Chapter Four
Only a handful of customers wandered into my shop the rest of the afternoon, but while the lack of traffic was a disappointment it wasn’t necessarily a surprise. After all, it was a weekday and not yet peak tourist season. At five o’clock, as I poured tasting samples for a group of retired ladies at the counter of my shop, the neon OPEN sign illuminated in the window of Limericks across the street. As soon as I was done serving my customers, I’d take Cormac’s order over to him. Given the warnings from Heath Delaney and Mack Clayton, I’d insist on payment up front.
The ladies spent a few minutes sampling and savoring before deciding on their favorite flavors. Each of them purchased a jar and were delighted when I slipped a copy of my drink recipes into their bags. As soon as they’d gone, I put a hand on my grandfather’s shoulder to rouse him from the nap he was taking in the rocker out front. “Can you cover for me?”
“Of course.” Setting his whittling aside, he rounded up his cane, rose stiffly from the rocker, and ambled inside, circling around to the back of the checkout counter.
“You remember what to do?”
He picked up the handheld bar code reader and waved it about like Yosemite Sam waving his cartoon pistols. “I aim this magic doohickey at the stripes on the label and pull the trigger.”
“Exactly,” I told him. “When you hear the beep, you’ll know it worked.”
“Gotcha.” He took a seat on the padded stool behind the counter.
I hustled to the storeroom, loaded Cormac O’Keefe’s moonshine order onto a dolly, and rolled it through my shop and across the street under Smoky’s watchful eye. As I approached the pub, a HELP WANTED sign in the window caught my attention. It hadn’t been there the day before. My guess was that Miranda and the other server had quit their jobs after their sidewalk skirmish the preceding evening. Who’d want to work for a man who’d cheated on her? Or maybe Cormac had fired the two. Miranda had only appeared to be defending herself, but the other had launched an aggressive attack. Having someone like her on staff could pose a liability. Then again, if Cormac fired the golden blonde, he might be risking a sexual harassment lawsuit.
The leprechaun greeted me with his mischievous grin, holding up his coin as if to tell me there was money to be made here at Limericks. I hope so. I pulled the pub’s door open and held it with my foot while I wrangled the dolly over the threshold. A wiry, dark-haired man walked up on the sidewalk. He had a tattoo on his neck of what was probably supposed to be a black bear roaring but looked more like a belching Labrador retriever. I suppose even tattoo artists have to start somewhere.
The tattooed man looked down at the cases of moonshine on my dolly and read the label aloud. “Firefly moonshine?” His focus shifted to my face. “Never heard of it.”
“Maybe not yet,” I said with a smile, “but you will!” I removed a hand from the dolly and pointed to my shop across the street. “That’s my new moonshine store. Stop by sometime. We offer free samples.”
“Oh, yeah?” His eyes brightened. “Is that just a onetime thing or what?”
I hadn’t considered that someone might try to take advantage of my free samples on a regular basis without making a purchase. I supposed I’d have to come up with a policy. I replied with “Reasonable limits apply.” How’s that for the fine print?
The man followed me as I rolled the cases inside. Cormac was pouring drinks at the far end of the bar. To my surprise, the curvy golden blonde who’d been whaling on Miranda the night before stood in a back corner, a round tray tucked under her arm as she looked up at the television, taking in the early news. I was surprised she’d come back to work for Cormac after learning he’d cheated on her. Either she was very forgiving or she couldn’t afford to quit her job. She wore jeans and a cute peasant blouse in a colorful print with elastic around the neckline, waist, and wrists.
Cormac pushed the drinks he’d poured to the front edge of the bar and barked, “Ashlynn! Order up!”
On hearing her name, the woman turned around. Her lips looked full and luscious in a shimmery shade of pretty pink lipstick. I wonder how my lips would look in that color. With my pale skin, most lipsticks looked clownish on me, but the shade she wore just might work with my complexion. I was tempted to ask her for the name of the makeup line and the color of the lipstick, but I was here to conduct business and I didn’t want to appear unprofessional. I also didn’t want to risk getting walloped if she somehow found my question offensive. I’d seen what this woman could do.
As she walked up and retrieved the drinks from the counter, I rolled my boxes over and parked my dolly in front of the bar.
“Hi, Cormac.” I dipped my chin to indicate the case of liquor below. “I’ve brought your moonshine.”
He put down the glass he’d been drying, flipped the bar towel over his shoulder, and pointed a finger in my direction. “Get out!”
“Excuse me?”
It wasn’t until a voice came from behind me that I realized Cormac was speaking to the guy who’d followed me in. “Be cool, dude.” The man raised his palms. “I only want to get a beer.”
