The Moonshine Shack Murder

by Diane Kelly

  While most of them remarked that it tasted good, the Ken doll cringed. “Too sweet!”

  While I loved my fruity flavors, I realized they wouldn’t be for everyone. What product was? “You might prefer the cinnamon.” I served them each a small sample of the cinnamon flavor next.

  After tilting the shot glass back and letting the drops run onto his tongue, the Ken doll said, “That’s more like it.” When we’d exhausted the Firefly flavors and he savored a sample of Granddaddy’s Ole-Timey Corn Liquor, he let loose with a wolflike howl. “Moonshine, baby!”

  I scanned the faces in front of me. “Interested in purchasing some jars or jugs tonight?”

  “No, thanks,” said Short-’n’-Stocky. “We’re gonna hit the bars. We can’t be lugging jugs around with us all night.”

  Though I was frustrated not to make a sale after spending the last quarter hour serving them samples, I didn’t let my feelings show. After all, maybe they’d come back another time. “No problem,” I said with a smile. “Be sure to come back again sometime when you can take some home with you. Maybe bring your girlfriends in for a tasting.” I had no idea whether these guys had girlfriends, but odds were at least one or two of them did.

  They jostled one another on their way to reach the door first. When one of others shoved him, Short-’n’-Stocky lost his footing and veered into a pyramid display of wild blackberry shine. I scrambled over and managed to wrap my arms around the base of the display before all the jars could topple over. The jar that had been on top performed somersaults on its way down to the floor, shattering in a spray of shine and glass shards, wetting my sneakers and the legs of my overalls.

  “Oops.” The boy looked down at the mess he’d made. “My bad.” He backed up from the rapidly spreading pool of purple liquid, his rear end aiming for the door. “You’ve got insurance for that, right?”

  I didn’t bother explaining about deductibles and simply circled around the puddle to escort him out. My grandfather used his cane to lift himself from his chair and joined me. The boy’s friends were already on the move outside, looking back over their shoulders and snickering as they walked away from my shop. The Ken doll was hunched over suspiciously, as if he might have something hidden in the pouch of his sweatshirt—something like a jar of moonshine he’d swiped when I’d been distracted by the mess his friend had made. As they skittered off down the sidewalk, I stepped outside. My grandfather followed me. Half a block down, the boy yanked a jar of shine from the pouch of his sweatshirt and held it up as if in victory, raising the other fist as well and hollering “Woot-woot!” I couldn’t be sure from this distance, but from the color it appeared to be a jar of cherry shine.

  Granddaddy raised his cane and shook it in the air. “You boys ever come back here,” he hollered, “I’ll give you a whooping!”

  They merely laughed and ran off.

  I turned to my grandfather. “Did Marlon’s warning mean nothing to you?”

  He waved a dismissive, arthritic hand. “He only told me not to threaten people with my whittling tools. He said nothing about my cane.”

  I sighed. “You’ve got me there, again.” I supposed I could have called the police on the boys, but it seemed unlikely they’d return to the Moonshine Shack, and they’d probably have swallowed the evidence of their crime and ditched the jar by the time the police could catch up with them. Besides, it was closing time. All I wanted to do was mop up the mess, go home, and get a good night’s sleep. I let the theft slide. A person has to choose their battles and, after facing off with Cormac, I had no more fight left in me.

  After cleaning up and closing the store, I drove my grandfather back to the Singing River Retirement Home. Though I appreciated him keeping me company at work, after the confrontation he’d caused today, I was glad it would be Kiki working alongside me over the weekend. I drove back to the cabin and was fast asleep in minutes, the stress and excitement of my first week in business having zapped every ounce of my energy.

  * * *

  * * *

  My eyes popped open, but as dark as it was in the mountainside cabin I could see nothing. My heart raced in my chest like a bootlegger being chased by the law. Had I locked the front door of the Moonshine Shack and set the alarm?

