Betsy opened the door, and several people looked around. “Hi, Betsy!” Billie shouted to her, a little louder than necessary over the talk and music. There was a smell of fried meat and potatoes and beer.
“Hi, Billie!” called Betsy. It was all so jolly after the cold, dark outdoors that her spirits lifted immediately. She came to the bar as the jukebox segued smoothly from “Little Brown Jug” to “String of Pearls.” “Could I speak to Leona?”
“She’s in the brewery. Want me to go get her?”
“Yes—wait, maybe not. I’ve never seen a microbrewery up close. Would it be all right if I went back there?”
Billie teased, “Are you a responsible adult?”
“I think so.”
“Are you drunk?”
Betsy smiled. “No.”
“Do you plan to play with the dials and knobs or turn on one of the hoses?”
“No.”
“Then go on in.” She pointed to a glass door framed in stainless steel.
The customer Billie had just served looked petulant. “You never let me go back in there.”
“That’s because I suspect you want to see how much beer you can slam down before we catch you at it and toss you out.”
“Awwww, Billie! Only a gallon or two!”
Betsy opened the door and was greeted by a strong smell of beer wafting on a chill breeze. She stepped inside quickly and closed the door.
All the noise from the bar was cut off, and in the silence she could hear a stiff-bristled broom scrubbing the floor and another sound, of a little motor. And floating above those noises, an alto voice, singing what sounded like an Appalachian folk song.
I am my mother’s savage daughter,
I-will-not-cut-my-hair . . .
Betsy took a step away from the door to peer around the first of a row of three tall stainless steel tanks. In front of the row near the other end was Leona, pushing a slightly sudsy liquid across the red tile floor toward a drain. She was wearing a pair of very elderly twill pants, black Wellingtons, a chambray shirt under a Barleywine apron, and heavy rubber gloves. An odd little machine, sort of like an old-fashioned tank vacuum cleaner on tiny wheels, had a really long red hose hooked up to it somehow. The hose was running into the top of one of the tanks, and liquid was oozing out the bottom. A double handle on the machine had a meter on it with several black knobs and a little green flashing light.
Betsy found she was holding her breath and thought herself a fool for eavesdropping. She let out the breath and knocked hard on the nearest tank.
Leona stopped short, turned, and saw Betsy, who had put on her most harmless quizzical look.
“Hey, hello, Betsy,” Leona said. “What brings you out on such a night?”
“I’d like to talk with you.”
Leona nodded and gestured at an old office chair, pulled up to a very cluttered desk across from the row of tanks. “I’ll be finished in a few minutes,” she said, “if you want to wait.”
“All right.” Betsy came closer but did not immediately sit down, as she was still shedding rainwater. “Tell me what you’re doing,” she requested.
“Cleaning out this tank with a caustic. I’m almost done. Then I’ll rinse it good, and do a transfer of wort from that tank over there”—she pointed to a big, squat stainless steel tank at the other end of the brewery near the front window—“to this tank here, and start brewing a new batch. Then I’ll check the progress of the beer in this vessel here”—she rapped on the tank next to the one being rinsed—“and then I’ll be done.”
“How long does it take to make beer?”
“It’s eight hours from mash to wort—” Leona saw Betsy’s incomprehension and started over. “Mash is what you get when you take roasted sprouted barley, grind it coarsely, and mix it with water. Wort is what you get after you cook the mash and strain the solids out.”
Betsy nodded.
“Then it’s cooled, yeast and hops are added, and it’s put in one of these temperature-controlled fermenting vessels.” Leona pointed to the tall tanks beside her. “I can make a good stout in nine days at seventy degrees.”
Betsy looked around. “I guess there’s a lot more to it than a bucket of water, a bushel of oven-roasted barley, and a handful of yeast.”
Leona sighed. “Yes, people think they yearn for the good ol’ simple days of home-brewed beer, until they get a mouthful of something really bad.” She resumed her sweeping. “Are you here to ask me something specific, or just finding a place to rest out of the rain?”
