“No.”
“Me neither, and Mrs. Amos is hosting bridge tonight. Get in.”
Thatcher went around to the passenger side. Once on the road, he asked, “What’s your wife’s name?”
“Daisy. Her bridge club meets one night a month.”
“Does she know how to play poker?”
Bill laughed. “Not with you, she doesn’t.” After a beat, he said, “I’m glad she’s having the group at the house tonight. She doesn’t entertain as often as she used to.”
That had sounded like a loaded statement. Thatcher waited for him to expand.
Bill cleared his throat. “Daisy isn’t always up to socializing. She has…declines. A heart condition.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, well, you know. Life.” He gave Thatcher a weak smile. “How’s it been treating you lately?”
“Can’t complain. Me and Ulysses have finally resolved our differences. His owner is picking him up later this week.”
“Will he take to another rider?”
“We’ll see.”
Bill chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to be the first to try. Did you fill that last stall?”
“I’ve got a waiting list.”
Bill removed his pocket watch and checked the time. “I have a hankering for a juicy hamburger. Have you been to Lefty’s yet?”
Thatcher shook his head.
“Then you’re past due.” He tucked his watch away and settled into his seat. “Did you wait in the dark to see me so you could ask my wife’s name?”
“Naw.” Thatcher exhaled heavily and propped his elbow on the door ledge. “I was wondering if you had talked to that woman, Dr. Driscoll’s patient who had the breech birth.”
Bill gave him a sharp look, swerving in the process. The driver of an oncoming vehicle tooted a warning. Bill waved an apology as he passed a jalopy of a truck with two young men inside.
“Mrs. Plummer’s delivery boys.”
Thatcher reacted with a start. “Her delivery boys?”
Bill told him about the arrangement Laurel had made with Logan’s Grocery. Although Thatcher turned his head aside and pretended to be absorbed in the passing scenery, he listened with avid interest.
“I hear her pies are selling like hot cakes,” Bill said. “No pun intended.”
“I knew she’d gone into the business. One night last week, I had supper in Martin’s Café. While I was there, she came in to deliver an order.”
“Really? To Clyde?”
“Um-huh.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just that Clyde has always used his own cooks for everything.”