Murder and Moonshine: A Mystery (5 page)

“I heard about what happened at the diner today,” Carlton said in his raspy Appalachian accent. “Is everyone all right?”

Daisy answered with a weary nod.

“I was going to come by for lunch, but you were closed. A pity about Fred Dickerson. Do they have any idea what it was?”

“They’re guessing it might have been a stroke,” she responded vaguely, careful not to share too much information.

Carlton liked to talk—to everyone, about everyone—and considered it an integral part of his business. In a way, it was. He was the local auctioneer and had disposed of nearly every estate in Pittsylvania County over the last three decades. On occasion there was a home or vehicle involved, but primarily it was household goods. Furniture, knickknacks, dishes, and tools. The old crocks tended to fetch a nice price. So did the guns and knives. The rest generally went for a pittance. But valuable or not, Carlton had a talent for peddling worn wares. His auctions were highly anticipated community events and never failed to be entertaining. The man could sell just about everything, including the leaky kitchen sink.

“We never do know when the good lord will call us back.” He ran his fingers through his silver shock of hair. “I wouldn’t guess Fred had much property?”

“I don’t think so.” She restrained another chuckle. Carlton was already planning what he could auction off. Unfortunately for him, old man Dickerson hadn’t been the sort to have any Tiffany lamps or Revolutionary War swords tucked up in the attic. “Maybe some rusty farm equipment.”

“Suppose so,” Carlton agreed without much enthusiasm. “Well, I’ll be off then. I’ll probably drop in for dinner on Monday.”

When he had departed, Daisy raised her bottle and drained it. Beulah did the same.

“Another one?” she asked.

“Definitely,” Daisy replied with a sigh. “Especially if everybody is going to come over and want to talk about Fred.”

Beulah signaled Zeke, the all-purpose bartender who both poured the drinks and served them. He shuffled over with a pair of fresh bottles hanging down in between his fingers like a couple of sticks of dynamite.

“Haven’t seen ya ’round here fer a long time, Daisy.”

“I know.” She smiled at him. She was fond of Zeke. “Wish I could get out more often.”

He smiled back at her, before coughing. Zeke was an extremely gaunt, middle-aged chap with a permanent hacking cough. Too much coal dust from his last job. “Boss man workin’ ya hard?”

“I need the money,” Daisy answered simply.

“I hear ya. I know how it is. Ain’t easy with all them medical bills.” He coughed again. “How’s yer poor momma doin’ by the by? Haven’t seen her fer a long time neither.”

“Oh, she’s got her good days and plenty of bad ones. But I really appreciate you asking about her, Zeke.”

“Well, tell her I say’s hey.” He exchanged the new bottles for the old. “’Least ya can save yer pennies with these two. They come from him.”

Daisy followed Zeke’s boney finger as he pointed toward a table in the far corner of the roadhouse. There she saw Rick and Bobby Balsam, along with two unidentified females. Rick inclined his head at her.

“Great,” she muttered. “Just what I need.”

“I’d watch out fer that one,” Zeke advised, squinting dubiously at Rick. “If ya ask me—which yer not, I know—but just the same, that boy’s gonna get himself mixed up in a heap of trouble if he ain’t careful.”

“He’s never careful, and he’s always in a heap of trouble,” Daisy responded dryly.

“But he’s foolin’ with the wrong folks this time,” Zeke told her. “City folks. Big-city folks.”

Both Daisy and Beulah looked at him with interest. Zeke may not have made it further than the ninth grade in school, but he knew people and how to read them. Every night he saw them at their weakest, watched them interact, listened to their stories. If there was anybody new in Pittsylvania County, if anything whatsoever happened in Pittsylvania County, if there was an unexpected litter of pigs or a secret steamy affair in Pittsylvania County, Zeke was sure to have all the details.

“They were in here last week,” he said. “And a couple of weeks before that too. I didn’t like the looks of ’em. Up to no good. I could tell right off. They were askin’ ’bout people. First time it was ol’ Fred.”

Daisy blinked in surprise.

Zeke shrugged at her. “I heard ’bout ol’ Fred this mornin’. Hope it wasn’t too bad fer y’all.”

“Bad enough.” She shrugged in return.

He nodded. “Well, I don’t have to tell ya none ’bout ol’ Fred. I reckon ya know more than yer share already.”

