The Moonshine Shack Murder

by Diane Kelly

  Though I was a bit miffed that he’d ignored the sign on the door that read PRIVATE EVENT BY INVITATION ONLY, there was no reason for me to be uncivil. Heck, if I noticed an event involving moonshine, I’d want to check things out, too. I smiled and gestured to the logo on his breast pocket. “I see you work for the big boys.”

  “I do.” He offered me a smile in return. “I was calling on customers in the area and spotted your shop. Figured I’d come over and check out the competition.”

  “Competition?” I repeated, pleased that he considered me such. “Not hardly. I’m just a local, small-batch operation.” For now. “Besides, there’s room enough for both of us in this business.” It was true. Moonshine was a growing market. There were plenty of customers to go around. Even if we were competitors, we didn’t have to be enemies. I offered my hand and introduced myself. “Hattie Hayes.”

  He gave my hand a firm but friendly shake. “Gage Tilley.”

  “Would you like to sample our flavors, Gage?”

  He declined, offering me the same excuse Marlon had given me on Friday, that he was on the job. “Better not. I’ve got some deliveries to make.”

  Even though the man had crashed my party, I offered him some complimentary shine. “Take a jar or jug with you. Wouldn’t want you leaving empty-handed.” Unlike the police captain, Tilley’s boss couldn’t complain if he had alcohol in his possession. After all, selling and delivering liquor was his job, and scoping out the competition said he took that job seriously.

  “That’s very generous of you.” He snagged one of Granddaddy’s jugs, bade me goodbye, and headed out the door.

  I watched Tilley out the window. He strode across the street and opened the door to Limericks, holding it for a curvy woman in jeans and a form-fitting periwinkle-blue T-shirt. Her wavy, golden-blond tresses hung clear down to her waist. I remembered seeing the bottle of Backwoods Bootleggers moonshine at the bar the day before. Cormac O’Keefe must be one of the customers Tilley is calling on.

  I made my way back to Marlon and picked up a jar of the cherry-flavored shine in one hand, the apple pie flavor in the other. “Which one would you like to try next?”

  “The apple pie.”

  I poured a shot of the apple pie moonshine for him. “Bottoms up.”

  Marlon raised the shot glass to his lips and tossed it back, letting the liquor sit on his tongue for a moment before he swallowed. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  As I poured him a shot of the cherry-flavored shine, a high-pitched shriek from outside caught our attention. Through the window, I saw Miranda ducking her head and flailing her arms in an attempt to ward off the golden blonde, who was scratching and clawing at Miranda like a feral feline.

  “Catfight!” someone cried.

  Smoky stood up in the front window to get a better view. Out front, Granddaddy rose from his stool, tottered to the curb, and hollered across the street, brandishing his cane in a valiant effort to stop the blonde-on-blonde brawl. While those in my shop gathered at the windows to gawk, Marlon leaped into action. He bolted out the door, past my grandfather, and across the street, raising a hand to stop an oncoming pickup. When the truck screeched to a stop, he dashed past it and deftly grabbed each of the women by the upper arm, yanking them apart. He held them at bay, his head turning from one to the other as he issued reprimands and orders.

  Kiki slid up next to me and issued a low wolf whistle. “Officer Landers sure is—” She stopped herself, her face contorting as she appeared to search for the right word.

  “Capable?” I suggested.

  “Yeah,” she said. “He’s all kinds of capable.”

  I pointed out a pertinent fact my friend seemed to have forgotten. “You’ve already got a boyfriend.”

  “Exactly,” Kiki said. “A boyfriend. Not a fiancé. Not a husband. Trading up is still an option.”

  So much for that strategy. “I already called dibs on Marlon.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Then I call it now,” I said. “Dibs.”

  After a tongue-lashing from Marlon, Miranda and the other woman stormed off in opposite directions down the sidewalk. Marlon returned to the Moonshine Shack and stepped back over to my sample table, glancing down at the jars. “Where was I?”

  Kiki wagged her brows. “About to tell us what happened over there.”

  Kate leaned in, eager to hear the gossip. I was curious, too. It wasn’t every day you saw two women toss their pride and purses aside to scuffle on a sidewalk. They must have had a good reason.

