Chapter

15

Two hours later, with enough coffee in me to stock a Starbucks for a week, I sat, hands shaking, at the counter of the Gett Diner. The surface was as chipped and pitted as my emotions. Cindy Mae stood in front of me, the devil’s own coffee pot in her hands. “Refill?” she asked in a singsong voice.

“No.” I covered my empty cup with my hand. “I’ve had way too much already.”

“Long night with a certain Gett?” Her eyelid lowered with a lascivious wink.

I snorted. “Hardly.”

She set the coffee down on the counter, leaning down in the typical juicy gossip stance. She glanced to the right and then the left, as if afraid to be overheard. I suspected Cindy Mae lived and breathed town gossip. “The two of you looked pretty chummy to me.”

“Then you need glasses. I’m far from Brodie Gett’s type.” Though Cindy was at one time, and probably still was now, big baby belly and all. Her shiny blond hair and large breasts very much met Brodie’s qualifications. I looked down at my barely-C cups and sighed.

Her eyebrow arched.

“I needed his help,” I said in my defense, “and he agreed. Nothing lurid going on.”

“Needed his help doing what?” She leaned closer.

I winced at her implication, as well as the lingering truth. Should I tell Cindy about my investigation? If I did, it would race through Gett like the cheapest of whiskeys. The killer would surely hear of it.

And then what?

Would he be scared out of hiding?

Worth a shot. I launched into my tale, laying out the facts as I knew them. Roger was dead. Murdered. Jack didn’t do it. Brodie was the last person to see him alive—other than his killer, if Brodie was to be believed. Not only had Roger dipped into loansharking, he’d also embezzled fifty thousand from Lucky Whiskey.

And there wasn’t a good suspect, other than Brodie and my own grandfather, in the group.

“So you see why I needed help,” I ended lamely. It sounded sorrier when I said it out loud. Jack would surely rot in prison for the rest of his days.

“I do.” She hesitated. “Here’s my advice—follow the money, honey.”

“What?”

She lowered her voice to a near whisper, even though the diner was empty except for a couple sitting in the back and Billy James, who chatted with the short order cook in the kitchen. “I watch a lot of those true crime shows on the TV.” She glanced around again. “You know the ones?”

I nodded. I’d auditioned for roles in graphic reenactments often enough. The dialogue usually went something like, “Who’s there?” A loud scream. And then a fake death cough. My screeches had never been “real” enough to get me the part, though I’d scared my elderly neighbor a time or two.

Cindy ran her finger across the counter, wiping it on her apron when it came away stained with meatloaf grease. “The one thing all my shows say is, follow the money.”

I tilted my head. Could it be that easy? If I found the money—or more to the point, what Roger had done with the money he’d stole from Lucky—would I also find a killer? Damn. I needed to search Jack’s records again, see if I could figure out how Roger had gotten his ill-gotten gains. I also needed to talk more with Mary. She knew Roger better than anyone had. And maybe she’d admit to an affair with Brodie, thereby sealing his motive.

On top of all that, I had to get my broken windshield patched, not to mention run a distillery with no distiller. I tapped my lips in wonder. Who distilled for Gett Whiskey?

The two distilleries had a long history of poaching workers. Wouldn’t hurt to take a quick jaunt over to Gett’s distillery, check out the competition and maybe borrow a distiller or two.

Granddad would be proud.

Unfortunately, my trip to Gett Whiskey proved fruitless. Workers in blue coveralls hauled barrels around on carts, but not a one would stop to talk to me. The few I knew by name acknowledged me with small waves but refused to stop and chat. Not that I could blame them. Rue would surely fire anyone who even smiled at a Lucky during business hours.

After about ten minutes of wandering the distillery grounds, a security guard in a gray uniform, gun and taser attached to his utility belt, ushered me through the gate and to my car, windshield still just as cracked as when I left it, parked on the side of the road.

The guard stood there, hand on the gun at his hip, watching as
I drove off.

Why Gett needed armed security was beyond me. Sure, the whiskey business had a long history of violence and thuggery. People had killed and died for it. But we’d come a long way since the days of Prohibition, murder, and mobsters.

Or at least I’d thought so until Roger ended up in a cask.

