Chapter Seven
While the cops stepped over to the evidence collection team and brought them up to date, I picked up Smoky, took a seat on the stool behind the counter, and stroked my cat over and over and over again, as much to calm myself as to pamper my pet.
A member of the crime scene team ventured over to Limericks and used the keys the EMT had retrieved from Cormac’s pocket to open the place. Meanwhile, as Marlon and Officer Barboza lingered outside the open door, the lead tech donned blue paper booties, picked his way carefully around the pool of blood, and took one step into my shop, glancing around. After noting the blood I’d tracked in and my bloody slippers by the mat, his gaze moved upward, tracing a circle around the ceiling of my shop. “I’m not seeing your security cameras. Are they hidden?”
“I don’t have any.”
“No cameras?” Barboza barked a mirthless laugh. “That’s mighty convenient.”
Marlon, in turn, cut an irritated glance at his fellow officer before addressing me through the doorway. “Give some serious thought to installing a camera system. Maybe get a panic button for your alarm, one you can tuck into your pocket. Robbers would see a small shop like this as an easy target, especially if they realized a young woman was in charge, and a tiny one at that.”
His concern was sweet and touching. “I’ll have a system installed ASAP.” While I’d balked at the cost before, there was no need to think twice about it now. A killer was on the loose, and there was a chance he’d targeted Cormac to rob him of the bar’s cash. He could come back to try to steal my cash, too. “Do you think that’s why Cormac was killed? That it was a robbery?”
“Who knows?” Marlon raised his palms. “It’s not unusual for thieves to hit a place at closing time, when there aren’t any customers around and the employees are leaving, often through a back door that isn’t as visible as a main entrance. The later a place closes, the more likely it is to get hit, too.”
“If that were the case,” I mused aloud, “wouldn’t Cormac have been killed inside Limericks? Or at the back door of the bar?”
“Not if he tried to get away.”
My gut twisted tight as my mind entertained the horrifying mental image of Cormac fleeing a pursuer, running for his life to the stoop of my shop.
Even though the lights were on, the crime scene tech shined a flashlight about, as if looking for vestiges of blood or other footprints I might have attempted to clean up. When that got him nowhere, he extinguished the overhead lights and turned on a black light, hunkering down to look under the shelves and sample table for the telltale luminescence of bodily fluids. He aimed the light at my clothing but, despite my efforts to stanch Cormac’s bleeding with the T-shirt, I’d miraculously managed not to get his blood on my robe or pajamas. Thank goodness. It would’ve totally freaked me out.
The man peeked into my trash cans, which I’d emptied at the end of the day into the larger bin in my stockroom. He checked that bin, too. Seemingly satisfied that the interior of my shop was not part of the crime scene, he said, “You’ve voluntarily offered your prints?”
“I have.”
I set Smoky down on my stool while the man took my fingerprints. Once he was done, he instructed me to remain in the shop. By then, Smoky had endured enough of my affection and jumped down from the stool when I went to pick him up again. It was just as well. My fingers were covered in black ink. He followed me to the back room. While I washed my hands in the powder room sink, he curled up in his bed atop my desk, looking for some peace and quiet. My skin felt strangely prickly, my bones hollow. I’d never felt more alone.
Marlon stood in front of the Moonshine Shack with his fellow officers, presumably to appear neutral, though he cast an occasional, reassuring glance my way. Even so, he could have his doubts. After all, we’d spoken only four times before now—when he’d helped me unload my van, at my grand opening, when he’d stopped by my shop during the week while on patrol, and earlier tonight when responding to Cormac’s call to the police. All of our interactions had been relatively brief. We hardly knew each other, really. Maybe he was simply sticking around out of curiosity, to see what might develop, to see if I’d be hauled off in handcuffs. I could only hope the food in jail was better than it had been in summer camp. The only good thing had been the s’mores, and I doubted the Tennessee state penitentiaries allowed bonfires and pointy sticks.
I placed a call to Kiki. Despite the late hour, I knew she’d be there for me. She always was and always would be. I served the same role for her. We had an implicit pact.
Realizing a late-night call could only mean an emergency, Kiki answered on the third ring with a cry of “Hattie! What’s wrong?”
“I found Cormac O’Keefe on the stoop of my shop.”
She paused for a beat before shrieking, “You found who on your what?!”
I gave her a quick rundown. Thud, tinkling glass, cry, thud, thud, blood, moonshine, paramedics, cops. “I could be a suspect.”
“That’s bollocks! I’m on my way.” She hung up without taking time to say goodbye.
