The Moonshine Shack Murder Read online

  Granddaddy was already out front waiting for me, sitting on his metallic red scooter near the double doors of the single-story stone structure. He’d dressed in his fanciest overalls, his least-scuffed boots, and the black felt Stetson cowboy hat my granny had given him the last Christmas she’d still been with us. Hard to believe more than a decade has passed since then.

  With nothing much else to do with his time, my grandfather had appointed himself my unofficial, unpaid partner and insisted I take him with me today. It was only fair. After all, he was the one who’d taught me how to make moonshine.

  He raised a gnarled hand in greeting and beeped his horn as I approached. Beep-beep!

  I raised a hand in return and rolled to a stop at the curb in front of him. I hopped down to the pavement and circled around the van, giving him a kiss on his weathered cheek. “Good morning, Granddaddy.”

  “Good mornin’ to you, too, Hattie.”

  After opening the passenger door, I held out a hand to help steady him as he raised himself off the scooter, grabbed his cane from the front basket, and ambled to the van. Once he was seated inside, I went to the back, opened the cargo bay, and lowered the ramp. Returning to his scooter, I plopped myself down on the seat and took off at full speed, fighting the urge to shout “Vroom-vroom!” I rounded the van, motored up the ramp, and parked the scooter in the now-empty cargo bay. All set, we headed to my shop.

  After parking the van behind the Moonshine Shack, the two of us spent the day traipsing up and down Market Street, the main thoroughfare in the touristy riverfront district. I passed out invitations to my fellow business owners in the area, inviting them to the launch party the following evening. Granddaddy followed me on his scooter, his basket full of promotional T-shirts that he passed out willy-nilly to all takers. Couldn’t hurt to turn folks into walking advertisements for the Shack, and passing out freebies would build buzz and goodwill. I made a mental note to set aside an extra-large tee for Officer Landers.

  I held the door for Granddaddy as he scootered into the Smoky Mountains Smokehouse, a popular barbecue joint. We’d eaten here many times over the years. The place made a mean potato salad, and their coleslaw was the creamiest and crunchiest in town. Though the place held a liquor license, it had no bar and offered only bottled beer, no hard liquor or wine. In other words, the restaurant wouldn’t buy moonshine from me to serve to its customers. Still, that didn’t mean we couldn’t find other ways to be of benefit to each other.

  We made our way up to the counter, where a fortyish man with dark skin and a bright smile stood behind the register, wiping down the countertop with a dish towel. I recognized him from our previous visits to the restaurant. As he always seemed to be on site and directing the staff, logic said he was either the owner, the manager, or both. I inquired and learned he was part owner of the place along with his two brothers, who were silent partners.

  “Name’s Mack Clayton,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you, Mack. I’m Hattie Hayes, owner of the Moonshine Shack.” I hiked a thumb over my shoulder. “That’s my granddaddy, Ben.”

  “Moonshine Shack?” He tossed the towel into a bin behind the counter and took the hand I’d offered him. “The new place down the block?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Our introductions and handshakes complete, I got down to business. “Your customer base and mine will likely have some overlap. We might could help each other out, send customers each other’s way. Maybe offer a reciprocal discount?”

  “Not a bad idea.” His head bobbed as he seemed to mull over the prospect. “Let’s touch base next week, work out the particulars.”

  “Great! Got a business card so I can get in touch with you?”

  He punched a button on the cash register and the drawer opened with a ding! He fished a business card out of the till and held it out to me.

  I took his card and, in return, handed him both my business card and an invitation. “If you come to the pre-opening party tomorrow evening, you’ll go home with a free jar or jug of shine, your choice of flavor.” While my Firefly brand featured fruity flavors such as wild blackberry, apple pie, and Georgia peach, the Shack would also sell earthenware jugs of Granddaddy’s Ole-Timey Corn Liquor, the pure, high-proof stuff that a man could use to forget his troubles or clean his carburetor.

  “Get a jug of my ole-timey moonshine,” Granddaddy suggested. “If you add a dash to your barbecue sauce, it’ll give it a nice kick.”

