Chapter 26 #2
Josephine added the butter and stirred, her arm already tired.
The long day at the distillery—and Sheriff Rigby’s visit—still weighed on her.
Authority had a way of doing that, reminding her too much of the corrupt police department in Atlanta.
Not that Sheriff Rigby was crooked. Biased?
Without doubt. Opinionated? Absolutely. And chauvinistic?
Through and through. In her experience, some men, when faced with the suffrage movement, felt compelled to reassert their masculinity.
If they could only understand—suffragists weren’t seeking to strip them of their rights.
They simply wanted those same rights for themselves.
“Now add the boiling water. Mix it good so it cools, then drop in that egg. But not while it’s hot, else it’ll curdle right up. Keep stirring.”
Josephine followed instructions.
Calla set her cup of tea on the table. “I put some mint in yours, too.”
“Thank you. Does this look like it should?”
Calla peered into the bowl. “Sure does. We gonna make a cook out of you yet. Think I’ll sit down and watch you for a bit. My back’s about to give out.”
Feeling confident, Josephine cracked the egg on the side of the bowl—too hard—and the shell shattered into the mixture.
Soft laughter sounded behind her. “You ever cracked an egg before, my friend?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
Josephine averted her gaze. “A few.”
“How many?” Calla asked again.
“Maybe . . . a dozen. Or less.”
They laughed together as Josephine fished out the shell fragments.
For reasons she didn’t examine too closely, Dodge Coburn came to mind—and what he would say if he could see her now.
She’d expected he might visit the office today, but he hadn’t.
She felt certain their exchange in the library had laid his suspicions about her to rest.
“Make sure and get all that shell out. Miss Mary ain’t fond of crunchy gingerbread.”
“So I’ve gathered.”
Minutes later, Josephine slid the pan into the oven then sat and took a sip of tea. “Mmmm . . . I love the mint you put in this.”
“Makes it good, don’t it?”
Josephine rubbed her lower back.
“Your back bothering you?”
“Not really. I just stood a lot today. I reorganized the boxes in the back storeroom. Still trying to clean up a little.”
Calla sipped her tea, seeming more relaxed, and no tremor in her hands. “How’s the job? What’s it like working for Uncle Jack?”
“Not as awful as I thought it would be.” Josephine smiled. “He’s very generous with his employees. And it feels good getting things organized.” She sighed. “But I miss my students. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
Calla stirred her tea. “Miss Mary told me you were a teacher. So your husband, he don’t mind you teaching? Most men won’t stand for that after they’re married. They want their woman home, taking care of them.”
Josephine thought quickly. “It was definitely an issue. Among other things.” She sneaked a look at Calla over the rim of her cup, hoping that answer would suffice.
Calla was quiet for a moment. “You and me don’t know each other overwell yet . . . And I ain’t asking to pry. Just to help . . .”
Calla wouldn’t meet her gaze, and Josephine’s unease ticked up a notch.
“I was just wondering, Josephine—” She finally looked up. “If you’re with child.”
Josephine breathed again.
“Reason I’m asking,” Calla continued quickly, “is people in town been talking. Said your papa beat you when he found out you were—”
“My father did not beat me, Calla. And I am not with child.”
Relief crossed her face. “I’m so glad to hear it. Not that children ain’t a blessing from the Lord. They are. Or that running from a no-good man ain’t a hard thing. It is. But being with child and running . . . That’s a whole kind of harder.”
Seconds passed, and Calla chuckled.
Josephine eyed her. “What’s so funny?”
Calla shook her head. “First I hear that rumor, then next morning I see you rubbing your belly out back. Then my pickled beets come up missing. I just let my thoughts run wild.” She chuckled. “Done made a fool of myself.”
“Not at all. I probably would have thought the same thing.”
The squeak of door hinges drew their attention.
Mr. Prince, the revenuer, peered into the kitchen. “Good evening, ladies.”
“Evening, Mr. Prince.” Calla pushed aside her teacup. “Something we can do for you, sir?”
He stepped inside, looking faintly uncomfortable. “I was wondering, Miss Calla, if you have some bicarbonate of soda? I may’ve had a little too much supper.”
Calla smiled. “Maybe it was that second piece of buttermilk pie?”