Twenty minutes later, Kiki drove up on the street and unrolled the window of her bright red Mini Cooper. Evincing her status as a confirmed anglophile, she’d decorated the roof and exterior mirrors with Union Jack decals. Her hair was a mess. Well, the one side of her head on which she had hair was a mess. The other sported a five-o’clock shadow, though the time was actually nearing four a.m.
I stepped to the door and called to her over the heads of the crime scene techs, who were using tweezers to pick up shards of glass and place them in plastic bags. I circled a finger in the air. “Drive around to the back!”
She revved her engine and looped around, careening down the alley and leaping from her car. I met her at the back door. Like me, she was still dressed in her pajamas. But while mine featured images of Smoky, hers were covered in streaks of paint. Some of the streaks were intentional, part of the artsy cartoonish print. Others were actual paint stains. Her artistic muse sometimes struck in the wee hours of the night.
She grabbed me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. “Are you okay?”
I choked out a sob. It was all I could do, and it told her everything she needed to know. I’d been strong up until then, but finding a body in front of my shop, one killed with a jar of my moonshine no less, was quite a shock.
She pulled me to her in a tight hug. Even Smoky walked over and reached up a paw, tapping her on the knee as if to say he’d like one of her hugs, too. After a few seconds, she released me and picked up the cat, treating him to a consoling squeeze before returning him to the floor. “What now?”
I blinked back the tears in my eyes. “I wait until they say I can go.”
“No. That’s unacceptable.” Kiki had always been far bolder and more brazen than I. She took the bull by the horns and stepped to the front of my shop, calling out to Officer Barboza and the crime scene techs. “Hattie’s exhausted. I’m taking her home.”
Before Barboza could object, Marlon raised a hand to stop him. “Miss Hayes isn’t a flight risk. Besides this shop, she’s got family in town, too.”
“All right,” Barboza said to Marlon before turning to me. “Leave your van, though. We need to search it. Don’t tell anyone what you saw here, and don’t mention the victim’s name to anyone until it’s publicly released.” He gestured to Kiki. “Same goes for your friend. We’d rather the next of kin heard the news from us first.”
“Of course. We’ll keep the details to ourselves.” Heck, I didn’t want anyone to know a man had been murdered right in front of my shop. I’d happily keep quiet.
He skewered me with a final, pointed look. “Expect a visit from a homicide detective later today.”
I replied with a weary nod. Though I didn’t look forward to going through all the disturbing details again, the more I cooperated with the investigation the sooner the police could determine who had put an end to Cormac’s life, and my own life could get back to normal. Who had killed him? And why?
I rummaged in my purse for my van keys, as well as the spare key to my shop, and handed them over to Barboza, who passed them off to one of the technicians. Turning my attention to Marlon, I said, “Thanks for sticking around. It was nice to see a friendly face.”
He gave me a soft smile and glanced behind him at the horse trailer. “I’d better get Charlotte back to the barn or she just might bite me.”
“Tell her thanks for me, too.”
“I will.” Softly, he added, “Don’t worry, Hattie. It’s going to be okay.”
I bit my lip. “I hope so.”
At my ankles, Smoky offered a nervous mew. He, too, seemed to have his doubts.
Only Kiki seemed certain. She circled a supporting arm around my shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
After Kiki dropped me and Smoky off at my place, I fell into bed only to toss and turn for the next few hours. No sweet dreams for me. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Cormac’s curled-up body lying on the concrete. Smoky, tired of being constantly jostled, chastised me with a growl, and hopped down from the bed to go sleep on the couch. When my alarm went off at eleven o’clock, I wasn’t sure I had even slept at all. Still, weary or not, I had a store to run and I wasn’t about to let my customers—or myself—down.
After a quick shower, I donned one of my promotional T-shirts, slipped into my overalls, and slapped on a little makeup. With my van still at the shop, Kiki swung by to get me. She sported her usual black studded boots along with a lacy white dress and a silver nose ring, a clash of fashions.
As I climbed into her car, she asked, “Any developments in the case?”
“If there were,” I said, “nobody told me.”
She whipped out her phone and used her thumbs to run an Internet search. “The news is out.” She held her phone out to me.
I took the device from her and looked down at the screen. A local news report had spilled the beans, at least some of them anyway. They said a man had been found dead in the early-morning hours on Saturday on Market Street, that the death had been ruled suspicious, and that the man’s name was Cormac O’Keefe. He was identified as the owner of Limericks. Anyone with information was asked to contact the Chattanooga PD. An image of an unsmiling Cormac against a pale gray background, most likely his driver’s license photo, was included with the article. Given the news report, Kiki and I no longer had to keep Cormac’s name secret, though I presumed we were to remain mum regarding the rest of the details, including the exact location of his body and his manner of death—murder by mason jar.
