by Diane Kelly
“Don’t worry. If the killer comes back, we’ll be safe.” Kiki reached into her purse and pulled out a spray can. “I brought protection.”
I leaned forward to read the label. “Spray sealant?”
“It was left over from one of my craft projects.”
“How is that going to protect us?”
She struck a wide stance and brandished the can in a defensive pose. “One spritz of this adhesive in the killer’s face and their eyelids will be glued shut. We could pinch their nostrils and lips shut and seal off their air supply, too. While we’re at it, we could spray their palms and glue their hands together.” She shook the can, the ball inside rattling. Rat-a-tat-tat. “Who needs handcuffs or a gun when you’ve got Mod Podge?”
It was a creative solution, if not likely to be a particularly effective one. “What do you think will happen when people learn a man was murdered at my shop? Killed by one of my mason jars, no less?” I’d just opened the Moonshine Shack. Could this tragedy close its doors?
“No need to worry,” Kiki said with a confidence that was likely faked for my benefit. “Nobody watches TV news anymore, and they only skim articles online. Besides, from what you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound like Cormac O’Keefe will be missed.”
“That’s a tragedy, too.”
“Yes, but it’s a tragedy of his own making. It’s not hard to be a decent human being.”
Kiki’s words might have sounded harsh, but she wasn’t wrong. Maybe if Cormac had treated others better, he wouldn’t be dead now. In fact, I was pretty sure of it. There was a chance he could have been the subject of a random homicidal psychopath, but odds were he’d enraged the wrong person for one reason or another. But what person? And for what reason? I wish I knew.
It was probably a violation of labor law for Kiki to work here for free, but when I’d offered to put her on the payroll she’d been adamant. “I won’t take money from you. Only moonshine and inspiration.” To that end, she pulled her sketch pad and pencil case from the portfolio and placed them on the countertop in front of her. After selecting a charcoal pencil from the case, she reached over for the jar of cherry moonshine I’d left on the counter and pulled it closer so she could sketch it. She drew often to keep her skills sharp.
I went to the door, unlocked it, and turned the CLOSED sign around so that it read OPEN. Circling around to the back of the counter, I grabbed the chessboard and carried it out front, along with a bin of chess pieces and another of checkers. I plunked a deck of cards and a box of dominoes on the table, too. Once I was back inside, I plugged in the twinkling lights. Though they’d be less visible during the daytime, the porch provided enough cover that they’d help catch the eye of potential customers strolling along the sidewalks.
A piece of yellow cordon tape flapping in the breeze drew my gaze from the porch to the pub across the street, where tape formed an X over the front door of Limericks. A piece of paper had been posted on the door, too, though from this distance I couldn’t read it.
Curious, I told Kiki, “I’ll be right back.” Going outside again, I looked both ways for traffic before scurrying across the street to read the notice. It advised:
DO NOT ENTER BY ORDER OF THE CHATTANOOGA POLICE DEPARTMENT. FOR ACCESS CONTACT DETECTIVE PEARCE.
The detective’s phone number was provided at the bottom. Looked like nobody would be getting into Limericks without going through her first.
An hour later, I was ringing up three women at the checkout counter in my shop when a white Chevy Impala pulled up out front. At the wheel sat a full-figured, fiftyish Black woman with copper-colored hair cut in a cute pixie. She lifted a large gray bag from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. She wore a flattering royal blue pantsuit with copper jewelry that complemented her hair, along with bold metallic-tone makeup.
Kiki met her at the door. “Welcome to the Moonshine Shack.”
Judging from the woman’s vehicle and her assessing stare, I surmised she was the homicide detective, though if I’d seen her elsewhere I might have pegged the fashionable woman as a real estate agent or the manager of an art gallery or upscale women’s boutique.
She waited for my customers to exit the store before speaking. Once they’d gone, she stepped up to the counter and looked from Kiki to me. “Is one of you Hattie Hayes?”
