Murder and Moonshine: A Mystery

by Miller, Carol

  “We used to go swimming in the creek.”

  “Skinny-dipping in the creek,” Rick corrected her.

  “That happened once.” Daisy rolled her eyes at him. “When I was seven and you dared me to do it. I’ve been telling you ever since not to expect a repeat performance.”

  “I can keep hoping.”

  “And I can hope for an army of penguins to waddle up from Patagonia with buckets of ice in their wee flippers. But hoping ain’t gonna make it happen.”

  Rick chuckled and once again started walking toward the farmhouse. Daisy accompanied him. Ethan followed a short distance behind. He was silent and appeared to be in deep contemplation.

  Gesturing toward him, Rick said quietly to Daisy, “So how cozy have you gotten with our federal friend?”

  “Not as cozy as you’ve gotten with that charming woman Sue I saw at your trailer last week.”

  He grinned. “She is charming. Only not as charming as you.”

  “I bet,” Daisy remarked dryly.

  “But seriously”—Rick lowered his voice even further—“is he our friend? I have to know.”

  “If you’re worried about how much trouble that pot still and those brimming barrels in the barn are going to cause you, you probably don’t need to be too concerned. I think if Ethan was really interested in you and what you were doing in there, he would have locked you up by now. Or shot you.”

  “You could have warned me,” Rick replied gruffly.

  “That we were coming out to Fox Hollow? How was I supposed to know you’d started cooking up ’shine here? And Sue told you the sheriff might drop by. He’s the law too, even if he’s not federal. You can’t count on him turning his head all the time just because it’s less work and he wants to keep the peace.”

  Rick grunted.

  “Daisy—” Ethan said suddenly.

  She glanced at him.

  “Did you fight it?” he asked her. “I mean, did you fight us?”

  “That bastard has got some nerve,” Rick growled.

  Daisy sighed. “I did.”

  “And?” Ethan prodded.

  Rick’s fingers curled into fists. She put her hand on his arm to calm him.

  “And have you ever tried to fight you?” She didn’t wait for his response. “Now imagine doing it when you’re twenty-two—without any money or political connections—while you’re struggling to put yourself through college, take care of your momma in the hospital, and find a decent place to sleep at night after your husband decides to go gallivanting off.”

  “Oh,” Ethan mumbled.

  Removing her hand from his arm, Daisy raised a weary eyebrow at Rick. “I could really use a jelly jar of yours right now.”

  “Tonight,” he promised. “You and me, two jelly jars and our feet in Frying Pan Creek. Just like the old days.”

  She sighed again. They had reached the house, and Rick motioned toward the blissfully shady side porch. Trudging up the steps, she collapsed into one of the primeval wrought-iron chairs.

  “Mind your elbow,” Rick cautioned her.

  Daisy looked at the matching wrought-iron table next to her seat, and to her surprise, she found a pair of canning jars standing on it. The first jar was completely full and shut tight. The other was about a quarter empty and missing its lid. Unlike the canning jars inside the barn, the liquid in the jars on the table wasn’t amber. It was colorless and as perfectly clear as the sky.

  With a little jerk, she shrunk away from the table and the jars. “Are those … Is that Fred’s…”

  Rick nodded. “I wouldn’t recommend sampling it.”

  “And the pink thing?” Ethan came up for a closer inspection. “The reason you knew there was a problem with it?”

  “Watch and you’ll see,” Rick said.

  He picked up the open jar, moved it carefully away from them, and poured a small stream of liquid onto the table. Both Daisy and Ethan leaned forward, waiting for something to happen. But it didn’t. The liquid trickled across the black iron just like normal water. There was no discernible difference.

  “I don’t…” Ethan began.

  “Watch and you’ll see,” Rick repeated tersely.

  The liquid dribbled over the edge of the table onto the porch floor. The boards had been painted white, and the first few drops that hit them looked the same as spring rain. Then suddenly Daisy saw the change. It wasn’t a bright burst of color, but the formerly hueless liquid had an unmistakable tinge of pink.

