by Diane Kelly
He wriggled some more, testing the belt. It held perfectly. “Your way’s even better. The belt won’t chafe my armpits this way.”
Kiki zipped up in her Mini and hopped out. She wore a maroon beret and a bright yellow tunic over black-and-white-striped leggings. She looked like a cross between a mime and a taxicab.
Granddaddy waved to my friend. “Good afternoon, Koko!” he called, though he knew good and well her real name was Kiki. He enjoyed teasing her, just like he enjoyed teasing me and my siblings and cousins.
Kiki returned a tease in kind. “Good afternoon, Granddoodle.”
I stepped to the curb. “On your way over to paint the sign at Limericks?”
“Nuh-uh-uh.” She wagged a finger. “You mean Tipperary Tavern.”
I rocked forward on my toes. “I stand corrected.”
She popped open the back hatch, and I hopped down to the pavement to help her unload her things. Inside the cargo bay sat the Radio Flyer wagon she used to haul heavy materials around when she was painting sets at the theater or doing other jobs that required lots of tools and supplies. She set the wagon on the ground, and the two of us filled it with cans of paint of various sizes. A gallon-sized can of periwinkle blue. A quart of bright red. A pint of daffodil yellow. She had paint in every color of the rainbow. She’d even brought some of the leftover firefly green glow-in-the-dark paint she’d used for the sign over my shop. She grabbed a metal bucket filled with a variety of brushes and placed that in the wagon, too.
After loading the paint supplies, she pulled out a sketch pad and showed me some quick mockups she’d designed. “Miranda texted me a pic of the current sign earlier so I could get a feel for the shape and size. What do you think of these?”
The wooden sign currently hanging on short chains over the door of the bar was a wide oval. Kiki had come up with a variety of designs for Miranda to choose from. Some were traditional, some cartoonish, some more modern. In one, she’d replaced the Ts in Tipperary Tavern with shamrocks. In another, she’d replaced the Ts with Celtic crosses. It was a lovely design in green, white, and orange, the colors of Ireland’s flag.
I pointed. “That’s the one I’d pick.”
“Me, too,” Kiki said. “We’ll see what Miranda thinks.”
“Do you want to borrow my stepstool to take the sign down?” I asked.
“Yes, please!”
Using the access ramp, she rolled the wagon up onto the sidewalk and parked it by my grandfather. “Babysit my paint for a minute?”
He gave her a mischievous grin. “Anything for you, Cuckoo.”
She followed me back to my stockroom. As I wrangled the stepstool out from behind the broom and mop, I filled her in on my trips to the bar, the lawyer’s office, and the barbecue restaurant, as well as my impromptu lunch date with Marlon and the visit from Ace. I also told her about my idea for lasses’ night and Miranda’s idea for the full-moon moonshine special. I finally freed the stool and headed back into the shop.
As she came along with me, Kiki chewed her lip. “As profitable as it could be for you and Miranda to host events together, it could be risky, too. After all, she might be Cormac’s killer. I have to wonder if you’re remaining objective about her.”
Though my head told me Miranda could have murdered Cormac and had every reason to do so, my gut said Miranda was merely a young woman trying to make her way in the world. Then again, maybe I was simply feeling flattered that she’d asked for my help, treated me like a successful mentor. Maybe Miranda was a master manipulator who’d played me like a fiddle. Maybe it wasn’t my gut talking but my ego. At the moment, I had no idea whom I could trust, myself included. She’d acted a little squirrelly about that text this morning, hadn’t she? The one that read SHIPMENT COST? Could the text have something to do with the missing moonshine?
I stopped just inside the front door of my shop, eyed the bar across the street, and sighed, admitting Kiki had a point. Maybe I wasn’t being objective about Miranda. “She was very eager to take over Cormac’s business. Maybe she figured killing him would be an easy way to do it. She knew he had no close family or friends who’d raise a ruckus and get in her way.” Yep, she’d been chomping at the bit to reopen the bar. “When she found out her corporate paperwork would be approved today, she nearly jumped for joy.”
