Death on Tap Page 18

  “What do you say, time for a lunch break?” Garrett asked, wiping his hands on a dish towel hanging over his shoulder.

  “Sounds great. Suddenly I’m starving.”

  “The beer will do it to you.”

  I laughed and was about to head to the office to grab some cash. Since I’d spent my early morning baking the citrus shortbread, I had forgotten to pack a lunch. I could run down the street to the German deli and grab a sandwich or splurge for a bratwurst.

  “Where are you heading?” Garrett asked.

  “Lunch. I’m going to run down to the German deli. Do you want anything?”

  “I was hoping to take you out to lunch. My treat, as a small token of my thanks.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I protested.

  “I didn’t say I had to. I want to.” He looked down at his boots. “Give me a minute to change into shoes and then we can go.”

  It was silly, but my stomach fluttered at the thought of having lunch with Garrett. I knew it was a business lunch, but I couldn’t help feeling like it was a date. That was probably because I’d never had lunch with other men while Mac and I were together—not counting Hans, of course.

  Garrett returned a few minutes later wearing an entirely new outfit—a clean pair of jeans, a beer T-shirt, and flip-flops. The man was a conundrum. I didn’t peg him as a flip-flop kind of guy. I also felt self-conscious about my appearance. My jeans were splattered with water from the brewing process, and I was sure that my hair must be a mess from the steam and sweat. My hair has a slight natural wave, and it has a tendency to curl and frizz with heat and the water vapors from brewing. Nice first impression for your not-really-a-date lunch, Sloan, I said to myself as I followed Garrett outside.

  “It’s gorgeous, so I thought we could take advantage of the sun and eat outside on the patio,” Garrett said, pointing to The Carriage House, Leavenworth’s most expensive restaurant. It had an outdoor patio complete with humungous hanging baskets, potted trees with twinkle lights, and a gas fireplace. Part of the charm of The Carriage House was that they featured horse-drawn carriage rides during each festival and for special occasions.

  Now I really felt self-conscious about how I looked. I freed my hair from its ponytail and tried to smooth it down. “We don’t have to go anywhere fancy,” I said. “I’m happy with a German sausage with a huge pickle on the side.” In addition to being worried about how I looked, I knew that cash was tight for Garrett. I didn’t want him to feel like he had to spend extra money on me. He might be thankful for my help, but I was equally thankful for the job.

  “That’s not lunch. That’s a glorified food cart.” He continued on toward The Carriage House. “When I lived in Seattle, I ate at food carts or the Market every day. Lunch and dinner.”

  “Dinner, too?” I asked, following after him. “Did you work that late?”

  “Always. Working in a cube crushes your soul. I don’t care if I go broke; it’s worth saving my sanity.”

  I’d never worked anywhere but restaurants and pubs, so it was hard to imagine what Garrett’s office life must have been like when he was in Seattle. He wasn’t exactly forthcoming about his past. I studied his comfortable stride as we walked toward the restaurant. He didn’t appear tense, but I knew all too well that outward appearances could be deceiving.

  We arrived at the restaurant, and he held the front door open for me. A waiter dressed in a crisp white shirt and black slacks led us to an outdoor table. He slid out my chair and waited at rigid attention for me to sit. Once he’d poured water in our glasses and reviewed the daily specials, he returned inside.

  Garrett winked. “See, classy, right?”

  I laughed. “Classy.”

  Bees hummed in the hanging baskets surrounding the patio. I couldn’t blame them; the scent of jasmine was intoxicating. No wonder Garrett had given up his Seattle job for this. Even with the distraction of Eddie’s murder and everything with Mac and me, it was hard to argue that there was any place more relaxing or idyllic than Leavenworth in the late summer. From this vantage point, the town square looked like something out of a movie set. The hills surrounding us were ablaze with color. I breathed it in and smiled.

