The Moonshine Shack Murder

by Diane Kelly

  Shortly thereafter, I sold a single jar of peach shine to a woman who was on her way to meet friends for dinner at an Italian place down the block. Smoky was snoozing away in the window, so I went back outside to keep my grandfather company. Unfortunately, he was snoozing away, too. I sat down in the rocker beside him, alone with my thoughts. Being that most of my thoughts centered on a bloody murder that had taken place only three feet away from where I now sat, those thoughts didn’t make good company.

  A clop-clop-clop drew my eyes to Marlon as he rode up the street. I scurried inside and filled Charlotte’s bucket with fresh water from the sink. I grabbed her some carrot sticks from the refrigerator as well. By the time I carried them out front, Marlon had her tied to the post and had taken a seat in the porch swing, one arm stretched in a curve along the back as if waiting for his lover to fill in the space. It took everything in me not to take a seat there.

  I set the bucket down in front of Charlotte and she took a long drink. I held up the carrots, showing them to Marlon. “Okay if I feed her these?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But not too many. She’s watching her weight.”

  I cupped the carrots in my hands as I’d been taught at summer camp all those years ago. Charlotte nuzzled my palms with her velvety chin, her whiskers tickling my skin. Once she’d crunched her way through the carrots, I ran a hand down her nose and turned to Marlon. “Got any news for me?”

  He glanced at my grandfather, as if wondering whether he should share in front of him, but decided the sleeping man wasn’t likely to blow the case. Still, when he spoke, he kept his voice low so as not to wake my granddad or be overheard by passersby. “The security footage showed Gage bringing only one case of liquor into Limericks last Tuesday.”

  “One case?” I repeated. “What happened to the other five?” I’d assumed Cormac had eventually taken them to his car or apartment, but had they never made it into the bar at all?

  He raised a shoulder. “Your guess is as good as mine. Ace got in touch with him by phone, but she didn’t ask him about any specifics. She wants to speak to him in person. He’s based out of Memphis, but he’ll be arriving in town on Friday for a couple days of sales calls. She’s arranged to speak with him Friday afternoon at the station. She also had me review the video and find the footage from when Heath Delaney came to the bar to talk about the dishwasher. Tilley wasn’t in Limericks at the time, though he did come by later that evening. Cormac might have gotten confused, remembered things wrong. ’Course, he could have just flat-out lied about Gage Tilley overhearing Heath disparaging him. Ace also spoke to the three boys from Mu Sigma. They said neither Tristan nor Dane told them anything about buying bottled liquor directly from Limericks, but they confirmed that Tristan is the head of their frat’s party planning team. That means he’s in charge of arranging for the kegs of beer to be delivered and buying the other alcohol and drinks. Could be he planned to buy the moonshine from Cormac and just didn’t mention it to the other guys.”

  In other words, the police still had no concrete answers, but they seemed to at least be edging closer. That gave me some hope. “I hope Gage Tilley can shed some light on things. I’d like this case to be solved so I can stop worrying every time someone comes near my shop. My gut has been in knots since I found Cormac’s body.”

  Marlon cut me some side-eye and a smile. “I’d like this case to be solved so you can take me out for that dinner you owe me.”

  His words caused a different sensation in my gut, one that was far more pleasant.

  With a sigh, he stood and untied Charlotte. “I’d better get back out on patrol. I’ll be in touch once I know more.”

  I hoped he’d be back in touch very soon.

  * * *

  * * *

  As we drove away from the shop after closing on Wednesday night, my nose detected a delectable scent coming from Bar Celona. Knowing Kate and Parker had their hands full with their new bundle of joy, I decided to take some food to them. Kiki and I had loved the tapas I’d picked up at the place before. Why not take some tapas to the new parents?

  I pulled up in front of the restaurant and placed a takeout order from my phone so I could keep my grandfather company in the van while the food was being prepared. I swiveled the microphone away from my mouth. “Do you want something, too, Granddaddy?”

  “You choose for me,” he said. “I don’t even know what a tapa is.”

