After a quick look upstairs, where the roof had partially caved in, they left the house and went out to the barn.
Avery touched Grant’s arm. “I don’t know if it’s safe to go inside.”
He was of the same opinion. The barn leaned heavily to the east like a good gust of wind would send it crashing down.
At that moment, a breeze caught Avery’s dark hair and whipped it around her face.
Grant fought a grin. “I’ll hurry in and out. You can stand guard. If the building falls, you can go for help.” He winked.
Avery frowned. “Not even funny.” She handed him the flashlight. “Just shine a light inside. That should be good enough. Even a serial killer wouldn’t go inside that building.”
Grant took the flashlight. Despite Avery’s advice, he didn’t just shine the light inside, he ducked through the open doorway and made a quick pass, emerging less than a minute later to find Avery chewing on her fingernail.
“No basement,” he reported.
She let out a sigh and shook her head. “You just had to go in, didn’t you?”
“And I lived to tell about it.” He chuckled as he slipped an arm around her waist and walked with her back to the car.
Next stop was the Hornsby place. They headed back toward town and then out Oak Trace Road, where a subdivision of ranch-style, one-story brick homes had been built, probably back in the nineteen seventies. At the backside of the subdivision, a two-story blue-gray wooden house stood out like it didn’t belong.
From what Cook had said and what they’d learned at the courthouse, Pete Hornsby owned the property his grandfather had built back in the early nineteen hundreds.
Grant parked in the driveway. He and Avery climbed the quaint front porch with its neatly kept porch swing and knocked on the bright blue front door.
A middle-aged woman dressed in jeans and a white blouse answered the door with a smile. “Can I help you?”
Avery held out her hand. “I’m Agent Avery Hart with the FBI. This is Grant Hayes. We’re conducting an investigation of buildings that might once have been used in the production of alcohol in the not-so-near past.”
The woman’s lips quirked up on one side. “Good grief. Then you’ve come to the right place. I’m Donna Hornsby. My husband Pete’s grandfather was a bootlegger back in the prohibition era. Everyone in the family is insanely proud of his legacy.” She shook her head. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“Does this house have a basement his grandfather might have used to produce beer or whiskey?” Grant asked.
“Yes, of course. He had an entire operation running in the basement way back then.”
“Do you mind if we have a look?” Avery asked.
“Not at all. Pete’s made something of a shrine out of the old still. Personally, I’d like to send it all to a scrap yard and convert the space into a craft room. But it’s Pete’s family legacy. I just married into it.”
She led the way through the house to the kitchen and down the steps. She flipped on a light at the bottom of the steps, illuminating a spacious basement with a complex-looking combination of caldrons, vats and pipes that took up most of the space. Donna waved to the monstrosity. “See? Who cares to have a twist of metal taking up space in their basement? It’s not like we’re going to fire it up and make beer to sell.”
She turned to Grant and Avery. “Once a year, Pete spends a weekend polishing the copper kettles and pipes and sweeping up the cobwebs that accumulate. If I could get him to do the same for any other room in the house, it would be a miracle. But no. It’s all about that damned still. I even suggested he donate it to a brewery or a museum. He won’t part with it.”
Grant smiled at the woman. “Are there any outbuildings on the property that have a basement?”
Donna frowned. “The only outbuilding is the shed out back. No basement there.”
“Did anyone cook beer or whiskey in it?”
“It’s used for garden tools and is much too small for a still this size. Though I wish it was bigger and Pete could move his precious still into it.” She sighed. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in buying a well-maintained still?” she asked hopefully.
“No, ma’am,” Avery said with a smile.
Donna led the way up the stairs, through the house and back out on the front porch. “Is there anything else you want to look at?”
“No, thank you,” Avery said. “Thank you for your time.”
Avery and Grant climbed into the car and drove to their next stop—what used to be the Stenson home.
