Death in the Distillery by Kent Conwell Page B

murder, Beatrice Morrison and Danny O'Banion would
be upset, and that's putting it mildly. They'd go ballistic.
"You best be sure, Tony," I muttered, folding the autopsy
report back into the envelope. "Dead-on sure."
    I jerked to a halt on the porch. I should have known.
Baby Huey sat in the Lexus next to the curb across the
street. A cigarette glowed. I considered inviting him to
IHOP. "Let him pay for his own," I muttered, pulling onto
the street and heading west. Moments later, a pair of headlights swung in behind me.
    Huey sat in the Lexus while I had a leisurely breakfast
loaded with cholesterol and fat. Three eggs over-easy, three
greasy sausages, two pancakes dripping with butter and hot
blueberry syrup, all washed down with hot coffee heavily
laden with sugar. Carbohydrates, fat, protein. A balanced
breakfast. I could feel my arteries clog. To offset the year's
worth of fat and cholesterol coursing through my veins after such a meal, I sipped on a diet Coke during the drive
out to Chalk Hills.

    I'm not too swift, but my next decision was a no-brainer.
If I learned for certain that Patterson was murdered, then I
had to turn it over to the proper authorities. But first, I
would inform Beatrice Morrison and Danny O'Banion.
Once each decided on his next move, then I would go to
Sergeant Howard and dump the details in his lap without
fear of learning to swim with concrete shoes.
    However, until I followed up on my theory, I would keep
my suspicions to myself.
    The only employee I had not interviewed was Tom Seldes, the rackhouse foreman, the heavily muscled man with
gorilla arms and girl's voice, the man whose personal ambiance still jarred me. No way a brutish man should have
the voice of a bird. He should growl, like a gorilla.
    He stood in the middle of the sunlight spilling through
the open doors of the rackhouse. Behind him, barrels of
aging whiskey were stacked in horizontal racks four high,
on rows that stretched into the darkness of the storage
building.
    He wore khaki trousers and a matching shirt, unbuttoned
at the neck. Thick, black hair boiled from his open collar.
We shook hands. His grip was like a vise.
    Though friendly, Seldes was not the least bit helpful.
Pulling information from him was like dodging raindrops,
almost impossible. "You knew Emmett Patterson pretty
well, didn't you?"
    "Yeah," he said in his high-pitched voice. "Emmett was
okay. He hadn't grown up altogether, but he was a good
boy." He shook his head. "Terrible way to go."
    "How do you think it happened?"
    Seldes arched an eyebrow. "Beats me. Claude said Emmett was drunk."
    "You talk to anyone else about it?"
    "Naw. The others, they don't mess much with us common laborers out here. Of course, don't misunderstand.
They're good folk. But we don't run in the same circles."
    Before I could reply, a bright red forklift rounded the corner of the rackhouse and headed for us. "Best we move
out of the way," he said, stepping to the side of the open
doors. "The boys will be pretty busy today."

    "Doing what? They moving barrels?"
    He rolled his powerful shoulders. "Some of them." He
looked up at me, his dark eyes bright. "I been in this business for over fifty years. Still fascinates me."
    Dodging forklifts? The stench of diesel? The chill of a
darkened rackhouse? Some fascination. "Yeah, I can see
how it would be fascinating. Now, about Emmett Patterson."
    Seldes shrugged. "Told you about all there is. He worked
here for a long time. He knew better than to get careless
on the tractor. That's how accidents happen. In fact, he
shouldn't have even had it out Sunday. Especially drinking
like he was."
    A flag popped up in my brain. "Him? I thought Hawkins
took it out."
    "No. Emmett did."
    "Maybe I'm confused. Runnels told me that you said
Hawkins took the tractor out."
    A wry grin split his deeply lined face. "David Runnels
is a good man. I've knowed him for over thirty years, but
he's losing it