To Brew or Not to Brew (19 page)

A man in the front row turned around, his eyes widening when he saw us. He quickly whispered to the woman beside him, who did the same to the woman next to her. It made me think of the kids' game where the last person recites what they heard and it's different than what the first person said. In this case, the last person didn't recite anything—he turned around and stared.

“How rude,” Candy said, loud enough for the front-rowers to hear. The staring man faced front again.

Kristie shushed her. I wanted to melt into the floor. Mom squeezed my hand. “It'll be all right,” she said. “We have a right to be here. It's your neighborhood, too, and your brewery.”

I heard a distinct harrumph from someone up front. One of the women said, “Well, I never!”

“I'll bet you haven't,” Candy said.

I poked her with my elbow. “Stop that! We're here to find out what's going on, not to antagonize these people.”

“You're no fun at all.”

I turned around as the door closed behind us. A tiny woman with dove-gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses marched to the front of the room. Her height was well below my five foot two, and a strong wind would likely blow her away. Her light blue gauzy skirt was almost ankle length and she wore white anklets and purple sneakers. Her pale yellow oxford shirt didn't match either the skirt or the sneakers. Candy looked downright fashionable next to her.

She stepped onto a small stool at the podium. She took
a piece of paper from her skirt pocket, unfolded it, and spread it out in front of her. “Welcome to this very important meeting of Save Our Lawrenceville. I expected a much bigger turnout, but thank you all for coming.”

Considering her appearance, I expected her voice to be squeaky and strident, but it was smooth and strong.

“There is a blight on this community and we must put a stop to it.”

“Blight my patootie,” Candy whispered.

I jabbed her with my elbow again.

“Every day we are losing more of our heritage. As the saying goes, those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it. We can't let this happen.”

The front-rowers nodded in unison like bobbleheads.

“I need the support of each and every one of you. Call the mayor. Write letters to the editor. If we have to, we'll march up and down Butler Street with signs.”

Kristie leaned across Candy so I could hear, and whispered, “I'd kind of like to see that.”

Fran Donovan folded the paper and put it back in her pocket. “Does anyone have any questions?”

Candy's hand shot up.

Oh no.

Fran pointed at Candy. “You in the back row.”

Either Fran hadn't spotted me, like her cohorts had, or she had no idea who we were.

Candy stood. “How does restoring an old, abandoned building and returning it to its intended use destroy history? If you make it into a museum, you'd be doing the very thing you're spouting off about.”

Two people in the front row whispered to each other.

“Something doesn't need to be a museum to show history,” Candy continued. “There's no better way for people to get a glimpse of the brewing history of our city than seeing an actual working brewery.”

I sat up straighter. I couldn't have said it better myself.

Fran pursed her lips. “That's not the point.”

One of the whisperers in the front row said, “I think the cupcake lady made a good point. I hadn't thought of it that way. Maybe she's right.”

“Cupcake lady?” Fran said. Her gaze went back and forth across our row and finally rested on me. “You!” She hopped down from her step stool. “You're the one who stole my brewery!”

Candy looked ready for a fight. I stood and touched her arm. “I appreciate your support,” I said to her, “but I need to handle this.”

She took her seat again.

“I didn't steal your brewery. The Steel City Brewery has been gone a long time. I bought the only remaining building and restored it. Would you rather have it remain empty and abandoned?”

The front-rowers whispered among themselves.

“If your group really wants to save Lawrenceville and its history, you should be in favor of what I'm doing.”

“Get out.” Fran pointed to the door. “You're not welcome here.”

“I'd really like to stay and talk to you,” I said as calmly as I could. “I'd like to know more about you and your group.”

“If you're not leaving, then I am.” She marched to the door. “Meeting adjourned.”

“Ms. Donovan,” I said. “You don't have to leave.”

She did anyway, followed by her friends in the front row. The four of us looked at one another. Finally, Kristie said, “That went well, didn't it?”

