Death on Tap Page 10

  Garrett stuffed the invoice into his pocket. “Yeah. This number is giving me sticker shock, but if I’m going to compete, I don’t know what else to do.”

  He had a point. Der Keller had signed a twenty-five-year contract with our supplier for four styles of hops. Still, it was hard to see the number printed at the bottom of the invoice and not have a panic attack. “Do you want me to talk to Otto and Ursula? I’m sure they’d be more than willing to give you some advice.”

  “No, don’t worry about it. I don’t want to put you in a weird position. I’ll figure it out. I’ll call a couple of beer buddies in Seattle.”

  “Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

  Garrett shook his head. “No, I’m good.” He picked up a bag of groceries and helped me take the food for the wake to the kitchen. The brewery smelled of industrial cleaner. From the floor to the ceiling, every square inch of space sparkled. “The place looks brand new,” I commented.

  “They did a thorough job.” Garrett held the kitchen door open for me. He hovered for a minute before following me in.

  “Did Chief Meyers say anything after I left?” I unloaded the trays into the commercial fridge.

  “She cleared us to open today, but doesn’t want anyone back here, which is fine. I don’t either.” He stacked boxes of crackers on the stainless steel island.

  “Nothing more about the case?”

  “Not to me. She comes across as by the book, as you said.”

  “True.”

  I debated whether I should tell him about Mac’s arrest, and decided that it would be better if he heard it from me. The rumor mill would surely be in full swing later tonight, and someone was bound to let it slip out.

  “She arrested Mac,” I said as I closed the heavy stainless steel door.

  “What?” Garrett stopped stacking crackers and stared at me. “He doesn’t strike me as the violent type.”

  “He’s not.” I folded an empty paper bag and avoided his gaze. “She found his lighter and prints on the tank.”

  “I can explain the prints. When he came by yesterday to ask about my recipe, I gave him a tour. I remember him running his hands over the tanks. He was kind of condescending and pretended to be impressed with my ‘amateur’ setup.”

  “That sounds like Mac.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Chief Meyers.”

  “You don’t need to get in the middle of my personal drama.” Garrett’s offer made me even surer that there was no way he could have killed Eddie or was trying some kind of an elaborate sabotage as Hans had suggested.

  “Sloan, we’re talking about murder. I think this is a case where I should get involved, and I don’t think it has anything to do with you or personal drama.”

  I sighed. “There’s more. He doesn’t have an alibi for last night.”

  Garrett scrunched his forehead and ruffled his hair. I could tell from the way he kept his eyes on the cement floor and kept shifting his weight from side to side that there was something he wasn’t telling me.

  “What?”

  He walked to the dishwasher and inspected the old dials on the front. “I don’t know if I should say this.”

  “What?” I repeated. “Do you know something about Mac?”

  His expression was pained when he nodded and looked up from the dishwasher. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but I think that Mac might have an alibi.”

  My stomach sunk. “Okay.”

  He looked uncomfortable as he ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “I saw him last night after you left. He and that girl from the bar were walking together. They came in and asked for a growler fill.”

  “When?” I fought with every muscle to keep my tone neutral.

  “I don’t know. I was up late. I couldn’t sleep after all the excitement and the crowd. It was after midnight, maybe even closer to one o’clock.”

  A feeling of relief and bitter anger came over me. I knew why Mac had lied to me earlier. It didn’t have anything to do with Eddie’s murder. It was because he was with the beer wench.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  WHY HAD I BEEN SO dense? Of course Mac was with the beer wench. His attempts to win me back were a ploy. He didn’t have any intention of ending things with Hayley. He wanted his fling and me too. Well, no way. I would help him clear his name—by forcing him to fess up about his extracurricular evening antics with the beer wench—for Alex’s sake, but then I was filing for divorce. The man was an egomaniac and incapable of change.

  “Sloan, you okay?” Garrett sounded worried.

