Murder and Moonshine: A Mystery (18 page)

Ethan merely grunted.

“Believe it or not,” Rick went on, “I feel lousy about what happened. I didn’t poison him, but it was still my ’shine—and old man Dickerson drank it—and it killed him.”

“It’s not your fault Fred was using arsenic on the corn,” Daisy said.

He looked at her. “Fred was using arsenic on the corn?”

“Of course. How else would it have gotten there? He probably thought it was working wonderfully. The corn by the barn sure looks good. Except poor Fred didn’t realize that by putting arsenic on the corn, he was also putting it in the ’shine. He poisoned himself.”

Rick and Ethan glanced at each other.

“Daisy,” Rick responded slowly, “Fred didn’t use arsenic on the corn by the barn.”

“He didn’t?”

“No. I planted that corn. And I tended that corn. He had nothing to do with it.”

“But”—she blinked at him in confusion—“if he had nothing to do with it, then how … how did…”

“I don’t know,” Rick answered. “That’s the problem. I don’t know how the arsenic got there. I do know, however, Fred wasn’t responsible. There’s no arsenic on the corn, next to the corn, or anywhere near the corn. I’m sure of that because the rest of the batch is clean. I appreciate you saying it wasn’t my fault, but it wasn’t the corn’s fault either.”

“The arsenic didn’t just magically appear in the jars,” Ethan remarked dryly.

“That’s the main reason I didn’t throw them out,” Rick told him. “I was hoping if I kept everything the way it was, maybe there would be a clue somewhere. I figured when the sheriff came, he might be able to find it.”

“You’re positive…” Daisy blinked at him once more. “You’re positive there’s no arsenic in the rest of the batch?”

Rick smiled slightly. “Yes, I’m positive. I’m still standing—and Bobby’s still standing—and you’re still standing.”

“Do you think Mr. Dickerson was the target?” Ethan asked him.

“I think he had to be. Anybody who was paying any attention would have known I was putting the two jars up here on the porch for him, while I was drinking from the jars in the barn. And the jars in the barn are all fine and untouched. I’ve checked. Trust me, I’ve double- and triple-checked. But that brings me back to what I said before. Look around you. Do you see anyone? Who would possibly be paying any attention? I can’t for the life of me imagine. Except somebody must have been.”

“Somebody must have been,” Ethan concurred. “The real question is—why? Why would they put arsenic in these two jars and only these two jars?”

“Are you saying it was intentional?” Daisy stared at him. “Someone intentionally put arsenic in Fred’s ’shine?”

Ethan gave a little snort. “You’re just catching on to that now? Of course I believe it was intentional.”

Her stare widened. “That can’t be right. Nobody would poison old man Dickerson. Not deliberately.”

“Apparently they would,” Ethan retorted, “because they did.”

Daisy looked at Rick. He nodded.

“But it’s not logical.” She stood up. “Poor Fred was a recluse. He was old and never bothered a soul. Why would you poison a person like that? There’s no reason for it.”

“Well, there had to be some reason for it.” Ethan turned to Rick. “And since he lived on your property—and you’re the only one we know for certain ever saw him—you probably have the best chance of figuring out what that reason was. Or at least pointing me in the proper direction.”

“Hell if I know.” Rick shrugged. “I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it a lot actually. But Daisy’s right. The man was old and never bothered a soul. Whenever I was here, Fred was always alone. He didn’t have any visitors.”

“Never?” Ethan said. “Not once?”

Rick rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I can’t remember a time—”

Daisy walked slowly down the length of the porch. Fred Dickerson had been poisoned. Intentionally. She was having a hard time believing it, but it had to be true. Logical or not, there was no other explanation left for his death. Rick and Ethan were obviously convinced. Aunt Emily too. Granted, she had envisioned a sprinkle of cyanide in Fred’s hash browns or a dash of drain cleaner in his tomato soup, but arsenic in his moonshine had worked just as well, evidently.

It was no longer a ridiculous murder theory. It was actual murder. Except the reason for it still baffled Daisy. There was no cause to hurt old man Dickerson. He hadn’t been in contact with anyone for ages. He hadn’t seen anyone either. Only Rick. And Hank. Hank might have seen Fred too. He was the first to positively identify him at the diner. Then there was his strange behavior, twice. Hank had to know more than he was letting on.

