by Joyce Tremel
Mom looked up and closed her book with a smile. “I keep telling him that.”
“There’s nothing on, anyway.”
“You’re not working tonight?” Mom asked.
I took a seat in the other striped chair. “I went to a brewers’ meeting.” I told them about the visit to the funeral home and talking to Linda Mobley.
Dad sighed. “I know you mean well, honey, but you really shouldn’t be going around talking to these people—especially anyone who might be a potential suspect.”
“I have to do something. I’m not going to sit by while your partner tries to railroad Jake.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Your partner stopped at the pub again today with a warrant to confiscate all our bottled water. He told Jake he still planned to prove that he killed Mobley.”
“Vince isn’t going to do that, but I’ll have another talk with him,” he said.
I didn’t understand why Dad seemed to be defending him. “What good will that do? It hasn’t helped so far. Why are you giving him free rein to do anything he wants to?”
Dad swung his legs around and put his feet back on the floor. “Look. I know you don’t think much of Vincent, but he really could be a good detective someday. Unfortunately, he has his mind set on doing things his own way right now. He needs to be steered in the right direction and that’s the job I’ve been given. I’m trying to teach him that his way isn’t necessarily the right way.”
“He’s obviously not paying attention, then,” I said. “Confiscating that bottled water had to be his idea.”
“It was,” Dad said, the corners of his mouth turning up. Mom smiled, too, like she was in on a secret.
“Wait a minute.” I looked from one to the other. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Dad shrugged and leaned back on the couch, so I turned to my mother.
“Remember when you were about six or seven,” Mom said, “and you insisted on running the Great Race with Sean even though he was twelve years older than you and you’d never done anything like that before?”
I felt the pink creeping into my face. “How could I forget it?” Sean had been a senior in high school and I’d just started first grade. The Great Race was a 10K that was held every September. Sean ran cross-country in high school and he and a couple of his friends entered the race, and in my six-year-old mind, I figured I could run it, too. The problem was, while he and his friends ran every day, I played in the backyard or with my Barbie dolls. On the day of the race, I insisted on running with Sean. About halfway through, I wanted to quit. I cried for Sean to carry me, but he wouldn’t. He told me if I wanted to run with him, I had to do exactly that. I gave him a lot of credit—still do—for staying beside me and not running off with his friends. Anyway, I finished the race and learned three lessons that day. One—you finish what you start and don’t quit. Two—let people make mistakes and learn from them. And three—I hate running.
I didn’t think Vince’s lesson was one or three. “I get it now.” I grinned at my parents. “You’re teaching Vince the power of learning from his mistakes.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You could say that,” Dad said. “I wasn’t going to tell you about any of this, but your mother convinced me you should know.” He winked at her. “As usual, she’s right.”
“Why were you keeping quiet?” I asked. “I was beginning to worry about you and what was going on. Candy had me convinced the powers that be were trying to force you out.”
“It’s nothing like that.” Dad leaned forward. “Promise me you’ll keep this to yourself.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“Vincent happens to be the governor’s nephew, so there’s a lot of politics at play here. I’m not going to get into the whole thing, but suffice it to say, the mayor and the chief were convinced to accept Vincent’s transfer from across the state. And they figured I was the perfect guy to keep him in line and show him the ropes.”
“And the mayor is still your friend?”
Dad chuckled. “He is. Anyway, Vincent isn’t a bad cop when he forgets about trying to make a name for himself and he stops thinking he’s right all the time. He’s ambitious and unfortunately he thinks he’s made the big time with this case. So far, just about everything I tell him goes in one ear and out the other. I finally decided to give him—as your mother so eloquently puts it—the freedom to make his own mistakes.”
I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. “But won’t that make him come after Jake with a vengeance?”
Dad shook his head. “He’s not stupid. He knows he can’t make an arrest without the proper evidence. And while he’s looking in all the wrong places, I’m following up on everything else. Sooner or later, he’ll get back on track and see he’s going in the wrong direction.”
I hoped he was right. We chatted awhile and I filled him in on what I’d discovered. He was aware of most of it, and he was already looking into Mobley’s financials. One thing he hadn’t known was that Dwayne was Melody’s brother. He planned on paying Dwayne a call first thing in the morning. I wished I could be a fly on the wall for that interview.
* * *
I got up earlier than usual the next morning and headed to the brewery before six. The stout and the IPA that I had in the fermenters would need to be kegged today or tomorrow. Since tomorrow would be filled with setting up for the second and final weekend of the festival, I decided on today. I still wanted to pay a visit to South Side Brew Works and talk to Cory if I got the kegging finished today.
When I drove into the lot, I was surprised to see Jake getting out of his truck. We’d talked on the phone last night, and he’d offered to help with the kegging. I’d told him it wasn’t necessary, but I was happy he’d decided it was. His hair still looked wet from the shower, and when he smiled at me, my stomach did a little flip.
“Morning, gorgeous,” Jake said, pulling me to him when I got out of my car.
