The Moonshine Shack Murder

by Diane Kelly

  “Do you know whether the attacker or attackers left the scene in a vehicle?”

  “I didn’t hear car doors close or engine noise or tires squeal, so I assume whoever did this was on foot.”

  Addressing his partner, Barboza gestured to the cruiser. “Drive the area. See who’s around. Call for backup if you come across anyone who looks suspicious.”

  A look of relief swept over the rookie’s face. He wasted no time hopping back into the cruiser and taking off down the street, leaving Cormac’s lifeless body behind.

  Barboza pulled his radio from his belt and pressed the talk button. After identifying himself, he said, “I’m at the Moonshine Shack on Market Street. We’ve got a body here. Send crime scene out to collect evidence.”

  The fact that he referred to Cormac as “a body” told me he, too, thought Cormac’s chances of survival were extremely slim to nonexistent.

  He clipped the radio back onto his belt, ran his eyes over my robe and cat-print pajama bottoms, and asked, “What’re you doing here this time of night?”

  For the first time, it dawned on me that my presence at a murder scene could be suspicious. “I own this shop. I was home in bed when I woke up and worried that I’d forgotten to lock the door and set the alarm when I closed up. I came back to check.”

  He cocked his head and looked at Smoky, as if willing my cat to either confirm or deny my story. Though his head remained cocked, the officer’s eyes returned to me. “Had you set the alarm?”

  “No, but I’d locked the door.” At least I’d done one thing right.

  He cocked his head in the other direction, as if to examine my story from every angle. “Any particular reason you were concerned about the alarm?”

  Ugh. I’m going to have to tell him, aren’t I? “I was distracted when I closed up. It had been a difficult night. Some college boys came in right before I shut down and broke some of my stock and shoplifted from my store. Earlier, my grandfather had an argument with—” I gulped and pointed to the man at our feet. “Officer Landers stopped by, too.”

  Barboza snorted. “You girls love the cowboys and never outgrow your pony phase, do you?”

  Girls? I was a grown businesswoman, an entrepreneur, and I didn’t appreciate being reduced to a sexist stereotype . . . even if there might be a bit of truth behind it. My ire rose, but it was good to feel something other than terrified. “Officer Landers was responding to a complaint,” I snapped. “I didn’t make the call or request Officer Landers.” Not that I was disappointed he’d been the one to handle the matter.

  “Who made the call, then?”

  Again, I pointed a feeble finger at the man lying between us. “He did.” The call could well have been the last phone call Cormac had made. “He claimed my grandfather had threatened him with a knife.” Smoky patiently complied as I performed some feline puppeteering, using his paw to point to the display of ole-timey corn liquor. “That’s Granddaddy’s brand. He works here with me. He’s the one who taught me how to make moonshine.”

  He arched a brow. “No kidding? All my pappy taught me was how to catch a fly ball.”

  The Hayes family weren’t athletes. If anything, we were outlaws. “Cormac placed a big order with me last weekend, but he refused the moonshine when I tried to deliver it on Monday. My grandfather didn’t like Cormac jerking me around. Granddaddy overheard some of my customers talking about getting a drink at Limericks, and he suggested they take their business to another bar. When Cormac found out, he stormed over and confronted my grandfather.” I hated to speak ill of the dead, especially when “the dead” was at my feet, being lifted onto a gurney, but I had to defend my grandfather. Myself, too. “My grandfather gestured with his whittling tool, that’s all. He wasn’t threatening anyone with it. Besides, the blade is tiny. I could do more damage with a thumbtack.”

  “Where’s your grandfather now?”

  “At the Singing River Retirement Home. He lives there.”

  “No chance he attacked O’Keefe, then?”

  “Absolutely not!” Granddaddy might be what my granny had called cantankerous, but he was all bark and no bite. Not to mention that he was nearly as old as the mountains. “He’d never try to end someone’s life. Besides, he can’t drive anymore. He’d have no way to get here on his own.”

  “There’s always taxis or Uber.”

  “My granddad is too cheap to call a cab and he couldn’t download an app if his life depended on it.”

  “What about you?”

  Confusion overtook me. “I can download an app.”

