The Moonshine Shack Murder

by Diane Kelly

  I stuck my finger through the bars of Smoky’s carrier to give him a nose boop. “I’ll be right back, boy. Behave yourself.”

  He cast me a contemptuous look that said, Exactly what kind of trouble do you think I can get into stuck in this cage?

  I climbed out of my van and circled around the far side of the pizza parlor on foot to peek into the alleyway. Though it was dark where I stood, the floodlights on the back corners of the liquor store bathed the area behind it in bright light. Gage climbed out of his truck and walked around to the back doors. He was too far away for me to see much and definitely too far for me to hear anything, especially with the noise coming from the pizza restaurant’s kitchen and the traffic noise from the street.

  Three large, overflowing dumpsters stood along the back of the alley, their lids open like gaping maws, spewing forth trash, half-eaten pieces of pizza, and random raw salad vegetables slathered in dressing. If I can get behind the bins, I can sneak closer, unseen. Their rancid, repulsive funk had me debating the task, but I’d already come this far. In for a penny . . .

  I pulled the neck of my T-shirt up over my mouth and nose like a mask, which helped filter out the odor. Hunching down, I skittered forward in the shadows until I was behind the nearest bin. Slowly and silently, I eased behind the line of dumpsters, closing in on Gage Tilley. When I reached the last one, I was only a dozen feet from the rear doors of the Backwoods Bootleggers truck. I crouched down and picked up a used, sauce-stained pizza box that had fallen behind the bin. After poking a peephole in the box with the key to my van, I shielded myself from view behind the box, and watched through the hole, safely disguised as garbage.

  Tilley unlocked the truck’s cargo bay and opened the door on the right. Numerous cartons of Backwoods Bootleggers moonshine were stacked, two high near the back and three high farther in, closer to the cab. The cartons in the center were large, the preprinted count on the lower corner of the box indicating they each contained twelve bottles. The cartons stacked along the outside edges were smaller, the count indicating that they held only six bottles each. Large white labels had been affixed to the tops and sides of the cartons. The labels were printed with the customer’s name and delivery address, as well as a bar code to allow the company to better track the inventory. To make things easier on the busy delivery drivers, the company’s warehouse had printed the labels in all capital letters and a large font so that boxes could be quickly identified. If I squinted, I could read some of the labels from here. SOUTHSIDE SPIRITS. DRINKER’S DEPOT. Heck, one of the smaller cartons was destined for BAR CELONA. Maybe Tilley was headed to the tapas bar next.

  Tilley reached down to release the security bar on the left door and swung it open. Three large cartons stood in a row along the back, separate from the others that had been pushed farther in. When I spotted the name on the labels, I gasped. All three read LIMERICKS. Could these be the cases of liquor missing from the pub’s inventory?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tilley stiffened and his head turned slightly, as if he might have heard my sudden intake of breath. When the night breeze carried with it only the sounds of pop music and the kitchen staff clanging pizza pans next door, he seemed to be satisfied he’d been mistaken. He pulled a manila file envelope out from between a carton and the interior wall of the truck. He opened it and removed a stack of white labels that were paper-clipped together. Sliding one of the cartons to the edge of the tailgate, he carefully affixed new labels over the stickers bearing the Limericks name, fully obscuring them.

  I narrowed my eyes again. Though the replacement stickers closely resembled those on the boxes destined for other outlets, they weren’t exactly the same. These stickers had sharp, squared-off corners, while the original labels had curved corners. The print was thicker, too, as if in bold-face type. The size of the bar code on these labels was also different, slightly larger.

  Are these labels fakes? Is Gage Tilley reselling the liquor he’d purportedly sold to Limericks? Did he kill Cormac to steal this liquor for resale, or could the two of them have been in cahoots somehow? Was I totally off base? Could Cormac have placed another order that had been canceled after he’d been killed? Maybe these cartons had been part of that order and had never been delivered. But why not relabel them at the Backwoods Bootleggers warehouse rather than here at the delivery truck?

