Chapter 45
“SHERIFF RIGBY!” Josephine shoved the gauger book off to one side, certain that what she’d just done was clearly written on her face. “How may I help you today, sir?”
Sheriff Rigby glanced at her hand still resting on the ledger. “Jack in?”
“No, sir, he’s not.” She reached for a stack of bills, wanting to at least give the appearance of being busy. “I’d be happy to take a message for him.”
“How about you just tell me where he is.”
Condescension layered his tone, but feeling so off-kilter in the moment, she let it pass. “He was headed toward the stillhouse a few moments ago. I imagine he’s still there if you’d care to seek him out.”
He looked around the office, then back at her. “I got word you’re running a little mercantile of your own out of this office. Is that true?”
“A mercantile?” She forced a laugh. “What on earth do you mean by that?”
“I mean that I’m aware of the amount of food and other whatnot you’ve been buying at the Carvers’ mercantile. I’m just wondering what you’re doing with it all.”
She knew Mrs. Carver would never have divulged that, which left her husband. “Sheriff, as I’m certain you’re already aware, I’m staying at the boarding house in town. And the amount of food we go through each week is considerable.”
He eyed her. “Think you’re pretty high and mighty just waltzing into town and taking this job, don’t you?”
She stared. What was it about men in positions of power that made them feel the need to belittle everyone else?
She recognized the bait when she saw it—and she’d fallen for it before with men like him.
It had cost her dearly. “I’m grateful for this job, Sheriff.
And to Mr. Daniel for the opportunity he’s given me. ”
“I’m sure you are.” An unpleasant smile curved his mouth. “Question I’m wondering is . . . how grateful.”
Heat sluiced through her at his insinuation, and she came to her feet. “I’ll be certain to tell Mr. Daniel you stopped by, Sheriff Rigby. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”
To her relief, he started for the door, but then he paused.
“Rest assured, Mrs. Dunham, should I get an inquiry about a flighty woman, or if your husband comes looking for you, which I’m sure he will, eventually, it’ll be my pleasure to turn over the details of your whereabouts. Good day to you.” He tugged on his hat and left the door ajar.
Josephine went cold inside. Here she’d been checking newspapers every day, dreading what she might find.
It had never occurred to her that Sheriff Rigby might actually volunteer information about her to law enforcement in other towns or cities.
As she watched him walk down the street and around the corner, something deep inside her told her to run.
Now. But to where? And with scarcely any money.
She was getting paid again this afternoon but how far would that take her? And the overarching question that gnawed at her—was there anywhere she could run where it would be far enough to escape all this?
Through the window, she spotted Dodge and Mr. Daniel nearly back to the office—Mr. Daniel moving slowly—and she quickly returned the gauger’s ledger to the edge of the desk and bent over the stack of bills, every nerve on edge.
Mr. Daniel limped inside and sank down into one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Turns out, it wasn’t anything serious. Young Gilbert just got a bit spooked is all.”
Dodge picked up the gauger’s book. “It was a loose joint in one of the steam lines. We wrapped it with soaked burlap and wire. That’ll keep things until the blacksmith can reseal it properly.”
Mr. Daniel laughed. “Young Gilbert was afraid to take us inside, scared the whole place was about to go up.”
Dodge raised a brow. “Respect for the machinery is never a bad thing. Especially considering what’s in that stillhouse.”
“True enough.” Mr. Daniel nodded. “Let’s hope Mr. Prince doesn’t fine us for that leak. Speak of the devil . . .”
Josephine trailed Mr. Daniel’s gaze out the window and spotted Mr. Prince walking his bicycle up to the porch. Humorous a sight as it usually was, right now it emptied her lungs of air.
“Good afternoon, Distillery Folk!” Mr. Prince said as he walked in.
“My apologies, Mr. Daniel, for having to reschedule our meeting from Monday to today. Some sort of illness cast a spell of malaise over my otherwise robust constitution. But I’m much recovered now and appreciate your understanding, as does the United States Department of the Treasury. ”
Josephine felt Mr. Daniel looking at her, but didn’t dare return the attention.
“Well, Mr. Prince—” Dodge held out the ledger. “You might want to take a look at our production since the last revenuer visit, then we can start our walk-through and get as far as we can for today.”
