by Diane Kelly
We resumed readying the shop for business. We’d just opened up when the front door opened and Heath Delaney walked in. My heart gave a little jump, and not in a good way. I remembered what Kiki had said about criminals returning to the scene of their crimes. Heath’s own words came back to me, too. That man is as cutthroat as they come. Heath had been describing Cormac O’Keefe at the time, but did those very words now apply to the attorney before me? Had Heath cut Cormac’s throat? Had his choice of words been a premonition, one based on the dark meanderings of the attorney’s mind?
I forced another smile. “Hi, Heath. How are you?”
“Absolutely morose.” He grinned and raised his empty hands. “I’m all out of moonshine.”
“No worries. I can remedy that situation right away.” As I met him in front of a display of Firefly moonshine, I realized this was my opportunity to determine which flavor of shine Heath had taken home from my grand opening. But I also realized if I asked him straight out what flavor he’d chosen at the party, he was likely to lie if it had been a jar of cherry shine that he’d later used to kill Cormac. I tried a sneak approach, pretending to remember what flavor he’d chosen. “What are you in the mood for? Another jar of cherry shine?”
“Cherry?” he said. “No. I got a jar of the peach flavor last time. Made the mistake of taking it to my mother’s house so she could try some in her sweet tea. She loved it so much she wouldn’t let me leave me with it. She plans to serve it when she hosts her Pokeno group this week.”
“Another peach jar, then, since yours was confiscated?”
“Give me two,” he said. “Mother’s Day is coming up and Mom will be all out of the stuff after game night. Those ladies know how to have a good time.”
Heath had given me the answer to what flavor of moonshine he’d left my party with, as well as a great idea. I’d offer a Mother’s Day special, maybe a gift with purchase such as a lid with a built-in pour spout or an environmentally friendly reusable straw. I made a mental note to look into inexpensive promotional items I could offer on occasion as a free-with-purchase bonus.
After ringing up Heath’s purchase, I asked, “Would you like your mother’s jar in a gift bag?”
“Definitely,” he said. “I’ve never mastered the fine art of gift wrap. Can’t curl a ribbon to save my life.”
He claims no skill with scissors, but could he cut a carotid artery with jagged glass? I pondered this possibility as I headed to the checkout counter with a jar in each hand. After setting them on the countertop, I asked, “What are you doing downtown on a Sunday? Putting in some overtime?”
“Exactly. Getting a head start on the week. I landed a new client with a high-dollar breach-of-contract case. Got my work cut out for me on this one.”
I retrieved a gift bag printed with my Firefly moonshine logo from under the counter and lined it with lime-green tissue paper before placing the jar inside. After rounding up a pair of scissors and the curling ribbon, I decided to broach the subject of Cormac’s murder directly and see how Heath responded. The checkout counter separated us and provided a modicum of protection, and I could defend myself with the scissors if necessary.
“By the way, you were right about Cormac.” I frowned and snipped a length of ribbon. “He reneged on the order he placed at my grand opening.”
Heath’s expression turned similarly sour. “I’m not surprised. That man was all kinds of crooked.”
I noticed he referred to Cormac using the past-tense was rather than the present-tense is. He must’ve heard the news, too. “Shocking what happened to him, huh?”
“The murder? Not really.” Heath shrugged nonchalantly, as if discussing something mundane, like the weather.
I understood that Heath didn’t like Cormac, but his total lack of regard seemed crass. Then again, maybe he was merely responding with the practiced calm of a man who spent much of his time in courtrooms and negotiations. “You’re not surprised?”
“Not a bit,” Heath said. “The way Cormac treated people, he was asking for it.”
It was the same sentiment Mack Clayton and Ashlynn had expressed, though in harsher terms.
“A detective came by my shop yesterday to see if I knew anything.” As instructed, I kept the details to myself. That Cormac was killed with a broken jar of my moonshine. That I’d heard him cry out. That he’d bled out on the stoop of my shop. That the detective considered me a prime suspect. That I might have pointed to Heath as a possible person of interest. “She might swing by to see you. I understand she’s talking to others in the area who’ve done business with Cormac. From the warning you gave me about dealing with him, I assume that includes you?”