As if to emphasize my point, the neon light came on in the window across the street, announcing OPEN.
Kiki and I exchanged a glance.
“Let’s be her first customers,” I said. If nothing else, maintaining a friendly relationship with Miranda might give me access to yet more clues. On the way out the door, I grabbed a jar of blackberry moonshine to give her as an opening-day gift.
Kiki and I walked outside to find my grandfather slapping at his shoulders, trying to reach the belt buckled behind him. When that didn’t work, he tried to stand. The rocking chair came with him. I set the moonshine and stepstool down and rushed over to free him from the improvised contraption.
“Sorry, Granddaddy.” I cringed. “I guess you can see why I majored in business instead of engineering.”
He waved it off. “I’m fine. I just need to go see a man about a dog.” In other words, nature was calling.
“When you’re done with the dog,” I said, “keep an eye on the shop, okay? I’m going to step across the street with Kiki for a few minutes.”
I retrieved the shine and stool, and Kiki grabbed the handle of her wagon. We made our way down the sidewalk and across the street with the paint cans jangling and jostling behind us. Kiki pulled the wagon inside when we reached the bar. We entered to find Isabella perched on a barstool with her round cocktail tray on her lap. Miranda stood behind the bar with a bar towel flipped back over her shoulder, just like Cormac had done when he was alive.
On seeing us belly up to the bar, Miranda pumped her palms toward the ceiling in a raise-the-roof gesture. “Woot-woot! Tipperary Tavern is in business!” She stepped forward and laid two napkins on the bar in front of us. “What can I get you lovely ladies?”
“I’ll take a Lynchburg lemonade,” I said, ordering a Tennessee standard.
“Hmmm.” Kiki ran her eyes over the bottles behind the bar. “Make mine a southern mule.”
“You got it,” Miranda said.
“And you’ve got this,” I replied, setting the blackberry shine on the bar. “It’s a grand opening gift.”
“Thank you!” Miranda said. “You really don’t owe me a gift after all you’ve done for me, but I appreciate it. I’m going to hide it under the bar for now. That’s where I keep my personal stash.” She slid the jar under the counter, near the dishwasher, and turned to reach for the Jack Daniel’s whiskey behind her. “By the way,” she said over her shoulder as she pulled a highball glass off the shelf, “I’d love a jar of each of your Firefly flavors, when you’ve got time. A jug of the corn liquor, too.”
“I’ll bring them over as soon as we’re done here.”
“Perfect.” She gave me a broad smile and cocked her head. “Can I buy them on credit?”
“Sure. I know you’re good for it.” Actually, I knew nothing of the sort. But I’d take a chance.
Miranda made our drinks and placed them on the napkins in front of us. When I pulled cash from my pocket, she raised a hand and refused it. “First drink is on the house.”
“But we wanted to be your first customers.”
“You still are,” she said. “Say cheese!” She motioned Isabella over, then raised her cell phone camera, and the four of us leaned in so she could snap a selfie.
While we sipped our drinks, Kiki retrieved her sketch pad from the wagon and showed Miranda the mockups she’d created. Miranda looked each of them over carefully, flipping back and forth to compare them. She asked Isabella for her opinion. In the end, the decision was unanimous. The design with the Celtic crosses would grace the space ove
r the door of Tipperary Tavern.
Miranda stood on tiptoe to see over the bar. When she saw all the different-colored paints in Kiki’s wagon, she said, “It might be cute for you to paint a rainbow with a pot of gold on the wall over there.” She pointed to a wall currently decorated with a faded framed print of an Irish coastline. She was obviously ready to put her own touch on the place.
“Consider it done,” Kiki said.
I downed my drink much faster than I would have liked, but I didn’t want to leave my grandfather alone at my shop for too long. I raised a hand in goodbye, wished Miranda the best of luck, and returned to my shop.
* * *
* * *
Kiki was still tied up at Tipperary Tavern when I arrived back at her condo late Tuesday evening. Because I’d had the early-morning meetings with Miranda and Heath, I’d left Smoky behind this morning rather than bringing him to the Moonshine Shack. He met me at the door in a rare show of affection.
