Chapter

32

Armed with an RFID reader and a rusted-out pickup, I made my way back to town with only a brief stop at Starbucks. The vanilla iced latte went down much too smoothly. Before I even hit the highway, I was sucking on the ice cubes with regret. I’d never been one to savor anything but a fine whiskey. Savoring took time. And time, it felt like, was the one thing none of us genuinely had.

Now that I found myself in possession of an RFID reader, I needed an RFID sticker to test. The one vehicle, besides the killer’s, that had just what I needed was Brodie’s Jeep.

Considering I saw the Jeep parked at the Gett Bar & Grill more often than not, I detoured toward the watering hole.

Surprisingly Brodie’s Jeep was not in the parking lot.

And just as unfortunate for me, Willow Jones was.

She leaned against the brick, one jean-clad foot kicked over the other. She held up her hand in a small wave as I drove by. In order not to raise suspicion, or rumors I was stalking Brodie, I parked the truck and got out.

“Hot out,” I said, inanely.

She nodded, a small smile flickering over her face.

“Slow day?” I motioned to the empty parking lot.

A single shoulder lifted.

I frowned as a single tear ran down her pale cheek. “Are you all right?”

She swiped at the wetness. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She snorted. “I’ve done nothing with the last ten years of my life. Spent it waiting around here, while I should’ve been exploring the world. Today was the last straw. I’m done with Gett. For good.”

I knew how she felt. As a teen, I’d longed to be free of Gett, and the Getts. But I learned an important lesson upon my return. The things that had drove me away, the broken pieces inside me, hadn’t magically glued themselves back together once I stepped beyond the town limits. I wanted to tell Willow as much, but she’d disappeared back inside the bar.

I stood staring at the door of the bar.

Then I turned back to the pickup to find the one Gett who might free Jack from prison.

Or rather, his Jeep. I’d gladly avoid the man.

Frustration filled me when I pulled up to my house. Brodie’s Jeep wasn’t in the drive. Yet noises from the distillery drew me. Maybe Brodie had parked around the back? I headed inside Lucky Whiskey, inhaling deeply as I did every time. My blood warmed and my body relaxed just being there. Workers smiled and nodded as they passed. It was good to be up and running. They knew it as much as I did, probably more.

Longtime foreman Remy Ray gave me a wave, his hand shaking slightly from Parkinson’s disease. Remy had been the foreman for as long as I could remember. Jack’s right hand, many times. “How’s it going, girl?” he asked with a wide smile, showing off two missing front teeth.

I swallowed back a retort at the blatant sexism. The whiskey business was not what anyone with the ability to see or hear would call progressive. Plenty of men were shocked to see a woman drink whiskey, let alone know enough about it to run a distillery. Not that I did. Yet.

Nonetheless, Remy didn’t mean any harm by his words. The old-timers all called me girl. Why wouldn’t they when my very own grandfather did the same? “What’s going on, Remy?” I asked, waving around the rackhouse. “Things getting back to normal?”

His grin grew. “The wort’s cooling as we speak.”

“That’s great news,” I said with excitement. The wort process was the most delicate step in making a smooth whiskey. The mash was stirred for hours, sucking down the sugars that were eventually fermented in large steel tanks called washbacks. Sixty-seven hours later, the vapors collected in the fermentation process were placed in the copper stills. The process was repeated twice more until the finest whiskey was born. “Anything I can do to help?” I asked.

He looked me up and down slowly, his grin quickly changing to a familiar frown. “You should rest.”

His words sounded much like Brodie’s, which reminded me of the question I wanted to ask. “I’m fine. But thank you for your concern.” I bit my lip. If I posed the question wrong, I’d tip the killer off for sure as well as piss off a large contingent of the town. “You used to work at Gett, right?”

He shrugged. “I sometimes moonlight when Rue asks. Jack doesn’t mind,” he added, as if I might. “He says it’s good to know the competition.”

“It is. For sure.” I patted his arm. Tremors rippled just underneath his skin. “What I wanted to ask about is Rue.”

His stern features grew more so, bushy gray eyebrows near swallowing his face. “What about her?”

“How’s she getting along these days?”

Remy’s shoulders lifted into another shrug. “She’s getting up there. Celebrated her eightieth a few months ago.” His smile was back. “Hell of a party.”

Rue Gett, though she might not be an outright killer, knew how to throw a killer party. Everyone in town was invited to her yearly birthday bash, and they came, stomachs and livers ready to enjoy the finest spread in five counties. The whiskey served wasn’t bad either. Not Lucky, though; Rue made a point of that. Though, surprisingly, she did invite the Luckys every year. Jack’s name was always written in her scrawl on invitations.

I thought back to the letter’s I’d found in the box in the back of Jack’s closet and frowned. Was it the same scrawled writing? Take away the ravages of age, and just maybe …

Ridiculous. Rue and Jack? That was crazy. They hated each other. Competed at everything. They were far from star-crossed lovers. The very idea sent a laugh bubbling from my throat. “Did Roger go to Rue’s birthday party?” I asked once I regained my sanity.

“Sure. Everyone in town went.” His smile dimmed somewhat. “Even her youngest grandson. I remember because he and Roger had a bit of a dust-up.”

“Brodie?”

“That’s the one. Fighting over a girl or something.” He shook his head, as if a woman didn’t rank high enough to merit fighting over. “Rue put a stop to it. Smacked that boy right upside the head. The two men shook hands and parted ways.”

“And that was that?”

He snorted. “You know better than that, girl. Roger wasn’t one to let anything go that easy. Remember how he pestered you after you caught him with that other girl?”

I nodded. For a few weeks, he refused to let me alone. Then suddenly, he stopped bugging me. Simply gave up. Or had he? Had Jack had a hand in it? I’d always wondered, but never asked.

Remy rubbed his whiskery chin. “Given the chance, Kerrick would’ve caused that Gett boy some pain.” He stared at me for a long pause. “You watch out, girl.”

I blinked at the quick turn in conversation. “For what?”

“You don’t want to be on the Getts’ bad side either.”

“I’m not …”

He placed his weathered hand over mine. “Keep it that way.”