Death on Tap

by Ellie Alexander

  Garrett reached for the growler and twisted off the cap in one move. “He wasn’t here about you.”

  We moved toward the bar.

  “Nice shirt,” Garrett commented. “We should sell those. Maybe, like, ‘Real Women Drink Nitro.’ What do you think?”

  “I like it. Let’s add it to the list.” I twirled my wedding ring. It was coming off with the toenail polish tonight. “What did Mac want?”

  Garrett busied himself filling the growler. When he finished, he sealed the cap tightly and handed it to me. “He wants the recipe for this. I made it clear that it’s not for sale.”

  “He wants to buy your recipe?”

  Garrett shrugged and fiddled with the tap handle. “It’s not for sale.”

  Most brewers are protective of their recipes, especially when trying to establish themselves. “Out of curiosity, what did he offer you?”

  Mac was frugal about all the wrong things. He would throw money around for his souped-up Hummer and designer shirts, but when it came to spending money on quality ingredients and equipment for Der Keller, his purse strings cinched tight.

  “It doesn’t matter. Like I told him, the recipe’s not for sale.”

  Condensation formed on the glass growler. I wiped my hand on my shirt. “Smart move.” I’d have given anything to know what Mac had offered Garrett for his recipe, but his quick redirection made it clear he wasn’t about to reveal anything more.

  “Thanks for the beer.” I looped my finger through the handle. “I’m off to finish cooking. See you tomorrow.”

  Garrett positioned his goggles over his eyes. “Back to the chem lab for me. By the way, I brought down stacks of old photos for you. They’re in a box on the bar.”

  “Perfect! I’ll see what I can do with them tomorrow.”

  He gave me a two-fingered wave.

  At home the first thing I did was tug off my wedding ring and hide it in my sock drawer. Then I blasted Bach in the kitchen while I diced red onions and chopped cilantro. After carefully cutting chicken breasts into long, thin strips, I poked holes in them with a fork and then dropped them into a bath of citrus IPA, onion, cilantro, olive oil, and a dash of salt and pepper. I’d let them soak overnight. Hopefully, the meat would become infused with the beer marinade.

  Next I began mixing a cupcake base of butter, eggs, and buttermilk. I couldn’t shake Mac from my head. What was he really doing at Nitro? Could he really have been interested in buying Garrett’s recipe, or was he spying on me?

  I refused to let him get under my skin. This was my gig, and I wasn’t about to let him ruin it for me. He needed to back off. Cooking unleashed my anger. I took a swig of the citrus IPA and then poured the rest into the batter. It foamed nicely. I swirled the froth by hand and gave the batter a taste with my finger.

  Beer cupcakes. Yum. I grated fresh orange and lemon peel into the mixture, cut the fruits in half, and squeezed in the juice. I was counting on them to pull out the citrus flavor of the beer. My lips puckered when I inadvertently licked my fingertips, soaked in lemon. Pucker Up, that’s it, I thought. Pucker Up IPA.

  After adding a touch of Mexican vanilla, I dipped my pinky into the batter for a taste. The tang of Pucker Up (I hoped Garrett would like that name) and fresh orange and lemon balanced beautifully with the buttery base.

  I wondered what Garrett’s story was. Hans hadn’t told me much about him. I got the impression today that he wasn’t the kind of guy to throw out personal information. Not that I could blame him. I knew how it felt to want to keep my emotions closely guarded.

  According to Hans, Garrett had left his software engineering position immediately when he inherited Nitro’s building from his great-aunt Tess. Tess Strong, one of the original founders of Leavenworth, had passed away last spring. She died, sharp as a tack, at age ninety-seven, leaving her entire fortune to Garrett. Rumor had it that he’d never even visited Leavenworth when he decided to ditch his corporate career and turn his inheritance into a brewery. I wondered if he had any other family.

