The name didn’t matter. You could call it moonshine, white lightning, mountain dew, red eye, or a hundred different colloquial circumlocutions. The end product was always the same—illegally distilled liquor. That meant unregistered, untaxed whiskey made from corn. Other grains were possible of course, but in Appalachia corn was the unrivalled king. So if Fred Dickerson had indeed been quietly cooking up something at Fox Hollow, it was in all probability corn whiskey.
There were two reasons for distilling your own liquor—home consumption and sale. Sale seemed unlikely with Fred, considering that he had been a recluse for close to a decade before his death. If no one ever saw him, then there wasn’t much chance of them buying his hooch. That left home consumption, which was what puzzled Daisy. If old man Dickerson used to sit alone in his kitchen peacefully minding his own business with an occasional shot of joy juice passing over his lips and between his gums, how had Rick Balsam managed to learn of it, and also that there was somehow a bad batch?
She didn’t know anyone who had ever died from moonshine. Sure in theory there was always the possibility of eventual lead poisoning from the solder in an aged still. And there were plenty of stories about crazy toxic additives being thrown in by disreputable distillers, like a splash of lye or chlorine bleach to give their whiskey an extra kick. There were even tales of the occasional pig or possum carcass ending up in the mash, along with buckets of bird droppings and various insects. But that was silliness—or mostly silliness—in modern times with a basic, relatively enlightened understanding of good hygiene and health consequences.
If anything really made moonshine dangerous, it was its potent alcohol content, which more often than not was nearly twice as high as regulated commercial products obtainable from a licensed liquor store. Judicious moderation was the key to proper enjoyment. A sip instead of a swig. A taste rather than a gulp. A tumbler instead of a bottle—or heaven forbid, an entire jug. It was called dynamite and firewater for a reason. Just a drop too much could crack your skull and mule-kick your insides. Daisy had more than one friend who’d spent an aching, nauseated day recovering from an overconsumption of local likker the night before, but none of them had ever stumbled into H & P’s with yellow-tinted tears streaming from their eyes or foam oozing out of their mouth.
There was nothing about Fred Dickerson’s collapse on the diner floor that made Daisy think of moonshine. Could Rick have noticed something that she didn’t? She remembered how he had stared at Fred’s body for a long moment right after Sheriff Lowell arrived on the scene. It hadn’t been a vague, absent sort of stare where his mind was clearly elsewhere, and it hadn’t been a disgusted, shaken sort of stare over the horror of a corpse lying in front of his feet either. It had been a focused, gravely intent stare. The kind that gave Daisy the distinct impression that Rick must have spotted something. Something important. But what? And what connection did it have to the old man’s home brew? It had to have been something small and subtle, because none of the rest of the group noticed anything. Fred obviously hadn’t been clutching a jar with a skull and crossbones scored into it when he staggered through the door.
Then again, maybe she was wrong. Maybe whatever Rick saw that day didn’t have any relation to Fred’s ’shine at all. Daisy was pretty sure that Rick’s contact with Fred Dickerson had been greater than he let on. She knew that he had lied to Sheriff Lowell when he told him that he hadn’t seen the old man before he died. It was from the way Rick had cocked his head as he said it. But she didn’t think that he had lied when he told the sheriff that he hadn’t talked to the old man in ten years. So Rick had seen Fred, but Rick hadn’t talked to Fred?
Daisy was left with a lot of questions. Unfortunately Rick was the only one who appeared to have any answers, and she had absolutely no intention of running after him to get them. Contact with Rick always equaled trouble for her, as proven once again by the fact that two little sentences from his serpentine mouth had caused her to spend the entire last week worrying about George Lowell going to Fox Hollow and accidentally poisoning himself. At least there was no sign that the sheriff would drive out in the near future. He disliked having contact with Rick even more than she did. So unless the folks in Danville forced him to do it, he’d never voluntarily visit any property owned by a Balsam brother.
She was so busy pondering the possible links between Rick, old man Dickerson, and old man Dickerson’s likker that Daisy didn’t hear the rusty bell clang as the front door of the diner opened. But a few moments later when she glanced up from the yellow mustard bottles that she was in the process of refilling, she found a man standing just inside the entryway, an enormous foldout map blocking everything between his knees and the wavy tips of his light brown hair.
“Howdy, stranger,” Daisy drawled. “Are you lookin’ for some place in particular, or are you just lookin’?”
The map lowered, and a face emerged. It was a pleasant face. Clean-shaven, early to midthirties, with a small scar on the left cheek that had the appearance of being a fond memory left over from childhood.
The man smiled. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. It was the map that gave me away?”
“Actually,” she answered, “it was your shoes.”
“My shoes?” He glanced down at his feet in surprise.
“Don’t get me wrong. They’re very nice shoes. Probably quite expensive too, if I were to hazard a wager. But they’re loafers. Spotless—without a single scuff on them—suede loafers. Not at all useful for herding, digging, sowing, reaping, or constructing anything whatsoever in the rural hinterlands. So there you have it. It was your purdy shoes that told me you’re not from around here.”
His smile widened. “I had no idea shoes could be so chatty.”
Daisy smiled back. “You can find out an awful lot about a man from his shoes.”
