Back at the police station, Hank set the box of cupcakes on his desk and turned to his computer to find the site for the Tennessee Secretary of State. He searched for information on the business Killer Cupcakes and found the owner’s name: Daisy Baxter. An Individual Taxpayer Identification Number was listed, but no individual social security number was available. A few keystrokes more and he found she’d applied for an Employer Identification Number. He supposed this was all standard for opening a new business, but it didn’t help him learn anything about the owner of the business. He eyed the box but resisted the temptation.

  Next he pulled up the state regulatory agency’s site and searched its online database. He found the same information listed but nothing about the owner. His eyes moved from the computer screen to the box of cupcakes and back to the screen.

  His research showed businesses in certain industries like restaurants or car dealerships must obtain a license. So he searched the database of licenses, permits, or inspections. Killer Cupcakes had recently had an inspection, but he didn’t find anything else about the owner.

  He went to the Tennessee Department of Revenue for information about Killer Cupcakes. Same owner name. Same ITIN. No new leads. He eyed the box on his desk again. Finally, he opened it, pulled out a cupcake with peanut butter icing and chocolate curls, and took a bite. He was surprised with a creamy peanut butter filling inside a chocolate cupcake. He ate the cupcake in four bites.

  He figured she’d have to register a business license with the county agency, so he clicked over to that website. Nothing there. All of these agencies had information about the business but nothing about the owner. He found out there wasn’t much chance of finding out information for a small business owner.

  He typed into a Google search “Daisy Baxter.” Images for various Daisy Baxters appeared, but none of them was the Daisy he was looking for. He clicked on links for Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn, but everything he landed on was the wrong Daisy.

  He kicked back in his chair and stared at the screen, not seeing anything but what was in his mind’s eye: Wynona smiling up at him. Wynona in his arms on the dance floor at the Mag Bar. Wynona sitting at the bar and talking to him for hours. Could it be possible? Could Daisy be the mysterious woman who had come into and out of his life one night a while ago? She sure looked different. But she moved in the same way, and she had the same sad look in her eyes, and something inexplicable drew him to her in the same way he’d been drawn to Wynona. But that didn’t mean a whole lot. He fingered his lips, remembering the kiss they shared in the parking lot. That was some kiss.

  His stomach growled, and Bernadette looked over at him. He smiled sheepishly, and reached for another cupcake. Talking around a big bite he said, “Hungry, I guess. Sorry. Want one?” He offered her the box.

  If only it were hunger and not acid, Hank thought.

  She shook her head and pursed her lips. “I don’t see how you manage to stay in shape and eat like you do. It’s just not fair.”

  He was pretty sure why Whoops-a-Daisy appeared to be a ghost. But he was unsure of what to do about it. If he were smart, he’d tell the chief about his suspicions and let him sort it out. Remembering his strong feelings for Wynona, and knowing his growing feelings for Daisy, he knew he couldn’t be impartial. He wanted to be her knight in shining armor not her judge and executioner.

  Bernadette walked over to his desk. “Chief wants to see you.”

  Hank popped the remaining portion of cupcake in his mouth, threw the cupcake paper away, and dusted off the crumbs from his face and hands. He walked back to Johnny’s office, knocking on the doorjamb and walking in. “What’s up, Chief?”

  Johnny looked up from some papers he was reading. “Moonshine Holler, that’s what. You know that trouble the Mag Bar had a while back? Well, someone over in Helechawa was just released from the ER, and the docs think that darn Goose Juice is to blame. Again. I want you and Skeeter to go check it out.” He wrote something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Hank.

  “Of course there’s an illegal still over in the holler. More’n one, probably. But it’s always been like two mules fighting over a turnip.”

  Johnny frowned. “Huh?”

  “Nobody cares. Why do we care now?”

  “’Cause it’s prolly contaminated. That’s why that stuff is illegal. And now it’s gone and got people sick. They could have died, for Pete’s sake.”

  “We can’t have that. I’ll round up Skeeter and head over.”