  “Kidding aside, I can’t thank you enough, Sloan. You’ve been a godsend.” There was something about the intensity of his stare that made me feel wobbly.

  “You said that already, and there’s no need to thank me.” I fiddled with my hair.

  He sighed. “But there is. My job was killing me. A slow death by Excel spreadsheets. I didn’t know what I was getting into by coming here, but I knew I had to do something. I didn’t want to wake up one day and be fifty and have spent my best years stuck in a cube, you know?”

  I nodded in agreement. While I didn’t know how it felt to be stuck in a cubicle, I knew how it felt to be stuck. I was coming to realize that maybe I had stayed with Mac because it was the easy thing to do, not because of love. I wished that I had Garrett’s ability to pack up his life and start fresh, regardless of the risk. If I hadn’t caught Mac cheating, would I have stayed forever?

  “I get that I have a long way to go to prove myself around here, but without you, I might have had to close the doors before they even opened.”

  “That’s an exaggeration, to say the least,” I said, taking a drink of my ice water.

  Garrett shook his head dramatically. “I’m serious. I can’t believe I never thought about things like food. I’ve been so wrapped up in my beer. I thought I was smarter than that.”

  “You’ve had a lot to think about. Starting up a pub is no small feat. That’s why so many home brewers never make the switch. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  He started to reply, but our waiter returned with a loaf of steaming hot French bread and two ramekins of salted butter. “Something to drink?”

  Garrett looked to me.

  “What do you have on draft?”

  The waiter listed off four Der Keller beers, two of Bruin’s beers, and a special tap they just got on from Seattle.

  “Try that, Sloan,” Garrett said. “He’s a buddy of mine.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said to the waiter.

  “Two CDAs,” he confirmed. “And something for lunch?”

  I ordered a summer spinach salad with shredded chicken, hard-boiled eggs, fresh strawberries, and candied pecans, tossed with a strawberry balsamic dressing. Suddenly, I was famished. Garrett ordered a blackened salmon salad. I chided myself for constantly comparing him to Mac, but I couldn’t help it. Mac would never order a salad and usually teased me about my affinity for fresh greens. He always ordered greasy burgers or heavy steaks. Bruin’s meat-inspired menu was definitely more Mac’s style.

  Stop, Sloan, I told myself as the waiter left to get our beers. There was something about Garrett that I couldn’t define. I wanted to blame my fluttery stomach on the fact that I was hungry, but I knew it was also due to Garrett’s intense gaze.

  We chatted easily about the pub and our new menu until our beers arrived. Garrett’s friend was definitely talented. We geeked out over how pristine the Cascadian dark ale was. Despite its nearly black color, we could see through it, and there wasn’t a trace of sediment in the glass. It was the exact opposite of Van’s beers.

  “I can see the other side of town,” Garrett said as he peered through his glass.

  I smelled the beer and swished a taste on my tongue. It tasted equally clean. “This is awesome.”

  “Yeah.” Garrett nodded enthusiastically as he drank. “I told you.”

  I was about to change the subject and ask him his thoughts about beers for Oktoberfest when his face turned serious.

  He took another drink of his beer and placed it on the table. Then he leaned forward and frowned. “Look, Sloan, there’s something I think you should know. I’ve been debating about telling you, but I think you need to know.”

  I gulped. “Okay.” What else could be wrong? I braced myself for whatever Garrett had to say.

&n
bsp; “It’s about your husband.”

  “Mac?” I clutched my pint glass to keep my hands from shaking.

  He glanced up at one of the hanging baskets. I got the sense that he was trying to choose his words carefully. “This could be talk. You know how it is with brewers. It’s a brotherhood—in the best and worst sense. We want to support each other, but it’s also a competition, you know?”

  I almost said something about it being a sisterhood, too, but I let it go because I didn’t trust myself to speak. Had Mac been cheating on me with other women, too? What did Garrett know?

