Beyond a Reasonable Stout

by Ellie Alexander

  “What’s tonight like?” Hans asked. “You want to get it over with?”

  “Can’t.” I wiped down a spot on the bar. “Alex is having friends over to study, and I promised to bring them pizza.”

  “We can come to your place if it’s easier. Have him on your turf?”

  “No. I don’t want to have any conversations around Alex.”

  “That’s fair. Why don’t you take a look at your week and come by my studio sometime? I’m wide open, so whatever works for you is fine with me.” Hans finished his drink. “Remember, we’re a team on this. I’ve got your back, Sloan.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it. I just wish there was a way I could avoid talking or seeing your brother for a while. Or forever.”

  Hans laughed. “You’re not always alone on that.”

  He left, holding the door open for a regular who was entering the pub. I thought about Ross as I poured a pint of our Cherry Weizen (another Oktoberfest specialty). Maybe April had witnessed a fight. I would have to swing by the Underground and see if I could get anything out of him. As for Mac, he could wait until tomorrow or never.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  THE AFTERNOON WAS UNEVENTFUL. LIKE cleaning, a big part of brewing was waiting. We were in the waiting stage for our holiday line. By late afternoon, the tasting room had picked up a bit, with locals stopping by for a happy-hour pint before heading home. I enjoyed the energy of the small crowd. Garrett stayed in the back most of the day, while Kat and I tag-teamed the bar. She had an easy style with customers. I was glad to see her building rapport with some of our regulars.

  “Do you want me to spend some time looking for more beer themes online tonight?” Kat asked when she came up to the bar with a tray of empty tasters. “It’s been slow enough that I can make some notes while I’m working.”

  “That would be good.” We were planning to design each room upstairs with a unique theme. Kat and I had brainstormed a list of potential themes that we presented to Garrett. After much discussion, we had narrowed it down to four ideas. Kat and I had been putting together mock-ups of each theme. Every room would represent one of the components of beer—grain, hops, yeast, water.

  Hops and water had been easy to design around. We planned to use fresh dried hops to make wreaths and garlands for the hop room. We would accent it with photographs of Washington’s world-famous hop fields and decorate the room in hop-inspired pale green paint. For the water room we would showcase Leavenworth’s snowcapped mountains, Icicle Creek, and the Wenatchee River. Kat came up with the idea of adding a small indoor water fountain so that guests could drift off to sleep with the relaxing sounds of trickling water.

  The grain and yeast rooms had been more challenging. We were considering painting the grain room in sepia tones and covering one wall with a mural of golden Yakima Valley wheat. Yeast on its own wasn’t particularly compelling. Yes, it was the magic ingredient in beer, but it was hardly photogenic. We’d been going back and forth about keeping it as a theme or swapping to something else when Kat stumbled upon a quote online: “Every loaf of bread is a tragic story of grains that could have become beer but didn’t.”

  We decided to paint one wall in the yeast room with chalkboard paint and cover it with funny quotes about beer. We’d decorate the other walls with chemistry posters and beer charts to play up the science behind Nitro. Kat had been amassing quotes and anything else that might work in our soon-to-be-spruced-up guest rooms.

  Kat’s enthusiasm for scouring the Web to find the coolest products and accessories was refreshing. She wasn’t the slightest bit jaded. Her earnest spirit brought a lightness to the pub. And I had to admit that I had a newfound excitement about the project. Garrett had given us complete autonomy. After so many years of living in Mac’s shadow and constantly second-guessing myself, something as simple as redecorating a guest room felt almost monumental. The worst part was that at least half of the blame was mine. I had allowed myself to be consumed by Mac’s larger-than-life personality. I was determined not to let that happen again.

  “Let’s go over the final sketches tomorrow morning,” I said to Kat, doing a last scan of the bar before I left.

  “I’ll poll everyone who comes in tonight. Get opinions on what else they might want for an immersive beer experience.” Kat pointed to her sketchbook. “I’ll show them our ideas and see what they think—cool?”