  He skewered me with his pointed gaze. “That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking if you’re the one who cut the guy’s throat.”

  “Of course not!”

  Barboza cocked his head again. He was beginning to look like a rooster. “You’re here under dubious circumstances.” His gaze shifted to the shattered glass on the sidewalk and the aluminum lid encircled by jagged, blood-smeared shards that had been used to slice Cormac’s flesh. “Looks like the murder weapon was a jar of your moonshine, too.”

  “That doesn’t mean I did it!”

  The two EMTs exchanged a knowing look over the gurney as they raised it.

  As the reality of the officer’s words sank in, my body broke out in a cold sweat. In my panic I tightened my grip on Smoky, nearly squishing the poor beast. “If I’d killed Cormac O’Keefe, why would I use my own jar of moonshine to do it and then call the police to report it?”

  Barboza raised a shoulder. “People do all kinds of things that don’t make sense. That’s why they call it ‘senseless’ violence. Maybe you thought calling it in would throw suspicion off you.”

  I stomped my foot in outrage, though the fact that I was in socks rendered the gesture ineffective. “I thought no such thing!”

  Ignoring me, he turned to the medics. “Check his pockets for his keys, his wallet, and his phone. The detective’s gonna need them.”

  The male EMT quickly patted Cormac’s front pants pockets, shoved his hand into the right pocket, and pulled out a set of keys and a cell phone, handing them to the cop. Easing a hand underneath Cormac’s lower back, he retrieved his wallet from a rear pocket, handing that over as well. The medics rolled the gurney over to the ambulance, slid Cormac into the bay, and climbed in after him. As soon as they’d shut the doors, the ambulance pulled away, lights flashing, siren wailing. Taking Cormac to a hospital was likely a hopeless endeavor, but given the short time frame since he’d been injured it was understandable that they’d give it a try, see if anything could be done for him.

  Headlights flashed again as a large police department SUV came up the street, pulling a horse trailer behind it. The vehicle rolled to a stop at the curb where the ambulance had been only seconds before and the driver’s window came down. Marlon’s eyes locked on mine before closing for a couple of seconds. He exhaled a long, loud breath before opening them again and returning his gaze to me. “My swing shift just ended and I was loading Charlotte into her trailer when dispatch came on the radio and said a body was found here . . .” He drifted off, shaking his head. But his message was clear. When he’d heard a person had been killed at the Moonshine Shack, he’d assumed—maybe even feared—that it had been me.

  I filled him in. “It was Cormac O’Keefe.”

  “O’Keefe? Really?” Several emotions played over his face. First, there was surprise. Then there was whatever was the opposite of surprise. Expectation or understanding, maybe? Cormac had been a thorn in the side of many of the area’s businesspeople, myself included. The fact that someone had decided to do him in wasn’t as shocking as it would be had he been a nice guy that everyone admired and respected.

  Barboza looked from me to Marlon. “You two seem well acquainted.”

  “Of course,” Marlon said. “I make it a point to meet the people on my beat.” As if realizing his words
might imply his fellow officer had fallen short in community relations, he added, “It’s much easier when you patrol on horseback than in a cruiser.”

  “I imagine it would be.” Barboza rocked back on his heels. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

  “I responded to a call here earlier tonight.”

  Although Barboza was responding to Marlon, he cut a glance my way. “So I’ve heard.”

  As Marlon climbed out of the SUV, headlights flashed a second time. The squad car returned, pulling up behind the horse trailer. A look inside told me it held only the rookie, no suspects.

  “Long as you’re here, Landers,” Barboza said, “mind marking a perimeter?”

  “Sure.” Marlon reached back into his SUV and pulled a roll of bright yellow cordon tape from the map pocket. “Where do you want it?”

  Barboza whipped his flashlight from his belt, turned it on, and used it like a laser pointer to outline the porch. “When you’re done here, put some tape over the front and back doors of Limericks. If there’s any cars in the bar’s back lot, cordon them off, too. Crime scene and the detective will want to take a look around there.”

