The Moonshine Shack Murder

by Diane Kelly

  “All right! All right!” Palms still up, the guy backed toward the door. “Relax. I’m going.”

  Cormac stormed after him. The guy turned, shoved the door open, and left, but not before raising a middle finger at the barkeep. Cormac stood in the open doorway, making sure the man had headed off, before stalking back through the bar, muttering under his breath.

  “Not your favorite customer, I take it?”

  Cormac scowled. “He’s nothing but trouble. Hits on my waitresses, hustles my customers at pool and darts, skipped out on a sixty-dollar bar tab. I’d bet he’s the one who broke my front window a few months back, too.”

  Running a bar was more difficult than I realized. No wonder Cormac was such a sourpuss. Getting back to the matter at hand, I gestured to the moonshine again. “I’ve got your order here.”

  “Cancel it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Cancel it,” he repeated. “I don’t need it after all.” He went around to the back of the bar and dropped the flap back into place with a bang.

  Fury flared, heating me from the inside out, and my hands grasped the dolly in a death grip. “But we had a deal!”

  He shrugged. “I got a better one.”

  “From who?”

  His answer was evasive. “Another moonshine company.”

  My mind flashed back to the distributor from Backwoods Bootleggers who’d crashed my party the night before. “It was that man from last night, wasn’t it? Gage something-or-other.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” Cormac said, “but when I told him you’d offered me a discount, he offered an even better one if I’d go exclusive with Backwoods.”

  “So you’re breaking our contract? That’s a lousy way to treat a fellow small-business owner.”

  He snorted. “What are you getting worked up about? I won’t be selling jars of moonshine over here. I’ll just be making drinks with it. Like you said, you and I aren’t competitors.”

  My own rationalizations coming back to bite me. Heated and humiliated, I grabbed my dolly and rolled it out of the pub without another word. Rather than promising me riches, the leprechaun outside the door seemed to be taunting me now, holding up his gold coin as if poised to snatch it away, just as Cormac had done. Insolent Irish imp!

  As I pushed the handcart back into my shop, my grandfather took one look at my face and his own puckered in concern. “What happened over there? You brought the moonshine back, and you got a burr in your britches now, too.”

  “Cormac O’Keefe refused his order.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Remember the guy from Backwoods Bootleggers who snuck into our grand opening uninvited last night?”

  “I do.” Granddaddy’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?”

  “After he crashed our party, he marched right over to Limericks and offered O’Keefe a big discount if he’d agree to stock Backwoods moonshine exclusively.”

  “You mean to tell me that sorry snake across the street took the deal?”

  “He did.” Cormac had made the business equivalent of a bootleg turn, heading one way at high speed before executing a controlled skid to end up going in another.

  Granddaddy threw up his gnarled hands. “But the Hayes family hooch is the best in all of Appalachia!”

  “Without a doubt. Everyone will learn that soon enough, whether Limericks serves our shine or not. I’ll make sure of it.”

  As enraged as I was that Cormac O’Keefe had reneged on our agreement, at least I hadn’t parted with any product. Better to learn now that the guy was an unscrupulous shyster than later down the line. I returned the moonshine to the storeroom and unpacked the case. It helped a little to know that the guy with the neck tattoo had introduced a little misery into Cormac’s life. What goes around comes around.

  When I went back into the store, Granddaddy said, “Maybe this will cheer you up. It’s Smoky.” He held out a small wood carving in the shape of a sleeping cat.

  I took the whittled wood from him and gave it a closer look. As always, my grandfather had made a miniature masterpiece with intricate detail—curved indentations for the cat’s closed eyes, smooth rounded cheeks, distinct tiny toes. He’d sanded it smooth, not a rough edge anywhere. He’d whittled his initials, BJH for Benjamin Joseph Hayes, on the underside. “It’s perfect, Granddaddy. It deserves a special spot in the store.” I glanced around and decided to display the cat next to the register, where customers could admire it.

