The Cure For What Ales You Page 9

  “How you doing, Sloan?” Garrett asked when I came behind the bar with a new round of orders. He poured a pint of Lemon Kiss and blew the keg. Foam shot everywhere.

  I grabbed a towel, cleaned the tap, and helped him connect a new keg.

  “Not bad. It hasn’t slowed down, though. I thought we might have a lull between lunch and dinner, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.” I wiped beer splatter from my dress. “I haven’t even had a chance to change.”

  “True. True.” Garrett tugged on his suspenders. “We didn’t follow through on our pact, and I’m dreading the thought of April venturing inside and seeing me still wearing lederhosen. I’ll never hear the end of it, and neither will you. Imagine being forced to dress like a nutcracker every day.”

  “Ah!” I pretended to gag.

  Garrett brushed a strand of hair from his face. “There is good news, though. Our till is overflowing, metaphorically speaking,” he said, nodding to the iPad mounted on the end of the bar. We used a point-of-purchase system. Rarely did we get cash. The vast majority of our clientele paid with credit cards or their phones.

  “I just hope we don’t blow another keg.” He finished connecting the hose and tested the tap.

  “Don’t quote me on this, but I think we may get some relief during the dinner hour. That’s when the headliners start at the Festhalle. People tend to wander over that way for dinner and music.”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that would be good.” Garrett topped off the frothy pint. “Not that I don’t want to sell beer, but I want to have some left for tomorrow. If we keep pouring at this rate, we’ll be dry, and our next batch won’t be ready for a week. Do I sound like I’m starting to panic?”

  I chuckled. “Not at all. You sound like every brewer I know.”

  One of the biggest challenges for small operations like Nitro was supply versus demand. Our ten-barrel system limited the amount we could brew at any one time. Ten barrels translated into twenty kegs, which might sound like ample beer, but in comparison with a brewery of Der Keller’s scale, it was nothing. Der Keller brewed on a behemoth fully automated brewing system, giving them the ability to have close to a dozen unique beers on tap at all times. I would often share stats on brew production with guests during tours of the nanobrewery, and watch jaws drop when I explained that the big guys, the national chain breweries (that produced that watered-down, flavorless beer found at grocery stores) had two-million-barrel setups.

  For Nitro, our small-scale brewing meant that for busy weekends like Maifest we had to plan well in advance and hope that we had produced enough.

  Garrett got pulled into a conversation. I went to check on the tables on the patio. The late afternoon sun beat down on the colorful umbrellas. Everyone’s cheeks were red and rosy, either from the beer, the sun, or both. I drank in the smell of the flower bouquets placed at each table and the hearty scent of grilling meats and veggies wafting from Front Street Park. The entire village was alive and buzzing. A group of retirees in matching green and orange costumes pranced past the patio doing high-kicks and belting out German soccer chants. I could hear the sound of the chainsaw carvers competing near the gazebo. I made a mental note to go check out their finished artwork later.

  I picked up used glasses and took orders for refills. As I was about to return inside, someone tapped my arm. I nearly dropped the tray I was balancing.

  It was Marianne. She had changed into a long, flowing peasant skirt and a silk tank top with a thin yellow wrap. Her look was completely the opposite from the dark spy-like trench coat she’d worn earlier. “Sloan, how are you? Have you seen anyone?” She craned her neck toward the sidewalk, where a family walked past noshing on chocolate-filled pretzels and drippy ice-cream cones.

  “I’m fine, and no, everything’s cool. Just the Maifest rush.” I looked up to see John keeping a close watch on Marianne. Did he know something I didn’t?

  She had planted herself in a chair propped next to the short four-foot fence that housed in the patio.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “I suppose I could try a beer.” She had taken our paper menu and rolled it up into a long tube.

  “Do you have a style you prefer?”

  “No, bring me your favorite.”

  That was a sentiment that newcomers often repeated. Picking a favorite beer would be like picking a favorite child—every beer we had on tap was a labor of love—but I didn’t have time to give Marianne my normal speech on the topic.

  Instead, I took the dishes inside, poured four pints, and returned outside. After dropping off the other orders, I handed Marianne a glass of our hibiscus rose spring ale. It was a light floral beer with low IBUs (International Bittering Units). For non-beer-drinkers it was a great starting point, without being heavy in hops or malty.

  “Here you go. It’s a spring favorite.”

  Marianne stared at the glass. “It’s almost a rose color.”

  “That’s what we were going for. We brewed it with rose hips.”

  “I like it,” she said after taking a sip. “It’s almost too pretty to drink. You have a talent, Sloan. You get that from your mom. Did you know that Claire used to make wine? She was one of the first women in the area to dive into the craft of wine making. I loved watching her take on the good old boys of the industry. It was just a hobby for her, but she crushed the men. I loved watching them squirm when she showed up with a few cases of her artisan wines at local farmers markets and sold out in minutes. She could have made it a career.”

  I wanted to scream. Until a few hours ago, I didn’t even know her name. To Marianne, I shook my head. “No. I don’t know anything about her.”