*   *   *

W
e stopped for ice cream, then went our separate ways. On the way home, I remembered I'd left my sandals in my office. I could have waited until tomorrow to get them, but since I was passing the brew house anyway, I figured I might as well pick them up. I couldn't stop thinking about how Fran Donovan had acted when she discovered that I was present at her meeting. My grandma would have said she was one card shy of a full deck. I'd have to agree. There was no reason she couldn't have stayed and talked things over in a reasonable manner. At least the meeting had been sparsely attended. If the people in that front row were her only supporters, I didn't have anything to worry about.

I parked on the street in front of the pub and unlocked the door. Once inside, I disarmed the security system, then flicked on one of the wall sconces. As much as I loved the quiet of the place, the din of the crowds I hoped for would be even better. I couldn't believe anyone in her right mind would want this to be a museum. It was exactly what it was supposed to be. Candy was right. There was no better way to honor the brewers of the past.

I went back to my office to retrieve my purchase. While I was there, I checked my to-do list for tomorrow. Not quite as busy as today, so I'd probably have time to get another batch ready to brew. I left the office, and as I crossed the pub I spotted something on top of the bar. Funny. I didn't
remember seeing anything there when I came in, but the lights had been dim. I just hadn't noticed it, I guessed. I went closer. It was a paper lunch-sized bag with the top rolled down. I lifted it, unrolled the top, and peeked inside.

I dropped the bag, jumped back, and screamed.

There was a dead rat inside.

A
t least I hoped it was dead. I ran outside, fishing my cell phone from my purse as I went, and called 911. The dispatcher asked me to calm down three times before she understood what I said. I'm not sure she believed a dead rat was an emergency, but she promised to send a car right away. While I was talking, I scanned the street in search of whoever might have done this. The sidewalks were busy for a Thursday night. The bakery and coffee shop were closed, but Adam's stores were open, as well as the deli and the card shop. I didn't see anyone who looked like they'd just dropped a dead rat on my bar.

I opened my car door and sank down onto the passenger seat. I was sure that bag hadn't been on the bar when I'd first gone inside. Whoever had done this had come in while I was back in my office. The realization that I could have
ended up like Kurt and Dominic wasn't lost on me. That someone could get so close and I didn't even know they were there scared the crap out of me. I started shaking, and I was still shaking when the police arrived.

It was the same officer who'd responded the night the alarm had gone off, so he knew a little about what had been going on. When he told me to wait outside, I was perfectly happy to let him check the building alone.

It wasn't long before he came out carrying the paper bag. “It's all clear.” He reached into the bag and pulled the rat out.

I jumped back.

“It's all right,” he said. “It's not real. It's only rubber.”

I swallowed the screech I'd almost let loose.

He laughed. “Someone's idea of a practical joke, I guess.”

Some joke. It would take days for my heartbeat to return to normal. Rubber or not, it was disgusting. The fake rat was the kind you'd see in a Halloween display, complete with a knife sticking out of it and painted-on blood all in one piece.

“Wait. There's something else in here.” He lifted out a slip of paper. His smile disappeared as he read what was written on the paper. “This may not be just a joke.”

“What do you mean? Can I see it?”

I expected him to pass it to me, but instead he held it up so I could read it. A chill went down my spine. It definitely wasn't a joke. The note read,
This could have been you
.

*   *   *

I
t took a while before I stopped shaking enough to drive home after the officer took my information for the report. The rat had been bad enough, but the fact that the person
who'd killed Kurt and Dom had been that close to me really creeped me out. The note was right. It could have been me. I didn't understand why the killer had let me off with a warning. As frightened as I was, I knew I couldn't let my fear get the best of me. I pulled into my parking spot in the lot and turned off the ignition.