  Over the years, I’d learned that the easiest way to deflect attention from yourself was to focus on someone else. I’d mastered the art of deflecting questions. Whenever anyone asked questions about me, I would quickly steer the conversation back to them. Working side by side with Garrett should provide an opportunity for me to figure out if he planned to be around for the long haul or was looking to make a quick buck. Brewing wasn’t a get-rich-quick scheme; in fact, many of the smaller breweries pulled in just enough profit to pay their staff and cover their overhead. It was a lifestyle, and I couldn’t decide yet if Garrett was cut out for it or not.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING, THE SOUND of finches chattering outside my window woke me before the sun. I liked to sleep with the windows open year-round. The fresh air and the calming sound of Icicle Creek helped me relax. For the first time in recent memory, I awoke with eager anticipation. This must be how Alex feels on the first day of school, I thought as I mentally reviewed everything that needed to be done. Before we officially opened Nitro’s doors to the public, I needed to finish preparing and assembling the food, pick up tables and chairs, bring the space to life with festive lights and candles, make sure we had enough barware, learn Garrett’s system for billing and payments, continue to familiarize myself with the space and brewing equipment, and brainstorm witty names for each of Garrett’s beers.

  Sometime in my insane day, I also had to carve out a few minutes to talk to Hans. I had a singular mission for him—to keep Mac away from Nitro. Far away.

  I threw the covers off and rolled out of bed. Mac’s side of the mattress, untouched for weeks, served as a physical reminder of the deadweight in my life. I sighed and pulled a sweatshirt over my head. After scrunching my feet into fuzzy slippers, I padded down the hallway to the kitchen, instinctively stopping at Alex’s bedroom door to check on him. It took me a minute to register that he wasn’t there. He had slept at the hotel where Mac was staying last night, and as mad as I was at Mac, I knew that for Alex’s sake I had to preserve their relationship, even if that meant sharing custody. I didn’t think I could ever get used to the idea of sharing my son.

  The house had an empty ache without Alex. Every creak in the hardwood floors seemed amplified as I made my way down the hall. Even my naked ring finger served as a reminder that everything I had worked so hard for had been turned upside down. It was a good thing that there was a lengthy to-do list to prepare for Nitro’s soft opening. Staying busy was going to be the only way I was going to stay sane.

  In the kitchen I flipped on the coffeepot and dug through the refrigerator for butter and cream cheese. My beer cupcakes had cooled on the counter overnight.

  “Time to taste my creation,” I said to no one as I peeled off a wrapper and popped a bite into my mouth. To my surprise, the beer flavor really came through, and the cupcakes left a tiny hint of tanginess on my tongue.

  Pleased with my results, I whipped together butter and cream cheese with a splash of beer and more freshly grated orange rind. The ivory-colored frosting blended into firm peaks. Sneaking a taste, I grinned and admired my whimsical creation. Beer cupcakes and frosting, perfect for a taproom launch. Hopefully Garrett would like them, too.

  I poured a cup of black coffee and got to work frosting the cupcakes. Once the cupcakes were assembled on silver serving platters, I shifted my focus. I pulled the marinated chicken from the refrigerator and carefully skewered it on wooden sticks. We would serve the skewers warm, so I covered them in plastic wrap and put them in the fridge to grill later.

  I’d reserved some of the marinade to use as a base for a salad dressing. I chopped lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers into a large wooden bowl. Then I sprinkled feta and olives over the top. I removed the lid from the container of extra marinade. It smelled heavenly. I added a splash of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Giving it a vigorous shake, I watched the oil and vinegar emulsify and then took a taste. Delicious.<
br />
  Breakfast wasn’t really my thing, despite Alex’s constant nagging. I surveyed the kitchen counter and settled on a banana. That should please my son. Maybe I should text him, and let him know that I’m starting my morning out right. I looked at the cuckoo clock. He should be awake and getting ready for school.

  I took a photo of my half-eaten banana with my cell phone and shot Alex a message. “Proud? I’m eating breakfast before work.”

  A minute later my phone dinged. “Nice, Mom. How much coffee u had?”

  “Never enough! Are you coming tonight?” Pubs in Leavenworth, as in Germany, were designed with families in mind. Kids could often be found noshing on warm German pretzels and drinking frothy root beer floats while their parents sipped stouts. Washington State law allowed for minors to be present as long as food was served and there was some sort of wall or barrier between the bar and the dining area. Garrett had wisely licensed Nitro as a family-friendly pub.