  I had no answers to these questions, but I did have a cell phone camera. While Tilley lowered the box to the ground, I snapped several photos of the cartons with the Limericks labels. He closed the doors to his truck and locked them again before picking up the carton at his feet and carrying it to the back door of the liquor store. His arms burdened with the heavy box, he turned sideways and used his elbow to push a doorbell-like buzzer next to the wide delivery door before taking a step back to wait.

  A moment later, a woman opened the back door of the liquor store. She greeted him with a gravelly, “Hey, Tilley.”

  Gage lifted the carton a few inches. “Got your moonshine.”

  “Then I’ve got your cash. Come on in.” She stepped back to allow Gage to enter. The door swung closed behind him.

  I continued to lie in wait—or rather, to crouch in wait. My thigh and calf muscles burned, screaming for mercy. When I could take it no more, I straightened and stood, easing back so that I was fully behind the dumpster. A minute or so later, I heard the back door open again and the sound of footsteps. Crouching again, I peered through the hole in the pizza box to see Gage Tilley come out of the back door of the liquor store, several bills clutched in his hand. He cast a glance back at the door, as if making sure it was fully closed, before he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slid the cash into it.

  He climbed into his truck and started the engine, spewing exhaust in my direction. Lovely. As if the garbage smell hadn’t been enough to deal with. The truck rumbled as it moved forward. He turned at the far end of the building. Waving the exhaust out of my face, I shifted my focus to the space between the buildings. A moment later, through the wide gap, I saw the Backwoods Bootleggers truck drive past. It paused in its acceleration for a brief moment, the brake lights illuminating. It was too dark for me to see into the cab, so I couldn’t tell if Gage Tilley had fumbled the controls, but he promptly pushed the gas again and rumbled off. Maybe he’d slowed for another car or someone in the street. From my vantage point behind the building it was impossible for me to tell.

  I counted to one hundred to give Gage time to put some distance between us before coming out from behind the dumpsters. As I passed the back doors to the kitchen of the pizza place, they burst open and a teenaged boy with braces and gangly limbs came out, dragging a trash bag. He stopped when he saw me, his face contorted in question.

  Thankfully, my brain cells produced a quick excuse for my appearance in the private alley. “I saw a stray cat run back here,” I lied, raising my palms. “No sign of him now.”

  He wrapped his hand around the top of the garbage bag and swung it, slinging it up on top of the pile. His task completed, he brushed his hands off and said, “He was probably chasing a mouse. We get a lot of them. Roaches, too.”

  I made a mental note never to order a pizza from this place and flounced down the alley.

  When I circled around to the front of the building, my first thought was uh-oh. The pickup that had been parked next to my van was gone. The side of my van with the Firefly moonshine logo was in full view. But at least with the bright lights of the liquor store and pizza parlor, the glow-in-the-dark paint wasn’t quite as obvious. Had Gage Tilley noticed my van here? Was that why he’d braked? Or was it just a coincidence?

  Though my first reaction had been concern, I realized there was no real cause for alarm, right? Even if Gage Tilley was up to something and had seen my van, both of which I wasn’t even sure of, he’d just assume I was getting a pizza with family or friends. The fact that I’d be at a restaurant not far from my shop a
fter closing time shouldn’t be surprising.

  I continued to my van, climbed in, and turned to Smoky. “Did you miss me?”

  He appeared to roll his eyes. I was pretty sure he knew exactly what the expression meant, too.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and composed a text to Marlon, despite his earlier admonishment that I should stop sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. He might get angry, but I’d have to take that chance. What I’d just witnessed could be important. Just saw Gage Tilley making a delivery at Bridge Liquor Outlet. Noticed boxes in his truck bay with Limericks’ name and address. He put a new label on the box before making the delivery and put the cash they gave him into his wallet. Could this mean something? I sent the text to him, along with the photos I’d taken.

  After sliding my phone into the cupholder, I drove out of the parking lot and aimed for my mountain cabin. Once I’d cleared the city, I rolled the windows down to enjoy the fresh evening air. It had only been a matter of days since I’d been home, but it felt like forever. I missed sitting on the porch swing with a book in one hand and a glass of spiked lemonade in the other. I missed working in the flowerbeds and yard, trimming my granny’s rosebushes and pulling off the kudzu that threated to cover my great-grandfather’s rusty old still. I missed sleeping in my own bed. How much longer until this darn case is closed?

