Murder With A Chaser (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 2) Page 2

In short, it was a leg-up to beer brewing celebrity status for Maisie Ward, and I couldn’t be happier for her.

  "I just wish my family could be here," she said, sounding melancholy.

  "You're all alone?"

  She nodded. "It's not their fault. Mom lives in California and couldn’t afford the airfare. Dad's on tour."

  "On tour? What does he do?"

  "He works on a NASCAR pit crew for my Uncle Shawn."

  The name clicked. "Wait... Shawn Ward? That's your uncle?"

  She nodded, smiling.

  "I've heard of him!"

  "You don’t strike me as a NASCAR fan."

  "I'm not," I said, "I despise car racing, but my cousin Tanya comes from a NASCAR family. She's be pretty tickled to know that Shawn Ward is your uncle. You don’t think you could procure an autograph?"

  Her face lost some of its smile. "When I said I wished my dad could be here, I didn’t mean that he would be if he could. He's been estranged from the family and we don’t see them that often."

  "Oh, I'm sorry." It's always an awkward moment when someone decides to share a personal sorrow seemingly at random.

  "It's ok," she said. "I just wish they were both here. But I guess I should be done wishing for things like that at my age."

  "Well," I said, "congratulations. As for the prizes, I'll see to it personally that you're awarded in due time and with proper fanfare, ok?"

  She gave me a hug and we parted and that was it. And I felt pretty good about it.

  Until later on that day, when my sometimes-boyfriend, Detective Lester Moore of Southampton Police, Homicide division, called me up and told me that foul play was indeed suspected, and that I should expect to be contacted soon for an interview, and that I should keep my eyes open and my memories clear.

  "Talk to me," I said.

  His voice was rushed. He was obviously at work and wasn't at liberty to chat casually. "We think he either ingested or was injected with something. Our guys are on it as we speak."

  "If it means anything, he probably didn’t ingest anything. What I mean is, I kind of... tasted his breath."

  "Pardon?"

  "CPR. All I tasted was beer."

  After a moment, "That is helpful. Thank you, Madison."

  By this point, Detective Moore knew me well enough to know that my taste buds were a force to be reckoned with. My father always delighted showing me off in my teen years to his friends – how I could take a couple of sips of a brew and guess correctly which hops were used and all the corresponding malt flavors. Ingested poisons often leave discernable traces of themselves in the mouth and throat of the victim. If I said there was nothing else on that man's mouth except for beer, it was probably because there was nothing else there.

  We got off the phone in a hurry, without pleasantries.

  Then I made the mistake of flicking on the local news. By that point, the word had spread that Chef Eli Campbell was dead. The media, in a rare moment of wisdom, decided to leave out the word murder, opting instead to report that there was no known cause of death as of yet.

  The report then switched to interviews with witnesses, and would you know it, there was good old Joe Badger himself on camera, with the words "Master Brewer" under his name – a moniker no doubt of his own choosing – explaining to the viewing public that it had been he himself who administered CPR to the great chef, that the chef had personally said wonderful things about his beer, and that he had been looking forward to an enduring relationship with the chef after the competition, as Campbell had offered him an executive position based on his natural culinary ability.

  You could have taken his words, spread them over a garden, and grown a forest of redwoods.

  So I switched off the TV and sank into a chair. My cousin Tanya was working the late shift at Junior's Pizza. I had no one with whom to share my angst over this whole thing, for what was on my mind was one burning question: Who had anything to gain from Eli Campbell's death?

  The answer – which came after a half hour of ruminating the next day during my Sunday morning run – depressed me even more.

  Chapter 3

  If you're a lover of good beer, as I am, you may find it necessary to keep up a physical regimen in order to keep up the romance. Hence, I run. It helps to clear the brain, to get the fuzz out, which makes room for clearer thoughts. This probably sounds like a load of horse hockey, but it works for me and there's nothing anyone call tell me that would convince me otherwise.