  I sold a few jars of moonshine that evening thanks to my grandfather suggesting to passersby that their life would not be complete until they came inside and sampled our shine. Fortunately, the customers found him charming rather than pushy. If I thought his arthritic hands would be up to it, I’d give him one of those signs to spin.

  When we wrapped up at the end of the night, I was thrilled to discover that, even after deducting the cost of the products sold and the day’s proportion of overhead and rent, we’d earned a small profit. A whopping sixty-four cents, in fact. The Hayes family was once again making money with moonshine.

  * * *

  * * *

  Over the next few days, thanks to the free jars I’d offered, my grandfather enticing passersby into the shop, and my incessant social media posts, word spread and business picked up at the Moonshine Shack.

  Another group of bikers came in, though these guys weren’t a well-groomed, well-mannered club. Their faces bore burly beards and battle scars. They laughed on seeing the displays of my Firefly shine.

  “Apple pie?” one of them barked. “Peach? Wild blackberry? This fruity stuff is for chicks and sissies. You got any real moonshine?”

  I bristled at the sexist remark, but him saying that my Firefly flavors weren’t real moonshine was what really got my goat. My shine was real and, what’s more, it was mine. I’d continued the family business and expanded on it, taken it in a new direction. I was proud of what I’d accomplished. But no sense arguing with these men. They were entitled to their opinions—even if they were wrong. I gestured to the jugs of Ole-Timey Corn Liquor. “Try the jugs. It’s for purists.”

  They might have insulted me, but at least they bought several jugs of Granddaddy’s shine. They slid the jugs into the saddlebags on their bikes and motored across the street to Limericks.

  On Thursday night, traffic picked up on Market Street, mainly college kids getting a jump start on the weekend. Groups wandered by wearing gear with Greek letters on it designating various sororities and fraternities. Alpha. Beta. Chi. It was like watching a live version of a Mediterranean Sesame Street. Tonight’s episode brought to you by the letter epsilon! Several groups wandered into the store and purchased moonshine. Maybe I should offer a student discount . . .

  Marlon rode by on Charlotte several times, stopping once to chat with me and my grandfather. Fortunately, my grandfather hadn’t noticed Marlon’s badge when I’d introduced them, and I’d used first names only. If Granddaddy realized the officer was related to the sheriff who’d arrested his father, he was bound to blow a gasket, and any chance I might have of getting to know Marlon better could be ruined.

  A few minutes shy of eight o’clock Friday evening, Cormac O’Keefe stormed toward my store, his face purple with rage. I suppose my face had looked much the same when I’d left Limericks four days earlier after he’d refused to accept his moonshine order. Smoky stood in the window as Granddaddy rose from his rocker out front. As my grandfather and Cormac exchanged words, I rushed outside to learn what the ruckus was all about.

  “You can’t say I wasn’t telling the truth!” Granddaddy brandished his small whittling tool for emphasis. “You’re not to be trusted.”

  “You crazy old coot!” Cormac barked. “I should sue you for slander.”

  “I’d sue you right back!” Granddaddy hollered. “I might be an old coot, but I ain’t crazy!”<
br />
  That’s debatable.

  Several people stopped on the sidewalks nearby to watch the exchange. My cheeks blazed in embarrassment.

  As if realizing that an argument with my grandfather wasn’t likely to be productive, the barkeep turned to me. “Did you know your grandfather’s been telling people not to come to my bar? He’s called me a crook.”

  “No. I wasn’t aware.” Though I could hardly blame him. My grandfather was fiercely protective of his family, and he’d been insulted by O’Keefe choosing another brand of moonshine over ours. Still, antagonizing O’Keefe wouldn’t help anything. Better to keep the peace. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “You’d better,” O’Keefe snapped.

  “Git!” Granddaddy motioned with his tiny tool. “Go back to your watering hole.”

