by Mary Ellis
‘Good evening, Mr Shelby. Sorry for the interruption, but your father wants to speak to you.’
‘Tell him I’m on my way to Roseville but I’ll see him before he goes to bed. Thank you, Deanne.’ Jamie disconnected the call, turned into the next driveway, and skidded to a stop.
‘Looks like the long, scenic route won’t work for us tonight. What a shame.’ He tapped Roseville into the car’s GPS.
‘I’m sorry I made you drive me home. I should’ve gone with Michael and come back another time.’
‘Don’t be sorry. Meeting you was the best part of my day. But I do hope you’ll come back, whether or not you have more questions.’ His smile could only be described as flirtatious.
Despite the fact Jill had had plenty of dates, the man’s cool assurance and southern charm unnerved her. She spent the rest of the ride jotting down notes or fiddling with the radio.
But Jamie Shelby wasn’t giving up easily. ‘What do you say, Jill?’ he asked after stopping in front of Sweet Dreams B&B. ‘May I take you to dinner or sightseeing while you’re a guest in our beautiful state?’
Jill knew Michael wouldn’t like the idea. She also knew this was a business trip. But it would be the perfect opportunity to find out what goes on behind the scenes in a distillery. ‘I would like that, Mr Shelby, providing there’s enough time. I’m not sure how long we’ll be in Roseville, but I’ll give you my cell number.’
Jamie jumped out and opened her door. ‘Call me Jamie,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, in case you can break free from Michael for a few hours.’
Jill jotted her number and handed him the slip of paper. As she ran up the front steps, her feet barely touched the ground.
Her partner hadn’t been included in the invitation. She wasn’t misreading the handsome eighth-generation distiller’s intentions this time.
Thursday morning
‘Where to, your Majesty? Your wish is my command,’ Michael asked as they climbed in the car for day two of bourbon research.
‘Let’s head to Black Creek,’ Jill said. ‘You barely said a word at breakfast. What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing’s the matter. I was worried about you yesterday; that’s all. You just met Shelby, yet you agreed to go out with him.’
‘Stop pouting. Jamie behaved like a perfect gentleman. And I agreed to go out only if we have time.’
‘Fine, just try not to fall in love.’ Michael accelerated as they left the quaint village. ‘In the meantime, let’s take a quick tour at Black Creek and move on.’
Once they reached the distillery, a quick tour wasn’t on the cards.
‘I don’t know what to tell you, folks,’ drawled the young woman at the desk. ‘The owner does the tour on Thursdays and he’s not here. Right now nobody else is available.’
‘Why don’t you lead the tour, sweet thing?’ Michael leaned over the desk to ladle on the charm. ‘I could listen to you talk all day.’
Jill rolled her eyes. If a man talked to her like that, he’d get a knuckle sandwich.
But this particular teenager looked flattered. ‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t learned all the facts. Maybe if y’all come back this afternoon, I can have Lois here. She normally has Thursday off.’
Jill stepped in front of her partner and smiled. ‘Gosh, that is really sweet, but we need to catch a plane at noon. Couldn’t we just wander around on our own? I’m sure we can figure out what goes on here.’
Lindy, according to her nametag, shook a thick mane of blonde hair. ‘Sorry, tourists aren’t allowed in the plant by themselves. Safety concerns and all that.’ She produced a sympathetic expression.
Michael elbowed Jill to the side. ‘Well, I won’t tell if you don’t. If the boss shows up, we’ll say we sneaked in when you weren’t looking.’
Lindy glanced left and right. ‘Promise you won’t get me in trouble?’
‘I promise.’ Michael drew an ‘x’ across his heart.
‘OK, but you gotta leave by ten. That’s when the production shift starts. And don’t touch anything!’ Lindy yelled as they headed down an arrow-marked hallway.
‘We won’t.’ Jill waved and turned a corner.
Unfortunately, the process used at Black Creek wasn’t self-explanatory after an hour of aimless wandering. ‘So far we’ve learned nothing about small-batch production,’ she moaned.
‘And I’ve been too afraid someone will see my light to shoot video. We’re getting nowhere.’
