Betty Pierre - Murder.Com

Trying to relieve her apprehension, she meandered from room to room, but kept ending up back in the kitchen, staring out the window into the empty darkness. She picked up the dishcloth and automatically wiped off the clean stove and kitchen counter.

Finally, at nine-thirty, she sat down in a chair at her small desk in the corner of the kitchen. Her gaze fell on the Rolodex. She pulled it toward her and thumbed through the H's, stopping at Tom Hoffman, a friend of theirs who worked as a police detective. The two men had known each other since high school. She remembered meeting Tom shortly after he'd lost his young wife to cancer. He had never remarried, but devoted his life to the police force, working his way up to Detective in the homicide division. Angie liked Tom and thought of him as a close friend.

She lifted the receiver, then let it fall back on the cradle, feeling foolish. The police couldn't take any action; Bud hadn't been gone long enough. She dropped her head on her arms and wept in frustration.

Her tears spent, she went to the kitchen sink and splashed cold water on her face, then wandered into the study, where she flipped on the television for background noise in the silent house.

Sandy called a little after eleven. "Have you heard from him?"

Angie gazed out the kitchen window into the darkness and wiped her hand across her forehead. "Not a word."

"Did you two have a fight?"

"No. I wish it were that simple."

"Maybe you should call the police."

Angie fiddled with a tea towel, rolling the fringed edge between her fingers. "I thought about calling Tom, but what can he do? Bud's only been gone for hours, not days."

"Call him anyway, he'll understand. After all, this is out of character for Bud. That might mean something."

She felt relieved that Sandy had suggested the very thing that had crossed her mind. "You're right. I'll call him."

"I'll talk to you in the morning. Try not to worry."

Angie hung up and drummed her fingers on the table. She still hesitated to call Tom, but her fears had heightened. Bud could be lying in his Porsche at the bottom of a ravine, bleeding to death.

She dialed Tom's home first, but got no answer, so she flipped open the phonebook to the non-emergency police number and asked for Detective Tom Hoffman. While on hold, she closed her eyes and whispered. "Please Tom, be there." When the familiar voice came over the line, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Detective Hoffman here."

"Tom, Angie Nevers. I'm so glad I reached you."

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm concerned about Bud." She explained her husband's uncharacteristic absence. "Tom, I'm really worried."

"It definitely doesn't sound like Bud. Are you home right now?"

She gripped the phone. "Yes."

"Call me if you hear from him. I'm off duty at twelve. I'll drop by if you haven't heard from him by then."

"Thanks Tom, I'd appreciate it."

Sweeping wisps of hair out of her face, Angie went into the television room. She sat rigidly on the couch, staring at the flickering screen.

*****

After hanging up from Angie, Tom Hoffman leaned back and stared at the phone. He'd known Bud for years. The behavior Angie had just described definitely seemed out of character for Bud Nevers. It concerned him. He hoped it was only a miscommunication that had occurred between a man and wife.

He made some notations on the file atop his desk, then rolled his chair backward, depositing the folder into the filing cabinet. Standing up, he stretched his arms and flexed his shoulders, hoping to relax the tight muscles across his back. He shrugged on his jacket and pulled a cigar from his inside pocket. Placing the unlit stogie between his lips, he left the station, waving at the officer in charge as the door swung shut behind him. On the way down the steps, he lit his cigar, savoring the long awaited flavor.

He pulled to a stop at the large iron gates that protected the Nevers' property, pushed the button on the call box and identified himself to Angie. Within a few seconds, the big iron gates swung open. He drove through, glanced in his rearview mirror and watched the tall shadowy forms close.

Driving over the small hill that separated the house from the front gates, he saw the warm welcoming glow from the porch light. He parked in front, snuffed out his cigar in the ashtray and brushed the stray ashes from his coat. He took the dozen or so stairs that led up to the large entry veranda two at a time and had just raised his fist to knock when Angie opened the door.

"Oh, Tom, I'm so glad you're here," she sobbed.

Startled by her tears, he pulled her into his arms and held her for a moment, then pushed her back at arm's length. Putting his finger under her chin, he tilted her head upward and looked into her eyes. "There's probably a simple explanation for Bud's absence, but I can see you are imagining the worst."

"I'm worried sick and don't know what to do." She dabbed at her eyes, then locked her arm into his and led him into the study.

Tom had been a visitor in the home so many times that he felt comfortable going to the wet bar and mixing himself a scotch and water. He then made Angie her favorite, gin and tonic, before sitting down on the leather couch opposite her.

She took a sip and closed her eyes. "I needed this."

Tom studied her oval face. Long wisps of hair had strayed out of the silver barrette at the nape of her neck and twined around the collar of her blue denim shirt. He looked into her crystal-blue eyes and noticed the tear-stained makeup on her cheeks. She sat stiffly and rubbed the rim of the glass with her finger.

"Okay, Angie," he said, scooting forward to the edge of the couch. "Tell me what's going on. You told me a little on the phone, but start at the beginning and tell me the whole thing."

Clutching her glass with both hands, she leaned back in the chair. "As you know, Bud plays golf every Saturday morning."

"Yes, I've even joined him on occasion."

"He left before I woke up, but I really didn't get concerned until about two this afternoon. I called Ken and he told me they'd had a short meeting after their golf game, but he assumed Bud had headed home as usual. That's the last any of us has seen or heard from him."

"Where'd they have this meeting?"

Angie shrugged. "They could have talked at the clubhouse or over at the office. I didn't ask."

"Maybe Bud had an unexpected call from a client and had to meet him someplace. Did you try calling him on his cell phone?"

"I already thought of that, but it's upstairs on the dresser. He never takes it golfing. That's the one place he doesn't want to be disturbed."

Tom nodded and stared into his glass. "Is there a favorite bar where he might have stopped off?"

"Not that I know of. He's never been one to do that."

Tom set his glass on the coffee table, rested his arms on his knees and clasped his hands together. "What about Marty? Did she see him before he left?"

"I don't know. I gave her Saturday off, so I haven't talked to her."

He remained silent for a moment, then with a serious expression looked into her eyes. "I'm going to ask you some personal questions, Angie. But as a police officer, I need to know. Did you and Bud have a fight in the past week or so?"

She shook her head.

"Does Bud have a mistress?"

She stared at him silently, then lowered her eyes. "I have no reason to believe he has one. But, of course, the wife would be the last to know."

Tom cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

A slight twinkle showed in her eyes. "Bud's all I can handle."

He managed a strained grin. "I hope you realize these are routine questions. I just need to know where we stand at the moment. Has he mentioned anything about problems at work or with his health?"