Trouble Is Brewing--A Bakeshop Mini-Mystery

by Ellie Alexander

  “Listen, I don’t want to keep you from your work. You’ve been so helpful. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done so far, but if you need to get back to the bakeshop, I totally understand.” She stood and stretched her angular shoulders. “I should probably finish setting up. The festival kicks off in a couple of hours.”

  “No way.” I held up my hands in protest. “There’s nothing I need to do at the moment, and now I’m invested in figuring this out. I can’t have your first impression of Ashland be your experience today. I’m sure we’re close.”

  “I really appreciate it. I’m going to owe you more than a tasting.” Sloan smiled. “Maybe we should go see if Mac found anything.”

  I agreed, and we returned the same way we came, both paying close attention to the backside of each building and keeping our eyes open for any sign of the teens. As we started to cross Main Street toward Lithia Park, Ashton appeared from out of nowhere. He was covered in sweat and gasping for breath.

  Sloan startled at the sight of him emerging from the creek down below.

  “Oh, hey, again,” he said pushing himself over the ledge.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked.

  His damp shirt clung to his skin. He checked behind him and then spoke in a rapid tone. “I thought I saw some kids messing around down by the creek. I hopped the fence and ran after them, but they disappeared.”

  Sloan looked as skeptical as I felt.

  “Is there a path down there?” she asked, moving her head to the left to see around him.

  Ashton didn’t answer. He shifted his body weight from side to side like he wanted to get away from us.

  “Did you happen to see the Harrison kids down there?” I asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know the Harrisons, but I caught some kids trying to sneak into the brew fest and chased them over here.” He glanced behind him again. “Look, I’ve got to jet. I’m due at the tasting room soon.”

  He took off at a full sprint.

  “That was weird,” Sloan said, watching him go.

  “I’m beginning to think that your only impression of Ashland is going to be how weird we are.”

  “Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Sloan asked. “I’m usually pretty good at reading people. It’s a survival skill I learned at a young age, and something about his body language makes me think that he wasn’t telling the truth, or at least not the whole story.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ears. “It’s probably more likely that he would have been able to get the keg out of the festival.”

  “Agreed.” I looked down at the raging creek. Our heavier than average winter rains had left it swollen and cresting near flood stage.

  “Are you wondering if he dumped the keg into the creek?” Sloan asked, following my gaze.

  I nodded.

  She frowned. “It would explain why he was sweaty and out of breath, but why dump one of our kegs? Pure sabotage?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” I shrugged.

  Sloan analyzed the situation as we returned to the park. “We have three viable suspects, the Harrison kids, Ashton, and Jeremy.” She stopped to show her vendor badge to the security guard. “My best guess is Jeremy, mainly because he seemed the most bitter.”

  I nodded and waited for the security guard to stamp the inside of my wrist.

  “But how did he get the keg, and where is it?” Sloan’s eyes lingered on an empty hand truck propped against one of the picnic tables.

  “That’s what we have to find out.” I scanned the circle of tents. “Maybe after you check in with Mac, we should stop by Jeremy’s tent again.”

  “Good plan.” Sloan strolled toward Der Keller’s tent. Her confidence was contagious. I wondered if she had developed it from working in what was traditionally a man’s world for so many years. I knew many women who enjoyed beer, but Sloan was the first female brewer I had ever met. Once we figured out what happened to the keg, I wanted to swap stories. Breaking in as a female chef had been a challenge for me. I had a feeling that we could spend hours chatting about having to contend with chauvinistic head chefs and brewers.

  Mac had returned to the tent and was pouring pints of a thick, dark beer for another brewer. “Hey, I thought you decided to ditch me,” he said to Sloan. His tone was playful, but she was all business in her response.

  Her tone shifted as she spoke, as if trying to pacify him. “No, we’ve been looking for the missing keg. Did you find anything?”

  He handed the brewer the glass of black-as-night beer. “That’s a dark chocolate stout. It’ll put hair on your chest.” He looked to me. “You want to try it?”