Jill checked her watch. ‘The production crew will soon be here. Maybe we should come back another day.’
‘No way,’ he said. ‘You keep moving along the arrows while I shoot video in this room. If either of us gets kicked out, we’ll meet up at the car.’
‘What if Mr Clark catches us?’ Jill asked, remembering their host’s temperament.
‘Tell him you’ve been looking for him because of yesterday. Make something up. Look how well you lied to Lindy about an airline flight.’
‘This is not a good idea.’
‘For once, Jill, live dangerously. Neither of us wants to come back. Just follow the arrows. Eventually they should lead you out.’
Since arguing with him would be futile, Jill marched from the mashing and mixing room into an area filled with stainless-steel vats loaded with dials and gauges. She tried to discern differences in here from what she saw yesterday at Founder’s Reserve but couldn’t concentrate.
The sooner she finished the tour the better.
Tingles ran across her scalp and down her arms as she heard voices in another room. Jill bolted toward the arrow and through a doorway into a cavernous aging barn. Metal racks from floor to ceiling held dozens of barrels of bourbon. If one of the shelves gave way, she could be crushed to death. As she threaded her way through the maze of racks, blood pounded in her head while sweat dampened the back of her shirt. Her anxiety level felt more in keeping with a horror movie than a run-in with a distillery worker.
Spotting an exit sign at the end of an aisle, Jill broke into a run until something appeared on the floor halfway down the row. However, it wasn’t something at all. It was a man – the proprietor of Sweet Dreams to be specific. Roger Clark lay flat on his back with his eyes closed and a purplish bruise on his forehead.
‘Mr Clark!’ She dropped to her knees next to him. ‘You must have bumped your head and passed out.’ As gently as possible, Jill lifted him by the shoulders and placed his head in her lap. ‘Wake up, Mr Clark. You’ve been knocked out.’
She heard only whimpering from over her right shoulder. Then Mr Clark’s beagle crawled out from beneath a rack. ‘Jack! What are you doing under there?’ Jill held out her palm for the dog to smell. Jack approached cautiously, sniffed her hand, and laid down next to his master. When Jill looked back at Mr Clark, his head had lolled to one side and a pool of blood had soaked though her clothes. The master distiller hadn’t bumped his head and passed out. He was dead.
It was then that Jill started screaming and she didn’t stop until someone yanked her roughly to her feet.
‘What on earth happened?’ demanded Michael, his eyes wide.
‘I don’t know.’ Mindlessly, Jill wiped her bloody hands on her soft pink T-shirt.
Distillery workers soon surrounded them, everyone talking at once.
‘Who are you people?’ shouted one voice.
‘Did that lady kill Mr Clark?’ someone asked.
‘Hey, I told you two not to touch anything!’ Blonde-haired Lindy pushed her way to the front of the crowd.
‘For heaven’s sake, somebody call 9-1-1!’
With an employee’s desperate plea ringing in her ears, Jill lowered herself to the floor next to Jack and closed her eyes.
There should be a limit on how many times a person said ‘I have no idea’ during a given hour. But while the bearded sheriff questioned her in the back of his cruiser, she must have said it a hundred times. Jill couldn’t explain why she had blood on her hands and down the fr
ont of her shirt enough to satisfy the man.
Michael, who was placed in a different police vehicle, also couldn’t explain why they were snooping around when a huge sign read: Absolutely no admittance unless accompanied by Black Creek personnel.
Finally, after Sheriff Adkins checked with their boss at the news service, and since neither had confessed during the two-hour interrogation, she was taken to the ladies’ room inside the distillery and handed a plain T-shirt. ‘I’ll need that shirt you’re wearing, Miss Curtis,’ Adkins growled. ‘And I’ll get those shorts from you later.’ When she complied, they were released with a final warning: ‘Don’t leave town until I say so. Understand?’
‘I promise we won’t leave,’ Jill said. ‘Should you need us, we’re staying at the Sweet Dreams Bed and Breakfast.’
Adkins’s eyes bugged from his face. ‘You’re staying in the home of the victim?’