At that moment, Betsy decided not to tell Leona about Irene spying on her. “Well, a bit of both, I suppose. You’ve heard about the dead mice in Shelly Donohue’s sewing room?”
Leona stopped pushing the broom to lift it one-handed, and lift her shoulders and her eyebrows as well. She nodded all the while, to show she had heard—and heard, and heard. Back when it was the Waterfront Café, her place was the biggest single source of gossip in the community. Apparently its transformation into a brew-pub hadn’t changed that aspect of it much.
Betsy laughed.
“I’ve heard even bugs died of whatever was in that room,” Leona said.
Betsy asked, “Any idea what it might have been?”
“I think it was something Ryan brought in there to eat, something poisonous or with poison put into it. He ate enough of it to make him pass out, and the mice and bugs came out and ate what was left and they all died of it.”
“But there wasn’t a dirty plate or foam box found in the room.”
“Plate? Ryan? He probably had it in his hand, or his pocket.”
“Hmmmmm.”
Leona nodded. “I hear the medical examiner is taking another look at whatever he kept of Ryan, and I bet he is going to say there’s strychnine or arsenic or maybe something more subtle in his blood.” She turned the tank thing off and finished sweeping, then went to hang the broom in a corner.
When she came back to the desk, Betsy said, “Okay, here’s the sixty-four-dollar question: Where were you on Sunday night?”
“‘The sixty-four-dollar question’?”
Betsy waved dismissively. “From an old radio show. Goddy loves them, and I keep picking up terms from him. So where were you?”
“What time are we talking about?”
“Ryan was found around noon on Monday, and it was estimated he’d been dead for about eight hours, so that would make it around three a.m.”
“Then relax, I have an alibi. I worked here from four to midnight, went home to bed, but at a little after one I got a phone call from my neighbor, Lynn Morepark. By one-fifteen I was sitting on the couch in my living room with two of my neighbor’s three children while she took the third one to the emergency room with what turned out to be whooping cough. The two are Wallace and Fredericka, ages nine and seven. We sang camp songs—which I had to teach them—and made s’mores in my fireplace. They didn’t fall asleep until nearly half past three, the little darlin’s.” Leona made a face. “And their mother didn’t come get them until four.”
“No ghost stories?” Betsy was grinning in relief. Leona had a solid alibi.
“And have them wake from nightmares the rest of the week? Their mother had enough to deal with.”
“How’s the third kid?”
“Andrew’s recovering at home. And Lynn’s taking her other two for their shots, which she used to think were unnecessary, as soon as their father gets home from Poughkeepsie.”
“Well, thanks, Leona. I’d better be on my way.”
“No problem.”
As she went back into the pub, Billie called, “You get what you needed?”
“Yes, thanks!” She was nearly to the door when she turned and saw Joey Mitchell in the rearmost booth, his one good hand around a mug of beer. A plate of fries was on the table in front of him.
Betsy made a U-turn and went back to see him. Seated across from him was a man Betsy recognized as Excelsior’s fire chief. He looked up as Betsy approache
d, and nodded and smiled.
Joey looked up and recognized Betsy.
“May I have just a few minutes of your time, Joey?” asked Betsy.
“Take all you want,” said the chief. “I’ve got to get home.” He rose, pulled his raincoat off the hook beside the booth, and hurried away.
“Sit down, why don’t you?” said Joey, gesturing at the now-empty seat. “Can I get you a beer?”
“All right,” said Betsy. “What’s the least bitter kind they make here?”
“Well, earlier in the summer there was a cherry beer that was very sweet. There may be some left.”
“Really? There’s a beer made from cherries?”
“It’s called a lambic, and it’s sweet with no hops in it—hops are what give a beer what beer drinkers think is a refreshing bite. There’s a monastery in Belgium that still makes lambics flavored with all kinds of fruit.”
