Cracks Beneath the Surface, page 15
“How do you know all this? I thought you were just the accountant for the diner.”
“Even though Lisa was moving into the in-law suite at my house, we talked almost every day. Keith never listened. Lisa talked about the diner all the time. It was her passion. I guess I picked up on most of it.” Vickie slumped in her chair. “What should I do about the window?”
“Dak woke up Caleb Martin and he’s bringing plywood from public works. They’ll board up the window for you.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. I’m sorry about this.”
“I’ve got a few more questions.” Laurent picked up an overturned chair and plopped into it. “Ruby Rae Evans. What’s her role in the diner?”
“She’s one of the Moonshine Mamas. There’s only four of them. Stacy Simmons, Ruby Rae Evans, Diane Wells, and Hannah Burton. Stacy handled everything at the diner and Ruby Rae was in charge at the garage.”
“What garage?”
Vickie straightened up in the chair. “Let me explain. It’s all related to the liquor licenses. First, Lisa needed an FDSP. Federal Distilled Spirits Permit.”
“Lisa had a distiller permit?”
“And the moonshine was made in one of the garages at the rear of my property.”
“The Excise Police let you make moonshine in your garage?” Laurent’s jaw dropped.
“With a few modifications, the garage met all the regulations. The first couple of years, they inspected us every six months, but we were perfect. No tickets were issued, no health regulations were violated. In fact, after a few years, Lisa said one of the inspectors made a comment about how the moonshine garage was cleaner and more compliant than some of the bigger distilleries. That made her happy.”
“Who else did she sell to?” Laurent asked.
“No one. Big Al’s was it. Everything was within the county limits, especially for transportation. It also kept demand up.”
“Then what?”
“After she got the distiller permit, she needed another one for the distilling equipment and two or three different permits from the Indiana Alcohol and Tobacco Commission. One was for the manufacture, transportation, and sale of alcohol to retailers. Then she needed a permit to be a retailer. Then there was all the licensing for the servers, and finally, Field’s Crossing wanted their share of the pot. The last step was the FDA. Food includes alcoholic beverages. It took almost two years and cost five thousand dollars.”
“Did Lisa suspend sales while going through the permit process?” Laurent asked.
“Ah, no. She kept selling from the back of the diner like Al Jr. and hoped and prayed you and your staff wouldn’t catch on.”
“When was this?”
“2010–2011.”
“I wasn’t sheriff then, only a deputy.” Laurent crossed her ankle over her knee. “Any reason any of the Moonshine Mamas would want Lisa dead?”
“No. They were paid very well. In addition to their hourly wage, Lisa paid them cash under the table based on sales,” Vickie said.
“That’s illegal.”
“It is and I told her not to do it. Just increase their wages by the same amount. She said then they have to pay taxes and social security and all that crap. This way they could make a few bucks on the side free and clear.”
“Unreported income,” Laurent mused. “A bit like tipping your hair stylist or putting money in a jar at the Chinese take-out place.”
“That’s what Lisa said.”
“Would one of these women turn Lisa into the IRS?”
“Doubtful.”
“Why do you say that?”
“An IRS audit always carries the possibility of fines and even shutting down the business,” Vickie said. “Who in Field’s Crossing wanted Big Al’s to close?”
“You’ve got a point there. Now that Lisa is deceased, I assume you’re applying to transfer ownership of the licenses and permits, or do you have to start over?”
“I can apply to transfer all the necessary permits so long as I, Victoria Scott Wright, am eligible. Which I am.”
“What do you mean?” Laurent asked.
“There’s a bunch of individual requirements like living in the state for the past five years, not being convicted of any felony on any level. Stuff like that.”
Laurent looked at the woman sitting opposite her. “If Lisa hadn’t died, but ended up owing the IRS, what do you think she would have done?”
“Get a loan from the bank.”
“What happens with the IRS audit now that Lisa’s dead?”