“No,” Heath said with a shake of his head. “I never did business with O’Keefe. Not unless you call suing the man ‘doing business.’ ”
Heath had offered me a segue into fishing for information, and I wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass me by. I needed to learn as much as possible about both Cormac and other potential suspects to clear my name. “You’ve sued him?”
“Multiple times, for multiple clients. Cormac never showed up for court, not even once. Never made full payment on the judgments entered against him, either. He’d toss a few dollars my way every once in a while, enough to keep my clients from sending a sheriff out to seize his assets. Not that it would have done any good. We tried it once. O’Keefe kept only a small amount of cash on hand at the bar and a measly balance in the bank. He leases the bar space. His only assets are the tables, chairs, and his liquor inventory. None of that is worth much. The writ wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.”
“Why wasn’t he put out of business? Forced to close down?”
“Putting someone out of business is harder than you might think,” Heath said. “Expensive, too. My clients got tired of throwing good money after bad trying to collect from O’Keefe. Eventually, I stopped even trying. I advised anyone who came to me that the best they could do is cut their losses. Short of the health department, state tax bureau, or IRS shutting the bar down, the guy was going to slide by.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I said, “but it would make sense if he was killed by someone who felt they had no other recourse.” You, perhaps?
Heath’s brow furrowed as he seemed to realize he might have overshared.
To mollify him I added, “That’s why the detective came to me. Cormac and my grandfather argued Friday evening. Of course, there’s no way he or I killed Cormac, but she’s probably just dotting her i’s and crossing her t’s, making sure she’s considered every angle. Chances are Cormac was killed in a random robbery. Or it might have been a disgruntled customer. They’ve got someone in custody. It’s probably him.”
Heath released a loud breath. “That’s a relief.”
I had to wonder. Was it a relief because the police might already have the killer in custody? Or was it a relief because the police weren’t on to Heath yet? I imagined it would be extremely frustrating to repeatedly beat your head against a wall, trying to get justice for clients who’d been taken by a swindler. If Heath hadn’t been able to collect from Cormac, maybe he’d decided to make the man pay with his life instead.
I finished curling the ribbon, fluffed the tissue paper, and presented the bagged gift to Heath. “Ta-da!”
“Thanks, Hattie. My mom’s going to love this.”
“Tell her to bring her Pokeno group in for a tasting. I’ll pour them extra-generous samples.” I punctuated my offer with an exaggerated wink.
“Great idea. I will.” With that, he left the shop, turning right down the sidewalk to head back to his office.
I watched him walk off. In the front window, Smoky stood and stared at Heath’s back, too. Does the cat know something I don’t? Does he recognize Heath from the late-night attack on Cormac O’Keefe? Or is Smoky just stretching? What I wouldn’t give to be able to read that cat�
�s mind.
Chapter Eleven
The afternoon was slow, only a trickle of tourists venturing into the shop. One of them stopped to admire my grandfather’s wood sculpture of Smoky. “This little cat is so cute!”
“My grandfather whittled it for me.”
“Does he sell them?”
“No,” I said. “He just makes them for fun.”
“Darn. I’d love a cute knickknack like that to set on my windowsill.”
While Granddaddy didn’t whittle for profit, maybe he ought to think about it. The little wooden figures would make great souvenirs, maybe draw even more people into the store. I’d talk to Granddaddy about it when I picked him up tomorrow morning.
My phone burst into song again. A look at the screen indicated it was my mother trying to reach me. I’d been expecting her call sooner or later. She and my father still had the print version of the local Sunday newspaper delivered. Having grown up without two nickels to rub together, Mom was a copious coupon clipper. She never ventured to the grocery store without her circulars and divided organizer in tow. She hadn’t paid full price for paper towels, toilet paper, or a cleaning product in her life. My more lighthearted father skipped the ads to enjoy the sports page and comics. Even so, I realized the news of Cormac O’Keefe’s murder would make the front page and was unlikely to go unnoticed.