“I’ll try it,” said Betsy, and Joey raised his hand, summoning Billie’s son, now acting as server. “Do you have any of that cherry lambic?” he asked.
“No, but there’s a peach variety,” Roger said.
“Bring Ms. Devonshire a mug of it,” he said. “And another lager for me.”
The lambic came in an orange pottery mug, smooth and almost glittery in its shininess.
Betsy was amazed at the taste. “Why this almost isn’t beer!” was her first comment. “It’s not bitter at all!”
“That’s right. No hops, no bite.”
“But it’s not at all like a soft drink. Or hard cider.”
“No, it’s its own thing.” The two drank for a thoughtful minute or two, then Joey asked, “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Ryan McMurphy.”
Joey’s expression soured and then turned sad. “I’m sorry he’s dead.”
“Really? From what I’ve heard about you, that surprises me.”
“Still, it’s true.”
“Did you murder him?”
He looked mordantly amused. “No.”
“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”
“I don’t think he was murdered at all. I mean, wasn’t he in a locked room with other people in the house and one window to the outside that doesn’t open?”
“Yes. And we’re working on how it might have been done. If I asked you to tell me where you were very early on the Monday morning his body was found, could you tell me?”
“I could, but why should I?”
“Because you were very, very angry with Ryan—”
“You were here the night I came in and saw us sit and drink together.”
“You could have gotten him drunk on purpose.”
“Now why would I do that?”
“Someone suggested that you were hoping he’d drive drunk, as he’s done before, and get into an accident that would cripple him like his drunk driving crippled you.”
A slow smile formed. “That sounds like something your buddy Godwin would say.”
He couldn’t possibly know that—anyone might say that. “I believe you know Goddy said it.”
He nodded, sipped his beer. “All right, I might’ve heard something to that effect.”
“Is it true?”
He stared at her, but she was better at the waiting game and only looked calmly back at him. At last he sighed and said, “It might’ve crossed my mind.”
“Or perhaps you had in mind something about a fire.”
The silence this time was longer. Much longer. Joey worked for an insurance company. His job was investigating fraud, particularly arson.
He swallowed, but said boldly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There wasn’t a fire at Shelly Donohue’s house.”
“But something like smoke was put into that room. Something that didn’t leave a mark on his body or a trace behind. Have you any idea what that might be?”
“No. But smoke does leave traces, all kinds of traces.”
“Yes, you know about things like that, don’t you? Where were you that Sunday night, say from midnight forward?”
The reality of his smile showed how false the previous ones had been. “You are not going to believe this—but you can check. I was playing chess with an old friend, Paul Marlin, who lives in that senior co-op in Saint Louis Park. It must’ve lasted until nearly four in the morning.”
“What time did it start?”
“I’m not sure—late, though, probably after eleven. He and I went out to dinner at this Asian place he likes, then back to his place to talk. I had Monday off, so I didn’t mind that it went late or that the games went long. We played in Paul’s apartment. I can give you his phone number so you can check it out. I can’t believe you think it might’ve been me.”
“Why couldn’t it be you? This kind of murder might be just your style. You know how investigations work, and you know how fraud works. And you hated Ryan.”
Joey hesitated, then sighed. “Lord, yes, I hated him. I’m glad he’s dead—because now maybe I can stop hating him. If he hadn’t died in that basement, I might’ve killed him. I thought long and hard about doing it. That’s why I started making friends with him again, so I could get close to him, maybe find a way to do it.” He took a deep drink of his lager. “You would not believe how many ways there are to set fire to a car and make it look like an accident.”
He took another, shorter drink. When he set the mug down, he said, “But now I don’t have to think about it anymore. I’ll just tell myself that I would’ve backed out. I like my job with Boyson Insurance. Do you believe in karma? If I could have stayed on the job as a fireman, I probably would’ve had some kind of accident and ruined my arm anyhow.”
He turned his mug around on the table, looking at the wet mark it was making.
“So if not you, then who?”