  My phone burst into song at full volume and vibrated so hard in the cupholder it nearly jumped out. I, too, nearly jumped out of my skin. I eyed the screen. Marlon was calling. With no traffic around on the dark, quiet road, I was able to slow to a near stop and safely jab the button to accept the call. I jabbed a second button to put him on speaker before pressing lightly on the gas again.

  Marlon didn’t wait for a greeting before he said, “How did you get those photos?”

  He’d be none too happy to learn that I’d been hiding behind a garbage dumpster, but he’d be even less happy if I lied to him. I opted for the lesser of two evils and told him the truth. “I was behind a garbage bin in the alley.”

  “You followed Tilley?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I just happened to see him pull his truck behind the liquor store on my way to my cabin.”

  “Your cabin?” Marlon said. “Why are you going there?”

  It would be too humiliating to tell him I was out of clean panties, so instead I said, “Kiki’s washing machine broke. I’m just going to run by my place and get some clean clothes, then I’ll head over to her condo for the night.”

  “Tilley didn’t see you, did he? Please tell me he wasn’t aware that you’d followed him.”

  “No,” I said, “he didn’t see me.” I cringed as I admitted the next bit. “But there’s a chance that he might have seen my van parked at the pizza place next door to the liquor store.”

  Marlon muttered something that could have been a curse. “Didn’t I tell you not to put yourself at risk?”

  “You did,” I said, “and I didn’t.”

  Marlon huffed a loud breath that told me he disagreed with my risk assessment. “Where are you now?”

  “Halfway up the mountain.” Headlights flashed in my rearview mirror, high beams. Looked like someone else was coming up the mountain, too. The lights disappeared as I negotiated a hairpin turn.

  “Ace is on her way to the liquor store to check out the carton and see if the label that Tilley covered up means anything.”

  “She thinks it might?”

  “She does,” Marlon said. “She didn’t feel that Gage Tilley’s excuse for being at Limericks the night Cormac was killed made much sense. His hotel was only a few blocks away. Why not head back there if he needed to use the facilities? Besides, he’d delivered Cormac’s order only a few days before. Seemed awfully soon to stop by and check in with a customer.”

  We’d originally suspected that Cormac had bought the discounted liquor to sell, not poured into drinks but in unopened, intact bottles. But now I wondered if Gage might be involved in some sort of scheme. Had he been the mastermind all along? “Something weird is going on here.”

  “I’m coming after you,” Marlon said. “I’m on my way now. I’ll escort you back to Kiki’s. I don’t want you up there alone at your cabin.”

  The thought of Marlon up at the cabin with me, just the two of us, sent a thrill up my spine. But that thrill was quickly replaced by a chill. The headlights I’d seen a moment ago were gaining on me now, and gaining fast. The speed of the vehicle was too high for these windy roads.

  The vehicle was right on my tail now, the bright beams reflecting in my rearview and side mirrors. The light nearly blinded me, making it difficult to see the road ahead. The fact that the driver didn’t switch to low beams told me I was in serious trouble here.

  “Marlon!” I squeaked as the bright beams shone through the back windows and lit up the inside of my van. “I’m being follow—”

  BANG!

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The force of the impact nearly gave me whiplash and sent my van surging forward on the winding road. Any doubt I’d had about whether I’d been followed disappeared the instant the front bumper of the vehicle behind me struck the back bumper of my van. I yelped in terror.

  Marlon’s voice came through the speaker. “What was that noise?”

  My heart, stomach, and lungs had gathered in my throat, choking me. I couldn’t respond. I punched the gas and veered around a curve on two squealing wheels, the bend in the road giving me a brief reprieve as the lights angled away. I glanced back over my shoulder at my pursuer. It was a bright red truck painted with the Backwoods Bootleggers logo.

  “Hattie!” Marlon hollered through the phone. “Are you okay?”

