Death in the Distillery by Kent Conwell Page A

good old boys weren't too inclined to take the same risks as legitimate investors. If
that's what he meant, and if I were in his shoes, I'd be
nervous too. "I don't want to know nothing. But I understand." I grinned. "How can I get in touch with you? We
can't keep meeting out here. People will talk."
    "Huey'll be around. Just look for the black Lexus."
    I grunted. "Just knowing Huey'll be around makes my
day."
    Danny chuckled. "I bet." He leaned back and the window
hissed shut. The powerful automobile sped away, heading
for the string of Christmas lights on the highway below.
    I watched until the lights were swallowed up in the line
of headlights. Shifting my truck into gear, I turned around
and headed home, puzzling over Danny's involvement with
Chalk Hills. One thing I knew for sure, I didn't want to
get on the wrong side of his `business associates.'

    And now, in addition to all the unanswered questions I
had uncovered at Chalk Hills, Danny O'Banion had stepped
into the snarl, further tangling whatever few threads of coherent logic remained.
    Jack lay on the couch, snoring and gurgling. Oscar swam
lazily in his aquarium, having survived another day with
the infamous Barb and Angelfish killer, Jack Edney. I
watched the pale pink Tiger Barb for several moments,
weaving through the plastic water sprite and Amazon sword
plants.
    "I know how you feel, guy," I whispered, sprinkling
some food on the surface. "Around and around. Getting
nowhere."
    My stomach growled. The refrigerator was empty, so,
after showering, I sat at the snack bar, eating a bowl of
frosted flakes and rereading the file on Emmett Patterson.
The pieces of the puzzle refused to fit.
    At three o'clock in the morning, I bolted upright in bed.
I suddenly realized what had been bothering me about the
set of tandem discs, and I knew without a doubt, Emmett
Patterson had been murdered.

     

I stared into the darkness, unable to believe the revelation
that had exploded in my head. But, it made sense. After
reading the autopsy report and interviewing most of those
involved, I had the feeling I was stumbling across uneven
ground, marked by potholes and yawning chasms. But now,
with a single stroke of startling recognition, the entire playing field leveled off.
    Eagerly, I threw back the covers and hurried into the
kitchen, ignoring Jack's dissonant snoring reverberating off
the walls. With trembling fingers, I flipped through the autopsy report to the descriptions of the trauma. "Here it is,"
I muttered, reading aloud the words that told me Emmett
Patterson had been murdered. "A blunt trauma to the occipital region. It other words, a concave, non-penetrating
wound to the back of the head."
    I held the death certificate in both hands, my fingers gripping the edges until they crumpled. "That's it. That's what
I was missing. Blunt trauma to the occipital region."
    Which was impossible.
    The frame supporting the discs was angular, made up of
square bars with ninety-degree corners, sharp corners. Had
he struck the frame, the trauma would have been penetrating, not blunt.
    And if the wound did not match the frame of the tandem disc, then perhaps he did not pass out and fall from the
tractor. Unless someone had helped him pass out with a
club of some sort, a round club. I thought of Claude and
of a round baseball bat, the round baseball bat with the
bleached barrel. Maybe bleached to remove the blood
stains?

    I was too excited to sleep. I wanted action; I wanted to
wade into the fray and find answers to the entire set of new
questions tumbling in my head. But three-thirty in the
morning is too early for anyone to ask questions, even those
out at the distillery. Still, by the time I shaved, grabbed
breakfast at IHOP, and reached Chalk Hills, the early birds
would be after the worms out there.
    And that was my job. To find the worm who murdered
Emmett Patterson.
    I hesitated, considering the other side of the sword. If it
was