  “Yep.”

  “See you later. Love you. Have a great day!”

  “Luv u 2. Bye.”

  Having Alex at the party would give me an anchor; so would having Hans. I sent him a text too.

  “Are you coming tonight? Hope so. Be sure your brother doesn’t show, okay?”

  He texted back a few minutes later. “Wouldn’t miss it. Tonight’s about you. I’ll take care of Mac.”

  With that settled I jumped in the shower. Working at Der Keller meant that I hadn’t had to think about my wardrobe for years. My closet was stuffed with Der Keller sweatshirts, T-shirts, and baseball hats. I figured that Nitro’s soft opening called for something a little nicer than jeans.

  I found my red cocktail dress in the back of the closet. There was no way I was working all day at the brewery in that sucker, so I tugged on a pair of jeans and opted for an eggplant scoop-neck T-shirt. The purple brought out the bronze color in my skin, which had tanned naturally over the summer. I twisted my hair into a ponytail and tucked a pair of black sandals into my gym bag. Later I could change into my cocktail dress, but for the time being, I was all about comfort over fashion.

  I loaded my car with the food and headed into town.

  “Hey, Sloan! You moving in?” the town librarian yelled as I passed the library, designed to look like an alpine ski lodge, with boxes of party food and my red dress.

  “We’re doing a soft opening of the new pub tonight. Come by!”

  “I’ll be there, along with everyone else in town!” She waved and returned to watering the vivid red geraniums blooming in the window boxes.

  Living in Leavenworth sometimes felt a bit like stepping back in time, without the wagons and outdoor bathrooms, of course. It was impossible not to be swept up by the village’s charm. From the intricate details in each building’s Bavarian architecture to the soaring mountains and the Pacific Northwest’s friendly attitude, the village invited everyone in.

  In the mining and logging days, the Nitro building had housed a brothel. Like everything else in the village, it had been converted to a German-style chalet in the 1960s. Garrett’s great-aunt had run a successful restaurant on the ground floor and a bed-and-breakfast upstairs until about five years ago, when her health began to fail. The building had been empty ever since.

  Getting the space ready to reopen meant that Garrett had sunk a chunk of change into ground floor renovations. As far as I knew, he hadn’t touched the upstairs guest rooms yet. He’d moved into one of the larger guest suites, but otherwise the rambling building was empty. And I thought sleeping in the farmhouse was lonely.

  “Good morning,” I called out as I unlocked the door with my free hand and balanced the boxes of food with the other.

  Unlocking doors was going to take some getting used to.

  The door slammed behind me. “It’s me—Sloan. I’m here early!”

  No response. Garrett was probably still asleep.

  The muscles in my forearms started to spasm from the weight of the supplies. I hurried to the office and set the boxes on the concrete floor. As I bent over to retrieve my keys from a box, I accidentally kicked the base of the door. To my surprise, it swung open. Garrett had been so adamant about locking it that I couldn’t believe it was unlocked.

  Maybe he was right, I thought as I caught sight of the office space. Papers were strewn all over the floor. The filing cabinet was covered in scratch marks, as if someone had taken a key to it. The place had been trashed.

  Out of nowhere I heard a loud crash.

  I ran out to the brewery. “Garrett?”

  “Sloan?”

  I whirled around to find Garrett standing behind me. His hair was disheveled, and his shirt was untucked. He looked like he had just crawled out of bed, and his pants looked suspiciously like pajama bottoms.

  “Your office,” I sputtered. “Someone went through the office.” I pointed to the open door.

  Garrett perked up. “What?” He rushed to the office.

  I watched his shoulders sag as he stopped at the door.

  “Can you tell if anything’s missing?” I asked.

  He dropped to his knees and began picking up papers with notes, charts, and indecipherable scribbles on them. “No.” He shook his head. “But I can guess.”

  “Your recipes?” I stooped over to help him.