“Missed me, didn’t you, boy?” I scooped him up in my arms and cuddled him. While the little bugger stiff-armed me, a barely audible and probably involuntary purr gave him away. I kissed his furry cheek. “I know you love me, even if you won’t admit it.”
My phone chimed in my purse with an incoming text. I set Smoky down and pulled the device from my bag. Kate had sent a photo of her and Parker leaning over a crib where baby Dalton lay sleeping. He no longer looked like an alien whose skin didn’t quite fit. In fact, he was plump and pink and perfectly adorable. The accompanying message read Guess who’s home!
I sent a reply prefaced by the heart emoji, the kissy-face emoji, and the hearts-for-eyes emoji. Tell him Auntie Hattie says hello!
I’d left the remaining food from the Smoky Mountains Smokehouse in the mini fridge at the shop, but I found a frozen burrito in the back of Kiki’s freezer that could serve as my dinner. It looked like it had been there since the ice age, so I figured she wouldn’t miss it. I didn’t check the expiration date. For one, the package was covered in thick frost I’d have to scratch through and, for two, I figured what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. I plunked the cold bean brick down on a plate and slid it into the microwave.
While my dinner cooked, I changed out of my overalls and T-shirt and into my pajamas. A ding told me my gourmet delicacy was now ready. I rounded up a fork from the kitchen drawer, grabbed the plate from the microwave, and plunked down on Kiki’s couch to watch sitcoms while I ate.
Despite having scalded my taste buds on microwave burritos approximately 876 times before, I once again succumbed to the bean lava, my blowing on the bite on my fork proving insufficient to reduce the temperature to an edible level. Ow! Muttering some choice words, I set the plate down on the coffee table to cool. A commercial came on the television, and I decided to take advantage of the break to start a load of laundry. Assuming Cormac’s murder would be resolved quickly, I’d packed only a few items of clothing when I’d last been at my cabin. I was running dangerously low on clean panties. If I didn’t do my laundry, I’d soon have to go commando.
I separated the clothing and dropped several dark items into Kiki’s stackable washing machine, adding a cupful of liquid detergent. After closing the lid, I turned the dials to the appropriate settings and jabbed the start button. Rather than the sound of water starting to drip into the basin, all I heard was silence. I jabbed the start button again, harder this time. Still nothing. I lifted the lid, closed it, and pushed the button a third time. Nope. In case the problem was with the particular setting, I switched the dial from permanent press to gentle. Another punch of the button yielded the same result. I checked the plug. It was firmly in the socket. Apparently, the machine was on strike.
After pulling my now soap-coated clothing out of the washer and dropping it back into the laundry basket, I texted Kiki the cringing emoji. I think I broke your washing machine.
A reply came a minute later. Oops. Forgot to tell you. Darn thing’s been busted for weeks.
That explained the pile of laundry in the corner of her bedroom. I’d just assumed she’d been either too lazy or too busy to get around to it. Looked like I’d have to either take my clothing to a Laundromat or wash it back at my cabin once I felt safe returning home.
I set my dirty laundry by the front door of her condo so I’d remember to take it down to my van in the morning. I plunked back down on her couch and returned to both my dinner and my program. As had also happened 876 times before, the lava-like bean filling of the burrito had cooled at a velocity generally attained only by submersion into liquid nitrogen. If not for the fact that the condo’s thermostat read seventy-six degrees, I’d swear the thing somehow refroze. But it being nearly ten p.m. and me being me, I ate it anyway.
Chapter Twenty
Things at the shop were slow on Wednesday. Midweek meant fewer tourists. People weren’t yet planning for the weekend, either, and hadn’t thought of the moonshine they might want to have on hand for relaxing or entertaining. With little else to do, I was tempted to belt myself to a rocking chair out front and take a nap alongside Granddaddy. Instead, I plunked down in the chair next to him and asked him to teach me how to whittle.
