Murder By The Pint (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  "Lucky me."

  "Exactly."

  "What was he doing here?"

  Max shrugged. "I dunno. Tasting beer?"

  "Well, yeah, that's what he seemed like he was here for. But he only got to the second one. And he hated it. Said he doesn’t like bitter things. Then he plops down a fifty and splits."

  "Huh."

  "No idea what he was here for?"

  "Nope. Well if you don’t need me, I'm gonna mop up da can."

  With that, Max walked out of the room as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him, both arms swinging like pendulums.

  I went to the window and stared out at the darkening sky, the leaden air pounded at my temples. And I whispered, "Just rain already."

  "Oh, Miss Darby?"

  I turned around. Max was poking his head into the room. He was holding his coat.

  "Sorry, didn’t mean to…whatdyacallit…startle ya, but I just wanted to tells ya that I'm actually quitting dis here job."

  I shook my head to get the marbles out of it. "Excuse me?"

  "Yeah, I'm uh, whatdyacallit, uh, moving on to greener carpets."

  "Just like that? No two weeks' notice?"

  "What now?"

  "It's customary when you leave a job to let them know two weeks in advance that you're leaving."

  "Huh. Is dat so? Well, uh, heh, dat's a problem cuz, you see, I really gotta go. How 'bout dis, I'm leaving in two weeks, but I'm gonna need da next two weeks off."

  I pressed two fingers to the bridge of my nose and squeezed. "Whatever, Max. Just go. I'm so confused right now."

  "Yeah, okay den. And uh, you know, tanks for da opportunity, Miss Darby."

  "Sure thing, Max."

  "Yeah, see ya 'round."

  And just like that, the rain began to fall. Hard.

  Chapter 18

  "We lost Max," I said to Hildy.

  She was in my office, running over the plans for the season. She told me about the brews that Gerry was planning. There were some good ones ahead: a summer ale, a robust porter, a barleywine that had been aging for ten months. I couldn’t wait to unveil every one of them.

  And then the conversation turned to bad news. We were going to need help. There were the usual exchange students available for summer work. That wasn't what I was worried about. I was worried about the employee sitting before me.

  "Hildy," I said, "I need to talk to you about something serious. Now, I wouldn’t be a good boss if I didn’t have a huge investment in my employee's welfare, you know that, right?"

  She uttered a cautious, "Right."

  "And you know that you can always come to me with whatever you have on your plate. Even if it's personal. Understand?"

  Another cautious, "Okay."

  "Just so that we're on the same page here, Hildy. Okay?"

  "Okay..." and it looked as though she had something else to add. But then, "Okay."

  She got up and left the office.

  I had to focus on the positives. The new batches were to begin boiling in a week's time. We had all the ingredients in storage. I was particularly looking forward to the summer ale. The light-bodied brew has a strong appeal to folks who are new to the craft beer experience but want something that's a bit friendlier to the palate. Summer ale was key. That was going to be our moneymaker. Wonderful toasty pale malt accentuated by citrusy Amarillo Gold hops. Delicious.

  I almost fell out of my chair.

  Amarillo Gold.

  Amarillo... Spanish for yellow.

  Receive our forever in a box of yellow gold.

  I dialed Gerry downstairs in the brewery. I was so frantic that I couldn’t even see straight. My fingers jittered all over the keypad.

  "Yeah?" he answered.

  "Hey, you remember that sparkling little shipment we got?"

  "The diamonds?"

  "Right. What carton did they come in?"

  "Hops."

  "Right, but what kind of hops?"

  "I'd have to check. I have the paperwork over on the desk."

  "Could you find out?"

  "Really? I'm kind of in the middle of—"

  "Please," I said, and I must have sounded desperate, for he put the phone down right at that moment.

  The moment before he picked it up again was an excruciatingly long one. But when the voice came back on and said, "Amarillo Gold," I slumped back in my chair and breathed a sigh that had been building for about two weeks.

  "Thank you," I said.

  So that put Hildy into the stew. In cahoots with some guy named James.

  A sudden sound – that of the door to my office closing softly – made me look up.