  She raised her furrowed brow to Rick. “I’ve never seen pink whiskey. It is corn whiskey, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” he confirmed.

  Rick reached over and unscrewed the lid of the full canning jar. He held it up for them to see. Instead of creamy white or ivory as the inside of the lid should have been, it had a distinct pink tint.

  “And the pink means there’s arsenic in there?” Ethan’s brow was even more furrowed than Daisy’s.

  “Not necessarily arsenic,” Rick replied. “But it means there’s something wrong with it. Something’s really wrong with it. Any man who knows his wet goods and sees it change color like that when it hits wood or rubber, knows not to touch a sip of the stuff.”

  “So you noticed the lid in Fred’s coveralls after he collapsed at the diner,” Daisy said, “and because it was pink you realized he had drunk some bad ’shine?”

  “At the time I didn’t know it was arsenic that had got him.” Rick sealed up the full jar again. “But I figured whatever it was, it had to be awful bad, considering how sick the old man got and he died from it.”

  “Poor Fred,” Daisy muttered.

  “I can understand,” Ethan said, “how you saw the lid in his pocket. I can also understand how because the lid was pink you knew there was a problem with his product. What I can’t understand is how you connected that pink lid to this canning jar.” He gestured toward the partially empty open jar.

  Rick’s lips curled into a smile. “I wouldn’t say I recognized the lid. A lot of folks use the same jars, after all. But since I’m the one who made the ’shine—and I gave it to Fred by personally putting it on this table—I was pretty sure the lid in his coveralls matched my jars.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Ethan took a step backward and firmed his grip on the gun that he continued to hold at his side. “You do realize you just admitted to poisoning a man, don’t you?”

  “I told you before,” Rick drawled indignantly. “I didn’t poison old man Dickerson.”

  “You can say it a dozen more times. I don’t care if you hum it, whistle it, or sing it at night like a lullaby. It doesn’t change the facts. You distilled the whiskey. You delivered the whiskey. And the whiskey killed him. That’s poisoning a man by any definition.”

  “So that’s why he recognized you,” Daisy interjected.

  Rick turned to her.

  “I knew Fred recognized you,” she said. “When he first stumbled into the diner, before he had the seizure and fell. Fred looked at you and seemed to want to say something to you, except he couldn’t because he was already so sick. I wondered about it, but I couldn’t figure out why he’d recognize you. Now it’s obvious. You gave him the ’shine, and he was trying to tell you it was bad.”

  “I do think he was trying to warn me,” Rick agreed.

  “Or accuse you,” Ethan countered.

  Daisy disregarded the latter remark. “You gave Fred lots of ’shine, didn’t you?”

  Rick answered with a grin.

  “Why did you lie about it?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked her, feigning innocence.

  “If you gave Fred lots of ’shine, then I can’t believe you didn’t see him, at least once in a while. You had to come here pretty often to cook up all that likker you’ve got sitting in the barn. So even if you didn’t ring the bell and swap stories with him every time, you still must have caught a glimpse of Fred on occasion. And you told Sheriff Lowell you hadn’t seen him in ten years. I thou
ght you were lying when you said that.”

  His grin grew. “How did you know?”

  Settling back into her chair, Daisy folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve known you long enough, Richard Balsam. I can always tell when you’re lying.”

  “As I recall,” he said, cocking his head at her, “there was a time when we knew each other quite well.”

  She laughed because by cocking his head, Rick had proven her point. “You also told Sheriff Lowell you hadn’t talked to Fred in a decade. Did you lie about that too?”

  “No,” he said firmly.

  “Then why,” Daisy said, returning to her original question, “did you lie about seeing him?”

  “Aw hell, I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell the whole truth.” Rick leaned against the porch railing. “I honestly didn’t talk to Fred. But I did see him now and again. I’d wave. He’d wave. That was the end of it. I didn’t tell the sheriff because I didn’t think it mattered. And it wasn’t any of his goddam business either.”

  “If you didn’t speak to Mr. Dickerson,” Ethan asked, “how did you know to leave the jars for him?”

