Death in the Distillery (4 page)

Janice gave me a weak, grateful smile, then hurried
across the carpeted room to hug her aunt. Despite her earlier distress, Janice did not have a hair out of place, nor a
wrinkle in her outfit. To paraphrase Fitzgerald, the rich are
not like the average guy.

I watched the two embrace, wondering what percentage
of her aunt's genes Janice possessed. I'd always heard that
if you want to see what your wife will look like twenty
years from now, look at your mother-in-law. Did that timeworn aphorism apply to aunts also?

Emmett Patterson's death did nothing to detract from the
gaiety of the reception. Booze flowed, hors d'oeuvres vanished, gossip spread, and innuendo prevailed.

Janice stayed at her aunt's elbow, which left me to fend
for myself as usual. That inborn indifference through which
the rich viewed the lower classes was another reason our
relationship seemed to be going in circles like my little
Tiger Barb, Oscar.

We met a few years back when I was helping her out of an insurance jam. I wasn't interested in getting serious, but
we had fun together even though I quickly realized I was
simply a dependable escort, an infrequent lover, an occasional confidant.

In other words, I was a tool to satisfy her needs. And
she was the same for me. We had reconciled our positions
in our relationship. And both of us were fairly content.

Inexplicably, despite the skewed relationship between us,
we were very good friends who enjoyed each other's company. From time to time, Janice spoke of "our relationship."
After a few of those little discussions, which I really didn't
understand, I learned when to agree and when not to agree.

The Chalk Hills reception went the way it was supposed
to go. Drinks were plentiful, and the tables were laden with
platters of deli sandwiches, vegetables, and a variety of
exotic appetizers, most of which I wouldn't touch on a dare.
Dishes that could double for fish bait did nothing for my
palate.

I followed the redneck route. I grabbed a straight bourbon and dropped a few party spirals on my lead crystal
dish, a sample from each platter, turkey and pepperjack,
ham and swiss, and red pepper and olive, all rolled with
herbed cream cheese and spinach in tasty bread.

The size of a half-dollar, the spirals were enough to dull
the appetite. Still, I would have preferred a platter of crawfish etouffee or jambalaya, rib-sticking fare from my Louisiana roots. While I sat licking the cream cheese off my
fingers, I promised myself to whip up a gumbo in spite of
the hot weather.

Chicken and sausage were the only decent Cajun gumbo
that could be prepared from local ingredients this side of
Port Arthur, Texas, which has so many emigrant Cajuns
from Louisiana that residents claim the city is the capital
of southwestern Louisiana, and Baton Rouge be hanged.

Just after my mother and I moved to Austin, she whipped
up a shrimp and oyster gumbo using local ingredients. We
both gagged. The only shrimp available had been locally frozen, and imparted a disgusting flavor somewhere between sea water and vinegar. It was like eating salty soup
with chunks of rubber floating in it. After only a portion
of one bowl, she dumped the remainder down the disposal.

A couple of times a year when we visited home, we'd
bring Louisiana ingredients back with us. After Mom
moved back to Church Point, I continued doing the same.
Now, I return with two or three quarts of oysters and fifty
or so pounds of shrimp, fresh from the bayou and gulf,
which I clean and freeze myself. I also bring in three boxes
of smoked sausages. Then, whenever I wish, I can have a
fine pot of shrimp and oyster or chicken and sausage
gumbo, spicy enough to drain the sinuses, delectable
enough to encourage a second or third bowl, and satisfying
enough to put a body into a sound sleep.

During the drive back to Austin after the reception, Janice questioned me about my conversation with her aunt. I
told her of her aunt's proposition. "I still think the idea is
foolish, but if it will make her feel better, I'll do it."

"Will it take long?" She stared into her compact mirror,
straightening her brown pageboy and smoothing her
makeup.

"Couple of days. I'm only going to talk to those who
worked with Patterson. Cleyhorn gave me their names before we left the reception. There's probably twenty or so
employees who had nothing to do with him, who never saw
him, who weren't there today. I'm not going to waste my
time or her money on them. To be honest, I'm just going
through the motions. Everything I do, the police have done.
Besides, it's an easy way to pick up eight big ones."