  I added an order of the patatas bravas for him. He could enjoy it as a late-night snack tonight or save it for the weekend. When I got off the phone, I said, “Tapas is essentially Spanish for appetizers.”

  His already wrinkled face wrinkled further as it drew inward. He pointed out the window. “You mean to tell me this here restaurant serves nothing but appetizers? No main dish?” He shook his head. “What will they think of next?”

  After waiting a few minutes, I went inside to check on my order. The same middle-aged man as before was working the bar where I sat down to wait. After consulting the kitchen, he said, “It’ll be just a few more minutes.”

  As I waited, I heard the servers and kitchen staff speaking in Spanish. It was such a pretty language, rolling off the tongue the way it did. I glanced out the window to check on my grandfather. He’d fallen asleep in the van, his wrinkled cheek squished against the window. Beyond him, headlights flashed as a car left the paid parking lot on the other side of the street.

  I shot bolt upright as a thought hit me. Damien Sirakov claimed that last Friday, around the time Cormac O’Keefe was killed, he was dealing with a dead battery in a nearby parking lot. He’d claimed that a man with a Spanish accent had helped him. Could it be true? Could one of the staff of Bar Celona have helped Damien get his battery up and running again?

  “Excuse me,” I said to the man. “This may sound like an odd question, but did someone who works here help a man jump-start a battery late last Friday night? A little after two o’clock?”

  “Not me.” He hiked a thumb toward the kitchen door. “Would you like me to check with the staff?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” I said. “It’s important.”

  The man went into the kitchen and returned a minute later with a bag containing my takeout order and a middle-aged man in a white cook’s uniform. A woman with long, golden-blond hair followed them out with a tray of food in her hands, but I didn’t pay her much attention. The maître d’ angled his head to indicate the cook. “Benicio says he helped a man with his car battery.”

  I introduced myself to Benicio and told him that I ran the Moonshine Shack. “Can you tell me what the man you helped looked like?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Just like a regular guy,” he said with a thick Spanish accent.

  “What color was his hair?”

  “Dark,” he said. “Darker than mine even.”

  “Did you notice anything else about him?”

  “He had a tattoo here.” Benicio pointed to his neck. “A black animal. Maybe a panther? I couldn’t tell. It wasn’t good. The mouth was open like it was growling.” He opened his own mouth, as if to demonstrate, even offering a growl. “Grrr.”

  The man he’d seen had to be Damien Sirakov. How many men with neck tattoos of an openmouthed indeterminate black beast could there be downtown at that hour, let alone a man of that description with a dead car battery?

  “The police might want to talk to you,” I said. “The man got into some trouble.” Benicio might be able to get him out of it.

  “What kind of trouble?” Benicio asked.

  I figured the specifics would be best addressed by Detective Pearce. I left it at “Serious trouble.”

  While Benicio returned to the kitchen, I handed my credit card to the maître d’ and sent a text to Detective Pearce with the relevant information while he ran it through the machine. A moment later, the detective replied with the thumbs-up emoji and, a moment after th
at, the phone behind the bar rang.

  The maître d’ picked up the receiver. “Bar Celona,” he said as he returned my card. He used his shoulder to hold the phone in place as he handed me a ballpoint pen and the receipt to sign. “How may I help you?” After a short pause to listen, he looked my way and said, “Yes, she told us you might be in touch. Of course, you may come now. We close soon, but Benicio and I will wait for you.”

  He ended the call as I scrawled my name on the receipt. I separated the two copies and handed the restaurant’s copy to him. As I did, a blonde walked up behind the bar. Our eyes met. Hers squinted slightly, as if she was trying to place me. But I didn’t need to squint to remember who she was. She wore pretty pink shimmering lipstick and a loose, long-sleeved peasant blouse with elastic around the wrists. Ashlynn. Looked like she’d landed the job.

  She grabbed a bottle of wine and walked off without greeting me. As soon as she was gone, I leaned in to the maître d’ and whispered, “Check her sleeves.”