He looked at her for a long few seconds before speaking. “Billie Leslie might’ve. She hated him.”
“Billie? Why?”
“Because he spread some wicked gossip about her daughter Cara.” He shrugged. “Or at least that’s what Ryan told me that last night he was alive. But Ryan isn’t very reliable when he’s drunk.”
Betsy nodded, adding that tidbit to her store of information.
Joey said, “Now Ryan’s gone, who’s gonna drive that fire truck he fixed up in the parade?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t heard.”
“Can I do it?” He looked up at her. “Please?”
“Can you handle it? Maybe I can arrange for you to ride on it.”
“No, I want to drive it. I can rig the steering wheel, put a suicide knob on it. Come on, I’m the one who got the coats for the riders, you guys owe me something.”
“Why is this so important to you?”
“Call it a last hurrah for a dead dream. Okay?”
“I’ll talk to Billie for you. But you have to go see Ryan’s wife—the truck is hers now. Meanwhile, let me ask you this: Did you come into The Barleywine looking for Ryan the night of the meeting?”
“No, I came in for something to eat and he was there. Already drinking, too.”
“No, he wasn’t. All he had was a Coke. I saw him drinking a Coke. He came over to the table where we were sitting to make his report, and I didn’t smell anything on his breath, nor did he act drunk. And anyway, The Barleywine wouldn’t serve him alcohol.”
“He wasn’t drunk, but he’d been drinking,” insisted Joey. “I could smell it on him—hard liquor, not beer, so he must’ve started before he came in, because they don’t serve hard liquor in here. When we’d been sitting there for a little while, he asked me to buy him a beer.”
“Just out of the blue sky?” said Betsy.
Joey looked defiant. “All right, I was leaning on him over those damn Cokes. And once he started, I encouraged it.”
“Chug-a-lug,” said Betsy, remembering now where she’d heard it.
“Yeah, yeah. I thought about offering to drive him home once he had a load on, but he got out ahead of m
e. I’m glad now. I wasn’t then, but now I am.”
“All right. Well, I’ve got to get home. Thank you for talking with me.”
He offered the traditional Minnesotan reply, “You bet.”
Betsy went out into the storm, thoughtful. She didn’t think Joey was lying about the chess game, but he’d started out by lying to her, so who knew? And if Mr. Marlin was really a good friend, he might lie for Joey. She’d pass this along to Mike Malloy to check out.
Between the lambic and the walking, she was tired when she got home. She went right to bed, but her sleep was troubled with dreams. The oddest one had her surrounded by running oranges. She picked one up and found it had horses’ legs, complete with tiny metal shoes. She was about to pry a horseshoe off with a screwdriver when she woke up to find her cat Sophie touching her worriedly on the shoulder. Had she been giggling in her sleep? Certainly the idea of cantering oranges was silly enough.
In a much better mood, she got up and dressed for work.
Nine
GODWIN was at Rafael’s place on Saturday afternoon, a spacious apartment carved from an old mansion in the Loring Park neighborhood. There were six units in this building and eight in the one next door, which formed a condominium. Rafael had what were once the front and rear parlors and half the old library. They were now a bedroom and bath, a living room, and a kitchen that was open to the living room. There were lots of windows, high ceilings, and a set of French doors leading out to a small backyard shared by all the tenants. There were pale hardwood floors, beautiful Persian carpets, white plush and white leather furniture trimmed in chrome and ornamented with bright-colored pillows. An electric fireplace was built into a corner. The art on the walls was Mexican impressionist. One of the windows was stained glass, featuring a knight in full armor climbing a rocky height, his eyes fastened on the heavens. It was Victorian—the knight had an anachronistic handlebar mustache.
Godwin loved it; he loved the whole place. He was—rarely for him—speechless with admiration.
Rafael, amused and pleased at his friend’s reaction, said, “So you will help me at the party tonight?”
“Oh, yes, of course. What do you want me to do?”
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