  Marlon pointed at the cinnamon-flavored moonshine, and I poured him a shot while he filled us in. “Those two ladies work at Limericks. They just learned the owner has been dating both of them. He scheduled them to work different shifts, told them to keep the relationship under wraps, and gave them strict orders not to come around while they were off duty.”

  Kiki scoffed. “He was trying to keep them apart so they wouldn’t find out he’s a bloody, two-timing, cheating chump.”

  “Yep,” Marlon said. “Didn’t quite work out for him.”

  Looked like I was wrong. The women hadn’t had a good reason to fight. A prickly guy like Cormac O’Keefe didn’t seem worth a second glance in my opinion, let alone worth the risk of an injury.

  Putting the encounter behind him, Marlon downed the cinnamon shine and raised his glass. “This here’s my favorite. Matter of fact, you could mix this cinnamon flavor with the apple pie and call it ‘candy apple.’ ”

  “That’s a fantastic idea.” Mixing the two varieties would give me another option to offer my customers with little additional effort on my part.

  “You’ll have to get the ratio of apple to cinnamon just right,” Marlon added. “If you need taste testers, count me in. I ate my weight in candy apples as a kid.”

  “I’ll take you up on that.”

  The party wrapped up not long after. My parents and grandfather left together so they could give Granddaddy a ride back to his home. Kate offered to help clean up, but in her condition she needed rest so I gave her an appreciative hug and insisted she go home. Kiki and Marlon stuck around and helped me break down the folding tables and move them into the storage room. I stashed what little food remained in the mini fridge. I decided to leave the sweeping and mopping until morning. It had been a fun but exhausting event. I’d need a good night’s sleep to tackle my grand opening day tomorrow.

  After making sure Kiki got safely on her way, Marlon saw me to my van out back, carting Smoky’s carrier for me. He lifted it up and down a few times, performing an improvised biceps curl. “Carrying this chubby cat is a good workout.”

  “He’s not chubby,” I insisted. “He’s fluffy.”

  Marlon slid me some side-eye. “If you say so.”

  After Smoky was safely stashed in the cargo bay, I opened my door and turned to face the officer a final time. “Thanks for all your help, Marlon.”

  “Happy to be of service.” With that, he pretended to tip a hat and headed off.

  * * *

  * * *

  Late Monday morning, I picked up my grandfather from Singing River and we drove to the Moonshine Shack. Smoky promptly claimed his spot in the shop’s front window, where he could watch the activity on the street between naps. While I finished cleaning the place, Granddaddy sat on a rocker out front, whittling and telling the few early tourists to be sure to come back when the Shack opened at noon. I knew from monitoring the comings and goings of foot traffic in the area that only a handful of people came around before lunchtime, so I’d decided my store hours would be noon to nine p.m. Monday through Saturday, and noon to five on Sunday. With my bank account nearly empty, I hadn’t dared to hire any employees yet, unsure if I could make payroll. Kiki had offered to help out on weekends for the time being, and I took her up on her generous proposition. Granddaddy could hold down the fort when
I took necessary breaks during the weekdays.

  I readied the cash register, filling the plastic till with bills and coins to make change. I double-checked to make sure the card reader device was working properly and turned on the mood music. I packed up a case of assorted Firefly moonshine and two jugs of my granddaddy’s hooch to take over to Limericks when it opened later today. When the preparations were complete, I stepped over to the newspaper clipping of my great-grandfather’s arrest, closed my eyes, and sent up a silent plea to my bootlegging ancestor in the hereafter. If you’ve got any sway up there, please ask the powers that be to make my moonshine shop a success.

  The instant my watch read 12:00, I pulled the front door open and set out the sandwich-board sign on which I’d written GRAND OPENING SPECIAL—20% OFF ALL MOONSHINE! I tied a trio of helium balloons to the sign to ensure that it grabbed people’s attention. Once everything was in place, I took up a position next to a porch post out front and looked up and down the street, wondering who would be my first customer. Would it be the middle-aged lady window shopping at the boutique down the block? The older couple on the bench across the street eating donuts and drinking coffee? The leather-clad bikers rolling up the street on their raucously rhythmic Harley-Davidson motorcycles?