  “Cool.” I smiled. “See you tomorrow.” I left Kat and went to the office to say good-bye to Garrett. He was flipping through a pile of beer supply catalogues.

  “How many trees do you think were killed to produce this stack?” Garrett didn’t look up. “I have to give them credit for creativity. Listen to this. ‘It’s beginning to look a lot like Craftsmas’ or ‘I’m knocking back some Rein Beer this year.’”

  I chuckled. “Brewers never pass up a good pun.”

  “How did that trend get started?” Garrett licked his index finger and turned the page on the catalogue.

  “Good question. We should stick Kat on researching that. She’s in her element looking up beerish stuff for the guest rooms.”

  “You should take these away from me,” Garrett replied, holding up the catalogue. “I’ve suddenly decided that we should be selling beer-themed ugly Christmas sweaters and red and green growler koozies.”

  “Why not?”

  “No. Sloan, you’re supposed to be the voice of reason around here. Stop me.” He pretended that his hands were shaking as he tried to force the catalogue shut.

  I laughed. “Is that all I’m good for? Being the adult?”

  “Hardly. You’re the backbone of this operation. I literally have no idea what I would do without you. How did I ever think I was going to launch Nitro on my own?” Garrett’s voice had a raspy quality.

  “Glad to be of service.” I kept my tone carefree.

  Garrett tossed the catalogue in the pile on his desk. “Are you out of here?”

  “Yep. Mom duty calls. I’m on pizza delivery tonight. Alex and his friends are having a study session for midterms at our—” I stopped myself. “At my place.”

  “My mom could have learned a lesson or two from you. She failed to deliver pizza for me and my friends. When I had friends over to study, she’d tell us to grab whatever was in the fridge. I should have reported her to the authorities for neglect.” The minute the words escaped Garrett’s mouth, a look of horror flashed across his face. “Oh, crap. Sorry, Sloan. I was being glib. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s no big deal.” I tried to shift the conversation. “The big dilemma is whether to grab salads to go with their pizzas or cookie dough.”

  “Duh. Cookie dough.” Garrett stood. “Really, Sloan, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I’m so sorry.”

  “Stop. It’s fine. I’m a grown woman, I can handle a joke.”

  Garrett sighed and looked at his feet. “I know, but—”

  “Seriously. It’s fine.” I glanced at the atomic clock above the door. “Look, I’ve got to jet and get these dudes carbo-loaded on pizza. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I bolted before he tried to apologize again. Garrett was far from insensitive. I knew he was making a joke. I didn’t care. What I cared about was the look of pity he had given me when he realized his oversight. I had never been able to stand the thought of anyone pitying me. My entire childhood had been a rotation of teachers, social workers, and medical professionals who had given me the same look of sympathy. I hated it.

  I shook off the familiar feeling of anger welling in my stomach as I walked to Kuchen, the pizza shop. Translated, Kuchen means pie. Another clever pun. I supposed Leavenworth and breweries had that in common. Of course I knew from Otto and Ursula that our Americanized version of a German village sometimes left gaping holes in translation. Like the fact that Ursula would refer to Kuchen as a sweet pie, not a pizza. It was one of the many quirks that made me appreciate our little town even more.

  A breeze sent leaves swirling f
rom the trees. I could see my breath in front of my face as I rounded the corner onto Front Street. It was almost time to break out my winter parka and snow boots.

  The pizza shop’s sign always brought a smile to my face. It was designed with a Bavarian scroll and German Alps, only the Alps were slices of pizza lined up to look like a mountain range.

  A small crowd of thirty to forty people had gathered in front of the shop. As I got closer, I noticed Valerie Hedy in the center of the action. She held a megaphone to her lips.

  “Thank you all for your support,” she said as I joined the circle of people. “I’ve been in contact with the police as well as the current city council, and there has been no decision made as of yet.”

  “What’s she talking about?” I asked the woman standing next to me.

  “Valerie is trying to petition to keep the ballot as is. It’s so close to the election. The ballots have already been printed. There’s not time to try to recruit another candidate. I heard someone say that it’s too bad Kristopher wasn’t married. His wife could have stepped in.”

