‘I guess you just never noticed it before, ma.’
‘I know what that smell is. Why hasn’t anyone done anything about it?’
‘Because this family makes good whisky. Now mind your own business, okay?’
Mrs. Ferguson was beside herself. It was a nightmare come true. Could a person really distill whisky in their own backyard without fear of consequence?
‘What is the world coming to, Stannie?’
‘About a buck a quart,’ he cracked.
He was twice her size but that never stopped her from slapping him around a bit for his ‘insolence and sinful behaviour.’ She fetched her rolling pin and started chasing Stannie around the dining room table with it.
‘All right, all right, ma. I won’t be buying any of his stuff. Just please do us both a favour and don’t go to the police.’
That wouldn’t be a problem. Mrs. Ferguson had made her rather poor opinion of the chief constable and his force known to several officers, and they were no longer returning any of her calls. No, Mrs. Ferguson was going to take a different route. She had recently heard of a young officer who was not afraid to do right and uphold the law. And it just so happened she knew a woman, a certain Mrs. Scofield, who was friendly with this boy’s mother. Mrs. Ferguson had made sure she crossed paths with Mrs. Scofield at the Avenue Market earlier this morning.
‘Have I got something to tell you!’
‘You have something to tell me?’
‘Isn’t that what I just said?’
‘Don’t ask me what you said. I’m the one that’s hard of hearing, Mrs. Ferguson. Besides, if you’re not going to pay attention to what you’re saying yourself,’ said Mrs. Scofield, waving an impatient hand, ‘then I’m off.’
‘Oh, Thelma, don’t be like that.’ Mrs. Ferguson touched Mrs. Scofield’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got a neighbour making spirits on his property.’
‘Whisky?’
Mrs. Scofield’s hearing was improving.
‘I’m not sure. It was Stannie told me.’
‘Oh, Stan.’
Mrs. Scofield didn’t care for Stan. She still blamed him for the death of Goldie, her golden retriever. Stan used to take Goldie to the river to swim. She was a good swimmer but one time Goldie dove in and never came back up. Mrs. Scofield said she knew the law. She said Stan should have been charged with negligent canicide.
‘Corn?’
‘How would I know?’ said Mrs. Ferguson as she adjusted the bag hanging from her shoulder. ‘All I do know is we have to put a stop to it.’
‘Yes, we do,’ agreed Mrs. Scofield. “‘How do we do that?’
‘Why, your friend Mrs. Locke, of course.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Walk with me, dear.’
Mrs. Ferguson hooked Mrs. Scofield’s arm in hers and dragged her towards the streetcar stop.
‘Are you not an intimate of Mrs. Locke’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is not Mrs. Locke the proud mother of Officer Tom Locke of the Windsor Police Department?’
Mrs. Ferguson gave Mrs. Scofield a minute to catch up.
‘You want me to tell Mrs. Locke about Stan?’
Mrs. Scofield’s streetcar pulled up. ‘No, Thelma, I want you to tell her about Mr. Monaghan. He’s the villain making moonshine in his backyard and he’s going to get the whole block inebriated.’
‘Well, then,’ said Mrs. Scofield, ‘you should report it to the police.’
Mrs. Ferguson gave a sigh. ‘You know what a rotten bunch they are. It would be useless. That’s why I want you to talk to Mrs. Locke. I’ve heard good things about her boy. He’s an honest one. And he respects his mother.’
The two ladies eyed the passengers stepping off the streetcar. Mrs. Scofield climbed aboard then turned and said she’d mention it to Mrs. Locke at church.
‘Bless you, Thelma! Our cause is a noble one, dear.’
Walking alongside the streetcar, Mrs. Ferguson followed Mrs. Scofield to her seat.
‘For Goldie!’ cried Mrs. Scofield.
The streetcar was pulling away.
‘What, dear?’
At church this morning Mrs. Scofield elbowed her way through the crowd and got a seat next to Mrs. Locke. When they sat down Mrs. Scofield gave her pitch. Mrs. Locke kept her eye on the minister but listened to Mrs. Scofield. Every once in a while she nodded her long, sour face. The Reverend’s sermon, coincidentally, was on the evils of strong drink. He had the congregation all fired up. Mrs. Locke raised the issue with her son over dinner.
Tom Locke knew the neighbourhood. He parked around the corner from Mrs. Ferguson’s place and made his way silently up the alleyway armed with his trademark baseball bat. No uniform, no badge, and no gun. He recognized the smell right away and honed in on the Monaghan property. In the moonlight he could see that the one window in the shed was recently boarded up and part of the roof was cut away, no doubt for ventilation purposes. He found a shovel in the garden and pried open the flimsy door.
Jacob Monaghan arrived just in time to see a shadowy figure smashing the components to his whisky still, which the assassin had dragged out into the alleyway. The reek of the ferment filled the air and made Monaghan gag.
Locke turned upon hearing his protests. Monaghan was prepared to confront him until he saw the baseball bat and the mad gleam in the swinger’s eye. Monaghan had heard about this fellow, and the word on the street was that he was actually a cop. Locke stopped swinging and pointed his weapon directly at Monaghan. His eyes were blazing and sweat was streaming down his face. To Monaghan, he looked like a man possessed.
“You want some, mister? I’ve got plenty left.”
Monaghan backed off. “No, sir.”
Locke looked around. Lights were coming on in some of the windows facing the alley. There were silhouettes in a few of them. He hoped they all got a good look. Bertie Monaghan sure did. He had his face pressed against his bedroom window, watching. So much for family tradition.
— Chapter 12 —
THE BRITISH-AMERICAN
The British-American Hotel stood at Windsor’s main intersection — the Avenue and Riverside Drive, just a stone’s throw from the ferry dock. It was built on the site originally occupied by Pierre St. Amour’s tavern and ferry. St. Amour was among the first to operate a regular
