Death in the Distillery (5 page)

I remembered the hours I had spent on tractors back in
Louisiana helping my grandfather. No fun.

Several other vehicles were parked in the barn, all bright
red with the white logo of Chalk Hills Distillery on the
doors.

Runnels arched an eyebrow in that bulldog face of his,
but I had the feeling the message he was sending me wasn't
the same kind of greeting as Lawyer Cleyhorn.

He looked me up and down as I climbed out of my pickup. Maybe my jeans and sport coat didn't seem the
appropriate dress for a private investigator, or maybe he
was just naturally surly.

He rose slowly. In a gravelly voice, he said. "Mrs. Morrison said you'd be out today. Told us to cooperate. So,
I'm cooperating. Make it fast. I got work to do."

"We all got work to do, Mr. Runnels," I shot back, irritated by his curt greeting. "In fact, we're both getting paid
to do what Mrs. Morrison wants."

He understood the implication in my words. His black
eyes flicked nervously about the grounds. "What do you
want to know?"

"Out here? Or do you want to go inside?"

He shook his head and held up his cigarette. "Mrs. Morrison don't allow no smoking inside. That's why I'm out
here instead of inside still cleaning up the tractor from yesterday."

I stood hipshot, my hands jammed in my back pockets.
"Okay with me. Just tell me what you know about Emmett
Patterson. What he did, what kind of person he was, and
anything you remember about yesterday."

"I already told the cops."

"Good. That means you won't have to think that much
when you tell me."

He frowned at me. "Huh?"

"Look, I know you've told your story once. I even told
Mrs. Morrison this investigation was a waste of time, but
she insisted. And you know how she can be when she insists." I rolled my eyes, a male nuance that suggested we're
in the same boat with the old lady.

The scowl on his bulldog face broke into a conspiratorial
grin. "Yeah. She can be tough. A lot of things are tough,"
he added cryptically. He took a deep drag and blew the
smoke out through his nostrils, a trick that always choked
me when I smoked.

"Well, there ain't much to tell. Ain't you going to take
notes?"

"I got a good memory, Mr. Runnels."

With a shrug, he continued. "I didn't like the guy. He
was a punk. Lazy, always trying to dodge work. I never
understood why Lonny kept him on."

"Lonny?"

"Yeah. Lonny Jackson, our Master Distiller, Emeritus.
Alonzo Lynch Jackson. He's ..." Runnels hesitated when
he saw me arch an eyebrow at the ostentatious title. He
grinned crookedly. "I ain't sure just what that emeritus
business means, but that's what Mrs. Morrison wants him
called. Seems like those big distilleries in Tennessee and
Kentucky call them head honchos that emeritus thing."

I shrugged. Only in America.

He continued. "But, Lonny Jackson is a fair man ...
most of the time. I've seen him dump guys for a lot less
than Emmett Patterson done ... or I should say, didn't do."

"Got any ideas why he put up with Patterson?"

Runnels studied the question a moment. "Naw. Ask
him."

"How long had Patterson worked here?"

"Ten years or so, I think. Let's see." He squinted his
eyes and wrinkled his forehead as if the facial contortions
would force the old memories from his brain. "He came
here about the time the girl disappeared. Yeah, maybe a
little after. No, it was before."

A bell went off in my head. "Girl? What girl?"

Runnels shrugged and lit another cigarette, a menthol.
"Way back, a runaway girl passed through. Nice little girl.
I didn't know she was a runaway then, but when she turned
up missing a while later, the cops come by. Don't know if
they ever found her or not. But Emmett, he was here then
because I remember him flirting with the girl."

"Oh." For a moment, I thought I might be on to something, but the bell stopped clanging. "What about yesterday? You see him?"

"Not until the tractor ran over him."

"You saw the tractor run over him?"

He shrugged. "Not exactly. When I stepped outside, the
tractor was going past the tree, and there wasn't no one driving. I didn't see nothing else for a few seconds, and
then this dark pile sort of squirted out from the discs."

