had been pouring illegal alcoholic beverages for drinking customers for as long as he’d been in business. Or so Irv had informed her.
Neither Mr. Hutton nor the man with him, whose name now escaped her, had seemed the least bit suspicious of her transaction with Mr. Martin, or of the order he had placed for three pies, which, in the coded language they’d worked out between them, translated to that many pies, plus twice that number of jars of corn liquor.
She’d taken her money and run, getting a nod from the cook on her way through the kitchen that the transfer of fruit jars from her car to a hidden compartment in the kitchen had been conducted without detection. Nothing had gone awry.
All the same, she felt she had escaped a close call.
Deciding it was safe to do so, she turned off the engine and got out. She let herself into the house through the back door and went directly upstairs to her bedroom, relieved that she didn’t have to explain her shakes to Irv, who was helping Ernie at the still tonight.
As she entered her room, she left the light off, being more fearful of light than of the dark. She acknowledged that was standard criminal behavior.
Hands still unsteady, she set the pistol on the dresser. The handgun was small enough to fit in her palm, but Irv had assured her that the business end of it would give pause to anyone with harmful intent. He’d also assured her that it wasn’t the one Derby had used to kill himself.
Feeling claustrophobic, she hastily undressed. When she was down to her chemise, she poured water from the pitcher into the wash bowl and sponged off a film of nervous sweat. Then, moving to the bed, she sat on the edge of it and bowed her head, if not in prayer, certainly in relief.
Over the past several weeks, she had become so wrapped up in her exciting new enterprise, that, at times, she had to pause and remind herself that she wasn’t playing a high stakes game where she was merely trying to out-trick an opponent. She was breaking the law. If caught, the penalty was steep. She did not want to go to jail. Nor did she want to be responsible for Irv and Ernie being incarcerated.
When she’d first laid out her idea to use bakery goods as a cover for moving moonshine, Irv had responded with guffaws. Then he’d put up stubborn resistance, followed by pessimistic predictions. But after talking herself hoarse, she’d finally won his grudging support to try it.
“Just for a time. If it doesn’t work, I’ll stop.”
He’d retorted, “If it doesn’t work, we’ll all be behind bars.”
Clyde Martin, the restauranteur, had been the logical choice for their first prospective client.
“He used to keep a bootlegged stock,” Irv had told her. “So long as it was only a state infraction, and a fine if caught, he poured bourbon and scotch on the sly and called it ‘Mama’s sweet tea.’ He bought his moonshine from me. But the new law spooked him. He stopped buying, and, as far as I know, has gone completely dry. I don’t figure he’s a convert to abstinence, though. Might be worth me going to see him.”
“Let me.”
Irv had argued, but ultimately relented. “All right. But… Don’t take this wrong, Laurel. When you go soliciting, wouldn’t hurt if you girlied up some.”
“Girlied up? What does that mean?”
“You know what it means. Every woman in the world knows what it means.”
“I’m not soliciting at Lefty’s.”
“All’s I’m saying is, you might want to throw away those baggy old shirts of Derby’s and fix yourself up to be more…girlified.”
She’d spent that evening taking in the waistlines of garments that she’d let out during her pregnancy. As an afterthought, she’d also taken up the hemlines an inch and a half. She’d ironed a blouse with a front placket flanked by strips of lace, and had dusted off her best hat.
She’d timed her arrival at the café during the lull between the midday meal and dinner. She gave the busboy her name and asked to see Mr. Martin. After getting clearance, he’d escorted her to a cramped office off the kitchen.
When she’d walked in, Clyde Martin had been standing behind his desk, looking the picture of benevolence. “Mrs. Plummer. I’d like to express my sincere condolences for your—”
She’d cut him off. “You’re losing money, Mr. Martin.”
“I…I beg your pardon.”
“Try this.” She’d taken a mason jar of moonshine from