The Moonshine Shack Murder Read online

  Berkley Titles by Diane Kelly

  The Moonshine Shack Murder

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Diane Kelly

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780593333235

  First Edition: July 2021

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender

  Cover illustration by Auden George

  Book design by George Towne, adapted for ebook by Cora Wigen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.7.1_c0_r0

  To Carole Helm Pickett, my moonshine drinking buddy and a lady who always shines bright. Bottoms up!

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Berkley Titles by Diane Kelly

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The machinery sloshed, whirred, jangled, and clinked as I stood in breathless anticipation at the end of the conveyer belt on the factory floor. Where is it? Come on! After another jangle and clink, the rubber safety strips that hung over the machine’s exit hatch swung outward, and there it was—the first jar of my Firefly brand moonshine, the mason jar’s aluminum lid sparkling in the light from the fixtures overhead.

  “Woo-hoo!” I threw my fists in the air and snatched the jar from the belt, planting a big kiss on the label before hugging it to my chest. Melodramatic maybe, but this jar had been years in the making. I’d invested my heart, soul, blood, sweat, and tears into my new moonshine business, not to mention every last cent I’d saved and then some. The first payment on my bank loan would be due in two short weeks. Good thing my Moonshine Shack would be ready to open for business first thing Monday morning, only three days from now.

  I slipped the inaugural jar of shine in my tote bag and readied a cardboard box. Another jar exited the hatch and began its journey down the metal rollers, shimmying like one of Beyoncé’s backup dancers. I grabbed the jar and tucked it into a corner of the box, adding eleven more as they jiggled their way toward me over the next two minutes. The ancient bottling machine wasn’t fast, but it was efficient enough for my small-batch operation, and the factory manager had charged me a fair price to use it.

  A quick zip-zip with the strapping tape dispenser and the box was sealed and ready to be loaded into my secondhand cargo van for transport to my shop. I’d had the van painted Day-Glo green and affixed magnetic signs with my Firefly moonshine logo to both sides. Might as well advertise my wares while I drive around town, right? My good friend Kiki, a freelance artist, had designed the whimsical logo for me. The graphic featured two flirty cartoon fireflies writing in fluorescent green against a midnight-blue background. The first firefly used his bright behind to spell FIREFLY. The other used her dazzling derrière to spell MOONSHINE. The image was cute and eye-catching, perfect for my products.

  The floor supervisor circled around to check on things. “Everything all right over here, Miss Hayes?”

  My dark curls bobbed as I turned to him. “Looking good!” I pointed to the carton at my feet. “My first case. Isn’t it marvelous?”

  He chuckled. “Never seen anyone get so excited about their products.”

  I shrugged. “What can I say? Moonshine’s in my blood.”

  It was true, figuratively and, sometimes, literally. Back in the days of Prohibition, my great-granddaddy was the number-one bootlegger in the region, the primary supplier of hooch all the way from his hometown of Chattanooga, Tennessee, south to the Chattahoochee River in Georgia. He’d made a small fortune before the sheriff arrested him. While my great-grandfather lost the fortune to revenuers, homestead laws allowed him to hang on to his rustic cabin in the Smoky Mountains and the rusty still hidden among the pine trees at the back of his property. He’d passed the cabin, the still, and the secrets of making shine along to my granddaddy, who’d passed them down to me when he’d moved into the Singing River Retirement Home a few years ago.

  Yep, making moonshine was a family tradition, and it was high time the Hayes family started making money at it again.

  * * *

  * * *

  With moneymaking in mind, I drove my van to the Moonshine Shack late Friday afternoon. The place was adorable, if I do say so myself. I’d hired a carpenter to create a front façade that resembled a hillbilly house. He’d fashioned an awning of spare boards that appeared haphazardly nailed together for effect but was completely up to code and had easily passed inspection. The words MOONSHINE SHACK were spelled out in neon-green glow-in-the-dark letters over the awning. I’d situated a couple of wooden rockers and a porch swing out front to entice tourists to sit a spell. Shamelessly stealing an idea from the Cracker Barrel restaurants, I’d also set out a small table and two stools so customers could challenge each other to a game of checkers, chess, or cards. I wanted the ’Shine Shack to be a comfortable, inviting place with a casual country charm. But even more, I wanted it to be a smashing success. I’d left a secure job with Chattanooga Bakery, Inc., maker of the world-famous MoonPie, and sacrificed a regular paycheck and the promise of a pension. I’d hate for it to have been for naught.

  I circled around to the alley, parked, and hopped out to unlock the back door that led to the storeroom. My gray cat, Smoky, named for the nearby mountains, lay atop the wooden desk in the corner, watching me with his firefly-green eyes as he lazily licked a paw. The cat weighed upward of sixteen pounds and, unless food was in the offing, rarely moved, more cinder block than companion. I greeted him, as always, with an affectionate scratch under the chin and a “Hey, boy. Did you miss me?” His yawn told me that my absence had not affected him in the least. Hurtful, sure, but I’d long since accepted that ours would be a one-sided relationship.

