The Moonshine Shack Murder

by Diane Kelly

  The fury burning in his eyes eased slightly as he mulled over my words.

  Sensing I might get somewhere, I went on. “Besides, you’re only one of a long list of suspects. I’m a person of interest myself.”

  Damien looked me up and down. His upper lip quirked. “They think you might have killed O’Keefe?”

  I nodded, insulted by the insinuation that I was weak but not about to argue the point. “Cormac and I had an argument about an order of moonshine. Cormac later called the cops and claimed my grandfather had threatened him with a knife. They think I might have taken revenge on Cormac for the call.” I gestured to Granddaddy, who’d lolled to one side in the chair out front and threatened to fall out.

  Damien’s eyes looked to the window and he barked a laugh. “Cormac was scared of that old coot?”

  Though Damien had a valid point, my ire rose on my grandfather’s behalf. It was one thing to insult me. It was another to insult the patriarch of my family, the man without whom I wouldn’t be standing in my very own moonshine shop. Call my granddaddy an old coot, will you? Fortunately, my infuriation fueled my courage. I tucked the jar of shine under my arm and pointed a finger in his face. “I don’t appreciate you coming in here and chewing me out when it’s you that’s got yourself in this predicament.” I jabbed the finger and he jerked his head back to keep from being poked in the eye. “You were at a parking lot not far from here right around the time Cormac was killed. You admitted it to the police.” I jabbed again, and again he jerked his head back. “Stop blaming me for your problems and get out of my store!” I moved my finger to point to the door. “Now!”

  He raised his palms in surrender and cast me a hopeful look. “What about those samples you offered? Can I get them now?”

  “Not now!” I hollered, brandishing the jar as if poised to crack his skull with it. “Not ever!”

  He backed away. “Okay! Okay! Don’t get your itty-bitty panties in a wad!”

  It gave me no small sense of satisfaction to stalk after him as he yanked open the door and scurried off with a wary look over his shoulder. He clearly hadn’t expected me to go off on him like that. Heck, neither had I. But I was glad I did. It felt good to stick up for myself. I stepped into the open doorway and fought the urge to hurl the jar after him. Why waste good moonshine on a guy like him?

  As soon as Damien had gone, I took a deep calming breath and put a hand on my grandfather’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “Granddaddy? Wake up.”

  “Huh? Whuh?” He righted himself and scrubbed a hand over his face. As expected, he was grumpy. “What in the world are you shaking me for? I was only resting my eyes.”

  Despite his crabbiness, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’d fallen fast asleep and failed to protect me. Thank goodness I hadn’t been hurt or he’d have never forgiven himself. I settled for, “You were leaning over. I didn’t want you to fall out of the rocker, that’s all.”

  He scowled but said nothing more.

  “How about some iced tea?” A drink would wipe the frown off his face, and maybe the caffeine would help him stay awake.

  He grunted. “I suppose I wouldn’t say no to a glass.”

  I went back inside and fixed him a tall glass of iced tea with a slice of lemon from the mini fridge. I added the smallest dash of his ole-timey moonshine and carried it out to him. “Here you go.”

  He dipped his head in gratitude and accepted the glass.

  I flopped down in the other rocking chair and texted Marlon. Just had a visit from Damien.

  While I’d expected Marlon to text me back, evidently he’d decided not to take the time to do it. Less than two minutes later, he came cantering up the street on Charlotte, her usual clop-clop instead a faster-paced cloppity-clop-cloppity-clop. Lest he spill the beans about Damien, I hurried to the curb, angled my head to indicate my grandpa, and made a discreet zip-your-lip motion with my fingers. Marlon looked confused but said nothing.

  Granddaddy took a sip of his tea and snarled, “Back so soon, Officer Landers?”

  Seemingly unsure what to say, Marlon looked from me to my grandfather and simply replied with “Yep.”