‘Yes, but we didn’t know he was going to be a victim when we checked in.’
The sheriff shook his head. ‘Go there and sit tight. I might have a few more questions. Say nothing to Mrs Clark. I want to be the one to tell her the bad news.’
‘Yes, sir.’ On shaky legs, Jill joined her partner in his car.
‘We can go back to the B and B?’ Michael looked very pale.
‘Yes, but I need to get upstairs without Mrs Clark seeing my shorts.’
He glanced again at her outfit. ‘I’ll run interference. No way should your relative see you, especially since it’s her husband’s blood. I don’t care how long-lost she is.’
‘We’ll need to stay in tonight,’ Jill added. Somehow she knew they hadn’t seen the last of the sheriff that day.
THREE
Thursday afternoon
Nick Harris of the Kentucky State Police walked out of the meeting with his boss with a bad feeling in his gut. Although he’d just been given an assignment his fellow troopers would kill for, Nick didn’t like venturing into the unknown. He wasn’t worried about the geographical area. He knew the rolling hills and fertile valleys of Nelson, Washington and Marion counties like the back of his hand. And he had more experience with murder investigations and violent crime than anyone at his post. But he’d never been much of a drinker and had never tasted bourbon in his life, despite being born and raised in the Blue Grass state.
Nick was being sent to assist local law enforcement with a suspicious death in Roseville. Maybe the death would be ruled murder and maybe not, but since the man died inside the area’s fastest growing craft distillery, a second pair of eyes had been requested. Finesse would be needed on his part. In this area, saying the wrong thing about the Commonwealth’s famous liquor could bruise more than a man’s feelings.
Over the years, men had died over who made the best bourbon, dating back to the colonial period. Hopefully, what the county sheriff lacked in investigative expertise he made up for in bourbon knowledge. Nick glanced at the clock and opened his laptop. At least he had the rest of the afternoon to become familiar with Kentucky’s top moneymaker before he hit the road to Roseville.
His father had always enjoyed a small glass of bourbon in the evening, claiming it settled his stomach and guaranteed a good night’s sleep. Before his father had died, he had imparted two other rules to live by: never do less than your best at work, and marry a nice girl before the good ones get snapped up. Of Dad’s three pieces of advice, Nick had only followed the maxim about hard work. He loved his job and had earned enough commendations to get a job anywhere. But he would die a happy man if he spent the rest of his life in Kentucky, even if he never found the right woman to marry.
After Nick learned all he could in the allotted time, he went home to pack a bag and water his plants. No telling how long he’d be gone, but at least the drive to Roseville was pleasantly uneventful. Nick spotted the husky, fortyish officer the moment he walked into the office.
‘Good evening, Sheriff Adkins?’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Nick Harris from Kentucky Post number four.’
‘That’s me, but call me Jeff. Thanks for getting here so fast.’ Adkins shook with a firm but professional grip. ‘I’m eager for you to look at the crime scene, so let’s talk on the road.’
Nick masked his immediate apprehension. ‘The body hasn’t been removed yet?’
‘No, the body was moved to the office of the undertaker, who doubles as the county coroner.’
‘You mentioned the deceased was the owner of the distillery. So his employees made a positive identification?’
‘Yep, the production shift was just arriving when a tourist – actually a travel writer – found the body first thing this morning. Get this … she was found covered in blood with the dead guy’s head in her lap. And the guy’s dog wouldn’t leave her side. Her side, not the deceased’s. I cleared the room immediately and sent everyone home. Didn’t need anyone else stepping in evidence. I questioned the writer and her videographer and took statements from the employees in the parking lot. I suspect Mr Clark – Roger Clark, the master distiller – died sometime during the night.’
‘You didn’t detain the writer so I could question her?’ Nick asked.
‘No, but I took her bloody shirt into evidence and ordered her not to leave town.’
Nick let the sheriff’s oversight pass for the moment. ‘No security guard on duty last night?’
‘Yes, one was supposed to be.’ The sheriff grinned from ear to ear. ‘You are just as sharp as your commander described.’
Nick also let the praise pass without comment.