I grimaced at his picturesque description. "Then what?"

,.Not much. I didn't pay no attention. Then Mrs. Morrison showed up. She waved me over."

I glanced at the tree. "What was his main job around
here?"

Runnels shook his head. "No main job. Besides me and
Lonny and the lab people, everyone here is a kind of jackof-all-trades."

"You mean, everyone drives the tractors, forklifts, and
so on?"

"Yeah. That was Emmett. Just manual labor. He didn't
have the smarts for the laboratory. They do quality control
stuff in there. Some of them even taste the whiskey."

Sounded like my kind of work. I wondered how much I
would have to pay them for the job, but I dismissed the
idea. Probably had all the tasters they needed anyway.

I looked around the distillery grounds. Behind the maintenance barn was a row of cottages, all of the same Spanish
facade as the distillery and the main house. Each had a
chimney and a stack of firewood next to the door, just as
the distillery itself, which was set in the midst of a grove
of oaks at least a hundred and fifty years old. My eyes
focused on the one under which Emmett was killed.

A shiver ran up my spine. "Some operation you got here.
You take care of all the equipment?" I nodded to the trucks,
forklifts, tractors, and farm implements lined up in the
maintenance barn. I eyed the logo, a white circle, in the
center of which were the red letters CHD, joined in such a
manner to form what looked like a backward D connected
to a forward D by a horizontal bar. Reminded me of a
barbell.

"Yeah. What with the maintenance on the distillery, it
takes all my time."

"This is a lot of equipment for one person to take care
of. You responsible for all of it?"

Runnels' crumpled face lit. "Every last bit. And none of it ever stays outside. That's why it lasts so long. Why, the
old lady, she'd fire my rear end if I didn't treat the equipment like a good looking woman."

I chuckled at his analogy. "Looks like you do a good
job." I was serious.

With an air of surprising conviviality, he replied, "Hey,
thanks. I appreciate them words. Of course, I get some help
from time to time." He took a last drag on his cigarette and
flipped it in an arc through the air. "Any more questions,
Mr. Boudreaux? I got work to do."

"Yeah. One more. Who took out the tractor yesterday?"

"Hawkins. That's another punk. Him and Emmett run
together. All these kids today are punks."

"How come Patterson ended up driving it?"

Runnels shrugged. "Beats me. That all?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

He turned to the barn, then hesitated and looked back at
me. "You think Emmett was an accident?"

His question surprised me. He was the second to ask that
question. "What do you think?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. I ain't talked to nobody about
it." He glanced furtively around the grounds. He ignored
my question. "You talking to everyone?"

"Everyone who worked with Patterson. Cleyhorn gave
me a list. No sense in talking to those who had nothing to
do with him. At least, at this point. Maybe later. Why?
Don't you think it was an accident?"

Once again, he ignored my question. "Talk to Hawkins.
He threatened to kill Emmett one time. And be sure and
don't forget Mary Tucker. She oughta be on the list. If ...
anyone . . ." He clamped his lips shut. "Well, I ain't saying
no more. Just talk to both of them. You hear? Of course,
Mary ain't here today. Didn't show up for work. Wasn't
here yesterday either. At least, no one saw her if she was.
Mighta been on another bender." He sneaked a glance over
his shoulder.

I tried to finesse him. "Why do you think they're so
important?"

That didn't work either. He shrugged. "I ain't saying it
wasn't no accident. In fact, I ain't saying no more. Just you
be careful. Only last week, I spotted some of them hiding
behind the cabins where our employees live. By the time I
got there, they was gone."

I leaned forward, feeling my pulse speed up. Maybe I
was on to something. "They? Who?"

Finally he answered one of my questions. "Aliens. I escaped from them, and they've been trying to take me back
up.

