Reservations for Murder - Tim Myers [28]
Craig snapped, “I’m not waiting another second. I’m calling Sheriff Armstrong. He’s going to come out here whether he likes it or not.”
Craig brushed past Alex and nearly slammed the door in his face. Alex walked in and sat down beside Evans Graile in one of the chairs that faced the windows. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything, have you?”
“There was only one call. Elise phoned two minutes ago. She said she’d talk to you tomorrow.”
Blast it all! Alex wanted to talk to her more than just about anything, and he’d missed her while he was out on a wild-goose chase. “Did she leave a number at the hospital?”
“No, I’m sorry, Alex, she didn’t. You could probably track her down, but to be honest with you, she sounded exhausted from her ordeal.”
Evans was right; it wouldn’t be that hard to find the hospital’s number, but Elise hadn’t left it, so she most likely was too tired to talk to him. He had to respect her wishes. Since she’d been gone, Alex had found himself unusually moody. He had to keep reminding himself that was sheer nonsense. He’d managed fine before she’d come along, and he’d be all right long after she was gone.
Then why did he feel so empty inside?
Ten minutes later, the sheriff drove up Point Road. Alex knew the man’s general disposition before he even got out of the car. If Armstrong believed there was the slightest chance Marilynn Baxter had truly been kidnapped, he would have ripped up the road with lights flashing and siren blaring. As it was, the steady pace of the darkened and silent patrol car told him that Armstrong was there just to appease a constituent.
Alex met him at the patrol car before the sheriff could open his door. Armstrong finished saying something on his radio, then got out and stood beside Alex, leaning against the driver’s door.
“I’m surprised Monroe wasn’t out here to greet me in person, he was so fired up on the phone,” Armstrong said. “Alex, just between you and me, do you honestly think that man believes his wife was kidnapped?”
“He seemed pretty earnest,” Alex admitted, “and she is gone, there’s no doubt about that. We searched all around the property without any luck.”
“From what I’ve heard around town, this isn’t the first time she’s wandered off. Far be it for me to spread idle gossip, but—”
Before the sheriff could share the rumor, Craig Monroe burst out through the front door. “It’s about time you got here! Where’s Irene? Doesn’t she usually investigate these things with you?”
“Take it easy, Craig. There’s no crime scene, so I didn’t see any reason to drag her out here this late. She’s not feeling so chipper right now; her arthritis is acting up. We must be in for one whale of a storm in the next few days. Irene’s better than the Weather Channel when it comes to predicting storms.”
“So who’s going to help you investigate?” Craig demanded.
“Hold your horses. We don’t even know for sure if a crime’s been committed. Did you get a note or a phone call demanding a ransom?”
Craig admitted that he hadn’t.
Armstrong went on. “Did anybody see her taken from the property against her will?”
“No, but—”
Armstrong bulled ahead. “So you’re going around screaming about a kidnapping without the slightest shred of evidence.”
Craig Monroe held up his wife’s insulin. “How about this? Why would she leave without her insulin?”
“Is that the only bottle in the world?” the sheriff asked gently.
“Of course it isn’t! But I’m telling you, she’d be here if she could!”
The sheriff said calmly, ‘Tell you what. Why don’t we jump in the patrol car and head over to your place. We can check to see if there’s any sign of her there. What do you say to that?”
“You’re not even going to look around out here first?” Craig snapped.
Armstrong said calmly, “Alex told me you’ve already searched Hatteras West. Don’t you think our time might be better spent looking someplace new?”
Craig reluctantly agreed. “Let me grab my keys. I’ll be right back.”
As the potter went to retrieve his house keys, the sheriff said, “Now, as I was saying, word around town is that the husband-and-wife team’s