Death in the Distillery (6 page)

He wagged his finger at me. "Not bourbon, Mr. Boudreaux. Sour mash bourbon."

"There's a difference?" I frowned. "I thought bourbon
was bourbon, like vodka is vodka."

"Oh, no. Bourbon comes from Bourbon County, Kentucky. All the other bourbons must be called sour mash.
By law. Just like champagne comes from the province of
Champagne in France. Elsewhere, it is considered sparkling
water, although that propriety is not observed in America
with the same fastidiousness as bourbon."

I gave him a wry grin. "Live and learn."

"Yes. And now, come with me." With a surprisingly
powerful grip, he took my elbow and turned me around.
His entire personality became electric, intense, a diametric
switch from his earlier reserve. "I'll answer all your questions, Mr. Boudreaux, all of them, but you must permit me
to show you through our plant and then join me in the
visitors' lounge. I'm quite proud of the operation. And I
think after you see it, you will enjoy your libation even
more."

Before I could say no, hold on, or maybe next time, he
had me downstairs in front of a display case containing
hundreds of empty whiskey bottles of every size and color.
"I always start here, with my collection. And this one, I think you'll appreciate. Circa, 1840. I like to show this one
to all our guests," he said, pointing to a brown bottle shaped
like an eighteenth century cabin with a door, windows, and
chimney. The brand on the bottle was EG BOOZ'S OLD
CABIN WHISKEY. "If the occasion should ever arise, Mr.
Boudreaux, there is the origin of the word `booze'."

I chuckled. "So EG Booz was the real McCoy, huh?"

He laughed. "Another whiskey first, Mr. Boudreaux."

"Huh?" I frowned.

"Real McCoy, Mr. Boudreaux. Real McCoy. The expression came from Captain Bill McCoy, who quite skillfully and successfully smuggled whiskey into the USA
during Prohibition."

"No kidding?" Trivia fascinated me.

He gave me a condescending grin. "No kidding. That is
the origin of that expression, Real McCoy. During Prohibition, unscrupulous gangsters paid no attention to the quality of the product they merchandised. As you are no doubt
aware, a number of people died from bad whiskey. Everyone knew, however, that if they purchased whiskey from
Bill McCoy, it was safe, and usually of the highest quality.
Patrons would ask the bartender if the drink was the McCoy."

Then, he pointed through a window. "Now, back to business. Here is where the grain is unloaded and the corn, rye,
and barley are placed in their respective bins prior to being
ground."

I had to admit, it was quite an operation. I realized I
wasn't getting away without seeing the entire plant, so I
was determined to get in my share of questions.

He continued his explanation of the various operations
in the distillery. He pointed out the grinding mills, huge
machines shaped like upside-down U's. He spoke with the
staccato beat of a machine gun. It was almost like he had
some obsessive-compulsive disposition where the distillery
was concerned.

I struggled to squeeze a word in edgewise. "I didn't see
you out at the accident yesterday."

He pointed out where the various grains were stored after
grinding. "Now, this ... huh? Oh, no. I wasn't outside. I
was upstairs, checking chemists' reports. I glanced out the
window and saw a small crowd, but I had no idea what
had happened."

I remembered catching a glimpse of a face in the secondfloor window. It must have been Jackson's. "So, you went
on back to work?"

He gave me an embarrassed grin. "Like I said, I didn't
know what had happened. All I saw was a group of people.
And in all truth, I'm not too comfortable in crowds, but I
did attend the reception. In fact, I saw you with Mrs. Morrison's grandniece. Why ..

I slipped another question in. "But you knew Emmett
Patterson pretty well."

For a moment at the mash tubs, he paused. I saw a flicker
of something in his eyes, nervousness, impatience. "In all
candor, too well. I didn't like the man. He was a lazy and
slipshod employee." He gestured to the cookers, quickly
shifting the subject. "Here is where the corn is cooked to
two hundred and twelve degrees. Then we cool it to one
hundred and eighty, add the rye and cook it again. That's
how we make the mash. Once the mash is cooled to one
hundred and forty-five degrees, we add the malted barley.
Now, up ahead is the yeast laboratory. You'll be amazed
at what we have accomplished. Why ..."

His words faded as I glanced out the window at a black
Lexus passing, each tire stirring up tiny puffs of white dust.
"Why didn't you fire him if he was such a poor employee?"