He kissed me and the little flip became an acrobatic extravaganza. We parted when the driver of a passing car honked his horn and hollered “Woo-hoo!” out his open window. We were laughing as we walked hand in hand to the front door. Jake unlocked the door and once we were inside, I disarmed the security system. My pulse had almost returned to normal by then.
While Jake went to make coffee, I tossed my purse onto the desk in my office, then went into the brewery and checked the gauges on all the tanks. Everything was in order. I began moving some of the stainless steel half-barrel kegs that had already been cleaned and sterilized over to the tank. When Jake came through the swinging door with coffee, I took my mug and we sat on the metal steps beside the mash tun, drinking our coffee.
“I should come in early more often,” he said. “This is nice.”
“Yes. It’s so quiet and peaceful.”
“It is, but I meant sitting here with you.”
I smiled at him. “Yeah. That, too.”
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic, O’Hara.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
We’d never talked much about how we felt about each other, and this wasn’t really the time and place to do it. “I mean I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” I said. “I like being here with you. I’m glad you came in.”
“I can’t imagine being anywhere else. One of the best decisions I ever made was moving back here.”
I rested my head on his shoulder. “I’m glad you did.”
We sat like that until our cups were empty; then Jake set them aside. “Enough goldbricking,” he said. He pulled me to my feet. “So, where do we start, boss?”
* * *
Transferring beer from a pressurized tank to a keg is what I’d call a “hurry up and wait” process. The keg is pressurized with CO2 as well. A tube with a valve is attached to the t
op of the keg so that the CO2 can “gas off” as the keg fills with beer. Eventually the valve releases foam, and then beer, which means the half barrel is full. I’ve learned to do something else while keeping an eye on the valve.
Jake had returned to the kitchen an hour before we opened for the day to supervise the staff and get things rolling there. When Nicole came in, she helped me finish and did some of the perpetual cleaning and sanitizing. She stayed until she was needed in the pub. By midafternoon everything was spic-and-span, so I took that opportunity to head back to the South Side.
I took the same route I had when I went to the funeral home—up Fortieth Street, over the Bloomfield Bridge, and through Oakland. Traffic in Oakland was never light because of the hospitals and the University of Pittsburgh, but it was better than usual since many of the students were home for the summer. I hit the most traffic on Bates Street, but I was soon sailing over the Hot Metal Bridge and into the South Side.
I had no trouble finding the South Side Brew Works, even though I’d been there only once. I figured Cory would wonder why I decided to visit all of a sudden, so on the way over I tried to come up with an excuse. I settled on telling him I was in the neighborhood to check out a new shoe store. Not the best reason in the world, but it was the best I could do. Cory’s brewery was in a plain concrete-block building with few windows and a metal entry door. The tiny parking lot had room for four cars, and I pulled into the last open one.
Cory had three brewers working for him, but I knew only one of them. Fortunately Tom Wilkins was the one who greeted me. Tom was what could be considered an old-school brewer. He had worked for the former Steel City Brewing before they were bought out. He didn’t particularly care for some of the fancier craft brews, but as long as he was allowed to brew what he called “real beer,” he was happy. Frankly, I thought Cory was lucky to have him. Tom was extremely knowledgeable and kept Cory—who was known to think up some rather wild concoctions—on the straight and narrow. Whenever Cory came up with one of his more adventurous brews, Tom’s question to him was always, “Will it sell?” Often the answer was no. Cory still experimented more than some of us, but not as much as he would without Tom.
“How ya doing, darlin’?” Tom said. He called everyone darlin’—every female, that is. “Long time no see.”
“Nice to see you again, Tom.” I shook his outstretched hand.
“How’s that brewery of yours?” Tom asked. “Franny said the place is really hopping.” His face lit up when he said her name.
I’d introduced him to the woman who was putting the brewing museum together. Her father had worked at Steel City even before Prohibition, and she had a treasure trove of artifacts and photos of the brewing history of Pittsburgh. Fran didn’t want to take credit for it, but her knowledge of the brewery during the Prohibition era had led me to finding the person who’d killed Kurt. She and Tom had a lot in common and they’d hit it off right away. Tom was in his late sixties and only a few years younger than Fran, and I suspected there might be a little romance blooming between them.
“We’ve been busy, which is a good thing,” I said.
“That’s because you got some good beer.” Tom looked around before he continued. “You could teach Cory a thing or two. I can’t even talk about his latest idea.”
I laughed. “Just because it’s different doesn’t mean it’s bad.”
“Oh, I know that, darlin’. But sometimes that boy doesn’t have any sense. None at all.”
“Speaking of that boy,” I said, “is he around?” Tom pointed toward the room where the tanks were located, and I headed that way.
I found Cory standing beside a metal table that was covered with small plastic containers filled with assorted grains, hops, and a few things I couldn’t identify. He was writing on a legal pad and when I got closer, it appeared he was doing some math calculations. He pushed the tablet aside when he spotted me.
“Well, this is a surprise,” he said. “What brings you to my end of town?”
“I’m going to check out a new shoe store that opened over here and I thought I’d stop and say hello.”
He gave me a look that told me he didn’t believe it for a minute, then laughed. “You’re investigating, aren’t you?”
