Death on Tap Read online

  “Would it kill you to say thanks?” Garrett had removed his goggles and tossed them on the desk.

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  I started to apologize. I knew he was right. Accepting praise had always been difficult for me, but before I could say anything more, the sound of a voice in the front made us both turn around.

  “Hello, is anyone here?” a man’s voice called.

  Garrett looked at me. I shrugged as we both headed for the front.

  Van was standing near the front door holding a huge box in his arms. I knew without looking that the box contained hops; their smell permeated the space. “Good, someone is here. I took a chance. I know it’s early, but I have to be over at Bruin’s this morning, so I thought I would stop by and drop off your order, and get that contract.”

  “Did we order more hops?” Garrett asked.

  Van shifted the box in his arms. “I got a call for double your initial order. In fact, I’ve got three more boxes in the truck.”

  “You got a call?” Garrett shot me a puzzled look. “Did you order more hops?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  Van’s expression was equally dumbfounded. “I don’t know, but I got a call from someone at Nitro yesterday who said that you needed double the order on my hybrid line. I handpicked these this morning so they would be fresh.”

  “It’s just the two of us,” Garrett said, tousling his hair. “Who called you?”

  Van shrugged. “I don’t know, I assumed it was you. A guy who said he was from Nitro.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me.”

  “So you don’t want these?” Van scowled. “They are fresh and, to be honest, they’re going fast, so if I were you, I would get them while you can. These suckers aren’t going to stick around for long.”

  I could tell that Garrett was still puzzling through who would have called to order hops for us. Van raised his brows. “Hello?”

  Garrett cleared his throat and gave his body a little shake. “Huh, uh, yeah, I guess I’ll take them. I have to replace an entire batch anyway.”

  Van set the box on a table and pointed behind him. “I’ll grab the rest of the boxes.”

  After he left, Garrett turned to me. “You didn’t order the hops?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  He sighed. “Do you get the feeling that someone isn’t happy to have Nitro on the beer scene?”

  I hadn’t, but he did kind of have a point. First the missing recipe, then Eddie’s murder and the ruined beer, and now someone ordering expensive hops. “You think so?”

  He scratched his head. “Something’s up. That’s all I know.” He glanced out the window where Van was stacking two boxes of hops. “Can you finish with him? I want to go check something.”

  “Sure,” I agreed, watching his shoulders slump slightly as he walked back toward the office. Could Garrett have been right? Was someone trying to sabotage him? Who wouldn’t want him to succeed? Bruin? Or worse … Mac? What if this was Mac’s doing?

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  ONCE VAN HAD UNLOADED THE boxes of hops, he handed me a dusty invoice. “Is something going on with Garrett?”

  “Why?”

  “Whoever called me sounded exactly like him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  I didn’t say anything about Garrett’s suspicion that someone was trying to sabotage him, but I also wondered why Van was convinced that Garrett had been the person who called him yesterday. Garrett didn’t have a particularly distinct voice, and Van didn’t know him that well. How could he be so sure?

  To Van, I asked, “Are you delivering to Bruin next?”

  He stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his well-worn jeans. “Sort of. I’ve got some stuff to deliver, but he wants to talk to me.” He leaned to one side and peered over my left shoulder. “I don’t know if you’ve heard or not, but Bruin’s been on the hunt for a new brewer for a while.”

  “Really?” I pretended this was news to me.

  “Yeah. Things were tense with him and Eddie.”

  “They were? I thought they had a good thing going over at the brewery. It’s been around forever and always seems to be busy.”

  Van picked up a hop and ran it between his hands. “The pub is doing great, but those two hated each other. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. They almost came to blows here.”

  I thought back to opening night. Had I interpreted Bruin and Eddie’s interaction the wrong way? I’d thought that Bruin had been trying to calm Eddie down, and while Eddie may have been irritated that Bruin was drunk, I didn’t remember them almost coming to blows, in Van’s words.

