Small Town Spin by Lyndee Walker

the town he covered well, but I didn’t want to tip my hand to another reporter, and I certainly didn’t want the TV folks getting wind of what I was working on. The old man at the antique store with his adorable accent and fantastic treasures floated through my thoughts. I bet he knew everything that went on in Mathews. And he liked to talk.
    “Sorry about that. FedEx,” Parker said. “Anything else you want me to find out? I’m heading to Tidewater.”
    “I’m going to drive back out there myself. I just thought of someone who might be able to help me with an angle I’m working.”
    “Care to share?”
    “Not yet. Let me see if it goes anywhere first.”
    “I’ll let you know what I find out at Tony’s.”
    “Thanks, Parker.”
    “Thank you. Go get ’em, Lois.”

    I dialed Joey’s number on my Blackberry after I got on the Interstate. I considered calling Kyle Miller, former love of my life and current Mr. Possibly as well as ATF supercop, but decided to wait until I had something more to tell him. Kyle had an irritating habit of blowing off my suspicions, and I wasn’t in the mood for a fight.
    “You feeling any better?”
    Good Lord. Just Joey’s voice on the phone made my toes tingle. Part of me was afraid of his questionable occupation. Another part was just downright chicken of falling so hard for a guy it could never work with. Yet I couldn’t stay away from him. Oy.
    “That soup is totally magical. Your mom should sell it at health food stores.” It was kind of funny to think about Joey’s mom. I hadn’t ever considered Captain Mystery in a family setting. “I’m probably seventy-five percent today, and I’m on my way back to Mathews.”
    “Something new? Besides the other dead kid I saw in your story this morning? TV hasn’t shut up about that all day.”
    I knew that, and I was hoping that going between broadcast times would keep me clear of most of the cameras. Though I was slightly worried they’d find the adorable little antique store and its owner as interesting as I did.
    “Sort of. I left something out of the story and I’m wondering if you might be able to find me a lead on it.”
    “Me? What is it?”
    “You know anything about moonshine?”
    He chuckled. “Like, corn whiskey, moonshine? Only that it tastes God-awful.”
    I huffed out a short breath, noticing I could breathe through one nostril for the first time in days. “Seriously? The Internet says some of this is major interstate money. Especially around here where there are still so many places you can’t buy booze on Sundays. You have to know something. Or someone who does.”
    “Why are you poking around moonshiners?” He switched gears without answering, which didn’t escape my notice.
    “Because the dead kids were drinking moonshine. Or, the girl was. TJ might have been. I’m working on that. Aside from the possibility that someone could have spiked their booze with poison, I read that if the stills aren’t properly cleaned or any one of a billion things goes wrong with the process, moonshine can kill people. I found a crap ton of stories from the twenties and thirties about people going blind and dropping dead in speakeasies.”
    “I guess that’s a hazard of drinking it. Why would a bunch of kids mess with that stuff? It has a nasty kick.”
    “My first guess is because they want to drink and they’re underage. Which stores care about, but moonshiners don’t. The ABC police have been cracking down on underage sales all over the state lately. There’s only so much beer they can swipe from their folks before they get in trouble. So they get the moonshine because it’s cheap and readily available. Especially if it’s being made right there on the island.”
    “You could be onto something. Do me a favor?”
    “If I can.”
    “Watch it. If the wrong person gets word you’re trying to prove their rotgut killed these kids, you could wind up in real danger.”
    “I would blow you off, but that