“After the death certificate is issued, I’ll send a certified letter to the IRS along with a copy of the death certificate and ask that the audit be postponed until the executor has transferred ownership and I’ve been given time to prepare.”
“How long will the IRS give you?” Laurent asked.
“Six months to a year.”
“Does the family know about this?”
“After the will was read, I scooted out the front door. I think they went out the back door into the parking lot, so I have no idea if they even know about the audit,” Vickie said. “Technically, it’s my problem, not theirs. Not only was I the accountant for Lisa while she owned Big Al’s, but I also inherited the diner. I don’t believe I’m under any obligation to tell them, but if I had to guess, Aubrey probably knew.”
“Would the IRS keep a record if someone complained?” Laurent asked.
“Yes. But that individual may be protected by whistleblowing laws.”
So, if someone turned Lisa in, I’d have to get it out of them. The IRS isn’t going to tell me. Who wanted Big Al’s audited? What does anyone gain from an IRS audit?
“We found your prints on the catering van. Can you explain that?” Laurent asked.
Vickie shrugged. “When I got to the Easter egg hunt, I met Lisa at the van. I probably touched it. Opened the door for her. I probably opened one of the van’s rear doors. It’s one of those things you do without thinking.”
The radio on Laurent’s shoulder squawked as headlights flashed through the broken front window. “Just me, boss.”
“Any luck?”
“Nope. Caleb’s pulling up. We’ll get the window boarded up.”
“Who do you think broke in tonight?” Vickie asked.
“No clue,” Laurent said. “I’ll call you tomorrow if I have any news.”
Laurent slammed the hidden door to the walk-in cooler and moved a couple of racks of food back in place. She clicked off the light. Returning to the main dining room, she slid into a booth and watched Caleb and Dak as they pounded the plywood over the broken window. She sighed and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.
God, I’m tired. Who busted into Big Al’s and why? I hope it was just a teenage dare. Graduation’s a month away. Stupider pranks have been pulled.
Moonshine made in a garage. Laurent shook her head. Busy day tomorrow.
“Dak, I want you to pull Lisa’s permits tomorrow and look at the records and reports from the Tobacco and Alcohol Commission. Talk to the inspector from the Excise Police,” Laurent said. “Check and see if the permits transfer on death and who it can transfer to.”
“What are you talking about? Lisa’s got a retailer’s permit tacked to the wall in the diner,” Dak said.
“Lisa made the moonshine in Vickie’s garage.”
“How’d she get by with that?”
“That’s what I want you to check.” Laurent slid out of the booth and stretched. “Vickie says nothing’s missing. Let’s hope we interrupted the intruder. I also want you to call the IRS and see if they’ll tell you how the audit was initiated. Did they do it or did someone complain? See if you can get a name.”
“Will do,” Dak said. “Go home. I can see your shoulder’s killing you. Me and Caleb got this.”
“I don’t need to be told twice.”
“Sometimes, you do,” Dak muttered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
LAURENT STAMPED HER feet on the rubber mat outside the moonshine garage as she waited for Vickie to key in the passcode. Last night’s break-in of Big Al’s and her failure to catch the intruder still rankled. She had been shocked to learn the moonshine was made locally and not shipped from somewhere else. Moonshine was big business. I wonder if any of the Moonshine Mamas wanted to make and sell and distribute like Lisa. What would they do to put Lisa out of business?
“You have two six-car garages here. Enough room for twelve vehicles,” Laurent said. “Are they both used to manufacture moonshine?”
“Just this one. The other six-car garage is where the Moonshine Mamas park their cars when they work and it’s where I park when I’m home. From Corn Belt Road, the two garages look like they’re part of the house.
“Let me clarify. Lisa only made moonshine for Big Al’s. She didn’t sell to anyone else.”
Vickie opened the door. “She didn’t want the hassle or paperwork or a huge operation. She was a small-town girl.”
“How much moonshine did she make?”
“Ten thousand gallons per year are allowed under the FDSP. The Moonshine Mamas made about half that every year,” Vickie said. “Feel free to look around.”
