Murder Brewed At Home (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 3)

MURDER BREWED AT HOME

Microbrewery Mysteries, Book 3

Belle Knudson

Copyright © 2015

All Rights Reserved
. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

EPILOGUE

              I needed some serious R&R after the whole Eli Campbell affair. In case you aren’t familiar, that was the little scenario where I pretty much singlehandedly pieced together and solved a fairly nasty little murder involving...well, I probably shouldn’t spoil it here. After all, I might want to write it down one day.

              At any rate, I can tell you that I had spent much of that whole investigation away from my duties as CEO of Darby's Microbrewery of Carl's Cove. I decided to take the weekend to figure out where my priorities lay. I still loved the brew biz, yes, but I also loved my brief flirtation with a private investigation practice on the side. Thing is, I knew I couldn't really do both. Or could I?

              That's what this weekend was for, to try and answer that question.

              So, I thought, what better way to test my love of the beer industry than by throwing a tasting party with some friends. Ok, they weren't exactly friends. They were more like fellow Carl’s Cove business owners. Yes, this was going to be a little bit of a schmooze event. But I didn’t mind that. We were going to have fun. Plus, if it helped to solidify my ties with the other business owners in the community, and if it turned out that such solidifying was grounding in some way, then wasn't it all the better? I looked forward to a speedy return to reality – one in which there were no murders to solve, no sordid business, and no bodies turning up in the alley.

              Silly me for thinking that.

#

              Candace Young was the generous soul who offered up her summer house as the locale for our little Saturday night soiree. She was the 'C' in our little group. There was Amanda, Bernadette, and Candace. ABC…and Madison. One of them suggested I use my last name to form the 'D' in the quartet. I politely declined. I've always marched to the beat of my own drum and I wasn't going to stop now.

              Candace's summer house was a lovely two-story cabin built near the water. She had a guy maintain it during the off-season. She worked for the town of Westbury as secretary to the councilman's office. Her husband, Kyle, worked as an accountant for a very successful corporation in New York City. Though each spent the majority of their respective days in vastly different locales, both their faces radiated success and fast-paced city life. And though they were both pushing toward forty, they were young and energetic, full of spirit and cosmopolitan sensibility.

              Amanda and Bernadette, on the other hand, were of the same age as the Youngs but formed a startling contrast to the couple. Both single, the women seemed always to be bitter about something mutually observed but never discussed. It was as if they'd both witnessed something terrible a long time ago and swore an oath never to mention it to anyone ever. Don’t get me wrong, they were pleasant enough, and I liked them. But there was something off kilter about them in the way they looked at you slightly askance, sizing you up, filing away neat little observations about your appearance or your demeanor. It made me a little uncomfortable at first, until I realized it was just their way. They were very close, almost like sisters. They'd met late in life, one having opened a boutique store next to the other, a year after the other, in friendly competition.

              I arrived to find out I'd be sharing a bathroom.

              Now, in case you don’t know me, let me tell you something about myself. Madison Darby likes her space. Particularly when it comes to the distribution of personal germs. I've been called a germaphobe, a nut, a neat freak, but I don’t care. I'm a brewer, and brewers have to be clean. There are lots of little nasties just waiting to dive into unfermented beer and pollute the stuff beyond recognition. You only have to have one batch that tastes like it was filtered through a dirty sock to realize what airborne bacteria can do to good beer.

              But I digress.

              The point is: I don’t like other people's germs. I don’t even like my own.

             
One night
, I told myself.
Just one night
.

              The damper, as it were, was put on it early on, however, when just as I was leaving my own home with an over-packed overnight bag, the clouds split open and let loose a biblical storm. The rain slapped the streets as if it hated them. I stood there on my porch, cursing myself for not having checked the forecast before I left. Last I'd heard, they said "a chance of rain.” They said nothing about building an ark. But I should have known. Carl's Cove, as you know, is buttressed by two bodies of water: the Atlantic Ocean to the south, and Carl's Cove Bay to the north. These tend to mess with weather patterns to the point where I would not be surprised if local weathermen picked random forecasts out of hat or closed their eyes and threw darts at pictures of blue skies, clouds, snow, and typhoons.

              "Now or never," I said to myself, and hightailed it to my car, getting soaked by that street-hating rain. Soaked! That's a good word for it.

              A matzo ball sitting in soup for three hours is merely soaked. A sponge thrown into the Sargasso Sea and left there for a year emerges to the liberally applied adjective "soaked.” Me? By the time I reached my vehicle, I had changed completely into liquid form. I swear it.