  “Really?”

  The woman nodded. “Yeah, I guess it happened in a senate race in Missouri a few years ago. One of the candidates died in a plane crash. His name remained on the ballot, and he actually won, so his widow agreed to fill his seat.”

  “That’s crazy.” I inched to the left to get a better view. Valerie was dressed in campaign gear from head to toe. The megaphone seemed like overkill. It wasn’t as if she was speaking to a crowd of hundreds, but then again, maybe it was due to her diminutive presence in front of crowds. Gone was the forceful personality I had witnessed during her confrontation with Kristopher last night.

  Valerie continued speaking into the megaphone. “The council is reviewing electoral procedures. They think there’s a very likely chance that the election will go on as is. The ballots have already been printed. That means that Kristopher’s name will still be on it.”

  “Does that mean you could lose to a dead guy?” someone behind me asked.

  Valerie gave a small laugh and then tried to make her face look serious. It didn’t exactly work. She looked like she’d just tasted a bad batch of beer. “Obviously, we are all mourning the loss of Kristopher. Yes, we were opponents, but he served this community well for many years, and I respect him for that.”

  “You didn’t answer the question,” the person repeated.

  I turned around and realized it was Conrad, the owner of The Nutcracker Shoppe. He waited with his arms folded across his chest for Valerie’s reply.

  “Well, technically, yes. Assuming the council grants approval for next Tuesday’s election to proceed as planned, then yes, Kristopher’s name will still be on the ballot.”

  “So, you could lose to a dead guy,” Conrad said again. He was bundled up in a nutcracker stocking cap and matching scarf. I had to give him credit for embracing the vibe.

  Valerie flashed him a forced smile. “Technically speaking, yes.”

  “Wait. Hold on a second.” Conrad pushed closer to Valerie. “What would happen if he wins?”

  “I’m confident that, thanks to you wonderful voters, we won’t have to worry about that.” Valerie’s smiled was plastered on. It made my cheeks hurt.

  Conrad wasn’t satisfied. “But what if you don’t?” His tone was almost threatening.

  Valerie’s lips pursed and her smile tightened further. “I don’t foresee that being an issue. As many of you who were at last night’s event at Der Keller know, I’ve been so fortunate to have the support of Leavenworth’s small business community, teachers’ association, as well as law enforcement—”

  “We get it,” Conrad interrupted. “What I want to know is what happens on the off chance that Kristopher wins? Does that mean his insane prohibition plan wins too? We’re going to take Leavenworth back to the 1920s? How did that work out back then?”

  The energy in the crowd began to shift. People murmured under their breath. Valerie was starting to lose control.

  “No. Definitely not.” Valerie shifted her weight from one side to the other. I got the feeling she was ready to be done with Conrad’s questions. “The council is, as we speak, reviewing other instances here in Washington State where a deceased citizen has been elected into office. Believe it or not, it has happened before. But the odds of Kristopher winning were slim to none already, and now that he’s dead, the odds are even more astronomical. The council will have a contingency plan in place in the event he should win.”

  “What’s the contingency?” Conrad refused to back down. The woman next to me rolled her eyes.

  Valerie shrugged. She looked around desperately as if hoping that someone—anyone—would ask another question. No one did. “I can’t tell you for sure, but they mentioned potentially appointing someone to the council for the first year of his term, and then his seat would be reopened for election the following year. Whoever they appoint would have to run if they wanted to remain in office.”

  “Who would they appoint?” Conrad asked. He unwrapped and wrapped the wool nutcracker scarf as he spoke.

  “I have no idea.” Valerie turned away from him and shifted focus in the opposite direction. “That does bring us to tonight. Thank you so much for being willing to go door-to-door with me. Our efforts tonight are about reminding people to get out and vote on Tuesday.” She motioned to a woman standing next to her, who handed her a box. Valerie opened it and held up a door tag. “These vote reminders need to be hung on every door in town. You don’t need to knock or engage in discussion with anyone. All that we’re asking you to do is leave one of these door tags on the handle. If you happen to meet anyone while you’re volunteering, simply remind them that the election is on Tuesday and to be sure to cast their vote. Now more than ever, we need to get people out to the polls. We don’t want voters to be complacent just because Kristopher is dead. Every vote counts.”

