Murder and Moonshine: A Mystery (12 page)

Daisy pursed her lips. She doubted him. She doubted every syllable that slithered out of his deceitful special agent mouth.

“This is just another job for me,” Ethan went on. “That’s all. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here.”

Her icy expression didn’t soften, but she didn’t spit at him either. He seemed to take that as a positive sign.

“I’m not trying to cause problems,” he said. “My assignment is as simple and straightforward as they come.”

“What exactly is your assignment?” Daisy asked.

“Apparently you had a man die in here a couple of weeks ago?”

She gave a little grunt of acknowledgment.

“And you know there was some question about the cause of death?”

The grunt repeated itself.

“Well, your Virginia boys sent us a copy of the autopsy report, and I’m here to follow up on it.”

Every limb in Daisy’s body stiffened. So the investigation into Fred Dickerson’s death hadn’t actually turned still and silent. It had moved up the food chain instead. From state to federal. From the folks in Danville to the ATF.

“All I need to do is check out this place”—Ethan waved his hand once around—“talk to the people who were present when he died”—he nodded toward her—“and take a look at where he lived.”

Daisy heard his words, but her mind was focused elsewhere. ATF. Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. That’s what they handled. Not strokes. Not seizures. Not the ordinary collapse of an aged recluse in Pittsylvania County on the floor of the local diner. So if the bureau was interested in old man Dickerson’s death, they had to believe that it had some connection to alcohol, tobacco, firearms, or explosives. Only one of those could reasonably apply to Fred. Alcohol. Or more accurately in his case—moonshine. Fred’s ’shine. The same ’shine that Rick Balsam had told her was potentially lethal.

“Which is why I was driving around in circles trying to find Chalk Level,” Ethan explained. “And it’s also why I needed to find H & P’s Diner.”

“You found it,” Daisy muttered absently.

“I was lucky to stumble in here. There’s no doubt about that. I checked one place off my list,
and
I got to meet you.”

She didn’t respond. She was too busy thinking about Rick. If only she knew everything that he apparently knew. Then she would have had a much better idea of how to handle Ethan Kinney and his assignment.

“I swear to you,” Ethan said. “That’s it. The diner, the diner’s employees, and the deceased’s home. My office has no other intention or goal. No hidden agenda. No secret mission.”

He sounded honest. He even looked honest. But Daisy wasn’t as gullible as she had been five years ago. She didn’t trust any agent from the ATF one lick. Except she was gradually beginning to realize that it wasn’t really a matter of trust. It was much more a matter of practicality.

“Now that I’ve answered your question,” he prodded her gently, “I hope you’ll answer mine?”

Daisy hesitated. Part of her still wanted to hurl a coffeepot at his head, but that was the opposite of practical. She would be acting on pure emotion, and this time she was determined to put emotion on the backseat. She wouldn’t let them bamboozle her. This wasn’t going to be another opportunity for them to prey on her while she was grieving and in shock. They wouldn’t take one more damn thing from her or her family. Bad luck and poor timing may have forced her to be a witness to old man Dickerson’s death, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have some control over the consequences.

“I can give you directions to Chalk Level.”

Although it took her some effort, Daisy spoke calmly, almost casually. Ethan cocked his head at her curiously.

“You can?”

She wasn’t sure whether he was surprised by her willingness to assist him or her ability to assist him. It didn’t matter to her either way. Ethan Kinney had come, and he obviously wasn’t leaving until he got what he needed. The faster she gave it to him, the sooner he would go away and hopefully never return.

“I can show you on your map if you’d like.”

“I know it’s on here.” Ethan sat back down at his booth and smoothed out the crumpled paper. “I saw it before.”

“It doesn’t appear very often. Not unless it’s a Virginia map that’s really detailed or really old.”

“I dug this one out of the archives at work.”

Daisy swallowed hard. She wondered if he’d looked at any of the files that presumably had been sitting right next to the map. He must not have—or at least not very closely—because otherwise he would have recognized her name when she first introduced herself.

“But the problem,” Ethan complained, “is that there’s no dot.”