My impulse was to shrink back and cower behind my dolly. Ashlynn, on the other hand, seemed unfazed. Having delivered the drinks, she circled around to the back of the bar. She reached up to straighten a bottle on a nearby shelf before calmly making change at the cash register. I supposed people who work in bars are used to dealing with a rowdy crowd.
The elastic band on her sleeve must’ve ridden up, because she tugged it back down into place at her wrist before closing the cash drawer. Wait . . . did she just tuck some bills into her sleeve? Her movements had been so smooth and swift, I couldn’t be certain. Add in the dim lighting and the reflections off the bottles and mirror behind the bar, and I was even less sure. No one would have the audacity to steal from the till right under their boss’s nose, would they?
“Out!” Cormac shouted again, moving his arm so that he pointed to the door. “Now!”
My attention shifted from Ashlynn back to the tattooed guy. When the man made no move to leave, Cormac yanked the towel from his shoulder, slung it onto the bar, and raised the hinged part of the counter to come around to our side.
“All right! All right!” Palms still up, the guy backed toward the door. “Relax. I’m going.”
Cormac stormed after him. The guy turned, shoved the door open, and left, but not before raising a middle finger at the barkeep. Cormac stood in the open doorway, making sure the man had headed off, before stalking back through the bar, muttering under his breath.
“Not your favorite customer, I take it?”
Cormac scowled. “He’s nothing but trouble. Hits on my waitresses, hustles my customers at pool and darts, skipped out on a sixty-dollar bar tab. I’d bet he’s the one who broke my front window a few months back, too.”
Running a bar was more difficult than I realized. No wonder Cormac was such a sourpuss. Getting back to the matter at hand, I gestured to the moonshine again. “I’ve got your order here.”
“Cancel it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cancel it,” he repeated. “I don’t need it after all.” He went around to the back of the bar and dropped the flap back into place with a bang.
Fury flared, heating me from the inside out, and my hands grasped the dolly in a death grip. “But we had a deal!”
He shrugged. “I got a better one.”
“From who?”
His answer was evasive. “Another moonshine company.”
My mind flashed back to the distributor from Backwoods Bootleggers who’d crashed my party the night before. “It was that man from last night, wasn’t it? Gage something-or-other.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Cormac said, “but when I told him you’d offered me a discount, he offered an even better one if I’d go exclusive with Backwoods.”
“So you’re breaking our contract? That’s a lousy way to treat a fellow small-business owner.”
He snorted. “What are you getting worked up about? I won’t be selling jars of moonshine over here. I’ll just be making drinks with it. Like you said, you and I aren’t competitors.”
My own rationalizations coming back to bite me. Heated and humiliated, I grabbed my dolly and rolled it out of the pub without another word. Rather than promising me riches, the leprechaun outside the door seemed to be taunting me now, holding up his gold coin as if poised to snatch it away, just as Cormac had done. Insolent Irish imp!
As I pushed the handcart back into my shop, my grandfather took one look at my face and his own puckered in concern. “What happened over there? You brought the moonshine back, and you got a burr in your britches now, too.”
“Cormac O’Keefe refused his order.”
“On what grounds?”
“Remember the guy from Backwoods Bootleggers who snuck into our grand opening uninvited last night?”
“I do.” Granddaddy’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?”
“After he crashed our party, he marched right over to Limericks and offered O’Keefe a big discount if he’d agree to stock Backwoods moonshine exclusively.”
“You mean to tell me that sorry snake across the street took the deal?”
“He did.” Cormac had made the business equivalent of a bootleg turn, heading one way at high speed before executing a controlled skid to end up going in another.
Granddaddy threw up his gnarled hands. “But the Hayes family hooch is the best in all of Appalachia!”
“Without a doubt. Everyone will learn that soon enough, whether Limericks serves our shine or not. I’ll make sure of it.”
As enraged as I was that Cormac O’Keefe had reneged on our agreement, at least I hadn’t parted with any product. Better to learn now that the guy was an unscrupulous shyster than later down the line. I returned the moonshine to the storeroom and unpacked the case. It helped a little to know that the guy with the neck tattoo had introduced a little misery into Cormac’s life. What goes around comes around.
When I went back into the store, Granddaddy said, “Maybe this will cheer you up. It’s Smoky.” He held out a small wood carving in the shape of a sleeping cat.
I took the whittled wood from him and gave it a closer look. As always, my grandfather had made a miniature masterpiece with intricate detail—curved indentations for the cat’s closed eyes, smooth rounded cheeks, distinct tiny toes. He’d sanded it smooth, not a rough edge anywhere. He’d whittled his initials, BJH for Benjamin Joseph Hayes, on the underside. “It’s perfect, Granddaddy. It deserves a special spot in the store.” I glanced around and decided to display the cat next to the register, where customers could admire it.
