Death on Tap Page 9

  “Mom, what’s going on?” His voice was frantic.

  Panic flooded my body. Had I accidentally forgotten to pick him up from school or soccer practice? As a foster kid, I’d rarely relied on adults. I couldn’t begin to tally the number of times I’d been left behind or forgotten at school. When I got pregnant with Alex, I made a vow to never let him experience the feeling of being abandoned.

  One memory that stuck in my head was from when I was in fourth grade. My foster mom at the time was a stickler for punctuality (among many other things) and refused to wait for anyone. My teacher asked me to stay after class to talk about a special project she wanted me to participate in. I felt equally elated to be asked to do something by a teacher and filled with dread for the wrath I might face from my foster mom if I wasn’t in front of the school standing on the yellow line when her minivan rolled up.

  I decided to chance it and bounced nervously while my teacher praised my efforts in class and sent me home with a permission slip to participate in a new creative class that would meet after school once a week. I was five minutes late to the pickup spot on the curb. I’d never forgotten sitting on the yellow line watching as moms and dads greeted their kids with hugs and kisses and as car after car and the buses pulled away. My foster mom was nowhere to be found. I waited on the curb in a drizzly rain until it got dark, shivering and curling into a ball to try and stay warm. Finally the principal spotted me as she walked to her car. She gave me a ride home and even stopped at a drive-through to buy me a hamburger and French fries. The principal’s car smelled like tea when she blasted the heat to help warm me up. My memory might have been fuzzy, but I was pretty sure she gave my foster mom a lecture when she delivered me home. It didn’t work. My foster mom sent me straight to bed in my wet clothes and refused to sign the permission slip. I’d probably never been late since that day.

  “Mom, Mom,” Alex’s voice called.

  “Where are you?” I asked, clutching my jaw and trying to force the painful memory away.

  “School.”

  “Oh no, did your dad forget to pick you up?”

  “Mom, chill. It’s only two o’clock. I’m in study hall.”

  Thank God, I thought, allowing myself to breathe more fully.

  “Dad texted me, though. He said he can’t get me because he’s in jail. Is he kidding around or something?”

  “What?” My voice reverberated through the quiet square.

  “Yeah. I just got it. This has to be some kind of joke, right?”

  My stomach sunk. Had Chief Meyers arrested Mac? I couldn’t believe it. Sure, finding his lighter near the fermenter and his lack of alibi didn’t absolve him, but arrest him? Chief Meyers had known the Krause family for decades. She couldn’t really think that Mac had any involvement in Eddie’s death.

  “Mom, are you there?” Alex asked.

  “Sorry.” I let out a sigh and went on to explain what had happened. When I finished, Alex echoed my sigh.

  “That’s terrible, Mom. But what does that have to do with Dad? And why is he in jail?”

  “I don’t know, honey. Listen, I’m going to run over to Der Keller and talk to Oma and Opa right now. I’ll keep you posted. Do you want me to come get you after school?”

  “Nah, it’s fine. I have weight training for soccer. I’ll grab a ride and see you at home later.”

  “Okay, but I might be late. We’re going to have a wake for Eddie at Nitro. Do you want to come?”

  “Maybe. I’ll text you later. The librarian is glaring at me. I better go.”

  I started to tell him that I loved him, but he hung up before I had a chance. Mac arrested—not possible. Instead of turning left to go to the grocery store, I made a hard right and sprinted toward Der Keller. A couple of shopkeepers called friendly greetings as I breezed by, but I didn’t bother to stop.

  Making it to Der Keller in less than two minutes, thanks to my long legs and need for answers, I pushed open the heavy carved front doors and scanned the bar.

  “Hey, Sloan. Fancy seeing you here,” the bartender called. “I thought you were working for the enemy now.” He winked.

  “Are the Krauses here?” I asked.

  “Nope. You just missed them, but Hans is in the back.”

  “Great.” I hurried to the brewery.

  Hans was crouched on his knees examining the base of the hop freezer. In order to extend the life of some of our experimental hops and preserve their aroma, we kept them at a chilly twenty to thirty degrees Fahrenheit. If stored properly in airtight packaging, hops will keep for upwards of two years in the freezer.

