She laughed. “What do you have against dimples?”
He went on as though she hadn’t interrupted. “Ernie and Corrine need to be put on watch, too.”
“Because of the theft, Ernie is already on alert.”
“How’d Ernie take to Corrine?”
She hedged. “She’ll grow on him.”
He barked a laugh. “Don’t count on it. He’s used to his own company and silence. God knows he’ll have precious little of that.”
Laurel smiled. “I have pies to bake today, but I’ll drive out and check on them tomorrow. Hopefully they’ll have several crates of whiskey ready for me.”
“Speaking of, I could do with a nip.”
“At bedtime.”
“I just woke up.”
“At bedtime.”
“I’m hurting now.”
“Part of the healing process.” She stood up and straightened the cover where she’d been sitting at the foot of his bed. He was idly scratching his chin again. “Your stubble is itching. Would you like a shave?”
“No.”
“I’m happy to do it.”
He waved off the offer. “I’m thinking, is all.”
“Something’s gnawing at you, Irv. What?”
“You say you introduced Hutton to the twins? How’d that go?”
“All right. After they shook hands, I sent the twins on their way.”
In giving Irv an account of last night’s visit from Thatcher, she had omitted certain details, one being the hostility that had crackled between him and the O’Connors. She also didn’t tell him that Thatcher had questioned her about the deliveries the twins made to Ranger, or that Sheriff Amos had pointed the O’Connors out to Thatcher while referring to them as wild. Nor did she mention that Thatcher had asked who supplied Irv’s moonshine.
Unabridged honesty could set his recovery back for weeks, which was how she justified those omissions. Even so, his forehead remained furrowed.
“This warning from Hutton about Chester Landry worries me,” he said. “It should worry you, too, Laurel. My advice is to steer clear of the man.”
“I plan to, whether or not he’s into bootlegging.”
Irv peered up at her through his lowered brows. “I wasn’t referring to Landry.”
* * *
Bernie Croft had eaten a late breakfast at Martin’s Café. Rather than ride to his office, he’d chosen to walk the short distance and was almost there when a deranged individual lunged at him from out of a narrow alleyway.
He was grabbed roughly by the lapel of his suit coat, jerked into the space between the two buildings, and forcefully pushed against a brick wall. Hands closed around his neck and began to choke him.
Dr. Gabe Driscoll was barely recognizable. His eyes were bloodshot. His bared and clenched teeth looked feral. But his fingers were like steel clamps around Bernie’s throat. “I’m going to kill you.”
Bernie gasped, “Jesus Christ, Gabe.” He planted his hands on the physician’s chest and pushed with all his might.
Obviously in a weakened state, Gabe wasn’t that hard to dislodge. He reeled backward and landed against the opposite brick wall, his shoulder catching the brunt of the impact. He clapped his hand over his rotator cuff and yelped in pain.