She caught a snippet of Rick and Ethan’s conversation.

“Anyone could have come onto the property,” Rick said. “The gate at the road isn’t locked. And I’m not here every day. I wasn’t here at all the week Fred died.”

“So whoever put the arsenic in the jars didn’t have to worry about you catching them, only Mr. Dickerson.”

“They didn’t have to worry about Fred either,” Rick replied. “Not in his feeble condition. He couldn’t fight a flea. If they wanted to kill him—”

“Which we have to assume they did,” Ethan interjected.

“Then why use arsenic? You’ve got to get it, mix it in the ’shine, wait for the old man to swallow a glass and finally die. Why not shoot him—or stab him—or strangle him instead? They’re all much simpler and quicker. And they guarantee the who and when.”

“Unless you need it to
look
like an accident.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Rick agreed. “Because if you just wanted Fred dead, you could have hit him in the head with an axe and buried him somewhere in the fields. Or better yet, dumped him in the middle of the woods. There are two hundred acres of land out here, most of which aren’t being touched. I wouldn’t have found his body. No one would have probably ever found his body.”

With a sigh, Daisy rested her head against the corner of the house. Dump him in the middle of the woods. Rick sounded just like Aunt Emily. Only he didn’t have a suspect in mind, or at least he didn’t name one. Aunt Emily had promptly pointed her finger at Hank, because Fred was supposedly responsible for the death of her daddy. But even if that were true—which it couldn’t possibly be—why would Hank wait nearly five long years to seek his revenge? Why would he use arsenic in moonshine? And why on earth would Fred then go to H & P’s of all places as he was dying? It made no sense.

The wood was rough on her cheek from the paint splintering off the boards. The house was in desperate need of love and attention. Surveying the condition of the porch in the corner where she was standing, Daisy clucked her tongue in irritation. Rick might not want to repair the property, but he could at least keep it from becoming a trash heap. She bent down toward a dirty rag with the intention of depositing it in the nearest garbage can. As she scooped it up, it reminded her of something. The smell and stains. She squinted at it, puzzled. Then the realization suddenly hit her, and her eyes flared open.

“Daisy?”

She crumpled the cloth into as small of a ball as she could.

“What is that?” Rick asked her.

“Hmm?” she answered vaguely.

His footsteps started toward her. “What do you have there?”

Turning around to face him, Daisy held the ball behind her. “This? Nothing. Just some junk I found. I was about to throw it out.”

“What kind of junk?”

“I don’t know. Junk.”

“Daisy…”

Reluctantly she raised her eyes to meet his. Daisy knew that Rick would see right through her. She was an abysmal liar. He took hold of her wrist to get a better look at the supposed junk in her hand, but he didn’t recognize it.

“Where did you find that?”

“Over there.”

Daisy pointed toward the spot. A quartet of bowed rusty nails stuck out from one of the boards like a group of tipsy sailors. A tiny torn piece of matching cloth remained attached to them.

“The nails must have snagged it,” Rick said. “What is it?”

She didn’t respond. He tried to take it from her, and she resisted.

“Leave it,” Daisy whispered sternly.

Rick frowned but let go of her wrist. She immediately tucked the ball behind her back once more. She wished that she had a better way of getting rid of it. Except it was too big for a pocket. And there was no trash bag on the porch that she could pretend to dump it in now and collect it again later in private.

Astute enough to realize that something was amiss, Ethan walked over to them. He held out his palm.

“May I see it?” he said.

Although Daisy tried to think up an excuse, there was none. How could she justify not handing over a purported piece of junk to a special agent from the ATF—and his Glock—standing a half foot in front of her? Her only hope was that he wouldn’t recognize it any more than Rick had.

With the speed of a geriatric snail, Daisy lifted the ball of cloth and set it in Ethan’s waiting hand. He gazed at it for a long moment, then raised a questioning eyebrow at her. She gulped. He unfurled the ball with a quick snap. The cloth hung from his fingers like a limp flag, soiled and wrinkled. Ethan gazed at it for another long moment, and the questioning eyebrow turned toward Daisy again. This time it was joined by an unhappy—and painfully perceptive—twitch of the jaw.

“You were planning on hiding this?” he demanded.

She instinctively retreated a step.