  “Hans!” I yelled, causing him to flinch and bump his head on the freezer.

  He sat up and rubbed the crown of his head. “Sloan, what’s going on?” His honey blond hair was darker than Mac’s and curled slightly.

  “Have you heard about Mac?” I tugged on my braid.

  Nodding, he rested his screwdriver on the floor and stood. “I wondered how long it was going to take you to run over here.”

  “So you know?”

  He wiped his hands on his work pants and walked over to me. “Yeah, Mac called me from jail.”

  I couldn’t help but feel slightly wounded that Mac had called Hans instead of me. Things might be rocky between us, but he was still my husband.

  Hans must have read my mind, because he put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a half hug. “He asked me not to say anything to you.”

  “As if I wasn’t going to find out. Alex just called me.” I didn’t like how frantic my voice sounded.

  Removing his arm from my shoulders, Hans met my gaze. “I know. I know. He’s not thinking straight right now, Sloan.” His kind eyes matched the color of the copper tanks as he held my gaze for a moment.

  “Why did Chief Meyers arrest him? Did you talk to her? Did she say anything?”

  “Slow down,” he said, pointing to the front. “Let’s grab a drink, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Hans’s aura had such a calming effect that I couldn’t resist. We went to the front of the pub, where he directed me to a high table in the corner, while he went to get us beers. My foot bounced uncontrollably under the table while I waited. This day was like a waking nightmare—finding Eddie’s body and now Mac behind bars. Familiar German music played overhead, and the pub smelled of schnitzel and beer and cheese soup. I breathed in the scent and tried to relax.

  “Drink this,” he commanded, returning with a frothy pilsner.

  “Thanks.” I managed a halfhearted smile as I took a drink of the pale beer. Hans had chosen wisely, since anything stronger probably would have sent my head spinning. Pilsners are known for their soft but complex fragrance and for their low alcohol content. They’re arguably the most popular style of beer in Germany.

  Hans slid into the booth across from me and watched me sip my beer. “Better?”

  “I guess. I don’t understand how Chief Meyers could think that Mac killed Eddie. What did she say?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t talk to her. Mac got one call. He called me and told me to call his lawyer.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  Hans strummed his fingers on the table. “He said they found his lighter at Nitro.”

  “I knew that.” I nodded.

  He frowned. “That’s not all.”

  “What?” I took a sip of the pilsner, picking up notes of hay and sweet grass.

  “They found his prints on the fermenter.”

  “At Nitro?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Yeah.” Hans sighed and picked up his beer. “It doesn’t look good for him right now. Eddie was killed sometime between midnight and two o’clock, and Mac doesn’t have an alibi. He says he went back to the hotel and passed out.”

  “You’re not actually worried, are you?” I asked Hans.

  Hans scanned the nearly deserted bar. “No. You and I both know that Mac is an idiot, not a killer. But the evidence is pretty damning. Sloan, can you
think of anyone who would want to get Mac in trouble?”

  I shook my head. “No. Why?”

  Leaning forward and dropping his voice, he said, “Think about it. Mac’s fingerprints and lighter are found at Nitro the morning after he shows up for your launch and makes a scene. I usually have a pretty good sense about people, but I’m starting to have a few doubts about Garrett.”

  My boot slipped off the base of the stool and made me almost lose my balance. “Garrett?” I said too loudly.

  Hans held out his hand. “I know. He doesn’t seem like the type, does he?”

  “What would his motivation be?”

  “No idea. To sabotage Mac?” He hesitated. “To protect you,” he said, more like a question.

  “Protect me?” I reached for my pilsner and took another big swig of the pale ale. “I hardly know him. I’ve been working for him for less than forty-eight hours.”

  Hans paused, took a drink of his beer, and nodded. “Yeah, it’s a stretch, but he seems like he’s already attached to you.”

  “You think so?”

  He rubbed his temples. “I don’t know. Something is off about this.”

  “I agree, but I don’t think it was Garrett.”