I took a breath to ready myself and jabbed the button to accept the call. “Hi, Mom,” I said in my most cheerful everything’s-okay-here tone.
“A man was murdered on Market Street!” she shrieked. “He owned that Irish pub right across from your store!”
“I heard.” I didn’t dare tell her I’d nearly been a witness to the killing, that I’d been mere feet away from the killer, separated only by window glass, my cat, and jars of moonshine when the attack took place. I didn’t tell her the victim’s neck had been slashed with a broken jar of my Firefly moonshine, or that I’d held one of my promotional T-shirts to the victim’s neck to stanch his bleeding. No sense sending her into an all-out stroke.
“You knew?” she cried. “And you didn’t tell me?”
There were lots of things I didn’t tell my mother. I didn’t tell her about any man I’d dated unless the relationship lasted longer than two months. I didn’t tell her when I’d planned to quit my job to open the Moonshine Shack until I’d already turned in my resignation. I didn’t tell her anytime I went to the dentist or doctor or even the shopping mall or hairdresser. I didn’t tell her because she’d want to know every last detail and give me her opinion, whether or not I’d asked for it. I never asked for it. For fashion advice I went to Kiki and Kate. For sage advice, I went to my father or Granddaddy. Rather than worrying about everything that could go wrong, they shared my same optimistic approach that, even if some things went wrong, odds were that some would go right. Why not take a chance and see what happens?
With a sigh, I said, “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d freak out. The incident happened late at night, in the dark, way after my shop closed. I’m being extra careful. I’m moving my van to the front of the store before it gets dark. A guy is coming by tomorrow to put in security cameras, and the local police have offered to send an officer by at closing time.”
“The police are providing private security now? That’s unusual.”
No, I thought. That’s Marlon Landers. But no sense elaborating. She’d ask me a bunch of questions I had no answers for, at least not yet. What are his intentions? Is he marriage material? Where is this relationship going? “Kiki brought some self-defense spray, too,” I said. “If anybody tries something, she’ll douse them good.”
“I’m going shopping,” Mom said. “I’m going to find you a bulletproof vest. One for your grandfather and Kiki, too.”
Given the manner of Cormac’s death, she’d be better off shopping for a hard plastic neck brace, or maybe a turtleneck and a thick scarf. But knowing she’d find a broken jar to be a more disturbing weapon than a gun and bullet, I let it go. Eventually, I was able to calm her fears and get her off the phone.
While Kiki took advantage of the midafternoon lull to put the finishing touches on her sketch of Marlon, I used the time to restock the shelves, dust, and clean the windows. As I ran a rag in broad circles over the windowpane above him, Smoky reached up a paw, his claws out, in an attempt to snatch the rag out of my hand. I yanked the rag away and ruffled his ears. “No-no, naughty boy.” He glowered at me, his green eyes at half mast.
Activity at Limericks caught my eye. A honey-haired young woman in wedge sandals, skintight jeans, and a black halter top climbed out of a convertible banana-yellow VW Beetle and walked up to the door. That’s Miranda, isn’t it? As I watched, she rapped on the door. A moment later, Marlon opened it and allowed Miranda inside. The door closed behind them, but it did nothing to stop my musings. What is she telling them? Is Ace trying to wheedle a confession out of Miranda like she’d tried with me? There’s no way Miranda could have killed Cormac, could she? I’d only interacted with her once before, but she’d seemed polite, sweet even. Then again, maybe I was influenced by her gushing endorsement of my moonshine.
After I’d gone about my business for a half hour or so, the Latina server arrived at Limericks. As Marlon let her inside, Miranda emerged from the bar. Rather than returning to her car to leave, she stood next to the leprechaun, leaning back against the brick wall of Limericks and staring down at the screen of her phone, her thumb slowly working the screen. She could be checking her e-mails, shopping online, or swiping left and right on a dating app, looking for a replacement for Cormac. The leprechaun statue would make a better boyfriend. Regardless, I was less curious about what she might be doing on her phone and more curious about why she was sticking around. Is she waiting for someone?