Laurent stepped inside and moved her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her gaze wandered around the garage. There was no evidence of the early morning sunshine, but the inside temperature was warmer than the April air. She estimated the converted six-car garage to be eighty feet long by sixty feet wide with fire extinguishers every fifteen feet. She counted eighteen. Overhead, fluorescent lights flickered on.
In her head, Laurent had envisioned huge copper kettles, rows of barrels, and a dark, dingy interior. Maybe that’s for big distillers. If Lisa only provided moonshine for the diner, how much equipment and space would she need? Vickie said Lisa didn’t manufacture all ten thousand gallons. Is that the motive? More moonshine equals more money.
Along the wall to her left was a row of lockers and hanging on hooks next to the lockers were goggles and heavy-duty rubber aprons. Gloves were stacked in a four-cubicle shelving unit. Small, medium, large. The side wall was shelving. Laurent walked slowly, reading the labels. Distilled water. Cornmeal. Yeast. Sugar. The next section of shelves held clean Mason jars and the last section contained Mason jars filled with a clear liquid and labeled with a date. Moonshine.
The far back wall had two enormous dishwashers and a sink labeled “industrial waste.” Opposite the shelving walls were six locked and closed garage doors and down the middle of the room stood four stainless steel stills.
“Why is it so dark in here?” Laurent asked.
“Moonshine has to be stored in a cool, dark place. If it’s kept in the sun or a hot spot, it’ll explode,” Vickie said. “I’m heading to work. Who’s meeting you here?”
“Stacy Simmons.”
“How did you get started?” Laurent asked.
Stacy had shown up almost immediately after Vickie left. Laurent propped one foot on the running board, leaned against the closed door of the black police SUV, and waited for Stacy to light her cigarette and drop the match on the ground.
“After Al Jr. sold to Lisa, the moonshine sales dropped off the charts. I came across Lisa one night in her office, crying. She asked me how in the hell did Al make ends meet? So I told her.” Stacy exhaled a stream of smoke into the biting April air. “The real reason Al Jr. sold to you was that he was afraid of getting caught and going to jail. The sheriff before you, Glen, caught one of our customers speeding through town and the growler was on the floor next to him. Al told everyone to throw a coat over the growler if you were going to keep it on the front seat or lock it in the trunk. Well, this asshole didn’t and now the sheriff and all of you started eating at Big Al’s on a regular basis. So, he sold and took all his customers with him. They liked his rot-gut stuff. Lisa tried making moonshine, but it wasn’t any good, so she gave up. Then she remembered my mama’s Sweet Tea Moonshine. My mama was dead by then, but I had the recipe.”
“Go on,” Laurent prodded.
“You all know Lisa is a great sandwich maker, but that wasn’t what kept Big Al’s in the black. It was the moonshine. After Lisa got all the permits and licenses and crap, we was back in business. And that’s how the Moonshine Mamas were born. It was slow at first, but picked up real quick when all the little old ladies realized it took away their aches and pains and let them sleep some at night and it tasted good. The first few weeks we used my mama’s recipe, we gave out free samples. Kinda like they do at a beer garden.”
“The caffeine didn’t keep them awake?”
“Alcohol tops caffeine every time.”
“So, Lisa uses your mother’s recipe and makes a bucket of money. How’d you feel about that?” Laurent asked.
“It was good business. Lisa paid us an hourly wage and some cash under the table based on how much we sold, so letting her use my mama’s recipe made me money. Lisa didn’t try to cheat us, and she was very generous at Christmastime.”
“How much money did you make?” Laurent asked. Lisa might have been generous at Christmas, but you still resented her. Do you want to start your own moonshine gig?
“We all raked in about a thousand dollars a month under the table. A couple of the Mamas put their kids through college with it.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
Stacy blew out smoke. “Yep.”
“Now what?”
“I got no idea, but it don’t matter. Vickie’s in no hurry to reopen so there goes our money.”