I returned her phone and we headed back down into town, leaving Smoky behind this time. Even he had seemed worn out. Rather than following me to the door, he’d rolled over on the couch and turned his back on me when I’d asked if he wanted to come to the ’Shine Shack. The cat might not speak English, but he darn well knew how to communicate.
As Kiki turned down the alley, I was surprised to see a maroon Dodge pickup parked next to my van behind my shop.
Kiki must’ve seen it, too. “What’s that truck doing here?”
“Beats me.”
As we drew closer, the driver’s door opened and Marlon slid out. He wore jeans and cowboy boots with a chocolate brown T-shirt, the sleeves of which were stretched tight over his bulging biceps. Whether he’d developed the muscle from working out at a gym or from wrangling his half-ton horse was left to be determined. Either way, his arms were nice to look at.
Kiki zipped her Mini up next to him and we climbed out.
Marlon greeted Kiki with a nod before eyeing me closely, his gaze locking on the dark circles under my eyes. He smelled clean, natural, and leathery, like saddle soap or boot polish.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. Could he have some additional news? Had the killer been caught?
“I was worried about you. Came by to check on you, see how you’re holding up.”
My heart warmed at his concern. “I’m really tired.” The instant the words left my mouth, guilt puckered my gut. I might be tired, but at least I was intact. That was more than could be said for Cormac. “I tried to sleep, but I had awful dreams.”
“Finding a murder victim can do that to you.” He offered a sympathetic smile.
I winced. Cormac had lost his life, his throat slit by one of my moonshine jars. The fact that the killer had used a jar of my moonshine to kill Cormac told me the murderer had been in my store. The thought sent an involuntary shiver through me. My father’s words from the grand opening came back to me. Your moonshine will make a killing! Dad had been right . . . just not in the way any of us had expected.
Marlon went on. “Detective Pearce rounded up my report from my visit here yesterday evening and took a look at it. She called me an hour ago, wanted to know my thoughts about you and your grandfather.”
I looked up at him. “She’s not the only one who wants to know.” Could Marlon consider me a suspect? It would break my heart to hear that he would ponder the idea, even for an instant. Even so, the guy barely knew me. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for him to toy with the thought.
He ducked his head so he could look me directly in the eye. “I know you had nothing to do with O’Keefe’s death, Hattie, despite the murder weapon being a broken jar of your shine. I told her as much.”
I sighed. “It’s nice to know someone believes in me.”
“Hello?” Kiki raised her palms and rolled her eyes. “I believe in you.”
I reached out and gave her hand a squeeze. “I know. Thank you for that.” I released her hand and turned back to Marlon. “Is Detective Pearce a good investigator?”
“Total crackerjack,” he replied. “They don’t call her ‘Ace’ for nothing. She’ll believe in you, too, once she meets you in person.”
“I hope so,” I said on a sigh, still not completely convinced.
“Even if Ace weren’t inclined to trust you,” he said, “she trusts me and my judgment.”
“Oh, yeah?” Kiki said. “Are you two close?”
Marlon’s head dipped in a definitive nod. “We are. We worked an undercover case together a year or so ago, one involving horse theft. Found ourselves trapped in a barn at the wrong end of a double-barreled shotgun. We got ourselves out of the predicament. Guess that goes without saying. But you don’t share an experience like that without forming a bond.”
I hated to point out the obvious, but I did it anyway. “You hardly know me, though. How can you be so sure I’m innocent?”
“C’mon now.” Marlon reached out and chucked my chin. “Who could possibly think a little thing like you could bring down that man?”
I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or insulted. Did he consider me an unviable suspect merely because of my size? “I could kill a full-grown man if I really wanted to. I’d find a way.”
Marlon’s brows knit. “Excuse me?”
Kiki, too, appeared confused, her forehead crinkled.
Groaning, I waved a hand. “No, no. Excuse me. My brain is fried, I’m running on zero sleep, and I’m not making sense. I’d never kill someone, no matter how much they deserved it.” Cheese and grits. That wasn’t much better. Kiki cut me a look that said maybe I should just shut my mouth and never open it again. Fortunately, Marlon seemed unfazed by my nonsense. I supposed police officers are used to dealing with people under stress saying odd things. “Have there been any developments?” I asked.