  O’Keefe issued another of his signature derisive snorts and strode back to his pub. I raised a hand and smiled at the crowd that had gathered, hoping to make light of the uncomfortable situation. “Everything’s okay!” I called out as I took my grandfather by the arm. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Why don’t you come inside for a bit? Cool down?”

  He resisted. “I’m not afraid of that whippersnapper.”

  “I know, Granddaddy. But the best thing you can do for our business is keep your mouth shut. You want the Moonshine Shack to be a success, don’t you?”

  He scowled. “You know I do.”

  “Then come inside. I’ll fix you some iced tea with a dash of peach shine.”

  His mouth spread in a broad smile. “Now you’re talkin’.”

  I’d wrangled a rocker inside and settled my grandfather in it with a glass of spiked tea when a telltale clop-clop-clop sounded out front. I looked out the window to see Marlon dismount at the curb. He stepped forward and tied Charlotte’s reins to one of the front porch posts. Removing his helmet, he came inside, stopping to give Smoky a scratch under the chin.

  “Hi, Marlon,” I said, moving forward to meet him. “You’re working late today.”

  “Drew the short stick and got assigned the swing shift. I’ll be on duty most of the night.” He looked from me to my grandfather and back again. “Received a report of a man in overalls brandishing a knife and making threats in front of your store. You two wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Cormac O’Keefe called you?”

  “Couldn’t say. The caller hung up before dispatch could get his name.”

  It had to be Cormac who called. He probably knew he’d look like a wimp for reporting an octogenarian with a harmless whittling tool. Still, that didn’t keep him from wanting to give us a hassle. I turned to my grandfather. “Show Marlon your knife.”

  Granddaddy raised the tiny blade he’d been holding during his argument with O’Keefe. “If that man feared this itty-bitty tool, he’s as yellow as he is crooked.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you.” Marlon exhaled a sharp breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. “That said, do me a favor, Ben. Don’t wave those tools around when you’re arguing with someone. They might take it the wrong way. Okay?”

  Granddaddy raised his right hand to his forehead and gave Marlon a salute. “Yes, sir, Officer—” He squinted at Marlon’s chest, trying to read his badge. “Landers.”

  I went rigid, hoping my grandfather wouldn’t make the connection. No such luck.

  His squinty gaze went from Marlon’s badge to his face. “You’re not kin to Sheriff Daniel Landers, are you?” He pointed his whittling tool at the newspaper clipping on the wall before directing it accusingly at Marlon.

  Marlon’s gaze cut my way. What could I do but shrug and sigh? The truth was bound to come out sooner or later, though later would have given Marlon more of a chance to win Granddaddy over first.

  Marlon returned his focus to my grandfather. “Matter of fact, we are kin. Sheriff Daniel Landers was my great-grandpa.”

  My grandfather’s face puckered and his hands fisted. “Well, I’ll be a son of a—”

  “Granddaddy!” I cried, cutting him off. “That’s all water under the bridge.”

  “No, it ain’t!” he snarled. “I’ll never forget when my father was taken away. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  “You don’t remember it at all,” I pointed out as gently as I could. “Your father was arrested in 1933. You were only a baby.”

  My grandfather’s scowl deepened. “Well, I remember visiting him in the clink. Mama cried every time we left.”

  Prohibition ended in December 1933. Mere weeks after my ancestor’s arrest, liquor production and sales became legal again. But by that time, Eustatius Hayes had been convicted and given the maximum sentence: a ten-thousand-dollar fine and five years in the Tennessee state penitentiary. Despite the change in the law, those convicted of making or selling liquor during the period when it had been illegal were forced to serve out their full terms. So while my granddad hadn’t actually seen his father arrested, he had lived without his father for the formative years of his childhood.

  “For what it’s worth,” Marlon said, “your father evaded arrest for years and made a fool of my great-grandfather before he finally caught him.” He lowered both his voice and his head. “I’ll let you in on a little-known secret. If your daddy’s tire hadn’t blown out that night, he’d have gotten away again.”

