Death in the Distillery (7 page)

Jackson gestured to a table. I sat, noticing a current copy
of the Austin Business Report on the table. I glanced around
the room. Each table had a copy of the magazine, which
was, as its title implied, a monthly report on thriving businesses in and around Austin.

No sooner had we seated ourselves than a fruit plate and platter of deli sandwiches were set before us. Jackson nodded to the waiter. "Thank you, Fred." He spoke to me.
"Now for the bourbon. Any special requests?" Like magic,
Alonzo Jackson's conversation mode leapfrogged from
obsessive-compulsive back to reticent and shy.

I popped a watermelon ball in my mouth. "Whatever you
say."

For the next few minutes, we made small talk about the
distillery until Fred brought us each a mint julep, the drink
of the Old South. I've never been partial to mixed drinks,
being of the opinion that mixers, whether water or soda,
only delayed the goal and intent of serious drinkers.

But, I was in polite society that would frown on my
turning up the bottle and chugging half-a-dozen gulps. So
I sipped daintily of my drink. A woman's drink, I told
myself. Then I remembered the missing girl. "Were you
here when the girl turned up missing?"

He momentarily stiffened, and then a frown wrinkled his
forehead. "Missing girl? Oh, that one. Yes, yes. I was
here."

"What was it all about?"

"Why? Is it related to Patterson in any way?"

I shook my head. "Just idle conversation. Runnels mentioned her."

The wrinkles faded from his forehead. "Oh. I don't remember too much. Transient. She was passing through and
stopped for a job. I sent her to Tom at the rackhouse. He
had a full crew, so the girl left. A few weeks later, the
police showed up. I gathered from the way the police talked
that the girl was a runaway from some backwoods town in
Tennessee. Just as well he didn't hire her. I don't think she
was interested in the whiskey business." He sipped his julep
and licked his lips. "A true classic drink, Mr. Boudreaux.
True classic."

"What do you mean, `not interested in the whiskey business?'"

He shrugged. "The way she was dressed. A white blouse
knotted at her midriff. Shorts pulled right up into her crotch. I prefer employees who dress appropriately. That
demonstrates they do indeed want to work here, to help us
produce superior sour mash bourbon." He gestured to the
fruit tray. "Please, help yourself."

There was a trace of arrogance in his words that irritated
me. "She might have worked out real well."

He grinned sheepishly at the testy edge on my words. "I
sound pompous, I know. Please, forgive me, but, first impressions, Mr. Boudreaux. First impressions. Personally, I
think she was more interested in finding a young man than
working. I didn't want to take a chance. Just the short time
she was here, she was the cause of an argument between
David Runnels and Emmett Patterson. I didn't witness the
trouble, but from what I heard, blows were almost struck."
He gestured to the fruit and sandwiches. "Please. Help
yourself."

The next few minutes were passed in innocuous chitchat.
After four watermelon balls, two tiny triangles of cantaloupes, one strawberry, and four cream cheese and ham
sandwich quarters-which were so small they would not
even sustain a Barbie doll-I finished my second drink and
excused myself. Alonzo Jackson offered his hand, thanked
me and, ordering a third Mint Julep, leaned back in his
chair, the picture of an old southern gentleman relaxing on
the verandah after a hard day of working his slaves.

I paused just outside the door and blinked at the bright
Texas sun, then glanced at my watch.

"Son of-" I muttered. I'd spent almost four hours with
Jackson, and other than his reinforcing Runnels' opinion of
the deceased as well as my own of Runnels, I learned nothing. "Maybe, it's like you told Morrison, Tony. You can't
learn anything when there is nothing to learn," I muttered,
squinting through the rising heat rays that contorted the
landscape into garbled visions.

I looked around the grounds. The main house, its bright
red roof tiles contrasting sharply with the white stucco
walls in the bright sun, showed no sign of life. The large
doors remained open in the maintenance barn, and I could
see David Runnels busy at work.

Checking my notebook, I decided to see if Mary Tucker
had shown up. I was curious as to just what it was about
her that seemed so disturbing to Runnels.

Halfway across the lot to the maintenance barn, a white
Mercedes convertible with two laughing young women slid
to a halt several feet away. Dust ballooned up around the
car.

The passenger, her white teeth a striking contrast to her
deeply tanned skin, motioned to me. "Hey, you there. You
seen our dad?"

The driver was a couple of years older, but that they
were sisters was obvious. "I don't know. Who's your dad?"

She frowned. "You work here?"

"Not quite."

She studied me a moment, then her smile popped back
on her face. "Alonzo Jackson. He wasn't in his office. One
of the lab technicians said he was showing some dude
around."

I arched an eyebrow, then gave them a easy grin. "Well,
I'm the dude, and your dad is over at the visitors' lounge.
You know where that is?"

"Naturally." She laughed and waved as the Mercedes
sped away.

I watched them a moment, shaking my head. I had the
feeling they went through money faster than politicians
change their promises. No wonder Jackson never argued
with Beatrice Morrison. He couldn't afford to lose his job.

I found Runnels in the barn replacing a battery in a forklift.

"Naw. Tucker never punched in." Runnels stuck a crescent wrench in his hip pocket. He dragged a stained handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face.

I glanced at the cabins. A rusty Chevrolet Cavalier sat
in front of one, and an electric-blue Camaro in front of
another. "She live in one of those?"