  “I’m the new guy in town, so I know everyone is trying to establish their turf and figure out where I fit in.” He brushed away a bee that had flown close to his beer. “You can take this information with a grain of salt, okay, but I think you should know what the other brewers are saying. Or maybe you already know, and it’s gossip.”

  My heart was thumping. What was Garrett getting at?

  Garrett studied my face before he continued. I had no idea if my nerves were betraying me. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I had such a tight grip on my pint glass that I was worried I might crush it and cut open my hand.

  “Like I said, this could be a rumor, but a couple of guys have said that Der Keller isn’t doing well.”

  “What?” I furrowed my brow and released my grip on the glass. I thought back to my conversation with Otto. He had mentioned that things were tight.

  Garrett nodded. “They’re saying that Mac made bad investments and overextended himself. I heard they took a huge loss.”

  I felt a slight sense of relief that the gossip Garrett had heard wasn’t about me, but I was perplexed by this news. Ursula and Otto had been very lean when it came to unnecessary spending. They were good to their employees and maintained the restaurant and brewing operation, but they had never been extravagant spenders. Mac, on the other hand, liked everything flashy. Maybe it was the result of growing up with immigrant parents who had skimped and saved every penny to make a fresh start here. One of our recurring arguments had centered on Mac’s spending, but I couldn’t imagine it affecting Der Keller. Mac didn’t have that much control … unless something had changed that I didn’t know about.

  “They’re even saying that Der Keller might have to declare bankruptcy.”

  “What?” I couldn’t help yelping. “Who? Who’s saying that?”

  “Everyone. Bruin, Van, even Eddie mentioned it to me before he died. I know I should have said something to you earlier, but I knew that things were…” He trailed off for a moment. “Things were tense with you and Mac, and I didn’t want to make it worse.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I protested. “Otto and Ursula hold the majority of the shares in the company. Mac and Hans both have smaller stakes. The long-term plan has always been that when they retire, they’ll hand over their shares, but as far as I know, there hasn’t been any talk of them retiring in the near future.”

  Garrett shrugged and picked up his beer. “I don’t know. You’re right. No one has said anything about them retiring. The only thing that I’ve heard is that Mac is in over his head and has been trying to sell off some of his shares.”

  “What?” I was incredulous. “He can’t do that. He can’t sell any shares without Otto and Ursula’s permission.”

  “I don’t know. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”

  “Sorry.” I rubbed my temples and tried to regain my composure. What was Mac up to? “And you’ve heard this from multiple sources.”

  Garrett scowled and nodded. “I’m afraid so.” He waved a bee from his face. Down below us, an accordion player tested his instrument. The sound was so familiar in Leavenworth that I barely noticed, but Garrett sat up to get a better glimpse at where the music was coming from.

  I reached for my beer and took a big swig. “But that doesn’t make sense. Why would Mac offer you cash for your recipe if he didn’t have any cash?”

  “That’s something I wondered about, too. Unless it was a ploy. Maybe he wanted me to think that he was swimming in cash, and then was going to offer me shares?”

  It was a possibility and sounded slimy enough to be something that Mac might try. I had questioned why Mac had offered to pay Garrett for his recipe. That was totally out of character. At the time I’d thought it was because of me, and that Mac was trying to make a point, but now I wondered if I’d been wrong. Maybe Garrett was on to something.

  I wasn’t surprised to hear a rumor that Mac had invested poorly. That was completely in character. He was always looking for ways to flaunt his success and looking for the next big trend in the beer industry, but what I couldn’t understand was Ursula and Otto’s involvement. I had suspected that part of the reason they kept their purse strings so tight was because they recognized Mac’s lack of self-control. I couldn’t believe that they would have handed power or financial control of Der Keller over to Mac, but maybe I was wrong.