  As he slid down from his horse, I stepped closer and spoke soft enough that my granddad couldn’t hear. “I’m fine. I told Damien to take a hike and he did.”

  Marlon arched a brow, clearly impressed. “You scared him off? Wish I’d seen that.”

  I swept my hand to invite him into the store. “You could come inside and watch the footage from my new security camera.”

  “Let’s do it.” Once again, he tied Charlotte to the post.

  Lest my grandfather follow us inside, I said, “We’ll be right back.”

  Granddaddy used his cane to lever himself to a stand. “I’ll keep Officer Landers’s horse company. I’ve got no problem with her.” He hobbled over and patted Charlotte’s neck.

  Inside the store, Marlon gathered next to me while I replayed the footage on my computer. The screen showed Damien stepping inside while my back was turned. My face contorted in terror when I turned around but, a moment later, I stabbed my finger at him. Unbeknownst to me until now, I’d taken small steps toward Damien as I’d jabbed, and he’d backed away. I’d been even more forceful than I realized.

  Marlon let loose a whistle, impressed. “You showed him, Hattie. Maybe you should join the force.”

  I beamed. “I’m having too much fun with the ’Shine Shack to switch careers.”

  As I turned off the feed, Marlon asked, “Why didn’t you hit your panic button?”

  A wry expression claimed my face. “I’d given it to my grandfather. He was supposed to keep watch out front. The plan went awry when he took an impromptu nap.”

  His gaze locked on my face, Marlon released a long breath. “Damien Sirakov could come back. Keep that button in your own pocket from now on.”

  “I will.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Marlon and Charlotte rode away, a knocking sound caught my ear. The mail carrier rapped on the door of Limericks across the street. In his hand he held a large manila envelope. The rectangular green card affixed to the back of it told me it was certified mail—in other words, something important. Maybe even something that could tell us who had killed Cormac.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told Granddad. As the mail carrier began to head off, I jogged across the street, raised a hand, and called, “Wait!”

  He turned and scrutinized me as I approached. “You work at Limericks?”

  While I didn’t want to lie, I did want to save Miranda a trip to the post office, assist Ace in any way I could, and avoid delays in solving the murder. “I’m in partnership with the new owner.” Okay, so it wasn’t exactly the truth. But it wasn’t a flat-out falsehood, either. A mentorship is a form of partnership, isn’t it?

  The mail carrier eyed me, seemed to decide either that I looked trustworthy or that he simply wanted to get the mail off his hands, and shrugged. He detached the green card from the back of the envelope and held it out to me, along with a pen. I took the pen, signed my name on the card, and handed both back to him. In turn, he handed me the envelope. “Have a nice day.”

  “You, too.” I carried the envelope back across the street to my shop and sat down in the rocker again.

  “Whatcha got there?” Granddaddy asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  The item was addressed to Cormac O’Keefe. The return address indicated that it had been sent by the Tennessee Board of Professional Responsibility. What the heck is that? I whipped out my phone and performed a quick Internet search. The board’s website indicated that it was established under the auspices of the state supreme court to enforce ethical standards on attorneys. The agency had the power to impose sanctions on lawyers who’d violated their professional code of behavior, including suspension from practice or disbarment. Why would t
he board be in touch with Cormac? He hadn’t been an attorney. But he had gone head to head with one, multiple times. Had Cormac filed a complaint against Heath?

  I knew that federal mail was taken seriously. It was one thing to accept delivery of a piece of mail, but it was another thing entirely to open something addressed to another person, dead or not. I’d seen people steam mail open on television and the movies, but I suspected they made it look much easier than it really was. Besides, I had neither a teapot nor a steam iron at the shop, as well as no inclination to serve jail time for mail tampering. I stepped out from under the porch and held the envelope up to the sun to see if I could see through it and read the contents. No such luck. The envelope was opaque.

  I debated texting Marlon, but his shift had ended by now and the guy had already put in a lot of overtime. Besides, the situation could earn me more brownie points with Ace. I gave her a call and told her about the envelope.

