“That’s right. I could tell myself he had gone somewhere to settle himself down, but when he didn’t come home last night, either… I know something terrible’s happened to him.”

Harry relaxed back into the polished curve of the rocker. “Mrs. Ketchem, we can’t say a grown man’s missing when he’s only been away from home for a few nights. Have you checked with his family?”

“I used a neighbor’s phone last evening, when he didn’t show up for supper. Mother and Father Ketchem aren’t home, but I spoke to their herd foreman at his house. He hasn’t seen Jonathon.”

“How about his brother up in Lake George?”

“David said he wasn’t there.”

Harry wondered how truthful the brother might be. He could easily imagine the husband pulling in in the wee hours, spending the next day bellyaching about the little woman, and telling his brother to lie through his teeth when she called. Especially if he was going on a toot. “Mrs. Ketchem,” he said, “does your husband drink?”

She blanched. “No! We’re good Christians. My husband has never indulged.”

That had struck a nerve. He’d bet a dollar against a plugged nickel that if he were to go into the cellar right now, he’d find a couple mason jars of 100 proof. Behind the coal bin, or at the back of the husband’s workbench, never where she’d find it, but enough there so she’d wonder about the husband’s long trips downstairs and the smell of Sen-Sen on his breath when he came up again.

“Has he ever gone off before? After you’ve fought? You know, to cool off some?”

She shook her head, absolute in her denial. “No.”

“Any money missing?”

“He has his wallet, of course, but nothing’s been taken from the household money. I didn’t think to ask about our account at the bank.” She looked worried. “The checkbook is still on Jonathon’s desk. He usually takes care of all that.”

“It might be a good idea to stop in at the Farmers and Merchants and see if he made any withdrawals in the past few days. Yours wouldn’t be the first husband to take off in a huff, find an extra few bills in his wallet, and decide to spend them on himself before coming home.”

“But Jonathon isn’t like that,” she said, her voice rising. “That’s why I know something bad’s happened to him. He would never be gone so long without letting me know where he was.” To Harry’s discomfort, her eyes filled with tears. “I just don’t know what to do. Please. Please, find my husband.” The tears overflowed.

Harry leaned up out of the chair, yanking at his handkerchief. “Aw, now, don’t-don’t cry.” He thrust the white fabric at her and prayed she wouldn’t fall apart completely. Growing up the one son amid five sisters had left Harry with a lifelong horror of bawling females. “I’ll tell you what. I can’t put out the alert on him as a missing person. It’s at least five days too early.” Mrs. Ketchem started to cry even harder. “But!” he said. “If you can calm down and write me out a list of your husband’s friends and the places where he’s found work recently, I’ll begin asking around for him.”

Mrs. Ketchem lifted her face, red-eyed and blotchy, from his handkerchief. “Would you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I would. And I want you to try to stop worrying. In all likelihood, he’s holed up with some buddy of his, trying to think of a way to come back and apologize without bruising his pride too much.” He thought it was more likely that the missing man was either on a bender or shacked up with some sympathetic floozy, but Harry wasn’t about to suggest that to a jumpy, frightened wife. Either way, ol’ Jonathon would be back as soon as his funds ran out.

She went upstairs for some writing paper, which gave him a chance to poke around some. The place was small, just the parlor, a dining room, a tiny sitting room that looked to be used as a playroom, and the kitchen out back. The furniture was quality, but old. He guessed most of it had come down from a grandparent or two. Mrs. Ketchem was a good housewife-the china in the cupboard shone, the little girl’s toys were all stacked away, and the kitchen was scrubbed. A closet-sized room off the kitchen held a washing machine and a heap of dirty clothes, which he picked through quickly and efficiently. No signs of foul play, drunkenness, or any other type of disorder, except that of an orderly housewife neglecting her Monday wash. Which, if she feared the worst, he could understand. Nothing could bring back a person’s smell once it had been laundered away.

He was peeking out the back door, which led onto an enclosed porch, when she strode into the kitchen. She handed him a sheet of paper with a list of names and addresses written out in neat Palmer penmanship. “Here you are,” she said. Doing something, anything, had helped. She looked around the kitchen with more energy than he had seen so far. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?” she asked.

Coffee. Oh, yes. “That’s kind of you,” he said. “Yes.”

“Can you fetch me some wood from the bin on the porch back there? It’s right beside the door.”

Like the rest of the house, the woodbin was just as it ought to be, tidy and well-stocked. There was a hatchet hanging over a chopping block, and he casually picked it up and examined it for signs that it had been used on something other than wood. But the fine wood dust caked in the joints between hatchet head and handle would never have survived a thorough cleaning.

Inside, Mrs. Ketchem had set the dripolater on and was reshelving a Chock full o’ Nuts bag. He loaded the stove’s fire box and asked her where the necessary was. She pointed him back out through the porch, and by the time he had done his business and washed up in the kitchen sink, Mrs. Ketchem was ready with a white crockery mug in each hand. She sat at the kitchen table and he joined her.

“I ought to get my daughter soon. At least now I’ll have something positive to tell her. That the police are going to try to find her father. Maybe…” She faltered, and Harry could see her forward momentum die away. She reached into her sweater pocket, withdrew his handkerchief, and wiped her eyes again. She began to hand the damp cloth back to him and then started, as if she had really seen it for the first time. She jerked her arm back and balled it in her fist. “I’ll launder this for you.”

“You don’t need to-”

“Oh, it’s the least I could do.” She stood up, looking frail inside the large sweater, which, Harry realized, was probably her husband’s. “I’m sorry for falling apart like that.” She offered him a rendition of a smile. “I know men hate to have a woman go off on them like that.”

Harry waved his hands in denial. “Not at all. You were upset.”

She smiled a bit more genuinely. “You’re very patient. Thank you.” She took the handkerchief into the laundry closet and then resettled herself in the kitchen chair. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Let me get the inquiries in motion. Then we’ll talk again, if he hasn’t turned up.”

“When can I expect to hear from you?”

“I’ll follow up on these this morning,” he said, consigning his nap to the realm of impossibly beautiful dreams. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we have your husband back home in time for supper.”

Her face fell blank and still. Only her eyes seemed alive, like dark water cast into shade by a cloud. “No,” she said finally. “I don’t think so.” She blinked, and the illusion was broken. She looked at him. “Have you ever had a feeling, Chief McNeil? That something bad has happened? That’s how I feel. I don’t think my husband’s coming home for supper. Not tonight. Not any night.”