  There was Bryce Bosch.

  Pointing a gun at me.

  #

  "She put you up to this?"

  I was tied to my chair with a length of hemp that Bryce had brought with him.

  Bryce had tied me pretty tight, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking uncomfortable. Besides, I'd flexed my hand muscles while he tied me, so that now, sitting upright in a chair, I could relax a bit and feel the slack loosen. I learned this from a book about Houdini.

  "Alright," said Bryce Bosch, looking just about as uncomfortable I was feeling, "just sit tight there and this'll all be over soon."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "And don’t say nothin'."

  "Anything."

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "Yeah, don’t say nothin'."

  "Understood."

  There was a soft knock on the door in a distinctive rhythm. Bryce went over and cracked it open and let Hildy in.

  I looked at the clock on my desk. The brewery was closed for the day.

  "I dismissed the crew," Hildy said. "Hope you don’t mind. I told them you were on a call and couldn’t be disturbed. They're good little worker ants. They jump when I say jump. They always have. Even when your father was here, they jumped for me."

  "So this was your doing, then? Receiving a diamond shipment and acting as a fence?"

  "A fence? You really think so much of me? Fences are lowly things. I'm a businesswoman, just like you, darling. I arrange things. I coordinate and organize. And speaking of, I have a few things to take care of. Bryce, do us a favor and keep little Missy Princess here under close watch." She leaned down to me. "See you later, Missy Princess." And left the office.

  I don’t think I need to tell you of the disgust I felt for that woman. But I had a bigger problem at the moment, and it was sitting on the other side of my desk with a gun in its hand.

  We didn’t speak at all. After a short time, Bryce put the gun down on my desk and took out his phone and started playing a game.

  "You were half-right," I said after a time.

  He looked up from his phone. "Hm?"

  "You were half-right. She wasn't actually cheating on you, but she wanted to. She was trying."

  "I know."

  "You do?"

  "She confessed it to me last night. We hashed it out."

  "And?"

  "We're gonna try and make it work."

  I rolled my eyes. "Sounds like a match made in heaven, Bryce. So who's James?"

  "Who?"

  "You don't know about James?"

  "You mean Pitt?"

  "Pitt? Where have I heard that name?"

  "His name's Cornell Pitt. James is his middle name. His close friends call him James."

  It was all coming together. "So Cornell Pitt," I said, "whoever he is, told Max to come to me for a job so he could receive a shipment of diamonds. But we'd already gotten them, am I right?"

  "That's right."

  "And there was supposed to be a second shipment, am I right?"

  "There was a second shipment."

  I looked at him. Then it came to me. "Hildy. She got Donald to re-route it."

  "Listen," said Bryce, "I don’t wanna talk no more, okay?"

  "Anymore."

  "What?"

  "You don’t want to talk
anymore. Speak properly, please."

  "Whatever, just keep your trap shut."

  "I can’t believe I felt sorry for you."

  Bryce ignored me and looked down at his phone.

  #

  It was getting late, and I was getting hungry. To make matters worse, Bryce had brought dinner with him.

  "You actually packed a dinner for a kidnapping?"

  He munched on ravioli from a Tupperware container. "Hildy said she'd be a while."

  "How long is a while?"

  He shrugged. "Dunno."

  I sighed loudly and obnoxiously. "Well I'm starving, Bryce. Can I at least have a little of that?"

  He looked at me, his mouth frozen mid-chew.

  "Don't look at me like that," I said, "you know, I actually wanted to help you. I went and found out about Hildy for you. I was actually struggling over whether or not I should call you and tell you because, frankly, Bryce, you seemed like the mushy sort, you know? No offense, but you're kind of a beta male. Maybe a gamma or a delta male even. And I didn’t think you'd make it far in this world. Really, no offense, Bryce, and I'm sorry I'm talking like this but my blood sugar is low and when my blood sugar is low I talk a little too much and—"

  "Alright, shut up already!" he said, and dumped half the contents of his container onto the plastic lid and passed it over to me.

  Then he came around and was kind enough to untie my left hand so I could at least hold onto a plastic fork that I had in my desk drawer.