Instinctively, I raised my hand like a schoolchild. “That’s me. I’m Hattie.”
She reached into the bag hanging from her shoulder. Judging from the bag’s style and size, it served as her purse, briefcase, laptop tote, and possibly a second home. She retrieved a business card from an inside pocket and held it out to me. “I’m Detective Candace Pearce. I’ll be heading up the homicide investigation.”
I looked down at the card. “Candace,” I mused aloud. “Is that where your nickname ‘Ace’ came from?”
Her head angled slightly. “How’d you know my nickname?”
Rather than revealing I’d heard it from Marlon, I said, “One of the officers referred to you as Ace.”
Fortunately, she didn’t ask which officer. “Ace might have originated as shorthand for Candace, but I’ve earned the name, too. I’ve closed more cases, and closed them quicker, than any other detective on the force.”
Impressive. I set her card on the counter and handed her one of my own, along with the printout detailing the sales of cherry moonshine. “Officer Barboza told me a detective would be coming by. I thought you might need that information. It’s a list of all the sales of cherry moonshine since my store opened on Monday.”
“Well, aren’t you the teacher’s pet?”
I shrugged. “Just trying to be helpful. It scares me to think there’s a killer out there.”
The expression on her face said she thought there might be a killer in here. But surely I could disavow her of that notion, right? She took her eyes off me to peruse the printout, running her finger down the list. “I see three cash sales here. Any idea who these cash customers were?”
“No. Sorry.”
“And you claim you don’t have security cameras.”
She’d made a statement, an accusatory one at that, rather than posing a question. Nevertheless, I responded with, “No. There are no cameras in my shop.”
“No chance of identifying the cash customers from video footage, then.” She exhaled sharply and gave me the same disappointed, disapproving gaze my mom used to give me before she’d ground me for one adolescent infraction or another.
“I plan to have cameras installed,” I offered in my defense. “As soon as possible.”
Ace held up the printout. “Does this list account for all of the cherry moonshine that has left your shop?”
Realization struck and I bit my lip. The list showed only the jars that had been purchased, not the ones I’d given away at my grand opening. “Unfortunately, no. I gave away jars of moonshine as party favors at my grand opening. I let the guests choose their flavors, and I didn’t keep track of who picked the cherry moonshine.” I’d had no idea the information might later be important. “But my grand opening was a private event. Only business owners from the area were invited.”
She frowned. “That’ll make tracing the jar more difficult, but at least it narrows down the list.”
I cringed as another thought came to me. “There were some frat boys in my shop the night Cormac was killed. They came in around eight thirty. They’re members of Mu Sigma. One of them stole a jar of shine. I can’t swear to it, but I think it was the cherry flavor.” I told her how the short and stocky one had knocked over a display, how I’d stepped outside onto the sidewalk and seen the tall one pull the shine from his sweatshirt pouch and hold it up.
“What did these boys look like?”
“They were all white with brown hair. The one who stole the shine was tall and had thick hair with lots of gel in it. The one who broke the jar was shorter and stock
ier.”
“Did you report the theft?”
“No,” I admitted. “It was nearly closing time and we’d already had the police at my shop once that night. I decided to let it go.” I left out the part where my grandfather raised his cane and threatened to whoop the boys if they returned.
She exhaled sharply, clearly questioning my decision not to report the offense. “Did you happen to catch any of their names?”
“No. Sorry.”
She eyed Kiki before returning her focus to me. “Is there somewhere we can speak in private, Miss Hayes?”
I gestured to the back of the shop. “We can talk in my office.”
We stepped into the storeroom and strode to the corner that served as my administrative workspace. I offered her my desk and rolling chair. As for myself, I pulled two cases of moonshine from a shelf, stacked them, and sat down atop the boxes.