  I couldn’t be certain. My grandfather’s run-in with Cormac O’Keefe and the subsequent visit from Marlon Landers had thrown me for a loop. The punks who’d made a mess in my shop and stolen the jar of shine certainly hadn’t helped, either. While I’d made a closing checklist earlier in the week, I hadn’t used it tonight, figuring after four nights I had the routine down. Maybe I’d overestimated myself.

  I fumbled for my cell phone and consulted the screen when it lit up. 2:28. Ugh. As exhausted as I was, I’d never be able to go back to sleep until I returned to the Moonshine Shack and checked on things. For all I knew, someone could have made off with my entire inventory.

  I slid my feet into a pair of rubber-soled slippers and tied a fluffy white robe over my pajamas, a custom-made pair with Smoky’s face printed on them. Kiki had given the PJ’s to me as a gift on my most recent birthday. Truly, you can order anything on the Internet these days. When I grabbed my purse and keys, Smoky took that as his cue to accompany me to the door. I scooped him up in my arms and carried him with me. There was no time for his carrier, but as lazy and docile as he was there was little risk he’d escape. I set him on the floor of the cargo bay, climbed in, and motored down the mountain.

  While the riverfront area was normally lit up and busy, this late at night many of the lights in the businesses had been turned off and the people had returned home or to their hotels. Even the neon lights at Limericks were off, the pub having closed at two o’clock. Hardly a soul was in sight as I made my way down Market Street and turned down the alley behind my shop.

  Grabbing Smoky once again, I carried him from the van to the back door and cradled him in my arms as I unlocked it. I set him down and he sauntered inside with a saucy swish of his tail. The space was dimly lit by an automatic night light plugged into an outlet next to the powder room, but the device provided enough illumination for me to see without turning on the harsh overhead lights and frying my tired eyeballs. I eyed the security system keypad. The lack of a red flashing light told me I had indeed forgotten to set the alarm earlier. From now on, I’d always use my checklist when I closed up.

  Smoky mewed and pawed at the door that led from the stockroom into the store. I opened it and he slipped through, making his way to his favorite spot in the front window and hopping up to take a look outside. I didn’t bother turning on a light in the store, either. The glow-in-the-dark labels on my Firefly moonshine told me that the everything was as we’d left it. Thank goodness. I checked the front door and found the deadbolt locked. Good. At least I hadn’t forgotten to lock the entrance. I would’ve felt really stupid.

  As long as I’d come all this way in the middle of the night, I figured it couldn’t hurt to make sure the cash was still securely stashed. Leaving Smoky for the moment, I returned to the stockroom and lifted the cardboard box I’d used to disguise the small floor-mounted safe. Setting the box aside, I knelt down and spun the dial on the combination lock to open it: 33 for the year my great-grandfather had been arrested, 92 for the year I’d been born, and 21 for the year I’d begun my moonshine business.

  I pulled the door of the safe open. A quick glimpse inside told me the cash was secure, too. As I closed the door and spun the lock, a series of odd noises came from out in front of my store. A thud, followed by a tinkling sound, followed by a cry, followed by two more thuds. What in the world made those sounds? Is someone out there?

  My heart spun out of control as I grabbed the back of my desk chair to lever myself to a stand. I stood stock-still, listening, but heard nothing more. I tiptoed to the door and peeked into the shop. Smoky stood in the window, staring intently down the street, his bushy tail twitching in agitatio
n. I had no idea what he’d seen, but he’d definitely seen something. Fortunately, my front door and windows were still intact.

  My first impulse was to call the police, but I realized the sounds were similar to the ones I’d heard in my shop earlier when the frat boy had knocked over the display. It could merely be some rowdy young men who’d accidentally dropped a beer bottle on the pavement. Maybe there was no real cause for alarm. Law enforcement had already been summoned to my shop once today on specious grounds. No need to waste their time again if nothing serious was afoot.

  To get a better view, I turned on the lights inside the shop and walked to the window to stand behind Smoky. Unfortunately, the interior lights reflected off the glass, turning it into a virtual mirror and making it impossible for me to see outside. I reached over to the light switch inside the front door and flipped on the outside lights, too. The exterior of my shop was visible now. A glance in the direction Smoky had been looking told me that whatever he’d been watching down the street was gone now, the sidewalks and roadway deserted. But when I lowered my eyes to my cat, they spied a red smudge along the outside of the glass. What is that?