  He continued. “Eddie was going rogue, and Bruin was tired of having to reel him back in. You know the recipes at Bruin’s Brewing are Bruin’s, not Eddie’s.”

  “Really?” I’d always been under the impression that Bruin was the cash behind the pub and that Eddie was responsible for the beer.

  “Yeah. Bruin is an old home brewer like your boss. The name says it all. He didn’t need Eddie, but brewing is a young man’s game. You know how physically exhausting it can be. He’s been looking to hire someone to take over.”

  Suddenly, I realized what he was hinting at. “You mean you? You want to brew?”

  “Don’t look so surprised. I brew.”

  “But what about the hops and the farm?”

  “I’ll still do that, too, but I told Bruin I was hoping to have a chance to at least throw my hat in the ring. No one ever thinks of the hop guy as being able to brew, but if I didn’t know how to brew, I couldn’t produce such good hops, you know?”

  “Of course.” I nodded, but I was struck by Van’s frankness. I was also surprised that he was interested in brewing, but I didn’t say that to him, since it sounded like that was everyone’s take.

  “I don’t know if I really have a shot, but I’m glad Bruin is at least going to give me a chance to show him what I can do.”

  “So this is an interview this morning?”

  “I guess. You know Bruin. He’s pretty chill.” He looked at his tattered jeans and mud-caked boots. “It’s not like a suit-and-tie kind of interview or anything, but I’m bringing him a few bottles of my home brew, and he told me to be ready to walk through the brewery so that he can make sure I know what all the equipment is.”

  “How’s the home brewing going?”

  He chucked the hop on the floor and perked up. “You want to try it? I’ve got a case in the truck. I figured it was better to bring extra.”

  “Sure, if you have enough, I’d love to try it.”

  Without a moment of pause, he ran out to his truck and returned with four bottles of home brew. Each had a plain white label with the beer name written by hand. Van reminded me of Alex when he used to come home from elementary school with an art project for me. He thrust the bottles at me and waited with an expectant look.

  “You want me to taste this now?”

  “Yeah, go for it. Let me know what you think. I’ve heard that you’re the best brewer in town.”

  It was pretty early in the morning to sample beer, but I didn’t want to let Van down. He seemed strangely anxious for my input, so I walked to the bar and cracked each beer open. Then I poured an inch of Van’s creations into four tasters.

  Starting with the lightest beer, I picked up the first taster. According to Van’s handwritten label, this was his lager. I held it to the light. The beer was cloudy, impossible to see through, and had bits of yeast floating in it. This wasn’t a good sign. Van either needed to improve his filtration process or was intentionally going for an unfiltered beer.

  I didn’t want to offend him, so chose my words carefully. “Tell me about the lager,” I said, swirling the beer in the taster. “How did you brew it? Is it fresh hopped? And tell me about the filtration process.”

  Van launched into an explanation of his process while I smelled the beer. T
here was a slight bitter scent, but I hoped that was due to the type of hop he had used. He explained that this was a single-hop lager and he’d done two rounds of filtration. Uh-oh. That definitely didn’t bode well. Taste is subjective when it comes to beer, but a well-brewed pint should never give off an unpleasant odor. When I gave brewery tours at Der Keller I loved getting to educate beer fans on how and why a beer can go bad.

  Van’s description of the brewing processes sounded like he was quoting directly from The Beginner’s Guide to Brewing. I took a taste. The lager lacked flavor and had a terribly bitter finish. Some bitterness was important in brewing a perfect pint, but Van’s lager was excessively bitter and hit the back of my palate. It also had a hint of a butterscotch, which I knew was diacetyl flavor resulting from using a bad yeast or a problem with the fermentation process. I swallowed and plastered on a smile. “Very interesting.” That wasn’t a lie, the beer was interesting, but it certainly wasn’t good. If this was the beer he planned to have Bruin taste, I knew that it would be back to the hop farm for Van.

  “What hops did you use in this?”

