“Howdy, Harley.”
Uncle Tater called to her over a crowd of festival goers who’d gathered around him on the sidewalk on Main Street. As promised, he’d stationed his moonshine still in front of Smoky Mountain Spirits and was in the process of conducting a distillation demonstration. “Wilmer’s inside the store yonder,” he said. “Already got things set up.”
He turned back to the small crowd and resumed his demonstration. “Now this here’s called a thump keg. Some folks calls it a doubler because, you see, what it lets you do is distill your output a second time. That way you don’t have to run your distillate through the still twice. Amazin’ contraption, I reckon. Changed the course of moonshine makin’.”
His voice trailed off as Harley entered the store, shutting the door behind her.
Aunt Wilma stood behind the check-out counter, ringing up purchases. She wore a purple velvet dress with gold fringe, the front slit exposing a pair of sausage-casing legs in fishnet stockings. A wide-brimmed feathered hat covered her Oompa Loompa wig, and a choker peeked from the roll underneath her chin.
Beside her, with rote movement, an always silent Uncle Buck placed bottles of liquor in paper sleeves and handed them to departing customers. Uncle Buck didn’t need to dress up for the festival, Harley thought. For as long as she could remember, he’d resembled the farmer in the painting, American Gothic, with the same dour expression, the same overalls, white shirt, and dark jacket. She’d only heard him speak twice in her life and that was to his turkeys.
“Mornin’, Harley.” Aunt Wilma grinned as she handed a receipt to a departing customer. “Now you enjoy the festival, you hear, and come back and see us soon.”
Wilma left Uncle Buck behind the counter and walked over to her great-niece. “Oh, don’t you look right cute! Opha Mae done good makin’ them outfits, didn’t she? Matilda get hers?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Guess what I am.” She fanned her dress and flicked the feather on her hat.
Harley pondered the best and most delicate response to the question. “A lady of the night?”
“I ain’t no prostitute,” she said, expanding her chest. “I’m a madame.”
As if that lent more dignity to her costume.
“Anyhow,” she said, “it’s been right busy here, I reckon. We’re gonna make a nice profit off this festival.” She looked past Harley to the back-storage area. “Oh, and Tina’s back yonder. Gettin’ some more stuff for her recipes.”
Harley left Wilma, passing through a sea of customers to the back room. Tina stood on a step ladder, removing a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. And if Aunt Wilma was a madame, then Tina was one of her employees. Their costumes were nearly identical except Tina’s dress was red and she wore a black feather boa around her neck. Two stiletto booties peeked from the black fringe of her dress.
“Need some help, Tina?” Harley asked, entering the back room.
“No, I got it.”
She removed a bottle from the shelf and groaned as she climbed down the ladder, her stiletto booties tapping against the rungs. “Whiskey balls, whiskey balls. I swear that’s all anybody wants today. I just can’t seem to keep the darn things stocked.”
“Then you shouldn’t make them so delicious.”
Tina turned around and looked at her, then started laughing. “Lordy, that dress and apron look funnier every time I see them.” She saw the look on Harley’s face, then swallowed her laughter. “Did Jed find you?”
“No. He was looking for me?”
“Everywhere. He came by my shop twice and then this place twice. Didn’t say what he wanted, but I figured it had something to do with Patrick’s death.”
Harley wondered if they’d found more evidence.
“Anyway, I gotta get back to the store,” Tina said. “I tell you, I’m makin’ a killin’ from this thing, but boy am I slammed.”
“Good luck.” Harley watched her friend as she slipped out the back door.
She retrieved a series of bottles from the shelf and placed them on the prep counter, along with her cocktail shaker and spoon. For Pioneer Days, she’d planned a special recipe in advance, one consisting of Tennessee whiskey, apple brandy, apple cider, and a splash of vanilla liquor. She hoped to blend the spirit of the festival’s historical significance with its fall setting.
After pouring the “Pioneer Punch” into a large silver punch bowl, she carried it into the main room where she placed it on the bar. She retrieved cups from the storage area, but before she could arrange them in any configuration, Wilma called to her from the checkout counter. “Hey, Harley, we got any more of that apple brandy, or are we clean out?”
“I think I have some more in my truck. I can get it.”
“Would you, honey?”
Harley passed through the store and to the back room, then to the parking lot. As she reached into the truck bed to retrieve a case of apple brandy, a police cruiser pulled up beside her and Jed Turner rolled down the driver’s side window.
“Get in,” he said.