Mr. Prince settled in the chair beside Mr. Daniel and opened the book. “Hmmm . . .” His gaze scanned down a page, then another, and another. His eyes narrowed. “Is this figure correct here, Mr. Coburn?”
Josephine’s stomach did a somersault.
Dodge leaned over. “Yes, sir. That’s correct. We added six more stills since your last visit. Hence, the increase in production on that date.”
“Impressive.”
“Unfortunately,” Dodge continued, “we discovered only this morning that one of the new stills has a loose joint in the steam line. I fixed it temporarily but we’ll need to get a blacksmith out to get it properly mended.”
Mr. Prince closed the book and stood. “I’d like to inspect the stills first, Mr. Coburn.” He returned the book to Dodge. “But bring that with you, if you would. Should questions arise.”
“You bet, sir.” Dodge gestured toward the door. “After you.”
“I’ll catch up with you two gentlemen shortly,” Mr. Daniel said. “And no sneaking any free samples on the job, Mr. Prince!”
Mr. Prince’s laughter carried through the open window, and Josephine watched them as they rounded the building.
“You’re not feeling poorly, are you, Mrs. Dunham?” Mr. Daniel asked. “You’re looking a mite pale.”
“No, sir. I’m fine.” Her gaze still following Dodge, she wondered what he would think, how he would react, if he learned what she’d done.
Then again, he wouldn’t know it was her.
They would simply assume an error had been made by GC, whoever that was, it would be corrected, and production would eventually resume. Dodge would be none the wiser.
“How was your visit with Mrs. Watson?”
Hearing the question as though from far away, she looked over at him. “What?”
“Your visit. With Mrs. Watson.”
“Oh, yes, sir . . . It was nice. She’s a very kind person.”
“She is that. You’ll remember that her husband, Daryl, works here at the distillery. He’s one of our mash men. Handles mashing the grain to begin the fermentation process.”
“I didn’t know what he did, but yes, of course, I remember seeing Mr. Watson for payroll.”
“That’s right, that’s right.” He rose, grimacing as he did.
“You know I’ve been thinking . . . Perhaps we ought to keep a cash tin here in the office somewhere, just to cover incidentals.
Things that come up from time to time. You’d be in charge of it, of course.
No need to keep a ledger. The money could be used at your discretion. For whoever or whatever you see fit.”
Finally having her full attention, Josephine didn’t answer immediately. She simply stared until he looked back at her, two and two quickly making four. “Did Dodge tell you?”
“Tell me what?” The barest hint of a smile, not in his expression, but in his voice belied the seriousness of his features.
But she knew he knew. The question was how. “You saw the food in the storage room, didn’t you?”
“You’re keeping food back there in the storage room?”
“Mr. Daniel.” She leveled a stare.
“You are far too easily winkled out, Mrs. Dunham. But we’ll fix that immediately once I start teaching you how to play poker.”
“As if that day will ever come, Mr. Daniel.”
“I’ll tell you what day is coming . . . the day you’ll call me Uncle Jack.”
“Oh please, not this again, sir.”
They stared at one another for a long moment. Him smiling. Her scarcely able to breathe for the stranglehold guilt had on her when confronted by this man’s generosity.
He glanced toward the door. “I’ve known Margaret Watson before she was knee-high.
Watched her grow up, recall when she and Daryl married, and welcomed their first child, and their next and their next .
. .” He smiled. “Then when she buried her folks. Good people who died too young when the influenza swept through here a few years back. But never in all that time has Margaret visited this distillery. Not once. Until you.” He pointed in the direction of the stillhouse.
“My foot was throbbing so badly, I had to pause for a minute and sit on that old oak stump outside the stillhouse. So I saw Margaret leave.”
Josephine looked away.
“No, no. Look at me, please,” he said softly.
Culpability weighing heavy, and over so much more than he realized, she did as he asked.
“I knew hiring a suffragist would be a risky business.” His trademark charm sparkled in his eyes and somehow deepened his Tennessee drawl.
“After all, there’s got to be a part of you that would rejoice at seeing this distillery go south, so to speak, which may well happen soon enough, what with all the talk of prohibition.
But never did I imagine that the suffragist I hired would end up helping the families of the men who work here. And from her own pocket, no less.”