Maybe that was the point. Someone wanted me to be afraid. Scared enough to give up the brew house. It couldn't be a coincidence that this happened right after the meeting tonight. Fran Donovan had accused me of stealing the brewery from her. Storming out of her own meeting wasn't exactly normal behavior. A reasonable person would have stuck around to hear what I had to say. That's how these meetings are supposed to work. And judging by the sparse turnout, she didn't have a whole lot of support for her contention that what I was doing was a bad thing. Heck, Candy had almost convinced one of the guys in the front row that Fran was off base. Even so, Fran still had seemed convinced she was going to stop me—possibly by leaving that rat and the note for me to find. A Halloween prop didn't equate to murder, however. I thought about that. She was small, but that didn't mean she couldn't have killed two men, especially if she took them by surprise. I didn't quite buy that theory, but it was all I had at the moment.

I pulled my phone out of my purse and Googled her name to get her address. Her home was only a half mile away, on a side street off Penn Avenue. I started up the car again. Fran Donovan was going to have a surprise visitor of her own.

*   *   *

T
he narrow one-way street was difficult to navigate even by Pittsburgh standards. Some cars were parked with two wheels on the sidewalk, probably to avoid having their side mirrors sheared off. The vehicles with owners brave enough to park correctly were mostly overly large trucks and SUVs. It was almost like they were saying,
Go ahead and hit me. I'm bigger than you. See who comes out of this one unscathed.
I was able to maneuver around them, and I made it to the end of the block without doing damage to my car or anyone else's. I found a parking spot on nice, wide Penn Avenue instead, even though I had to walk a block.

The houses here weren't row houses, but they may as well have been, since they were built so close together. Only a few had front yards, but almost all were well kept. It wouldn't be a bad place to live unless you were claustrophobic. Fran Donovan's house was one of those with a yard, but instead of grass, she'd filled it with perennials. Nothing was in full bloom yet, but in another month it would be lovely. I hadn't envisioned her as a gardener. My first impression was of someone more at home in a dusty archive somewhere.

I went up the two steps to her small porch and rang the doorbell. For a split second I wondered if I was doing the right thing, but it was too late to turn back now. I waited and rang a second time.

“Hold your horses. I'm coming.” Seconds later she swung the door open. “You!”

“I know it's late, but I need to talk to you,” I said.

Fran was already dressed for bed, and she pulled the neck of her pink chenille robe closer together, then yanked on the
belt to make it tighter. “I have nothing to say to you. You have a lot of nerve invading my space like this.”

“Invading? Like how you invaded mine?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about. I want you to leave now or I'm calling the police.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why don't you do that. Maybe you can explain to them why you put that bag with a rubber rat in it on my bar.”

Fran had the door half closed but she stopped. “What?”

“You put a fake rat in a paper bag with a threatening note and left it on top of the bar in my brew house.” I enunciated each word slowly.

The little bit of color in her face drained away. “I did no such thing!”

“I don't believe you. It's too much of a coincidence that it happened right after that meeting—the one you left early because you were so upset to see me there. You waited until I unlocked the door and turned the alarm off, then snuck inside when you saw me go back to my office.”

“I would never do anything like that,” she said. “That's so . . . so . . .” Her voice faltered. “Mean.”

“Then talk to me. Please.”

She took a step back and I thought she was going to close the door, but instead she opened it all the way. “You're right. We need to talk. Come in.”

I hesitated a moment. Her shock at what I'd told her seemed genuine, but what if it wasn't? I couldn't very well back down now, though. Just in case, I lifted my phone from my purse and clutched it in my hand as I went inside.

The door opened directly into her living room, which
was bigger than I thought it would be considering how small the house looked from the outside. There were hardwood floors under a well-worn oriental rug. The furniture was similar to what I'd inherited from my grandmother, but unlike mine, hers actually looked like it belonged in the room. What really surprised me, though, were the items that filled display and bookcases plus the numerous photos on the walls. I felt like I'd just entered a museum, but not just any museum. This room showed the history of the former brewery that my building had once been part of.

One display case held beer bottles ranging from the 1800s all the way to the last ones produced by Steel City Brewing. Another case held cans, many of them decorated with Pirates and Steelers designs. There was assorted memorabilia in other cases. I turned to Fran. “This is fabulous.”

“Yes.”