  Seven

  Breaking someone’s trust is like crumpling up a perfect piece of paper. You can smooth it over but it is never going to be the same again.

  –Anonymous

  Late May, five months before Dead Virgil

  Moonshine Hollow was down the road and around the bend from Daisy’s house. As Hank and Skeeter headed that way, they saw Bunhead Shaw walking along the road going in the opposite direction. Hank gave him a one-finger wave and stopped when he got alongside him, but Bunhead just nodded and kept walking. Hank put the car in reverse and drove backward slowly beside him as he walked.

  Hank put the window down and propped his arm on the opening. “Hey, Bunhead. S’up?”

  Bunhead shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “What are you going down that a way for?” Hank hitched his thumb behind him. “Ain’t nobody living down there but trouble.”

  Bunhead kept walking. He was a peculiar person. He wore shorts year-round. No matter the season, even in the snow, Bunhead wore shorts. Nobody could understand it because he had knobby knees and skinny toothpick legs. Bunhead had worn the same ball cap for the past seven years. He’d gotten his name on account of his head being shaped like a hamburger bun when he was little. Maybe the hat was to cover up his oddly-shaped head. Nobody knew because nobody had seen his head in quite some time.

  Besides his unique fashion sense, Bunhead’s habits were idiosyncratic. He walked everywhere he went, and he usually had a garbage bag with him so he could pick up trash as he walked. He claimed it made him feel good and occasionally he’d find a treasure. His other peculiarity was that he was a man of few words. Some people thought the thirtysomething man wasn’t right in the head. Hank didn’t know, but he had nothing against the man.

  Hank nodded toward the garbage bag in Bunhead’s hand. “Did you find any treasures today?”

  Bunhead swiped a hand across his nose. “Naw. Just trash.”

  “Well, it’s good of you to take on that chore.” Hank watched the rearview mirror as he continued to drive in reverse. “Listen, I heard you made a call to the station about the sign in the window over yonder.”

  Bunhead nodded. “Yup.”

  “Well, I just wanted to let you know that I checked it out. It was just that crazy old woman playing around. She’s either insane or bored. I haven’t figured out which one yet. At the very least, I’d say she’s eccentric.”

  “‘Kay.”

  “Yes, her name is Kaye.”

  Skeeter spoke up, craning his neck so he could see past Hank. “I think he means o-kay.”

  Hank nodded. “Well, anyhoo, it’s been nice chatting with you, Bunhead. You have anything else to tell me?”

  Bunhead kept ambling along, and Hank was having trouble regulating his speed to stay alongside him. Just as he was ready to take off down the road, Bunhead spoke up.

  “Saw a dead body this morning.”

  Hank stomped on the breaks so hard they chirped. Bunhead kept walking. Hank put the car in park, not bothering to pull to the side of the road. He turned to Skeeter.

  “Did he just say what I think he said?”

  “I don’t know. If what you think he said was that he’d seen a dead body this morning, then yeah, I guess so.”

  Hank jumped out and ran to Bunhead, putting both his hands on the man’s shoulders to stop him and look him in the eye.

  “What did you say?”

  “Saw a dead body.”

  Skeeter came up beside the men. “Where? Are you sure it was dead? Who was it?”

  Bunhead didn’t like to stand still. Hank could tell he was getting anxious to start walking again.

  “Why’nt you get in the cruiser and take us to the body? I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Bunhead stared longingly down the road. “Can’t get trash if I don’t walk.”

  “Bunhead, man, right now we have something more important than trash. Come on.” Hank steered the man to the cruiser and got him in the back seat. He ran around to the driver’s side and jumped in.

  “Where to? Where is this body?”

  Bunhead looked at him like the answer should be obvious. “Over in Moonshine Holler.”

  “Well, whatta you know. That happens to be where we were headed.”

  A few hours later, four of the five GPJPD cruisers on duty were at Moonshine Hollow. Sure enough, just as Bunhead had said, there was a dead body. A Mason jar turned on its side was found beside the corpse.

  Skeeter and Hank took the still apart and had carefully bagged and labeled the parts.

