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?

Though my sister and brother had wished me luck, they’d both moved out of the area years ago and wouldn’t be able to attend the event. My parents arrived a half hour early, bringing Granddaddy with them. He took up residence on a rocker out front, a chunk of wood and a small, sharp carving tool in hand, whittling away.

Mom put a hand on my shoulder. “I hope this works out for you, Hattie.”

I’d have felt more encouraged if she hadn’t been shaking her head skeptically as she spoke. Ugh! I fought to keep from rolling my eyes. My mother hadn’t taken a single risk in all her life, and she couldn’t understand why I’d leave a good job to venture out on my own, especially when there was, in her words, “plenty of professionally produced moonshine already on the market.” She seemed to think moonshining was merely a hobby for me. She was wrong. Bootleg booze was both my business and my birthright. Of course, I encouraged my customers to drink with discretion. My logo included the phrase “Shine Smart.”

My father, on the other hand, was far more supportive than my mom. He raised his hand for a high five. “I knew you could do it, Hattie. Your moonshine will make a killing!”

“I sure hope so.”

Over the next couple of hours, dozens of the business owners I’d invited to the party circled by to get a gander at the Moonshine Shack, sample the flavors, and collect their free jar or jug of moonshine. Every time the bells on the door jingled, my heart skipped a beat and I looked over to see if it might be Officer Landers arriving. But every time it was someone else. Has he forgotten about my invitation?

I tapped jar after jar, filling shot glasses so everyone could try as many types as they cared to. The apple pie flavor seemed to garner the most interest, while Granddaddy’s Ole-Timey Corn Liquor came in a close second. The younger women liked the blackberry flavor, while the older ladies seemed to have a taste for the cherry variety.

I tucked a jar of the Georgia peach moonshine into a gift bag, along with a copy of drink recipes I’d concocted. “This peach shine tastes great in iced tea,” I told the woman who’d selected it. “You can add it to cobbler or preserves, too.”

“What a fun idea!” She thanked me and headed on her way.

Mack Clayton stepped up to the table, smelling faintly of barbecue. No doubt he’d come directly from the Smoky Mountains Smokehouse. After we’d exchanged friendly greetings, he said, “I’ll take a jug of your grandfather’s corn liquor. I’m going to make some shine sauce, see how people like it.”

Maybe Mack would become a customer of the Shack after all. I pulled a jug from the supply behind me and handed it over the table to him. “Would you like to try any of the Firefly flavors? Be a shame to miss out.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” He ran his gaze over the choices. “Let me try the blueberry.”

I poured a sample into a shot glass and handed it to him. “Cheers.”

He tossed the shot back and raised his glass in tribute. “Hoo-ee! That’s some good stuff.”

I beamed with pride.

The crowd grew, jars and jugs of moonshine flying off the shelves. I hadn’t expected such a turnout. By my best estimate, I’d given away more than a thousand dollars’ worth of moonshine and we were only halfway through the party. I hoped I hadn’t been foolish to invite such a large crowd, to offer a full jar for free. But as they say, you’ve got to spend money to make money.

Although I’d invited the local media, both television stations and newspapers, all of the news outlets had declined. I’d tried to spin the opening of the Moonshine Shack as a human-interest story, as well as one involving the region’s moonshining history, but they seemed to know what I was really after—free publicity. Only my university’s alumni magazine had taken up the story. They’d sent over a journalism major in her junior year who wrote for the mag. She asked me some quick questions, snapped several photos, and sampled some shine, leaving with details to distill into an article as well as an already distilled jar of peach shine.

Jingle-jingle. The door opened again, and again it wasn’t Officer Landers. Instead, in walked a thirtyish guy with short, sandy hair and stylish eyeglasses. He wore a slate-blue dress shirt that perfectly matched the color of his frames, but the fact that he wore the shirt with jeans and loafers kept him from looking too fussy. A white, wireless Bluetooth headset curled over his left ear. He glanced around, assessing the people and place, before his gaze circled around to me. His brows rose slightly in question. I gave him a nod of acknowledgment, and he headed my way.

He stepped up to my table. “You’re the proprietor?”

“Yep. That’s me. Hattie Hayes, moonshine mogul.”

“We didn’t get a chance to meet when you delivered the invitation to my office. I’m Heath Delaney.”

“From Delaney and Sullivan? The law firm on Fifth Street?”

He dipped his chin in confirmation. “Welcome to the neighborhood. It’s a great place to run a business. Lots of tourist traffic.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

“Do you have legal representation?”