  He glanced her way before returning his gaze to me. “You know something?”

  Rather than risk a slander lawsuit myself, I said, “Ask the detective when she arrives. She’ll fill you in.”

  He gave me a discreet nod.

  Remembering how Ashlynn had gone after Miranda, and knowing she was still a suspect in Cormac’s murder, I said, “Don’t tell her I said anything, okay?”

  He gave me a nearly imperceptible nod. “Thank you,” he said loudly. “Please come again.”

  I picked up my bag and went out the door. I knew I’d left a thief behind. But had I left a killer, too?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  After dropping my grandfather off, I motored over to Kate and Parker’s house in the Chattanooga suburb of Red Bank. It was nearly ten o’clock by then. If the lights were out in the house, I wouldn’t wake them. I’d bring them food another time and share the tapas with Kiki instead.

  Fortunately, as I rolled up on their classic single-story, wood frame home, I discovered that the lights in the kitchen and living room were still on. Good. I parked in their driveway, told Smoky I’d be back in just a minute, and grabbed the bag of food. As I made my way up the three steps to their porch, my ears detected the sound of a baby wailing inside. Looked like Dalton Prescott wasn’t happy about something.

  I raised a hand and rapped on the door. My ears detected the faint sound of footsteps approaching the door. There was a silent pause as Kate probably checked the peephole to see who had come to their place at this late hour. Her muffled voice came through the door. “Hattie!”

  The door opened and there stood Kate in a wrinkled T-shirt and stretchy maternity pants, her tummy not having yet retreated back into place. Purple half circles underscored her eyes and her hair was a rat’s nest, but she looked happier than I’d ever seen her. Motherhood clearly suited her. She gave me a sincere, if weary, smile.

  “Sorry to come so late.” I held up the bag. “I brought y’all some tapas from that new place downtown. I figured you could have it for dinner tomorrow.” After all, it was far past dinnertime tonight.

  Kate snatched the bag out of my hand, opened it, and peeked inside. “This food smells divine!” She pulled out the tortilla española and began eating it with her hands, tearing pieces off and shoving them into her mouth as fast as she could chew.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Just starving! All we had for dinner was saltines.”

  Parker peeked out of the baby’s room down the hall behind her. “Hey, Hattie!” he called.

  I raised a hand in hello. “I brought you dinner.”

  “What?” he hollered, cupping a hand around his ear, unable to hear over the baby’s cries.

  I pointed to the bag in Kate’s hand and mimed putting food in my mouth.

  Momentarily forgetting his fatherly duties, he hurried to the door, peeked into the bag, and moaned in joy. “I’ve never been so happy to see you!”

  “Um . . . thanks?”

  He, too, had bags under his eyes, and looked as if he could use a shower, a shave, and a seven-hour nap. “We haven’t had a free second since we brought the baby home last night. How can something so little that sleeps all day take up so much of our time?” The smile on his face told me that despite his words, he was happy to make any sacrifice required for his little boy.

  Though I’d only intended to drop off the food and go, now that I knew they were still up and could use some help, I said, “Why don’t I tend to Dalton for a few minutes while you two sit down and eat like civilized people?”

  Kate threw her arms around me. “You’re a godsend.”

  While the two of them headed for their kitchen, I brought Smoky in from the van, then walked down the hall to the nursery. Dalton lay on his back in the crib, his mouth wide open and his tongue vibrating as if he were an opera star singing an aria or the lead vocalist in a screamo punk band. Maybe Dalton would grow up to be the next Luciano Pavarotti.

  I reached over the top of the crib and stroked his soft cheek, much as I stroked Smoky’s. At least I didn’t have to worry about the baby suddenly turning his head and sinking his fangs into my hand. He didn’t have any teeth yet. “Hey, sweet baby. Why are you fighting sleep? It’s a good thing.” Funny how children fought to stay awake and adults sought any opportunity to sneak a nap in.

