Murder By The Pint (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 1) (11 page)

              We sipped my father's prize-winning IPA from pint glasses that were clearer than conditioned air. I had even offered up a toast: "May you be a thousand years in heaven before the devil knows you're dead." No glasses clinked, no response of
salut
offered up by Bryce, nothing save for a perfunctory nod and a mere hint of the slightest movement of his glass toward my direction.

              I could tell just by the look on his face that this beer was everything he'd been craving with this meal. He let it sit on his tongue until it ignited his whole mouth, and then closed his eyes as he swallowed.

              "Good, huh?" I said.

              He uttered a flat-toned, "Mm."

              "It's a little bitter, but a good kind of bitter, right? I almost feel like this sort of IPA is my own discovery. I mean, this is my dad's recipe, but I kinda feel as though I'm the only one in the world who knows about it. If I happen to find someone else who enjoys it, say, a favorable review or a prize, I say 'whatever.' They don't appreciate it the way I do."

              I held my glass up. And in this light it seemed as though it'd caught a ghostly golden ray, which then shimmered off countless gold winks at us. He turned away from the vision. He looked embarrassed. But why? Because of me?

              He started to speak, growled it clear and started again. "You know, I used to watch my grandma cook. She had hands, they looked like they could fall off at any moment and shatter on the floor. Like those little German statues?"

              "Hummel figurines?"

              "Yeah. You got the same kinda hands going there. I used to watch her cook. She did everything without recipes. Anyway, I never saw her use one. I used ta stand on my toes to look into the pots of tomato sauce and watch as she added oregano by the handful. She'd sprinkle it in and her hand shook. Like this." He demonstrated. "Then she'd turn the flame down and we'd sit in the kitchen and drink tea and talk about stuff. And there was that shaky hand again, holding the tea bag over the cup – you know, holding it as steady as she could so she could dunk it in there – and the bag just swung back and forth and shook just like her shaky hands. One day my mom picked me up, and I waved goodbye to grandma, and she waved to me. And I waited till we got all the way down the road – she used ta stand at the door till we got so far away she was just a little gray dot in the doorway, and then I'd see the door close and the dot disappear – anyway, I waited till we were all the way down the road, it seemed like it took forever, and then it all came out. I bawled for about five or ten minutes. I don't know why. But it felt real good to do it. My mom didn't know what the hell was going on. She stopped the car and put a hand on my neck and asked me what the hell was the matter and I couldn't tell her. I know now, but I still don't know why, that it had something to do with those shaky hands of hers."

              He almost gasped, such was his shock at realizing he'd been going on like this.

              "You'll break that glass, Bryce."

              "What?"

              "You're clutching that glass awful tight."

              He loosened his grip. "I don't wanna talk no more, alright? And uh, if you're done with your dinner there, I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to tie you up again. In case...my wife comes back. I'm sorry."

              "I understand," I said.

              He paused with the rope before me. "Listen," he said, "I'll tie it real loose. I promise. This way maybe you can get some sleep or something. Hold on."

              He went over to the couch in my office and took a cushion off. "I'll put this behind you for your back? Okay?"

              "That'll do, Bryce."

              "Come on, you gotta understand."

              "I said I understand, Bryce."

              "Please don't say my name like that no more."

              "
Any
more. Sure thing. You just put that pillow behind me down far. That's the lumbar region. I need it there the most. And now I'm going to close my eyes and lick the IPA off my teeth and dream of horses."

              I shut my eyes as he bent down to shove the pillow behind my back. I had to lean forward, which meant that my left hand was near my handbag on the floor underneath my desk. I could actually dip it in, and I did so. And when Bryce stood up, I gave him a dose of pepper spray that probably made him wish he'd come here wearing a welder's mask. He collapsed onto the floor, moaning.

              With one hand still free, I untied myself and grabbed the gun.

              I called up Detective Lester Moore, who answered officiously.              

              "You sound like you're at work," I said.

              "Yeah, what is it?"

              "How's it going with that street sweeper murder?"

              "You were right," he said, and it felt great when he said it. "The guy was lying. He cracked under interrogation. He misreported the time of his truck sign-out. Turns out he's working for some guy called James. That's all we could get out of him. We might be able to get more but we'll have to bargain for it."

              "Interesting."

              There was a pause and Bryce let out a long, painful moan. "What's that noise?"

              "That's a guy by the name of Bryce Bosch. He's a minor player in all this. I just gave him a blast of pepper spray in his eyes. He's out of commission for the time being."

              "My God, Madison, are you ok?"

              "I'm fine. By the way, the James you're looking for is actually a guy by the name of Cornell Pitt. Look him up. And while you're at it, look for Hildy Ulfsson. My guess is that when you find Pitt, you'll find Hildy. Better yet, why don’t you get your pretty face down here? I have a feeling they'll all be showing up shortly."

              "Madison..."

              "I know," I said. "You have a lot of questions. Just get on down here. And bring guns."

              I kept the gun pointed at Bryce. It felt odd doing so. I'm not a violent person.

#

              So that was it. That's the story of how I solved my first murder. And all it took was a working knowledge about how beer is made.

              They got Hildy and Pitt, and they found Max Bosch, who was trying to flee to Mexico. He'd gotten scared when Pitt stopped in. And rightfully so. Pitt came with the intention of threatening him. And it turns out that Jack Daltry was Pitt's right hand man looking for the second shipment of diamonds that Max was supposed to leave out by the dumpster. The sweeper killed him. The sweeper was Pitt's cousin. Oh, and the Lola Tarkington lookalike? That was Pitt's niece, Karen Pitt-Fitchburg, an out-of-work actress and makeup artist specializing in facial mimicry. And I thought
I
was running a tight family business! Anyway, they worked this all out once they heard Dad was in the hospital. Hildy thought it would be a great time to move in on us, with everything in disarray.

              Guess she didn’t count on me.

              Dad would be proud. I can see him up there, holding up a pint of heaven's best stout, toasting his daughter. I hope it's good stuff. I'd hate the thought of Dad getting up on his soapbox and lecturing God about fermentation temperature and mash schedules and blah blah beery blah blah. So annoying. I don’t know how I lived with it for so long.

              What kills me is that I'm my father's daughter for sure.

              Heaven can wait, as they say. For now, the world better watch out for Madison Darby.

~~~

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