  So there I was, headed back toward my car, sweaty and gross, slurping voraciously at my water bottle, when I thought about Eli Campbell.

  Eli Campbell insulted just about everyone he came into contact with that day. If it wasn't a comment about some poor soul's protruding belly or receding hairline, then it was some poor woman's bad hair day or her choice in footwear. Pamela Tweed was one such victim of the latter. She'd opted for wedgies on that fine summer day, a choice that seemed to infuriate Chef Campbell for some reason.

  "Darling," he'd said, "you don’t think flats would have been a better ribbiting choice? There's a lot of sand around here. It's like the ribbiting Gobi desert. I question the logic of anyone stupid enough to sport wedge heels in a place like this. And I know you’re not stupid, so just I'm ribbiting baffled."

  It left Pamela Tweed speechless, her mouth literally hanging open as she watched Campbell slink off to find his next victim.

  So I went over to her and told her that her shoes were fabulous, which they were.

  At least three of the homebrew contestants bore the brunt of his verbal assaults as well.

  If one could be pushed to impulsive murder on the grounds of such assault, it would be anyone who crossed paths with Eli Campbell that day.

  I didn’t like knowing that I could have shared a pleasantry or been rubbing shoulders with a murderer and not realized it.

  The thought wouldn’t leave me. I needed to weed him or her out. I needed to find out whom I was chatting nicely with that day that could have been harboring some terrible secret, if it was indeed someone at that event.

  I think what worried me even more was the fact that, when investigating a murder, detectives usually start with those in closest proximity to the body. That would be yours truly. I was innocent though, so why was I so nervous?

  I had no answer to that. Maybe it was because I had been so close.

  For me, the thing to do next was to find out who benefitted from Campbell's death, and that meant having to dig.

  #

  "How do you find out about a will?" I asked Mitch the Mailman.

  We were in the process of converting our tasting room into an official bar. That process, I found out, involved enough red tape to mummify the Statue of Liberty with enough left over to tie a bow on her head. So in the meantime, we had our usual tasting room, which was gorgeous with oak tables and shiny taps and smelled of fresh wood. And we had our regular, Mitch the Mailman, who came for the flights and a pint or two, as if this was a regular bar and he was our sole patron.

  I was Mitch's only friend. No one else could stand him. I honestly don’t know why I liked him. He was a thoroughly distasteful human being, but he had, underneath it all, a kind of tortured soul that could only be healed by years of nonstop hugging. He wasn't like Eli Campbell, who seemed to enjoy belittling people. Mitch just wanted life to be perfect, and it wasn't. Normal folks can usually deal with that sad fact and get on as if all is well all the time. Mitch couldn't. Call it a birth defect.

  But once you scootched aside all the annoying aspects of his personality, there was a wealth of information there that rivalled Google, the Encyclopedia Britannica, and that weird Jeopardy contestant who won, like, hundreds of thousands of dollars and was celebrated despite the fact that everyone hated him.

  "There's a problem there," he said, taking a sip from a Darby's IPA that was second in a flight of five he had in front of him.

  "Explain," I said, elbows on the bar.

  "Well – by the way, did y
ou mess with the hop schedule in this? Because it's awful."

  "We dry hopped it with Simcoe hops instead of the usual."

  "Bad decision. Change it back. Where was I?"

  There was nothing to like about Mitch – I loved him anyway.

  "You were about to tell me how I can find out details about Eli Campbell's will."

  "Yeah, that. There's a problem. Depends on the state, but most likely you would have to be a beneficiary to have a look at it."

  "How would I know I was a beneficiary if I didn’t look at the will?"

  He raised a finger. "Aye, there's the rub. Basically, you call the probate office and ask them if you're a beneficiary. If you are, congratulations, you just won a copy of the will. If not, better luck next time."

  "What probate office?"

  "If it's even been handed over to a probate office."

  "And if it hasn't?"