  Spoiler alert, it was the bikers. The guy in the lead glanced over at the Shack as they rolled past, signaled his cohorts, and hooked an illegal U-turn, pulling to the curb in front of my shop, cutting his engine. The others did the same, lining up their bikes at an angle to fill two parking spots.

  Once the last engine died down, I called out, “In the mood for some moonshine today?”

  “I’m in the mood for moonshine every day.” With that, their leader marched into my shop, his four friends on his heels. They left the scent of Old Spice aftershave in their wake, the same stuff my father and grandfather wore.

  As I followed them in, I took in the name of their gang, which spanned the back of each of their vests. DESPERADDOS. That extra D had to be a typo, didn’t it? Before I could stop myself, I blurted the word out loud, pronouncing it as it was spelled. “Desperaddos?”

  The men exchanged knowing looks and grins before their leader put a finger to his lips and, eyes twinkling with amusement, whispered, “Shh. Don’t blow our cover. We’re CPAs from Knoxville, out for our annual post-tax-day ride through the Smokies.”

  Accountants, out for some fun after the April 15 deadline. That explained their moniker. It also explained why there wasn’t a single tattoo, earring, or unkempt beard among them. In fact, four were clean-shaven. The only one with facial hair sported a well-trimmed goatee. This was no outlaw biker gang. Rather, they were a motorcycle club, out for a leisurely ride, looking for fun, not trouble. Some might call them posers, but I hoped to call them customers.

  “I was a business major,” I said, hoping to establish a rapport and, perhaps, a repeat business relationship when they were back in town again. “I’m not certified, but I earned As in all of my accounting courses.”

  The jaw of the man nearest me dropped in jest. “Guys! She’s one of us.”

  After sharing a chuckle, I offered to share my wares. “Samples, anyone?”

  Their leader whooped. “Heck, yeah!”

  They emerged from my shop ten minutes later, each bearing a jug of Granddaddy’s Ole-Timey Corn Liquor for themselves and one of my fruity Firefly jars to take home to their wives or girlfriends back in Knoxville. They left behind a selfie I’d taken on my cell phone to celebrate my first sale. I stood beaming in the center with the bikers gathered around me, raising the jars and jugs they’d purchased.

  I thanked them as they slid their purchases into their saddlebags. “Enjoy your ride back home! Be sure to come by next time you’re in town!”

  Chapter Four

  Only a handful of customers wandered into my shop the rest of the afternoon, but while the lack of traffic was a disappointment it wasn’t necessarily a surprise. After all, it was a weekday and not yet peak tourist season. At five o’clock, as I poured tasting samples for a group of retired ladies at the counter of my shop, the neon OPEN sign illuminated in the window of Limericks across the street. As soon as I was done serving my customers, I’d take Cormac’s order over to him. Given the warnings from Heath Delaney and Mack Clayton, I’d insist on payment up front.

  The ladies spent a few minutes sampling and savoring before deciding on their favorite flavors. Each of them purchased a jar and were delighted when I slipped a copy of my drink recipes into their bags. As soon as they’d gone, I put a hand on my grandfather’s shoulder to rouse him from the nap he was taking in the rocker out front. “Can you cover for me?”

  “Of course.” Setting his whittling aside, he rounded up his cane, rose stiffly from the rocker, and ambled inside, circling around to the back of the checkout counter.

  “You remember what to do?”

  He picked up the handheld bar code reader and waved it about like Yosemite Sam waving his cartoon pistols. “I aim this magic doohickey at the stripes on the label and pull the trigger.”

  “Exactly,” I told him. “When you hear the beep, you’ll know it worked.”

  “Gotcha.” He took a seat on the padded stool behind the counter.