Kiki took note of Miranda, too. “What’s she doing?”
“I’ll find out.” I picked up my cleaning supplies and carried them out front under the guise of cleaning the windows from the outside. I raised my rag and waved it. “Hello, Miranda!”
She looked up from her phone and, on spotting me, gave me a wave in return. She tucked her phone into her purse and stepped forward, pausing at the curb until a couple of cars drove past before striding across the street, her long legs making quick work of the asphalt. She stopped in front of me, her French-tipped fingers wrapped around the strap of the purse hanging from her bare shoulder. “Did you hear? Cormac was killed.”
“I did.” I eyed her face, noting that her eyes were neither pink nor puffy. If she’d shed any tears for the man, they’d been few. “I’m sorry. I mean, I know things weren’t great between you two at the end, but this still must be hard.”
“It is.” She blinked and wriggled her nose and mouth as she fought to keep from crying . . . or pretended to fight. Still, I had a hard time seeing the young woman as a killer. She’d been friendly to me at my grand opening. Even when Ashlynn had attacked her on the sidewalk in front of Limericks later that evening, Miranda had only defended herself, not launched an offensive of her own. She dropped into one of the rocking chairs and issued a shaky sigh.
“Did you leave something at Limericks?” I asked.
“Besides my dignity, you mean?” She chuckled mirthlessly. “Nothing important. Some spare clothes in case a drink spilled on me, but that’s it.”
Then why are you still here? It seemed rude to ask outright, so I continued to fish. “Are you hanging around to get closure, then?”
“Partly, I suppose. The police questioned me. I haven’t seen Cormac or talked to him since last Sunday, so I don’t have much to tell them. They said they’d let me back into the bar once they’re done interviewing Isabella. I’m thinking about reopening the place.”
My brows shot up to my hairline. “Really?” Shouldn’t she be afraid she might suffer the same fate as Cormac if she stepped into his shoes, that the killer might return to rob her and cut he
r throat if she refused to turn over the cash receipts? Then again, if Miranda had been the one to end Cormac’s life, she’d know there was no one else to fear. Or maybe she, like the others, assumed the murder had been personal, that Cormac had been targeted because of something he’d done, and that she wouldn’t be at risk. “Reopening the bar seems like a big undertaking.” Miranda was young, probably in her early twenties. Even if she’d been a stellar cocktail waitress, she wouldn’t know all the ins and outs of running a bar, would she?
“Cormac trained me to tend bar and to handle some of the management duties,” she said. “He showed me how to make schedules for the staff, order supplies and liquor, and enter payments for deliveries.”
“You were an assistant manager, then?”
“Not officially. He never gave me a title.”
“If he didn’t give you a title, please tell me he at least gave you a decent salary.” If not, she might have an additional motive for killing Cormac besides his cheating.
She sighed softly. “No. He didn’t give me a salary. Just the minimum hourly pay.”
The lowest legal pay in Tennessee for workers who received tips was a measly $2.13 an hour. If Miranda was handling administrative duties for Cormac, that would mean time away from customers and a resulting reduction in gratuities. Cormac had cost her tip income, taken advantage of her, used her. “That wasn’t fair. Handling management tasks should have entitled you to higher pay. You’d have a claim against Cormac’s estate for unpaid wages.”
“Maybe,” she said, “but Cormac didn’t have much property that I know of. He tried to hide things from me, put on like he was rich, but I was starting to figure things out. He leased the bar space, his car, and his apartment. The bar did okay, but it wasn’t a big moneymaker. Anytime Cormac had some cash, he’d blow it on a beach vacation in Florida or lose it at the craps tables at the Harrah’s casino over the mountains in North Carolina.” In other words, he likely had a negative net worth at the time of his death. “I’m out of a job thanks to him. He owes me. That’s why I’m taking over the bar.”