  Van’s eyes darted to Garrett’s beer taps. “My hops. You like it? It’s good stuff, isn’t it? That’s my hybrid batch.” He pointed to the box sitting on the table. “If it’s as good as I’m thinking it is, maybe I shouldn’t sell this strand of hops and keep it proprietary, you know?”

  He wasn’t exactly asking me, so I gave him a slight nod and moved on to the next taster. Like the lager, the beer had some serious filtration issues, but had a nice almost-copper color. I was surprised that the label listed this beer as an IPA; it looked more like a red to me.

  Van drummed his dirt-caked nails on the bar. “You’re making me nervous. How is it?”

  Holding the murky amber beer to the light, I acknowledged his anxiety. “It’s part of a tasting. If you’re going to brew professionally, you’ll have to get used to it—and remember, taste is subjective. What one person loves someone else may hate.”

  “You hate it?” His lip curled.

  “No, I haven’t even tried it yet.” I tasted the beer and immediately picked up a husky astringent flavor. Another bad sign. The astringent taste most likely came from overboiling the grains.

  When brewing, it’s critical to start with low heat and slowly bring the water to a rolling boil. One of the most common mistakes that new brewers make is dumping grains straight into a scalding pot of water, which strips their flavor and leaves an unpleasant aftertaste.

  Having Van stare me down while I sampled his beer was unnerving, especially because I didn’t get the sense that he would welcome constructive feedback.

  “This is an IPA?” I asked.

  He nodded and reached for the glass. “What do you think of the color? I went for a half red, half IPA. I’m not sure what to call it, but I think this one is my favorite.”

  I didn’t want to crush his enthusiasm, but someone really needed to bring him back to earth. There are two types of home brewers in the world: those who constantly educate themselves and seek feedback to improve their brewing process and quality, and home brewers like Van, who think because they’ve taken one workshop or brewed one batch of beer, they are going to hit it big without doing any of the work required to improve their craft.

  Again I considered how to frame my question. “How long did you steep the grains?”

  Scratching his head as if I had asked him to solve a math equation, he squinted at the beer. “Uh. The standard amount of time.”

  I wanted to tell him there wasn’t a standard. Steeping times depended on the type and style of beer.

  “How long have you been brewing?” I asked, picking up the third taster of beer.

  “A long time. At least six months. I brewed with a buddy for a while, but we parted ways. It was messed up. He wanted to take the brewing equipment that I bought. That stuff isn’t cheap.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “That’s a nut brown ale.” He twisted the bottle around. “I used real hazelnuts.”

  I could tell because there was nut and grain residue at the bottom of the tasting glass. It reminded me of sludge. This beer had a decent malty profile, but was lacking body and any depth. I didn’t pick up any nut undertones, but I did get a chunk of a nut in my mouth. Yuck. I regretted offering to taste Van’s beer, and knew without a doubt that there was no chance that Bruin would hire him based on what he’d produced so far. He needed a mentor and many more brew hours under his belt before he would be ready to brew on the scale of Bruin’s setup.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  I put down the nearly untouched taster of the nut brown ale. Professional brewers rarely boasted about their own product.

  The last beer was a dark stout. It was thick and the color of night. I smelled the taster and picked up a smoky, almost plastic scent. The harsh smell made me want to dump the taster in the sink, but I took a sip. The beer was almost undrinkable due to intense phenolic flavor. It tasted medicinal.

  “Well?” Van looked at me expectantly.

  “Have you tasted this one?”

  He nodded. “It’s really good, right?”

  “I think it’s contaminated.”

  His jaw tightened. “What?”

  I handed him the taster. “Smell it. What do you smell?”

  “A campfire?”

  “Right. That burning smoky, clove-like smell is called phenolic flavor, which develops when a beer has been contaminated.”

  “How would it get contaminated?” Van sounded angry.

  “Bacteria can get in many ways—through a leaky valve, if your equipment hasn’t been sanitized properly, or even from using tap water.”

  “Tap water?”

