Death in the Distillery (13 page)

Either Patterson moonlighted, which he didn't, or he was
thrift personified, which he wasn't, or he provided a stud
service for rich, old ladies, which he wouldn't, or-or
what? What was another option? The lottery? Dream on. Inheritance? No way. Drugs? Other than alcohol, none
showed up in the autopsy. Of course, some dealers never
touched the stuff.

My brain took another great leap. Blackmail. The only
answer. The guy was sticking it to someone. That was the
only answer. And, blackmail was one heck of a motive.
Someone whacked him to shut him up. But who? And
about what?

I turned and stared at my pickup.

What kind of information could a farmhand, a laborer
for the distillery, possess that would get him killed? I
waited for my brain to take its next great leap, but it tripped
over its own feet and fell flat. "Who knows?" I muttered.

I climbed in my truck and sat staring down the road,
trying to tiptoe through the labyrinth of confusion in which
I had suddenly found myself floundering.

Shaking my head, I started the pickup and headed for
Chalk Hills Distillery. First things first. Make sure Morrison and O'Banion knew what I had discovered.

There was no warmth in Beatrice Lenore Morrison's
eyes when her butler ushered me into the library, only
pained tolerance. Even that turned to ice as I told her what
I had dug up. "I know this isn't what you wanted to hear,
and I could be wrong, but it appears there is enough questionable evidence to warrant turning the case over to the
police. If his death was murder, and we don't turn the information over to the proper authorities, we could both be
indicted for obstructing justice."

She arched an eyebrow and sniffed. "And just what is
that possibility?" Her tone was heavy with skepticism.

I suppressed a snotty reply at the implication in her tone.
After all, she was paying me well, and I hadn't brought her
what she wanted. "Probably not much, unless the DA gets
his nose out of joint."

A cryptic smile played over her thin lips. "Oh, the District Attorney. Well, suppose you just let me worry about
John B. Sowell, Mr. Boudreaux."

"Okay, but I think we need to notify the police."

She looked at me as if my cumulative total of brain cells
was about half of normal. "This is only Tuesday. You
couldn't have completed your investigation. How can you
be absolutely certain it was murder?"

"Everything points that way. At least the way I see it."

"But, are you certain?"

"No. Not beyond reason. But, with some more-"

She interrupted, keeping her cold eyes fixed on mine. "If
you are not absolutely positive, then why would you want
to discontinue the investigation?"

"I didn't say that. What I'm saying is, I've found information that should be turned over to the police, and let
them decide what to do. I don't know if there was a murder
or not. But, that appears to be the case. The cops should
know about it. Let them take over. You keep me around
after that, and you're just wasting money."

"That, Mr. Boudreaux, is not a concern of mine, nor of
yours."

"What I mean is that once the police take over, I'm off
the case. The cops don't like for guys in my profession to
go around sticking our noses in their business. In fact, they
go out of their way to remind us to butt out."

She finally pulled her icy glare away from me and stared
out the window. The sky was blue, distant hills green, and
the graveled parking lot an eye-dazzling white under the
afternoon sun. "If you are not one hundred percent certain,
Mr. Boudreaux, then I want you to continue. I want you to
check and re-check every piece of evidence regardless of
how slight."

She turned to face me. "Understand? The police will always be there. Another few days can make no difference
to Emmett Patterson. I am paying your company for a thorough report. I'll continue paying your present rate for the
length of the investigation, regardless of how long it takes.
As I remember, you promised a written report by eight
o'clock in the morning."

Reasoning with her was like trying to catch the wind. "I'll type up a report for you, Mrs. Morrison, but you do
understand that I have to tell my boss what I've found?"

"Certainly, certainly. Nevertheless, I wish for you to
keep doing whatever it is you sort of people do until you
prove his death was simply an accident. It cannot be murder.-Just give me weekly reports."

The agency I work for has had a few whacky cases in
the past; some we took, some we didn't. But this is America, and even crackpots, if they have the money-especially
if they have money-have the right to be afforded fair
treatment. Not that she was a crackpot, at least, not certifiable. Still, I wondered if she was holding something back.
Did she know something that might help? Otherwise, why
throw good money after bad? Made no sense. I'd uncovered
enough evidence to warrant police intervention, at least as
far as I was concerned. Why was she resisting?

"Mrs. Morrison, is there anything I should know, anything you can tell me about Emmett Patterson that might
help, anything that you haven't told me or the police?"

Her eyes narrowed; her jaw stiffened. "Why, what would
I know about a common employee?"

I took a deep breath and threw deference aside. "Beats
me. Truth is, I figured the reason you're so insistent I continue is you suspect something that you're reluctant to talk
about. I got the impression in talking to Mr. Jackson that
he wanted to fire Emmett Patterson, but you objected."

Her pales eyes blazed. I stood my ground and added,
"Often, Mrs. Morrison, people are hesitant to speak up for
fear of involvement. I assure you, anything you tell me
stays with me."

For several seconds, she eyed me through cold slits.
"And I assure you, Mr. Boudreaux, that I am not used to
my integrity being brought to question." She straightened
her shoulders and tilted her jaw. "About anything. Especially common laborers with whom I have no association.
I leave all those sort of dealings to my supervisors." She
spat out the last two words, like exclamation points at the
end of a sentence.

We locked eyes. Was she talking about Emmett? Or me?
I was growing tired of her high-handed treatment. Except
for twelve million dollars, we were the same. Both put our
pants, relatively speaking, on one leg at a time.

No, on second thought, I couldn't imagine her putting
her pants on one leg at a time. She probably levitated, then
lowered herself into her pants. That was how she did it. I
shrugged. "If you say so, Mrs. Morrison." I kept my eyes
fixed on hers. It had become a contest now to see who
broke eye contact first.