“All righty.” He handed me a chunk of wood and a small tool. “Now you listen, and listen good. Whittling is a fine art. You can’t get in a hurry.”
“Same as making moonshine.”
“Exactly.” He proceeded to instruct me on the finer points of wood carving. First, he reviewed the different blades and told me what they were for. There was a straight blade, a curved blade, a V-shaped chisel, and one for gouging wood. Once we’d reviewed the types of blades and the purposes of each, he showed me how to properly hold the small knives. “Careful now,” he said. “You don’t want to cut your finger.”
I certainly didn’t. There’d been enough blood spilled out here in front of my shop already.
Over the next hour, I worked on the chunk of wood, slowly transforming it into a rudimentary cat sitting on its haunches. I could see why my grandfather was so taken with the hobby. Whittling was somehow relaxing, yet took quite a bit of concentration. Focusing on something other than the murder investigation was freeing. The end result of my efforts was a catawampus cat, but he was cute even if a little cockeyed.
Around four o’clock, Kiki zipped up in her Mini, cut the engine, and hopped out.
“Look.” I held up my cat. “Granddaddy taught me how to whittle. What do you think?”
She stepped over and took a look. “Nice kangaroo.”
“It’s a cat.”
“No, it most definitely is not.”
I blew her a raspberry. “Not everyone can be a professional artist.”
“Obviously.”
Granddaddy gestured with his knife. “You need to sand it now. Use the fine-grade paper.”
I reached down to his little toolbox and fished out a small square of sandpaper.
Kiki nudged my grandfather’s cowboy boot with the toe of her high-top sneaker. “You up for teaching another lesson, old man?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I might be if you ask nicely.”
She spread her lips in a big smile. “Pretty please with sugar and sprinkles and a cherry on top?”
“All right.” He reached down, grabbed another hunk of wood, and tossed it to her.
She caught the wood in one hand and dragged one of the chairs over from the game table with the other. Over the next few minutes, my grandfather went through his whittling lessons a second time. When he finished, Kiki bobbed her head. “I think I’ve got it.”
Much to my chagrin and, as expected, she was a natural. In a mere twenty minutes, she’d carved a miniature jug of shine, complete with a tiny hole in the handle and three Xs across the front. In comparison, my cat looked like a child had made it. She went on to whittle a firefly in flight, its wings spread out.
At five o’clock, noise acro
ss the street caught our attention. The doors to the Irish pub opened. Miranda waved a hand and called out to us. “Hey, y’all!”
We waved back, and Kiki stood. “I need to see if the paint has dried on her sign.”
With that, she scurried across the street and disappeared into the bar. A few minutes later, she emerged with the sign and leaned it against the brick next to the chipped but still smiling leprechaun. She went back inside for a moment, emerging again with the stepstool she’d borrowed from me. Miranda came outside, too, and stood at the curb watching as Kiki hung the sign she’d painted for Tipperary Tavern. She posed for a photo under her sign, then took Miranda’s camera and snapped one of her standing under it.
I stood and cupped my hands around my mouth. “It looks perfect!” Kiki had done a bang-up job.
My friend disappeared into the pub a final time, her Radio Flyer wagon coming along with her when she ventured out a few seconds later. Her sketch pad and my stepstool lay atop the cans of paint. She wheeled the wagon down to the corner, crossed with the light, and rolled up to the ’Shine Shack. After returning my stepstool to the storeroom, she fished some small brushes out of the bucket in her wagon. “We should paint our little sculptures.”
We proceeded to do just that. I painted my kangaroo/cat gray, like my precious Smoky. Granddaddy painted his most recent horse to look like Charlotte. Kiki painted the firefly black and red on its back, and fluorescent green underneath. We blew on the paint to help it dry faster. My breath worked much better at drying the paint today than it had worked on cooling my burrito the night before.
Kiki begged off. She’d been hired to paint a mural of a team mascot at a local high school tomorrow and needed to go home and get her supplies organized. She pulled the wagon back over to her car, and I helped her load the wagon in the cargo bay. She raised her hand out the window and tapped her horn as she drove off. Beep-beep!