by Diane Kelly
She was smart not to make a lot of changes off the bat and risk losing the existing customer base. She might be only partway through her studies, but she certainly had a head for business. Her observations and intuition would get her far.
Her phone, which was lying on the desktop, pinged with an incoming text. I glanced over at it, noting that the message read SHIPMENT COST. Before I could read more, she pushed the button on the side of the phone to darken the screen and slid the device into her purse. She tossed a smile my way. “Don’t you just hate notifications popping up all the time?”
“They can certainly be disruptive,” I agreed. The immediate communication capabilities of cell phones were both a blessing and a curse.
I showed her how to set up an online bookkeeping account in the name of Tipperary Tavern, Inc. “The nice thing about using the online program is that you don’t have to worry about losing data if your computer crashes.” We set up the accounts her tavern would need. Bar receipts. Payroll. Supplies. Rent. Utilities. Internet and cable. Income tax. Sales tax. Liquor inventory.
“Speaking of inventory,” Miranda said, “will I need to determine the value of the alcohol and mixers that are still on hand?”
“Because you haven’t paid for the inventory yourself,” I said, “you won’t get a tax deduction for the value, and you won’t need to input the information into your accounting data. But it would be a good idea to make a list of the bottles in the bar and the stockroom, just in case one of Cormac’s creditors asserts some type of claim to his remaining assets. That’s something we should ask Heath Delaney about during our meeting later.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Miranda said, “about the people Cormac ripped off. I know he owed several hundred dollars to the man who owns the barbecue place.”
“Mack Clayton?”
“Yes, that’s the guy. Limericks was packed on St. Patrick’s Day, and the catered dinner was a big hit with the customers. Cormac didn’t pay the full bill. Mr. Clayton came by a couple of times trying to collect, but Cormac kept saying that the restaurant had shorted the order and refused to pay him. Things got ugly the last time Mr. Clayton was here.”
My skin began to prickle. “Ugly how?”
“The two of them got into a shouting match. Cormac threatened to call the police if Mr. Clayton didn’t leave. Mr. Clayton said if Cormac wasn’t going to pay him, he’d find a way to put Limericks out of business for good. He turned over a barstool on his way out. But who could blame him? Cormac was acting like a total jerk.”
I recalled what Heath Delaney had told me when he’d come by my shop, how it could be difficult and expensive to put someone out of business. Hmm. Of course, that assumed the person was using legal means to try to put the other one out of business. Would the delay and cost of going to court make a person start thinking about other ways to put someone out of business for good, like putting an end to the person’s life?
Before I could ponder the idea too much, Miranda went on. “I want to do the right thing,” she said. “I figured once I bring in enough profit, I’ll pay the bill to the Smoky Mountains Smokehouse.”
“I’m sure Mack would appreciate that.”
We turned our attention back to the bookkeeping program. I spent the next half hour showing her how to set up accounts, enter data, and prepare reports. In light of the fact that she already knew some bookkeeping basics, as well as the fact that she was a quick learner, we covered a lot of ground in a short time.
When we’d gone over the essentials, I closed the program, ending our tutorial. “You can always call me with questions.” I checked the time on my phone. A half hour remained before we’d have to leave for the meeting with the attorney. Might as well put the time to use. “Why don’t we start on the inventory?”
“Okay.” She put her fingers to her keyboard and pulled up the Excel program. “I’ll start a spreadsheet.”
“A spreadsheet.” I put a hand over my heart. “It’s so nice to connect with another number nerd.”
She laughed as she typed in a name for the file. She picked up her laptop and carried it into the stockroom. I followed along behind her. After a brief discussion, we decided that I should call out the names and quantities of the liquor while she entered them in her spreadsheet. She perched on a barstool in the corner and sat her computer on her lap.
I eyed the shelves, deciding where to start. While most of the bottles had been removed from the cardboard cases in which they had been delivered, there were intact cases of some of the more popular liquors on the shelves, waiting to be opened.