He reached for the doorknob and without hesitation, replied, "This is a business, Mr. Boudreaux. We all have
supervision."

I followed him into the lab, surprised at the sterility of
the room, but curious as to the obvious implication of his
remark. "You're telling me Mrs. Morrison refused to let
you fire him?"

He arched an eyebrow. "All I'm saying is that when I
suggested we replace Patterson, my recommendation was rejected." He picked up a test tube. "Here's the amazing
project I was talking about, a sample of our own strain of
yeast which is cultured and protected from contamination
and outside influences by careful bacteriological techniques. One of a kind, it is a pure culture yeast-Saccharomyces Cerevisiae-developed from a single original cell
and carefully propagated and maintained until a vigorous
strain was produced with its own particular properties to
produce whiskey possessing desired characteristics. We
made our first breakthrough in nineteen-eighty-eight, and
we constantly strive to improve the yeast."

I was lost after here is a sample of our own yeast.
"That's nice," I lamely replied, but I went right back to my
earlier question. "Why would she refuse to let you fire
him?"

His voice fell back into its initial reticence. "She signs
my pay check, which is quite substantial. Her business is
her business. Mine is mine. I don't argue with her." He
gave me a crooked grin. "I can't afford to, especially with
a wonderful wife and two lovely, but spoiled daughters
accustomed to the good life."

"I see."

Immediately, that obsessive-compulsive mindset took
charge again. "Now, the next step is the fermenting room
where yeast is added to mash and allowed to ferment for
up to ninety-six hours."

He spat out explanations and observations like a ruptured
fire hose as we toured the fermenting room. The fermenters
were huge cylindrical vats almost forty feet tall and twenty
in diameter. The bottom was shaped like a funnel, and pipes
ran from the fermenters in every direction, reminding me
of one of those old Rube Goldberg contraptions. You've
seen them-a steel ball rolls down a groove, falls off on a
lever that ignites a cigarette lighter, which in turn burns a
string in two, upsetting a bucket of water on someone's
head.

"This is really something." I didn't know what else to
say. Jackson was like a child in a toy shop. I supposed that if someone was ever born to be a Master Distiller, Emeritus, it was Alonzo Lynch Jackson. I managed to squeeze
in another observation. "Your mechanic, Runnels, suggested maybe someone killed Patterson."

Jackson looked around in surprise, then a wry grin
creased his face. He touched his tongue to his lips again.
"David is an excellent mechanic, but sometimes he ...
well, the most generous observation is that sometimes his
imagination runs away with him." He led the way past the
beer wells and into the room with the copper whiskey stills.
"Did he tell you about his friends from another planet?"

I sensed the gentle sarcasm in his words. "So you think
the death was simply an accident?"

"Yes, Mr. Boudreaux." He smiled almost compassionately. "A tragic accident. Of course, Emmett helped it along
by getting drunk, but, that was Emmett."

"Drunk? How do you know that? The autopsy report
hasn't been released."

He grinned sheepishly. "Not to speak badly of the dead,
but Emmett was drunk. That was what caused the accident.
Now, shall we continue our tour? At the end, we can sample some of our latest sour mash bourbons."

Well, I perked up at that. After all, I was gaining an
invaluable education in one area of my nutritional needs,
even if my investigation was leading me nowhere, which
is exactly what I had expected. "Sounds like a winner to
me."

In the next hour, he pointed out the whiskey condenser,
the wine tanks, the finished whiskey tanks, and then led me
into the cistern room where finished whiskey was being
drawn off into new, charred white oak barrels. I watched
as workers stenciled black numbers on a white rectangle
on each barrel with the type of whiskey, the date, and a
number."

I read one of the numbers. "Four-nine-eight-two-onetwo-eight. Why the number?"

Jackson grimaced. "Serial numbers. Uncle Sam. He's got
to have his part of this."

"You mean, every barrel is numbered?"

"Every barrel. Like that one you just read. It will be
stored in rackhouse number four. The ninety-eight is the
year barreled, and the barrel number is two thousand, one
hundred and twenty-eight." He nodded to a computer next
to a file cabinet. "Here's where we keep record of our inventory. And there," he said, indicating the file cabinet, "is
where we keep our old records on floppy disks going back
to the early eighties. Before that, we kept our records by
hand."

