“Where are the people?” I asked and nodded toward the wall.
The owner, who I assumed was the son of the Mr. Mossie after which the business was named, looked from Jake to me. He wore a red plaid shirt, trying, I thought, for the look of a sportsman, but his tiny black eyes set close together yelled predator to me. I wasn’t crazy about either his dress or his love of tobacco.
“What?” He looked puzzled for a moment. Then he realized I was referring to the mounted kills. “Sportsman don’t shoot people. We’re very well trained in hunting safety.”
“Right,” I said, but I thought back to all those falls when hunters had better luck taking down their buddies than they did an eight-point buck. Jake turned his head and looked at me. His eyes said he had second thoughts about bringing me along on this run.
Jake introduced himself to the owner, whose name was indeed Mossie. The two men shook hands. The owner nodded at me. I pretended to take up a conversation with the bear. The owner cleared his throat and addressed Jake. “Dad kept good records, just didn’t have a filing system that made much sense. Took me a lot of time, but business is slow this time of year. I found it. Here you go.”
Jake looked at the transaction slip. His face revealed nothing of what he found there. “Take a look.” He handed the paper to me.
From what Jake had said, I expected not to see my father’s name there, and I didn’t. I wasn’t shocked to read the last name of Ramford on the signature line, but the first name surprised me. Not Michael Jr. or Sr., but another Ramford. Claudia.
“Claudia’s pistol killed my father? I can’t believe she would buy a gun. How did Dad get it?”
“What you can believe is I’ll ask her about this.”
Jake thanked the owner, and I gave the wall mountings and the bear a final glance of compassion as we left.
Neither of us spoke on the way back down the mountain. Finally, I repeated my question. “How did Dad get this gun?” I was half afraid to hear what he had to say, refusing to turn back to momentary suspicions I had buried along with my father.
“Your father never held that gun to his head, Hera. You must know that. We’re talking about murder here.”
“You’re wrong. Dad took his own life because of how badly the brewery was doing. I was so grief stricken at his death, the gun issue didn’t seem important, especially since others saw him with one.” I dropped my head into my hands and ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. This was what I had believed for over five years. I needed it to be true.
Jake seemed to recognize a battle was going on inside me, and he said nothing as we pulled into town and he parked next to my truck.
“Whatever took you down this line of inquiry?” I asked.
“I always wondered about it. You talked about your father so often, I felt I knew him. It seemed impossible such a man would take his own life. I imagined him as the kind of person who would tough it out, find the money somewhere to make the brewery work. Suicide didn’t fit him.”
Jake’s words made me want to grab him and shake him. “Why didn’t you get in touch with me then? Instead, there was only silence from you. I needed you then.”
“You had Michael. You told me about him, too. Remember? I had my own demons to defeat.”
“You think someone killed Dad.” It sounded so cold, so impossible to believe, yet now I wanted to know what Jake was thinking.
“Yes.”
“You also believe there’s a link between Ramford’s murder and Dad’s … death?”
He nodded. “Hera.” He reached out to take my hand lying on the seat between us. I lifted it as if to ward off his touch, his presence, his intrusion into a life I had put together. Imperfect though it now was, it was all I had.
“This doesn’t make sense. My father and Mr. Ramford were friendly business competitors, and they also were friends. Why would Mr. Ramford do such a thing? I can’t believe it.”
Or could I?
Something pricked my memory. In a phone call from Michael several weeks before Dad’s death, he had mentioned Dad canceling a golf date with Rafe, Michael, and his father.
“Your dad said he wouldn’t be joining us for golf anymore. He sounded unhappy, depressed, maybe sad. I asked Dad if he knew what was going on, and he said to leave it alone.”
Two weeks later, the cleaning woman found my father in his recliner with a bullet hole through his head. I thought he was depressed about business, but something was going on in Dad’s life I knew nothing about. Whatever it was, it now looked as if it led to his murder.
I directed my attention back to the gun.
“There are other possibilities, you know.” I wanted to bite my tongue the moment the words came out of my mouth.
“Like?” asked Jake. I knew he had already considered these and was letting me work out the names on my own. And say them out loud.