I started at the far end, where the gin was stored. “Three bottles Bombay Sapphire gin, seven-hundred-and-fifty-milliliter size. Two bottles Tanqueray, one point seven five liters.”
Miranda’s fingers flew over her keyboard as I recited the brand names and quantities on hand. She occasionally lifted a finger and said “hold up” while her data input caught up with my mouth. We went through gin, vermouth, vodka, amaretto, whiskey, and rum before reaching the moonshine section. Only four bottles of Backwoods Bootleggers sat on the shelf. Where were all the other bottles of shine? According to the invoice I’d found on the printer last Sunday, Cormac had ordered six cases, for a total of seventy-two bottles, and they’d been delivered the preceding Tuesday.
My eyes scanned the shelves. None of the cartons bore the Backwoods Bootleggers logo. I circled around to the next row. Nope. No cases of moonshine there, either. I checked a small closet at the back but found only a mop bucket, broom, and cleaning supplies. It wouldn’t be unusual to lose a bottle or two to breakage or employee theft. There was even a term for these causes of missing inventory—shrinkage. But when over five cases of liquor were missing, it seemed clear that more than a dropped bottle or petty thievery was involved.
Miranda tilted her head in question. “Looking for something?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sixty-eight bottles of Backwoods Bootleggers moonshine.”
Chapter Seventeen
I reminded Miranda of the invoice from Backwoods Bootleggers that had been on Cormac’s printer. “The invoice showed he’d ordered six full cases. Any idea where the liquor might be?”
She shook her head and shrugged at the same time. “I can’t imagine the bar would go through that many bottles so quickly. The bikers drink a lot of moonshine. The frat boys order a lot of it, too. But they wouldn’t go through sixty-eight bottles in only three days.”
Not alone, they wouldn’t. But the bikers or frat boys could easily polish off the liquor if they’d held a rally or a party attended by a large group of people. The gears in my mind began to churn, cranking out possibilities. Maybe Cormac had ordered the liquor and agreed to exclusivity to get the discount, knowing he could resell the bottles to the bikers or frat boys at less than retail and make a nice profit. It would be illegal, of course. Bars were permitted to sell only poured liquor served in a glass, not unopened bottles. But the law didn’t seem to mean much to Cormac. What’s more, the timing would make sense. With the end of the spring semester coming up soon and final exams on the horizon, all of the frats would be hosting a last hurrah before dead week and everyone turned to their books. Late spring was prime time for biker rallies, too. They liked to gather before summer came and the high temperatures made being outdoors for prolonged periods of time miserable.
Miranda mused aloud. “Maybe Cormac didn’t want them taking up space here if they weren’t going to be needed soon. Maybe he took the other cases to his apartment.” She paused a moment before posing another possibility. “Or maybe whoever killed him took them.”
“Could be.” I felt a little guilty not letting Miranda know all of the information I had about the case, but given Ace’s earlier threat about interfering with a police investigation, I knew it was best to keep my mouth shut.
Cormac hadn’t carried the cases out of the bar with him the night he’d
been killed. I’d seen the video, and the only thing in his hands when he left was the recycling bin. But it was possible he’d carried the cases out to his car earlier with the intention of reselling the liquor to the bikers or frat boys. If the cases had been in Cormac’s car and intended for the bikers, maybe the frat boys had spotted them in the vehicle on their way back to the frat house. Maybe they’d tried to steal them like they’d stolen the moonshine from my store. Maybe Cormac had caught them in the act and things had turned deadly.
Another possible scenario was that Tristan and Dane had arranged to meet Cormac out back after the bar closed to pick up the cases of moonshine he’d sold them on the sly. Maybe they’d refused to pay, or gotten into a dispute over the amount due. Maybe one of them—my guess would be Tristan the Ken doll—had grabbed the empty Firefly jar from the recycle bin to use as a weapon. Maybe he’d then chased Cormac around the building while his friend rounded up the liquor. Maybe things had gotten out of hand in front of my shop, and he’d ended up smashing the jar, turning it into a jagged-edged weapon, and killing Cormac. But if that was the case, why weren’t Tristan’s fingerprints on the jar? Because he had a criminal record for the paintball incident, his prints would be on file. Could he have wiped his prints from the jar?