  I took a bite. I couldn’t believe what I was tasting. This was a delicious meal – ravioli bolognaise – obviously made from scratch. The pasta and everything.

  "My goodness," I said around a mouthful. "Bryce, I hate to tell you this, but this is amazing."

  "I know," he said without smiling. "I made it."

  "Shut up," I said.

  "I made it. I don’t let Hildy do any of the cooking. She's terrible."

  "And she wanted to give you up?"

  He looked at me.

  "Sorry," I said. "But no, Bryce, I mean it. You can offer this on a menu around here. The only Italian place we have here is Junior's and Junior just sells pizza and that's it. Carl's Cove needs a good high-end Italian restaurant."

  "Hey, enough, ok?"

  "Bryce, I'm sorry. I was just saying—"

  "I know what you were sayin'."

  We ate in silence. He went to the vending machine and got us a couple of Diet Cokes. I sipped mine every so often by dropping my fork and picking up the can. All with my left hand. It was tremendously awkward for a righty like myself.

  Bryce stared at his plate while he ate. He was dainty, chewing with his mouth closed, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. It was amazing to me just how different he and Max were. And now that I watched him, I really couldn’t understand the relationship with Hildy.

  I watched him sip his soda and wince.

  I'd seen that expression before.

  "I'll bet you can't stand bitter things, Bryce."

  He looked up. "Huh?"

  "I just was looking at you while you sipped that soda. I said, 'I'll bet you can’t stand bitter things.' Coffee needs a lot of milk and sugar?"

  "Yeah? So what's it to you?"

  "Oh nothing. I guess I was just imagining what it must be like. It must be hard. You can't get anything done the way you really like it. Your friends probably like to go out for fast food."

  He shook his head. "I can't. Tastes like vomit."

  "I'm sure. Tell me, why is it you never tried to become a chef?"

  "I like it as a hobby. Hey, no more questions."

  "One more?"

  "No."

  "Very well."

  We chewed in silence for a moment. He sloshed the ravioli around in his mouth and said, "What is it?"

  "I just wanted to know one thing: What kind of wine you'd fancy with this meal?"

  "Well, I don't know. I ain't a connasore. But if I had to have something, I'd like something, I dunno, something..." He stared up at an empty space before him and gently scratched the air with his fork. "Something that tastes kinda like a pine cone...sitting in, like, a pile of leaves...you know, when it's real cold and dry out and you can smell a hundred different fireplaces going at once? I guess I'd like something like that."

  I smiled at him. "Bryce, I saw a bottle of something like what you just described to me in the fridge when you opened it before: Darby's Simcoe IPA. It's not a wine, it's a beer. If you get us a couple, we'll crack a couple of cold ones. One bottle each. No funny stuff. Whatdya say?"

  He stared at me for a moment. Then looked around. Then back at me.

  "I know what you're thinking, Bryce," I said. "I'm a pretty frail thing, when it comes down to it. I probably couldn't even wield a hammer to pound a thumbtack let alone inflict any cranial damage. And the silverware we're using here, well, it would take an hour's worth of stabbing to get through soft tissue. And frankly, the thought of having the very beer you're craving with this meal is positively exquisite."

  He grumbled.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "Was that a yes? I didn't hear you."

  He rose from his chair. "I said, it beats Pepsi."

  We sipped my father's prize-winning IPA from pint glasses that were clearer than conditioned air. I had even offered up a toast: "May you be a thousand years in heaven before the devil knows you're dead." No glasses clinked, no response of salut offered up by Bryce, nothing save for a perfunctory nod and a mere hint of the slightest movement of his glass toward my direction.

  I could tell just by the look on his face that this beer was everything he'd been craving with this meal. He let it sit on his tongue until it ignited his whole mouth, and then closed his eyes as he swallowed.

  "Good, huh?" I said.

  He uttered a flat-toned, "Mm."