Ace set her bag on the desktop and proceeded to pull a notepad and pen from its cavernous depths before taking a seat. As she swiveled to face me, her jacket flapped open, revealing a handgun holstered at her waist and reminding me that despite her stylish and businesslike appearance, this woman was a law enforcement officer.
She clicked the top of the ballpoint pen as she locked her gaze on me once more. “Tell me about your interactions with Cormac O’Keefe. I understand he refused a moonshine order he had placed with you, and that he later called the department on your grandfather?”
“That’s right.” I told her the same things I’d told Marlon when he’d responded to Cormac’s call last night, the same things I’d repeated to Officer Barboza in the wee hours this morning. Order placed. Order refused. Granddaddy mouthing off in my defense and waving his little whittling tool. “My grandfather is eighty-eight years old. He needs a cane or scooter to get around. Cormac could have easily walked away from him. He was never in any danger.”
“I see.” After mulling things over for a moment, she said, “Sounds like there was no love lost between you and O’Keefe.”
“None,” I admitted. “But I wouldn’t wish him dead.”
“Of course not,” she said. “But given the circumstances, it would be understandable if you’d lost your temper. Happens to the best of us.”
I suspected her expression of empathy was less about making me feel better and more about encouraging me to confess. “I was annoyed with Cormac, sure. But I didn’t lose control. I’m more of a curse-them-under-my-breath kind of woman than a cut-their-carotid-artery type.”
“Is that so?”
My head dipped in a definitive nod.
Her head tilted as she narrowed her eyes at me. “Your prints were on the broken jar that was used to slash Cormac’s throat. All over it, as a matter of fact.”
The police lab had certainly moved fast. “I boxed the jars as they came off the assembly line, and I stocked the shelves of my shop.” I circled my finger to indicate the boxes of shine on the shelves behind me. “My prints would be on every jar of my shine. Every jug of my granddad’s stuff, too. It’s the other fingerprints that might tell you who killed Cormac.” Too bad my cat couldn’t speak. Smoky was the only one who’d seen the attack and could confirm the killer’s identity. “There were other prints, weren’t there?” There’d have to be. Unless they’d been wiped off . . . My throat constricted in concern. What if my prints were the only ones on the jar? Could I end up in prison?
Ignoring my question, the detective took a different tack. “It’s awfully coincidental you just happened to be in your closed shop in the middle of the night at the exact time a man you’d had an altercation with only hours earlier was murdered.”
I raised my palms in innocence and, trying to remain calm, squeaked, “Fully acknowledged. But that’s exactly what it was! A coincidence. Nothing more.”
“You got his blood on your shoes.”
“When I was trying to help him! I tried to save his life, not end it.”
She stared at me for a long moment before consulting her notepad. “You mentioned an attorney named Heath Delaney, a restaurant owner named Mack Clayton, and two waitresses as possible enemies of O’Keefe.”
“ ‘Enemies’ is a strong term,” I said, not liking the way the word sounded. “But each of them had conflicts with Cormac.”
“You mentioned a customer, too.” She consulted her notes again. “A man by the name of Damien Sirakov.”
“That’s correct. The officers last night mentioned that they knew him, that he has a criminal record.” The fact that Sirakov had been arrested before meant his fingerprints would be on file. If his prints had also been on the broken jar, this should be an open-and-shut case. The fact that Ace was grilling me said the man’s prints had not appeared on the jar. Could Sirakov have worn gloves? Or somehow wiped his prints off the jar without wiping away mine?
I was considering these questions when Ace said, “You’ve given us quite a long list of potential suspects to look into.”
“Cormac wasn’t well liked,” I said. “He didn’t treat people right.”
“You’re not just deflecting, trying to get me to waste my time looking elsewhere when you’re actually the one who killed O’Keefe?”
Whoa. She doesn’t beat around the bush, does she? I couldn’t blame her for suspecting me, though, not with so much circumstantial evidence pointing my way. Heck, I’d probably arrest me if I were in the detective’s position. I leaned forward and looked her directly in the eye. “I’m not deflecting. I know how important a woman’s time is. There’s never enough of it. I wouldn’t waste yours, and I certainly wouldn’t waste mine.”