I fished for more details to see whether my theories might have legs. “You said frat boys ordered a lot of the Backwoods Bootleggers moonshine. Were they from any particular fraternity?”
“I don’t know the Greek letters,” she said, “but we get a lot of boys from the one with the name that looks like it spells ‘Me.’ ”
Mu Sigma. Maybe my musings weren’t off base, after all.
As we finished the inventory of the back room, the alarm on Miranda’s phone chimed to remind us it was time to leave for the meeting with Heath Delaney. We gathered up our purses from the office.
Miranda gestured to the opened bottles behind the bar as we walked past. “I’ll inventory these partial bottles when I come back.”
On our walk over to Heath’s office, I asked whether she’d ordered a new sign for the bar.
“No,” she said. “I’m thinking of painting over the one that’s already hung out front. I have to watch my funds, at least until the bar starts making a profit again.”
“I can relate,” I told her. “I sank a lot of money into getting the Moonshine Shack ready. I’m lucky there’s enough money left that I can afford to eat.”
“I survive on ramen noodles, peanut butter, and off-brand cereal,” she said. “I call it the part-time student diet.”
I tossed her a smile. “I remember those days. Before you know it, they’ll be behind you.”
“I hope so,” she said. “I’m taking twelve hours a semester. Between classes, studying, and work, I have no time for anything else.”
“My friend Kiki is a freelance artist,” I told her. “She helped me design and decorate my place.”
“She did a great job. The Moonshine Shack is adorable.” Her eyes brightened. “You think she’d paint my sign for me?”
“I’m sure she would.” Kiki was always looking for freelance art gigs, a side hustle. “She’ll give you a fair price, too.”
We made small talk as we strode down the streets of Chattanooga’s riverfront district. Miranda mentioned that one of the things she’d loved about working at Limericks was the repeat customers. “They’re like family. They’re a big reason I want to continue the business. They’ve told me all about their kids and jobs and spouses, and they ask about me, too. Same goes for the other staff. I’m close to most of the other servers who worked my shifts. We covered for each other, had each other’s backs, you know? I always thought I’d go to work for a big company once I got my business degree, but I can’t see myself doing that now. I like the small-business environment.”
“Me, too.” It was casual and comfortable, with fewer rules and less structure. The flexibility was great. It was also less routine. The tasks were more varied, which kept things interesting. “Have you talked to the other staff? Are they planning to work for you when you reopen the bar?”
“Most of them.” Her nose quirked in disgust. “Not Ashlynn, though. I’d never hire her back. I hope I never see her again.”
“I don’t blame you.” I mentioned the same promotional ideas that I’d suggested to Cormac the first time I’d gone to Limericks, when I’d invited him to my grand opening.
“Lasses’ night is a fun idea,” she said. “Maybe we could do a moonshine special on the next full moon, too.”
“That’s a clever concept,” I said. “Wish I’d thought of it.”
“I can’t take all the credit,” she said. “You got the ball rolling with the talk of ladies’ night.”
She had a point. The two of us engaging in business brainstorming sessions could be good for both of us. Our banter might make us both some bucks.
Before we knew it, we had reached the offices of Delaney and Sullivan. The receptionist held out a hand, inviting us to take seats in the foyer. “Mr. Delaney will be with you in just a moment.”
As she buzzed him to let him know his ten o’clock had arrived, Miranda and I perused the magazine offerings on the coffee table. The options reflected the fact that the law firm handled primarily business matters. Entrepreneur. Kiplinger’s. Fortune. Money. I was five paragraphs into an article on small-business retirement plans when Heath appeared in a hallway behind the reception desk.