  Our food arrived at that moment. We ate in silence. My salad was a colorful melody of succulent strawberries and smoky roasted chicken. The sweet berry balsamic blended the flavors beautifully, but I barely tasted it. I was consumed completely by the horrible thought of Der Keller being in trouble. Cheating on me was one thing, but if Mac had done anything to put his parents—the only real parents I’d ever known—in financial risk, I might kill him.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-TWO

  AS SOON AS GARRETT AND I finished our salads, I jumped to my feet. “Listen, I need to go talk to Hans right now,” I said to Garrett.

  He nodded. “I get it.”

  “Thanks for lunch,” I said before I headed for the door.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, Sloan.” He offered me a half wave as I walked away.

  I hoped he was right, but I had a bad feeling it was something—something big. What would Ursula and Otto do if they had to declare bankruptcy? They were too old to start over, and they had poured everything they had into making Der Keller a success.

  Heat burned in my cheeks as I power walked to Hans’s workshop. I knew that I’d been out of the loop with the Krause family for a few weeks, but I couldn’t believe that Otto and Ursula would have given Mac control of the brewery. I had to talk to Hans.

  Hans had made it clear many years ago that he wasn’t interested in running the brewery. His passion was working with his hands. He had taken over an old pottery studio and turned it into his workshop. The small space smelled of cut wood, and the floor was always coated in sawdust. Hans was content to craft a custom picnic table or build intricate lattices for Der Keller’s patio hops. He was handy and would often be called in to fix brewery equipment. Once when the night crew accidentally ran the forklift into a wall, Hans showed up at midnight to repair the Sheetrock. He gladly offered his services in exchange for his stock in the company, but that was the extent of his involvement, and I knew there was no way that had changed. I would start with him first.

  The sound of his table saw running greeted me when I pushed open the door to his wood workshop. As always, a cloud of sawdust enveloped me as I stepped inside. I coughed and brushed the grainy particles floating in the air away from my face.

  “Hans!” I shouted over the sound of the table saw.

  He didn’t respond. His safety glasses were focused on the two-by-four he was feeding through the saw.

  I yelled again and waved. “Hans!”

  The movement must have caught his eye because he shut off the saw and brushed sawdust from his face. He removed his safety glasses and walked over to me. “Sloan, what are you doing here?”

  Without giving him a chance to breathe, I launched into the speech that I’d practiced in my head on the walk over. “Your brother. Do you know what he’s done? Have you heard the rumors going around?”

  “Slow down, slow down.” Hans tucked his safety glasses into his overalls and gave me a concerned look. “What’s going on?”

  “Mac! Have you heard?”

&nb
sp; “Heard what?”

  “He’s trying to sell his shares. Apparently, he made some bad investments and is out of cash?”

  Hans scratched his head. “Are you serious?”

  “That’s it?”

  “What’s it?”

  “You’re not acting like you’re surprised.”

  He squinted at me. “This is my brother we’re talking about.”

  “I know, you don’t have to tell me—but your parents. Did they give up their shares? How has this happened? People are saying the brewery might go bankrupt.”

  Hans shook his head. “Der Keller isn’t going bankrupt. Mama and Papa made sure of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When was the last time you checked your mail?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. We rarely got mail at the farmhouse. Mac had our personal bills sent to the brewery. He thought it was safer that way. Although, come to think of it, maybe it was just because he didn’t want me to see them. And I never got any personal mail, and Alex texted his friends. The only things that ever showed up in our mailbox were junk mail or catalogs.

  “Sloan, you should check your mail.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He tried to brush off his coveralls, but there was so much sawdust that he managed to clear only one streak. “Let’s go sit in my office.”

  “Why?”

  “Come with me.” He didn’t wait for me to protest.

  His “office” was located in the back of his woodshop. He had built a pergola outside with two handmade rocking chairs and a side table that faced a small rock garden. Hans’s craftsmanship extended to the garden. Huge cedar pots contained red-leafed Japanese maples and fragrant jasmine. There was a bubbling fountain in the far corner and cedar boxes overflowing with late summer herbs.