  As Marlon began to string the tape between the support posts on the front porch of the Moonshine Shack, the rookie climbed out of the cruiser and issued his report. “Didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, only the usual late-night crowd heading for their cars or hotels. Nobody looked suspicious or seemed to be in a hurry to leave the area.”

  Officer Barboza turned to me with an accusing stare.

  Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “I told you, it wasn’t me! Besides, I’m not the only one who’s had issues with Cormac O’Keefe.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He whipped out a pen and notepad. “Who else?”

  Uh-oh. I’ve done it now. I’d have to snitch on Heath Delaney, Mack Clayton, Miranda, and Ashlynn. “He’s cheated several small-business owners in the area.” Barboza made notes as I provided a quick rundown of what Heath and Mack had told me at my grand opening. “He cheated on his girlfriends, too. He was two-timing a couple of his servers. A woman named Miranda and another named Ashlynn.”

  “It’s true,” Marlon told his fellow officer. “I had to break up a fight between the two of them last Sunday.”

  Barboza held his pen aloft. “Did you file a report?”

  “No,” Marlon said. “Didn’t seem to be any sense getting the ladies in trouble when it was O’Keefe’s fault and neither of them was hurt. After I pulled them apart, they willingly went their separate ways.”

  I remembered the guy with the belching bear tattoo, the one who’d followed me into Limericks when I’d gone to deliver the moonshine. We’d engaged in a brief conversation about my moonshine, shop, and sample policy before Cormac had ordered the man out of his bar. Could he be the killer? “Cormac told me he’s had repeated problems with a customer. He said the guy ran out on a tab and hustled some of his customers. Cormac thought the guy had broken a window in Limericks a while back, too.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Barboza said. “What’s the customer’s name?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I saw him myself. He came into the bar when I went to deliver the order. Cormac hollered at him to leave. He’s got dark hair and a bad tattoo on his neck that is probably supposed to be a bear but looks more like a dog.”

  Another knowing look was exchanged, this time between Officer Barboza and Marlon. “Damien Sirakov,” Barboza said with a grunt.

  I looked from one of them to the other. “You know the guy?”

  “We do.” Marlon used his teeth to cut through the tape and tied it off on the final post. “Sirakov’s got a rap sheet as long as an epic fantasy novel. You name it, he’s done it. Misdemeanors, anyway. He’s managed to avoid a felony charge so far. That’s the only thing that’s kept him out of prison.”

  Barboza whipped out his radio and contacted dispatch, asking them to send officers to Sirakov’s address to keep an eye on it, to stop the man if he tried to leave. “He’s a person of interest in a death investigation.” The task completed, he turned back to me. “Show me your arms.”

  I was holding my cat in them. Couldn’t he see them? “What do you mean?”

  “Put the cat down,” Barboza instructed, “and pull your sleeves back.”

  Marlon frowned slightly at the other officer, but he said nothing. He probably realized that Barboza was only following protocols and that insinuating himself too much in the situation wouldn’t be good for either of us. I placed Smoky on the floor behind me. Relieved of my furry burden, I pulled back my sleeves and stretched out my arms.

  Barboza leaned in to take a closer look. After examining the back of my arms, he made a circular motion with his finger. “Turn your wrists.”

  Again, I did as he’d instructed. He ran his gaze over my inner arms. There was nothing to see but a few freckles, a thin white scar from a minor summer camp injury that had healed two decades ago, and a couple of blue veins throbbing with panic at the thought that I could be a suspect in a murder investigation. I’d never survive prison. Heck, I’d barely survived the summer camp. I’d been horribly homesick.

  He exhaled sharply. “No defensive wounds.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Told you I’m innocent.”

  “Maybe,” Barboza said. “Or maybe you caught O’Keefe by surprise.” As a police department crime scene van eased into a parking spot nearby, Barboza narrowed his gaze and asked, “Do your eyes always look so red and puffy?”

  I fought the urge to roll my red, puffy eyes. “Only when it’s three o’clock in the morning, I’ve had only four hours of sleep, and I’m being wrongfully accused of murder.”

  Officer Barboza offered a mirthless chuckle. “Stick around. Crime scene might have some questions for you. They’ll want to take your fingerprints, too, if you’re willing to give them voluntarily. If not, we’ll get a warrant.”