After my futile trip to the Gett compound, I asked around town for the name of Gett’s distiller, but everyone claimed not to know. Odd since everyone in Gett knew everyone else’s business. Hell, it wasn’t long before a rumor about my early-morning visit to a half-naked Brodie had reached my ears.

By the afternoon I’d be bearing his love child.

A few of the old timers, sitting outside the post office playing chess, did say the Getts, like the Luckys, had an open position for a distiller. Not that theirs had left the position feet first. Or maybe he had. Not hard to imagine with Rue at the helm.

Somehow, knowing Rue was in the same boat added a spring to my step. I’d reach out to other distillers around the country for references. See if any names popped up. But first I had to figure out how we would pay a master distiller enough to move to a backwater town in the middle of the Everglades. Any hope I once had of finding a replacement faded as I reviewed invoices and Jack’s handwritten ledgers that afternoon. Roger’s theft had indeed left us tittering on the edge. One wrong move on my part, and we’d lose everything.

Follow the money echoed through my head. Cindy Mae might be on to something. I pushed back from the desk in Jack’s meager office and headed to the rackhouse, where each employee had an assigned locker. Distillery work was often hard, sweaty stuff, especially in the wort room. The locker room was one thing we had to offer that Gett Whiskey didn’t; they apparently frowned on employees keeping personal items on company property.

My snooping around inside the men’s locker room would draw attention no matter what, so I figured it was better to face it head on. I knocked on the door, announcing myself. When no answer came from inside, I stepped through the doorway. The stench of sweat and body spray hit me full force. I tried not to gag as I headed for Roger’s locker at the end of the row. No one had cleaned it out after his death. Did it hold a clue to his killer or, better yet, a clue plus thousands of dollars stolen from Lucky?

Using the bolt cutters I’d found wedged in the coat closet by the front door of our house, I snipped off the thick steel lock, enjoying the final snap. With a hesitant breath, I opened the metal locker. Peering into Roger’s life felt odd and intrusive, even after his death. Maybe even more so. I’m sure he would’ve rather not had me paw through his belongs, especially the tube of questionable medical cream tucked inside a folded shirt. Sadly, I only found a whopping fifty cents. I pocketed it, figuring it was likely stolen from Lucky anyway.

Where I’d hoped to find a clue, I found nothing more than the sad existence of a dead man. The only possible bit of evidence came in the form of a phone number scrawled on a piece of scrap paper. It wasn’t a number I recognized. Nor was the large, ornamental handwriting.

I called the number, letting the phone ring and ring, unanswered.

I tapped the number into a database search engine on my phone.

No results.

Another dead end.

I winced at the turn of phrase.

If I was going to follow the money, I first needed to untangle Roger’s embezzlement scheme. Since I’d barely passed my finance class in college, I opted for a second set of eyes. Eyes that knew where all the proverbial money bags were and are buried. Therefore, I left the distillery and headed into the house. I stuffed all the papers related to the last two year’s finances into a plastic bag. Had Jack never heard of a computer? I grumbled as I poured more papers into a second bag.

Once I had everything amassed, I called Crystal Green, Gett’s one and only CPA, for an appointment. She agreed to take a look today, if I could swing by her office on Main Street. I had no doubt that she would get the books in order as well as ferret out Roger’s embezzlement scheme. Once I knew how Roger had gotten the money, I’d plug the hole to keep any other dirty hands off Lucky Whiskey funds.

And just maybe I’d find a killer.

Before my appointment with Crystal, I drove to the closest mechanic, about ten minutes away. I parked my Prius in the pitted dirt lot, and got out. Jose Garcia, who along with my father had built the very Trans Am I was conceived in, took one look at my windshield and whistled softly. “Unlucky, Charlotte.” He laughed, saying something to the two other men in the garage in rapid Spanish. They laughed too. I stifled an eye roll.

“How much will it cost to fill in the crack?” In my head I did a quick calculation of my bank account.

He shrugged. “Fifty or so.”

Great.

“How long until it’s fixed?”

He shrugged again. This time with more emphasis. “A few hours.”