  Mack arched a brow. “Shine sauce. I like the sound of that.”

  “You’ll like the taste of it, too,” Granddaddy said. Of course, my grandfather thought everything tasted better with a dash of moonshine. He’d pour shine over his morning oatmeal if the staff at the retirement home would let him.

  We continued down the block before circling back to hit the smaller establishments on the side streets. While most of the spaces were filled with restaurants or retail stores, a small accounting firm and a law office were tucked in among the businesses, occupying the second-floor space over a souvenir shop. With it being Saturday, neither office was open to the public, but I could see people working overtime inside. I slipped invitations under their doors.

  The immediate area covered, we swung farther out, hitting the hotels along Chestnut Street. By the end of the afternoon, I’d passed out nearly a hundred invitations and logged over seventeen thousand steps according to my fitness tracker. No wonder my feet are throbbing.

  “You’re plumb tuckered out.” My grandfather angled his head to indicate the seat behind him. “Climb on, Hattie.”

  He didn’t have to ask me twice. I squeezed in behind him and we motored our way down Market Street, garnering several grins and a chuckle or two before we reached the Moonshine Shack. A glance to my right told me that Limericks, the Irish pub that sat directly across the street, had opened for its daily business.

  “Wait here,” I told Granddaddy as I climbed off the scooter. “I’ll be right back.”

  My last invitation in hand, I scurried across the street. A three-foot-tall statue of a leprechaun greeted me outside the door. With his top hat, knee pants, and buckled shoes, the little man shared the fashion sense of the Pilgrims, though he’d gone his own way with the green fabric. Unlike the stoic and pious Pilgrims, the fun-loving fairy bore a broad, mischievous smile and held up a gold coin, presumably taken from a pot he’d found at the end of a rainbow.

  I stepped past the little leprechaun to open the door and go inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior, but when they did I saw a barely legal young woman with honey-blond hair, skintight jeans, and a low-cut top circling the floor, pulling chairs down from atop the round tables where they’d been placed, probably by the cleaning crew after the bar closed the night before. A pool table sat in a space to the side, separated from the rest of the bar by a half wall. A dartboard hung on a wall in the gaming area, the colorful darts standing in a rack beside it. Two male customers sat side by side at the bar with glass mugs of dark ale in front of them. A ginger-haired bartender stood behind the bar, using a remote control to change channels on the TV mounted in the corner. A green bar towel was draped over his shoulder.

  I bellied up to the bar and gave the bartender my best smile. After all, if I made a good impression, maybe the bar would add my moonshine to their offerings. “Hi there. May I speak to the owner or manager?”

  “You got ’em both in front of you.”

  I stuck out my hand. “I’m Hattie. I own the Moonshine Shack across the street.”

  “Oh, yeah?” The guy scowled and refused my hand, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just what I need. Another bar stealing my customers.”

  I retracted my hand. “We won’t be competitors,” I pointed out, trying to smooth things over with the grouchy barkeep. “I’m only permitted to offer samples. Patrons won’t be drinking on the premises. They’ll b
e taking the moonshine home.”

  “If they’re drinking at home,” he countered, “they won’t be drinking here.” He jabbed an index finger on the bar for emphasis.

  Cheese and grits. This guy really needed to lighten up. “My location could be good for both of us. It’s an opportunity to create synergy.”

  “Synergy?” He snorted. “Where’d you learn that term? Business school?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. That’s exactly where I learned it.” The University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, to be exact. I’d spent four years cheering on our sports teams at the behest of Scrappy, the mockingbird mascot, while earning a degree in business management, with honors, no less. Go Mocs! This guy, on the other hand, seemed to have scraped his business skills off the bottom of his shoe. His interpersonal communications sure could use an overhaul, too. “Given that I’m right across the street and can’t serve liquor, I could send lots of thirsty customers your way.” Or not. I could just as easily send them down the street to one bar and grill or another. “Of course, I’d be more inclined to send them your way if you offer my moonshine here.” Hey, if he could play hardball, so could I.