I sold a few jars of moonshine that evening thanks to my grandfather suggesting to passersby that their life would not be complete until they came inside and sampled our shine. Fortunately, the customers found him charming rather than pushy. If I thought his arthritic hands would be up to it, I’d give him one of those signs to spin.
When we wrapped up at the end of the night, I was thrilled to discover that, even after deducting the cost of the products sold and the day’s proportion of overhead and rent, we’d earned a small profit. A whopping sixty-four cents, in fact. The Hayes family was once again making money with moonshine.
Over the next few days, thanks to the free jars I’d offered, my grandfather enticing passersby into the shop, and my incessant social media posts, word spread and business picked up at the Moonshine Shack.
Another group of bikers came in, though these guys weren’t a well-groomed, well-mannered club. Their faces bore burly beards and battle scars. They laughed on seeing the displays of my Firefly shine.
“Apple pie?” one of them barked. “Peach? Wild blackberry? This fruity stuff is for chicks and sissies. You got any real moonshine?”
I bristled at the sexist remark, but him saying that my Firefly flavors weren’t real moonshine was what really got my goat. My shine was real and, what’s more, it was mine. I’d continued the family business and expanded on it, taken it in a new direction. I was proud of what I’d accomplished. But no sense arguing with these men. They were entitled to their opinions—even if they were wrong. I gestured to the jugs of Ole-Timey Corn Liquor. “Try the jugs. It’s for purists.”
They might have insulted me, but at least they bought several jugs of Granddaddy’s shine. They slid the jugs into the saddlebags on their bikes and motored across the street to Limericks.
On Thursday night, traffic picked up on Market Street, mainly college kids getting a jump start on the weekend. Groups wandered by wearing gear with Greek letters on it designating various sororities and fraternities. Alpha. Beta. Chi. It was like watching a live version of a Mediterranean Sesame Street. Tonight’s episode brought to you by the letter epsilon! Several groups wandered into the store and purchased moonshine. Maybe I should offer a student discount . . .
Marlon rode by on Charlotte several times, stopping once to chat with me and my grandfather. Fortunately, my grandfather hadn’t noticed Marlon’s badge when I’d introduced them, and I’d used first names only. If Granddaddy realized the officer was related to the sheriff who’d arrested his father, he was bound to blow a gasket, and any chance I might have of getting to know Marlon better could be ruined.
A few minutes shy of eight o’clock Friday evening, Cormac O’Keefe stormed toward my store, his face purple with rage. I suppose my face had looked much the same when I’d left Limericks four days earlier after he’d refused to accept his moonshine order. Smoky stood in the window as Granddaddy rose from his rocker out front. As my grandfather and Cormac exchanged words, I rushed outside to learn what the ruckus was all about.
“You can’t say I wasn’t telling the truth!” Granddaddy brandished his small whittling tool for emphasis. “You’re not to be trusted.”
“You crazy old coot!” Cormac barked. “I should sue you for slander.”
“I’d sue you right back!” Granddaddy hollered. “I might be an old coot, but I ain’t crazy!”
That’s debatable.
Several people stopped on the sidewalks nearby to watch the exchange. My cheeks blazed in embarrassment.
As if realizing that an argument with my grandfather wasn’t likely to be productive, the barkeep turned to me. “Did you know your grandfather’s been telling people not to come to my bar? He’s called me a crook.”
“No. I wasn’t aware.” Though I could hardly blame him. My grandfather was fiercely protective of his family, and he’d been insulted by O’Keefe choosing another brand of moonshine over ours. Still, antagonizing O’Keefe wouldn’t help anything. Better to keep the peace. “I’ll talk to him.”
“You’d better,” O’Keefe snapped.
“Git!” Granddaddy motioned with his tiny tool. “Go back to your watering hole.”
O’Keefe issued another of his signature derisive snorts and strode back to his pub. I raised a hand and smiled at the crowd that had gathered, hoping to make light of the uncomfortable situation. “Everything’s okay!” I called out as I took my grandfather by the arm. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Why don’t you come inside for a bit? Cool down?”
He resisted. “I’m not afraid of that whippersnapper.”
“I know, Granddaddy. But the best thing you can do for our business is keep your mouth shut. You want the Moonshine Shack to be a success, don’t you?”
He scowled. “You know I do.”
“Then come inside. I’ll fix you some iced tea with a dash of peach shine.”
His mouth spread in a broad smile. “Now you’re talkin’.”
I’d wrangled a rocker inside and settled my grandfather in it with a glass of spiked tea when a telltale clop-clop-clop sounded out front. I looked out the window to see Marlon dismount at the curb. He stepped forward and tied Charlotte’s reins to one of the front porch posts. Removing his helmet, he came inside, stopping to give Smoky a scratch under the chin.
“Hi, Marlon,” I said, moving forward to meet him. “You’re working late today.”