“That’s always the problem,” Daisy told him, as she went over to his table. “They plop the names down in the correct general vicinity, but if there’s no dot at an actual intersection or some sort of locatable landmark, the general vicinity in this part of the state equals fifty square miles of winding, unmarked roads that keep crisscrossing without any apparent rhyme, reason, or a useful signpost.”

“I learned that the hard way this afternoon.”

She leaned over the map and orientated herself. “Okay. This is us.”

“Where?”

“Here. This is H & P’s.”

As Daisy put her finger down to show the location of the diner, Ethan shifted closer to her for a better look. His shoulder brushed her arm, and she felt a strong desire to pick up a fork and jam it into one of his rotten ATF eyeballs. But she restrained herself.

“Now over here is Highway 40,” she said. “If you—”

“Have you lost your mind!” Hank bellowed.

Daisy didn’t immediately turn around. Hank was obviously livid, and she understood why. He had come back from the kitchen and seen what she was doing. Instead of continuing to ignore their enemy, she now appeared to be cheerfully fraternizing with him.

“Have you forgotten what they did?” Hank snapped his teeth like a frenzied piranha. “What they took?”

Ethan gazed at her inquisitively.

“Of course I haven’t forgotten.” She spoke in a low tone, trying to find words that would appease Hank while at the same time dampen Ethan’s visibly growing curiosity. “I could never forget. I’ve said that many times before. But this has nothing to do with the past. It’s about laying poor Fred Dickerson to rest.”

Hank’s thick jaw sagged. “Fred?”

“Yes, Fred.” Daisy nodded. “That’s why Ethan is here. They sent him a copy of the autopsy report, and he’s following up on it.”

“But George told us there wasn’t a report from the autopsy.”

She could merely shrug. “You said it yourself, Hank. Sheriff Lowell’s only local. The ATF’s federal.”

“Why would the ATF be interested in … in…”

He stopped midsentence with a stammer. It startled Daisy. Hank never stammered.

“It’s standard procedure.” Ethan responded with a shrug of his own.

She didn’t believe that for a second. There was nothing standard about sending a special agent to the farthest depths of southwestern Virginia just because there was a question or two about an old man’s death.

“As I told Daisy,” Ethan went on, “I’ve got to take a look around here, talk to witnesses like yourself, and see where the deceased lived.”

The color drained from Hank’s face.

“That’s what Daisy was doing when you came in,” Ethan said. “She was giving me directions to Chalk Level.”

He turned to her for confirmation, but she didn’t give it. Daisy was too focused on Hank and his ashen complexion. Hank was always red. It may have been varying shades of crimson or burgundy depending on how hard he scrubbed the grill or how annoyed he got with Brenda, but it was still decidedly red and not white. There was only one time when Daisy could remember him being pale, and that was at her daddy’s funeral.

Hank blinked at her for a moment, then with a drawn mouth and pasty cheeks he reached for a newspaper. Instead of asking Ethan any questions or making a single remark about Chalk Level, he leaned against the counter and leisurely perused the Monday edition of the
Danville Register & Bee,
even though the counter lights had already been shut off. It was the strangest behavior Daisy had ever seen from him, until it occurred to her that she had in fact seen it before. The day Fred Dickerson had collapsed, Hank had done the exact same thing. While everybody else had been stunned and horrified, he had merrily flipped through the newspaper and snacked on peach cobbler.

It reminded Daisy of something else strange. Hank had been the first to positively identify Fred, and she had later wondered whether that meant Hank had seen the old man before he died. She had wondered the very same thing about Rick Balsam. And now she suddenly found herself wondering whether Hank—just like Rick—knew a lot more about all of this than he was letting on.

Ethan nudged her with his elbow. “You were showing me Highway 40?”

Daisy looked down at the map, but her mind pictured Aunt Emily instead. She saw her shrewd blue eyes and the unconcealed excitement as she had talked about Hank poisoning Fred. Daisy hadn’t believed a word of it then, and she still didn’t believe it. But the whole thing was undeniably fishy. Hank’s strange behavior. Aunt Emily claiming that old man Dickerson was responsible for the death of her daddy. Rick warning her about bad moonshine. It seemed as though it all had to add up in some peculiar way, except she didn’t know how, and she had the distinct feeling that it wasn’t good.