  Marianne attempted to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “There’s so much I want you to know about Claire. She was ahead of her time, like you. She was blending different varietals of grapes long before the Yakima Valley was on the map as the West Coast’s premier wine destination, and she was the only woman for miles around. She’d show up at competitions with a few cases of wine in her trunk and absolutely destroy winemakers who had inherited family acreage and had been producing grapes for decades. It was something to watch. She had so much spunk.” Marianne trailed off.

  Did that mean that she’d lived in Yakima? Did that mean that I had grown up in Yakima before being placed in foster care?

  I wanted to ask Marianne so many more questions, but this wasn’t the time or place.

  “You’re busy. I won’t keep you. I’ll wait out here until you have a break, okay?”

  “Feel free.”

  Was she staying so she could watch me?

  Probably.

  I wished I could get a better read on her. I wanted to believe her, but she seemed unreliable. If only I could find time to talk to the chief. I wanted to know what, if anything, she’d been able to glean from Marianne.

  As expected, the rush finally died down a little after six, as tourists slowly made their way to the Festhalle for the evening’s entertainment lineup. That didn’t mean that Nitro was deserted, but it did mean that there wasn’t a huge line waiting for beers and snacks.

  “That was fun,” Kat commented, filling bowls with Doritos and mixed nuts. She was still wearing the dress I had given her. “We haven’t been that busy since Oktoberfest. The back patio has been a hit. We should definitely set it up for every festival. Maybe we could even squeeze a small band back there. People love the enclosed alleyway vibe, and it’s shady.”

  “Glad it’s going well,” I commented, glancing around the tasting room. “Do you need a break? There’s finally a lull.”

  “Nope. I’m in my element. It’s so fun to get to be this busy.”

  Garrett overheard our conversation. “Sloan, you should take a break. There’s a woman who’s been sitting on the patio for the last two hours. Every time I’ve asked her if she needs a refill, she says she’s waiting for you.”

  He didn’t say more, but I could tell from the winkles in
his forehead that he had questions about Marianne.

  “I’ll go check on her.” I left before either of them had a chance to respond. But first I went to the small private bathroom attached to the brewery to change out of my Bavarian dress into my shorts and T-shirt. I splashed cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror in hopes it would provide some clue to my ancestry. Again, I wished I could talk to Sally. Was there really any danger in calling her? I could use her grounding wisdom now.

  On a whim, I went into the office and placed a call. Sally didn’t answer, so I left her a lengthy voicemail giving her the highlights. I knew she would get back to me soon.

  I felt better knowing that Sally was in the loop. With that off my mind, I folded my dress and knee-high socks and went outside. Marianne was in the same spot I’d left her. Her beer was empty, but her eyes were sharp and focused. She scanned every group that passed by on the sidewalk—kids holding giant flower balloons on silky ribbons and college students in fraternity and sorority lettered T-shirts heading to the Underground, a basement bar across the street from Nitro.

  A bachelorette party had taken over most of the patio. The bride-to-be wore a sash and plastic crown over a black tank top with gold lettering that read DRUNK IN LOVE. Her bridesmaids wore matching tank tops with the words JUST DRUNK written across the front. Wedding season in Leavenworth brought continual bachelor and bachelorette parties into the village. Brides and their crews tended to opt for wine tasting tours and spa days, whereas the groom and his mates went white-water rafting and golfing. We had created special beer tastings and brewery tours for wedding parties, which was a lucrative business from now through late October. “How did you like the beer?” I asked, pulling a chair next to her.

  Marianne held up her empty glass. “The beer was wonderful. Like I mentioned, I don’t consider myself a beer fan, but I think you’ve converted me. It was a pleasure to drink, and it brought up so many memories of your mom. She would be so proud of you.” Her voice broke.

  I sat down, not sure how to reply without breaking down myself.

  “Sloan, I’m sorry.” She sighed and bowed her head. “I never intended to involve you like this. I was planning to reach out to you. Honestly, I was, but then I learned that Forest was closing in, and I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do. After so many, many years of trying to protect you and keep you safe, I couldn’t let him get to you first. I know this is a terrible time. I see how busy you are. I see how happy you are. I can’t believe what a life you’ve made for yourself here, and now because of me, that’s in danger.” There was a softness about her that was different from last night, and not just because of her bohemian outfit, which looked especially out of place against the sea of colorful dirndls and barmaid dresses.

  “Marianne, are you sure this threat is real?” I rubbed my forearm. “Is there any chance that you may be blowing things out of proportion?”

  “I can see in your face that’s what you think of me. You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” She gave her head a soft shake. She was much quieter and less animated than she had been earlier.

  “I wouldn’t use those exact words, no.”

  “You don’t need to. It’s obvious. That’s why this is so hard. I wouldn’t believe me either. I would look at me and think, ‘She’s some nut job.’” She ran her index finger along her bottom lip. “That’s why I’m saying this isn’t how I intended our first meeting to go. I had planned to have documentation for you. I know he took it. It was in my hotel room. I was so careful. You have to believe me. Everything was in the files. If you had seen them, you would be terrified, too. It’s my word against an unknown threat, but, Sloan, I promise I have your best interest at heart. I always have. I always will. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but somehow I’m going to earn your trust.”