“All right, then. Others had access to the pistol, depending on where it was kept. Employees, maybe even friends, and anyone in the Ramford household could have used it on my father. Maybe even Claudia.”
Surely not Claudia.
I thought back to the day after her husband had been found dead and the vacant, out-of-reality expression on her face. I dismissed her as a killer. “Claudia’s too fragile for anything other than hostessing the best parties in this valley and stitching her quilts. But …” Another possibility came to mind, but I rejected it. Let Jake say it, not me.
“Michael,” he said, not taking his eyes off me.
“Michael? Michael would never …”
“When I interviewed Michael about his father’s death and asked him about your Dad, I got the feeling he didn’t like either of the men much.” Jake shifted around in his seat so that he was facing me. “Why didn’t he like your father, Hera?”
“No. No. He liked Dad, but they had some problems because of Ronald, that’s all.” Before I could explain about Ronald, Jake interrupted me.
“I know who Ronald is. He was Ramford’s youngest son. He left here over fifteen years ago. I believe he was somewhat of a pyromaniac, liked to set fires. His last fire was the old hop house to the north of your property. Now, what’s this about Michael, and how is it linked to Ronald?”
“It’s not as if Michael hated Dad. He thought Dad interfered too much between Ronald and his father. One night when Dad had a meeting over at Ramford’s, he drove up to find Ronald locked out of the house, sitting on the front steps in the freezing rain. Ramford was punishing him for some misbehavior. Dad took him home. Mom warmed him up in a tub of hot water and tucked him into the bed in the spare bedroom.” Jake interrupted my story.
“What was Claudia’s role in all of this?”
“I never knew. I think she was terrified of her husband and didn’t have the courage to stand up to him.” I thought about what I had said for a moment. “No, that’s not right. It was more like she couldn’t connect with what was going on. Claudia’s always been a little out of it.” But that wasn’t it either, so I finished by saying, “She was odd, I thought.” I rolled down the window of the SUV and leaned my head out as if fresh air could change the past.
“I know Mr. Ramford and Dad had words over the incident, and Michael told Dad he should stay out of their business, but I know he never would hurt anyone.” Not physically hurt anyone, anyway, but thinking of Sally, I knew how thoughtless he could be emotionally without meaning to, of course.
“Don’t you ever wonder what happened to Ronald?” asked Jake. “I do, and I’m making it my job to find out.”
“None of this makes any sense.” I grabbed the door handle and got out. Jake suspected everyone, all the people I’d grown up with and loved. I wouldn’t listen to any more of his cop talk.
I walked around to his side of the vehicle to tell him to stop what he was doing. “What role can Ronald have in any of this? He’s been gone for a long time, and I hope he has a better life than he had here. Why stir up things that aren’t important?” I asked.
“I won’t be the only one stirring things up. I’m sure the issue of inheritance and the will have already fanned fires of discord in the Ramford household.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“If Ronald is still alive, don’t you think Claudia’s lawyer wants to find out where he is? Regardless of what’s in the will, Ronald is still Ramford’s son. If the old man left nothing to him, he could, and probably should, make a fuss and file suit. You had enough years of law school to know that.”
Jake stared out the front windshield, and I could almost hear the click of puzzle pieces as he tried to fit them into a whole. “There’s something about that family, secrets people are keeping,” he said.
Secrets.
Yes, there were secrets being kept and not only by members of the Ramford family. I ducked my head so Jake couldn’t read my face.
“I’ve got to talk to Michael.” I walked around my truck and got in.
*
Is there something you haven’t told me about my father’s death,
I wanted to ask Michael.
Do you know more than you said?
But I didn’t get the opportunity to speak with Michael for several days. The state of my business took all my attention. I had introduced a brew last summer which I called Knightsbridge Ginseng Rush, a light, sunlit lager to which I added ginseng and elderberry. It flew out the doors during the beer tours and tastings I held at the brewery each Saturday during the summer months and into the early fall.
