He looked at the almost-finished jambalaya the waiter had finally brought him. “I hope so.”
“And if he hasn’t?”
“Then I’m going to keep looking for him.”
“What have you found out so far?”
“Not much,” he admitted. “I’ve been searching the newspaper archives, looking for any old stories that might have had anything to do with Bud and R.L. They’ve led pretty uneventful lives, actually.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Let’s just say their exploits didn’t make headlines. What I know about their past is that they graduated from the local high school with a close-knit group of about a half dozen friends. A couple of them moved away shortly after graduation. Since then, another died of a heart attack, one got on the wrong side of the law and ended up in prison, and only Truman, Bud and R.L. remained together over the years. They all married in their twenties, but Truman’s was the only union that lasted until death parted them. His wife died of cancer ten years ago. R.L. was divorced once, Bud twice.
“They each started their own businesses, and all did well, though none of them got rich. Truman retired a couple of years ago, Bud a year later, and R.L. retired after our friendly hometown firebug burned his business down. They spent their free time fishing, hunting, bowling—just having a good time—until Truman died in that fire earlier this year and someone tried to kill R.L. just weeks ago. As far as I know, Bud received no threats and had no close calls or anything else to send him on the run. The only specific incident I can point to is spotting that van outside your house.”
“He left the next day.”
Riley nodded grimly. “Without a word of warning.”
Resting her elbows on the table, she leaned slightly toward him, obviously giving her full attention to their conversation. “You’re still assuming there’s a connection between the fire that killed Truman and the shooting at Mr. Hightower’s house?”
“I still think it’s a possibility.”
“Murder.” She shivered slightly as she whispered the word.
“Maybe,” he agreed reluctantly.
As if her appetite had suddenly vanished, she set down her fork and drew a deep breath. “Okay, what are the usual motives for murder?”
He’d been over the list a dozen times in his mind. “Money.”
“But you said none of them were rich.”
“Right. Comfortable, but not rich. And even if they had money, the only people who would stand to gain are members of their own separate families.”
“What else?”
“Revenge.”
She frowned. “You said they led quiet, uneventful lives. What would they have done to drive someone to want that kind of revenge against them?”
“Nothing that I could find.”
“So…what else?”
“Jealousy.”
“I don’t suppose they all courted the same woman at some point?”
He smiled, but it felt crooked. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“There’s always the possibility that we’re getting completely carried away here. Truman Kellogg could have died in an accidental fire, or one started by that boy who admitted setting all the others. And it’s very likely that R.L. has a personal enemy who isn’t out to get anyone else. And that the van in front of our house was full of carousing teenagers who had no interest in any of us.”
“You’re probably right. So where’s Bud?”
“Obviously with his friend. Maybe just keeping him company until they believe it’s safe to come home.”
Now it was Riley’s time to pose questions. “If R.L., and presumably Bud, knew who fired those shots, why wouldn’t they have told Dan?”