Free Death in the Distillery by Kent Conwell

sagged. He liked them young and
firm. He was fast, too, man. Why, way back, some girl
come through. Hitchhiker." He leered. "Never forget her.
She wore a red shirt that showed her belly. Her pants pulled
up tight." He shook his head and blew through his lips.
"She was sure a looker. She hadn't been here ten minutes
before old Emmett had her out in back of rackhouse number two. That's how fast he was. Just about the time they
finished, old Tom, Tom Seldes ... you know, the one we
was talking about."
    "Yeah. Go on."
    "Well, old Tom walked up on them. According to Emmett, him and the girl finished up while old Tom stood
there watching, his mouth hanging open."
    "What happened then?"
    He wrinkled his thin face in concentration. "Seems like she went over to the lab then, but I ain't sure." A lazy grin
popped back on his face. "Anything else?"

    I shrugged. "No. Not really. What'd you do after the
cops left?"
    ,.You mean yesterday?"
    I wanted to roll my eyes, but I remained professional.
"Yes. You know, after they took Emmett away."
    He gave me a sheepish grin. "Crashed. I was drunker'n
a skunk. That's why I don't remember much. I slept 'til
old Tom woke me to clean up after the reception."
    "You talk to anyone about Emmett?"
    He frowned. "You mean yesterday?"
    "Yeah. Yesterday."
    "Naw. Except when the cops was there. Me and Tom
talked about it later when we was cleaning up. That was
all."
    I was out of questions. I pushed myself to my feet. "Hey.
Appreciate your time."
    Claude winked. A happy grin leaped to his lips. "Anytime, man. Anytime. Glad to help."
    When I left Hawkins' cabin, I noticed the lights were off
in Tom Seldes' place. I decided to let him wait until tomorrow. Besides, I needed some time to go over my notes.
As usual, some contradictions had popped up, such as the
color of the missing girl's blouse. Jackson claimed it was
white; Hawkins said red. And no one knew exactly who
took the tractor from the garage.
    I had an uneasy feeling that the words "accidental death"
on the death certificate might be subject to a re-evaluation.
All of a sudden, a few curious holes were appearing in the
accident theory.
    I wasn't trying to build a murder case, but the fact was
just about everyone I interviewed had a reason to kill Emmett Patterson. Mary Tucker most of all, because Emmett
got her daughter pregnant and caused the miscarriage.
Hawkins was next in my book because of money. Then
Runnels, because Emmett was a punk, which wasn't much of a reason for murder, although given the right set of circumstances, it was more than sufficient.

    Last came Alonzo Jackson, the Master Distiller, Emeritus, who simply and unequivocally, disliked the man.
    I grunted. Good thing it was an accident. If it had been
murder, there was a handful of people who could step to
the front of the line.
    Hey, as far as I knew, maybe the aliens whacked the
guy.
    The lights were still on in the maintenance barn, so I
pulled up and went inside. A morbid curiosity impelled me
to take a closer look at the tractor and discs that had done
the job on Patterson.
    The brightly lit barn was so large that five high school
gymnasiums could have fit inside, a sad indictment of the
expensive accouterments of business versus those of education. On the other hand, it was cleaner than my apartment, an ironic indictment of gainful labor versus sloth and
indifference.
    The company vehicles, trucks, pickups, and farm implements shone like they had just been given a coat of wax. I
had to admit, Runnels took good care of the equipment. I
glanced around. He was nowhere to be seen. I circled the
tractor and cringed when I imagined Emmett falling off the
seat, straight down in the path of the circular blades.
    I paused at the rear of the tractor and stared up at the
seat. That's where he had been sitting. According to Sergeant Howard, the tractor bounced over the ditch, causing
the drunken Patterson to fall from the seat.
    I crossed the