“There have.” Marlon straightened up. “Damien Sirakov is in custody. He was apprehended just after three a.m. at a gas station a couple of miles from here. He tried to use a stolen credit card to fill his tank. He says he was at a bar shooting pool until it closed at two, and that when he returned to his car the battery was dead. He claims he hit up other people for a jump, but he didn’t have jumper cables and the first several people he asked didn’t have cables, either. He had to wait until somebody who had jumper cables in their car came to the lot.”
“You think he’s telling the truth?”
“Not for a minute,” Marlon said. “That man isn’t capable of honesty. He’s got more stories than Mother Goose and Dr. Seuss put together. He tried to convince the arresting officer that the woman whose credit card he tried to use had given him the card. He claimed they were romantically involved.”
“Any way that could be true?” I asked.
“She’s eighty-two years old.”
Kiki issued a scandalous hmm. “A cougar, then? One with a taste for bad boys?”
“Not at all,” Marlon replied. “She’s been happily married for over sixty years, and she’s never heard of Damien Sirakov.”
I mused aloud. “He could be lying about the car trouble, too.”
“Yup,” Marlon agreed. “He claims a man gave his battery a jump, but he can’t recall what the guy looked like, what he was wearing, or what kind of car the guy was driving. He says he only remembers that the man spoke with a Spanish accent.” He shook his head, as if disgusted by Sirakov’s lame story. “The fact that he was taken into custody at the gas station puts him in this area last night. He could well have had the time and opportunity to attack O’Keefe beforehand. He certainly had the motive. O’Keefe filed multiple reports against him. Sirakov slipped out without paying his bill. Cheated some Limericks customers at darts. It was never proven, but it seems likely he’s the one who tossed a manhole cover through the front window of the bar awhile back. He’s been a general nuisance. He’s never been convicted of a violent offense before, but there’s always a first time. It wouldn’t be surprising if the two got into an argument and things escalated, got out of hand.”
At the risk of incriminating myself, I asked, “But where would Damien Sirakov have gotten the jar of cherry moonshine? I don’t believe he’s ever been in my shop.”
Marlon’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Can you be certain?”
I bit my lip. “I guess not. I’ve stepped away from the Shack a few times this week and left my grandfather in charge. But it was never for more than a few minutes at time, just long enough for me to grab some dinner or run a deposit to the bank.”
Kiki consulted the wristwatch she’d bought at the military surplus store. The gadget had an army green nylon band and a face that told both civilian and military time. “It’s only three minutes until noon. We better get inside if we want the shop to open on time.”
While Kiki wrangled her artist portfolio out of her cargo bay, I unlocked the back door to my shop. Kiki and Marlon followed me through it. After stashing my purse in the safe and retrieving some start-up cash for the register, I led the way to the sales floor, flipping light switches along the way. My slippers no longer sat by the doormat. No doubt they’d been taken into evidence. Someone had cleaned up my footprints and the blood on the window and stoop, too, thank goodness.
Kiki took a seat on one of the padded stools behind the checkout counter and I readied the cash register, sliding the bills and coins into their correct slots, and pushing the drawer closed.
Marlon angled his head to indicate my computerized register. “Ace will want to take a look at your records, see who bought jars of cherry shine. You might as well get crackin’.”
I grabbed a jar of cherry moonshine from a display and used the scanner to input the product code. A few keystrokes later and a report came up on the monitor. “I’ve sold twenty-three jars of cherry moonshine since my store opened on Monday. Twenty were paid for with debit or credit cards. Three were purchased with cash.”
I maneuvered the mouse and clicked on the icon to print the report. Once it finished printing, I handed the pages to Marlon.
He ran his eyes over them. “This will give Ace a place to start.” He handed the report back to me. “I’m gonna head out. Best if I’m not here when she shows up. Don’t want her thinking I’m stepping on her turf, or that you and I have something unprofessional going on.”
Shucks. I was actually kind of hoping something unprofessional was indeed going on, or at least developing, that Marlon might have a personal interest in me. Turned out Marlon was just a dedicated cop, using his private time to check on the people of his beat. I’d been a fool to think there could be more to it. Maybe I should take Kiki’s advice and look into online dating. She’d already written up a bio for me. Hattie is five feet of feisty fun and runs her own business. She can’t wait to show you her jugs . . . of moonshine!
I walked Marlon to the back door and bade him goodbye.
He climbed into his truck. After starting his engine, he unrolled his window and stuck his head out, casting me a serious look. “Keep your eyes and ears open,” he said. “Anything or anyone gives you pause, don’t hesitate to call dispatch. Hear me?”
“I do.”
“All righty, then.” With that, he raised his fingers off the steering wheel in a goodbye wave and drove off.