She waited patiently, biting her lower lip while Sandy relayed the question.
"No. Ken said he doesn't recall anything about an appointment, but that doesn't mean Bud didn't have one. Why don't you give him a little more time. It's just after five. You know how a business meeting can go on and on."
"That's true. Thanks, Sandy."
Angie dropped the phone on the cradle and drummed her nails on the plastic receiver. She'd quit smoking ten years ago, but right about now she'd trade her Cadillac for a cigarette.
Chapter Three
Angie kept glancing out the kitchen window, scanning the driveway, praying she'd see Bud's white Porsche come over the top of the slight incline. The clock ticked its way past six o'clock and her anxiety mounted. Several scenarios crossed her mind: a car wreck, a mugging, or maybe someone had stolen the car and left him tied up in some ungodly place.
Pacing from the kitchen to the television room and back down the hall, she kept coming back to the kitchen where the clock ticked loudly amid the silence. Or, had he left her? She'd certainly neglected him lately. And then came the visit from that woman.
She stared out the kitchen window, her gaze fixed on the driveway. Since the party, Bud had been curt and distracted. She'd been preoccupied helping Sandy with the twins and hadn't pressed Bud for answers about Melinda.
When the phone rang at a quarter of eight, she jumped, knocking over a vase of flowers on the counter. She uprighted the dripping vessel and snatched the phone, clutching the receiver to her ear. "Bud."
"No, it's just me. Obviously, he hasn't called?"
Angie slumped limply on a kitchen stool. "Oh, God, Sandy, I'm worried sick."
"Take it easy. Ken and I are taking the girls to a movie. I'll call when we get back if it isn't too late."
Angie calculated that would be after eleven. "I'll be up. If Bud gets home, I'll leave a message on your machine."
"Okay. Now Angie, stay calm. I'm sure there's an explanation."
Angie felt her shoulders tense. There better be, she thought. "Thanks, Sandy."
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.