She frowned. She found it rather odd that no one had mentioned Fred Dickerson in forever and now all of a sudden everyone was talking about him nonstop. But maybe it wasn’t so odd after all. Death did have a peculiar way of resuscitating long-forgotten ghosts.

“So these men from the city,” Beulah said. “They asked about old Fred. Did they ask about Rick too?”

“They did,” Zeke confirmed. “And they met him. ’Least I think they did. They was talkin’ ’bout drivin’ over that way. To his and his brother’s place. Them trailers out there in the woods.”

“That’s it?” Beulah scrunched up her nose in disappointment. “I thought it was something big. You said Rick was going to be in a heap of trouble.”

“He will be,” Zeke answered emphatically. “Ya mark my words. Them city boys ain’t lookin’ to join a nice quiet game of bridge with a couple of sweet ol’ country ladies. They come fer business. Big business and big trouble. That’s always been my experience. In fifty years of livin’, I ain’t seen nothin’ different.”

And from Daisy’s experience, Zeke was rarely wrong when it came to judging people’s motives and character. She smiled to herself. That was the first bit of good news she’d had all day. If Rick had trouble to deal with—especially a big heap of trouble—then he wouldn’t have any energy left over to trouble her.

“Guess I better stop gabbin’ like a turkey and get on with the job.” Zeke directed a thumb toward the occupants of the neighboring table who had been waving at him for some time. The roadhouse was filling up good, even considering that it was a Friday night. All the tables were now full, and there wasn’t an empty stool at the bar.

“I’ll tell my momma you asked about her,” Daisy said. “I know it’ll make her real happy.”

“Just holler when ya girls need somethin’,” Zeke replied cheerfully. Then he shuffled off, coughing as he went.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Beulah said, “So what do you want to do about the beer? Drink it? Toss it out? Toss it in Rick’s face?”

“Tossing it in his face sure would be fun.” Daisy chuckled. “I think he’d get plenty of sympathy though,” she added, watching the unidentified female who appeared to be Rick’s date rub up against him with all the zeal of a donkey in heat.

“Well, we can’t send the bottles back. Zeke wouldn’t understand, and he’d want to know why.”

“And Rick might come over here and start arguing.”

“Good point. Speaking of the weasel—” Beulah leaned eagerly toward Daisy. Her hazel eyes were stretched wide with curiosity. “You never told me. What did he try to pull with Fox Hollow?”

“He didn’t just try. He succeeded.” She shook her head. “Rick bought Fox Hollow.”

For a moment Beulah’s face was frozen with shock, then it melted in an outpouring of sympathy. “Oh God, Daisy. I don’t even know what to say. To have that weasel Rick Balsam own your childhood home. The place where you were born and your daddy died. It’s wrong. Just plain wrong. I’m so sorry.”

Daisy responded with a desultory shrug.

Beulah sucked on her teeth. “Wait a second. Fox Hollow is a serious piece of land, not to mention the house and creek. Where the hell did Rick get the money from?”

Daisy snorted. “I have no clue. I’ve been trying to figure that out all day.”

“He doesn’t work.”

“Certainly not.”

“He doesn’t have family money?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard of.”

“He can’t have family money,” Beulah said decisively. “Or they wouldn’t have been living in those junky trailers all these years.”

“That’s what I always thought,” Daisy agreed.

Beulah sucked on her teeth again. “Is it just Rick? Or him and Bobby?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do they both own Fox Hollow, or only the weasel?”

“I don’t know,” Daisy answered slowly. “I never thought of that. Rick said— I just sort of assumed—”

“I guess it doesn’t really matter either way.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. But…” Daisy glanced over at Rick and Bobby playing merrily with their dates like a pair of puppies chewing up some new rawhide, and she dropped her head on the table with a groan. “God help me. That beautiful old farmhouse. Where my momma always cooked Thanksgiving dinner. The barbecues in summer. The sleigh rides in winter. Christmas and New Year’s.”

Having spent a good portion of her own childhood at Fox Hollow, Beulah replied with a melancholy whimper.

“Now the miserable Balsam brothers are going to turn it into a goddam rodeo and brothel! Can’t you just see it?” Daisy seethed, her face pressed hard into the table. “Half-naked girls running around day and night. The boys shooting up the property when they get bored. Burning down half the place when they get too drunk.”

“And growing who-the-hell-knows-what in the fields.”

“That’s probably where they got the money to buy Fox Hollow in the first place.”

“You’d have to grow an awful lot of pot for an awful long time to get that kind of money.”