  “What did Chief Meyers say?” I wished I could believe her. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to sit outside with her for hours and hear every story she had to tell me about Claire and my early childhood, but I couldn’t let myself go there.

  “Nothing. They’re checking the room for fingerprints and any other evidence the killer might have left behind. They won’t find anything. I already told her. Forest is a professional. He’s not going to leave a single strand of hair behind or let any of the people he hires to do his dirty work do the same. I guarantee the room will be spotless. It’s probably cleaner than when I checked in. That should be her red flag.”

  “Chief Meyers is a professional. She’ll do her due diligence.”

  “It won’t matter. She’s a small-town cop, and it’s too late anyway. He’s here. I can feel it.” She looked around us as if expecting to see Forest jump out from behind a group on their way to the Festhalle.

  “I spoke with Vienna, one of the young housekeepers, earlier, and it sounds like there are some other issues at the hotel.” I kept my tone measured and steady. “Do you think there’s a chance that Sara’s death has nothing to do with Forest? I think there’s a strong possibility that she could have had issues at work that led to her murder.”

  Marianne clenched her jaw. “I understand why you want to think that. I would, too. It’s easier to live in denial versus fear, but I can’t stress enough that Forest is dangerous.”

  “I don’t doubt that. I can tell that you’re scared, and I’m taking your warning to heart. Chief Meyers has me being watched around the clock right now. What I’m talking about, though, are the odds that Sara’s death has any connection to Forest. It seems much more likely that the two are unrelated.”

  The bachelorette party cheered as Jack delivered a round of drinks to their table.

  “You’re not going to believe me, are you, Sloan?” She sounded broken, as if I had wounded her.

  “Marianne, you said it yourself. You can’t expect that after over forty years I’m going to implicitly trust everything you say. I’m following your instructions. I’m limiting my contact with my family. I’m keeping both eyes open. It’s not as if I have plans to take any major risks. I’m not going to jump up on the gazebo stage and announce that I’m here, but if Forest really wants to find me and he’s as dangerous and connected as you say he is, what can I do?”

  “Leave.” Marianne pursed her lips together so tightly that they formed a single narrow line. “You can leave the village now. It’s not too late to enter witness protection. I can take you to Seattle tonight. The next train leaves in an hour. I already bought us two tickets.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve thought through every option, Sloan, and the only choice you have is to run.”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  “WHAT?” I STARED AT her as if she was speaking a foreign language. “Run? You want me to run? Leave behind Alex? The Krauses? Garrett, Nitro, everything? No way. Not a chance.”

  “If you stay, you’re putting all of them—everyone you know and love—at risk.” She placed her hands on the table, formed a steeple with her fingers, and held my gaze.

  “I’ll take that chance. I spent my entire childhood moving. Do you know what it’s like to never have a sense of permanence? I’m not doing that again, and I’m not abandoning Alex.”

  “We could take him with us,” she suggested.

  “And force him to leave his father, grandparents, uncle, friends, everything he knows and loves? Absolutely not. I won’t do that to him.” I shook my head so hard it hurt.

  She folded her hands in her lap. “I was worried this would be how you would react.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone else reacting differently.”

  “No.” She sighed. “You’re right. It’s probably in my head. Maybe I’ve let my paranoia get out of hand. I think I’ll go back to the hotel and try to rest.”

  I was surprised by her 180-degree shift, but I didn’t disagree. “That’s a good idea.”

  She stood. “If you change your mind in the next hour, come find me. The tickets are booked. We simply need to get ourselves to the train stati
on.”

  “I’m not changing my mind.” I shook my head with force again.

  For a minute I thought she was going to try and convince me again. Her facial features sagged as she stood up. “Thank you again for the beer. It was lovely.” With that, she turned and walked away.

  I stayed at the table. I needed a second to collect my thoughts before I went back inside. The more time I spent with Marianne, the more I was beginning to wonder if I was in any serious danger. Her personality had completely shifted. Within the same breath, she had gone from insisting that we run away to dropping the whole idea. How stable could she be? Was Forest even real? I needed to face the fact that I knew little to nothing about her. For all I knew, could she be trying to kill me. Then again, why? She’d had plenty of opportunities and had yet to harm me. Nothing made sense. If only she had tangible proof. Maybe then the rational side of my brain could believe her outlandish story.

  I tried to force the fuzzy memories of my early years to the forefront without luck. The few memories I had prior to my years in the foster care system were like wispy clouds floating across the sky. A woman pushing me in a swing, the scent of jasmine perfume, a hand clutching mine outside Sally’s office the day I was placed in care. I had no memory of my mother or of her death.

  Could Marianne be making that up, too?

  A new thought began to take shape. What if she was actually my birth mother? Maybe the guilt of giving me up had overwhelmed her. The story of Forest and my mother’s murder could be a coping mechanism. A way for her to try and rationalize abandoning me. If I thought about it, it made more sense than a crazed killer stalking me decades later.

  I was slowly becoming resigned to the possibility that Marianne was not only my mother, but also not in control of her mental capacity.

  What did that mean for me? For Alex?