“Did you go after him?” I tried to imagine why Kevin would be in the tasting room at two in the morning and why he would run outside.
“I tried. I went outside and looked around, but whoever was in here took off fast.”
“How do you know it was Kevin?”
“Because I locked the front door—I made sure of it this time, and then I returned to the office to finish my beer notes. When I went to bed an hour later, Kevin came in through the side guest entrance. He said he had gone out for a smoke, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know it was him.”
“What’s the connection with Lily’s murder? Maybe he was getting a beer. Not that that’s okay.”
“Because he dropped this.” Garrett reached into the pocket of his hoodie and removed a key.
“Is that the key to Lily’s room?”
“Yep. The one and only key we have to Lily’s room.” Garrett looked triumphant.
“But what does it mean?”
He frowned. “I don’t know, but it has to mean something. Has Kevin had it the entire time? Or what if he stashed it behind the bar the night he killed Lily? Maybe he was waiting for the opportunity to retrieve it.”
“That’s possible.” I thought for a moment. “Or maybe he was trying to get into her room again. The police have searched it multiple times, but maybe he hid a piece of evidence in there that he’s been trying to get back?”
“Could be.” Garrett cradled the key. “Either way, I’m calling the chief right now. She can figure out the why. In the meantime, keep a close, close eye on Kevin. I have a bad feeling he’s going to snap.”
“Trust me, I’ve tried to avoid him like the plague.”
“Be sure to fill Kat in, too. I already had a long talk with her last night about steering clear, but I don’t want her around him.” His voice was thick with concern. “Sloan, I’m worried he might be the killer.”
“I know,” I agreed. “And I’ll make sure Kat keeps her distance, too.”
Garrett went to call Chief Meyers. I tried to come up with any reason that Kevin would have had to have Lily’s key. Nothing came to mind. Unless he had taken it from her the night she was killed. Why would he have been in the tasting room last night? Was he looking for something? Trying to hide evidence? Or worse? Could he have been planting Lily’s key behind the bar to shift suspicion away from him? Maybe he was trying to implicate Garrett in the murder.
My theories were all possible, but none of them felt right.
What if Garrett had been mistaken? What if Kevin had been telling him the truth? Maybe Kevin had gone outside for a smoke, but what if someone else had been in the tasting room last night?
Garrett had said he had seen a man. That could have been either Swagger or Brad. Both of them were staying upstairs and would have had access to the space. Or there was a third possibility: that Garrett had accidentally left Nitro unlocked and someone had gotten in.
I wasn’t sure which option was the most likely, but I agreed with Garrett on keeping my eyes open and watchful. The killer was closing in, and I didn’t want to be in their line of sight.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
CHIEF MEYERS SHOWED UP BEFORE I had had a chance to clear the breakfast dishes. She barely uttered a greeting and then asked to see Kevin immediately. Was this it? Was she about to make an arrest?
Garrett, Kat, and I tried to make ourselves scarce by working in the brewery while the chief interviewed Kevin, again, in the tasting room. I pretended to be interested in checking the gravity of our Pucker Up IPA, but I desperately wanted to go eavesdrop on the chief’s interrogation. What did the missing room key mean?
“Want to take a look at my middle-of-the-night brainstorm?” Garrett asked.
“Love to.” I followed him into the office, where he had sketched not one but two new beer recipes in brightly colored dry-erase pens. “You weren’t kidding about inspiration striking.”
“I know. It started with this one.” Garrett pointed to the left side of the dry-erase wall where he had drawn a hop cone in neon green, along with the names of ten popular hop varieties. “The PNW is such a hotbed for hops, I was thinking, why not go all in and dump as many kinds of hops into one single brew as we can? We can call it something clever, like the Hopcathlon.”
I didn’t respond right away. In brewing, like in baking or wine making, more wasn’t necessarily better. Ten different hop strands in one beer could be overwhelming. Then again, it could be genius.
“I can tell by the look on your face that you’re not convinced,” Garrett said.