  "You ask the executor for a copy. He's listed on the death certificate."

  "And if it has gone to probate?"

  "You have to find out which one. Should be the one located in Campbell's home town."

  "Which was...?"

  "What do I look like? People Magazine?"

  "Oh, forgive me. You're this alien savant that knows every scrap of trivia about everything. I didn’t realize you had a weak spot."

  "Just pour me a pint of maple porter."

  "Spit in it or not?"

  "Your choice."

  #

  I took the day off early. You ever go to the dentist and they plop one of those lead sheets on top of you? I kind of felt like that. This invisible lead sheet plopped on top of me. Having this guy keel over next to me left a strange, lasting impression.

  I had the house to myself, so in my quiet solitude I looked up a bunch of information about Eli Campbell. He came from a relatively privileged background. Parents were prominent hotel owners in Scotland and England. Little Eli was shuffled around a lot during his formative years due to his parents taking extended vacations around the world, either with little Eli in tow or by themselves. Whichever the case, the boy was either placed in the care of a nanny at home or placed in her care on the road. Sometimes it was a team of nannies. The point here is that little Eli Campbell had no real grounding in any sort of stable childhood, and his parents paid no attention to him whatsoever. I'm not saying that one doesn’t make his own choices in life on how to deal with the bad hand one has been dealt, but reading about Campbell's upbringing sort of made me understand a little bit why he was such a colossal jerk to everyone.

  Falling into an internet hole is never a truly pleasant experience. Here I was, Googling for what seemed like an hour, reading about Eli Campbell and following link after link to gossip blogs, show archives, and interview clips. These last bits were my favorite, offering a glimpse into the real Campbell – for even when he was being obviously phony for the cameras, sometimes it's in what a person isn’t saying that reveals the most about him. Like for instance, when asked if there would ever be a Mrs. Eli Campbell, the ginger-haired chef looked straight into the camera and said, "If you're out there, love, I feel sorry for you already."

  Then, I stumbled across a fundamental law of internet research: If you Google long enough, eventually you'll find something of use. Here was a five-minute YouTube clip of a Today Show interview Campbell did not more than three years ago.

  "If there's one thing I care about these days, it's the education of our nation's children."—Campbell became a naturalized U.S. citizen in 1994—"That's why I make it a point to sponsor the National Reading Education Foundation for Children, the NREFFC, by holding a charity cook-off. This year it's being held in our beautiful city of Philadelphia..."

  And so it went, with the interviewer gushing over Campbell's supposed humanitarianism.

  I say "supposed" because the cynical portion of my brain, which comprises no less than ninety percent of the interior of my cranium, wanted to think that Campbell's acts of charity were nothing more than a combination tax dodge and savvy PR move. What better way to counterbalance his reputation as a mean-spirited sonofalizard than to perform some selfless act of charity? And if such an act could save you thousands every year, so much the better.

  But remember that it was in was he didn’t say that revealed the most.

  "I believe books can be our salvation. I used to read on long trips when I was a boy. Those books were certainly my salvation."

  There was something in Eli Campbell's eye when he said this that made me think that somewhere inside, there was a hurt little boy who never had the benefit of a stable upbringing or traditional education. A boy who learned most of what he knew by reading on long trips to God-knows-where and applying that knowledge by observing how people interacted outside of himself, while he endured interminable bouts of loneliness.

  I shut down the computer, disliking Eli Campbell a little less, maybe even liking him a little bit. I loved what he said about books. I can relate. For me, many a lonely hour was always made a tiny bit more bearable by a good book. Still is.

  And so I fetched my cell phone and made a call, making a mental note to thank Mitch the Mailman with a pint on the house the next time he stopped in – if he didn't annoy me first.

  "Yes," I began, "this is Molly Nelson of the National Reading Education Foundation for Children; I believe our organization may be listed as a beneficiary on the late Eli Campbell's will. Would there be any way I could come and pick up a copy of the will?"