"Tony! You should be ashamed." Her eyes twinkled in
merriment.

"For what?" I glanced sidelong at her. "Your aunt has
more money than the Bank of England. I told her hiring
me was foolish, but she insisted. If anything, I should resent
her." I suppressed a grin.

Janice's merriment faded. "Resent? Aunt Beatrice? But
why?" She leaned forward and stared at me, perplexed.

"Why, for prostituting me. I'm selling her my time just
so she can feel better." A grin broke across my lips.

Janice leaned back against the seat and chuckled.
"You're teasing me. Just you wait. I'll get even."

"Yeah? Well, I might just decide to take out my fee in
trade."

Her cheeks colored. She ducked her head. "Tony! You're
shameless."

"Yeah. I know."

Sometimes, Janice and I really hit off.

She scooted around in the seat. "If you're not busy tonight, why don't you go to the Travis County day lily exhibit with me?"

A day lily exhibit? My brain scrambled for a way to beg
off. "No, thanks. I think I need to do a little research on
distilleries before tomorrow." It was a flimsy excuse, but
the best I could do on short notice. I was never a very
imaginative person. Stubborn, but not too imaginative.

With a shrug, she turned back to the front. "Okay. Maybe
next time."

That evening, I called Marty Blevins, my boss at Blevins' Investigations. He made it plain when he hired me that
he did have some reservations over my inexperience, but
since I'd pulled him out of a burning car, he felt obligated
to give me a shot.

I glanced out of my apartment window as I briefed Marty
on the assignment, the expectations, and the pay. A car was
parked at the curb across the street. A cigarette glowed in
the growing dusk.

"Sounds screwy to me, Tony. Sure you can handle it?
You've never done any real investigative work." He
stressed the word "real."

I forgot about the car. "Hey, look Marty. I'm no Sherlock
Holmes or your super sleuth Grogan, but even I can ask a
few questions. This is just a routine matter that can be wrapped up in a couple of days at the most. Besides, I'm
tired of just running down bond jumpers or runaway kids.
I deserve achance to prove I'm more than a kid chaser."

He didn't reply for several seconds. I heard a sigh.
"Okay. Make me proud."

I clenched my teeth. That was his departing remark to
everyone: Make me proud. Like a father. I often wondered
if he said it to his son when the boy took the throne in the
bathroom. Make me proud, son. Yeah, Dad. I'll make you
proud.

"Sure, Marty. Don't worry. Everything will be fine."

After I hung up, I splashed a jelly glass half full of Jim
Beam Black Label Bourbon, my preference to the Chalk
Hills Sour Mash, and downed it in one gulp, seething at
the implication in his words. Sure you can handle it? I
poured another glass and plopped down on the couch in
front of the TV. So I wasn't one of his aces, or even one
of his top half-dozen aces. All this job called for was compiling information already volunteered.

Still, in all fairness, Marty had taken a chance on me.
The only background I brought to the company was as an
insurance adjuster with very little investigative experience
and a school-teacher experienced at dodging bullets and
knives. On the other hand, he knew all that when he hired
me.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the couch.
I was depressed. My career as a PI was going nowhere.
Like Oscar. Around and around and around. When my old
man bailed out on Mom and me, he said the two of us were
just Louisiana trash. Never amount to a thing. Maybe the
old man was right. Maybe I should have stayed in teaching.
I sure wasn't bowling anyone over as a private investigator.

Through the thin walls of my apartment, I heard my Aggie chum and his wife, Nora, engaging in their nightly
shouting match. Marriage. That was one entanglement I'd
managed to escape without any permanent damage.

