Death in the Distillery Read Online Free PDF

think Emmett was an accident?"
    His question surprised me. He was the second to ask that
question. "What do you think?"
    He shrugged. "Beats me. I ain't talked to nobody about
it." He glanced furtively around the grounds. He ignored
my question. "You talking to everyone?"
    "Everyone who worked with Patterson. Cleyhorn gave
me a list. No sense in talking to those who had nothing to
do with him. At least, at this point. Maybe later. Why?
Don't you think it was an accident?"
    Once again, he ignored my question. "Talk to Hawkins.
He threatened to kill Emmett one time. And be sure and
don't forget Mary Tucker. She oughta be on the list. If ...
anyone . . ." He clamped his lips shut. "Well, I ain't saying
no more. Just talk to both of them. You hear? Of course,
Mary ain't here today. Didn't show up for work. Wasn't
here yesterday either. At least, no one saw her if she was.
Mighta been on another bender." He sneaked a glance over
his shoulder.
    I tried to finesse him. "Why do you think they're so
important?"

    That didn't work either. He shrugged. "I ain't saying it
wasn't no accident. In fact, I ain't saying no more. Just you
be careful. Only last week, I spotted some of them hiding
behind the cabins where our employees live. By the time I
got there, they was gone."
    I leaned forward, feeling my pulse speed up. Maybe I
was on to something. "They? Who?"
    Finally he answered one of my questions. "Aliens. I escaped from them, and they've been trying to take me back
up.
    Back in the pickup, I pulled out my notebook to jot down
the information I had garnered from David Runnels. I hesitated. What information had I picked up from him? Christ,
he was a delusional nut running around hiding from aliens.
How could I believe anything he said? Still, I put down as
much detail as I could remember.
    When I finished, I glanced over the notes. Not much, but
I learned early on that detailed notes from several witnesses
sometimes dovetailed with each other. Like a puzzle. And
who could say? Maybe Runnels' fanciful flights into Never
Never Land might fit in somewhere.
    But, I doubted it.

     

My next stop was the distillery disguised as a Spanish
hacienda. I paused outside the door and picked up a piece
of firewood that had fallen off the pile. "My good deed for
today," I muttered, tossing the log back on the stack.
    Inside, the huge building was as spotless as an operating
room. I looked around for a receptionist. A flight of stairs
on one wall led to offices above.
    The only information I spotted was a sign pointing up
the stairs with MASTER DISTILLER, EMERITUS engraved in
neat black block letters, in a style like they used in Arab
countries.
    I paused halfway up the stairs to gaze out over the distillery below. The building seemed a mile long, filled with
the oddest collection of equipment I had ever seen, a melange of stainless steel tubs and pots, each large enough to
hold three eighteen wheelers parked side by side. Workers
in long white lab coats scurried about.
    At the top of the stairs was a door with a square glass
pane. Above the door was another engraved sign: MASTER
DISTILLER, EMERITUS. I looked inside at the man behind the
desk. So that was a Master Distiller, Emeritus. I don't know
what I expected. Probably a pot-bellied little man dressed
in a Bavarian costume with a jaunty cap, and carrying a
stein of beer. Instead, I saw a neatly attired businessman in an expensive three-piece suit poring over sheaths of data.
The gray at his temples gave him the look of distinction,
of wisdom, of breeding. So much so that the small Band
Aid on his cheek looked out of place.

    A welcome smile erased the seriousness on his thin face
when he spotted me. He waved me in, quickly coming
around the desk and offering me his hand. I guessed him
to be a little over six feet, maybe six-two, about four inches
taller than me. A slight man, his tone was soft and somewhat reticent, as if he was unsure of each