Page 46 of Moonshine Kiss
Tiny town faces mob retaliation in Kendall killing
Hillbillies vs. The Mob: Who killed Callie Kendall?
Clarabell slid a plate of scrambled eggs with a small mountain of bacon in front of me and an egg white omelet with tomatoes and peppers in front of Jonah. We were celebrating the ridding of our town with a pre-work breakfast at Moonshine Diner.
“Ya see, everyone’s been scared to death of mob retaliation,” Clarabell recited to me as she topped off our coffees. “That’s exactly what I told the dumbass from thePerrinville Times.”
My driveway and the street in front of my house were blissfully empty this morning thanks to the backlash that had been just as swift as the viral spread of Bartholomew Jacques.
It was their own damn fault. Jonah handed his phone over, cueing up another video of a disgraced journalist jogging down the street with a crowd of his peers shoving cameras and phones in his face. The harassers had become the harassees. “How did an entire West Virginian town concoct a fake murder suspect and convince you to write about it?” the reporters wanted to know.
“No comment,” the man in question snapped, pulling the hood of his coat up and speeding his jog to a near sprint.
Detective Connelly’s derisive press conference questioning the irresponsibility of the press had been toasted by half the town watching at The Lookout. We’d all also shot the TV the middle finger when the asshole called us out for making a mockery of his investigation. Callie Kendall was ours more than she’d ever be his. The only thing we’d made a mockery of was a few dozen morons too aggressive to do their jobs properly.
Yep. We Bootleggers considered the entire situation a win. Nicolette had doled out shots of whiskey like it was a holiday when the news vans packed up. And June was quietly being lauded a town hero.
“Mornin’, Bowie. Jonah.”
I glanced up from the phone to see Sheriff Harlan Tucker sliding into the booth next to Jonah.
“Morning, sheriff,” I greeted him warily, feeling the familiar knots tie themselves together in my stomach. We’d been close once. He’d taken me to get my driver’s license, and I’d spent every Thanksgiving at his table since I could remember. Still did. But it was different now.
Clarabell reappeared with a mug and a coffee pot. “Breakfast today, sheriff?” She was all business now. None of us were keen on the idea of letting him know about our involvement. Our lips were zipped.
“Just coffee. Thanks,” he told Clarabell.
The sheriff took a sip, taking his time to warm up to his point.
“Cold one today,” he said.
“Yessir,” I agreed. Winter had indeed gotten her hooks into Bootleg early this year.
“Sure is,” Jonah said, shootingwhat the fuckeye daggers in my direction.
“You boys know anything about this Bartholomew Jacques business?” Sheriff Tucker asked real casual like. As if all he were after was a little early morning conversation.
We knew better.
“I always count on you to be honest with me, son,” he told me.
Ah, hell. That knife twisted nice and neat in my chest, exactly like he’d meant it to.
Jonah shoved a huge bite of omelet into his face so he couldn’t be counted on to reply.
Sheriff Tucker brushed his fingers over his mustache. It was whiter now than it had been during our last serious conversation. We were all getting older. Yet I still felt like a No-Good Bodine Boy around him.
“Seems like the Bartholomew business cleared up our little infestation problem,” I observed, not answering his question directly.
The mustache twitched.
“Seems like,” he agreed. “How about you, Jonah? You settling in all right?”
Jonah had just shoveled another forkful into his mouth. “Yesh-her,” he said.
Sheriff Tucker grunted. He was watching me like he was expecting me to spill my guts.
“Hey, sheriff. You hear about that armed robbery in Perrinville?” Clarabell appeared at our table, swooping in to save the day.
