by Carol Miller
“Well, now you can relax.” She picked up the pudding and carried it to the refrigerator. “And enjoy the wedding.”
“Relax?” Chris snorted. “How relaxed could you be if you were about to be related to those Balsams?”
“Oh, Bobby’s not such a bad guy. A little rough around the edges, of course, but he seems to really adore your sister.”
“And Rick?”
Rick was a decidedly different story. Daisy remembered his devious gaze from yesterday. Yes, he was going to be trouble. Somewhere. Somehow. But definitely before the big event. She had no doubt about that.
“Let’s just hope,” she said, carefully sliding the nectarine torte on the shelf below the pudding, “you don’t see much of Rick Balsam this week.”
Chris turned from the window. “I can’t imagine that he regularly visits historical markers.”
Daisy chuckled at the idea. “There’s only one that would interest him. Clement Hill. In honor of Captain Benjamin Clement, first maker of gunpowder in Virginia.”
“We better skip that one then—be on the safe side.”
They ended up skipping quite a few of them, mostly because Chris was right about the weather. It was a beautiful day to be outside. An azure sky. A soft breeze. The sort of day that made you want to spread out a blanket and watch fluffy clouds in the shape of animal crackers float by. And that’s precisely what Daisy and Chris did. They pulled off the road at the third marker and settled themselves down on the former site of a Revolutionary War–era blacksmith shop turned debtors’ prison. The grass beneath them was warm. The smell of French lavender drifted over from a nearby meadow. Chris’s chest became a comfortable pillow for an afternoon nap.
When they woke up, the sun was descending in a hazy golden glow as the afternoon was switching to evening. Chris suggested an early dinner, and Daisy in turn suggested pizza. It was the only option for some distance, unless chips and soda from the gas station were included on the list. The nearest town was Tightsqueeze, although it was hard to consider it a town. It was more a sad little cluster of dilapidated stores, most of which were shuttered.
“Fine by me,” Chris agreed. “But seriously? It’s called Tightsqueeze?”
“If you think that’s a good one, head down Highway 40 and you’ll hit Climax. Try having that as a mailing address.”
His brow wrinkled with a mixture of amusement and concern. “Poor Laurel. We used to be so close, but we haven’t seen much of each other over the last year or two. I keep trying to figure out where her head is. I don’t think she has any clue what she’s gotten herself into.”
Daisy couldn’t agree with him there. Laurel seemed pretty smart and aware to her. But then again, Chris obviously knew his sister much better than she did. Daisy did wonder whether the happy couple would remain in the area long-term. She had a hard time picturing Bobby in the glitz and speed of the big city. It was like trying to slap a rusty horseshoe on a Ferrari.
Leaving the historical marker behind, they drove toward Tightsqueeze on a small road that Daisy couldn’t remember ever having traveled before. A couple of miles outside of town, they passed an even smaller side road with a tilting brown street sign that caught her attention—COTTON PATCH ROAD.
“Do you mind if we turn here?” she said.
“A shortcut?” Chris asked.
“Not exactly. Something I need to see.”
It was a good thing that he didn’t object, because Daisy would have turned regardless. Her initial inclination upon seeing the sign had been to eat a quick dinner, then drop Chris off at the campground and return alone, but her curiosity was simply too great to wait. And there was something about that sign and that road suddenly appearing before her the way that they did. It seemed like an omen—just hopefully not a bad one.
A few hundred yards down Cotton Patch Road, the asphalt ended and was replaced by a pitted combination of mud and stones. To keep the bumping to a minimum, Daisy steered the tires into a pair of densely compacted ruts. After a few hundred yards more, the road narrowed to the point where it was only wide enough to hold about a car and a half, or one bigger pickup. If another vehicle approached, she would have to pull over onto the scrubby shoulder, which was mostly a sloping ditch filled with towering weeds.
Chris surveyed the surrounding fields. They were yellowed and dried after being harvested a month or so earlier. Remnant of cornstalks stood in jagged rows. “We’re not going for pizza anymore, are we?”