She stepped aside when I moved to get a closer look at the photos on the walls. Every aspect of the brewing process was documented. There were photos of local celebrities of the past standing by stainless steel tanks. A few of the photos were autographed. Candy would be in seventh heaven if she saw the ones with her beloved Steel Curtain of the seventies Steelers, especially the one on which someone had written “DEFENSE!”

Much older photos were displayed on the next wall. These were all black-and-white. The first one dated to the beginning of Prohibition—kegs of beer were being busted open by feds with axes. The next ones showed ice cream, and I remembered reading that the brewery had survived through that era because of their versatility. They'd produced ice cream and soda pop instead of beer.

I turned around. “Where did you get all this?”

“My father.” She motioned to the sofa and I followed her lead and took a seat.

“This all belonged to your father?” I finally understood her attachment to the brewery and why she thought it should belong to her.

She nodded. “My father worked in the old brewery from the time he turned thirteen. He started just before Prohibition. It was the only place he ever worked, and it almost killed him when they made him retire. Anyway, he collected all these things over the years. Every time a new bottle design came in, he always saved one of the bottles. Some of the oldest ones he found at flea markets or estate sales.”

“What about the rest of it?”

“The same thing. Anytime there was an article in the paper, he'd cut it out and save it. And the photos—he was a bit of an amateur photographer. Whenever there was any kind of event, he made sure to capture it. He became the company's photographer. Unofficially, of course.”

“What did your father do at the brewery?” I asked.

“Anything and everything. He was just a boy when he started, so at first he mostly ran errands. He did whatever was needed. Eventually he became a brewer.”

“Like me.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” Fran said. “My father would never have brewed those fancy beers. You people are just glorified home brewers.”

I bit back a smart remark, and said, “My beers are pretty simple. I mostly brew in the German tradition. I don't use artificial flavorings or unusual ingredients.”

She seemed surprised at that. “So, what do you use?”

“Water, yeast, hops, and barley. Sometimes wheat.”

“Oh.”

Not exactly an enthusiastic response. “It's really the same as what your dad did but on a much smaller scale.” I could tell from her expression that she didn't want to believe that.

“Enough about that,” Fran said. “That's not why you're here. I want to know why you accused me of such a horrible thing.”

I gave her the full rundown beginning with the vandalism before Kurt was murdered. “After the meeting tonight, I went back to the brew house to pick something up I'd forgotten earlier. I checked a few things in my office, and when I went to leave, I saw a paper bag on top of the bar that hadn't been there when I came in. When I opened it, there was a dead rat inside. At least I thought it was a dead rat. It turned out to be made out of rubber.”

“Oh my,” Fran said. “You must have been frightened.”

I nodded. “But that wasn't the worst. There was a note in the bag that said,
This could have been you
.”

“That's terrible! You've really had a bad time of it,” she said. “I had no idea all this was going on. Your friend's death didn't even make the paper, and when I heard about the bar owner's murder, I assumed it was because of his unsavory business.”

I wasn't quite sure how she'd come to the conclusion that making the beer was okay but serving it was bad.

“You really thought I was behind all this?” she asked.

“I did—at least between leaving the brew house and arriving here.”

“I didn't realize I came off the way I did, but you need
to understand that brewery was my father's entire life. Before I'm gone, I need to make sure the legacy he entrusted to me goes on. A museum—a real museum would do that.”

I suddenly had an inkling of an idea how I could help her, but I'd have to think about how to make it work. I kept it to myself for the time being.

“Although I guess it's possible my father would have liked to see his old brewery operating again.” Fran gave me a slight smile.

Was it possible I had actually won her over?

“Back to the trouble you've had,” Fran said. “You said someone is getting in, even though there's no sign of a break-in?”

I nodded. “It's so frustrating. I can't figure it out. And neither can the police or the alarm company.”

Fran smiled. “I believe I can.”

That was even more far-fetched than me thinking I'd won her over. “I don't want to burst your bubble, but if the police don't know how someone's getting in . . .” I didn't finish the sentence.