  He stood straighter and lowered his arms from his chest. Finally, we’re communicating. All I’d had to do was stoop to his level.

  “Yeah, I could maybe see that,” he acquiesced. “I’d need to try your shine for myself first, see if my customers are even interested in the stuff.”

  “It’s pretty clear your patrons like moonshine.” I pointed to a nearly empty bottle on a shelf behind the bar, an unflavored variety manufactured by Backwoods Bootleggers, one of the big brands. But the fact that Limericks stocked another company’s moonshine didn’t mean he couldn’t buy some from me, too. After all, bars normally carried several brands of any type of liquor. Each customer had his or her own taste. For instance, when it came to Tennessee whiskey, many people preferred Jack Daniel’s. Others were fans of George Dickel. Some people even thought Irish whiskey was superior to that produced in my home state. It goes without saying that those folks were downright crazy.

  He shrugged. “Bikers and college boys like the stuff. It’s cheap and high proof. That’s what appeals to them.”

  “You know what else appeals to men and college boys?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “The ladies. You carry my fruit-flavored shine and you’ll draw a larger female clientele. The more ladies you get in here, the more men will follow them. It’s the reason bars hold ladies’ nights. You could do it, too. Maybe call it ‘lasses’ night’ since Limericks is an Irish pub.”

  My crafty persuasion seemed to be wearing him down. The guy glanced back at the bottle of Backwoods Bootleggers before turning an intent stare on me. “Some free product might convince me to stock your moonshine.”

  I’m two steps ahead of you, buddy. “Come to my party tomorrow night and you’ll leave with a free jar.” I laid the invitation on the bar and pushed it toward him.

  He picked the card up and quickly perused it, issuing a grunt. “I might swing by.”

  “Then I might see you there.” Raising a hand in goodbye, I backed away from the bar. “Take care now.”

  Chapter Two

  Sunday afternoon, Smoky lay in the front window of my shop, lazily lounging while I rushed about like a woman on fire, unpacking the cases and stocking the store displays with mason jars of fruity Firefly moonshine and jugs of Granddaddy’s Ole-Timey Corn Liquor. I positioned small replicas of early automobiles on the shelves and checkout counter, too, a nod to NASCAR’s origins in the illegal moonshine trade. During Prohibition, booze “runners” would modify otherwise ordinary-looking cars by removing the back and passenger seats to provide more cargo space, installing extra suspension springs to handle the weight of the liquor, and adding protective plates to keep dirt out of the radiators. These expert drivers could maneuver at top speed along curvy single-lane dirt and gravel roads in the mountains and in the dark, their headlights off to evade law enforcement. Racing the souped-up cars became a popular pastime even before the end of Prohibition. In fact, NASCAR Hall of Famer Junior Johnson learned to drive running corn mash hooch. My great-granddaddy had himself bought one of Ford’s first flathead V8s for use in his bootlegging business. The car sat in a shed behind my cabin. Maybe one of these days I’d look into having it restored.

  Hanging over the shelves of shine was a gallery of framed family photographs. There was a photo of me at eight years old, mason jar in hand as I ran after a firefly in the woods. A photo of Granddaddy filling a jug at his still. My great-grandfather’s mug shot after he was arrested for bootlegging. I’d also framed the newspaper clipping announcing his arrest. BIG WIN FOR PROHIBITION! CHATTANOOGA’S NOTORIOUS BOOTLEGGER NABBED BY SHERIFF. The article included a grainy photo of my great-grandfather in handcuffs, scowling as he stood beside the smug sheriff.

  In addition to the family photos, I’d decorated the walls with spare boards on which I’d stenciled other names for moonshine. There seemed to be no end of synonyms. Bootleg. Rotgut. Homebrew. Radiator whiskey. White whiskey. White lightning. Firewater. Corn liquor. Corn squeezin’. Hooch. Hillbilly pop. Red eye. Even mountain dew, though that term had long since been appropriated for the trademarked soft drink.