“We are,” Daisy answered somewhat absently, “except I have to find something first.”
“Find something?” he returned dubiously. “Like what? A crow? A haystack?”
He had a point. The fields did stretch out in every direction in an endless, meandering fashion. But he was thinking urban, not country. He equated empty fields with empty land. Daisy, on the other hand, equated empty fields with quiet, secluded land that was the perfect spot for a nip joint.
The directions that Connor Woodley had given her at the salon were simple—go to Tightsqueeze, two miles west of town was Cotton Patch Road, follow it to the red rooster. There she would find the home of the clay chip that she had discovered.
Daisy hadn’t intended on going there tonight, but the timing was so fortuitous. She was west of Tightsqueeze. She had stumbled upon Cotton Patch Road. Now all she had to do was follow it to the red rooster. Except she wasn’t entirely sure what Connor meant by that. Was it a name? She had never heard of a house or property called the Red Rooster. Could it be some type of an emblem? Or maybe it was an actual rooster? This was farm country, after all—chickens aplenty.
There was no question that she was looking for a private building. Nip joints were not public. They didn’t advertise with billboards or flashing neon placards. They weren’t located in strip malls between the dollar store and the Laundromat. On the contrary, they were tucked away as discreetly as possible. A little residence on a tranquil street. A slightly larger garage or shed, perhaps. Inconspicuous and low-key. That was of prime importance. No cause for attention. No reason for the law to come knocking. Just ’shine.
She couldn’t have asked for a better hour of the day for her visit. It wasn’t dark out yet, so she could still see where she was going. At the same time, it was late enough for the nip joint to be open, or at least she thought it was. Although Daisy didn’t personally have much experience with such places, her husband had been fond of one in Danville. For better or worse, nip joints were neither new nor a novelty in Appalachia.
At every bend in the road she slowed in anticipation of a sign, but there was no red rooster—live or otherwise. The rolling fields on both sides continued, broken up occasionally by a low wire fence. Mottled dots of cattle moved off in the distance. Deer browsed on the edge of a pine windbreak.
“If you tell me what you’re looking for,” Chris volunteered, “maybe I could help.”
Daisy’s mouth opened, but she found herself reluctant to use the phrase nip joint. It sounded so horribly hillbilly, especially after the comment that Chris had made regarding his poor sister not having a clue what she was getting into. Daisy wanted him to have a good impression of her and Pittsylvania County. It was one thing to appreciate the history of the area, which he obviously did. It was quite another to be driven around the outskirts of nowhere in search of a possible shanty serving up white lightning.
“I’m all for admiring the scenery,” Chris shifted in his seat, “only…”
He had had enough of dried cornstalks. That was clear. The pleasant, intimate mood from earlier was now gone. Although they both might have been thinking about markers, Daisy was pretty confident that only hers was in relation to likker. She would have to come back some other time to continue her search. Maybe with Beulah instead.
“I’ll turn around at the next opportunity,” Daisy said.
It was difficult to use the shoulder for that purpose, because the ditch had grown steep, but she did see what appeared to be a tractor road up ahead. That would w
ork much better. Suddenly a thick cloud of dust rose before them. Daisy squinted at it. A large silver pickup emerged, driving fast. She watched it throw up stones and more dust as it tore onto the tractor road. A coincidence? It was a mighty strange coincidence then, considering that it was the first vehicle they had encountered the whole way.
She slowed down in case the truck intended on turning around too. It didn’t. It went racing along the tractor road. Daisy slowed further. The dust swirled away from the entrance of the road, and she stopped. At the far corner—on a flat-topped rock the size of a small coffee table—stood a red rooster.
The rooster was actually more green than red. It looked to be the upper portion of an old barn weathervane. Worn and battered by decades of wind and rain, the copper had developed an attractive verdigris. Daisy’s first thought was how much Aunt Emily would have liked it. She was extremely fond of folk art and spent countless hours perusing the neighborhood antique shops and estate auctions in search of it.