“Not necessarily. I’m intrigued, for sure. I don’t know if that many strands will enhance a flavor profile or confuse palates.”
“Hear me out,” Garrett continued. “It would be an ode to PNW hops. We’d only use strands grown in Washington and Oregon. Think about it—Mosaic, Citra, Cascade, Simcoe, Chinook.”
He rattled off popular Pacific Northwest hops.
“They have similar profiles. Citrus notes, good floral aromas. As long as we can balance the bitterness, it could be a cool experimental beer.”
Brewers were constantly trying to push the envelope, creating unique flavors. The desire to come up with imaginative new beers had led to some strange brews, like milk stouts, tomato beer, and my personal (least) favorite—oyster beer. Garrett could be onto something with a pure PNW hop beer. He had barely scratched the surface with the first five hops he had suggested. Dozens more came to mind.
“Good point,” I said to him. “I’m game. Let’s try it.”
“We’ll do a small batch, of course.” His enthusiasm waned. “Or is this a ridiculous idea?”
“No, I like it. I like it a lot. Why not? Let’s get hoppy.”
“Thanks, Sloan. I wasn’t sure. The look on your face when I suggested it seemed less enthused.”
“I just needed to think about it for a minute, but I like it, I promise. It’s unique without being gross. Have you seen the latest bacon beer they’re bottling in Portland?” I shuddered.
“Yeah, yuck—I’m not down with bacon.” Garrett chuckled. “Cool. My other late-night epiphany was for another beer that might not fit the traditional mold.” He pointed to the other side of the whiteboard, where he had sketched another recipe in pink and yellow pens.
The recipe was for a lemongrass and hibiscus pale ale brewed with agave instead of sugar. “Ooooh, that sounds like the perfect Mother’s Day beer,” I commented.
“Exactly!” Garrett clapped twice. “I was thinking about my parents coming to visit and remembering how my mom likes to make lemongrass and hibiscus iced tea. Then I thought, why not try that in a beer? The agave should activate the yeast, don’t you think?”
“Sugar is sugar.”
“Well said. Well said.” Garrett picked up a brown pen and added my line under the recipe. “Sugar is sugar.”
“I can totally picture sipping a lemongrass hibiscus pale outside under the blooming flower baskets. I bet this is going to be a spring hit.”
“Except that we have to actually brew it first and see how it turns out.”
“Sure, but we have plenty of time. We should be able to do a few test batches in order to perfect it in time for the spring line launch.”
We brainstormed hop ratios while Garrett formally added both recipes to the spreadsheet he kept on his iPad. He was meticulous about keeping copious notes throughout every stage of the brewing process in order to ensure that if we came up with an amazing recipe, we could re-create it, or if we had a total flop, we wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.
Chief Meyers knocked on the office door. “Got a second?”
“Sure.” Garrett moved toward the filing cabinet to make room for her. The tiny office barely had enough space for the two of us, let alone a third body.
The chief stood in the doorway. “Bad news. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to release your guests yet.”
“Really?” I tried not to sound too disappointed.
>
“What did Kevin say?” Garrett asked. “Did he confess to being down here in the middle of the night?”
She frowned. “He claims he went out the side door for a smoke. He said he heard a ‘commotion’ in the bar, but he didn’t bother coming inside to see what it was.”
That sounded in character for him.
“I’m sure it was him, Chief.”
“Could be.”
“Can’t you take him in?”
“Not without cause.” The chief stared at the high ceilings. “Too bad you don’t have cameras out front. I’ve asked your neighbors. No one has any cameras. Might have to bring that up at the next city council meeting.”
I hated that idea. Part of the charm of the village was that it was a safe place for families, tourists, and businesspeople. I understood why large cities might turn to Big Brother cameras as a crime prevention tool, but break-ins and violence of any kind were a rarity in our little Bavaria.
“You don’t really think we should install cameras, do you, Chief?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Not a bad idea, if you ask me. You can never be too careful.”
