Whiskey Thief by Chris Bostic

Author:Chris Bostic [Bostic, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-10-04T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

“Bizarre,” I said, holding a glow stick in my hand. It looked like the kind kids played with, but too thick to be a necklace or wrapped around a wrist. More like the kind that hung on a trick-or-treat bag at Halloween.

We were nowhere near Halloween. There shouldn’t have been any kids in this oversized haunted house. It would have made a heck of a place to open such a business, I thought. If it didn’t collapse.

I turned the glow stick over in my hand, wondering how long it had been activated. They typically didn’t glow that brightly for more than a few hours, which left only a few possible suspects—none of which seemed like the glow stick kind.

I placed it back on the counter next to a sink. Dusty glasses sat to each side. They were small in stature with a wide base and narrow opening. Much like a beaker from a science lab. Duplicates lined the shelves above the countertop.

“Grace?”

I jumped. A glass slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor.

“Don’t cut yourself again.”

“Dammit, Pete.” I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out before turning around.

“What are you doing?”

I reached back for the glow stick. “Looking at this.”

“What the heck?”

“Exactly.” I slipped it into the back pocket of my shorts. “Doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“More like any.” Pete backed into the hallway. “Someone else has been here.”

“What’s going on?” Vic called from down the hall. “Everyone okay?”

“Fine,” Pete said. “We’re coming.”

He nodded for me to follow him. I took a final glance around the room. Seeing nothing else unusual, I trailed behind him.

“So what did Vince need to see?”

Pete shrugged. “Something about grain delivery. Like a loading dock.”

“Alright. Weird.”

I looked around Pete to see Vince propped against an exterior wall. He ran a hand along a rusty roll-up door. It rattled under the pressure, but looked like there was no chance of it ever opening again. At least not without an industrial-sized can opener.

Vic was not close. She stood off on the far side of the room, as far away from the fermenting tank, and Vince, as possible. She leaned over, resting her hands on her knees.

“Great,” I muttered, sensing more drama than a soap opera.

“I don’t know what he’s doing.” Pete raised his voice to call to Vince. “Any luck?”

“It’s not gonna budge.”

I left Pete with Vic and went over to look at it. “A bit stubborn, huh?”

“Vic or the door?” he whispered.

“Not you, huh?”

“Never.”

I shook my head. “So what’s the real story?”

“My head’s killing me. Thought maybe I could find some water or something in that locker room looking place.” He motioned back over his shoulder to a room I had missed.

It seemed unlikely, or at least totally unsanitary, but I asked, “Anything in there?”

“I didn’t get a chance to find out.” He nodded with his head toward Vic. “Someone started whining about leaving.”

“Just tell her you have a headache.”

“Can’t show weakness. A guy has to perform.” He grinned. “You know the headache excuse only works for her.

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