“Drew the short stick and got assigned the swing shift. I’ll be on duty most of the night.” He looked from me to my grandfather and back again. “Received a report of a man in overalls brandishing a knife and making threats in front of your store. You two wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Cormac O’Keefe called you?”
“Couldn’t say. The caller hung up before dispatch could get his name.”
It had to be Cormac who called. He probably knew he’d look like a wimp for reporting an octogenarian with a harmless whittling tool. Still, that didn’t keep him from wanting to give us a hassle. I turned to my grandfather. “Show Marlon your knife.”
Granddaddy raised the tiny blade he’d been holding during his argument with O’Keefe. “If that man feared this itty-bitty tool, he’s as yellow as he is crooked.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you.” Marlon exhaled a sharp breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. “That said, do me a favor, Ben. Don’t wave those tools around when you’re arguing with someone. They might take it the wrong way. Okay?”
Granddaddy raised his right hand to his forehead and gave Marlon a salute. “Yes, sir, Officer—” He squinted at Marlon’s chest, trying to read his badge. “Landers.”
I went rigid, hoping my grandfather wouldn’t make the connection. No such luck.
His squinty gaze went from Marlon’s badge to his face. “You’re not kin to Sheriff Daniel Landers, are you?” He pointed his whittling tool at the newspaper clipping on the wall before directing it accusingly at Marlon.
Marlon’s gaze cut my way. What could I do but shrug and sigh? The truth was bound to come out sooner or later, though later would have given Marlon more of a chance to win Granddaddy over first.
Marlon returned his focus to my grandfather. “Matter of fact, we are kin. Sheriff Daniel Landers was my great-grandpa.”
My grandfather’s face puckered and his hands fisted. “Well, I’ll be a son of a—”
“Granddaddy!” I cried, cutting him off. “That’s all water under the bridge.”
“No, it ain’t!” he snarled. “I’ll never forget when my father was taken away. I remember it like it was yesterday.”
“You don’t remember it at all,” I pointed out as gently as I could. “Your father was arrested in 1933. You were only a baby.”
My grandfather’s scowl deepened. “Well, I remember visiting him in the clink. Mama cried every time we left.”
Prohibition ended in December 1933. Mere weeks after my ancestor’s arrest, liquor production and sales became legal again. But by that time, Eustatius Hayes had been convicted and given the maximum sentence: a ten-thousand-dollar fine and five years in the Tennessee state penitentiary. Despite the change in the law, those convicted of making or selling liquor during the period when it had been illegal were forced to serve out their full terms. So while my granddad hadn’t actually seen his father arrested, he had lived without his father for the formative years of his childhood.
“For what it’s worth,” Marlon said, “your father evaded arrest for years and made a fool of my great-grandfather before he finally caught him.” He lowered both his voice and his head. “I’ll let you in on a little-known secret. If your daddy’s tire hadn’t blown out that night, he’d have gotten away again.”
On learning that his father had made a formidable rival, my grandfather’s tight face and fists loosened, but only a little. His eyes took on a distant look. “A flat would explain why Daddy was always checking the tires after he was released.”
Marlon straightened up. “I hope you won’t hold our families’ history against me. I do my best to be fair, and I hope you’ll give me a fair shake, too. Let’s let bygones be bygones. What do you say?” Marlon extended a hand to my grandfather.
“I say no sir, no way, nohow.” Granddaddy glared up at Marlon and crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to take his hand. For an octogenarian, he sure was acting childish.
“Grandaddy!” I snapped, using the same tone my granny had used to keep him in line. “Every man should be judged for himself. You’ve said so yourself.”
He merely harrumphed in reply. He knew I was right, but he wasn’t willing to admit it.
I sent the point home. “If Marlon held a grudge against you the way you’re holding one against him, you’d be in handcuffs right now and on your way to the police station for booking. He has grounds to arrest you. You’ve confessed to brandishing your tool at Cormac.”
Granddaddy’s eyes slid to the handcuffs on Marlon’s belt, but he remained silent, refusing to budge.
Marlon, being the bigger man both literally and figuratively, said, “Come on now, Ben. Give me a chance to prove myself. Who knows? Maybe one day you and I can even be friends.”
Granddaddy still pouted, but at least he uncrossed his arms and gave a grunt of agreement. It was better than nothing, and the best we were going to get. A provisional peace made, I exhaled in relief and gave Marlon an apologetic smile.
Marlon glanced out front, where Charlotte waited for him. “I better get back out on patrol. You two take care.”
I saw him to the door, closing it behind him. I hoped my grandfather’s bad behavior wouldn’t scare Marlon off. I’d begun to look forward to his occasional stops by the shop. It would be a shame if my curmudgeonly granddad put an end to those visits.