  Dalton seemed to like the cheek strokes, so I figured I’d see whether he enjoyed another of Smoky’s favorites, the ear rub. I ran my thumb over the shell of his teeny ear. He quieted a bit and seemed to lean into my hand, just like Smoky did when I stroked his ear.

  I figured I should sing the baby a lullaby, but as I mulled over my options, I realized I couldn’t recall all the words to any of them. I could get as far as the diamond ring in “Hush, Little Baby,” but that’s about it. I opted for singing him a soft, slowed-down version of the bluegrass classic “Rocky Top.” The old standard was included in the soundtrack I played at my shop, and I’d heard it at least once a day, every day, since the shop had opened. Of course, with my granny and granddaddy being bluegrass fans, I’d been hearing the song all my life.

  Blinking in the dim illumination supplied by the night light, Dalton looked up at me with his unfocused, brand-new baby eyes, as if interested in this strange sound he was hearing. Thank goodness he wasn’t old enough yet to realize what a terrible singing voice I had. As I continued to sing, his squalling diminished to hiccuping gulps and catlike mews. His wriggling slowed, too. What do you know? The song was working. When I came to the part about people getting their corn from a jar, I booped Dalton gently on the nose. His blinks became longer and longer, his eyes barely opening between them. He heaved a big shuddering breath as he teetered on the edge of awake and asleep. By the end of the song, he’d succumbed to my tactics. I felt a surge of pride. I’m pretty good at this baby stuff.

  Leaving the little guy to his sweet dreams, I went to the kitchen and found Kate and Parker at the dinette making quick work of the takeout.

  Kate looked up. “You got him to sleep so soon? You must have a knack with babies.”

  As she took a big bite of the paella, I shrugged. “I just did the same things I do to calm Smoky down. Stroke his cheek and rub his ears. I’m pretty sure I heard Dalton purr.”

  She took a sip of her drink. “What’s going on with the murder investigation? Is it moving along?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” I said. “The evidence points in a lot of different directions.” Of course, much of it pointed directly at me. “The Moonshine Shack is moving along nicely, though. I’m working with the woman who took over Limericks. We plan to cohost some events at the bar to feature my moonshine. Ladies’ night and a full-moon special, too.”

  “What a great idea,” she said. “Be sure to let me know once they’re scheduled. I could use a girls’ night, especially now that I’m outnumbered two to on
e by boys here at home.”

  “Hey!” Parker cried, smiling.

  “Speaking of boys,” Kate said, turning back to me, “what’s happening with that hunky cop?”

  “Hey!” Parker cried again.

  “Don’t worry,” Kate said. “You’re still a hunk, too.”

  He placed his palms on his abs. “I don’t know. Feels like I’m starting to develop ‘dad bod.’ ”

  A smile claimed my face. “We’ve got a date planned.”

  “Really?” she said. “When?”

  “As soon as the murder investigation is over. We’re going to dinner.”

  Parker took a sip of his drink. “What if it’s never solved?” he teased. “What if it becomes a cold case?”

  I brandished my fork at him. “What if you shut your mouth?”

  “Well, I hope they catch the killer very soon,” Kate said. “You’ve been in a slump.”

  She wasn’t wrong.

  A half hour later, I bade them goodbye. They deserved a moment to themselves and, heck, I was nearly as tired as Dalton. If only I had someone to stroke my cheek and rub my ears as I fell asleep.

  * * *

  * * *

  The sound of my phone blaring “Good Old Mountain Dew” jerked me awake at the crack of dawn Thursday morning. Groaning and groggy, I reached over to the nightstand to retrieve my phone before it could wake Kiki. The screen indicated it was Ace calling. On seeing her name, my brain jolted wide awake. She’d gone to Bar Celona with the intention of eliminating Damien Sirakov as a suspect, but had she learned something about Ashlynn while she was there? Could she be calling to tell me that she’d arrested Ashlynn last night? Could this nightmare finally be over?

  I tapped the screen to take the call, sat up, and put the phone to my ear. “Good morning,” I croaked, my larynx still rusty from sleep.