  She passed around the box.

  “I’d like you to go in teams of two. We’ll meet back here for drinks and pizza as soon you’re done. Any questions?” She intentionally kept her gaze away from Conrad.

  I ducked behind the group and headed into Kuchen while they divided into teams. The scent of wood-fired pies immediately warmed my senses.

  “Hi, Sloan, I’ve got a bunch of piping-hot pizzas with your name on them,” the pizza shop owner said to me.

  “That’s good, because I’ve got a bunch of hungry teenage boys at home, and I fear for my safety if I show up empty-handed.”

  He handed me the boxes of pizza.

  “Any chance you have some of your world-famous cookie dough pizzas left?”

  “I do, indeed. How many can I get you?”

  “Better go with three,” I said. The cookie dough pizza was an ingenious build-your-own dessert. It was a sweetened pizza dough liberally buttered and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. It came with containers of chocolate chip cookie dough, chunks of chocolate, caramel sauce, marshmallows, and nuts. The boys could sprinkle the sweet pizza with pieces of dough, marshmallows, and nuts. Then the desserts would be baked until the cookie dough and marshmallows melted into the crust. It was one of Alex’s favorite weekend desserts. Mac used to bring home pizzas on Fridays, and the three of us would curl up on the couch together for a movie marathon.

  Those days are over, Sloan, I said to myself as I waited for the owner to assemble the cookie dough pizzas. When he returned with more boxes, I had to take two trips to the car. I thanked him, paid for the pizzas, and headed for home. A slice of pizza and cold beer sounded like just what the doctor ordered after this insane day.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  “WHO’S HUNGRY?” I ASKED WHEN I returned home to find a group of famished boys in my kitchen.

  Alex and his friends inhaled the pizzas. It never ceased to amaze me how much food teenage boys could consume. I snuck a slice of sausage, tomato, and olive onto a plate for myself and poured a pint of Der Keller’s winter ale. Mac had installed a
beer fridge with four taps in the garage. We kept small kegs of Der Keller’s beer on tap for parties, family dinners, or unexpected guests.

  “You guys need anything else?” I asked Alex and his friends, who had taken over the dining room table. Backpacks and soccer gear were piled in front of the fireplace. Textbooks, notebooks, and smartphones lined the table. The kitchen had always been my favorite, a sacred space in the house, with its high-beamed ceilings, wood-burning fireplace, and clapboard walls. Lately, it had lost some of its charm. Hearing the sound of the boys’ laughter helped remind me of what a happy place this used to be.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Krause,” they called in unison.

  They were a good group of kids. Most of them had known each other since they were in diapers. I was glad that Alex had a solid support system.

  I left them to study and polish off the few remaining pieces of pizza. I went to my bedroom and made myself comfy on the couch. Our master bedroom was the size of a small house. It had a large bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a seating area with two plush chairs, a love seat, bookshelves, and a television. The seating area was arranged near the oversized windows that looked out onto the backyard. I rested my plate on my lap and turned on the TV. I wasn’t much of television person. More than anything because I’d never had time. Between my work at Der Keller, raising Alex, and always being ready to entertain last-minute guests Mac would bring home, I rarely had time to myself. That had changed. Now I had too much time on my hands.

  I flipped the channel until I landed on the local news. The lead story was about Kristopher’s murder.

  “Scandal rocks the beloved Bavarian village of Leavenworth, Washington,” a young reporter said with the intonation of a soap opera star. “I’m here live in the beer capital of the Pacific Northwest with Police Chief Meyers.” She thrust a microphone in Chief Meyers’s face and began bombarding her with questions.

  Chief Meyers answered nearly every question with “I can’t talk about any details in an open investigation.” Her stern face was impassive, as was her body language. I could tell the young reporter was getting frustrated with the chief’s canned responses.