She nodded, and I knew she had dismissed me. I considered backing to the door so I could hold her eyes, but
while I'm hard-headed and stubborn, I figured I would look
foolish backing across the library, dodging chairs and tables, just so I wouldn't take my eyes off her. I dropped my
gaze and headed for the door.

Outside, I drove around behind the maintenance barn to
Emmett Patterson's cabin, with what I hoped was the combination to his safe burning a hole in my shirt. Maybe I
should have refused her offer, but four big ones a day
wasn't something to turn down without contacting Marty
Blevins, my boss. I knew what Marty would say. He'd utter
a few curses then say, "Certainly. Take it. Do whatever she
wants. If the rich old broad wants you to mow her yard for
four hundred, do it." Old Marty, not a money-hungry bone
in his body.

The Yenko Camaro was gone, probably impounded by
a wrecker yard that planned on charging outrageous storage
rates. Once the charges reached a point exceeding the value
of the car, the wrecking yard placed a mechanics lien
against it. A painless means of acquiring fine automobiles.

I shut the cabin door and flipped on the light. I hesitated,
then locked the door. I didn't want anyone barging in on
me. Quickly, I scooted the gun cabinet from the wall.

I gave the dial a spin to clear it, then started dialing.
"Let's see. All right, left one, right two, left two . . ." I
continued dialing the entire set of sixteen numbers. Despite the sound rationale I had constructed assuring me this was
the combination, my doubts grew with each switch in direction.

Finally, I stopped the dial on two, the last digit in the
combination. I took a deep breath, flexed my fingers and
seized the handle. I whispered a silent prayer and lifted.

The top didn't budge. I yanked harder. Solid as a chunk
of granite. Hoping I had made a mistake, I put the combination back in the opposite direction, but with the same
results. Deep down, I knew this wasn't the combination,
but Louisiana muleheadedness took over and I tried again.
Same result.

Muttering a curse, I slammed the heel of my hand against
the lock and tried again. Six more times, I dialed the sixteen
numbers until finally I sat back on my heels and let out a
blast of colorful invectives you'd never hear in polite society.

"It's got to be the combination," I mumbled, staring at
the scrap of paper, remembering Claude's remarks about
Emmett's penchant for puzzles.

Crossword puzzles were my worst nightmare, so if this
was some kind of puzzle, I had as much chance as figuring
it out as I had being named Pope Tony the First. I studied
the string of numbers. While I'd never delved into the lexical psyche of crossword junkies, I figured they were no
different than a sports nut who constantly punctuated his
conversation with sporting metaphors. If that was true here,
then my string of sixteen numbers was, in all probability,
a puzzle.

I sighed.

I headed back to town, driving slowly while I turned the
situation over in my head. I laid out my gut feelings, and
then tried to punch holes in them. First, Patterson had been
black-mailing someone, and chances were, that individual
was the one who whacked him.

Second, the killer was at Chalk Hills on Sunday. I had
to chuckle at the insight of that conclusion. A no-brainer.
That's why Marty had me in missing persons, and Al Grogan as his top sleuth.

Third, the killer had to be one of the employees. There
were no guests present at the time of the murder.

My fourth step was to check everyone's bank accounts.
That might tell me whom he was milking.

I shrugged and chuckled. Maybe I could enlist the help
of Beatrice Morrison's high-powered attorney, William
Cleyhorn. Lawyers and bankers seem to play the same golf
courses and drink martinis mixed the same way. Naturally,
Cleyhorn was out of the question. No way Beatrice would
permit him to help me build a murder case, but I had options. Expensive ones, but still, options, such as the goodold-boy network and a few C-notes.

I had forgotten about Katherine Voss, the runaway. She
was just a fleeting moment, and I didn't figure she held any
cards in the game.

That was another reason I was still in missing persons,
and Al Grogan was still the top man. But, I didn't know
that at the time.

As I turned down Travis Street to my apartment, I remembered that Jack Edney was still my uninvited guest. I
winced. I didn't feel like company tonight. I wanted to be
by myself so I could think. Maybe if I called Maggie and
told her Jack was sorry, she'd take him back. She fell for
the line once a couple of years back. She could have forgotten my previous lies by now.

I opened the door and froze. The setting sun at my back
spilled into the dark room, laying a panel of orange across
Jack who was lying on the couch, his face half turned to
the door. One eye was swollen shut, his lips were split, and
his nose was crooked. His shirt and my couch were stained
with blood.

At first, I thought he was playing a joke on me. You
know, one of those skin-toned masks, but when he slowly
rolled his head over and looked at me though his good eye,
I knew he wasn't joking. My first thought was that Maggie
had whipped up on him good, but I knew better. If Maggie
had done it, she would have closed both his eyes. "Jack.
What happened?" I flipped on the light and hurried to the
couch.

I helped him struggle to sit up. He pressed a bloody rag
to his mouth. "Don't know. I answered the door. Two big
goons hit me as soon as I opened it. Next thing I knew, I
woke up on the floor." He swayed slightly.

"Anything broken?" I laid my hand on his shoulder to
steady him.

"Couple of teeth. Top and bottom. They hurt like sin."
He gingerly touched the bridge of his nose. "I don't think
my nose is busted, but it hurts like it is."

My initial concern for Jack turned to anger. Only one
man could be behind such a senseless beating: Danny
O'Banion. But his mistake was that his soldiers beat up the wrong guy. They had to be coming after me. I suppressed
my anger. "Want something to drink-water, booze?"

"A stiff drink," Jack mumbled through swollen lips.
"Real stiff."