Which in mechanic time equaled next week. I tried not to wince, instead giving him a wide smile. “Thank you,” I said, giving him my cell number to call when he finished with the windshield.

“Girl,” Jose said, “it’s good to have you home.”

Tears filled my eyes. I blinked them away. A part of me wished to be anywhere else in the world. The weight of Jack’s arrest and Lucky Whiskey’s financial straits laid heavy on my shoulders.

But Jose wasn’t finished. “Your daddy would’ve been proud. God rest him.”

I had my doubts but thanked Jose for his kindness. I set out to enjoy the walk back to town, which would take about an hour. It would give me a chance to think, I reasoned. And it would have if I hadn’t spent all my time worrying about six-foot gators jumping from the marsh on my left. The shopping bags full of receipts gripped in my hands would hardly protect me from steel-locking jaws. Each step brought forth stories whispered around a bonfire. Stories of man-eating gators gobbling up unsuspecting victims.

Only half of which were true.

But half was plenty.

Thankfully I arrived back at what passed for civilization around here without so much as a bug bite. Crystal Green’s office on Main Street beckoned, a storefront built, much like the rest of the town, in the late 1800s. A mud-colored stain marked the wall a foot off the ground, a testament to multiple floods over the years.

I opened the door to her office. Bells jangled overhead, sounding homey and inviting. As much as a CPA’s office could. Crystal appeared, her brown hair tied back in a bun, glasses hanging off her slim nose. She looked too young to own a business let alone to hold all three degrees from University of Florida hanging on the wall.

“Charlotte.” She gave me a quick hug. “It’s so good to see you. How’s Jack holding up?”

“Good,” I said, but I really had no idea. I’d tried to arrange a visit with him yesterday, but he’d refused to see me. His refusal had hurt. But then again, I wouldn’t want him to see me behind bars either. Luckys didn’t have much in the way of money, but we had plenty of stubborn pride.

That, too often, proved to be our downfall.

“Please, have a seat.” She motioned to a single worn chair in front of a nice oak desk, the same type of wood normally charred to make bourbon. A slow smile spread over my lips. One more thing Luckys had in spades—useless whiskey knowledge.

I sat, my legs sticking out as the chair sucked me down into its compressed cushion. Crystal too sat, her body positioned to look down on the client. A power position often used in Hollywood, where z-list actors sat right above screenwriters in the food chain. Odd to see here in Gett. “So what can I do for you?” she asked with a polite, professional smile.

“Jack’s books.” I passed the plastic bags full of invoices and other financial papers across the desk. She frowned but didn’t comment, so I continued, “They’re a mess. I need to know exactly where Lucky stands.”

“Easy enough.”

This is where it got tricky. I didn’t want Roger’s embezzlement spread all over town. Too many people already knew, though I’d sworn Cindy Mae to secrecy and I doubted Brodie would spread Boone’s accusation around.

Could I trust Crystal to keep my secret too? Not that Crystal was in the habit of gossiping, but she could mention it to one person, who would tell another, and eight hundred times later practically everyone in town would know.

Including Danny Gett.

The evidence against Jack didn’t need to grow anymore. He was looking at a life sentence at best.

I wrung my hands.

“Charlotte,” she said quietly, “I’m not a priest or a lawyer, but whatever you tell me is protected. It stays right here.”

I hesitated for a few seconds more. “I recently found out about the embezzlement of fifty thousand dollars from Lucky Whiskey.” My voice grew stony. “I need to know how, and if possible, where the money went.”

“Oh dear,” she said, her eyes widening behind the lenses of her glasses. “Yes, of course. I’ll work on it today. Hopefully I’ll have an answer in a few hours.” A blush rose on her pale cheeks. A blush reserved for southern ladies when broaching a difficult question. “Do you know who stole it?”

“No,” I lied with complete conviction. “But I suspect it was someone close to the distillery. An inside job, if you would.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

“Thank you.” I rose, but her next words stopped me.

“It’s odd,” she said.

“What is?”

“Lucky Whiskey loses fifty thousand dollars, and then Roger Kerrick gets himself murdered.”

I said nothing.

She shook her head, her glasses slipping farther down her nose. “It’s almost as if the famed Lucky luck Jack often boasted about has petered out.”