  My gaze moved down to see a crumpled human form lying on the pavement in front of my shop. Oh! I sucked air, shocked, my hand reflexively moving to my chest as if to slow my racing heart. Could the smudge be . . . blood?

  Once I was able to gather my wits, I rapped on the inside of the glass and called out to the person below. “Are you okay? Hello? Are you all right?”

  No response. The person lay eerily still. Had they passed out, hit their head on the shop window, and collapsed? I had no idea what had happened, but I knew I had to find out. I unlocked the door, yanked it open, and looked down.

  Cormac O’Keefe lay on the concrete, his neck spurting blood in rhythmic pulses, his head surrounded by a fresh and flowing pool. My stomach seized, my mind whirled, and my legs buckled, my world thrown a-kilter. Bright spots of light zigzagged in my peripheral vision, like a swarm of frenzied fireflies. I put a hand on the doorframe to steady myself and held my breath to slow its pace. My mind finally stopped spinning enough that I could process what I was seeing. Cormac had been attacked, and his life was in serious jeopardy. Next to Cormac lay the weapon that had been used to slash his throat—a broken jar of my Firefly cherry-flavored moonshine.

  Chapter Six

  My legs moved of their own accord, backing away from the open front door of my shop until my rear end butted against the checkout counter. My brain kicked in on autopilot. Call for help, Hattie! I pulled my phone from my pocket, but my hands shook so hard I couldn’t seem to push the right buttons. Realizing I had a better chance of dialing 911 with one shaking hand rather than with two that seemed to be at odds with each other, I dropped my phone onto the checkout counter and stabbed at the screen with my index finger, finally managing to dial emergency dispatch. I picked up the phone and held it to my ear, the device slapping against my cheek as my hand trembled.

  A male voice came over the line. “Chattanooga 911. What’s your emergency?”

  “There’s a man lying in front of my shop! He’s hurt!” Probably dying as we speak. But I didn’t want to think it. I was no fan of Cormac O’Keefe, but I wouldn’t wish death on him.

  The dispatcher asked for my address and I was so discombobulated I couldn’t remember. Luckily, the shop’s address was printed on the business cards on the counter in front of me. I recited the address. He told me he’d send both police and an ambulance right away. “Stay on the line until they arrive.”

  “Okay.” I felt fairly certain Cormac’s soul was already on its way to the hereafter, but what kind of person would I be if I didn’t do whatever I could to save his life? Jabbing the speaker button on my phone, I tucked it into the pocket of my robe, grabbed one of my promotional T-shirts, and stepped outside, closing the door behind me to keep Smoky from wandering out to investigate. Curiosity might not kill the cat in this instance, but a curious cat could contaminate the crime scene.

  Cormac lay at an angle, not quite on his side but not flat on his back, either. His legs were curved slightly and his right arm was draped over his torso. His eyes were at half mast, staring down the street in the same direction Smoky had been looking. The dull look in them, as well as the fact that he wasn’t blinking, told me he was likely a goner. If the blank stare hadn’t convinced me, the amount of blood he’d spilled should have. While the cut no longer gushed blood, it produced a steady, heavy ooze. Still, I was no medical professional and was wholly unqualified to make a death determination. Moreover, it was difficult to tell precisely how much of the liquid surrounding him was blood and how much was cherry-flavored moonshine. Judging from the dark color and viscosity, though, most of it was blood. Regardless, I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try to my best to save him.

  Steeling myself with a deep breath, I pulled back the sleeves on my robe and bent down next to Cormac, careful to avoid the pool of blood. I pressed the rolled-up T-shirt against the ragged, gaping gash. I murmured positive notions like a mantra, as much to calm myself as to reassure Cormac . . . if he could even hear me. “You’ll be all right, Cormac. It’s not so bad. You’ll be okay. It’s not so bad.” All lies. It was highly unlikely he’d be all right, and the situation was well beyond bad. Even Smoky seemed to realize the gravity of the situation. He stood inside the window, watching with his head cocked and ears back, his tail swishing in concern.