She stared at me for a long moment before the tiniest of grins tugged at her lips.
I think I’ve won her over. “Have I convinced you of my innocence?”
She issued a derisive snort. “Not in the least. You might talk a clever line, Miss Hayes, but you were at the crime scene, got the victim’s blood on your clothes, and had a motive to kill O’Keefe.”
The thought that Ace could consider me a viable suspect made me queasy, and my back broke out in a cold sweat. I have to convince her I didn’t kill Cormac, but how? I decided to take the same tack Marlon had taken earlier, to point out that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for a small woman like me to kill a man. “I’m like my grandfather’s whittling tool, too tiny to pose a real threat to anyone. Even if I had been wielding a broken jar of shine, I would have had a hard time slashing Cormac’s neck. He could have just pushed me away or run off.”
“On the contrary,” she said, “your size could be an advantage, give you the element of surprise. Cormac might have underestimated you and unwittingly have left himself vulnerable.”
What?! My mind went round and round, like moonshine looping through the copper coils of a still. My mouth fell open and words spilled out, as incoherent as my thoughts. “But I . . . you . . . he . . . Aaargh!” I threw up my hands in frustration before burying my face in them in an attempt to shut out this madness.
The chair creaked as Ace relaxed back in it. “Tell me what you were doing here last night, and what you heard and saw.”
For what felt like the millionth time, I ran through the events. The confrontation with Cormac, which threw me off my game. Waking up wondering if I’d forgotten to properly close up shop. The thuds, the tinkling glass, the cry, the smear of blood on the window, Smoky looking off down the street. When I finished, I sighed. “I wish I could tell you more.”
She readied her pen. “Any chance you know the names of the servers from Limericks? The ones that got into the fight?”
“I gave their names to Officer Barboza last night. Didn’t he put them in his report?”
She gave me a wry look. “Barboza’s a solid beat cop, but his reports leave much to be desired.”
Looked like I’d have to go over the names again. “One of them is Miranda. I don’t know her last
name. I’ve never been introduced to the other one, but I heard Cormac call her Ashlynn. Their full names should be listed in his payroll records.” Assuming the guy paid his taxes, of course. Judging from the way he stiffed other businesses, he might have defrauded the IRS, too.
“You met Miranda, then?”
I thought back to the grand opening, how Miranda gushed over the blackberry moonshine. “Yes. She came to my grand opening party with Cormac. She left with a jar of my blackberry shine.”
“What flavor did Cormac take?”
I racked my brain, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember what variety he’d selected. I’d been too busy wondering about Heath and Mack, their warnings about O’Keefe. “I can’t recall. Sorry.”
After tucking her pen and notepad back into her bag, she pulled my van key and fob out of it and returned them to me. She rose from the chair, which I took as a sign her interrogation was concluded.
I stood from my boxes and worried my lip. “Are you going to tell Heath Delaney and Mack Clayton that I snitched on them? And the servers?”
“No,” she said. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Thank goodness. I hoped to develop good working relationships with my business neighbors, but if they knew I’d pointed the detective in their direction they weren’t likely to have warm and fuzzy feelings toward me.
“Speaking of secrets,” she added, “keep the details of Cormac’s murder to yourself. Same goes for your friend. The media outlets have been notified of his death, but they were not told the exact manner in which he’d been killed or where his body was found.”
“What do I say if someone asks me about it?”
She gave me a pointed look. “You tell them Detective Ace Pearce has ordered you to keep your mouth shut, or else.”
Or else what, exactly? She didn’t elaborate, leaving me to wonder. As she opened the door and we left the storeroom, I asked, “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Yes,” she said. “Don’t leave town.”
I gulped and said, “I meant is there anything I can do to help you solve this crime?”