“Does that hold true for a woman too?” He looked at her little white cotton sneakers.
She nodded. “Of course.”
“And what should I learn from yours?”
“That I spend my days helping handsome strangers in fancy suede loafers get to where they’re going.”
He raised an entertained eyebrow. “Is that so?”
Daisy blushed as it suddenly occurred to her that she was flirting with a man she didn’t even know. She never flirted with men she didn’t know. Truth be told, she almost never flirted at all anymore. After Matt, there didn’t really seem to be much of a point.
“I’m Ethan.” The man crumpled his map together haphazardly and tucked it under one arm. Then he put out his hand. “Ethan Kinney.”
“Daisy.” She shook the proffered hand and was surprised by its strength. Ethan Kinney’s shoes may have been big-city flimsy, but his grip was definitely country-tough.
“Daisy? I like that. What’s it short for? Dorothea? Danielle?”
“No. It’s not short for anything. My given name is Daisy. Daisy Luck Hale.”
“Well, Daisy Hale, I’m sure glad to have met you, because I could use some luck tonight.”
There was a sufficient hint of reciprocal flirtation in his tone so she figured she had better set the record straight.
“It’s Daisy McGovern now.”
Ethan blinked, but just slightly. “Either way, I’m still hoping you’ve got some luck to share.”
“I don’t know about that.” Daisy sighed wistfully. “But I do have a new pot of coffee if you’re interested.”
“Sounds like a good way to start.” He glanced around the diner. “Where should I sit?”
“Wherever you like. But”—she gestured toward Hank and Carlton Waters—aka the wet poodle—who were engaged in a lively discussion regarding the resale value of used cooking equipment between the grill and the counter—“it’d probably be a lot quieter in a booth than on a stool.”
Ethan nodded. “I can see that. And hear it too.”
“Pick a table then, and I’ll get the coffee. You want a piece of pie to go with it? We have apple-blackberry and ch
ocolate-pecan. They’re both fresh.”
“Seriously?” This time he blinked twice. “You’ve got fresh pie? Fresh as in homemade?”
“Technically this place isn’t my home, but yes, I did make them.”
“Wow.” Ethan grinned. “Has an awesome accent and makes pies. Your husband must guard you with his life.”
The wistful sigh repeated itself as Daisy turned toward the counter. She poured a large cup of coffee, cut a slice of each pie, and topped them off with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream. Ethan Kinney may have been no more than a stranger passing through on the road to somewhere else, but he had complimented both her name and her accent. That didn’t happen to her very often these days, so it deserved two types of pie, with a little something extra on the side.
When she carried her loaded tray to the green vinyl booth that Ethan had selected, Daisy found him leaning studiously over his map. Spread out, it took up nearly the entire table. In his hand was a portable GPS device. Her lips curled in amusement when she saw it.
“I hope you’re not looking for anything around here with that,” Daisy said, motioning toward the glowing screen with its flashing coordinates and arrows, “because you won’t find it.”
Ethan looked up at her questioningly.
“It might be wonderful for getting you to the perfect sushi bar in Manhattan, but in this part of the world, it’ll just keep taking you in circles. After four hours of driving, you’ll finally realize you’ve passed the exact same haystack, sitting in the exact same field, next to the exact same church eleven times.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly. And I’ll give you an honest example. If you type in Tosh, it will come up with a city in southwestern Virginia named Tosh. The only problem is that after you follow the meticulous directions to get there, you’ll discover the electronic cartographer’s version of Tosh is a collapsed barn across from a bleached-out STOP sign without an intersection to actually stop at.”
“Huh.” Ethan frowned. “Well, that would explain the trouble I’ve been having all afternoon.”
“And I would guess,” Daisy commiserated, setting down the steaming cup of coffee, “you spent about half the time cursing and pulling over to the side of the road because you kept losing the satellite signal in between the mountains?”
He nodded and moaned.
“Don’t feel bad. Even the professional delivery guys in this area get confused sometimes. We always have people coming in to ask for directions.”
“I can see why,” Ethan replied appreciatively as she placed the plates of pie and ice cream before him. “With service like this, I’d bet a lot of guys get lost around here on purpose.”
Ordinarily Daisy would have gone back to refilling the mustard bottles, but curiosity kept her at the booth while Ethan sampled her creations. He took a bite of the apple-blackberry first.
“Daisy Luck Hale McGovern,” he purred, barely swallowing before digging into the chocolate-pecan, “has anyone ever told you that you make a damn fine pie?”
He was answered with a smile.
“Won’t you take a seat?” he asked. “Just for a minute?”
She hesitated. Daisy rarely sat down while she worked, even when she chatted with one of her close friends. But it was quiet that evening. She looked once around. Brenda was engrossed in the previous day’s receipts. Hank and Carlton were still engaged in their used cooking equipment discussion. There were no other customers.
“So you never told me,” she said, sliding into the seat across from Ethan.
“Told you what?”
“Are you looking for some place in particular, or are you just looking?”
It was Ethan’s turn to smile. “Definitely some place in particular. And I’m hoping you can help me find it.”
Daisy raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“I’m looking for Chalk Level.”