‘But apparently he got sick to his stomach with lower intestinal distress and went home,’ the sheriff continued.
‘Abandoned his post, just like that?’
Adkins nodded. ‘Elmer Maxwell. I talked to the guy’s wife on the phone. Supposedly the guard called Mr Clark, who didn’t pick up. Then he left a message for the production manager that he was sick and going home because “there was no human way he could stay on the job”. That’s a direct quote, Lieutenant Harris.’ Sheriff Adkins punctuated his sentence with a roll of his eyes. ‘I would fire the guy if he worked for me.’
‘What about security cameras?’
‘Black Creek has a few but none in the aging rickhouse.’
‘I trust you took plenty of photos and had techs gather evidence?’ Nick asked.
‘Tons of pictures, but I’m the one who gathered the evidence, following standard protocols. It should soon be on its way to the state lab.’ Adkins turned his focus briefly away from the twisty road. ‘I called for assistance as soon as I saw the bruises on Clark’s face, in addition to the deep gash on the back of his head. There was liquid on the floor, so theoretically Clark could have slipped and cracked his skull, causing brain hemorrhage and death. But it’s hard to batter both sides of the head in a simple fall. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘I would indeed. You were right to call and I’m happy to assist.’
‘Good, because we’re here,’ Adkins drawled. ‘Welcome to Black Creek Distillery.’ He braked to a stop close to the front door.
Without a body, it didn’t take Nick long to check out the crime scene. In fact, he wasn’t sure why the sheriff had brought him here. Photos would have sufficed, along with the autopsy and crime scene evidence report. But he would gain nothing by insulting local law enforcement.
‘Did you collect a sample of this?’ Nick bent down to sniff the liquid.
‘I sure did. It’s bourbon, right?’
‘That would be my guess.’ He stood and brushed off his palms. ‘Send a sample of Black Creek’s bourbon to the lab to see if it matches the sample of this.’
‘You think the killer might have brought a flask along?’ asked Adkins.
‘We shall see.’ Nick walked slowly around the crime scene, making sure nothing had been overlooked. ‘Did you take a sample of this?’ He pointed at what looked like blood on the edge of a rack.
‘Yep, got it. There was hair stuck to the dried blood too.’
Nick
got down on his hands and knees. ‘What about the blood over here?’ He pointed at two tiny drops several feet from the body.
Adkins leaned over to inspect. ‘Man, I can’t believe I didn’t see that.’
‘There’s a Styrofoam cup under the rack too.’
‘I’ll call a deputy to grab a sample right now. I’m fresh out of evidence bags.’ He pulled out his phone and barked orders to whoever picked up.
‘If the deputy’s on his way, why don’t we talk to the person who discovered the body? I trust you know where this travel writer is staying.’
‘Yes, but I’d rather you question her at the station. She’s staying at the B and B owned by Roger Clark.’
Nick stared at the sheriff, dumbfounded, not knowing which question to ask first. ‘The travel writer who found the body is staying in the home of the deceased?’
‘Correct, but let’s not make it uncomfortable for the widow. The woman is a personal friend of my wife’s.’
Nick nodded. ‘What’s the name of this place?’
‘Sweet Dreams.’
He dropped his chin to his chest. ‘That’s where I’m staying! How small is this town?’
‘We’re not that small. What a coincidence.’
‘Take me back to the station, Jeff. I want to read your report and study the photos while you pick up the witness.’
‘Good idea. You and I are going to make a great team.’
In less than an hour, Sheriff Adkins ushered a petite blonde into the conference room. With her hair in a tight ponytail and huge tortoiseshell glasses, she looked young and scholarly.
‘Lieutenant Harris? This is Jill Curtis from Chicago. Miss Curtis, this is Lieutenant Harris from the Kentucky State Police. From this point on, he’ll be running this investigation.’ Adkins backed out of the room and closed the door.
Nick rose to his feet. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Curtis. Have a seat.’
‘Investigation. Roger Clark was murdered?’ The woman’s face paled several shades as she wobbled on her high heels.
‘Please, sit.’ He pointed at a chair. ‘We won’t know that until the coroner completes his autopsy.’