“Good morning.” He gave us a smile and angled his head to indicate the hallway. “Come on back. My assistant has the conference room ready for us.”
An assistant. What I wouldn’t give for a right hand. As soon as the ’Shine Shack was making enough money, I’d hire someone to help me out on a regular basis so I could focus on growing the business rather than the day-to-day details.
We followed Heath back to a small conference room in a rear corner. One window faced east, the wide river visible in the distance. The other window looked south over Market Street. A large, round table with six chairs filled the space. The circular table told me this room was for amicable client meetings, where the attorneys and the visitors were on the same side, both literally and metaphorically.
We sat down and all three of us readied our legal pads and pens.
Heath started things off by sliding some paperwork across the desk to Miranda. “We drafted your corporate documents based on the information you gave my assistant on the phone. Look them over. If everything’s as you’d like it, we can get them filed right away.”
I used my feet to wheel my chair closer to Miranda’s. She set the document down between us so I could read over the paperwork with her. It appeared to be the standard boilerplate documents for establishing and registering a for-profit corporation.
When she finished reading, she looked up. “Everything looks correct to me.” She turned to me, a brow arched in question.
“Me, too,” I said.
“Perfect.” Heath turned around to the credenza and picked up the receiver from the in-house telephone. He punched two buttons, listened for a moment, and when he got an answer he said, “The client has approved the corporate paperwork for Tipperary Tavern. Proceed with filing.”
When he hung up, Miranda asked, “How long will the filing take?”
“The documents are submitted electronically online,” he said. “Processing takes four or five hours, at most. Your registration should be confirmed by the end of business this afternoon.”
“Then I’m legit?” she asked. “I can open the bar as soon as the confirmation comes back?”
He nodded. “You can start slinging drinks this evening.”
“Woo-hoo!” She pumped her fists.
I couldn’t help but smile. I knew exactly how she felt. It was the same exhilaration I’d felt when seeing my first jar of moonshine come out of the bottling machine, the same thrill I’d felt whe
n making my first sale in my shop to the Desperaddos motorcycle club.
The matter of the corporate registration resolved, he asked, “What questions do you have for me?”
Miranda ran through the list I’d dictated to her on Sunday, as well as several she’d come up with on her own. Heath provided her direct and succinct answers, clearly having addressed these routine inquiries dozens of times before. Miranda’s final question regarded the remaining inventory. “I’d like to settle the outstanding claims against Limericks with the income generated from the sale of the liquor.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “Better to take the bull by the horns than worry about a claim sneaking up on you. Do you have a list of Cormac’s unpaid creditors?”
“There aren’t a lot of them,” she said. “Almost all of his suppliers had put him on a cash-only basis due to earlier late payments. But I know he owed the Smoky Mountains Smokehouse for the St. Patrick’s Day catering, and my guess is he still owed something on the new dishwasher that you came to see him about last month.”
Heath went to see Cormac about a dishwasher? This was news to me.
“He still owed something, all right.” Heath snorted a frustrated huff of air and shook his head. “Cormac didn’t pay the appliance company a single penny. He claimed the dishwasher was defective and refused to pay. He also refused to let a repairman take a look at it.”
I was about to say that I’d seen Cormac put glasses in the dishwasher when I’d watched the security footage with Detective Pearce and Marlon, but I caught myself just in time. I wasn’t supposed to share any information I’d seen in the video, or even the fact that the security cameras existed.
Miranda’s face screwed in confusion. “Far as I can tell, the dishwasher worked fine from the time it was installed. We used it all the time.”
“That’s what I figured.” Heath glowered out the window in the direction of Limericks, two blocks away, before turning back to us. “My guess is he was trying to wear the appliance company down, get them to accept pennies on the dollar for a fully functioning machine. He told them they could come remove it, but he knew they wouldn’t want to do that. A used machine is worth only a fraction of new.” He grunted. “That man always had some ulterior motive, some kind of sleazy game plan to screw over anyone who dealt with him.”