  “I’m fine.” I opened the cupboard doors and found a silver platter that I could arrange the crackers on. “What else needs to be done before we open?”

  Garrett hesitated for a moment. I could tell he wanted to talk more about Mac, but I appreciated the fact that he picked up on my cue and shifted the conversation back to a topic we were both much more comfortable with—beer. “I think we’re ready. Until the kegs run out.”

  “There could be worse problems.”

  “True. Any ideas on new recipes?”

  “You mean for tonight?”

  “No. I mean beer.”

  I could feel my cheeks warm. Garrett wanted my input on beer. “Actually, I do have an idea. What if we each make our own small batches with the experimental hops you got from Van? We can feature them as limited editions and have customers vote on their favorite. What do you think?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, I love it. Do a blind tasting?”

  “Exactly. Then we can chart votes on the whiteboard at the bar, and whichever batch wins we can brew in larger quantity. It would give everyone some ownership, and I think that will go a long way in helping us find a following.”

  “You are a genius, Sloan.” Garrett gave me a high five. “I’m going to go sketch out a few ideas right now.”

  My smile broadened as he left for the office. Otto and Ursula had always encouraged me to brew and experiment with different flavor profiles at Der Keller, but I felt like I was constantly in Mac’s shadow. His gregarious personality dominated mine. Garrett genuinely seemed interested in forming a partnership and collaborating with me. It felt good to be appreciated in a new way.

  I assembled the evening’s snacks and thought about what I might try with Van’s hybrid hops. For a lighter offering, I decided I would brew a single hop session ale. Sessions, like pilsners, are smooth light beers with relatively low alcohol content so they can easily be sipped all afternoon. On the other end of the spectrum, I would brew a CDA, a Cascadian dark ale. One of the things that made CDAs—also known as black IPAs—so unique was their dark color but hoppy finish. With that settled, I put the finishing touches on the food for Eddie’s wake and prepared myself for the onslaught of questions that was sure to come. The thought of brewing made me smile. There was something about the methodical process of following each critical step in crafting a beer that was like therapy for me. I could certainly use a healthy dose of therapy right now.

  Within a half hour of opening the doors, the bar was bursting at the seams. “Beer is flooding out of the taps, Sloan,” Garrett called, as I balanced two empty trays in either hand.

  “I know. It’s a madhouse.” I went to refill the platters. The hum of conversation and banter echoed off the walls. A stranger walking into the pub would have thought that Eddie had been the most beloved member of our small town. Everyone had a story to share, and I had a feeling that as the night went on, the stories were going to become more and more embellished. No one mentioned Eddie’s surly attitude or the long list of bar fights that he had been at the center of. Instead, his memory was toasted and his past glossed over. I supposed that was human nature—we tended to hold on to the best pieces of ourselves and let the more unsightly pieces fade away.

  Bruin and the rest of his team from Bruin’s Brewing had pushed two tables together and shouted a toast to Eddie as I passed by. They wore matching felt green hats and Bruin’s Brewing T-shirts with h
andwritten index cards reading TASTES LIKE MORE pinned to their chests.

  “Sloan, come have a pint,” Bruin said, with a slight slur in his speech. Was he already buzzed? I was going to have to keep an eye on him.

  “Can’t. I have to keep the masses fed.” I held the empty platters. “What does ‘tastes like more’ mean?”

  He bent his neck forward as if trying to read the index card. “That was Eddie’s motto. Anytime he knocked one back and someone asked how it tasted, he would say…”

  Bruin turned to his crew, who all raised their glasses and roared, “Tastes like more!” in unison.

  I smiled and adjusted the tray. “That’s good.”

  Bruin swayed and stuck a pudgy finger in the air. “You come find me. I gotta talk to you, and we aren’t going anywhere, are we, boys?” His crew all shouted no.

  I promised to come back after I’d refilled the food platters. There was something about his intensity even under the effects of alcohol that made me wonder what he wanted to talk to me about. Could it be related to Eddie’s murder?

