cross?”
“Landry is weaselly enough.”
“Oh, I agree. But are you suggesting that while he was negotiating with Mrs. Plummer, Bernie acted alone?”
“I don’t think Landry is above removing somebody, but he wouldn’t go about it like that. He wouldn’t have made a spectacle.”
“Like the ambush.”
“And like a ‘hell of a blaze.’”
Bill looked at him with raised brows. “Hiram’s place?”
“Hennessy was in the IRA. They’re famous for blowing things up. They make explosive devices out of tin cans. That fire at the Johnsons’ place might not have been sparked by lightning.”
“Christ, Thatcher. Do you have any idea of the shit you’re wading into here? Bernie Croft isn’t a man you trifle with.”
“No, Bill, you can’t trifle. You gotta hit him with more than a slap on the hand. You gotta kick him in the balls and then cut them off.”
Bill lapsed into thought, tugging at the corner of his mustache. “We’d have a hell of a time proving that Bernie ordered that ambush or the fire. He’s got