CHAPTER
9
The hush fell like an anvil. Up until that point neither Brenda nor Hank had paid any attention to the arrival of Ethan Kinney, but that changed the instant the words Chalk Level rolled off his tongue. Even though he said it in a normal tone, the name carried such power that a whisper would have had the same effect as a shout. They turned toward the stranger with stunned fascination. Hank’s gaze was steely and suspicious. Brenda’s mouth hung open like a confused eel. No one uttered a syllable. The only sound in the diner came from Carlton as he chomped on his supper.
“Why?” Daisy asked after a long minute.
Ethan’s brow furrowed. “Why what?”
“Why are you looking for Chalk Level?”
His quizzical eyes moved from her to Brenda and then to Hank. The furrows deepened. “I get the feeling I’m missing something here.”
Daisy repeated her question with a tinge of sharpness. “Why are you looking for Chalk Level?”
“I assume that means you know the place?”
She didn’t answer. She wasn’t about to give any further information until she got some further information. Another long minute passed as the tension in the room grew thick like smoke. Ethan set his fork down quietly on one of the plates and leaned back against the green vinyl of the booth.
“So what happens now?” he said, his gaze changing from quizzical to shrewd.
Daisy sucked on her teeth in annoyance. It was mostly annoyance with herself. She had been friendly to him, talked about his shoes and the neighborhood. She had even flirted with him a bit. But then—after two slices of pie with ice cream—the truth finally came out. Ethan Kinney was no mere stranger passing through on the road to somewhere else. He was looking for Chalk Level. And from the marked change in his demeanor, it was clear that he knew there was something special about Chalk Level.
“I’ll tell you what happens now.” Hank’s grim face disappeared from the opening above the grill. It reappeared a moment later as he strode out of the kitchen with quick, purposeful steps. He pulled off his grease-smeared apron and flung it next to the mustard bottles.
“Hank—” Brenda began anxiously.
Daisy understood her concern. Hank rarely removed his apron while at the diner, and when he did, it always meant serious business.
He cut her off with a stern glance as he proceeded to the far end of the counter, where Carlton was sitting. “I’m sorry,” he said to him, “but we’re going to have to finish our conversation some other time.”
Carlton raised his head from his plate of chicken livers and onions. “Huh?”
“We’re shutting down early tonight,” Hank informed him.
“I’m still eating.”
“I’m sorry,” Hank said again, “but we’re closing. Now.”
With the expression of a slightly daft sheep, Carlton scratched his silver shock of hair. “Now? It’s not even dark out yet.”
“Now.” As he repeated it, Hank’s tone grew hard.
Shrugging, Carlton rose from his stool and reached for his wallet.
“It’s on the house today.” Hank gestured toward the door.
“Really? Okay. Thanks, Hank.” Digging into his pocket, Carlton pulled out two quarters and set them on the counter. “For Daisy.”
She gave him an acknowledging nod as he walked past her booth, although she couldn’t help thinking to herself that the wet poodle’s tips were quickly slipping from mediocre to lousy. Evidently auctioneering hadn’t been so lucrative of late.
Hank followed Carlton to the door and clicked the lock behind him. He flipped the red diner sign from open to closed.
“All right,” he growled, spinning around. “Now we can talk.”
Daisy glanced at Ethan. He didn’t say a word during Carlton’s departure. He barely moved. He was sitting casually on his side of the booth, with slack shoulders and his hands resting loosely on top of his thighs. Even his jaw looked relaxed. Hank’s gristly behavior would have made many men nervous, but if Ethan Kinney was sweating beneath his starched dress shirt, he didn’t show it.
“Ducky,” Brenda whispered, crooking a finger toward Daisy as a signal for her to come over by the cash register.
“Ducky?” Ethan echoed. His mouth twitched with a hint of a smile. “Where does Ducky come from?”
“It’s none of your goddam business where it comes from,” Hank spat. “It’s none of your business what any of us do—or say—or are called.”
The hint of a smile switched swiftly to a frown. “I don’t think—” he began.
“I don’t care one lick what you think.” Hank marched to the counter, stopping directly across from Ethan and Daisy’s booth.
“I don’t think you—” Ethan began again.
“And you sure as hell better not assume what I think!” Hank folded his tattooed biceps over his chest in a formidable manner.
“Ducky,” Brenda whispered once more, this time waving her whole hand in an effort to get Daisy away from the booth.
Ethan chuckled. “Apparently I’m of the dangerous variety, Daisy, and you shouldn’t be sitting by me.”
“Are you of the dangerous variety?” she drawled. “Should I be sitting by you?”
She didn’t say it to flirt or to be flip. Daisy was trying to get him to talk. She wanted information from Ethan Kinney, and although she knew that Hank did too, he was going about it all wrong. She could see that as clearly as a black fly floating in a pitcher of lemonade. Hank was trying to bully Ethan, but it wasn’t working. From what Daisy could discern, it was never going to work. Ethan’s behavior was far too controlled and confident. Even with Hank flexing his muscles and thundering like an angry bear in front of him, he was still lounging calmly in his seat with not the slightest hint of apprehension.
Murder and Moonshine: A Mystery Page 8