  Even with help from a dolly, moving the cases from the van to the storeroom proved to be backbreaking work. The muscles in my arms strained and shook, unused
to being punished so severely. Smoky cast me a look of disdain each time I groaned or grunted. Next batch, I’d box the moonshine in smaller cases of six jars rather than twelve.

  As I rolled the dolly outside to round up more moonshine, my ears picked up an unexpected sound. Clop-clop-clop. I turned to discover a mounted police officer riding up the alleyway on a beautiful chestnut mare. The horse’s reddish-brown coat gleamed in the sunshine as she tossed her flaxen mane. The officer wore his uniform with black riding boots, a helmet, and mirrored sunglasses. Despite being built like a sculpted boulder, he rode with a graceful athleticism, at one with his steed.

  Clop-clop. When they reached me, the officer pulled back on the reins and spoke to his horse. “Whoa, Charlotte. Let’s find out what this little filly is up to.”

  It took me a moment to realize I was the “little filly” he spoke of. Standing a mere five feet, I was undeniably small. But I made up for my stature in tenacity and sass. I looked up at the officer to see a set of broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and myself looking back, reflected in his sunglasses. I angled my head to indicate his horse. “I see you’ve got a thing for leggy blondes.”

  He sat silent and unmoving for a few beats before his lips spread in a slow smile. He ducked his chin and reached up to ease his sunglasses down, gazing at me over the rims, his amber eyes lit up like lightning bugs in amusement. His focus shifted to the logo on my van and the cartons of liquor before returning to my face. “A bootlegger, huh? I suspect you’ll cause me no end of trouble.”

  “I can’t make any promises, Officer.”

  In a swift, smooth move, he slid down from his horse to stand directly in front of me. He towered over me by a foot and then some, putting him around six feet, two inches tall and putting me on eye level with his rock-hard pecs and his name badge. M. LANDERS. Why does that name sound vaguely familiar?

  Officer Landers removed his glasses and tucked them into the collar of his uniform. “I’ll give you a hand. Charlotte needs a rest, anyway.”

  With my back and biceps screaming for mercy, I wasn’t about to turn him down. “Thanks.”

  He tied his horse’s reins to a water pipe before reaching up to remove his helmet. When he did, he released a cascade of loose, short curls the color of buckskin. He ran his hand through his hair and it settled into a contemporary pompadour, short on the sides, longer on top. He resembled a rockabilly artist, or a blond version of Elvis from his early years. I felt the heat of a blush warm my cheeks.

  He grabbed a case from the back of the van and tucked it under one arm before grabbing another. As he turned to carry them through the back door of my shop, he spotted Smoky standing sentinel in the doorway. “Is your guard cat going to attack?”

  “Smoky?” I stepped over and scooped my precious pet up in my arms. “He’s harmless.” Smoky stiff-armed me, pushing his paw against my chest, playing hard to get. Three years into our relationship and I was still trying to win the furry guy over. Maybe someday.

  The cop eyed my cat and shook his head. “That there is why I prefer horses. They show some affection now and then.”

  Smoky issued a hiss, as if he understood he’d been insulted. As if she’d understood she’d been praised, Charlotte issued a nicker.

  The officer stepped past me and my cat and into my storeroom, glancing around. “Where should I put these boxes?”

  Returning Smoky to the floor, I gestured to an empty shelf. “Right there is fine.”

  After he’d placed the cases of moonshine, the guy crouched and reached out to run a hand over Smoky’s head. “No hard feelings, buddy. I’ll forgive you that hiss.”

  Smoky responded with a guttural growl. The cop countered with a chuckle.

  With the brawny officer’s help, my van was unloaded in no time. As he set the last case in the storeroom, I fished a jar out of a box. “Here. Take some moonshine on the house.” I held the jar out to him, an expression of my gratitude.

  He raised his palms. “Can’t. If the captain catches me on duty with liquor in my saddlebags, Charlotte and I will end up on the unemployment line.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Though his reason for refusing my moonshine was valid, I couldn’t help but feel rejected.

  My feelings must have been written on my face, because he tilted his head and said, “I’ll come back to collect sometime when I’m off the clock. How’s that sound?”

  “How about Sunday evening?” I asked, hoping I didn’t appear overeager. “You free then?”

  “Sure am.”

  I set the jar of moonshine on my desk and picked up an envelope, holding it out to him. “Take this. It’s an invitation to my private grand opening celebration.”

  “A private party? Well, now. This makes me feel special.” He took the envelope, removed the invitation, and read it over before returning his gaze to my face. “Count me in.”

  “You can bring a plus-one if you’d like.” Okay, so I was fishing to find out whether this attractive officer was attached. But unless you counted movie nights on the sofa with Smoky, I hadn’t had a date in months. Could you really blame me?