  I nodded. “If there’s too much chlorine in the water, it can cause phenolic flavors.”

  His eyes widened.

  “I wouldn’t recommend serving this beer.”

  “Really?”

  “No one wants to drink contaminated beer.”

  “But what did you think of the flavor?”

  “To be honest, I couldn’t taste anything over the phenolic flavor.”

  He flinched, but recovered quickly. “There’s coffee in that one. You don’t taste it?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was asking because he actually wanted to know or if his ego was really that inflated. But before I could craft my response, he looked at the clock and bolted for the front door.

  “I’m late. Thanks for tasting my beer. Tell Garrett I need that contract and his check—like, yesterday.” With that, he took off.

  Garrett appeared behind me as the door banged shut.

  “How long have you been standing there?” I asked.

  “Long enough.” He made a face and pointed at the tasters. “Phenolic flavors, contamination, and cloudy beer. Sounds like you’ve had a mouthful.”

  I stuck out my tongue. “That was seriously some of the worst beer I’ve ever tasted.”

  “He doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “I know. I tried to insert some constructive feedback, but I don’t think he heard it. I think Alex could brew a better beer.”

  “No, he only heard what he wanted to hear.” Garrett picked up the nut brown ale and scowled. “This looks like he scooped sand from the ocean into the bottom of the glass.”

  Despite the fact that I don’t typically drink this early, I poured myself a taster of our Pucker Up and drank it in one shot.

  “Whoa, that must have been a rough tasting.” Garrett chuckled. “Knocking them down, huh?”

  “I had to get that terrible taste out of my mouth.” My tongue was dry. “Did you hear? He wants a signed contract and a check today.”

  “That’s what I heard, but I’m not sure that’s going to happen.”

  “Did you hear back from your friend in Seattle?” I swallowed twice to get the taste of Van’s beer out of my mouth.

  “I did.” Garrett didn’t elaborate; instead he dumped the nut brown ale in the sink.
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  Did Garrett not want me involved in making decisions for Nitro? His tendency to be less than forthcoming when I asked questions was unnerving.

  “Van is on his way to an interview with that beer,” I said, changing the subject.

  Garrett scowled. “Oh, that’s not going to go well for him.”

  “No.”

  “Where is he interviewing?”

  “With Bruin.”

  “Bruin?” A look flashed across Garrett’s face that I couldn’t read. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  He shook his head. “No reason. I guess I didn’t think that Bruin would hire someone so fast.”

  Garrett wasn’t telling me something. Was he worried that Van would give his hop contract to Bruin? Or was it something else?

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  GARRETT AND I SPENT THE remainder of the morning working in the brewery. It felt good to get back in the familiar rhythm of brewing, and despite the fact that we were still getting to know one another, we easily settled into a seamless routine.

  “Do you have any music preference?” Garrett asked when we started the first batch of Pucker Up. He held his smartphone in one hand and some kind of futuristic speaker in the other.

  “I’m up for anything.”

  “Awesome.” He plugged his phone into the speaker, which pulsated with neon blue, yellow, and green, and blasted Nirvana. That made sense, given his age and Seattle roots. The grunge music scene had started there in the nineties. I couldn’t imagine Garrett banging his head to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in a mosh pit, but stranger things had happened, I supposed.

  We had decided to brew a batch of each beer together. That way I could watch Garrett’s process from start to finish. Not only would brewing together ensure that I had all the steps down, but Garrett (unlike Van) had specifically asked me to give him feedback and offer any input or suggestions that I had along the way.

  The brewery quickly became a sensory delight—my nostrils flared happily with the scent of hot grains and boiling hops. Steam opened my pores and revitalized my senses. The familiar process of brewing offered me a momentary reprieve from Eddie’s murder and centered me in the experience. Garrett was a great partner. He knew when to hand me a paddle to stir the grains and gave me space to experiment with my own take on the beer. The morning blew by, and before I knew it, we had two batches of beer ready to add to the fermenters, and growling stomachs.