I wanted to respond, but instead shifted the conversation to the investigation. “Are there any other leads? Did you find anything new in Spokane?”
“Spokane was enlightening. I’m waiting for some paperwork to come in. We might be able to make an arrest today. That was my plan when I put my shoes on this morning, but that could change, especially in light of what Kevin just told me.”
“You mean that he was vaping outside this morning?” Garrett asked.
The chief gave him a sly look. “Among other things, yeah.”
What wasn’t she telling us?
“I’ll get out of your hair. I can’t give you a solid window of time when I’ll be able to release everyone. Hoping to have that happen later, but like I said, they may be here another night. We’ll have to see how it goes.”
“Thanks for the update.” Garrett didn’t sound particularly happy with the news that we might be stuck with our motley crew of guests for yet another night.
“I’ll be in touch.” The chief gave us a two-finger salute and left.
“What do you think she meant by ‘among other things’? Could Kevin have confessed something more to her?” I asked Garrett.
He doodled on the whiteboard. “I was wondering the same thing. But he couldn’t have confessed, because then she would have arrested him. Did he tell her something about the murder? Maybe in exchange for leniency?”
That was an idea. Kevin was the type who looked out for himself first and foremost. If he knew anything that would put him in a better position, I didn’t doubt for a second he would throw his best friend under the bus.
But what could he know?
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
GARRETT WAS EAGER TO TEST his new recipes. He went out in search of lemongrass, agave, and hibiscus. I figured he would find lemongrass and agave at the village specialty market, but hibiscus might be harder. Some of the hop varieties we intended to use in our PNW Hopcathlon we already had in stock, but I agreed to place an order with our hop suppliers for Amarillo, Centennial, and a few others. Kat took care of breakfast cleanup while I called the suppliers to see how quickly they could deliver a batch of test hops.
Operating a brewery in this region gave us an abundance of options when it came to vendors. One of our suppliers in Spokane offered to drive our order out later in the afternoon. That was going to make Garrett happy. We could have our first round of test batches brewing before the local evening crowd rolled in.
It was strange having Brad, Ali, Kevin, Jenny, Swagger, and Mel milling around upstairs. I could hear stomping feet, shutting bedroom doors, and running water. I supposed that I would get used to upstairs guests the more bookings we received. But with Lily’s murder looming over us, every sound put me on edge.
“Success,” Garrett announced, returning an hour later with an armful of supplies.
I had finished assembling meat and cheese trays and had put Kat to work chopping onions and potatoes for our soup of the day. We were going to make a loaded baked potato soup served with cheddar cheese, fresh dill, and a dollop of sour cream.
“You found hibiscus?”
He riffled through his reusable shopping bags and removed a package of dried hibiscus flowers. “I found them at Cup and Saucer, the tea shop. I was about to give up and then I had an aha moment. Tea.”
“Of course.”
“You’re going to brew a tea beer?” Kat asked, grimacing.
“Hey, don’t give me that face,” Garrett teased. “Reserve judgment until you’ve tried this new brew.”
“Okay.” Kat didn’t sound convinced. “Tea and beer doesn’t really sound great, though.”
Garrett wasn’t deterred. “It’s going to be a spring pale with lemongrass, sweet agave, and a hint of the hibiscus.”
“Sounds like something my grandma would like.” Kat stuck out her tongue. “I hate tea, though, so I’m probably not the best judge.”
“You hate tea?” I asked. Tea was a natural relaxant for me. Simply holding a steeping mug of Earl Grey or peppermint tea brought me an instant calm. When Alex was little, he had trouble falling asleep, so Ursula had taught me how to create our own “sleepy tea” blend with chamomile, sweet orange, and hawthorn.
“Yuck.” Kat hunched her shoulders. “I’m not a tea fan. It’s so bland.”
“What?” Tea was anything but bland in my opinion. Kat probably had never had homemade tea blends. “I’m going to make you a cup of my tea later, and we’ll see what you think.”