My plan was to continue this brew and add another summer beer, Hera’s Honey. Its deep golden color and toffee-ish flavoring came from the use of Vienna malt with some Pilsner malt blended into it. Then cardamom and, of course, honey. The use of a number of different high quality malts meant a lager that would cost me more to produce, but I didn’t care. I was excited at the prospect of making another beer with my unique signature on it.
I stood in my brew barn and looked at my wort kettles and the mash lauter tun. The vessels were solid copper and old. It took my hired hand Jeremiah and me most of a day to scrub them clean. I yearned for stainless steel wrapped in copper. Windex on the outside surface, chemical cleaning and a good hosing down of the inside, and they were ready for another batch of brew. I also longed for bigger kettles, so I could increase production, and steam coils rather than gas-fired ones, but that meant money, a lot of money.
Then there were ales. Change my yeast, and I knew I could produce distinctive ales—dark, hoppy, and bitter brews with the flavors of chocolate and cinnamon. A drink for a cold winter night in front of the fire or with dessert after comfort food like prime rib and roasted potatoes.
I walked back into my office. Well, I certainly had the ideas. What I didn’t have was the capital. In the old days I would have talked over my ideas with Michael before I ever approached my other brewing colleagues. Now, I hesitated. I looked at the number of chewed pencils on my desk.
Don’t be silly,
I told myself.
Call him. We were friends, right?
“It’s Hera. Can I drop by for a few minutes? I have some things I’d like to run by you.” He sounded happy to hear from me, like the old Michael.
But when I entered his office, Stanley was there and settled in for a conversation. I thought Michael would get rid of him, but he signaled Stanley to keep his seat.
Stanley and I shook hands and eyed one another. From the look on his face, I would say this was not going to be a meeting of congenial business competitors. Nope. This was cut-throat stuff.
“Michael tells me you have some ideas you’d like to kick around?”
I felt trapped. I had called Michael. Now, I found I had little I wanted to say, but if I said nothing, I’d look like a fool. Oh, what the hell. Maybe I was misjudging Stanley’s feral grin. Maybe he was a sweet puddy tat.
“I was going over the figures for my Knightsbridge Ginseng Rush. They look good.”
“Yes, I imagine they do,” said Stanley. “You were right on the money. People like to drink beer, and they think about health issues. So why not give them a great-tasting brew and one good for them? And that’s what you did.”
Everyone smiled.
This isn’t so bad,
I thought. I plunged ahead.
“I thought I should increase production this year.”
“Oh, definitely. I would,” said Stanley.
“And add another health brew.” Both of the men leaned forward in their chairs, their eyes on mine.
“What would that be?” asked Stanley.
I knew, but something kept me from saying. “Oh, I haven’t decided yet. I’m working on it and an ale.”
“You’ll have to buy additional equipment,” Stanley said. Michael seemed less interested in the conversation now. His eyes wandered away from Stanley and me as he gazed out the window and stifled a yawn.
“Oh, I know,” I said.
“And money?”
“There’s the problem. I don’t have any. Yet. I’m going to the bank for a loan.”
“Banks around here are funny about loaning money to breweries. Too much competition.” Again, it was Stanley who spoke.
“Why would they think that? Each brewery has an individual niche here. Teddy’s sportsman’s brews, Rafe’s ales, my health lagers, and you, well, I’m certain your expansion will produce some unique brews also. We all have different products. The beer-drinking public, at least those who go for microbrews, like to drink a number of different beers. We meet that demand.”
“You know how conservative banks are.”
“I know, Stanley, but this bank has loaned me money for the brewery before. I have a good record with them.” I was feeling attacked by him, and I hoped it didn’t register as defensiveness in my tone of voice.
“Well, Michael knows the members of the bank board pretty well. They’re friends of yours. Right? You tell her. Has she a chance in hell of getting a loan?”
Michael turned his eyes away from the window and back onto me, but he looked uncomfortable at being called upon to speak.
“I can’t say whether or not the bank will go for it, but I’ll put in a good word.”
“Maybe we can help her out,” Stanley said.
“How?” I asked.
“We might loan you the sum of money you require to buy your equipment.”
“At what rate of interest?”