Back in the pickup, I pulled out my notebook to jot down
the information I had garnered from David Runnels. I hesitated. What information had I picked up from him? Christ,
he was a delusional nut running around hiding from aliens.
How could I believe anything he said? Still, I put down as
much detail as I could remember.

When I finished, I glanced over the notes. Not much, but
I learned early on that detailed notes from several witnesses
sometimes dovetailed with each other. Like a puzzle. And
who could say? Maybe Runnels' fanciful flights into Never
Never Land might fit in somewhere.

But, I doubted it.

My next stop was the distillery disguised as a Spanish
hacienda. I paused outside the door and picked up a piece
of firewood that had fallen off the pile. "My good deed for
today," I muttered, tossing the log back on the stack.

Inside, the huge building was as spotless as an operating
room. I looked around for a receptionist. A flight of stairs
on one wall led to offices above.

The only information I spotted was a sign pointing up
the stairs with MASTER DISTILLER, EMERITUS engraved in
neat black block letters, in a style like they used in Arab
countries.

I paused halfway up the stairs to gaze out over the distillery below. The building seemed a mile long, filled with
the oddest collection of equipment I had ever seen, a melange of stainless steel tubs and pots, each large enough to
hold three eighteen wheelers parked side by side. Workers
in long white lab coats scurried about.

At the top of the stairs was a door with a square glass
pane. Above the door was another engraved sign: MASTER
DISTILLER, EMERITUS. I looked inside at the man behind the
desk. So that was a Master Distiller, Emeritus. I don't know
what I expected. Probably a pot-bellied little man dressed
in a Bavarian costume with a jaunty cap, and carrying a
stein of beer. Instead, I saw a neatly attired businessman in an expensive three-piece suit poring over sheaths of data.
The gray at his temples gave him the look of distinction,
of wisdom, of breeding. So much so that the small Band
Aid on his cheek looked out of place.

A welcome smile erased the seriousness on his thin face
when he spotted me. He waved me in, quickly coming
around the desk and offering me his hand. I guessed him
to be a little over six feet, maybe six-two, about four inches
taller than me. A slight man, his tone was soft and somewhat reticent, as if he was unsure of each word. "Mrs.
Morrison said you were coming. I'm anxious to help in any
way I can." He dragged the tip of his tongue over his lips.
"Like everyone else, I want to see this tragedy behind us,
and, if you'll pardon my saying it, forgotten about. Scandal
plays havoc with stock prices." A sheepish grin replaced
his warm smile.

"Seems like I've heard that before."

His cheeks colored. Quickly, he apologized. "I'm not a
cold person, Mr. Boudreaux. Believe me. But, I've been
here over thirty years. Chalk Hills Distillery is my life, my
child you might say ... at least, that's what my wife and
daughters claim at times." He grinned shyly and added,
"Every new batch I bring out is an attempt to create a sour
mash bourbon superior to that of the previous run."

"I understand, Mr. Jackson." I threw out a piece of sardonic humor. "After all. Money makes the world go
round."

He took me seriously. "Absolutely, Mr. Boudreaux. Absolutely."

I hesitated, my gaze flicking momentarily to the Band
Aid on his cheek.

He caught my look. "Excuse the dressing. Cut myself
shaving this morning."

I chuckled. "I've been there." It must have been some
cut to warrant a Band Aid. I usually just stuck a piece of
tissue paper on one, but then, I don't have emeritus printed
after my name. Maybe you bleed more with such a title.

I glanced about the office. The second-floor window was shaded from the morning sun by the ancient oak under
which Emmett had been found.

"Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Boudreaux?"

"All I'd like to do is ask a few questions, and then I'll
get out of your hair, Mr. Jackson."

"Go right ahead. I'll tell you whatever I can about Emmett or the distillery." He paused. "Have you ever toured
our facility, Mr. Boudreaux?"

'No.

His eyes lit with an excited glitter. "You've missed quite
a treat then."

With a shrug, I replied, "Every man to his own poison.
I prefer drinking bourbon than watching it boil and bubble."