  Johnny looked up from some papers he was holding as they walked up to him. “Get it all sorted out?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Sorta.” Skeeter held up his bag. “What exactly do we do with the disassembled pieces of a moonshine still?”

  “Store it. We’ll need it for evidence. I’m betting the health department’s gonna want to see it too. They’ve already called me asking about Moonshine Holler on account of those people getting sick off Goose Juice. I expect they’ll pay the site a visit. And if the victim decides to sue, we’ll need it for their case. Now that we have a body, we’ll need it for that too. Put it in the evidence room. And also get soil samples.”

  “Will do.”

  “Say, Chief, who owns this land? Want me to go pick ‘em up for questioning?”

  “You mean you don’t know? This is the tail end of Jack’s land. I’d stake all my years in law enforcement that Jack’s not involved in the still. We’ll need to inform him, but I’ll do that.”

  “All right. It was just a thought.”

  Johnny approached Bunhead, who had paced up and down the entire time they’d been there. “Bunhead, I’ll take you back to the station, get you something to eat, and we can talk a little bit. Then I’ll take you home. That all right with you?”

  “‘Kay.”

  Back at the station, they plied Bunhead with Coca-Cola and pizza, but in the end, the man of few words had very few words.

  He didn’t know the identity of the victim.

  He’d been walking earlier that morning and had run across it.

  He meant to tell someone, just hadn’t gotten around to it.

  He didn’t know anything about the still or the Goose Juice.

  Johnny pulled Hank out in the hall. “What do you think?”

  Hank shook his head. “I don’t know, man. I can’t see Bunhead committing murder. I mean . . . he’s . . . Bunhead. Mentally and physically he’s slower than a sloth on Sunday.”

  “What about the still? You think he has anything to do with that?”

  “Could be. He’s in those woods often enough. Although I doubt he’s smart enough to put one together.” Hank shrugged. “Who knows.”

  “Does anyone know Bunhead? He have any friends? Family?”

  “Lives alone and keeps to himself, far as I know. He’s known for hiding in the woods. Fact is, he’s more country than a cornbread wedding cake. He’s so poor he’d have to buy water to cry with.”

  “Money’s a mighty powerful motivator.” Johnny looked down the hall and back at Hank. “Well, let’s cut him loose but keep him in sight. I’ll put Skeeter on him.”

  Hank laughed under his breath. “Better him than me. Trying to keep track of Bunhead is like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree.”

  Hank returned to his desk and reviewed his research. He kicked back in his seat and propped his elbow on the armrest; his knuckles absentmindedly rubbed against his lips. What does it matter? Wynona is gone. Daisy, or whoever she is, is here. DeeDee’s death three years ago has been put to rest. Why stir it up now on a hunch?

  He mulled things over for several more minutes before turning to Bernadette, who was sitting behind her desk filing her nails. “Hey Bernie, do you know who owns the old Marshall farm?”

  “Now honey, I know a lot of things, but that ain’t one of them. I can make some calls and find out.”

  “Would you? That would be great.”

  “Any patickler reason?”

  “No, no. Just something I’m looking into, is all.”

  A few minutes later, Bernadette hung up the phone and brought over a Post-it Note to Hank.

  “It’s owned by a trust, but a property management company . . . um . . . manages it. Good Goose Properties. Here’s their number and address.”

  Hank stood, looking at the address written on the note. “I’m going to run an errand.”

  “You’re being awful cryptic, Officer,” she teased. “Does this involve a . . . wo-man?”

  “Bernadette, you’ve been reading too many romance novels. Tell the chief I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Hank drove to the property management’s office and went inside. A woman was working behind the reception desk. Her name plate said she was Polly Eaton.

  When she saw Hank, her eyes lit up, and she greeted him enthusiastically. “Well, hey there.”

  He took off his GPJPD ball cap and nodded his head. “Good afternoon . . . uh . . .” His eyes scanned the name plate. “. . . Ms. Eaton. Hireyew today?”

  She stood and made her way slowly around her desk, swinging her hips as she walked. Her voice was like silk. “I’m borderline perfection. Hireyew, Officer?”