  Chapter 4

  I should probably explain something. When I was in high school, some of the girls and I thought it would be a good idea to see if we could get into a local bar. Rumor had it that a band featuring a guitar-playing senior that I was in love with was playing there. Teenagers are psychotic, that's a fact, and I was no different. It seemed like a good idea at the time when we went to a friend of Tanya's and had a bunch of fake IDs made. We even had fake social security cards for backup.

  So, the thing is, there is no Molly Nelson. I came up with the name by combining Molly Ringwald and Judd Nelson, the two stars of The Breakfast Club, which had been on that night. I held on to the fake IDs for fun. Looking at the license picture now, I was shocked to notice just how underaged I looked. It's a miracle we got in at all. The social security card, on the other hand, had no picture. Just a randomly-generated number.

  And so I presented this as my official ID, claiming not to have a picture ID handy.

  Hectic day at the probate office? Perhaps. The guy at the desk seemed a little bit put off by my insistence that the social security card was all I had – the nerve of me not to have my driver's license on me! I apologized profusely and told him I was only in town for one day and if he could just please do me this favor and accept this ID as my proof blah blah blah...

  Why yes, I said next, I did happen to have a letter of introduction on my organization's official letterhead. It was easy to forge as I'd sent away for some literature and received a nice form letter in return, along with a stack of brochures. And so I presented him with a cleverly-worded letter (thank you, college writing program) and bunch of pristine handbills extolling the virtues of the NREFFC.

  He took it, God bless him. Then he disappeared from his desk for an excruciating five minutes, and returned with a manila envelope. He handed it to me with a look on his face as though I'd just blackmailed him into handing over nude pictures of his sister. I thanked him and he said "You're welcome" to his desk and that was that.

  My hands had just stopped trembling by the time I got home.

  Tearing into the envelope like a kid on Christmas, I eagerly shuffled through the stack of documents, all written in that indecipherable legalese into which that all such documents are rendered. Finally I came to the bequests.

  Will you allow me one more cliché? Fine then, allow me to say that my jaw dropped onto my chest when I read who was to receive the largest chunk of Eli Campbell's cash.

  #

  Eli Campbell's house in the
Hamptons was a typical example of new money architecture. It was quite a beautiful mansion to be sure, but it was done in that overly-obvious "I am a rich dude's house" style that so many of these newer houses have. Absent were any distinguishing features like columns or classical influences. In their place was fine stone and sloping glass panels and a perfectly, obsessively, manicured lawn dappled with topiary statues of forks and spoons. Clever. Oh, so clever.

  It was gaudy and ugly in an ostentatious way and it was everything Eli Campbell was in life.

  And it was protected by every bit of high-tech security known to man.

  Now here's the thing, houses can be protected, and should be protected, but there's a part of the house that is almost, if not always left untouched. It's a part of the house that the public must have access to. And it's the one part of any private residence that is actually considered public property. I speak, of course, of the garbage bins.

  It was five o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday, the first day since Eli Campbell's death that the trash was to be picked up. I wore gloves and I had one of those little boy scout LED flashlights you can pick up on impulse on the grocery store cash-register line.

  I picked up three bags of trash and threw them into my trunk. This was not my proudest moment.

  Nor was it the best of moments between Tanya and me when I got home and she awakened to find me sitting Indian-style on our back porch, rummaging through a stranger's garbage.

  She seemed to have trouble finding the words. "What...are...you...doing?"

  I looked up at her, exasperated. "Sorting."

  "Why are you sorting the trash?"

  "It's not ours," I said.

  "It's not ours."

  "Nope." I went back to sorting.

  "Can I ask whose it is?"

  "Not is," I said, "was. It belonged to Eli Campbell."

  "Eli Campbell."

  "Yes."

  "The celebrity chef."

  "That's right."

  "Didn't he just... I mean, weren't you there when he..."