"And every single one of those barrels, you have records
on?"

He handed me a printout. "A necessity, Mr. Boudreaux.
The federal government insists on exact records. They want
to know just how much taxes you're going to pay. That
printout gives the type of whiskey, the date, serial number,
and rackhouse location."

"Rackhouse?"

"A warehouse of sorts. That's where the whiskey ages."

I nodded. "Where do you store all these barrels? Here
on the premises?"

"Not enough room. We have three rackhouses on the
premises and several more around the area. The barrels are
white oak, charred inside. Each holds one hundred and
eighty liters of whiskey, which ages for up to twelve years."

"How much do you produce a year?"

Alonzo Jackson grinned shyly. "We're not a world
player yet, Mr. Boudreaux. Just a little over one hundred
and twenty thousand last year."

"Gallons or liters?"

His grin broadened. "Barrels."

"Some operation," I muttered as we left the cistern room
and headed across the quadrangle for the lounge. I noticed
a long, low, rectangular building adjoining the distillery.
"What's that?"

He snapped his fingers and angled toward the building.
"I'm sorry. I should have thought to show you that piece
of history. It is fascinating. It's where the Saladin Box is."

"The Saladin Box?"

He opened the door and flipped on the lights. The room
was empty, obviously closed up for years as evidenced by
the accumulation of dust clinging to every exposed surface.
In the middle of the floor was a concrete trough with a
perforated floor. The trough was eight feet wide, four feet
deep, and at least eighty feet long, the length of the building. Extending the length of the trough were six mechanical
turners that resembled giant, flat-bladed corkscrews.

"What's this contraption?"

With a chuckle, he led the way along the bay. "This
contraption was once used to turn the barley, slowly moving it from one end of the trough to the other." He went
on to explain that barley had to be turned and dried properly for good bourbon. "However, the box was too labor
intensive, so now we buy the barley from specified vendors."

"How much barley are you talking about? Very much?"

"The box holds about twenty tons of barley, which will
make about sixteen or seventeen tons of malt."

This whiskey business was more complicated than it
looked. "I'd hate to turn that much by hand."

Alonzo arched a gray-flecked eyebrow. "That's exactly
what Tom Seldes did in the beginning ... before the Saladin Box. His main job was to start at one end of the building, which had a foot thick layer of barley covering the
entire floor, and work his way from one end of the room
to the other, turning all of the barley by hand, day in and
day out."

I remembered Seldes, the gorilla man. No wonder his
arms and shoulders looked so powerful. "Twenty tons?
What did he use?"

"A shovel, but that was years ago. Certainly he wasn't
turning twenty tons then. More like ten or twelve."

"That's all?" I gave him a wry grin.

Alonza nodded. "That's all."

I whistled. "That's enough. I suppose he's been around
a long time, huh?"

"Yes. He started with Mr. Morrison in the beginning.
Through all the bad times, and finally the good times. Tom
and Mr. Morrison were great friends. In fact, that was the
reason the Saladin Box was put in."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Tom developed what is called monkey shoulders in the
business. Years and years of the constant turning of barley
creates a muscular condition that was the precursor of repetitive strain injury. Similar, I would guess, to the current
affliction called carpal tunnel syndrome, except this, obviously, is in the shoulders."

I looked at him in disbelief. "You're telling me that Morrison went to all of this expense for one man?"

Jackson laughed. "Oh, no. Primarily, we did it because
business had grown so that hand turning was not cost effective. Then soon, the Saladin Box also became a victim
of the economy. As I mentioned earlier, now we can purchase sufficient grains meeting our specifications from various vendors."

At the end of the tour, he led me into the visitors' lounge,
which perpetuated the Spanish motif of the distillery. A
dozen heavy oaken tables, their chairs upholstered with rich
red velvet, filled the room like tiny islands, each a discreet
distance from the others. Red and black tile, shiny and
slick, formed a series of diamonds on the floor. Oils in dark,
ornate frames covered the stucco walls, scenes of violent
bullfights, dancing senoritas, and whirling fandangos. I was
especially drawn to an oil of a dauntless vaquero leaning
low off a galloping horse, arm outstretched, his extended
fingers ready to seize the neck of a rooster partially buried
in the sand.