  Handing me a stack of papers, he nodded. “I thought this might happen.”

  Something didn’t add up. Why would someone ransack Garrett’s office for a beer recipe? “Don’t you have the recipe on your computer?” I asked.

  He cracked his knuckles. “Of course, but now someone else has it. What’s going to stop them from brewing my beer?”

  “Should we call the police?” I asked, setting paper on the desk. I’d never had to call the police. The biggest excitement in recent memory was last year’s hunt for the mayor’s missing cat.

  “No, don’t bother.”

  Why didn’t he want to call the police? After being so insistent about locking up, his reaction confused me. To him I said, “Okay. If you’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He sounded dejected.

  “I’ll clean up. Should I put the food for the party in the kitchen?”

  Garrett abandoned the clutter on the floor and stood. “Right, food. Yeah. What did you bring?”

  I showed him the boxes.

  “That looks like enough food to feed the entire town.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  He effortlessly grabbed the boxes and carried them to the out-of-date kitchen. I followed after him.

  He placed the boxes on the brown Formica countertop. “Something smells amazing. What did you make?”

  After I relayed the evening’s menu, Garrett let out a whistle. “Damn. That beats my pretzels. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble.”

  “No problem.” I brushed him off. “I love to cook.”

  I wasn’t sure how to frame my question about his files. I pretended to check on the salad dressing, removing the lid from the container and swirling the liquid in its plastic tub. “Hey, about your recipes. Doesn’t it seem weird—”

  Before I could finish, there was the sound of shrill voice calling, “Yoo-hoo! Anyone home?”

  I’d have recognized that voice anywhere—April Ablin. Oh no, not April Ablin.

  “Back here,” Garrett answered, before I had a chance to shush him. He strolled to the brewery.

  I shook my head frantically and looked for a place to hide. April ran Leavenworth’s tourism association and was notorious for ferreting out every detail of gossip she could. I hadn’t seen her since Mac and I split. April was the last person I wanted to see. Short of climbing into one of the fermenting tanks, there was no place for me to hide. I’d have to suck it up. Her heels clicked on the concrete floor as I walked as slowly as I could out toward the beer equipment.

  “Guten Morgen!” She plastered on a smile to match her caked-on makeup. “I’m April. You must be Garrett.” She curtseyed and lifted the sides of her frilly pink and
green checkered German dress. “You are even more handsome in person.”

  Garrett looked uncomfortable.

  I rolled my eyes. April was the only person in town who thought she was living in a real German village. None of the rest of us (including my in-laws, who actually were German) dressed in full barmaid attire unless it was for one of the festivals or special events.

  April moved closer to me and put her thin, freckled arm around my shoulder. Her voice was laced with fake sympathy as she squeezed me into a half hug. “Sloan, hon, how are you doing? I heard about Mac.” She whispered so loudly that Garrett turned away.

  “You need anything, hon, you know where to come. I mean, imagine all this time, I thought his flirting with me was harmless. I should have warned you.” She fanned her face.

  Resisting the urge to punch her, I grimaced and removed her hand from my shoulder. “Thanks, April.”

  “Now, Garrett, back to you.” April turned on the charm, batting her long, fake eyelashes and leaning forward so that her ample breasts, squeezed into a dress one size too small, were on full display. “You’ve been avoiding my calls. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for weeks. I had to pop in before the grand Partei—that’s German for party, as I’m sure you know—tonight.”

  Her teeth were coated like a candy apple in red lipstick. I didn’t say anything. April was on the wrong side of forty, and her attempt to hang on to her vanishing youth included applying hideous amounts of makeup and poorly done hair extensions. I also didn’t mention the fact that Partei in German referred to a political party, not a celebration.

  She babbled on. “You are simply the talk of the town. As the village liaison, I must know what prompted you to move from the big city and open this … this pub. You are planning to keep it in the German tradition, I hope?” She stopped and fixed her eyes on the bare white walls. “Oh dear, this is worse than I thought. I had heard a mumble or two that things had changed, but we’re going to have to help you get this looking like Beervaria, aren’t we?”