  On learning that his father had made a formidable rival, my grandfather’s tight face and fists loosened, but only a little. His eyes took on a distant look. “A flat would explain why Daddy was always checking the tires after he was released.”

  Marlon straightened up. “I hope you won’t hold our families’ history against me. I do my best to be fair, and I hope you’ll give me a fair shake, too. Let’s let bygones be bygones. What do you say?” Marlon extended a hand to my grandfather.

  “I say no sir, no way, nohow.” Granddaddy glared up at Marlon and crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to take his hand. For an octogenarian, he sure was acting childish.

  “Grandaddy!” I snapped, using the same tone my granny had used to keep him in line. “Every man should be judged for himself. You’ve said so yourself.”

  He merely harrumphed in reply. He knew I was right, but he wasn’t willing to admit it.

  I sent the point home. “If Marlon held a grudge against you the way you’re holding one against him, you’d be in handcuffs right now and on your way to the police station for booking. He has grounds to arrest you. You’ve confessed to brandishing your tool at Cormac.”

  Granddaddy’s eyes slid to the handcuffs on Marlon’s belt, but he remained silent, refusing to budge.

  Marlon, being the bigger man both literally and figuratively, said, “Come on now, Ben. Give me a chance to prove myself. Who knows? Maybe one day you and I can even be friends.”

  Granddaddy still pouted, but at least he uncrossed his arms and gave a grunt of agreement. It was better than nothing, and the best we were going to get. A provisional peace made, I exhaled in relief and gave Marlon an apologetic smile.

  Marlon glanced out front, where Charlotte waited for him. “I better get back out on patrol. You two take care.”

  I saw him to the door, closing it behind him. I hoped my grandfather’s bad behavior wouldn’t scare Marlon off. I’d begun to look forward to his occasional stops by the shop. It would be a shame if my curmudgeonly granddad put an end to those visits.

  Chapter Five

  A few minutes later, the sounds of hooting, hollering, and general mayhem met my ears. Five rambunctious frat boys approached on the sidewalk. All were white with various shades of brown hair. Two wore hoodies, two wore long-sleeved T-shirts, and one wore a short-sleeved tee, all of which were emblazoned with the Greek letters Mu Sigma.

  The tallest one in the front threw out an arm, stopping his buddies in their tracks. “Look! Moonshine!”


  Another gaped. “The sign says free samples!”

  Granddaddy groaned from his seat in the rocker as he eyed the boys through the window. “These hooligans look like trouble.”

  I clucked my tongue at him. “You think anyone under the age of fifty is a hooligan who looks like trouble.”

  “Sometimes I’m right.”

  “You got me there.”

  The bells on the door jangled as the boys came inside.

  “Hi there!” I called. “How are y’all doing tonight?”

  The tallest of the five had brown hair generously gelled into a stiff Ken doll style. He picked up a jug of my grandfather’s shine in each hand and raised them high. “It’s time to party!”

  It looked to me like they’d already been partying. Smelled like it, too. The scent of beer had wafted into my shop along with them. But even though they’d downed some beers, their boisterous behavior seemed born more of immaturity and excitement than intoxication. When I’d been in college, I’d lived for Friday nights, too, the chance to put away the books for a few hours and have some fun.

  The shortest and stockiest pointed a finger and swung his arm to indicate the entire sales floor. “Give us a sample of everything you’ve got.”

  “I’d be happy to,” I said, “once I see some ID.” I circled around the back of my sample table. “You boys aren’t driving, are you?”

  “Nah,” said Short-’n’-Stocky. “We walked over from the frat house.”

  At least they’d had the sense to come to the area on foot.

  After checking their IDs to make sure they were all of age, I reached behind the sample table to the cabinet where I kept the clean shot glasses. The glasses clinked as I lined up a set of seven in front of each boy so they could sample all six of my flavors, as well as my grandfather’s shine. “Let’s start with the apple pie.” I splashed a tiny dash in each shot glass, not more than a few drops, just enough that they could taste the flavor.