  “Keep it handy,” she said. “I’ll be right over.”

  We ended the call, and I sold a jug of Granddaddy’s Ole-Timey Corn Liquor to a businessman in a suit looking for a retirement gift for a golf buddy. Shortly thereafter, Pearce’s white Chevy Impala pulled to the curb in front of my shop. She climbed out, looking as impeccably professional as she had before. Today, she sported a plum-colored pantsuit along with her signature copper jewelry.

  I met her at the door with the mail.

  “Hand it over,” she said, wasting no time. She held out her hand and I gave her the envelope. She perused the addressee and sender information on the front before turning the envelope over, running a finger under the flap to loosen it, and withdrawing the contents.

  The stapled document looked to be three to five pages long. She ran her eyes over each page, flipping them as she finished each one.

  I nearly wriggled with curiosity. “Come on,” I cajoled her. “Throw me a bone. What does it say?”

  She lifted her eyes from the page to look at me. “Let’s just say Cormac has filed a grievance against an attorney.”

  “I’d already determined that myself.”

  She gave me a wry smile. “I figured as much. Googled the board, did you?”

  Busted. “Is the attorney Heath Delaney?”

  She slid the paperwork back into the envelope. “You got your bone. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Telling me what I already knew could hardly be called a bone. “Have you spoken with Heath yet?” I asked. “Are you going to talk to him again?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Pearce said firmly.

  “You won’t tell me? Even after all the help I gave you?”

  Alas, Detective Pearce was immune to the guilt trip. “I appreciate your help, Ms. Hayes, but it doesn’t entitle you to confidential information.”

  I huffed and crossed my arms over my chest. Though I could understand her sharing information on a need-to-know basis only, I needed to know! My curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied otherwise. But if the detective wouldn’t tell me, maybe the board or Heath would. Maybe I could wrestle some information out of the attorney tomorrow, when Miranda and I went to meet with him. “What about the distributor from Backwoods Bootleggers? Did you talk to him?”

  “I did,” she said. “He confirmed that Ashlynn told Cormac he was ‘a dead man.’ He said she was completely out of control.”

  Again, she’d only told me something I had already determined on my own. After all, I’d seen the footage on the video from Limericks. I decided not to press my luck further.

  Ace showed her first sign of conciliation. “Marlon told me Sirakov came to see you.”

  “He was just angry,” I said. “The instant I showed some backbone, he made a hasty retreat.”

  “He could be planning to return. Stay alert, and give us a call if he shows his face. We can arrest him again.”

  “I will.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The remainder of Monday was uneventful. Marlon and Charlotte clop-clopped by several times. Marlon would stop his horse with a “whoa,” lower his head to peek into the shop, and wait for me to give him a wave and a thumbs-up to let him know everything was okay before moving on. Several police cruisers eased slowly past during the day, and I waved to the officers at the wheel as well. But Damien Sirakov didn’t return, and no one else came to my shop in an attempt to put an end to me.

  Granddaddy whittled four pieces, two sleeping cats and two head-tossing horses, no doubt inspired by Smoky and Charlotte. I cleared a space on a shelf for his whittled wares and printed out a small sign on cardstock that read WHITTLED CRITTERS $7. By the end of the day, we’d sold half his stock.

  After another fitful night’s sleep in which I was pursued by bumbling black bears and belching Labrador retrievers, I was up with the sun Tuesday morning. Somehow, I felt simultaneously exhausted and eager for the meeting with Heath Delaney. If Ace wouldn’t tell me much, maybe I could weasel some information out of Heath myself, determine whether he should remain on the list of potential suspects or be eliminated. My guess was that he was still a person of interest or she would have told me otherwise.

  Smoky seemed confused and irritated by the alarm going off on my phone. He’d grown accustomed to our later schedule. He scowled before rolling over to face away from me. I reached out and ruffled the fur on the back of his neck. “You’ll have to stay here today, boy. I’ve got an early meeting.”

