Wicked Harvest

by Karen MacInerney

  "I'm going to try," I said. "How are you with knots?"

  "Hopefully better than you," she said. The flashlight disappeared, and I busied myself treading water using two feet and one hand; the other hand was holding the limp kitten above me and out of the water. I paddled to the side until I found a tree root I could hold onto, then moved the kitten to my shoulder and grabbed the slimy root.

  I could hear her voice above me; hopefully she'd gotten hold of Tobias. A minute or two later, the light came back. "I untied it and retied it to the tree to make it as long as possible," she called down. "Let's hope it reaches!" As she spoke, the rope slithered down the side of the cistern. She lowered it until it came to an end... about eighteen inches out of my reach.

  "It's not quite long enough," I said.

  "Oh, no. What do we do now?"

  "Hang on," I said. "I might be able to reach it. Let me try."

  I took a deep breath and submerged myself completely, using my feet to kick as hard as I could and launch me out of the water. It got me closer, but not close enough. I gasped for air, tasting clay and dankness in my mouth, and tried again.

  Still nothing. The kitten mewled, frightened by the ruckus I'd created, and hunched up against the wall. So far this rescue attempt was not going well.

  "Now what?" Teena asked.

  "I'm thinking," I informed her.

  "Is there more rope?"

  "Not that I can think of," I said. "Wait. I've got sheets in the linen closet. Can you go grab one of those?"

  "I don't want to leave you here!"

  "It's okay," I said. "I can hold on, and even if I couldn't, I used to do swim team in high school. I can tread water for a few minutes."

  "If you're sure..."

  "I'm sure," I said. A moment later, the light vanished again, leaving only a small circle dotted with stars above me and the faint mewl of a frightened kitten echoing in the dank cistern.

  * * *

  By the time she came back, I was starting to feel chilled, and the kitten was starting to tremble from the cold. I didn't know how long he or she had been down here, but I was afraid if we didn't get out soon, the poor thing's chances might be low.

  The rope jerked back up the side of the cistern before slithering over the top and disappearing. "I'm doing the best knot I can," Teena announced, and a minute later, the rope came back down, a white sheet like a flag at the end of it. When it was fully extended, the bottom corner of the sheet was in the water, glowing white in the light of Teena's flashlight.

  "Ready?" I called.

  "Ready," she said. "I'll hold the rope just in case something goes wrong."

  "Make sure you don't end up in here with me," I warned her. Then I retrieved the shivering kitten from the tree root and tucked him into the top of my shirt; his wet body was cold against my skin.

  "Here goes nothing," I muttered, and grabbed the sheet, using my feet to brace me against the wall.

  Thankfully, the knot held—at least the knot holding the sheet to the rope—and before long I was grasping the rough rope, moving slowly, hand-over hand, my feet walking up the wall.

  My arms were screaming with pain, but I didn't let go. The starry circle at the top of the cistern grew closer and closer. I was just over halfway there when the kitten wriggled and slipped down my chest to my stomach.

  I couldn't let go of the rope or I'd fall, so I tucked my elbows close to my body. "Don't move," I said, praying that this rescue attempt didn't end in me dropping the kitten ten feet from the top of the cistern.

  The kitten slipped again, letting out a little mewl. "No," I breathed. At that moment, the scent of lavender, sharp and sweet, replaced the cold dankness of the cistern. I felt the kitten latch onto my shirt with its sharp little claws, and almost as if someone were guiding it, climb back up so that it was latched to the shirt just above my breastbone.

  "Thank you," I murmured, and with new purpose, reached up and moved another foot toward the opening.

  My arms and legs were on fire by the time I reached the top. "Grab the kitten," I begged Teena breathlessly. I didn't want to crush the poor thing trying to lever myself over the edge of the cistern.

  Teena bent down and detached her from my shirt, then reached out to my hand with her free one. "Let me help you," she said, and with her warm hand, helped pull me over the edge of the cistern onto the good, dry earth.

