Death in the Distillery (15 page)

He frowned. "How 'bout gumbo?"

I'm no chef, but like many Cajun-born, I can whip up a
mean gumbo, and over the years, my gumbos have developed a following in Austin. "No time. Maybe when I finish
with this case."

He shook his head, drained his glass, poured another,
and staggered back to his couch. I slid the pizza in the
microwave, grabbed a beer, and slipped in front of my computer. I booted the machine, and began my report. I'd call
Danny later.

Behind me, Jack began snoring. I glanced over my shoulder, on the one hand, irritated at his barging into my house,
but on the other, I felt guilty because he had taken the
beating meant for me.

Whomever Danny's friends, they meant business. And
now, after having a couple of hours to consider the pros
and cons of my situation, I was beginning to think maybe
I was too curious for my own good; that maybe Marty's
decision was the right one despite my own feelings. Take
the money and run. Or I did, until I reached the events in
my report about Katherine Voss.

Being in my kind of business, the seamy side of a person's life was all I ever saw because everything about crime
is dirty and dark, hidden from the light of day. A good
investigator always looks for surreptitious motives. They
look for the worst in every suspect. They deliberately place
every involved individual in the darkest, most suspicious
what-if situations. And then they try to find answers.

They regularly put ministers in brothels, teachers in
opium dens, drunks in the Governor's office, prostitutes in
the church choir. All in an effort to answer some or all of
the what-if questions.

When I reached the events concerning Katherine Voss,
I asked myself the standard questions. What did happen to
the girl? What was she doing at the distillery? Was she
home back in Benchmark, Kentucky?

Abruptly, I pulled an Al Grogan, and started thinking.
Maybe she was still in the area. Maybe she and Emmett
had a thing going. What are the chances she might know
something, might be able to shed some light on the mystery? Probably, slim and none, but then, slim and none were
the chances for the safe return to Earth for the crew of
Apollo 13. And I could have my answer for the minimal
cost of a phone call.

Thumbing through my notes, I found the number I'd copied from the application in Tom Seldes' office. The
phone rang eight times before a washed-out, weary voice
answered. I asked to speak to Katherine Voss.

I heard a sharp intake of breath, and for several seconds,
there was no answer. When the voice replied, it was filled
with anger. "Who is this?"

"Tony Boudreaux. Is this Mr. Voss, Mr. Harold Voss?"

The man snapped back. "Yeah, and this ain't my idea of
a joke, you lousy, no-good-"

Whoa. I pulled the receiver from my ear and stared at
it. What had I stumbled into? I held my temper. "No joke,
Mr. Voss. I'm a private investigator in Austin, Texas,
and ..." Quickly I brought him up to date, running my
words together so he couldn't interrupt. Naturally, I left out
the small scene about her and Patterson making out. But,
whatever the sore spot I'd hit with the man, it must have
been tender.

"So, I heard Katherine had passed through years back,
and I thought she might give me some information about
the guy."

Voss hesitated. I knew he was considering my explanation, so I added in a conciliatory tone. "I'm not trying to
cause any trouble, Mr. Voss. I'm just looking to do my job.
May I speak with her, please?"

I hardly recognized the voice that replied. Instead of the
anger-packed shouts that had been spewed at me, I was
suddenly listening to a weak, broken man. "I'm sorry, Mr.
Boudreaux. It's just that ..." His voice quivered. "She ...
Katherine, that is, never ... she never came back. We never
found her. My ... my wife died heartbroken eight years
ago. The child was the light of her life ... of both our lives.
She left for Texas and then just dropped out of sight."

He paused.

Even though I had no way of knowing the situation, I
cursed myself for the pain I had resurrected in the man. I
didn't know what to say. I couldn't patronize Voss by telling him I knew how he felt. Christ, he'd probably heard those trite words every day for the past ten years. I just
whispered, "Yes, sir."

His voice dropped into a monotone. "She never came
back, Mr. Boudreaux. I figure she's probably dead somewhere. If she was alive, she would have called. She wasn't
a wild child. In fact, she was pretty level-headed. She just
wanted to see more than these Kentucky hills and our onehorse business."

I could hear the emotion building in his voice as he continued about his missing daughter. "You know, she wanted
to live a little before coming back here and settling down,
and taking over the business. That's what me and her had
talked about for years. She just wanted to live a little first.
That's the way kids are today."

"Yeah. I know." I asked a perfunctory question of the
grieving man. "What kind of business do you have, Mr.
Voss?"

"Just a small distillery. Small batch of sour mash whiskey. Nothing like the big boys, but we do enough local
business to live comfortably." He chuckled. "Katherine always swore she wanted us to become a national brand, and
then world wide." His voice cracked, and a sob caught in
his throat. "She had the determination to do it too, Mr.
Boudreaux. And I ain't saying that just because she's my
daughter. But she had a spark that I never had. She coulda
done it. She coulda made this hayseed plant into a respected
distillery." His voice cracked again. "Oh, Jesus," he sobbed.
"Oh, Jesus. My little girl. My little girl."

"Mr. Voss. I'm very sorry I called and stirred up all that
hurt. If I'd known, why ..

There came a short silence. Then, "No way for you to
know, son. I ... I wish I could help you with your problem,
but I can't."

"Thank you, sir. Good night."

"Mr. Boudreaux. Just one more second. If ... if you do
find out anything, anything at all about my Katherine, I'd
appreciate you lettin' me know. You got no idea how many
nights I've laid awake thinking about her laying out in some forest or field just crumbling to dust until nothing is
left. That ain't no way for a soul to spend eternity. If she
is dead, I'd like to bury her by her mother."