"Yeah. Number five, but she ain't there. Been gone all
night, I guess."

"Oh?"

"Car's gone. Drives a red Honda. Front left fender is all
boogered up." He jammed the handkerchief back in his
pocket. "You wantin' to talk to her, huh?"

"Tomorrow will do just as well."

"She hangs out at the Red Grasshopper on Sixth Street
in Austin."

I made a throwaway gesture with my hand. "I'll see her
tomorrow."

He gave me a crooked grin. "She's got bright red hair if you change your mind. Goes with the Honda." He laughed
at his own wit.

"Thanks. I won't. By the way, Jackson said you and
Emmett had words over that runaway girl you mentioned
earlier."

His bulldog face darkened. "Yeah. Emmett was trying to
get in her pants. I told him I'd bust his head if he did."

"Did he?"

Runnels' eyes hardened. "Yeah. At least, that's what I
heard."

"And did you? Bust his head, I mean."

He sighed. "No."

I studied him a few moments, then nodded. "Thanks, Mr.
Runnels. And thanks for the information about Mary
Tucker."

I didn't plan on looking up Mary Tucker, not right away.
Instead, I swung by the Travis County Forensics lab where
an old girlfriend worked. Carrie Jean Adams, Landry now.
She and I had both been teachers at Madison High School.
She taught biology for a couple of years, but the struggle
with spoiled children, snotty parents, and stingy school
boards finally drove her into the laid-back, good-old-boy
security of county government, which also paid much better, was less of a hassle, and easier on the nervous system.

Carrie Jean's desk sat beside an opaque glass door, in
the middle of which was the word LAB in two-inch gold
leaf that was flaking away.

Eight desks filled the remainder of the room, four on
either side of the aisle leading to the door. Five women sat
staring at their computers, faces intent with concentration,
fingers flashing as they inputted data. The unmistakable
scent of eau d' formaldehyde, accented with the none-toodelicate pungency of pine oil, floated about the office. I
wondered idly if any of the women's husband's or boyfriend's pheromones were stimulated by the smell on their
ladies' clothing.

Florescent lights recessed in the white tile ceiling gave
the room a bright newness that somehow seemed incompatible with the mission of the office, that of processing
the dead. Black curtains, shadows, and candles perched
crookedly on the computer monitors was the atmosphere I
had expected, not this.

Carrie Jean's face lit when she spotted me. She hurried
to me and pressed her cheek to mine in a politically correct
gesture of friendship. She'd put on a few pounds, but that's
married life. She still looked good.

Back at her desk, I lowered my voice and told her what
I needed.

"I shouldn't, Tony." She gave me a come hither glance,
knowing full well I wouldn't come hither because she was
married to my college roommate who stole her away from
me.

"Hey, what can they do? You're a supervisor. Thirteen
years on the job. Who would even know? You handle the
paperwork anyway. Just make an extra copy."

Her voice grew husky. "What's in it for me?"

I played her game. "What do you want?"

,.You don't want to know. You'd freak out."

"Try me."

She hesitated, the taunting, teasing grin fading from her
face. She couldn't decide if I was calling her bluff or not.
She laughed nervously and, lowering her voice, quickly
changed the subject. "Okay. Who do you want?"

I lowered my voice at her sudden caution. "Emmett Patterson." I glanced over my shoulder, then back to Carrie.

Her eyes met mine, then her gaze dropped to the folder
on the side of her desk.

"Is that it?"

She nodded.

I reached for the folder, but she laid her hand on mine.
"I'll make you a copy. How do I get it to you?"

"I'll meet you after work. Where are you parked?"

"North parking lot. Green Accord. Five-fifteen."

On the way out, I checked the time. Three forty-five. If
I hurried, I could check out the Red Grasshopper on Sixth
Street and get back by five-fifteen.

I always swore Sixth Street in downtown Austin modeled
itself after New Orleans' Bourbon Street. The seven or
eight-block stretch from 1-35 to downtown was lined with
cozy little bistros, clamorous dance halls, expensive brothels disguised as bars, and a variety of eating joints selling
everything from fried ants to Italian-styled fajitas.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, pedestrian traffic was
no greater than any other of the downtown streets, but come
seven o'clock, the sidewalks erupted into a mass of reveling, frolicking merrymakers jamming the streets and making heroic efforts to guzzle every can of Millers Lite or
Budweiser in the city.

Runnels had steered me right. I spotted the red Honda,
boogered up left fender and all, parked just down the street
from the Red Grasshopper. I found a parking spot around
the corner.

There were half a dozen tables in the room, all filled, but
Mary Tucker stuck out like a boil on a baby's backside. I
spotted her as soon as I pushed through the doors. Her red
hair was frowsy, her makeup thick and gaudy, and her tight
pink tube top cut her fleshy torso in two, compressing her
ample bosom into the shape of a squashed pillow, providing no definition at all for her breasts. She sat at a rear
table with three men who looked like they'd stepped out
of the old black and white Victor Mature movie, One Million BC. Empty beer bottles stood on the table like a clan
of grunting Neanderthals leering at a woolly mammoth
roasting over the fire.

I took a stool at the bar and ordered a draft beer. The
room had the usual warm, sweet smell of beer, tinged with
the sharp odor of alcohol. My kind of perfume. I took a
deep breath. If I'd lived in the old West, I would have been
either a professional gambler or a bartender.