  He shrugged. “After I finished my first batch, I set a jar up on the porch as a courtesy of sorts. I had seen the old man drink out here before, so I thought he might like a taste of mine. When I returned a week later, the jar was empty. I took that as a sign he enjoyed it, and I left a couple of new jars for him whenever I came back.”

  Ethan frowned. “But isn’t what you’ve got in the barn aged? With the barrels and the amber color?” He gestured toward the jars of hueless liquid on the wrought-iron table. “This isn’t aged.”

  “I do usually age what I make for me and my”—Rick chortled—“fancier friends. But did you ever meet Fred Dickerson?” He didn’t wait for Ethan’s reply. “The old man lived life plain and simple. He didn’t want subtle hints of flavor or bouquet. He wanted the lick of fire. So I gave him the lick of fire.”

  “All right.” Ethan’s frown continued. “You gave Mr. Dickerson some of your unaged whiskey. Later—from the events at the diner—you discovered the whiskey was tainted, deadly even. Why didn’t you throw it away? Why did you let it sit out here for everybody to drink? You knew how dangerous it was.”

  Rick responded with another chortle. “Look around you. Do you see anyone? Who would possibly drink it? A horsefly might decide to buzz over and take a sip, but I’d be glad if it died. One less bloodsucker flying around the county. When I heard there was a chance the sheriff could drop by, I told Daisy straightaway to watch out for him and make sure he doesn’t pour himself a glass.”

  Ethan merely grunted.

  “Believe it or not,” Rick went on, “I feel lousy about what happened. I didn’t poison him, but it was still my ’shine—and old man Dickerson drank it—and it killed him.”

  “It’s not your fault Fred was using arsenic on the corn,” Daisy said.

  He looked at her. “Fred was using arsenic on the corn?”

  “Of course. How else would it have gotten there? He probably thought it was working wonderfully. The corn by the barn sure looks good. Except poor Fred didn’t realize that by putting arsenic on the corn, he was also putting it in the ’shine. He poisoned himself.”

  Rick and Ethan glanced at each other.

  “Daisy,” Rick responded slowly, “Fred didn’t use arsenic on the corn by the barn.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No. I planted that corn. And I tended that corn. He had nothing to do with it.”

  “But”—she blinked at him in confusion—“if he had nothing to do with it, then how … how did…”

  “I don’t know,” Rick answered. “That’s the problem. I don’t know how the arsenic got there. I do know, however, Fred wasn’t responsible. There’s no arsenic on the corn, next to the corn, or anywhere near the corn. I’m sure of that because the rest of the batch is clean. I appreciate you saying it wasn’t my fault, but it wasn’t the corn’s fault either.”

  “The arsenic didn’t just magically appear in the jars,” Ethan remarked dryly.

  “That’s the main reason I didn’t throw them out,” Rick told him. “I was hoping if I kept everything the way it was, maybe there would be a clue somewhere. I figured when the sheriff came, he might be able to find it.”

  “You’re positive…” Daisy blinked at him once more. “You’re positive there’s no arsenic in the rest of the batch?”

  Rick smiled slightly. “Yes, I’m positive. I’m still standing—and Bobby’s still standing—and you’re still standing.”

  “Do you think Mr. Dickerson was the target?” Ethan asked him.

  “I think he had to be. Anybody who was paying any attention would have known I was putting the two jars up here on the porch for him, while I was drinking from the jars in the barn. And the jars in the barn are all fine and untouched. I’ve checked. Trust me, I’ve double- and triple-checked. But that brings me back to what I said before. Look around you. Do you see anyone? Who would possibly be paying any attention? I can’t for the life of me imagine. Except somebody must have been.”

  “Somebody must have been,” Ethan concurred. “The real question is—why? Why would they put arsenic in these two jars and only these two jars?”

  “Are you saying it was intentional?” Daisy stared at him. “Someone intentionally put arsenic in Fred’s ’shine?”

  Ethan gave a little snort. “You’re just catching on to that now? Of course I believe it was intentional.”

  Her stare widened. “That can’t be right. Nobody would poison old man Dickerson. Not deliberately.”