  * * *

  "Thank you so much for your help," I told her when we'd gotten back to the house a few minute later. I'd wrapped the kitten in warm towels and offered him a little bit of the kitten food Tobias had left me; he ate a few bites and drank some water before snuggling into my chest. Both Chuck and the gray kitten were fascinated by the new arrival. When I let them sniff him, the gray kitten stretched out a small paw and rested it on the second kitten's face. The orange tabby opened his green eyes—exactly the same shade as the first kitten's—and started purring.

  "I think they recognize each other," Teena said.

  "I think so too," I said. Chuck had lain down on the rug by the stove. On impulse, I tucked the orange kitten in next to him. He curled around him, and the gray kitten padded over and snuggled into his other side. I tucked the warm towel over them—I could hear the two kittens purring—and stood back, smiling.

  "You've got a whole little family here, don't you?" Teena said, a soft smile on her young face.

  "I'd been thinking about getting a cat. Now I've got two."

  "Three, if you can catch their mama," she pointed out.

  "True," I said. "I wonder if there are any more out there?"

  Teena paused for a moment, looking as if she were listening, then shook her head. "I think that's it."

  "Well, then," I said. "All we need now is names."

  "Smoky seems about right for the gray one," I said, "since we found her in the chimney."

  "How about Lucky for the orange one?'" Teena suggested with a grin.

  I laughed. "He certainly is."

  * * *

  Tobias raced to the farm as soon as I called him, and after making sure I was generally unscathed, checked the new kitten out. He proclaimed him not totally healthy, but not in imminent danger, and after Teena left, we snuggled the three animals together in the middle of my bed.

  "Any luck on figuring out what's going on with the cattle?" I asked as the kittens purred contentedly.

  "I think it's ergotism," he said. "Remember those black flecks I noticed in the feed?"

  "I do. What's ergotism?"

  "Ergot is a fungus that gets into some grain in cool, wet conditions; that's what the black flecks were. Historically, infected grain has been used in bread, beer, and other things with less-than-terrific results. In people, it causes a condition they used to call it Saint Anthony's Fire in the Middle Ages. They think it may have been associated with some of the witch trials; it can cause hallucinations and other issues."

  "Teena was talking about that just today!" I said, sitting up. "She called it St. Elmo's Fire, which I knew was wrong, and said something about Adriana's barley having some kind of fungus associated with it. Must have been because of the wet spring we had; we had a few late cold fronts, too, before the heat arrived. Anyway, that must be why Sweetwater didn't buy it."

  "Good thing they didn't," Tobias said. "That could have been really bad. Do you know who she ended up selling it to?"

  "No, but I've got a good guess," I said, thinking of Lotte at the feed store and all the cattle who had mysteriously been coming down sick.

  "I didn't think that could be it, since it's not anything I've encountered in Texas before. But I did some research on the symptoms, and everything points to ergotism."

  "I'll bet Adriana sold her barley as cattle feed," I said. "And the mill didn't know enough to turn it away."

  "I'll know for sure if that's what it is shortly," Tobias said. "I sent a sample to be tested. But in the meantime, I'd stick to hay."

  "I will," I said. "Will the cows recover?"

  "I
f they're switched to uninfected feed, I hope so," he said.

  "I'm glad you've got that figured out," I told him.

  "Well, that's my theory, anyway. And what you told me about the barley Sweetwater refused makes me think I'm on the right track. Even if Adriana's grain wasn't the source, if hers was infected, there's a good chance someone else's was."

  "With any luck, that's one mystery solved; and hopefully with no casualties, I said."

  "Speaking of casualties," he said, raising an eyebrow at me, "next time you go down a cistern, could you have someone who isn't a teenager as backup?"

  "She's very responsible. I had her leave you a message," I said. "And it all worked out okay. I was afraid if I left him down there much longer that he wouldn't make it."

  "He might not have," Tobias acknowledged. "Hypothermia's dangerous"

  "Well, all's well that ends well," I said. "At least as far as the kittens go. We just have to trap the mama. I've been leaving food out for her, and it's disappearing, but I'm not sure if it's the mama cat or the raccoon who's eating it."