  Once I’d filled the display shelves, I built a pyramid of jars in the front window, hoping Smoky wouldn’t knock them over. I set out two tables, covered them with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, and lined up shot glasses for the samples to be poured later.

  Rap-rap-rap! The sound of someone knocking at the back door grabbed my attention. I scurried into the stockroom and peered out the peephole. Kiki and Kate. Right on time.

  I opened the door to let my best friends inside. “Hey, you two!”

  I went for Kate first, hugging her as best I could taking into account that she carried a platter of finger sandwiches and was thirteen months pregnant. Okay, so maybe the latter was an exaggeration. But it felt like she’d been pregnant forever. She’d had a difficult time and had been too sick or tired to spend much time with me over the past few months. Kate Pardue was the yin to my yang, with rail-straight blond hair rather than dark curls like me, blue eyes to my brown, and tall and voluptuous to my short and scrawny. Where I was unfailingly feisty, she was unswervingly sweet. We’d met back in high school, bonding over the shared trauma of a fire we’d accidentally set as lab partners in chemistry class. Thank goodness the sprinkler system had kicked on. Getting everyone out of class for an hour had resulted in a major, if short-lived, boost in our popularity.

  Kiki Nakamura and I went even further back, all the way to second grade. We’d met while waiting in line for a turn on the monkey bars at recess. Her family had just moved to Chattanooga from Tokyo. Talk about a culture clash. I’d taught her the hand motions and words to “Miss Mary Had a Steamboat,” which she’d mastered remarkably well considering she was just learning English at the time. In return, she’d shared her Hello Kitty stickers with me. We’d remained close friends ever since. During college, Kiki had spent a semester in London in a study-abroad program. She’d left for England dressing much like the rest of us, in jeans, sneakers, and casual tops, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She returned in clunky black boots, ripped jeans and shirts, and a studded leather dog collar, having fully embraced London’s punk culture. She’d pierced each ear seven times and even shaved one side of her head, leaving her silky black hair long on the other. But while her look was frightening, she was still the same fun-loving, carefree Kiki we’d always known.

  I took the platter of sandwiches from Kate and carried it to one of the tables. Kiki followed along with a tray of artistically arranged sushi. Once she’d set it down, I gave her a hug, too, and thanked them both for bringing the food. “What would I do without you two?”

  “Happy to help,” Kiki said.

  “Me, too.” Kate glanced around the shop. “This place is downright darling!”

 
“It is, isn’t it? Of course, I couldn’t have done it without Kiki’s input on the design and décor.”

  Kiki performed a gracious curtsy. “So glad milady is pleased.”

  I took a place beside Kate as she looked over the photo gallery. “Stinks that you can’t try my moonshine tonight.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Your moonshine is exactly why I’m in this predicament.”

  Some predicament. Kate and her husband, Parker, had been thrilled to learn they’d have a child. But I’d play along.

  “That was homemade hooch.” I held up a jar of my Firefly apple pie moonshine. “This stuff is the real deal. See? It’s even got a bar code on the label. That makes it official.”

  “La-di-da.” She took the jar from me. “I’ll save this for after the baby comes.” She slid it into the purse hanging from her arm and glanced around again. “What else can we help with?”

  I checked my to-do list and raised a finger. “The porch decorations, food table, and music.”

  After locking their purses in the desk drawer, Kiki held the small stepladder while I strung green Christmas lights along the awning out front. The flashing LED lights were the closest thing to actual fireflies I could come up with. Kiki and I wound more strands around the support posts. Meanwhile, Kate set out the chess set in case anyone might want to play, arranged the rest of the food I’d picked up earlier, and got the music going. To cut corners, I’d forgone having speakers installed in the store. Instead, I’d bought a cheap speaker system for my phone and downloaded a playlist of songs that would mesh with the moonshine theme. Jug band music from the 1920s and ’30s. Bluegrass classics. I’d even included “The Ballad of Jed Clampett,” by Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs. After all, who didn’t love the theme song from The Beverly Hillbillies?