  “Apparently they would,” Ethan retorted, “because they did.”

  Daisy looked at Rick. He nodded.

  “But it’s not logical.” She stood up. “Poor Fred was a recluse. He was old and never bothered a soul. Why would you poison a person like that? There’s no reason for it.”

  “Well, there had to be some reason for it.” Ethan turned to Rick. “And since he lived on your property—and you’re the only one we know for certain ever saw him—you probably have the best chance of figuring out what that reason was. Or at least pointing me in the proper direction.”

  “Hell if I know.” Rick shrugged. “I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it a lot actually. But Daisy’s right. The man was old and never bothered a soul. Whenever I was here, Fred was always alone. He didn’t have any visitors.”

  “Never?” Ethan said. “Not once?”

  Rick rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I can’t remember a time—”

  Daisy walked slowly down the length of the porch. Fred Dickerson had been poisoned. Intentionally. She was having a hard time believing it, but it had to be true. Logical or not, there was no other explanation left for his death. Rick and Ethan were obviously convinced. Aunt Emily too. Granted, she had envisioned a sprinkle of cyanide in Fred’s hash browns or a dash of drain cleaner in his tomato soup, but arsenic in his moonshine had worked just as well, evidently.

  It was no longer a ridiculous murder theory. It was actual murder. Except the reason for it still baffled Daisy. There was no cause to hurt old man Dickerson. He hadn’t been in contact with anyone for ages. He hadn’t seen anyone either. Only Rick. And Hank. Hank might have seen Fred too. He was the first to positively identify him at the diner. Then there was his strange behavior, twice. Hank had to know more than he was letting on.

  She caught a snippet of Rick and Ethan’s conversation.

  “Anyone could have come onto the property,” Rick said. “The gate at the road isn’t locked. And I’m not here every day. I wasn’t here at all the week Fred died.”

  “So whoever put the arsenic in the jars didn’t have to worry about you catching them, only Mr. Dickerson.”

  “They didn’t have to worry about Fred either,” Rick replied. “Not in his feeble condition. He couldn’t fight a flea. If they wanted to kill him—”

  “Which we have to assume they did,” Ethan interjected.


  “Then why use arsenic? You’ve got to get it, mix it in the ’shine, wait for the old man to swallow a glass and finally die. Why not shoot him—or stab him—or strangle him instead? They’re all much simpler and quicker. And they guarantee the who and when.”

  “Unless you need it to look like an accident.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Rick agreed. “Because if you just wanted Fred dead, you could have hit him in the head with an axe and buried him somewhere in the fields. Or better yet, dumped him in the middle of the woods. There are two hundred acres of land out here, most of which aren’t being touched. I wouldn’t have found his body. No one would have probably ever found his body.”

  With a sigh, Daisy rested her head against the corner of the house. Dump him in the middle of the woods. Rick sounded just like Aunt Emily. Only he didn’t have a suspect in mind, or at least he didn’t name one. Aunt Emily had promptly pointed her finger at Hank, because Fred was supposedly responsible for the death of her daddy. But even if that were true—which it couldn’t possibly be—why would Hank wait nearly five long years to seek his revenge? Why would he use arsenic in moonshine? And why on earth would Fred then go to H & P’s of all places as he was dying? It made no sense.

  The wood was rough on her cheek from the paint splintering off the boards. The house was in desperate need of love and attention. Surveying the condition of the porch in the corner where she was standing, Daisy clucked her tongue in irritation. Rick might not want to repair the property, but he could at least keep it from becoming a trash heap. She bent down toward a dirty rag with the intention of depositing it in the nearest garbage can. As she scooped it up, it reminded her of something. The smell and stains. She squinted at it, puzzled. Then the realization suddenly hit her, and her eyes flared open.

  “Daisy?”

  She crumpled the cloth into as small of a ball as she could.

  “What is that?” Rick asked her.

  “Hmm?” she answered vaguely.

  His footsteps started toward her. “What do you have there?”

  Turning around to face him, Daisy held the ball behind her. “This? Nothing. Just some junk I found. I was about to throw it out.”