  We drank our beers in silence for a moment. I watched the bartender chat with an older couple tasting beers at the bar. He was taking them through a tasting flight, starting with the lightest beers first and working his way toward Der Keller’s darkest stout. Hans’s theory made sense. I tried to think of anyone who would want to tarnish Mac’s reputation—not that he hadn’t done a bang-up job of that himself—but no one came to mind.

  “Mac was in the brewery yesterday,” I said to Hans. “He easily could have touched the fermenter. You know how handsy he can be.” Wrong choice of words, Sloan, I thought to myself.

  Hans ignored the comment. His eyes landed on the Krause family crest that had been carved out of old growth wood and hung above the bar. “That’s true. It’s a Krause family curse—we can’t keep our hands off beer equipment. It’s in our blood.”

  “I thought Mac was there to check up on me, but it turns out he offered Garrett cash for his citrus IPA recipe.”

  “No way.” Hans tilted his head to the side and studied my face. “You’ve got to be kidding. My brother does not pay for beer.”

  “I know. That’s what I said to Garrett.”

  “Something doesn’t add up.” Hans finished his beer.

  “Do you think the beer wen … uh, Hayley, could be involved?”

  “How?” Hans gave me an incredulous look.

  “Eddie was pissed that she showed up at the opening. I definitely got the sense that they have some kind of history.”

  “Sloan, how in the world would she have done it, though?”

  “Maybe she had help.” As I said it out loud, I became more convinced that it was a possibility. Eddie had made it as clear as one of the crystal steins above the bar that he did not want her anywhere near him. What could her motivation be? Maybe they’d had a fling and a nasty breakup. Or maybe she’d cheated on Eddie with Mac. I’d have to find out everything I could about the beer wench.

  Hans picked up our glasses. “I guess it’s a possibility, but it’s a stretch. I have to get back to the shop. I’ll check in with you later. Do you need help with Alex or anything?”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “That’s what the women always say, Sloan.” Hans grinned and stood.

  He had never been lucky in love, and I had never been able to figure out why. Hans was one of the most solid and hardworking guys that I knew. He was a true Renaissance man, well read, a great cook, and handy. One day he was going to make someone a very happy woman. I had tried to set him up, unsuccessfully, a few times before he begged me to stop. Unlike Mac, Hans tended to be more reserved and introspective. He didn’t leap into things without thinking about the consequences.

  As we parted ways, I couldn’t help but wonder if Mac’s affair had gotten him into something much more sinister. Could his relationship with Hayley have made someone want to set him up to look like Eddie’s killer?

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  I HEADED STRAIGHT FOR THE grocery store and piled a basket with meat, cheese, and veggie trays, crackers, pita chips, and hummus. It might not have been as gourmet as last night’s offering, but my assortment of snacks would satisfy the masses and soak up some alcohol if anyone opted to drown their sorrows over Eddie’s death.

  As I made my way down the aisle toward checkout, I heard a crash behind me and turned to find the beer wench surrounded by a pile of canned green beans. She met my startled gaze with a triumphant smirk. I didn’t know if it was finding Eddie’s body or my most recent run-in with Mac that made me snap, but without thinking, I stalked toward her, kicking a can out of my way.

  “What are you doing here?” I clutched the basket of groceries so tightly that I thought my hand might start to bleed.

  She placed one hand on her hip and gave me a challenging stare. “Shopping.”

  It took every ounce of my self-control not to drop the basket and take a swing at her. She chewed on an unlit cigarette and stepped over the pile of cans. I wanted to scream, but the manager and two customers shopping nearby had heard the commotion of the cans falling and came to see what had happened. The beer wench swung her hips as she walked down the aisle, leaving me to deal with her mess.

  You can’t let her get under your skin, I told myself as I helped restack the cans and regained my composure. Regardless of what Mac said, there was obviously more to their relationship, and I didn’t want any part of it. I ignored my shaky hands, paid for the groceries, and hurried back to the pub. I didn’t want to chance another run-in with the beer wench, because I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be able to hold back the next time.

  When I returned to Nitro, Van and Garrett were standing at the bar sorting through a large box of hops.