  “I’m fine for the moment.”

  “Did you find anything?” Sloan repeated.

  Mac poured himself half a pint. “Nope. It has to be someone after the recipe. Why take one keg? All of our other beers have been out for months. It can’t be a coincidence that they took the keg of Spring Fling.” His face matched his red plaid shirt. I wondered how long he’d been sampling their product.

  He had a valid point. The other brewer nodded in agreement.

  Sloan filled him in on what we had learned. Mac smirked. “You two are quite the dynamic duo, aren’t you? Sleuthing around town for a missing keg.”

  “At least one of us is focused on our product and quality control,” Sloan shot through a clenched jaw.

  There was obviously tension between them, and I didn’t want to get in the middle. Working together and being married had its advantages, but it also had its fair share of disadvantages.

  “We’ve got one more lead to follow up with,” Sloan continued.

  Mac nodded. “If not, we’ll have to hand it over to the police. People are going to start showing up soon.”

  “I know.” Sloan tossed her scarf onto the bar and checked her watch. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  Outside the tent, she kept her voice low. “The more I think about it, the more I’m sure it has to be Jeremy. Let’s check out his booth again. You keep him talking, and I’ll sneak around the perimeter of the tent and see if I can spot anything.”

  “It’s a plan,” I whispered.

  Jeremy was rolling tie-dyed T-shirts into tiny balls on the folding table at the back of his booth when I stepped inside. “You here for more?” He secured one of the shirts with a rubber band and then tossed it in the air. “I made these myself. Custom promo shirts, pretty sweet, huh?”

  “Good idea.” I wanted to keep him talking, and there was no better way than agreeing with him.

  He caught the shirt and launched it in the air again. “I don’t have the kind of cash those sellout brewers do, but like I told you, my beer is the real deal. Trust me; you can always taste the difference between something made by a machine and something made by hand. Don’t you agree?”

  As a matter of fact, I did agree. Home-baked sweet rolls or a hand-pressed piecrust always tasted better in my opinion. I distracted him by asking him a bunch of questions about the brewing process and his equipment.

  He went on and on about fermenting and how long to boil the grain for each recipe. I only understood about half the beer terminology he used. My heart rate picked up. It wasn’t as if Sloan was doing anything illegal, and yet I didn’t want her to get caught. To keep him occupied, I kept peppering him with questions.

  Finally, after what felt like forever, Sloan came into the tent, beaming. She held up the tap handle that we’d seen Jeremy drop earlier. “I found my keg.”

  “What? Huh? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jeremy twisted the shirt hands.

  “I saw the keg. It has our logo stamped on the side.” Sloan’s tone was even yet firm.

  Jeremy hung his head. “Fine. You caught me. Now what? Are you going to have me arrested?”

  Sloan folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. Why did you take it?”

  Jeremy stared at his dirty fe
et. No wonder they were so muddy. My tennis shoes had gotten damp just standing around in the grass. Dragging a keg must have made him sink into the wet sod.

  “Are you trying to copy our recipe?” Sloan pressed. “You know you could have asked. Like I explained earlier, we collaborate with other breweries all the time.”

  He shook his head. “No. I just wanted to see corporate beer scramble. I’m so tired of seeing big money come sweep up good, quality brewers.”

  “We’re not corporate beer. We’re a family-owned operation,” Sloan repeated.

  “I get that now. After you told me more about the brewery I felt bad. I was planning to bring the keg back, I just had to find the right opportunity.”

  Sloan looked at me and shrugged. “Listen, here’s what I want you to do. You’re going to take the keg back right now, and we’ll forget this ever happened. But in exchange for me turning a blind eye to your theft, you are going to agree to collaborate with three breweries—today. Before the festival closes tonight, I want confirmation that you’re going to be a team player. That is what this industry is about. Not tearing each other down.”

  Jeremy hung his head again. “Okay.”

  “You were nicer to him than most people would have been,” I said as we left the tent and Jeremy went to return the keg. “You could have pressed charges.”