  I tried to shout Yes, to let him know I wasn’t hurt, but I couldn’t get the word out. It was just as well, because an instant later I wasn’t okay. An instant later, the truck pulled to the left, rammed into my driver’s-side rear quarter panel, and sent my van spinning across the road like a top. My seat belt pulled taut, but still I swayed right and left as the van revolved. Smoky crouched in his carrier, his claws scritch-scritch-scritching as he slid back and forth inside, unable to dig into the plastic bottom of the carrier and gain purchase as the carrier, too, slid back and forth in the van.

  My mind whirled as I tried to remember what my father had taught me to do if I ever hit ice on the road. Turn into the spin! It seemed counterintuitive, but it was the quickest way to regain traction.

  By the time I could process the situation and yank the wheel in the right direction, it was too late. This spinning top had gone topsy-turvy, as tops tend to do when losing momentum. I felt the van lean and, next thing I knew, we were upside down, then right side up, then upside down again. My laundry flew about inside the van as if being tossed about inside a clothes dryer. Glass joined in with the clothing as the windshield and windows shattered from the impact. The airbags deployed with an explosive sound—POOM!—pinning me to my seat for a second or two until they began to deflate. Without a seat belt or airbag to hold his carrier in place, my poor cat was tossed, too. HISS! RROWRRR! Smoky’s carrier ricocheted off the inside walls of the van until the force bent it enough that it fell to pieces.

  The van came to a stop roughly on its roof, the headlights illuminating the trunks of trees in the forest in front of me as I hung upside down inside the vehicle like a vampire bat. My curls bounced below my head and blood rushed to my face, making it feel hot and swollen. I turned around to look for my cat among the mess of clothing and broken glass behind me. There he is! He’s alive! Smoky’s wide eyes sparked with fear.

  “Come here, boy!” As I reached out for him, he jumped past me, bounced off the hood of the van, and ran off through the beams, my pink polka-dot bra wrapped around his neck. “Nooooo!” I screamed. Seconds later, Smoky disappeared into the dark woods.

  While I’d been terrified a moment before, a hot rage consume
d me now. Gage Tilley will pay for this! That sorry son of a biscuit had frightened my cat, and now I might never find my beloved pet in these woods.

  I reached up one hand to leverage myself against the ceiling of my van and unfastened my seat belt, half falling, half lowering myself down. I dropped to all fours and crawled out through the broken windshield. A second set of headlights intersected the ones from my van. Looked like Tilley had crashed, too, probably in an attempt to avoid my spinning van. A towering pine was encased in his front bumper. Is it too much to hope that he was rendered immobile by the crash?

  No such luck. He fought his airbag back and slid out of his truck as I grabbed a low branch to pull myself to a stand. In his hands was a large object with metal bars welded into a crisscross pattern, what I recognized as a four-way lug wrench. But while the tool might be intended to remove lug nuts from truck wheels, I suspected Tilley’s intention now was to use the tool to remove my life from my body.

  I ran into the woods in the direction that Smoky had gone so that I could scoop him up if I came across him. It was away from Gage Tilley and seemed as good a direction as any. Unfortunately, it’s not easy to run quietly through the woods, especially at night. Fireflies flashed in front of me and to the sides, like airplane marshalers on a runway trying to show me the way, lighting up an escape route.

  A sizzling sound came from behind me and a pinkish-orange flame lit up the woods like a portal to hell. I looked over my shoulder to see Tilley coming after me, brandishing the lug wrench in his left hand, a blazing road flare in his right.

  Crackle! Pop! Rustle! Snap! Crack! The woods exploded in sound as I pushed onward, my elbows crooked and arms splayed in front of me as I shoved my way through thick brush and low limbs while trying to protect my eyes. The brush scratched my arms and face, but I hardly felt it. I reached a tall, fallen tree that had landed on a berm, leaving a couple feet of clearance underneath a stretch of its trunk. My small stature gave me an advantage, much as it had when I’d played the limbo game at childhood birthday parties. Barely breaking stride, I ducked under the tree and was on my way once again.