  “Let me help you with that, Sloan.” Van tossed a handful of aromatic hops onto the bar and came over to help carry my grocery bags.

  “Did you buy the entire store?” Garrett teased.

  “It looks like it, doesn’t it?” I rested the other shopping bags on the counter. “Maybe I went overboard, but it will all keep, and if this is a wake, it’s better to be prepared.”

  “A wake?” Van grabbed a hop cone and ran it between his fingers. His fingernails were caked with dirt, and his jeans covered in dust from the farm.

  “We’re holding a wake for Eddie tonight,” I explained.

  Van smashed the hop. Immediately, the scent of citrus, pine, and spice permeated the air. “I had no idea that you and Eddie were friends,” he said to both of us.

  Garrett and I both replied, “We weren’t,” at the same time.

  “I’m confused.” Van continued to press the hop in his hand. “You’re holding a wake for someone you didn’t know?”

  “You’ll learn this about Leavenworth. Everyone will want to toast to Eddie, and given that I … found him, it seemed right to hold the wake here,” I explained.

  Van swept the hop into his other hand. “Got it.”

  “What about you?” Garrett asked. “You’re in the beer business. You must know all the brewers in town. Did you know Eddie well?”

  Van walked around the bar and tossed the hop into the garbage can. “We knew each other.” He didn’t expand on the sentiment, which I took to mean that he didn’t consider Eddie a friend. The brewing community in Leavenworth was small, and Eddie had a reputation for being abrasive and competitive. Then I remembered Eddie’s comment about the hops the night he was killed.

  “Were you supplying Eddie, too?” I asked.

  “No. He didn’t think my stuff was good enough. I told him to ask Mac—or anyone at Der Keller—for a reference, they’ll tell him how good my stuff is, but he didn’t want to hear it.”

  That surprised me. Hops were hard to come by, and I couldn’t imagine Bruin turning down the opportunity
to try something new. I also thought that Van had said he didn’t know Der Keller. Had he worked a deal with Mac that fast? I was going to have to ask Mac about it.

  “What do I owe you for these?” Garrett pointed to the box of hops. The box had been partitioned into four sections. Each section contained a different variety of hop.

  Van reached into the back pocket of his jeans and handed Garrett a folded-up sheet of paper. “Here’s the contract. It gives you exclusive rights for the next five years. I’ve got a lot of interest, so I need you to move on this ASAP.”

  Garrett unfolded the invoice and winced for a second. “Can I have some time to look over the terms?”

  “Like I said, man, I’ve got a lot of interest. This is a good deal.” He looked to me for confirmation. I threw my hands up. There was no chance that I was going to weigh in without knowing anything about the terms Garrett and Van had discussed. Van sighed. “Look, I’ve got two more deliveries to do. I can swing back and pick up the signed contract and check for the deposit in a couple of hours, but after that, I’m moving on to the next brewer on my list.”

  “Okay.” Garrett stared at the contract.

  Van trudged to the door in his heavy work boots. Garrett handed me the paperwork once Van had walked around the corner and was out of sight. “Will you look at this? Does that price seem high to you?”

  I read over the invoice. “Holy hops! That’s a huge number.”

  Garrett reached into the box and examined one of the hop varieties. “He told me it would be more for these experimental ones, but I wasn’t expecting the price to be this high.”

  “The contract locks you in for five years, right?” Hop cultivation was a booming business in the Pacific Northwest, particularly in warm sunny climates like the Yakima Valley. As the craft beer movement continued to sweep the nation, the demand for hops had skyrocketed. I’d learned at a beer conference I attended for Der Keller in Seattle last summer that one of the biggest issues facing brewers was access to hops. Macrobrewers, who had financial resources and sway with hop suppliers, had stockpiled the most popular varieties, making it nearly impossible for small breweries to get their hands on any signature hops. Some hop contracts extended decades into the future, creating a shortage and high demand for new varieties. So much so that brewing magazines and even the national media had run front page features with titles like WILL A SHORTAGE OF HOPS KILL CRAFT BEER?