              And to think, from here I was going to spend the night in a place where I'd have to share a bathroom. Joy of joys.

              All reservations, however, were dashed to the rocks the minute I was received by the smiling face of Candace Young, and two minutes later by Kyle Young, who showed me to my room.

              And what a room. This house was built to receive guests, to be sure. The whole place smelled of freshly cut wood. It came off the walls like perfume. My bed was quaint, almost like something you'd see in a New England bed and breakfast, with pillows crammed to the bursting point with feathers, and the soft glow of a small night table lamp giving the room a comforting warmth that you just wanted to sink into. Passing by the rooms of my weekend housemates, I noticed that theirs were similarly furnished. The Youngs were, if nothing else, equal opportunity hosts.

              Well, Candace was the host. Kyle was, well…Kyle was Kyle.

              I don’t know if you've ever seen a smile disappear the way one did off Kyle's face. There's an old saying that we smile with our eyes. That's how you can tell if a smile is genuine. Kyle didn’t smile with his eyes, and his perfunctory mouth smile fled his face the minute his wife was out of his sight, as if it would rather be with her than with him.

              I'd only known this couple for a few months, and what I knew about them could barely fill a matchbook. I did know that they were married at least ten years, that they had been high school sweethearts, and that it was rare for the couple to be seen together. Because of their jobs, they were apart more often than not. When they were together, they were pleasant enough, except for Kyle and his weak smile. I kind of felt bad for him. He really didn’t seem like he was genuinely happy.

              I don’t remember him ever looking me in the eye once when he spoke, for instance. Major red flag there. On the rare occasions that I did see him with Candace, he was sullen, and he had a subtle contradictory way about him – like if you said black, he's say white. That sort of thing. It gets on your nerves, until you realize what may be at the root of it. And what was at the root of it was that Kyle just wasn't leading the life he wanted to lead. That much was obvious.

              He left me to settle in and I did so, freshening up and enjoying what was to be my last session of solitary bathroom-usage.

              Then, after I'd shut off the water, as I was drying my face, I became aware of an argument in progress coming from below. The walls and floors in this house were incredibly thin, and I heard everything going on below with surprising clarity.

              It was Candace's voice I heard first. "Who? Whom? What difference does it make?"

              "It makes all the difference in the world," said her husband with subdued anger.

              "It's the way you do it," said Candace, "correcting me like a child."

              "It’s no crime to want to hear you speaking like an educated adult. Is that too much to ask?"

              "And I'll say it again," she said, her voice rising, "no one cares. You're the only one who cares about dangling participles and...hanging...pronouns, or whatever!"

              I decided out of pure self-interest that it might be wise to act as peacemaker, however indirectly. People tend to be on good behavior when they think they’re being observed. I made quite a racket jiggling the doorknob, which didn’t need to be jiggled, and opening the door, and then closing the door rather quickly and loudly. It worked. They shut up immediately. All that was left was the wake of hushed anti-climax that interrupted arguments tend to have. Last-minute volleys of accusation and defense delivered in rasps.

              I bounded down the stairs, proclaiming "What a gorgeous house, my goodness. I could live here all year. In fact, I might do so while the two of you are away. What do you think of that? You wouldn’t mind having a squatter while you're away, would you?"

              It was Candace now who sported the fake smile. Her husband had none at all.

              I'd been in less tense situations.

              When Amanda arrived next, with Bernadette following about five minutes later, things between the Youngs hadn't improved. Kyle was upstairs, locked in his personal office. "He has to do some last minute work from home," was the lame excuse we were given.

              The four of us ladies sat around in the Young's living room, a modestly, yet expertly decorated space of earth tones and warmth. Truth be told, the decorating scheme was probably more suited to autumn than early summer, but did I care? I still wanted to live here. I wasn't joking about that. 

              It was still relatively early. Candace had suggested going to the Dock Street Theater. They were having a classic film showcase this weekend. Might be perfect for a rainy evening. When we got back, we'd have cheese and beer – don’t knock it till you've tried it. Beer and cheese are a match made in Heaven. And although not one of us was keen on going back out in the rain again, we were all quite jazzed about seeing
Gone with the Wind
on the big screen – or actually, semi-big screen is more like it – the Dock Street Theater isn't exactly a multiplex.