“I assume by your efforts to conceal it you know what it is,” Ethan continued gruffly, “and what it means.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Daisy replied.

“It sure as hell means something.”

“But it doesn’t prove—”

“Yes, it does. It proves he was here.”

Rick looked back and forth between the two. “Will somebody tell me what the blazes is going on?”

Ethan swung the cloth in Rick’s direction. “Look familiar?”

He studied it for a few seconds, then shook his head. “No.”

“Look again. I didn’t recognize it at first either. But it’s such a dirty white. With those stains. And there’s the shape. The shape was what gave it away for me. Was it the shape for you too, Daisy?”

She pressed her lips together hard.

“Then there’s the fact it reeks like hamburgers,” Ethan went on.

Rick squinted at the cloth. “Is that—” The squint turned to Daisy. “That’s not—”

“It is.” She sighed.

“Holy hell,” he muttered. “Hank’s apron.”

CHAPTER

17

It was Hank’s apron. There was no question about that. Daisy knew it from the grease. It smelled just like him and the diner. The inimitable scent of frying oil. And it had all those creases from the day before when he pulled it off and flung it next to the mustard bottles. She had picked it up and tossed it back to him, and he had wrapped it around his waist before heading into the kitchen. Hank had been wearing the apron yesterday at H & P’s, but somehow it had ended up on the porch of Fox Hollow today.

“How in the world did it get here?” Rick said.

“I think the better question,” Ethan replied, “is when did it get here?”

Daisy constructed a timeline in her head. She had last been together with Hank the prior evening at the diner. He’d had the apron on while closing down the place for the night. This morning she didn’t go to work. She went straight from the inn to Chalk Level with Ethan. They didn’t drive by H & P’s on the way.

“I haven’t seen Hank since the day Fred died,” Rick mused.

“I saw him yesterday,” Ethan said, “in this very apron.”

“How can you be sure?” Daisy retorted. “It could belong to anyone.”

“Covered with that much grill grease? I doubt it.” Ethan draped the apron over the porch railing. “And it’s still wrinkled from when he got mad at me for asking about Chalk Level and hurled it at the counter.”

Rick half-grinned. “The man’s got a temper, doesn’t he?”

Daisy glared at him.

He shrugged. “There’s no need to get mad about it, darlin’. It’s the truth.”

“Truth or not,” she snapped, “it doesn’t prove anything—”

“You can argue all you want about his temper,” Ethan interjected, “not his apron. I said it already, but I guess it bears repeating. The apron proves Hank was here.”

“Not necessarily.” Daisy straightened her back. “Somebody else could have left it on the porch.”

Ethan smirked. “We both know that’s a load of crap.”

“It is not! It’s entirely possible someone took Hank’s apron from the diner last night and brought it here.”

“Someone such as space aliens?”

Rick burst out laughing.

Daisy’s face went crimson with fury. “What are you hooting about? Hank could beat you—and your brother—to a pile of mulch with one fist tied behind his back!”

The laughter continued. “I’d love to see him try.”

“I’d love to see it too, because in less than a minute you’d be flat on your belly, wiping the blood from your chin and begging for mercy.”

Ethan jumped in before Rick could respond. “You sure are loyal to Hank, Daisy.”

She didn’t deny it or apologize for it. She was loyal to Hank. Unwaveringly loyal. Hank had been there for her and her momma at the lowest point of their lives, and he had done it without expecting anything in return. If that didn’t engender loyalty, she couldn’t begin to imagine what did.

“You probably have no idea what it means to be really loyal,” Daisy growled at Ethan. She shot Rick a bitter look. “I know you don’t.”

Rick’s laughter died, and his eyes grew cloudy. Daisy turned away from both men with a scowl.

In an apparent attempt to appease her, Ethan said mildly, “Okay. Let’s assume for a moment you’re right. Hank wasn’t here. Somebody else left his apron on the porch. Why would they do that? Were they trying to send him a message, or were they hoping to make it look like he was here?”

Daisy’s brow furrowed. That was a good question. Why would someone bring Hank’s apron to Fox Hollow? It did seem a rather strange and pointless thing to do.

“I think we can safely rule out it being a message,” Ethan went on, “because how would Hank even know his apron had been put on the porch? He doesn’t usually come here, does he?”