  I spooked myself in the kitchen. Piling cheese and crackers on the tray, I heard someone moving near the tanks and froze. Garrett had roped off access to the brewery per Chief Meyer’s instructions. No one was supposed to be back there other than Garrett and me. I grabbed a cheese knife from the counter and went to see who had followed me.

  “Hey, no one is supposed to be back here,” I called as I stepped out of the kitchen.

  “Mom?” Alex’s startled voice stopped me in my tracks. “Why do you have a butter knife?”

  “Sorry.” I let out a breath and relaxed my arm. “It’s a cheese knife.”

  Alex laughed. “What were you going to do if you ran into someone dangerous? Poke them with that?” He must have come straight from weight training, because he was wearing red and gray nylon gym shorts and a T-shirt with the Kodiak mascot.

  “Maybe. I hadn’t thought that through yet. I guess I’m more shaken than I realized.”

  “You found a body this morning, Mom.”

  “I guess I did.” I waved him into the kitchen. “Are you hungry? Do you want a snack? I can make you a sandwich.”

  “Mom, I know that you like to think that you’re Superwoman, but you know you’re not, and you don’t have to be. I’m fine. I had a couple slices of pizza after practice. I came to check on you.”

  “What would I do without you?” I reached over to ruffle his hair. He ducked and folded his muscular arms across his chest.

  “Don’t try to change the subject. You always do that, you know.”

  How had I managed to raise a teenage son who was so astute and insightful?

  “Are you sure you should be working tonight?”

  “I’m fine, honey, I promise. It’s good to be busy right now.” I broke a cracker and popped half of it into my mouth.

  He tugged one of my braids. “Nice look, Mom. I didn’t think you did the German thing?”

  I batted his hand away and glanced at my flannel, jeans, and boots. I must look a mess. “It’s been an insane day. I never had a chance to go home and change.”

  “I’m just kidding.”

  “Have you talked to your dad?” I asked through a bite of cracker.

  “I tried to see him, but the police wouldn’t let me. Oma and Opa were there, too. I think they’re trying to bail him out.” He grabbed a piece of Weisslacker, a traditional German beer cheese. I knew it was Alex’s favorite. Ursula used to serve it with paprika and slices of pumpernickel bread. The pungent cheese pairs well with beer, but many people find its strong and salty flavor overpowering. Ursula always took pride in the fact that she was teaching Alex how to appreciate Old World foods.

  “They are?” Hans hadn’t mentioned anything about Mac posting bail earlier.

  Alex shrugged. “Opa told me not to worry and to come check on you, so that’s what I’m doing.”

  That was just like Otto to worry about me at the same time his son had been arrested. Why couldn’t Mac be more like his dad?

  “As you can see, I’m fine.”

  “Except for the butter knife you’re still clutching in your hand.” He reached for another piece of cheese.

  I hadn’t realized that I still had a hold on the knife. I loosened my grasp and placed it on the counter. “Minor detail.”

  “You want some help?” Alex asked and nodded at the cheese trays.

  “That would be great.”

  We took the trays out to the front, and I watched with pride as Alex circled the room and chatted easily with everyone. I’m sure that every parent thinks their child is amazing, but he really was an extraordinary kid on every level.

  “You don’t have to wait around here on my account,” I said to him when we met in the middle of the room.

  “It’s cool. I brought my homework. Opa said they would come here once they’re done at the station.”

  “Honey, are you sure you’re okay? This has to be really disturbing to have your dad arrested and behind bars.”

  “Mom, come on. You know that it’s a mistake. Dad would never hurt anyone.”

  I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep quiet. Mac had certainly found a way to hurt me, but I knew what Alex meant. “Okay, but if you change your mind, come and grab me and I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Alex agreed and headed with his backpack to the only empty table near the windows. I finished circulating the tray, and when I made it to Bruin’s table, he grabbed my arm. “Sloan, sit, sit. Have a pint with us.” His voice lost its usually jovial tone.