“Why would you think that?” I felt heat rising in my cheeks.
“One, you’re a lousy liar. Two, your face is all red.”
“Guilty as charged,” I said with a grin. “In my defense, I went to twelve years of Catholic school and my brother’s a priest.”
“Not to mention your dad’s a cop.” Cory pulled a couple of beat-up stools from under the table. “Have a seat.”
I probably should have thought this out more, because I wasn’t sure where to start with questions. It turned out I didn’t have to ask much, because Cory did most of the talking.
“First,” he said, “I’m only doing this because I like you, Max. I wouldn’t give most people the time of day. It’s none of their business.”
“You don’t even know what I want to ask you.”
“It ain’t that hard to figure out. You want to know if I killed Reginald Mobley.”
“Did you?” I blurted out.
Cory laughed again. “No. Did I want to? Hell, yes. I’m glad someone took him out. That man did more damage to those of us in the food and beverage industry than anyone realizes.”
He slid off his stool. “Wait here. I have something to show you.” He went through a doorway into what appeared to be an office and returned moments later carrying a red folder. He slid it toward me as he sat back down. “Take a look,” he said.
Inside the folder I found papers with the familiar crest of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania at the top. Some of the paperwork was familiar in other ways, too—like the application for a license to operate a brewpub. I already knew Cory had been turned down, so it wasn’t a surprise to see a letter saying as much. There was no reason given in the letter. “They didn’t tell you why they turned you down?” I asked.
“Not until I pressed the point. And hired a lawyer. I met every single one of the qualifications. I didn’t think they could legally turn me down, and neither did my lawyer.” He pointed to the papers. “Keep reading.”
I skimmed a few pages full of legalese, which to me was harder to understand than an advanced biochemistry textbook. I finally reached a copy of a letter from Reginald Mobley that was addressed to the high-ranking official in charge. In reading it, I understood Cory’s hatred of the man. It was full of inaccuracies regarding the business, including that he had “proof” that Cory had stolen recipes from another brewer. Mobley didn’t say it, but it was obvious to me that he was in cahoots with Dwayne. “Wow,” I said.
Cory nodded. “There’s more that’s not in writing. I know I should have let my lawyer handle it, but when I saw this, I confronted Mobley. It wasn’t pretty. He threatened me, saying he could completely ruin me if I didn’t back off. I’d already lost thousands of dollars that I didn’t have over the whole thing. I couldn’t afford to lose any more.” He shrugged. “I convinced myself that I still had the brewery, so that would have to be enough.”
“Did he do the same thing to Randy?” I asked.
“Yep. And he would have done it to Dave, too, if Dave hadn’t already been established.”
I still wasn’t seeing the entire picture. I didn’t know what was in it for Mobley. Why would he care if some brewers wanted to expand from just brewing to opening brewpubs? The only thing that made sense was that he and his brother-in-law thought the brewers would be too much competition. He hadn’t blocked my application, though. He probably hadn’t thought a female brewer was any kind of a threat.
I’d wanted to talk to Cory about Dwayne, so I asked him if he was aware of the relationship between Dwayne and Mobley.
He shook his head and uttered an expletive. “That explains an awful lot. That lit
tle weasel must have convinced Mobley that I stole his recipes and not the other way around.”
“Dwayne came to see me yesterday to ask a favor. He wanted me to talk to Dave about letting him join the Brewers Association.”
“That’ll never happen. Especially not as long as Dave’s in charge.”
“That’s what I figured. I came right out and asked Dwayne why he had never told anyone Mobley was his brother-in-law. He didn’t deny hiding it and seemed afraid of something. He told me to forget about the association even though five minutes earlier he was practically begging me to talk to Dave.”
“I wonder what he was afraid of.”
“I was kind of hoping you might be able to give me an idea, since you worked with him,” I said.
Cory thought for a moment. “I didn’t think he was a bad guy at first. Maybe a little lazy, or maybe that he was one of those guys who had to be told exactly what to do. He asked a lot of questions. Like exactly how much of a certain malt or hops went into a brew. He even wrote everything down. I assumed he was anxious to learn brewing and didn’t want to make any mistakes. By the time I realized what he was doing it was too late.”
“I guess he never gave you any indication what his brother-in-law was planning, either?”
“I never had an inkling the two even knew each other, and I sure as hell didn’t know they were related. Now that I know Dwayne was behind it, I’m not going to let him get away with it. Looks like I’m going to be getting my lawyer involved again.” He pointed to the tablet he’d been using when I came in. “Maybe those numbers I’ve been crunching will come in handy after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to reapply now that Mobley’s dead. I was trying to figure out whether I could afford it or not.”
“Can I do anything to help?” I asked.
“Not at the moment, but thanks for asking. If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
I wished him luck. As I drove back to the pub, I replayed the conversation in my mind. After hearing Cory’s entire story, I believed him when he said he hadn’t killed Mobley. He certainly had a motive, but I couldn’t see him doing it. Dad always said a good detective should trust his—or her, in my case—instincts as well as look at the evidence. My instinct said he wasn’t a killer.