  "Just keep leaving it out," he said. "I know you think we've got all the kittens, but I'd rather wait a little bit anyway, just to be sure. Maybe she'll get used to you and be easier to trap."

  "Maybe," I said. "Here's hoping." I petted the kittens' heads, amazed at how perfect the little creatures were, and grateful we'd managed to save both of them.

  I just wished I could figure out the mystery of what had happened to Felix—and Billy.

  * * *

  After finishing my chores the next day, I called Quinn.

  "Are you up for a field trip?" I asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I want to talk to Max and ask about Billy and the head brewer job."

  "So you're going to talk with a murder suspect, and you want me to come with you?"

  I shrugged. "Strength in numbers? I'm not going to tell him he's a murder suspect. I'm just going to tell him... well, I don't know what I'm going to tell him, but I need to know what happened about the job."

  "Sounds like a solid plan."

  "I'll come up with something; and you'll be with me if I get into trouble. Tobias chided me for going down a cistern with only a teenager present to help me if something went wrong. You're not a teenager, so I should be okay."

  "What? What cistern?"

  "I'll tell you if you come with me. Will you?"

  "I'm probably an idiot, but yes. Have you told Tobias you're going?"

  "I plan to tell him when we're on our way."

  "And I'll tell Peter." She sighed. "I do wish we had a gun."

  "You're testing for a black belt soon. Besides, don't you still have some pepper spray?"

  "I do!" she said brightly. "Thanks for reminding me. What time shall I expect you?"

  "I'm on my way over, if you're free."

  "I'll be here with bells on," she said.

  20

  The Pfeiffer brewery was a very different operation from Sweetwater. Instead of neatly manicured gardens and clean-looking buildings, Max Pfeiffer's brewery was a small collection of derelict buildings decorated liberally with discarded tires, rusted-out appliances, and the carcasses of two ancient pick-up trucks.

  I pulled in next to an old Ford pick-up, which was the only vehicle not on blocks in the overgrown gravel lot, killed the engine, and turned to Quinn. "Got your pepper spray?"

  "Right in my pocket," she said, patting the right leg of her pants. "Got your plan?"

  "I think so," I said.

  "That's encouraging."

  "We'll be fine," I said. "How's the battery on your phone?" I asked.

  "Eight-seven percent," she reported.

  "Can you put it on record? In case we get something interesting?"

  She shrugged. "Sure." She set up the phone to record and tucked it into the front pocket of her blouse. Then we both took deep breaths and got out of the truck.

  "What now?" she asked.

  "I think the main part of the brewery looks like it's over there," I said, pointing to the large, barn-like structure behind a squat brick house and two sheds in various stages of deterioration. The big front doors were open, and although I couldn't see anyone, I could hear the humming of machinery from inside.

  "Does he not have anyone working for him?" she asked. "Seems like a lot to run a brewery by yourself."

  "Maybe that's why he was talking with Billy," I said. "Shall we?"

  "Might as well get it over with," she said.

  The smell of beer was strong as we walked into the barn. "Hello?" I called.

  "Who's there?" The voice was gruff, and came from the back corner, behind several pallets of white cans with scarlet lettering labeled, simply, with no extra graphics, PFEIFFER DARK BEER. It reminded me of a generic label in a grocery store. No wonder Max was losing out to Sweetwater.

  "Lucy Resnick and Quinn Sloane. We were on our way to LaGrange and decided to stop by," I lied.

  "What do you want?" Max was a bit wobbly, it seemed; in his right hand was a blue can marked PFEIFFER LAGER. He took a swig as he stood there, and I got a sour whiff off him; he'd definitely been drinking. I looked around at the complicated system of tanks and pipes; it looked not nearly as clean as what I'd seen at Sweetwater, and there was a lot less of it, since Pfeiffer had a smaller concern, but that didn't make it any less dangerous.