  I hustled to the storeroom, loaded Cormac O’Keefe’s moonshine order onto a dolly, and rolled it through my shop and across the street under Smoky’s watchful eye. As I approached the pub, a HELP WANTED sign in the window caught my attention. It hadn’t been there the day before. My guess was that Miranda and the other server had quit their jobs after their sidewalk skirmish the preceding evening. Who’d want to work for a man who’d cheated on her? Or maybe Cormac had fired the two. Miranda had only appeared to be defending herself, but the other had launched an aggressive attack. Having someone like her on staff could pose a liability. Then again, if Cormac fired the golden blonde, he might be risking a sexual harassment lawsuit.

  The leprechaun greeted me with his mischievous grin, holding up his coin as if to tell me there was money to be made here at Limericks. I hope so. I pulled the pub’s door open and held it with my foot while I wrangled the dolly over the threshold. A wiry, dark-haired man walked up on the sidewalk. He had a tattoo on his neck of what was probably supposed to be a black bear roaring but looked more like a belching Labrador retriever. I suppose even tattoo artists have to start somewhere.

  The tattooed man looked down at the cases of moonshine on my dolly and read the label aloud. “Firefly moonshine?” His focus shifted to my face. “Never heard of it.”

  “Maybe not yet,” I said with a smile, “but you will!” I removed a hand from the dolly and pointed to my shop across the street. “That’s my new moonshine store. Stop by sometime. We offer free samples.”

  “Oh, yeah?” His eyes brightened. “Is that just a onetime thing or what?”

  I hadn’t considered that someone might try to take advantage of my free samples on a regular basis without making a purchase. I supposed I’d have to come up with a policy. I replied with “Reasonable limits apply.” How’s that for the fine print?

  The man followed me as I rolled the cases inside. Cormac was pouring drinks at the far end of the bar. To my surprise, the curvy golden blonde who’d been whaling on Miranda the night before stood in a back corner, a round tray tucked under her arm as she looked up at the television, taking in the early news. I was surprised she’d come back to work for Cormac after learning he’d cheated on her. Either she was very forgiving or she couldn’t afford to quit her job. She wore jeans and a cute peasant blouse in a colorful print with elastic around the neckline, waist, and wrists.

  Cormac pushed the drinks he’d poured to the front edge of the bar and barked, “Ashlynn! Order up!”

  On hearing her name, the woman turned around. Her lips looked full and luscious in a shimmery shade of pretty pink lipstick. I wonder how my lips would look in that color. With my pale skin, mos
t lipsticks looked clownish on me, but the shade she wore just might work with my complexion. I was tempted to ask her for the name of the makeup line and the color of the lipstick, but I was here to conduct business and I didn’t want to appear unprofessional. I also didn’t want to risk getting walloped if she somehow found my question offensive. I’d seen what this woman could do.

  As she walked up and retrieved the drinks from the counter, I rolled my boxes over and parked my dolly in front of the bar.

  “Hi, Cormac.” I dipped my chin to indicate the case of liquor below. “I’ve brought your moonshine.”

  He put down the glass he’d been drying, flipped the bar towel over his shoulder, and pointed a finger in my direction. “Get out!”

  “Excuse me?”

  It wasn’t until a voice came from behind me that I realized Cormac was speaking to the guy who’d followed me in. “Be cool, dude.” The man raised his palms. “I only want to get a beer.”

  My impulse was to shrink back and cower behind my dolly. Ashlynn, on the other hand, seemed unfazed. Having delivered the drinks, she circled around to the back of the bar. She reached up to straighten a bottle on a nearby shelf before calmly making change at the cash register. I supposed people who work in bars are used to dealing with a rowdy crowd.

  The elastic band on her sleeve must’ve ridden up, because she tugged it back down into place at her wrist before closing the cash drawer. Wait . . . did she just tuck some bills into her sleeve? Her movements had been so smooth and swift, I couldn’t be certain. Add in the dim lighting and the reflections off the bottles and mirror behind the bar, and I was even less sure. No one would have the audacity to steal from the till right under their boss’s nose, would they?

  “Out!” Cormac shouted again, moving his arm so that he pointed to the door. “Now!”

  My attention shifted from Ashlynn back to the tattooed guy. When the man made no move to leave, Cormac yanked the towel from his shoulder, slung it onto the bar, and raised the hinged part of the counter to come around to our side.