“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.”

“There you’re right. If ever a pack of miscreants adhered to the an-eye-for-an-eye system of justice, it’s the Johnsons. If a competing moonshiner is suspected of killing Wally, it’ll be like lighting a short fuse to a powder keg. It’s happened before. One rival shoots another. People take sides. Old grudges are reignited. Bodies start stacking up. It’s all-out warfare until a truce is negotiated.”

“Is Bernie Croft one of the Johnsons’ competitors?”

The sheriff smiled across at him. “Bernie would never do his own killing.” He pulled to a stop near the railroad depot, fifty yards shy of the boardinghouse. “If I took you to the door, it would look official.”

“This is fine. Thanks for the ride.” Thatcher reached for the door handle.

“The logical conclusion to draw,” the sheriff said as he shut off the engine, leaned back in his seat, and began stroking his mustache, “is that another, probably less successful, competitor killed Wally out of jealousy or spite.”

Thatcher resettled in his seat, accepting the sheriff’s implied invitation for him to stay while he did his thinking out loud.

He looked over at Thatcher, hesitated for a moment, then said, “You’re a good listener. I’ve noticed that about you, because, in that way, you remind me of my boy. Other ways, too.”

“Was he your only son?”

“Only child.”

Damn. “Did he have a family?”

“Not yet. He was keen on a certain young lady but hadn’t declared himself. I heard recently that she’s engaged. I’m happy for her, of course, but I can’t help wondering, wishing…”

He gave Thatcher a rueful smile, then began to describe the position Wally Johnson’s body had been in when found, and the ruthless nature of the wounds. He told Thatcher about the teenaged cousin who’d made the gruesome discovery.

“Elray says he got to the still early this morning prepared to put in a day’s work. Saw Wally spread-eagled on the ground. ‘Drawing flies,’ he said. He drove to the nearest gas station and used the telephone to call it in. I caught up with him and deputies already at the scene. The kid was as skittish as that stallion you’re trying to train. Least little sound, Elray would jump three feet.”

He paused before continuing. “What I can’t figure is this. If it was a competitor, or any perceived enemy, why was Wally found lying flat on his back, holding a rifle that hadn’t been fired? The shot to the ear was overkill. He was already dead. The shot that killed him was fired point-blank.”

“He and his killer were face-to-face.”

“If Wally felt anything at all, it was a split second of shock.”

“No resistance?”

“Looks like none.”

“Then he knew the person, trusted him to get that close.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Well, you’re probably right, sheriff. I hope you catch the culprit soon. Thanks again for the lift.” Thatcher opened the passenger door and put his right foot on the running board, but got no farther before the sheriff waylaid him again.

“None of the Johnsons are geniuses. As book-learning goes, they’re ignorant. But they’re cagey, wily, and came out of the womb lying. Even so, I believe Elray was telling the truth. Too scared not to, I think. And he told me something that I keep going back to.”

“Something niggling you.”

“Exactly that.” The sheriff gave him a crooked smile and shook his index finger at him. “See? I noted that you’re a good listener. Anyway, Elray told me that he and Wally were at Lefty’s Roadhouse night before last. You know Lefty’s?”

Thatcher shook his head.

“It’s a blind tiger.”

Thatcher couldn’t contain his surprise. “A speakeasy here in Foley?”

“I see you’re familiar with the term.”

Thatcher shrugged with chagrin and pulled his foot back into the car. “In Norfolk, when we got off the troop ship, some buddies and me were ready to let off steam.”

The sheriff smiled in a way that didn’t pass judgment. “Your first stop off the boat was a speakeasy.”

“One of the ship’s crewmen who’d been to this one gave us the password. Never would’ve known it was there otherwise.”