  “Bruin, I’d love to, but I’m on the clock. You know the rules.”

  He scoffed. “No one cares about liquor control rules, Sloan.”

  I disagreed. Washington State had stringent laws about serving alcohol, as well as not imbibing while on the clock.

  “Sit for a minute.” Bruin pushed one of his employees from a chair.

  I gave the guy an apologetic look, but he didn’t seem to mind. He picked up the pitcher in the middle of the table and headed to the bar for more beer. I wondered if Garrett was going to cut their group off soon.

  “Sit,” Bruin commanded.

  My protests weren’t working, so I took the newly vacant stool. “How are you doing?” I asked, with real concern. Eddie had worked for Bruin for years, so I could only imagine how upset Bruin must be.

  “Not great.” His already ruddy face turned even redder. “Eddie is dead. Can you believe it?”

  I placed my arm over his arm, which was almost hot to the touch. “I’m so sorry for your loss. How long had he been working for you?”

  “Seven years,” Bruin said. He shook his head. “Seven long years. We fought all the time, but that’s how it goes. Half the time I wanted to kill him, the other half I wanted to hug him.”

  “Why is that?” I didn’t like the fact that Bruin had referenced wanting to kill Eddie, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt, considering his current inebriated state.

  “He drove me crazy. He wanted to do everything his way, but I own the pub and brewery. I told Eddie many times that if he wanted to do things his way, he could start his own operation.”

  “Had he seriously considered that?”

  “No.” Bruin swiped at the air. “Noooo.” He dragged out the word. “He didn’t have any cash. The kid was broke. I paid him well, and he was always asking for more. Wanted a raise every other week. I don’t know what he did with his money, but he didn’t have a dime to his name. He asked me for a short-term loan last week.”

  “Did you give it to him?”

  Bruin shook his head so hard that it looked like it hurt. “No! I’m not a bank. That’s what I told him. He could wait until the next pay period just like everyone else, and I told him exactly that.”

  My mind wandered. Eddie was strapped for cash. Why? Bruin’s Brewing was one of Leavenworth’s most well-established and longest-running pubs. I couldn’t imagine that Bruin wasn’t paying Eddie a fair salary. What w
as Eddie doing with his money? And could he have borrowed money from someone else? Money was definitely a motive for murder. Maybe Eddie had taken a loan out from someone else, and when the loan was due, he wasn’t able to pay up. Could that have been why he was killed?

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  I GLANCED TO THE BAR, where Garrett was operating taps with both hands.

  “I should go help,” I said to Bruin.

  He yanked my arm. “I still need to talk to you, Sloan.”

  Garrett had caught my eye and pleaded for help.

  “Can it wait? We’re slammed.”

  Bruin eased up his grasp and followed my eyes to the bar. “Okay, okay. But don’t leave without talking to me.”

  “You got it.” I stood and went to help Garrett.

  “We’re going through beer lightning fast,” he said, handing me a pint glass.

  “Are the kegs running low?”

  “I think so. I’ll change them out as soon as they blow.”

  Blowing a keg sounded dramatic, but in reality, it meant that any remaining beer in the bottom of the keg would foam as it fizzled out of the tap.

  “How many kegs do we have left?”

  Garrett shook his head. “I need to check. If we keep pouring like this, we’ll be out of beer by the end of the weekend.”

  He was right. Garrett had a ten-barrel brewing system. A barrel of beer held approximately thirty-one gallons or two kegs. For each ten-barrel batch that Garrett produced, he yielded twenty kegs. Usually we could get 124 pints per keg. At the rate we’d been selling beer last night and since we’d opened today, I guessed that we’d gone through at least three kegs, maybe four. We’d had to dump the entire batch that was already in process since it had had Eddie’s body floating in it. Brewing a new batch would take at least two weeks, so we were going to have to get creative to make the remaining kegs stretch until then.