              So we sat and talked about things that four suburban professionals talk about when they're together: The weather, Jamberry nails, politics, books, the best place to get a slice of pizza on Long Island, and so on.

              Somewhere in the midst of an engrossing topic concerning the prices of avocados at Whole Foods Market, Kyle Young came down dressed in a reflective parka, all set for a run.

              "You're going out in
this
?" I asked, unbelieving of my own eyes.

              "Every night, without fail," said his wife. I didn’t see her, but I could actually hear her eyes rolling when she said this.

              "Yes," said Kyle, "every night without fail. Call it medicine."

              "It's a religion," said Candace, "not an exercise regimen."

              "And some of us could benefit from it," said Kyle.

              "You can insult me all you want, I wouldn’t run in this."

              "You don’t run at all. All I'm saying is that you've, you know, put on a few pounds since we've been married."

              All that was missing was a giant clap of thunder at that point. The room fell completely silent. I think I can speak for everyone in that room that if Candace had given the signal, we all would have pounced on him. I looked over at Candace, who was looking down at her feet, her lips tightly pursed.

              I couldn’t help it. I had to say something.
Anything
. "Some of us are pleased with the way we look and don’t need validation from any source to feel better about ourselves."

              Kyle burned a look at me. "If one is happy being overweight, I'm sorry, but I can’t understand how that's possible."

              "She's not overweight," I said. And it was true.

              "Just drop it," said Candace, staring at me intently.

              "Why?" I said. "He said something ridiculous. Why should I drop it? Would he drop it if I said something ridiculous?"

              "You already did," said Kyle.

              "Oh, I'd love to hear this," I said. "Come on, out with it."

              "Ladies, gentleman," said Bernadette, "back to your cages. We're here to have a nice weekend, right?"

              "Exactly," said Kyle. "I'm about to have mine."

              With that, Kyle opened the door and jogged out into the storm.

              "Oh. My. God," said Amanda, who, up till now, had been frozen with her hand on her cheek the whole time.

              "He's a jerk sometimes when it comes to that stuff," said Candace.

              "Just that stuff?" I said.

              Candace shrugged. "It's only lately. He's very materialistic. This house, this is all him. I never wanted any lavish lifestyle. He seems to think that buying stuff and acquiring things is the path to true happiness. To Kyle, that's why you work, to buy nice things. You don’t do it because it fulfills you intellectually or emotionally."

              "I take it then," I said, still feeling the boldness I felt a moment ago, "that he disapproves of your work."

              She smiled weakly and nodded. "I'm a glorified secretary in an office running on money from the state. So yes, he looks down on that. I have no care for any of this." She held her hands up to the room. "I don’t need the nice watches and the fancy lifestyle. I need happiness. The true happiness that comes from within."

              We were silent after that. Candace seemed on the verge of tears.

              "Avocados are expensive everywhere you go these days," said Bernadette.

              That did it. We all burst out laughing.

              Except for Candace.

#

              Armed with four sturdy umbrellas, we decided to brave the weather and drive to the theater. The rain fell in thick sheets all around us. We didn’t care, or at least I didn’t. For the first time in weeks, I really felt like I could relax a little.

              We got into the car laughing like schoolgirls. The rain was still pouring down, but we were in no mood to go home yet. So we took a quick detour to grab a slice of pizza at Junior's where my cousin Tanya worked as a waitress. She was nice enough to wait on us without any of her usual snark about how because it was
me
she wasn't expecting any decent tip.

              When we got back to the house, there was a note on the dining room table.

             
Working upstairs. Please try to respectfully keep your voices down. And please don’t bother me.

              Candace huffed when she read it, then crumpled it up and threw it into the trash. "Fine," she said, "whatever. At least
he
won't bother
us
."

              "More beer for the girls," said Bernadette.

              Amanda replied with a hearty, "Hear, hear."

              I chose to remain silent this time. I felt like I hadn’t said enough, but I also felt there was nothing I could say that would help. Maybe more escape was what we all needed.

              I was soon to find out how dangerous escape can be, for it has the ability to blind you to what's really going on – and what can be stopped.

              Sorry to get all dramatic like that. I am a frustrated writer, after all. But hindsight is a funny thing. You look back and see all the signs that were so clear. I mean, the rain, the note, the fight, Candace's confession – I for one should have seen it coming.