  Much to my delight, he said, “It’ll just be yours truly. Charlotte’s the only girl for me.”

  Good to know.

  I followed him back into the alley, where he donned his helmet, untied his horse, and murmured sweet nothings to her, giving her a soft peck on the muzzle before remounting. He looked down at me a final time. “Be extra careful when you’re out here and keep your back door locked,” he warned. “Thieves sometimes come down these alleys looking for stuff to steal. A tiny thing like you would look like an easy target.”

  “I’m tougher than I look.” I raised two fists and shadow-boxed the air before lowering my arms to my sides.

  Judging from the quirk of his upper lip, Officer Landers was not impressed. “If anybody gives you trouble, sic Smoky on them and call 911 right away. You hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, sir.”

  With that, he tipped his helmet in goodbye, gave his horse a light squeeze with his muscular thighs, and headed off.

  As the officer and his horse clop-clop-clopped away from my shop, I issued a sigh and rolled the dolly into the corner of the storeroom, where it would be out of the way. I opened the door to Smoky’s extra-large plastic carrier and walked over to the desk to round him up. A twinge puckered the muscles across my lower back as I lifted the hefty cat. “That’s it, boy. I’m putting you on a diet.”

  I carried him out to the van and locked up my store, being extra careful and double-checking to make sure the deadbolt had hit home. Twenty minutes later, Smoky and I wound our way up the curved gravel drive that led to the two-bedroom, one-bath cabin the two of us called home. The place measured a paltry eight hundred square feet, but it had nonetheless hosted many a Hayes family holiday over the years. My mind held fond memories of summer evenings spent catching lightning bugs in mason jars with my siblings and cousins while our grandfather worked the still.

  I parked next to the cabin and slid out of the van, greeted by the slow chirp of crickets. A trio of fireflies sketched secret symbols in the evening sky as I carried Smoky up the creaky steps to the porch. It was late April, but the air remained cool at the upper altitudes once the sun went down. A little moonshine would warm me up, wouldn’t it?

  I stepped into the cabin. While the interior walls bore standard drywall with soft green paint, the exterior walls were formed from reddish Douglas fir logs, looking the same on the inside as they did on the outside, as if the house had invited nature in. Though I’d kept many of my grandparents’ furnishings—the antique trestle table, the steamer trunks, the rolltop desk—I’d replaced their early-American velveteen couch with a more stylish faux-leather sectional. I’d also added bookshelves, a flat-screen television, and a carpet-covered cat tree for Smoky. The place was a wonderful mix of old and new, of mountain traditions and modern c
omforts.

  I released Smoky, who made a beeline for his food bowl. I followed after him, pulling the jar of shine from my tote bag and placing it on the counter. While I planned to save my first jar of Firefly moonshine as a cherished memento, I had plenty of my granddaddy’s rotgut in the pantry. I grabbed a jug, splashed an ounce or two into a glass, and topped it off with lemonade. Other than condiments, a jar of pickles, and the pitcher of lemonade, my refrigerator was bare. Having devoted every spare second over the last few months to getting my business off the ground, I’d had little time to grocery shop. Luckily, I found a frozen pizza in the freezer that could serve as my supper.

  Twenty minutes later, I was stretched out on the couch with a plate of pizza on my lap and the glass of spiked lemonade in my hand. After polishing off every last morsel in his food bowl and washing his whiskers with his paw, Smoky wandered up, stopping for a moment to sharpen his claws on the braided rug. I looked down at him. “Another Friday night at home, just me and you,” I said. “I need to get a life, don’t I?”

  He hopped up onto the couch and curled up next to me, letting me know he was perfectly content with me having no life whatsoever. Selfish cat.

  * * *

  * * *

  I rose bright and early Saturday morning, groaning as I sat up in bed. Every muscle in my arms, back, and legs let me know I’d overdone it yesterday. I’d been disappointed that the local liquor stores had placed no orders for my moonshine, citing insufficient shelf space to carry a local homebrew, but maybe it was just as well. I could only imagine the agony I’d be in if I’d made deliveries to liquor stores yesterday, as well. Still, I hoped they’d eventually come around. I could reach only a limited market with my Moonshine Shack and, while I was satisfied to start small, my long-term aspirations were much bigger than a single outlet in the riverfront district.

  After feeding Smoky, I donned a pair of tennis shoes, jeans, and a T-shirt imprinted with my Firefly moonshine logo. I climbed into my van and rolled down the mountain, aiming for the Singing River Retirement Home. The place was named for its sweeping views of the picturesque Tennessee River, nicknamed the Singing River back in the day by the Yuchie tribe, who said its flowing waters sounded like a woman singing. Of course, you could hear lots of women singing up the road in Nashville, including Dolly Parton, who was born and raised not far from here.