Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

Reluctantly, Ben sipped. “Burns a little.”

“Yeah. High alcohol content, but that will come on down. They’ll cut it, obviously, or they’d kill their customers.” Arthur laughed. “They’ll cut it down to eighty proof. That’s what I think.”

“But I thought one of the attractions of moonshine was the potency.”

“Not moonshine, country waters,” Arthur corrected him. “For the uninitiated, sure, they want that full mule kick in the pants. For the connoisseur, it’s the smoothness, the flavor, the lingering taste on the tongue. Good country waters are as good as anything you’ll get from a major distillery and a damn sight more individual.”

“I almost believe you didn’t know about this.”

“I didn’t, but I can tell you a few things.” He looked around. “Whoever is making this hasn’t been back here for maybe two months, give or take.”

“How do you know?”

“Dust. Someone who cared would keep the place spotless and still probably have some grain fermenting. Here the process has stopped. The barrels are full, except for one.” He pointed to a deeply charred white-oak barrel. “Maybe they got scared off.”

“With this much money invested? I doubt it.”

“Well, whoever is making this knows a good bit about the process. He’s done this before, with other country people. Maybe he even once worked at a distillery.”

“Kind of stupid to come back here.”

“No. There’s a ready market here and many ways to lead you-all off when you’re hunting. All anyone has to do is let a fox go.”

“Never thought of that.”

“Sheriff, you’re not country. Furthermore, you’re from Ohio. No offense intended.” He closed his eyes and lifted the bottle to his nose again. “Another thing. Coloring agents.”

“For what?”

“You’ve got someone making cheap bourbon here and passing it off as high grade, I reckon.”

“Jesus H. Christ on a raft!” Ben echoed Sister’s earlier exclamation.

Arthur stroked his fulsome mustache. “Boy, you got a little country in you after all.”

CHAPTER 18

“Aperfect match.” Sister held the paper sample next to a Maker’s Mark label. She found the samples in Hope’s office. She asked Dan for them saying she liked paper. He didn’t care if Sister cleaned out all of Hope’s desk. He was on overload.

The big Webb press hummed in the printing room at Franklin Press.

Bobby Franklin, fighting weight gain, feeling bulky, held up both papers to the light. “The ink’s a match, but you can see the paper isn’t the same as the real Maker’s Mark.”

Betty said, “Corporations must find ways to distinguish their product just like the government does with money, ways that aren’t obvious to a buyer. You know, like the silver thread they’re using now.”

“I confess when the new bills were issued I tore one open to pull out the thread.” Sister took the sheet of black paper held out to her by Betty. “Okay, what’s this?”

“Jack Daniels Number Seven. Black Label. In this case, the paper is just about right but it’s tricky, because the information isn’t printed, it’s a color block on the label.”

“What do you mean?” Sister rubbed the black paper between her fingers.

“The paper is white. It’s set up on computers—it’s all computers now—so the paper is printed and the lettering stands out in white. Think of it as a dye. Easier that way.”

“Like waxing the part of an Easter egg you wish to paint a different color.”

“Exactly.”

One of Bobby’s workmen approached. “Mr. Franklin, will you check the first runoff here?”

“The wedding job?”

“Right. That silver ink is a whistling bitch.”

“Be right back. Why don’t you girls go into the office?” Bobby always called Betty and Sister girls, and that was fine with them.

Once inside the main office, paneled in a lovely pecan that was hard to find this far away from Alabama’s pecan groves, the two women pored over paper samples and ink colors on the large smooth table.

Bobby came back in and Betty glanced up. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” He sat down next to Sister. “Silver ink, any metallic ink, is more difficult to work with. Clogs more often and may not give the crisp impression you want. Sometimes, depending on the job, we have to run the paper through twice, and that is dicey. Then people fuss because we charge more for metallic inks. If you look at the label of a George Dickel bourbon bottle, let me tell you, that is one damned expensive print job.”

“Hope didn’t have that one.” Betty matched up colors with bourbon labels.

“She stuck to Kentucky bourbons, except for Jack Daniels. The Japanese know about Jack Daniels.” Sister rested her chin in the cup of her hand, elbow on desk. “I’m surprised and appalled.”

“I’m pretty surprised, too.” Betty sighed.

“Larceny.” Bobby shrugged. “The lure of Mammon just grabs hold of some folks. Obviously she wasn’t worried about getting caught. Betty found the ink numbers written on scraps of paper in the glove compartment of Hope’s Volvo.”

“But Hope Rogers? Who would have thought?” Betty shook her head. “She made a good living. What more did she need?”

“Ask that of all the people living in McMansions,” Sister chimed in. “Bet there never was an aunt who died and left her money at all. She was raking it in on this.”

“I underestimated Ben.” Bobby was breathing heavily; he really did have to lose the fat. “He had everything in that still checked for fingerprints, and he did it fast. Hope’s prints were all over the place.”

“Here it is just three days from when we rode back in there, and the pieces of the puzzle are falling together.” Sister lifted her chin from her hand. “Okay. She was making illegal bourbon or fake bourbon or whatever you call the stuff, and she obviously sold it overseas where palates aren’t as sophisticated as ours regarding bourbon. I still don’t think she killed herself.” She paused. “She had a partner. She had to.”

“Why? She did her research. She had the ink colors exactly. Paper is harder to duplicate, but she came up with close substitutes if she couldn’t match it exactly. You know, specialty papers demand a lot of chemistry and a bit of art.” Bobby appreciated high-quality work.

“If Hope had a partner, why didn’t he or she go back to the still? Ben and Arthur said no one had been there in maybe two months.” Betty drummed her fingers on the table, her habit when working out a problem.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Bobby replied. “If she did have a partner—and I’m not sold on that idea—he or she needed Hope. She was the distiller. She was the one who had organic chemistry in college. You can’t be a vet or a doctor without it.”

“And she was the one who did all the research in Kentucky. Fascinating, really—her account, I mean. I think you’re right, Bobby. Hope was the distiller. Her partner would be a marketing person.”

“She could have done it by herself,” Betty said, “although it’s hard to imagine Hope hauling those large copper kettles back in there. So even if she didn’t have a true business partner, someone else knew.”

“Arthur.” Bobby folded his hands over his stomach. “Bet you bottom dollar.”

“He’s sly. He could have helped her out and taken something for it,” Sister agreed, “I’ll give you that. But on the other hand, he did make a deal with Ben to give up the business when Ben caught him the last time.”

“That’s not the same as saying you’ll never help anyone else.” Bobby laughed. “Arthur can find the slightest hole and slip through.”