              I'd started out with a flight of four pale yellow to amber ales. They paired well against the rich buttery flavor of the burrata I'd brought along. Whey Cool on Main Street was the provider of this wonderful fare. The owner, Daisy, was supposed to have joined us, but a last-minute emergency prevented her from doing so. We’d coordinated our pairings beforehand and they were a resounding success.

              I poured out our second flight – darker ales: a marzen, a porter, a Trappist ale, and an Imperial Stout. I was about to lay out a spread of aged Gouda and Époisses – two completely different cheeses with surprisingly complimentary flavors – when the noise made us all jump.

              It was a heavy thud right above us: exactly where Kyle's office was located.

              There was no mistaking it. This was the sound of a body hitting the floor – hard.

              The four of us looked at each other.

              Without a word between us, we rushed up the stairs.

              I don’t know how it happened, but I was up there before anyone else. The door to the office was shut.

              And locked.

              We knocked on the door and called his name. Then we pounded on it.

              "You don’t have a key?"

              "No," said Candace. "It's a privacy lock. It locks from the inside and only someone on the other side can unlock it. Kyle?" She called again, and again there was no answer from within.

              "Hold on," I said. "Let me grab my bag. I have a library card."

              "No need," said Bernadette, holding out her own version of the very item.

              I took the card and wedged it into the door by the knob. It was difficult, but I got it in after a moment. The latch slid back and the door opened.

              Kyle Young was on the floor, dead.

#

              The rest of the room was neatly organized: library shelves boasting an impressive assortment of reference books, an antique oak desk with a leather desk pad on top, a laptop, and assorted office ephemera. And the body, neatly crumpled up in front of the desk.

              One of the girls, either Amanda or Bernadette, consoled Candace and took her downstairs, while the other called 911.

              I bent down to observe, although there was no mistaking it: the man was dead.

              And wet.

              He'd come in from his run in the rain and had not bothered to change his clothes.

              Amanda appeared in the doorway with her cell phone. She was in the midst of speaking with 911.

              "Tell them it looks like a heart attack," I said.

#

              In the light of recent events, the Carl's Cove Police Department was forced to adopt Detective Lester Moore as their official homicide detective. He showed up, tall and handsome as always, his crystal blue eyes searching the room for clues while two officers assisted the medical examiner with the body.

              Lester himself had been examining the body carefully. Now he stood up, snapped off his blue nitrile gloves, took out a pocket-sized memo pad, and began jotting.

              "So," I said, "heart attack."

              "Sure seems like it," he said to his pad, "but I'm not a doctor."

              I had to remind myself that he could be awfully curt when working.

              "The scene is telling," I said.

              "Mm."

              A moment passed as I watched him scribbling furiously on the pad, and then he said, almost under his breath, "Leaky ceiling in here?"

              "What's that?"

              He finally looked up at me and pointed to the ceiling with his pencil. "The rafters up there. You see them? There's one spot up there, see that? About a five-inch spot on the wood that's all wet."

              "Oh, yeah," I said, pretending I'd noticed it. "Yeah, I was wondering about that."

              "What do you make of it?"

              "Not sure."

              "Yeah? Me neither."

              "The wet body has me concerned, though," I said.

              "It's pouring out there. Didn't you say before that he'd just come in from a run?"

              "Yes, and he'd been here for some time and didn’t bother to change his clothes. Don’t you think he'd change his clothes if he was going to be working?"

              "Maybe he wasn't feeling well. Maybe he was in and out of consciousness."

              "Listen," I said, glancing behind me to see if anyone was eavesdropping on our conversation, "can we talk about this downstairs?"

              "I'll be down in a minute."

#

              "Ok, door was locked from the inside. No means of getting into the room. Physically fit man has heart attack. That last bit doesn’t fit into the equation very well. I'm not a doctor, but I'm not ruling out suicide."

              "Suicide?" I said, disbelieving.

              "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

              "Lester, this guy was meticulous with a capital M. Everything about him screamed routine. His desk, the placement of stuff on the desk – everything was done neatly and in an organized manner. Doesn't it strike you as a bit odd that a guy who had everything prepared with such exactitude would have neglected to...well, dress for the occasion?"

              "What did you want him to wear? A black suit?"

              "No, and I'm not joking here. And besides, why is a guy who’s planning suicide taking a run for his health in the first place?"

              "Maybe he thought he'd think it over one last time."

              I let the words turn over in my head, and then said, "No. And I still think he would have changed his clothes."

              "That's your opinion. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll call you tomorrow morning?"

              "Stay here."