As she pulled onto the tractor road, Daisy debated with herself. Turn around or go straight? She was sorely tempted to choose the latter. She was, after all, already there. Her date with Chris was already washed up. And if the silver truck could be used as any sort of a guide, the nip joint was already serving its wares. She wouldn’t spend all evening there, just long enough to take a good look at the place, see for herself if the clay chip in her pocket really did equal a jelly jar of corn whiskey, and possibly nose around for some information regarding the men who had broken into the bakery.
Making up her mind to stay the course, she glanced at Chris. He was frowning but didn’t say a word. Should she explain? How much should she explain? Daisy wasn’t overly eager to tell him that her dear friend and business partner had stabbed a man to death last Saturday in Sweetie Pies’ kitchen. It sounded, well, odd. Homicide—justified as it may have been in this particular case—was certainly not the most romantic of topics, especially since Daisy still had hopes for a second date. Murder in relation to the theft of cream cheese seemed like a conversation much better left for the third or fourth date.
She trailed after the cloud of dust. The truck itself was no longer visible. It was going much too fast for her to keep up, at least from a comfort standpoint. The tractor road was even rougher than Cotton Patch Road had been, and Daisy figured that if she was going to force Chris to keep her company, then she should do it without turning his insides to apple sauce.
“You won’t be stuck out here for long,” she promised him. “I just need a few minutes.”
He started to respond, but they hit a depression that sent them flying in their seats and the car swerving. The road had changed to crumbling dirt—dirt and potholes. The dirt was comparatively smooth, but the potholes were big enough to hold bowling balls. Daisy avoided them as well as she could, anxious to keep her automobile and its axles in one piece. It was like skirting land mines.
Chris didn’t speak again. He was obviously annoyed, and Daisy couldn’t blame him. She was annoyed too—with the road, with Connor Woodley, and mostly with herself, for following the road and Connor’s directions. She was beginning to think that Connor didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. The clay chip wasn’t a marker. The initials on it didn’t stand for Tightsqueeze. It had not the slightest connection to a nip joint. And wherever Duke had made a delivery, it wasn’t on this road.
What kind of deliveries was Duke making out here anyway? Plumbing and electrical? There was no plumbing or electrical for miles, at least not that Daisy could see. Aside from the silver truck that had disappeared long ago, there was no one around—not a single sign of life or land ownership. Even the entrance to the tractor road had been empty. No gate, no chain, no PRIVATE PROPERTY or NO TRESPASSING postings. If anyone was drinking, gambling, or just plain wandering around that stretch of acreage, there wasn’t any evidence of it. Just a lot of dirt and one green-red rooster perched on a rock.
Wishing that she had never noticed Cotton Patch Road, Daisy looked for a wider, flatter spot to make a U-turn. The car dipped down between two squat hills. When it rose on the opposite side, she slammed on the brakes.
She had caught up with the silver truck. It was parked on the edge of a field next to a dozen more trucks. There were also about half a dozen cars. None of the drivers was present. But two other men were. They were standing smack in the middle of the tractor road, holding a pair of shotguns pointed straight at her.
CHAPTER
9
The men were good ol’ country boys, lanky and unshaven, with sunburned skin and tousled hair. Their uniform was standard—blue jeans, work boots, and raggedy shirts, all with an assortment of multicolored stains. Their shotguns weren’t quite as standard. They were Mossbergs. Matte black, 12-gauge, pump action, pistol grip.
Those were not hunting guns. Those were security guns. With no stock, they were short and narrow like a baseball bat, perfect for concealing under a trench coat. Except in this instance, no one was wearing a coat and the guns weren’t concealed in the slightest. They were staring Daisy right in the eye.
With her fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, she weighed her options. She couldn’t go forward. The men were completely blocking the road. Nor could she turn around. She could drive backward, but she wasn’t so sure she wanted to try that, not with the way the men were holding the guns—waist high, one hand on the grip and the other on the slide. It was a fighting stance. There was no doubt about that. Daisy also had no doubt about who would win the fight. The Mossbergs, not her.