“I’ll try it, but I’m telling you now I won’t like it.”
Garrett opened the fragrant bag of dried hibiscus. “The tea shop owner recommended steeping them in hot water, but I’m thinking we can add them directly to the boil. What do you think, Sloan?”
“Let’s try it.”
He unpacked the rest of our brewing supplies. “I’ll go grab the iPad and then we can get started.”
For our small test batches we brewed on Garrett’s old homebrew system that he’d had the foresight to save and install in the industrial kitchen. His pieced-together kegs and handmade brewstand weren’t fancy, but they got the job done.
I handed off the rest of the soup preparation to Kat so I could concentrate my full attention on the brewing process. Brewing isn’t necessarily complicated, but it does involve multiple precisely timed steps and a constant set of eyes. If you pitch a yeast too soon or let the boil go too long, it can completely alter the beer.
“My big question is yeast,” Garrett said as he pulled up the spreadsheet he had created on his iPad. “I’m leaning toward using that Omega tropical yeast we used in the IPA. It tends to have nice delicate pineapple and mango characters, especially if we ferment at higher temps. Plus, I still have a bunch in the fridge from the last brew. What do you think?”
“Let’s try it. I like the idea of a touch of tropical notes to pair with the lemongrass and hibiscus.”
Yeast was a critical component in the brewing process. There were literally dozens upon dozens of yeast strains available to brewers. I was always amazed at how different a beer would turn out simply based on the strain of yeast used. We had done an experiment for our brew team at Der Keller a few years ago where we brewed four batches of the same beer with nearly the same ingredients. The only thing we changed in each batch was the strain of yeast. It was incredible to watch everyone’s face as they tasted the final product and realized the vast difference between the beers—simply because of one packet of yeast.
“Okay.” Garrett made a note. “We’ll try it, and if it’s too tropical, we can do the next batch with a different strain.”
The kitchen began to fill with the smell of boiling grains and Kat’s savory potato soup. Much like holding a steaming mug of tea, the process of steeping hibiscus flowers and stirring the wort helped center me.
“It’s already sme
lling good,” Garrett commented as he measured agave syrup.
“Agreed. I think you might have created a winner.” The scent of lemongrass mingled with the fragrant hops and grains.
Some people don’t enjoy brewing aromas. We had noted that in our listing for our guest rooms. Since we were an operating brewery, guests would often be treated to the fragrant aromas of the brewing process. The smell of grains boiling reminded me of one of Ursula’s simple breakfast offerings—warm Grape-Nuts with milk and a pat of butter.
Kat poured chicken stock into the soup. “It does smell pretty good. Maybe you’ll convert me after all.”
I watched the boil while Garrett shook in another handful of dried hibiscus.
“That was a quarter cup,” he stated, making another note.
We continued the process through the morning hours, until it was time to open the tasting room. Garrett was transferring the beer into carboys, so Kat and I offered to take the first shift. Not surprisingly, it was slow. The weekend ski crowds, excepting our guests, had returned home, and most of the villagers were at work. I caught up with two of our regular doctors who worked graveyards. Their shifts ended as we opened, so they usually stopped for a pint still dressed in their scrubs.
I chatted with them. Kat dished up bowls of the hearty potato soup to accompany their lunch—or was it breakfast?—beers.
“What the hell are we going to do all day?” Kev appeared in the tasting room with Jenny tagging after him. “Mel and Swag ditched me again. I don’t know what’s up with those two.” He turned to me. “The Wi-Fi upstairs is terrible. I can’t get a connection, and I have a meeting that I have to Skype into in an hour.”
“Maybe you should try the library,” I suggested.
“I’m not going to the freaking library just to be shushed by a little old librarian. No way. If I’m stuck here, I’m having a pint.”
Jenny caught my eye. Was it my imagination, or did she look skittish?
“Don’t worry, Kev.” She tried to pacify him. “I think that other big brewery has good Wi-Fi. We can go there for a pint.”
Without a Brew Page 19