Staring at the blurry roads and towns, Daisy came to a decision. If she was going to have any control over the consequences of Fred Dickerson’s death, she couldn’t toss Ethan out into the night with a set of directions and simply forget it. Not if Hank was somehow involved. And certainly not if Rick was right about Fred’s ’shine. If old man Dickerson’s home brew really was bad and somehow lethal, and Ethan tasted it, then got sick and possibly even died, not only would it be on her conscience for the rest of her life, but it would surely bring a storm of trouble down on her and everyone she cared for.

She had to be careful. That she understood. She couldn’t let the pain of the past cloud her judgment now. Nothing would mend the old injuries. No amount of yelling, or stomping her feet, or even a hefty dose of lovely retribution. Daisy couldn’t undo what had happened, and she realized that neither could Ethan. But if she played her cards right and helped him, she might at least be able to obtain a better grasp on the future, if only by finding out what Rick and Hank already seemed to know.

“So are you going to tell me where Chalk Level is or not?” Ethan asked impatiently.

Daisy raised her eyes to him and smiled. “I’ll do you one better. I won’t just tell you where it is. I’ll take you there.”

CHAPTER

11

“So you live here? At the inn?” Ethan asked her the next morning as they climbed into his car. “This is your actual address?”

“It is,” Daisy answered.

“But you didn’t grow up there, right?”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Well”—he hesitated—“it’s kind of an odd place to call home.”

“It’s a gorgeous old house!” she protested, shifting in her seat to admire it. “With running water, heat and air-conditioning, beautiful antique furnishings, and it’s surrounded by a fabulous garden complete with a stable full of horses. How much more do you want? Granted, the floor and stairs do creak and groan a lot, especially in winter. And the wiring isn’t the most modern, which we’re reminded of every time there’s a big storm and we lose the lights. But it’s still an awful lot better than some of the places people end up living, like under bridges in cardboard boxes or rat-infested apartments with no windows.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s a great bed-and-breakfast. But that’s just it. It’s a bed-and-breakfast. There are people around all the time. Wouldn’t you rather be alone with your husband?”

It was Daisy’s turn to hesitate. She wasn’t sure how much to tell him about Matt. But then she shrugged to herself. What difference did it make really? She might as well just be frank about the state of her marriage.

“Unfortunately my husband doesn’t want to be alone with me,” she said.

Ethan frowned, not understanding. “So he’s gone a lot? Is he a long-haul trucker or something?”

“Or something,” Daisy muttered.

“Huh?”

“My husband, Matt, left me. He drove off one morning and never came home again.”

Ethan stopped fiddling with his car’s GPS and looked at her. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.” She shook her head at him with a touch of annoyance. “Why would I joke about that?”

“I don’t know. I guess you wouldn’t. I just can’t imagine someone leaving like that. It’s so … so…”

“So cruel?” Daisy suggested. “So selfish and unkind? So weak and utterly pathetic? Well, you can imagine it now, because that’s exactly what Matt did. No hint beforehand. No note or phone call afterward. No explanation. Ever.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, when was this?”

“About four and a half years ago.”

“And you haven’t divorced him?” Ethan was incredulous. “Why would you want to stay married to a person who treated you that way?”

She responded with a light laugh. It was a question that she had asked herself dozens of times, and she had an equal number of constantly varying answers.

“For what it’s worth,” he said after a moment, when he didn’t get more of a reply, “I think you deserve better.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the sentiment, but are we going to head out anytime soon? Or should I run back inside and ask Aunt Emily to pack us a lunch and possibly even a supper?”

Ethan returned his attention to the GPS. “I was trying to type in Chalk Level.”

“I thought that was why I was here,” Daisy remarked dryly.

“It is, but just in case there’s a problem.”

“Don’t you mean, just in case I get you hopelessly lost?”

He grinned. “Electronic navigation is a lot better than following a trail of bread crumbs sprinkled from the car window.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she retorted. “Not around here where the satellite gets blocked by every third hill. And anyway, you’ve got me with you. How could I get you lost without also getting me lost?”