  “I know, but what good would that have done other than solidify his distrust of bigger breweries? I’m serious about wanting to expand the craft. I love brewing, and getting to collaborate with brewers of all sizes is one of my favorite parts of the job.”

  “Me too,” I agreed. “I’ve learned so many tips and tricks from other pastry chefs. Not to mention that sometimes it can be a lonely gig. Getting to connect with other bakers always energizes me.”

  “Exactly.” Sloan smiled. Then she turned her attention to the back section of the gate where the teens were congregated. “Hey, look.” She nudged my waist.

  “Let’s go have a chat with them.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the vendor badge we had found in the forest.

  The Harrison kids were dressed in intentionally ripped jeans and hiking boots splotched with mud. When we approached the fence, Meadow, the oldest girl, with hair down to her hips, started to duck away.

  “Hey, wait!” I called, waving the vendor badge. “I found something you might want to see.”

  The teens stopped and looked at one another with wide eyes. “My friend Sloan and I took a hike up through Lithia Park,” I said over the sound of the band. “We found this.” I pressed the badge against the wire slots.

  Lark turned as bright red as a cherry turnover. “Oh, shoot.” Her doe-like eyes darted from her sister to her brother.

  Meadow glared at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s not ours.”

  Sloan stepped closer. “Hi, guys, you don’t know me, but I have a son about your age, and I would be absolutely devastated if I found out he had lied to adults.” There was something about her poised, motherly tone that made the three teens stand at attention. “You’re not going to get in trouble, but one of Der Keller’s kegs went missing this afternoon, and the police are going to get involved.”

  Her scare tactic worked. Forest threw his hands up. “We didn’t steal a keg. We had a prank planned. That’s all, I swear.”

  “What kind of prank?” I asked.

  He looked at his sisters. They nodded, knowing they had been caught. “The fencing hadn’t been put up here earlier, so we used the opportunity to sneak in and swipe a vendor pass. That way I could get in later once the festival was going.”

  “Why did you want to come back? To drink beer?” I had a feeling Forest’s mother wouldn’t like hearing that her underage son was sneaking into a brew fest.

  “No. No way.” He twirled a dreadlock with one hand. “We had an epic prank planned.”

  “Which was?” I peered through the slats in the metal fence.

  He smirked. “It’s kind of our signature thing.”

  “Let me guess,” I interjected. “Did it involve turning beer green?”

  “Maybe.” Forest kicked a pinecone at his feet.

  “Actually, this time we were going for purple,” Lark offered, reaching into a hemp satchel slung around her shoulder and removing a gallon jug of purple food coloring. A little food coloring goes a long way. It would have taken us months to go through that much dye at Torte.

  “I think it’s best if you guys head home.” I tucked the vendor pass back into my jeans. “I’ll hold on to this and forget I saw that.” I pointed to the purple jug.

  The teens looked disappointed that their prank had been foiled, but Forest took the gallon of food dye from his sister, and they left without a fight.

  “Well, that explains the missing pass, and why they were acting so cagey.” Sloan watched them traipse under the canopy of trees.

  I wondered if they were returning to their hideout to regroup. “That’s a huge bottle of food coloring. What was their plan?”

  Sloan glanced behind us. The festival grounds were buzzing with excitement as brewers popped from tent to tent, chatting amicably with their fellow craftspeople. Volunteers wearing neon T-shirts had begun arriving. Vendors grilled corn on the cob slathered with butter and hamburgers as the band played a warm-up set. “No idea. There are so many kegs here. Where would they even start?”

  She had a good point. Had the Harrison kids planned to sneak behind each tent and tamper with the keg lines, or had they concocted some other way of turning everyone’s beer purple?

  “I wonder if Ashton did see them sneaking in,” Sloan pondered aloud. “When we bumped into him by the creek, I would have bet money that he had taken the keg.”

  “Me too.” I nodded. The festival organizers stepped onto the stage and announced that the gates would be opening in thirty minutes. He addressed the volunteers, explaining procedures for the weekend.