  “Oh, I’m doing better than I deserve. Say, I’m looking for a piece of information. Wondered if you could help.”

  “Well, if I can I will, sugar.”

  “There’s a farmhouse out on Route 67, you know, out past Mack Knob Road?”

  “I know the one. It was old Crate Marshall’s place.”

  “Yeah! That’n. Well, I was wondering who owns it now and who rents it?”

  Polly chewed her gum and eyed Hank. “How’d you know it’s rental property?”

  “If it weren’t, y’all wouldn’t have anything to do with it, now would you?”

  “Well, now, I take your point, Officer. But I didn’t say we do have anything to do with it. And I can’t go around telling people confidential information.”

  “Can’t never could,” he grinned, trying his best to be charming. “Besides that, Polly, I’m not people. I’m the law.”

  She smiled but propped her hand on a hip. “You got a search warrant?”

  “No. No, I don’t. Didn’t think I needed one. I mean, isn’t this information public knowledge?”

  “If it were, why are you here?”

  “Okay, here’s what I think I know. The house is owned by a trust. Y’all ran an ad for it a while back, and now it’s rented by a Daisy Baxter.”

  “If you know all that, why’d you ask me?”

  “I need to know a little bit about the renter. Last known address, social security number, yada yada yada . . . ”

  “Seems to me that’s confidential information. But I will tell you that the renter is up to date on payments, and I’ll give you a hint about the owner: he’s a billionaire. He’s worth thousands.”

  Hank cocked his head. “Which is it? Thousands or billions?”

  Polly’s forehead scrunched up. “Huh? Well, you know . . . the thousands add up to billions.”

  “I see. And the renter? You can’t help me out a little bit with that?”

  Polly shook her head. “I need this job. Come back with a search warrant, Officer.”

  Eight

  A lie is like a bald spot, the bigger it gets, the harder it is to cover up. –Anonymous

  Late May, five months before Dead Virgil

  Virgil was fit to be tied. He paced the floor of his office trying to calm down before he called Buford Goodwin. He sat down, took several deep breaths, and punched in the number.

  “Buford, what in tarnation? You’ve gone and killed someone? Have you lost all your mind?”

  Buford’s tone as he talked to Virgil was as if he were talking to a child. “There has to be a reason to condemn the land, Virgil. It was just a matter of time before they took the still apart and carted it all away. If it’s no longer there, what’s the need to condemn the land? But if the still that was there was full of poison, which has sickened several and now killed someone, then that poison could still be in the soil, which could run off in the rain and travel to the lake. We can’t have that. The land will be condemned, Jack will sell, the commissioners will pass the rezoning, and the hotel construction will remove and cover up the soil where the still was located. Boom. We have our hotel.”

  “There’s never been a mention of murder. I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to. But you told me to handle getting you that land, and that’s what I’m doing. Now get ahold of yourself, Virgil. You’re acting like a lunatic.”

  “Well, isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black,” Virgil hissed before ending the call.

  “That patient was lucky. She was smart enough to know that she didn’t feel right, and she got to the hospital quickly, which probably saved her life.”

  Johnny sent Officers Hank Beanblossom and Velveeta Witherspoon to the hospital to talk to the doctor who treated the sick woman from Helechawa. They were standing in the midst of the bustling emergency room, dodging busy nurses and doctors. Dr. Foster, in his mid-fifties, didn’t seem fazed by the activity going on around them, and he was explaining the symptoms of the latest patient.

  “She presented with flu-like symptoms such as abdominal pain, nausea, vomiting, and she admitted to drinking. Since her symptoms mimicked the flu or inebriation, at first we chalked it up to one of those two things. But bloodwork revealed the presence of methanol, so we began treatment for methanol poisoning right away. The faster you can treat these patients the better response you’ll have. I’m thinking she may not have ingested a lot of the stuff, because methanol poisoning can also cause breathing difficulty, blindness, liver damage, heart issues, blurred vision, seizures, and even cause the victim to go into a coma or have nerve and brain damage.”