  "It's a little bitter, but a good kind of bitter, right? I almost feel like this sort of IPA is my own discovery. I mean, this is my dad's recipe, but I kinda feel as though I'm the only one in the world who knows about it. If I happen to find someone else who enjoys it, say, a favorable review or a prize, I say 'whatever.' They don't appreciate it the way I do."

  I held my glass up. And in this light it seemed as though it'd caught a ghostly golden ray, which then shimmered off countless gold winks at us. He turned away from the vision. He looked embarrassed. But why? Because of me?

  He started to speak, growled it clear and started again. "You know, I used to watch my grandma cook. She had hands, they looked like they could fall off at any moment and shatter on the floor. Like those little German statues?"

  "Hummel figurines?"

  "Yeah. You got the same kinda hands going there. I used to watch her cook. She did everything without recipes. Anyway, I never saw her use one. I used ta stand on my toes to look into the pots of tomato sauce and watch as she added oregano by the handful. She'd sprinkle it in and her hand shook. Like this." He demonstrated. "Then she'd turn the flame down and we'd sit in the kitchen and drink tea and talk about stuff. And there was that shaky hand again, holding the tea bag over the cup – you know, holding it as steady as she could so she could dunk it in there – and the bag just swung back and forth and shook just like her shaky hands. One day my mom picked me up, and I waved goodbye to grandma, and she waved to me. And I waited till we got all the way down the road – she used ta stand at the door till we got so far away she was just a little gray dot in the doorway, and then I'd see the door close and the dot disappear – anyway, I waited till we were all the way down the road, it seemed like it took forever, and then it all came out. I bawled for about five or ten minutes. I don't know why. But it felt real good to do it. My mom didn't know what the hell was going on. She stopped the car and put a hand on my neck and asked me what the hell was the matter and I couldn't tell her. I know now, but I still don't know why, that it had something to do with those shaky hands of hers."

  He almost gasped, such was his shock at realizing he'd been going on like this.
/>   "You'll break that glass, Bryce."

  "What?"

  "You're clutching that glass awful tight."

  He loosened his grip. "I don't wanna talk no more, alright? And uh, if you're done with your dinner there, I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to tie you up again. In case...my wife comes back. I'm sorry."

  "I understand," I said.

  He paused with the rope before me. "Listen," he said, "I'll tie it real loose. I promise. This way maybe you can get some sleep or something. Hold on."

  He went over to the couch in my office and took a cushion off. "I'll put this behind you for your back? Okay?"

  "That'll do, Bryce."

  "Come on, you gotta understand."

  "I said I understand, Bryce."

  "Please don't say my name like that no more."

  "Anymore. Sure thing. You just put that pillow behind me down far. That's the lumbar region. I need it there the most. And now I'm going to close my eyes and lick the IPA off my teeth and dream of horses."

  I shut my eyes as he bent down to shove the pillow behind my back. I had to lean forward, which meant that my left hand was near my handbag on the floor underneath my desk. I could actually dip it in, and I did so. And when Bryce stood up, I gave him a dose of pepper spray that probably made him wish he'd come here wearing a welder's mask. He collapsed onto the floor, moaning.

  With one hand still free, I untied myself and grabbed the gun.

  I called up Detective Lester Moore, who answered officiously.

  "You sound like you're at work," I said.

  "Yeah, what is it?"

  "How's it going with that street sweeper murder?"

  "You were right," he said, and it felt great when he said it. "The guy was lying. He cracked under interrogation. He misreported the time of his truck sign-out. Turns out he's working for some guy called James. That's all we could get out of him. We might be able to get more but we'll have to bargain for it."

  "Interesting."

  There was a pause and Bryce let out a long, painful moan. "What's that noise?"

  "That's a guy by the name of Bryce Bosch. He's a minor player in all this. I just gave him a blast of pepper spray in his eyes. He's out of commission for the time being."

  "My God, Madison, are you ok?"

  "I'm fine. By the way, the James you're looking for is actually a guy by the name of Cornell Pitt. Look him up. And while you're at it, look for Hildy Ulfsson. My guess is that when you find Pitt, you'll find Hildy. Better yet, why don’t you get your pretty face down here? I have a feeling they'll all be showing up shortly."