  I raised my hands, fingers splayed, as if about to perform a jazzy tap dance number. “Take my prints. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Other than my sheer terror, that is.

  Chapter Seven

  While the cops stepped over to the evidence collection team and brought them up to date, I picked up Smoky, took a seat on the stool behind the counter, and stroked my cat over and over and over again, as much to calm myself as to pamper my pet.

  A member of the crime scene team ventured over to Limericks and used the keys the EMT had retrieved from Cormac’s pocket to open the place. Meanwhile, as Marlon and Officer Barboza lingered outside the open door, the lead tech donned blue paper booties, picked his way carefully around the pool of blood, and took one step into my shop, glancing around. After noting the blood I’d tracked in and my bloody slippers by the mat, his gaze moved upward, tracing a circle around the ceiling of my shop. “I’m not seeing your security cameras. Are they hidden?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “No cameras?” Barboza barked a mirthless laugh. “That’s mighty convenient.”

  Marlon, in turn, cut an irritated glance at his fellow officer before addressing me through the doorway. “Give some serious thought to installing a camera system. Maybe get a panic button for your alarm, one you can tuck into your pocket. Robbers would see a small shop like this as an easy target, especially if they realized a young woman was in charge, and a tiny one at that.”

  His concern was sweet and touching. “I’ll have a system installed ASAP.” While I’d balked at the cost before, there was no need to think twice about it now. A killer was on the loose, and there was a chance he’d targeted Cormac to rob him of the bar’s cash. He could come back to try to steal my cash, too. “Do you think that’s why Cormac was killed? That it was a robbery?”

  “Who knows?” Marlon raised his palms. “It’s not unusual for thieves to hit a place at closing time, when there aren’t any customers around and the empl
oyees are leaving, often through a back door that isn’t as visible as a main entrance. The later a place closes, the more likely it is to get hit, too.”

  “If that were the case,” I mused aloud, “wouldn’t Cormac have been killed inside Limericks? Or at the back door of the bar?”

  “Not if he tried to get away.”

  My gut twisted tight as my mind entertained the horrifying mental image of Cormac fleeing a pursuer, running for his life to the stoop of my shop.

  Even though the lights were on, the crime scene tech shined a flashlight about, as if looking for vestiges of blood or other footprints I might have attempted to clean up. When that got him nowhere, he extinguished the overhead lights and turned on a black light, hunkering down to look under the shelves and sample table for the telltale luminescence of bodily fluids. He aimed the light at my clothing but, despite my efforts to stanch Cormac’s bleeding with the T-shirt, I’d miraculously managed not to get his blood on my robe or pajamas. Thank goodness. It would’ve totally freaked me out.

  The man peeked into my trash cans, which I’d emptied at the end of the day into the larger bin in my stockroom. He checked that bin, too. Seemingly satisfied that the interior of my shop was not part of the crime scene, he said, “You’ve voluntarily offered your prints?”

  “I have.”

  I set Smoky down on my stool while the man took my fingerprints. Once he was done, he instructed me to remain in the shop. By then, Smoky had endured enough of my affection and jumped down from the stool when I went to pick him up again. It was just as well. My fingers were covered in black ink. He followed me to the back room. While I washed my hands in the powder room sink, he curled up in his bed atop my desk, looking for some peace and quiet. My skin felt strangely prickly, my bones hollow. I’d never felt more alone.

  Marlon stood in front of the Moonshine Shack with his fellow officers, presumably to appear neutral, though he cast an occasional, reassuring glance my way. Even so, he could have his doubts. After all, we’d spoken only four times before now—when he’d helped me unload my van, at my grand opening, when he’d stopped by my shop during the week while on patrol, and earlier tonight when responding to Cormac’s call to the police. All of our interactions had been relatively brief. We hardly knew each other, really. Maybe he was simply sticking around out of curiosity, to see what might develop, to see if I’d be hauled off in handcuffs. I could only hope the food in jail was better than it had been in summer camp. The only good thing had been the s’mores, and I doubted the Tennessee state penitentiaries allowed bonfires and pointy sticks.