  "I heard you were talking with Beth Collins about joining up with Brewlific," I said, cutting to the chase. His scalp gleamed under the long strands of gray hair, which appeared not to have been washed for a while. Nor had his John Deere T-shirt, it seemed; it was so dirty I could barely identify the logo. "Someone mentioned you interviewed Billy Brindle about joining up with the brewery. I'm sure you know what happened to him... I was wondering if he said anything about feeling under threat at Sweetwater?"

  "That place was a racket," he said. "I wouldn't work there if you paid me."

  I was pretty sure that's how employment worked generally—you got paid for working—but I just smiled at him and asked, "Why?"

  "They're all about that marketing stuff. And they're greedy... taking what isn't theirs."

  "I understand they took over some things from the brewery your family used to own."

  "That's right," he said. "They didn't even ask. Just took it. Come in with all their fancy marketing things... they're not even from here. What right do they have to horn in on my turf?"

  "I can see it would be upsetting. I was kind of surprised to see you at the brewery, actually. What made you decide to go?"

  "Competitive market research," he said. "Plus, I wanted to meet Miz Collins, talk to her about going with a real local business, not some jumped-up big-city enterprise."

  "How did it go?"

  He looked down and to the left. "We're talkin'," he said.

  "I'm sure your odds are much better now that Felix is gone and Simon's in jail," Quinn said. A small smile played around his mouth, but he said nothing. "It must have been a disappointment to lose Billy, though. He had all of Felix's recipes, I hear."

  "He was a waste of time," Max said. His face reddened as he spoke. "Cocky millennial, if you ask me."

  "So he said no," I said.

  "He didn't see quality and history when he saw it!" Anger contorted Max's face. "My grandfather Helmut died for his craft. I won't see his legacy destroyed by some cocky young upstart. You know what happened to my great-grandfather, right?"

  "What did happen?" I asked. "I read he died in some sort of accident?"

  "One of his rivals dropped a ton of stone on him. And then they drove his poor widow out of business."

  "That's awful," I said. "I'm so sorry."

  "Well," he said, "you can see I wasn't going to let history repeat itself."

  I wasn't sure exactly what that meant—no one, to my knowledge, had threatened to drop a bunch of rocks on Max—but "history repeats itself" was exactly what Teena had said when Felix died. I was beginning to believe Quinn and I had figured
out who had killed Felix—and probably Billy. But how did that fit in with the Red & White?

  "Billy sounds like he was a real jerk," I said. "What exactly did he say to you to make you so angry?"

  "He said he'd rather drink horse piss than... well, I won't tell you what he said," he spluttered, and took another swig from the can in his hand. "And then he was goin' to talk to that woman who calls herself a reporter, down at the Buttercup Zephyr."

  "That sounds horrible," I said. "What was he going to tell her?"

  "That..." He looked away. "That I'd tried to hire him away, of course. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Sweetwater is dead in the water, and I'm busy; I've got work to do, filling all these cans." He pointed to a pallet of red and white cans waiting to be filled.

  Red & White. Red and white. The can next to Felix's dead body had been red and white.

  I swallowed hard.

  "It was kind of poetic justice," I said, "being able to drop that load of barley on Felix's head."

  "It was," he said, puffing his chest out. "He got what he deserved. And my great-granddaddy's beer brought him right to it. The bastard couldn't stand seeing that can in his perfect Disneyland brewery. Stooped right down to..." He stopped, eyes wide. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Yes, you do," I said, taking a step back. "That's why you went there. And Billy refused to give you the recipes and was rude. He was going to go back and tell Simon what you'd done. You couldn't stand the humiliation, so you killed him."

  "Got the recipes, too," Max said, his eyes cold. He reached behind him and fumbled for a moment, then he pulled a gun out of what seemed like thin air.

  "Crap," Quinn murmured beside me. I could see her hand stray to the pepper spray in her pocket, then move away as she reconsidered. She looked at me. "Plan B?"

  "How did you do it?" I asked Max, playing for time.