“Then maybe they were cooking up meth instead.”

“You shouldn’t talk about that, Daisy,” Rick interjected suddenly. “Especially not here. Meth’s a dangerous business. You don’t know who’ll hear you.”

Both Daisy and Beulah started in surprise, not having noticed Rick approach their table. Daisy kept her head down, annoyance winning out over shock, but Beulah attacked him straightaway.

“You’ve got some nerve!” she cried. “Strutting over here and acting like we’re all bosom buddies.”

“Nice to see you too, Beulah,” Rick returned with a smirk.

She scowled at him. “You’re lucky I’m a lady. Otherwise I’d wipe that smugness right off your chin.”

“I’d like to see you try, sweetheart.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Daisy watched Beulah’s fingers twitch and curl into a fist. She wasn’t a natural fighter, but she did have a very short redheaded fuse. Daisy figured that she’d better step in before Beulah hurt herself. It was tough to cut hair with a broken hand.

“What do you want, Rick?” she said, sitting up.

“You’re not drinking?” he asked, gesturing toward the pair of untouched beers. “Should I take that as a hint?”

Daisy looked at the bottles, then at Rick. His eyes were dark and cloudy. That was always a sign with him to tread gently. She didn’t have the strength to battle him. Not tonight at least. And it was just beer. There was no reason to get all huffy over a couple of free beers.

“Thanks for the drinks.” She picked one up and took a swallow.

“Well, it’s been a hell of a day. Figured you could use a little liquor.”

She smiled, reluctantly. He was right. It had been a hell of a day, and she could use a little liquor.

“What you said a minute ago…” Rick glanced around, spotted a vacant chair at a nearby table, pulled it over, and deposited himself on it. “You’ve got to be more careful, Daisy. People are always listening.”

“I know.” She did know. Meth equaled money in Appalachia. Serious money. The kind that was jealously, violently guarded. You didn’t mess with it unless you wanted to end up either dead or in prison.

“Good,” Rick replied sternly. “I wouldn’t like to find you in a ditch somewhere just cuz you were yapping crap at the General one night.”

Daisy smiled again, more willingly this time. “Gracious. I can’t believe my ears. It almost sounds like you’re worried about my well-being, Richard Balsam. It must be the alcohol talking, because there’s no way you’ve become such a kind, tenderhearted soul at long last.”

He responded with a grunt. Beulah grunted too.

“Don’t believe a word that comes out of his weaselly mouth,” she told Daisy grimly. “He’s just being his usual flirty, devious self. Trying to butter you up, so you forgive him for stealing Fox Hollow.”

There was an awkward silence, with everyone staring at the table. Finally Rick shifted in his seat and looked directly at Daisy.

“Let me explain—” he began.

She raised a hand to stop him. “No.”

“You gotta know I’d never—”

“No,” Daisy said again. Her tone was firm but not angry. Anger required far too much energy. “Please, Rick. Not now. What you said before. It’s been too long of a day.”

“Okay.” He hesitated. “But eventually we’re gonna have to talk about it.”

“Not now,” she repeated. “I can’t do it now.”

She fully expected him to get up and go back to his own table, but he remained where he was. Beulah eyed him disdainfully. Daisy took a hearty drink.

“I’m kind of surprised to see you here tonight,” Rick remarked after a while.

“Tomorrow is the first Saturday I’ve had off in…” Daisy thought a moment. “Well, let’s just say in months, maybe even a year, so I’m trying to enjoy it.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Why did Hank decide to close?” Beulah asked her, pointedly ignoring Rick. “If it’s out of respect for the recently deceased, then you definitely ought to tell that to Aunt Emily. It would throw her murder theory right out the window.”

Rick’s head snapped first to Beulah, then to Daisy. “Murder theory? Aunt Emily’s got a murder theory?”

“Forget it. Aunt Emily’s just talking nonsense, as she loves to do, which you well know. And no,” Daisy answered Beulah, “Hank didn’t decide to close. The Danville forensics team made him do it. They need to run further tests or something.”

“Brenda must be happy. She’s at the diner almost as much as you are.”

“She said she was planning on spending all of tomorrow soaking in her tub.” Daisy smiled ruefully. “I shouldn’t do it, because it’s awfully irreverent, but I think he deserves a toast.” She lifted her bottle. “To old man Dickerson. His death wasn’t in vain. It gave Brenda and me a vacation day.”