“No.” My lease for the Moonshine Shack and my contract with the bottling company had been standard boilerplate, and I’d done my due diligence to make sure my landlord and the bottler had good reputations among their tenants and clients. With my budget stretched tight, I’d taken a chance and signed the agreements without having them reviewed by an attorney.

“My firm represents many of the small-business owners in the area,” Heath said. “If you need a contract reviewed or somebody sued, I’m your guy.” He whipped a business card from his breast pocket and handed it to me.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I tucked the card into my back pocket. Turning to the matter at hand, I swept my arm to indicate the selections of moonshine in front of me. “Anything in particular you’d like to sample? Or should I set you up with a shot of each flavor?”

“What the heck. I’ll try them all.”

“You got it.” As I set about filling shot glasses for Heath, the ginger-haired owner of Limericks sauntered through the front door, the honey-haired cocktail waitress on his arm. He looked around at the crowded place and frowned. It wasn’t like I’d stolen any of his customers. These folks were all fellow businesspeople here to get a jar of moonshine and take a look at my place, that’s all.

Mack Clayton was chatting with a woman from the toy train store when he spotted the barkeep over her shoulder. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. If I hadn’t been looking right at him at the time, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. I wonder what that’s about.

The owner of Limericks made his way over, stepping up next to Heath. He slid the attorney a steely look and a grunt before ignoring the man as if he weren’t there.

“Welcome!” I repeated my earlier gesture, sweeping my arm to indicate the options. “What’s your pleasure?”

He noted the seven shot glasses in front of Heath and angled his head to indicate the attorney. “Give me what you gave him.”

The honey-haired girl stepped up on the other side of her boss. She curled her French-tipped fingers over his shoulder in a familiar, affectionate gesture that said the relationship between the two of them went beyond business. “Me too, please.”

“All righty.” I set up two lines of shot glasses on the table and eyed the man. “I didn’t catch your name when I was in Limericks yesterday.”

“I’m Cormac O’Keefe.”

An Irish name if ever there was one. “Glad you could swing by, Cormac.”

He offered another grunt in reply. Apparently, he spoke fluid caveman. What the blonde saw in him was anyone’s guess.

She gave me a smile and stuck out her hand. “I’m Miranda.”

“Nice to meet you, Miranda.”

As I poured shots for Cormac and Miranda, Heath sipped at his samples. He nodded when he found them enjoyable but grimaced as the cinnamon sample went down. He banged a fist on his chest to fight the burn. “That’ll put hair on your chest.”

Cormac snorted. “You could use some.”

Heath stood stock-still, staring at the side of Cormac’s face. While Cormac had been brave enough to mock the attorney, he didn’t seem quite brave enough to look directly his way. I deduced from the exchange that the two had a history. But what, exactly, did that history entail?

When I finished pouring the samples for Cormac, he tossed each of them back in quick succession, not bothering to stop and savor each flavor. Miranda, on the other hand, hadn’t forgotten her manners. “Thanks!” she said before daintily sipping from her first sample cup.

A sixtyish woman with light gray hair tapped Heath on the shoulder, and he turned to address her. While Heath was conversing with the woman, I asked Cormac what he thought of the moonshine.

“It’ll get the job done,” he said.

Not exactly a rousing endorsement. I turned to Miranda. “What do you think?”

“Sooooo good!” she cooed. “I like them all, but the wild blackberry is my favorite.”

I pulled a jar of the fruity shine from the shelf behind me and handed it to her. “On the house. Enjoy.”

“Yum! Thank you so much! I can’t wait to share this with my friends. They’ll love it, too.” She nudged Cormac gently in the ribs with her elbow. “You should buy some for the bar.”

Miranda’s enthusiastic affirmation seemed to convince Cormac he should offer my moonshine in Limericks. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Bring an assorted case over tomorrow. Two jugs of your grandpa’s stuff, too.”

My first sale! And fourteen jars, no less. Woo-hoo!

Before I could respond, Heath turned back around, cutting a scathing glance at Cormac before addressing me with a pointed look. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Here’s some free advice for you. Get that order in writing. Make sure the terms are clearly defined and the order is signed and dated.”

Cormac scoffed but still didn’t quite look Heath in the eye. “Quit mansplaining. She can run her own business.” Cormac returned his attention to me. He lifted his chin and raised his brows, silently communicating See you tomorrow with that moonshine? I gave him a small nod.

As Cormac and Miranda walked off, Heath frowned at their backs. “Keep my card close at hand. If you’re going to deal with Cormac O’Keefe, you’re going to need me. That man is as cutthroat as they come.”