His expression turned sheepish. “It was actually three. I ate Miss Livvy’s too.
That pie’s about the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
That, and your fudge one. You know we revenuers fight over who gets sent to Lynchburg.
And it’s not for the distilleries. It’s Miss Mary’s hospitality and your fine cooking. ”
“Well that does my heart good to hear.” She headed toward the foyer. “Give me a minute and I’ll fix you right up. Be right back.”
“Mrs. Dunham.” He bobbed his head. “How are you, ma’am?”
“I’m well, thank you, Mr. Prince. And you? Besides the unsettled stomach.”
“Doing fine. I visited several of the smaller distilleries today, so that was good.”
Josephine frowned. “There are other distilleries besides Jack Daniel’s in this area?”
He chuckled. “Oh yes, ma’am. None as large or as fast growing, but close to twenty other family-run distilleries operate in these hills.”
“Twenty?” Josephine let that sink in. The fight for prohibition suddenly loomed larger—and farther from reach—than she’d ever imagined.
“That’s right,” he continued. “And we check them all. Make certain they’re complying with the law and paying what’s due.”
She leaned forward. “What exactly do you check for?”
His expression sobered. “Everything. An internal revenue agent has very specific and important duties. We examine stills, worm tubs, fermenters, mash tubs, hidden pipes, secret stills. Any way a distiller might siphon off whiskey without reporting it. Every piece of equipment has to be registered. It’s the law!
” He withdrew a badge from his coat pocket and held it out with a flourish.
“That’s quite impressive, Mr. Prince.” Josephine schooled a smile, while recognizing the opportunity for what it was. “I imagine there’s considerable paperwork involved.”
“Oh, yes. We audit ledger books, production logs, payments. We interview employees. Then file our reports with the Treasury.”
Josephine glanced behind him, watching for Calla. “And . . . if irregularities are found?”
He straightened to his full height, all but coming to attention. “Immediate fines and seizures of equipment. Or the whiskey itself.” He tapped his badge. “The Treasury doesn’t take kindly to tampering.”
“Oh, I imagine not. And woe to any distiller who thinks they can.” Feeling both guilty and justified, Josephine tucked all that information away, realizing the line between a distillery’s lawful operation and ruin was a narrow one.
Calla returned with a glass near full to the brim, and he slipped his badge back into his pocket.
“Here you go, Mr. Prince. Drink this and you’ll feel better in no time.”
“Much obliged. And next time, no more than two pieces of pie.”
He took his leave, and Calla shook her head fondly. “That man’s a character. You ever seen him pushing that one-wheeled bicycle of his around town?”
Josephine frowned. “Why only one wheel?”
“’Cause Mr. Prince likes to walk, and folks—friendly as they are around here—kept offering him a ride. He got fed up with it, so he got himself a bicycle. Then one day a wheel came off, but he just keeps pushing it along.”
Josephine laughed, despite no one in town having offered her a ride. Well, except Dodge Coburn. And he hadn’t exactly offered.
Calla sniffed and glanced back at the stove. “You happen to check the clock when you put that gingerbread in?”
“No!” Josephine grabbed a kitchen cloth and lunged for the oven. “Do you think it’s burned?”
“Pull it out and see.”
She did—and sighed in relief. “It doesn’t look too brown.”
“Stick a knife in. If it comes out clean, it’s done.”
The blade came out, clean, and Josephine held it up proudly, like Mr. Prince with his badge.
Calla shook her head. “Only thing you forgot . . . we ain’t made the lemon sauce yet.”
Josephine winced. “Maybe we could just eat it plain this time?”
“Oh, I was hoping you’d say that! I’m ready for a slice and then to bed.”
They sat at the table, and Josephine cut them each a piece. Hers melted in her mouth. “I can’t believe I made this,” she managed, still chewing. “And it’s edible!”
“It ain’t just edible, honey. It’s good.”
“Because of you!”
Calla winked. “Because of us.”
Josephine lifted her cup of tea in salute then drank.
“No, ma’am! That one’s mine!”
Too late, the lukewarm tea burned her throat like fire all the way down. Josephine choked and coughed, eyes watering, barely managing a breath.
But one look at Calla’s face told her everything.