He hooked his thumbs under his suspenders and ran them up and down as he took a slow look around.
“Well?” Laurel said.
“I’m taking stock.”
“You’re stalling.”
“We don’t have any furniture.”
“We don’t have any now!” she exclaimed, causing Pearl to stir. “Why are you so opposed to this, Irv?”
“I ain’t.”
“Good. We’ll move in tomorrow.”
Before he could say anything further, she turned on her heel and left through the front door. By the time he had followed, locked the door, and returned the key to its hiding place, she was in the car—in the driver’s seat.
He hobbled around to the passenger side and opened the door. “What do you think you’re doing?”
&nbs
p; “Pearl’s asleep. You can hold her while I drive.”
“You need a lot more practice.”
“I’ll have five miles’ worth after driving home. Now get in.”
Fourteen
Thatcher was confined to the jail cell throughout the day, although after deputies returned, he was allowed two visits to the lavatory. Harold grudgingly provided him with a bar of soap and a towel so he was able to wash up.
He heard people entering and leaving the building where briefings were held in the main room, but for most of the day the door at the end of the hall had remained closed, so he was unable to hear everything that was being said.
The telephone rang frequently. He supposed updates on the search for Mrs. Driscoll were being called in to Sheriff Amos, but Thatcher didn’t sense a thunderbolt from any of the incoming information.
Darkness had fallen and the hubbub in the office had died down before Sheriff Amos came through the door. Thatcher hadn’t seen him since their conversation that morning.
Apparent to Thatcher immediately was that the stressful day had taken a toll. Bill Amos probably had twenty-five years on Thatcher, but for a man of his age, he was fit. Tonight, however, he looked like he was under a lot of strain and weary to the bone.
Thatcher got up from the bunk and met him at the bars. “Any news?”
“We’ll get to it.” He hefted a lidded enamel pot by its wire handle. “Hungry?”
“I could do with something.”
“Chicken and dumplings.” He unlocked the cell and passed Thatcher the pot. “Take it by the handle. It’s hot.”
Thatcher took the pot, lifted the lid, and sniffed. “From the café?”
“One of Martin’s specialities.” He took a spoon and napkin from his shirt pocket and passed them through the bars. “Don’t dig an escape tunnel with the spoon.”
He said it with a smile that Thatcher returned. He carried the pot over to the bunk, where he set it down carefully so not to spill. The sheriff didn’t withdraw, but stood just beyond the bars, staring at nothing, thoughtfully smoothing his mustache. Thatcher went back over and waited him out until he was ready to reveal the cause of his furrowed brow.
He began by saying, “There’s news only about where Mrs. Driscoll isn’t. Nothing about where she is. None of her kin has seen or heard from her. Her uncle and aunt drove up from New Braunfels. They took over for Scotty, staying with Dr. Driscoll.”
“How’s he doing?”
“At wits’ end. Several times he tried to leave his house and join the search. Wrestled with Scotty and the uncle when they stopped him. Last I heard, they’d persuaded him to take a sleeping draught.”