  The dispatcher stayed on the line until the ambulance arrived. As the EMTs opened the back bay and hopped down to the asphalt, I stood to get out of their way but left the T-shirt in place at Cormac’s neck. A black-and-white Chattanooga Police Department cruiser eased to the curb a dozen feet behind them, allowing ample room for a gurney.

  I retreated into my shop, remaining just inside the now-open door. With Cormac’s body blocking the way and the large pool of blood on the stoop, I’d have a hard time exiting. Besides, it was best if I didn’t disturb things any more than I already had. Despite my efforts to stay out of the blood, the expanding puddle had reached the toes of my slippers as I’d crouched next to Cormac, and I’d tracked some of the fluid into the store. Horrified by the discovery, I kicked off my slippers, leaving my footwear lying haphazardly next to the rain mat.

  I scooped up Smoky and clutched him to my chest like a furry security blanket. To the cat’s credit, he didn’t fight me this time. He, too, seemed in need of comfort. What exactly had he seen? And whom?

  The uniformed EMTs, one male and one female, stepped forward, their feet crunching on the glass. They knelt down by Cormac. The woman felt for a pulse on the exposed side of his neck before putting a stethoscope to his chest. Her gaze met her partner’s. “No pulse.”

  Despite my efforts, it appeared Cormac had lost his life. Emotion wrapped invisible hands around my throat, pressing on my neck like I’d just been pressing on Cormac’s.

  While the man began what were likely futile lifesaving measures, the woman looked up at me. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I squeaked. I forced a cough to clear my throat so I could speak without sounding like a dolphin. “I was in the back room of my shop, and I heard a thud, then the sound of glass breaking, then a cry, then two more thuds. When I came out to see what was going on, I found him lying here. It looked like he’d been attacked.”

  “How long since you heard the cry and thuds?”

  It seemed like it had taken the first responders a lifetime to arrive, but I knew that wasn’t actually the case and it only seemed that way because I’d been totally freaked out. “Maybe three minutes? I called for help immediately.”

  The woman stood as two police officers, both men, climbed out of their cruiser and walked up. One of the cops was a solidly built, olive-skinned man who appeared to be approaching forty. The younger one was taller and thinner, with fair skin and brown hair. He looked to be a fresh-faced recruit just out of th
e academy.

  As the female EMT rushed to round up a gurney from the ambulance, the more seasoned officer looked down unflinchingly at Cormac. The rookie forced his head to turn toward the grisly scene, but his eyes were averted, his gaze off to the left. I wondered if this was his first encounter with a murder victim. If so, it was something the two of us had in common. To his credit, his partner didn’t ridicule him for his squeamishness. Instead, he put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and gave it a supportive squeeze.

  His partner mollified, the officer turned his attention to me. With a corpse and a medic between us, he couldn’t come close enough for a handshake. He simply raised a hand in greeting. “I’m Officer Barboza.”

  “Hattie Hayes.”

  Niceties exchanged, Barboza asked, “What happened here?”

  “I’m not sure.” I repeated what I’d told the EMTs. Thud. Tinkling glass. Cry. Two more thuds. Body on the walkway in front of my shop.

  The officer looked down at the prone figure at our feet before returning his attention to me. “Any idea who the victim is?”

  “Cormac O’Keefe.” My arms still wrapped around my cat, I lifted my chin to indicate the Irish pub across the street. “He owns Limericks.” I turned my head in the direction Smoky had been looking earlier. “When I came out of the back room, Smoky was staring out the window that way. My guess is whoever hurt Cormac took off in that direction.”

  “Any idea who we’re looking for? How many attackers?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t see anyone.” It was possible, even likely, that the attacker or attackers had seen me, though. I would have been easily visible inside my shop after I’d turned on the inside lights. Even if they hadn’t seen me inside, I’d unwittingly signaled my presence at my shop when I’d turned on the exterior lights. The thought sent ice through my veins. Killers don’t like witnesses.