  He responded with a low growl that told me he didn’t give a rat’s behind about my plans and to stop bugging him when he was trying to go back to sleep. He was just as grumpy as my granddad when his slumber was interrupted.

  After showering, dressing, and fixing my hair and makeup, I downed a quick piece of toast with coffee and headed out.

  I kept a keen eye out for creeps as I approached my shop. Fortunately, there were none in sight. All I saw were a trio of college girls with backpacks walking to the nearby coffee shop and a few of my fellow shop owners preparing for the day. I turned down the alleyway, parked behind the Moonshine Shack, and quickly made my way into the stockroom. After disabling the alarm, I made my way through the salesroom of my shop and exited through the front door, turning back to lock it.

  Rather than risk my life jaywalking through morning rush-hour traffic on Market Street, I made my way down to the corner and crossed with the traffic light. As I approached Limericks, I spotted Miranda coming up the block from the other direction. A computer bag hung from her shoulder, along with a purse, and she held a cardboard coffee cup in each hand. She smiled, raised one of the cups in greeting, and called out, “Good morning!” She was a few minutes early, a sign of her work ethic.

  I returned Miranda’s smile. “Ready to delve into the exciting and adventurous world of double-entry bookkeeping?”

  She groaned in jest. “Not at all. That’s why I brought some liquid motivation.” She raised the other cup as she held the first one out to me. “I took a guess and figured you might like a caramel macchiato.”

  “Who in their right mind doesn’t?” I took the warm cup from her and inhaled the delicious aroma before thanking her for her thoughtful gesture and sharing some moonshine trivia. “Back in the day, some people used to start their morning with what they called a ‘coffee lace,’ a shot of moonshine in a cup of coffee.”

  “Seems counterproductive,” Miranda replied. “The effect of the moonshine would cancel out the effect of the caffeine.”

  “I didn’t say the people were smart. I just said that they did it.”

  She laughed. “Maybe I can offer a coffee lace in my bar. Made with your moonshine, of course.” She reached into her purse, dug out her keys, and unlocked the door to Limericks. After we entered, she punched in a code to disarm the alarm. “Good news,” she said. “I spoke with the landlord. They’re willing to give me a new lease. They’re also going to change the locks.”

 
; “Good. That’ll keep you safer.” With new locks and keys, she could better control access to the bar. I pointed to the keypad for the security system. “It can’t hurt to change the alarm code, too, just in case. If there’s not a manual in the office, you can probably find instructions online that’ll tell you how to do it.”

  She pulled her cell phone from her purse and snapped a pic to note the make and model number of the alarm system. I followed her around the bar to what had been Cormac’s office and would now be hers. The bottle of Jack Daniel’s, the printer, and the assorted paperwork remained on the desktop, but at least we’d left the documents in an orderly stack.

  This time, Miranda took a seat in the desk chair while I dropped into the seat next to the desk. She pulled her laptop from her computer bag, plugged it in, and turned it on. While we waited for her computer to boot up, I took another big sip of my coffee.

  After she’d logged into her computer, Miranda pulled a notebook and pen out of her tote bag and readied them to take notes. “Where should we start?”

  “First, we need to establish an account for your business. Have you decided on a name?”

  “I have,” she said. “I’m going to rename the bar The Tipperary Tavern. My corporation will be Tipperary Tavern, Incorporated.”

  “I love it!” I said. “You decided to stick with the Irish pub theme, then?”

  “Seemed like the best thing to do,” she said. “I don’t have enough money to redecorate the bar. Besides, the place has quite a few regular customers. An Irish pub appeals to a wide demographic. We get all kinds of people in here. Some come to watch the sports on the big-screen TV. Others come to play darts or pool. Businesspeople come by after work. We even get some bikers and college kids, though there’s other bars that cater more specifically to those crowds. Plus, there’s not another Irish pub in the area.”