I grimaced. "Don't worry, Mr. Voss. If I learn anything,
you'll be the first to hear."

"Thank you. Thank you. I'm just an old man now with
nothing left but to find out the truth about my little girl.
Please, please, do what you can."

I went back to my report. Katherine Voss. A dead end.
No connection with Patterson. I shook my head, remembering Hawkins' story about Emmett and Voss making out
behind the rackhouse. "Well, no connection as far as his
murder," I muttered.

Suddenly, I was struck by the coincidence of the young
woman leaving one distillery and showing up at another.
Happenstance? Fortuity? Serendipity? Or by design? My
pulse picked up. I felt that old curiosity welling up inside.

Thumbing quickly through my notes on Katherine Voss,
I noted that she had filled out the application on June 18,
1988. The odds were a thousand to one, but could she have
come to Chalk Hills Distillery for a purpose? Maybe she
wanted to study the operation, then take the knowledge
back to Kentucky. More than one entrepreneur had pirated
competition.

But, what was worth stealing around here?

The question rang a bell. I thumbed back through my
notes. "Jesus. I wonder if this is it?" I read aloud the notes
from my interview with Alonzo Jackson. "One of a kind,
it is a pure culture yeast, Saccharomyces Cerevisiae, developed from a single original cell and carefully propagated
and maintained until a vigorous strain was produced with
its own particular properties to produce whiskey possessing
desired characteristics. We made our first breakthrough in
nineteen-eighty-eight, and since that time, we have constantly striven to improve the yeast."

I stared at the notebook. My brain raced. I muttered,
trying to verbalize my thoughts. "What if she came to Chalk Hills to steal the formula, or some of the culture?
That could explain why she was here." I knew I was
stretching the envelope, but stranger things have happened.

If only I knew when she left home. I looked at the telephone, reluctant to disturb Voss again. She might not have
known about the yeast. She could have simply wanted to
see the world, and someone who wants to ramble takes his
time. She could have hit New Orleans and remained for
months before moving on. But, what if there was only a
couple of weeks between the time she left Kentucky and
the day she arrived at Chalk Hills? That would indicate
some degree of deliberation.
- -- - - - - -- - - - - --

I studied the telephone, then grabbed it and quickly dialed the number. If I didn't find out when she left, I'd never
stop worrying over it.

Voss
answered,
his
voice
weak
and
old.

"Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Voss. This is Boudreaux.
Can you tell me when Katherine left home. The date, more
or less?"

Woodenly, he replied, "I'll never forget that day. I drove
her down to the Greyhound station in Benchmark. That
morning. June fifteen, nineteen-eighty-eight."

I held my voice steady as I thanked him, but my hands
were shaking when I replaced the receiver. June 15. Three
days before she showed up at Chalk Hills. Three days. On
the Greyhound bus. How many ways can you spell deliberate?

More and more loose threads were showing up in the
case. It was like a pebble in a pond. The ripples spread
until they covered the entire surface.

I had the feeling Chalk Hills was the pebble. Katherine
Voss was one ripple. Patterson was another. Patterson was
dead. What about Voss? She had vanished ten years earlier.
Where? A grim thought hit me. The notion was outrageous,
absurd, but I couldn't shake it. Finally, I gave in to the
idea. After all, it was just conjecture, another game of what
if.

Suppose there were two murders? And if so, did one have anything to do with the other? Abruptly, two pieces
of puzzle slipped together. What if something had happened to Voss while she was at Chalk Hills? Patterson
might have known about it, and decided to use that knowledge for a little blackmail.

I nodded slowly. Men have been killed for a lot less.

Behind me, Jack snorted and gurgled.

My heart thudded. I dragged my tongue over my dry lips.
"What I need is a drink," I muttered, rising and heading
for the kitchen. "A stiff one."

I leaned back against the snack bar, sipping my drink
and gathering my thoughts. First, I had no hard proof of
any crime; none that Voss was even dead; none that Patterson had been murdered. And sound theories need facts
for support.

One thing was certain, I told myself, staring hard at the
half-empty glass in my hand. I wanted the truth, for me,
and for Harold Voss, and for Emmett Patterson and yes,
for Katherine Voss. At the same time, I didn't care to end
up in the cornerstone of a skyscraper somewhere, or under
the playing field at Giant Stadium rubbing shoulders with
Jimmy Hoffa.

I shook the glass, swirling the golden liquid. I wondered
if I was good enough to pull it off. Could I find out the
truth without getting myself killed?

I grunted and lifted the glass to my lips. Hesitating, I
stared at the amber liquid. The last thing I needed was a
brain addled by alcohol. I sat the glass down. "First things
first," I muttered, going back to my computer. I'd write up
the report, a very innocuous report, for Marty. He'd file it
away, and I'd go back out to Chalk Hills to see if I could
find some answers for the questions that were beginning to
nag at me. I could use the pretense of the investigation for
a few more days.

One thing for sure, I reminded myself, I had to be careful
about the information I provided Beatrice Morrison, for she
would pass it along to Cleyhorn, who in turn would give
it to Danny O'Banion's bosses. If they thought I was even considering a murder case, they would move fast. And
there was no chance I could get out of their way in time.
The only information they would get from me was growing
evidence that the death was accidental.

For a moment, I wondered about the size of the investment Danny's friends had in the distillery, but I realized
the amount of money made no difference. Danny's bosses
were the kind who did not like to lose money, even pocket
change.

And I couldn't forget Danny. I knew he had Huey, alias
Godzilla, tailing me, which meant that everything I did, I
had to have a logical explanation that would satisfy him.

I continued working on the benign report for Marty,
making certain I had enough unanswered questions to justify continuing the investigation. At the same time, I made
no allusions to murder.