  “We better get your tasting done,” Sloan said, hurrying toward Der Keller’s booth.

  Mac greeted us with a full pint glass and a hearty clap on the back. “Did you hear the news? The keg is back! I don’t know where it came from, but honestly, I don’t care. Spring Fling is flowing like gold and tasting even better.”

  Sloan winked at me. “Really? That’s great news.”

  She poured us both a pint and lowered her voice. “Cheers! And thanks for solving the mystery with me. Let’s keep it our secret. It was kind of fun to have an adventure, and it ended well.”

  I clicked my glass to hers. “Deal.” Then I took a taste of Der Keller’s newest debut. Immediately I was hit with the scent of citrus and something slightly sweet—like hints of honey. The beer was bright with a nice hoppy finish and lemony undertones. “This is amazing.”

  Sloan grinned. “It’s nice, isn’t it? I think it’s going to be a spring hit.” She took me through the rest of their beers, from a lovely pale pilsner the color of straw to that rich, dark chocolate stout, which was so thick and decadent that I wondered if a fork could stand up in the pint glass. Each of Der Keller’s beers were delicious, but the Spring Fling was my favorite. Mac and Sloan invited me to be their guest for the rest of festival, so I ended up spending the evening meandering through the tents and sampling Northwest-style IPAs that were so hoppy they made my tongue tingle and summer sessions with sweet floral notes and a subtle malty finish. I munched on grilled chicken and spicy jambalaya while dancing under the stars and twinkling Edison lights.

  At the end of the night Sloan sent me home with three growlers of beer. I couldn’t wait to get back to Torte to experiment. I was already dreaming up a chocolate layer cake infused with Der Keller’s stout and airy citrus cupcakes made with their Spring Fling. I promised that I would stop by the next day with samples of my beer-inspired baked goods. It had been an eventful afternoon. I had met a new friend, learned about craft brewing, and closed the case of the missing keg. I left feeling slightly tipsy and happy to know that my new friend’s impressi
on of Ashland had been restored.

  Read on for an excerpt of Death on Tap

  The first installment of the new Sloan Krause Mysteries, available October 2017 from Minotaur Books!

  Copyright © 2017 by Kate Dyer-Seeley

  Chapter One

  It wasn’t so much the sight of my husband’s bare ass that would become permanently etched in my memory, but rather the rhythmic sounds of the German brass band oompah-ing in the background, coupled with the strong, but delicious smell of grains steeping in the mash tun.

  I shouldn’t have been in the pub anyway. It was my day off, but instead of spending it in the late summer sun, I had opted to tinker with a new recipe I’d been working on. A few minutes into the brewing process, I realized I’d forgotten cinnamon. Mac, my husband and brewmaster for Der Keller (the Cellar if you don’t sprechen sie Deutsch, as my mother-in-law likes to say), was nowhere to be found. Typical.

  “Otto,” I called to my father-in-law, the patriarch of our family and an award-winning brewmaster. “I’m running to grab some cinnamon. Can you watch the wort? I’ll be back in a few.”

  “Ja, Sloan,” Otto replied from behind an eight-foot copper kettle. “I will wait with ze beer.”

  I grabbed a twenty from the register, tucked it into my pocket, and weaved through the crowd of regulars kicking back with midafternoon pints. Country air greeted me outside on the cobblestone streets. I hurried along Front Street for two blocks, passing flowerpots and window boxes stuffed with red geraniums, an authentic fifteen-foot-tall cuckoo-clock in the town square, and rows of antique streetlights. A-frame rooftops lined the thoroughfare like gingerbread cottages. The sound of Steller’s jays squawking greetings to each other overhead made me pause and look up.

  Gently sloping peaks rose around me in every direction. The nearby mountains sheltering our village stood at five to eight thousand feet, like gentle guardians watching over us. I smiled at the thought and noticed how the first signs of fall were beginning to creep in. A scattering of yellow and orange leaves dotted the otherwise dark green mountain side.