There was a long pause, with everybody warily watching everybody else. Chris didn’t move or make a sound. Finally Daisy shifted the car into “park” and turned off the engine. It seemed to her to be the most prudent choice. It gave the impression of calm innocence. She would get out and peaceably talk to the men. She would explain the situation with a cute little story about driving around in circles, ending up utterly lost. And then—with a bit of luck—she and Chris would be allowed to go on their merry way, without any further involvement of the Mossbergs.
Slowly, Daisy opened the car door. In unison both men pulled back the slide and chambered a shell. It was a sharp, painful sound. She winced.
“Hey there.” Standing up, Daisy forced her heartiest Southern twang. “I haven’t a clue where we are or how we got here, but I’m hopin’ y’all can help. We’re tryin’ to get to the pizza parlor over in Tightsqueeze.”
She held her breath as she looked down the pair of barrels. What a lovely way to end the date—and the day.
“Sweetheart, ya ain’t nowhere near Tightsqueeze. And I reckon ya know it.”
They chuckled. Daisy tried to think of a witty response but failed. She glanced over at Chris, hoping that he might make a helpful contribution. He didn’t. He just went on sitting in the car like a mute, moldy sack of onions. She assumed that he was suffering from a certain degree of shock. This wasn’t the historical, theoretical study of firearms that he was accustomed to inside the protective walls of higher education. This was the practical, everyday use of such weapons out on the hinterlands.
The men continued chuckling. It was with such giddiness that Daisy began to wonder whether they were slightly drunk. She remembered the clay chip in her pocket and pulled it out. The men recognized it instantly.
“If ya got that, sweetheart, what in tarnation are ya waitin’ for?” one of them said. “Go ’head.” He motioned an elbow toward the line of trucks.
Daisy turned to where he was gesturing. Just beyond the trucks she could see the gray corner of a roof. It appeared to belong to a building, which she couldn’t see. Neither the roof nor the building had been visible from her car.
“But ya can’t stay parked where ya are,” the other man added. “Ya gotta get outta the road.”
Climbing back into her car just as slowly as she had climbed out, Daisy deliberated what to do next. Clearly she was in the right place. Connor Woodley did know what he was talking about after a
ll. This was where the chip had come from. So was the building with the gray roof the nip joint? She couldn’t be sure unless she went there.
Daisy restarted the engine and crawled off the road onto the grass. Should she go there? She had passed the first test—the armed guards. Her concern was whether there would be any more tests. But what other tests could there possibly be? This wasn’t a Napa Valley vineyard. Corn whiskey enthusiasts didn’t hold double-blind taste comparisons. They drank their likker. They didn’t play with it or dress it up in ribbons and bows.
There was also the issue of Chris. Daisy glanced at him again. He was gazing blankly through the windshield like a salmon lost somewhere downstream. She couldn’t even begin to guess what he was thinking. Should she encourage him to go with her, or was it better for him—and her—if he stayed behind?
“I’m going to check out a building by those trucks,” she said, letting him decide for himself. “Do you want to come along?”
“All right.”
Pulling up next to the other cars parked on the edge of the field, Daisy waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. That was it. He asked no questions, gave no argument, and offered no observations. There wasn’t even any sort of intonation behind his words. Whatever was ticking through Chris’s brain, he kept it well hidden. Or maybe he was still in shock. Pistol-grip shotguns did tend to have that effect on the uninitiated. Daisy was just glad that they were no longer pointed in their direction.
The men and their Mossbergs remained in the middle of the tractor road while she and Chris got out and headed toward the line of trucks. They walked at the same speed, neither outpacing the other. Daisy couldn’t tell if Chris was keeping up with her or if she was keeping up with him, but regardless, they did it in silence. She would have offered an apology for the unexplained and unscheduled detour, but she was too busy peering in between the trucks, trying to get a better view of what lay on the other side of the line.