“Any of the Moonshine Mamas upset about that?”
“We was all upset, but not enough to kill someone. It’s not like any of us expected to inherit Big Al’s,” Stacy said.
She’s got a point. The Moonshine Mamas knew when Lisa died and Aubrey didn’t inherit, their days were numbered. No more cash under the table. What if one of them wanted to run the moonshine business? Maybe one of them killed Lisa to take over. Steal all of Lisa’s customers the way Al Jr. took his customers. Who else sells moonshine in Field’s Crossing?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“HOW LONG IS this gonna take? I’ve got things to do.”
“Hopefully not too long.” Laurent pulled out a conference room chair and laid her notebook on the table before sitting across from Ruby Rae Evans. The Moonshine Mama wore a Jameson baseball cap, her ponytail pulled through the hole in the back. She wore Nike tennis shoes, black leggings, and a zipped-up windbreaker.
“Are you a runner?” Laurent asked.
Ruby Rae nodded. “Just finished my loop around town.”
“Where do you live?”
“Near Webster Park.”
“What’s your running route?”
“I head east on Webster Street and then south on Seventh. I run home any number of ways. Today I cut over on Roosevelt, so I’d be here on time.” Ruby Rae unzipped her jacket and pushed up the sleeves.
“When was the last time you saw Lisa DuVal?” Laurent picked up her pen.
“Friday afternoon. I left while she and Stacy were coloring Easter eggs.”
“You didn’t work on Saturday?”
“It was Easter weekend. Not a lot of business on Saturday or Sunday. We had minimal staff.”
“Where were you on Easter Sunday?” Laurent asked.
“Home. Making dinner.”
“Anyone with you?”
“My husband.”
“Anyone else?”
“Just me and him having a lazy day. We’re not churchgoers, but I do like to cook.”
“How about last night?”
“Same. Home.”
“Stacy tells me you’re in charge of making moonshine for Big Al’s. Take me through the process. I’ve never made it.” Laurent leaned back in the chair and laid her pen on the table.
“Not much to tell. Making moonshine’s easy when you’ve done it a few times,” Ruby Rae said. “We started out with these little stovetop pieces of shit. Now we use only twenty-gallon stills and we’ve got four stoves.
“First, you make the mash. Boil ten gallons of distilled water. Stir in two-and-a-half pounds of cornmeal. Boil for five to seven minutes. Use a wooden spoon to stir. Reduce the heat to one hundred fifty degrees and add ten pounds of sugar and one-half ounce of yeast. Mix. Now you have to cover the mash and let it sit for four or five days. When you see big bubbles floating on top, you’re ready to distill and filter the mash. Pour it all in the still and bring the mash up to one hundred and seventy-two degrees. The pipe on the top collects the vapors from the pressure and condenses into moonshine. The moonshine runs through the pipe and into the clean pot. Cool the mash. Filter it with cheesecloth and store it in clean, clear Mason jars. Throw out the impurities, especially the foreshots. They’re high in methanol, which is poisonous. Label the jars and stick them on the shelf. That’s it.”
Sounds like a helluva lot of work. Which is why it’s so popular in Field’s Crossing. “All four of you do this? Day after day after day?” Laurent asked. “What else do you do while you’re at the garage?”
“All the returned growlers and Mason jars have to be washed and the stills are cleaned every day. That’s why there’s two dishwashers,” Ruby Rae said. “Most of my time was spent labeling and transporting the moonshine to the diner.”
“What door did you use at the diner?”
“The walk-in cooler door. It’s closest to where the customers pick up their alcoholic beverages.”
“You have a key to this door?”
“I got keys to the entire diner. So does half the town.” Ruby Rae snorted.
“Did you ever work at Big Al’s? Serve liquor?”
“When I first started, I worked in the dining room pulling beers and making moonshine drinks. After a couple of years, Lisa asked if I wanted to work out here and I said hell, yes. Not have to deal with the public.”
“What’s your relationship with Keith DuVal?”