Diane and I were high school sweethearts in Church
Point, even after I moved with my mother to Austin when I was in the eleventh grade. She and I started at the University of Texas together, but she dropped out, and we
drifted apart. Several years later, we got back together. Unlike most of our friends who made one baby after another
because they believed it was their God-given mission to
procreate the entire world all by themselves, Diane and I
had no offspring and, within two years, the thrill of lust
and passion faded when we had to wake up each morning
and face each other at our worst.

The best thing I can say about Diane is we parted amicably. She took her clothes, the furniture, the car, and I
took my clothes, a ten-gallon aquarium with Oscar, his
swimming mates, and a cab. Like the old country song from
way back, "She Got the Gold Mine, and I Got the Shaft."
But I never regretted the split at all. I was satisfied with
Oscar and his cohorts, a few Tiger and Checker Barbs.

Once, I'd put some Angelfish in with the Barbs, but the
little Barbs chased the docile little Angels around the aquarium, nipping at their fins. The Angels would probably have
died from heart attacks if Jack Edney hadn't come along.

Next thing I knew, cold liquid soaked my lap. I jumped
up, realizing I'd dozed off and spilled my drink. "Jesus." I
grumbled as I swiped a dishtowel across the wet couch.
"Get to bed, Tony. You're wasting good booze."

I glanced out the window as I started to the bedroom.
The car was still by the curb, and using all my powers of
deduction, I theorized someone was in the car because a
cigarette was still glowing. I spoke aloud. "How's that,
Marty? Pretty good detecting, huh?"

Moments after I turned off the lights, I heard a car engine
roar to life. Throwing back the covers, I peered out the
window. The car had disappeared. With a frown, I climbed
back into bed, wondering if I was being watched. I chided
myself. "Who would want to keep an eye on you?"

A pounding on my door awakened me. Drowsily, I
peered at the digital clock. Two-thirty. The pounding continued. "What the ..."

I staggered to my feet, grabbed my robe, and by the light
of the aquarium, made my way to the door. I flipped on
the porch light and peered through the peephole. Talk about
coincidence. My old teaching buddy, and fish killer without
compare, Jack Edney, stood gazing forlornly at the door.
He looked like he'd been stomped on, spit at, and squeezed
dry.

"Jesus, Jack," I said, opening the door. "What are you
doing out at this time of night?" The sweet-sour stench of
alcohol blasted me square in the face. "You look terrible.
You drunk?"

He swayed unsteadily, a silly smirk plastered on his thin
face. "I ... I sure hope so." He slurred his words. "Can I
sleep here tonight, Tony?"

When I hesitated, he continued. "Maggie threw me out."

I considered my options, which at two-thirty in the morning were severely limited. "She's not going to come over
and tear the place apart, is she? My landlady doesn't like
any disturbances."

"Naw. She doesn't know where I am." Tears gathered in
his eyes. His tone grew maudlin. "Probably doesn't care
either."

With a sigh, I stepped back. Last thing I needed was for
some lush to go on a crying jag on my front porch at twothirty in the morning. "Yeah. Come on in. You know where
the couch is. Lock the door behind you. And stay away
from the aquarium. You killed all my fish except one, and
now he only swims in circles."

Jack hung his head. "I told you, Tony. I didn't mean to
take a leak in the aquarium. I thought it was the john."

Jack was still sleeping when I left the next morning, and
Oscar, my diminutive Barb, was still alive. Jack must have
found the bathroom. Thank God for small miracles.

Bright and early meant 8 A.M. to me, but bright and early
meant 5 A.M. to the employees at Chalk Hills Distillery.
The mechanic, David Runnels, was squatting next to the
open doors of the maintenance barn with a cup of coffee
in one hand and a cigarette in the other when I pulled up
in front.

Inside the spacious metal building sat the bright red Massey Ferguson tractor, a monster 230, showroom clean. A
nearby bay held the tandem discs, a forward gang and a
backward gang that looked like an elongated X. At either
end of the X was a seven-foot wing folded vertically. Extended horizontally, the disc stretched thirty feet from end
to end, thirty feet of concave disc blades shiny as new steel
and designed to slice nine inches into hard earth like a
scalpel through flesh.