Лори Касс - Wrong Side Of The Paw

Brad stroked his beard. “Sure. What’s up?”

“It’s the time he died. The estimate was two a.m., right?” Brad nodded and I went on. “So I got to wondering. Was he a night person and this was something normal? If not, what was he doing out at two in the morning?”

“That’s a good question,” he said slowly. “If he was trying to finish a job, it wasn’t unheard of for Dad to stay out half the night, or all night even. But I don’t know if he was on deadline, or not. Have you asked my mom?”

“Not yet.” I made a mental note to talk to both Carmen and Ash about it. Maybe Detective Inwood had already been over this, but maybe not. He was a busy man and it was hard to remember everything. Maybe it took a village to catch a killer. “Thanks, Brad. Sorry for delaying your kayaking.”

He shrugged. “Right now I have all the time in the world.”

Something about his expression caught at me. I’d been about to turn away, but I paused and studied him. “Is something wrong?”

“Just work,” he muttered.

But Leese had told me that her stepbrother was a favored employee at the brewery. And that he loved his job so much he was in danger of losing all perspective about the relative importance of beer to the general population.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

Again, he shrugged, but this time I was watching his face closely and saw emotion etching lines into his face. Worry? Anxiety? Fear? I would have put it down to his father’s murder except he hadn’t looked like this the night at Leese’s house. He also didn’t seem inclined to talk, and since I barely knew him, I decided I’d let it go after one more attempt. “You sure you’re okay?”

“No,” he said wryly, and somehow he sounded a lot like his older sister. “Actually I’m not. I’ve been suspended without pay.”

“What? Brad, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“I have no idea.” He stared off into the distance. “It’s my blame to take and I understand why they had to do this, but I lay awake half the night trying to figure it out and I still have no idea what went on with that batch.”

A crawly feeling was starting to creep over my skin. “Something went wrong with one of your beers?”

He nodded slowly. “The first batch of a new recipe I was trying. It tested fine when it was brewing, it tested fine when it was in storage, and I swear to God it tested fine when I put it into kegs for shipping. Then two nights ago, at that new tap room in Petoskey, we debuted it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “It was contaminated. Fifty people got sick, nine went to the hospital, and one of them might . . .” He swallowed. “One might die.”

The thought was horrible, and my heart went out to all who were sick, and to Brad. But a tiny idea trickled into my brain: Could this somehow be related to Dale Lacombe’s murder? Could Brad have been the intended victim?

Chapter 12

Brad’s sad news about the people sickened by a beer he’d made stayed with me through the day and into the evening, when I called Leese. She’d talked to her stepbrother earlier that day and had tried to get him to go out for dinner with her, but he’d turned her down, saying that he wouldn’t be good company.

“I told him not to be an idiot,” she said, “because he’d never been good company in his life and I certainly didn’t expect him to start doing so anytime soon.” She sighed. “He didn’t laugh even a little. I sent Mia over. Maybe she can help.”

By the end of the workday we’d both heard that of the nine people who’d gone to the emergency room, eight had been treated and released. The one remaining victim, the one Brad had been so worried about, had been diagnosed with appendicitis, not food poisoning, and was resting comfortably after an emergency operation.

But even if no one had been deathly ill, it was still a serious situation, and I didn’t want to think what Brad was enduring, knowing something he’d brewed had caused people harm.

That night I dreamed dreams of falling into vats of beer—a beverage of which I wasn’t overly fond—and being reminded by a swimming police officer not to forget to register before I moved. “It was just weird,” I told Holly and Josh, as I poured myself a third cup of coffee the next morning.

“Sounds more stupid than weird.” Josh shook four sugar packets, dumped them into his mug, and looked at Holly, who was rummaging through the utensil drawer. “Please don’t tell me you think her dream means something.”

“Of course it means something,” she said. “Hah!” She brandished what we all referred to as the Good Knife, and started using it to cut the pan of brownies she’d brought into squares.

“Yeah?” Josh pulled out a chair, making its feet screech against the hard floor, and sat. “What?”

“It means she was having stupid dreams about beer.” Holly levered brownies onto the three paper towels she’d already set out. “Although that’s redundant, since all dreams about beer are stupid because beer is stupid.”

Josh took a brownie. “You’re wrong, but as long as you keep bringing us food, I’m not going to argue with you.”

“Silence of the Josh,” I said, accepting my Holly-made confection. “Who knew it was even possible?”

“Anything’s possible.” Holly smiled broadly. “Even your husband coming home for a month.”

“Hey, that’s great!” Her husband, Brian, had a fantastic job working for a mining company fifteen hundred miles away. It was their hope that Brian would eventually find employment in Michigan, but for now they made due with occasional trips, video visits, and frequent packages sent to their two small children.

Though I’d long feared that Holly might get tired of the long-distance relationship and pack up and move West, she’d recently confessed to me that the idea of moving Out There, as she called it, was something she’d considered and rejected. “My family is here,” she’d said. “His family is here. I don’t want to take the kids away from those relationships.”

Around a mouthful of brownie, Josh said, “If he’s going to be here over hunting season, tell him to give me a call.”

As the two of them talked about Brian’s vacation, I started thinking ahead in the calendar. Soon I’d be moving up to the boardinghouse. Then there’d be Thanksgiving, Christmas, and skiing season. There would be an excellent new crop of books to read and—

“I forgot,” I said out loud.

“Forgot what?” Josh asked. “No, let me guess. About twenty years ago, you forgot to keep growing.”

“No,” Holly said, “she forgot to get married. One of these days she’s going to remember and we’ll get invitations in the mail. I’m already planning what to wear.”

“Wrong and wrong again.” I got up. “I need to talk to Jennifer.”

I heard the groans, but didn’t see any facial expressions since I’d already started to walk out of the room. Temporarily working on the theory that what I didn’t see I didn’t have to deal with, I headed up to Jennifer’s office and knocked on the doorjamb.

“Good morning,” I said. “Do you have a minute?”

My boss, who had rotated her chair to face the window, turned around. “I have an appointment in a few minutes, but until then I’m available.”

An appointment with another library board member, no doubt. “Great,” I said, perching myself on the front edge of one of her abstract guest chairs. “I have an idea to run past you.”

Jennifer’s perfectly plucked eyebrows went up. “Oh? Please don’t tell me you need another bookmobile.”

“Need?” I asked, smiling to hide the sudden burst of annoyance exploding inside my head. “Sure, we could use another bookmobile. Just think of all the people we could reach that we’re missing now.” In truth, buying another bookmobile had never occurred to me. I was having a hard enough time operating one.