by Joyce Tremel
Praise for
To Brew or Not to Brew
“Joyce Tremel’s debut novel is cleverly developed, infused with fascinating details of craft brewing plus the very real flavor of Pittsburgh, and distilled into a unique and charming mystery. A delicious blend of strong characters and smooth delivery, To Brew or Not to Brew is sure to appeal to mystery readers and beer aficionados alike.”
—Jennie Bentley, New York Times bestselling author of the Do-It-Yourself Mysteries
“A heartwarming blend of suds and suspense, featuring a determined heroine and her big Irish family. Tremel knows and loves her Pittsburgh setting, making the mystery all the more real and enjoyable.”
—Cleo Coyle, New York Times bestselling author of the Coffeehouse Mysteries
“This charming debut novel stands out with a brewery setting that offers a unique twist on typical books within the genre. An assorted mix of characters provides a diverting dose of humor, flirtation, and heart. Between the peek into the brewing industry and the mouthwatering food descriptions, readers may find themselves scurrying to their nearest pub even while the baffling case compels them to devour just one more chapter!”
—RT Book Reviews (top pick)
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Joyce Tremel
TO BREW OR NOT TO BREW
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by Joyce Tremel
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN: 9780698181755
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Whew! I can hardly believe that a second book has hit the shelves (or e-reader in some cases). It never would have happened without a lot of help.
The two people I want to thank first are my agent, Myrsini Stephanides at the Carol Mann Agency, and my editor, Kristine Swartz. Myrsini has been a great champion of my writing and is truly awesome to work with. Kristine has an amazing editorial eye, and it’s due to her that the timeline works in this book because, frankly, it was a mess. She has the ability to see everything I miss and to help me make sense of it.
I also want to thank everyone at Penguin Random House for giving me the opportunity to write this series. They employ the most wonderful editors, copy editors, and cover artists who all work hard to make each and every book a success. And I can’t forget publicist Danielle Dill. She is great to work with and always quick to answer my questions.
Thanks also to the reviewers, book bloggers, librarians, booksellers, and all the cozy mystery groups and readers for being so supportive of the Brewing Trouble series. Special thanks to everyone in the Pittsburgh chapter of Sisters in Crime and booksellers Natalie Sacco and Trevor Thomas at Mystery Lovers Bookshop.
Once again, thank you to Scott Smith at East End Brewing, who is still willing to answer my dumb questions. If you’re ever in Pittsburgh, be sure to stop at his place. Tell him I sent you. On second thought, maybe it’s better not to mention me.
Last, but not least, thank you to my husband and sons for being so supportive. It means everything to me. I love you guys!
CONTENTS
PRAISE FOR TO BREW OR NOT TO BREW
TITLES BY JOYCE TREMEL
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RECIPES
EXCERPT FROM A ROOM WITH A BREW
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
I looked at the printout in my hand one more time, then checked the number spray-painted on the gravel in the formerly empty lot in Pittsburgh’s Strip District. “Thirty-eight. This is it,” I said to Jake Lambert, my assistant and chef—and, more importantly, my boyfriend. Sometimes I couldn’t get used to the fact that we were a couple. Sort of, anyway. Jake was my older brother Mike’s best friend and I’d known him almost all my life. He’d been the object of my huge teenage crush, even though I had been only Mike’s baby sister to him. When he moved back to Pittsburgh after retiring from hockey, I hired him as my chef and I realized that crush had never gone away. It also finally sank in that I wasn’t just Mike’s sister to him anymore. We had decided to take things slowly, though. He’d just gotten out of a bad relationship and we didn’t want to jump into anything and ruin a good friendship.
Jake dropped the poles and tent parts he’d lugged from his truck. “Thank goodness. I was starting to think they skipped us.” He swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. It was only nine in the morning and already the temperature had hit eighty. Not unusual for a mid-July day, and we’d dressed for the heat. Jake wore khaki shorts and a white tank top, while I’d opted for my ancient denim cutoffs and a teal tank.
It had taken us twenty minutes to find the designated spot where we were to set up our tent for the inaugural Three Rivers Brews and Burgers Festival, which would take place over the course of this weekend and next weekend. It was Friday, and while the festival didn’t officially begin until tomorrow, most of the participants would be setting up today. It was kind of like a soft opening. It would give everyone a chance to meet the other brewers, and the judges the chance to sample our brews if they wanted. My brewpub, the Allegheny Brew House, was one of the fifty breweries and brewpubs invited to participate in what everyone hoped would be an annual event. There would be prizes for the best beers and for the best burger creation. I was entering three beers in the competition—a chocolate stout, an IPA, and my newly developed citrus ale.
So far, Jake was keeping his burger recipe top secret. Even my friend Candy Sczypinski, who owned the Cupcakes N’at bakery next door to the brewpub, couldn’t get it out of him. And Candy had an uncanny knack for learning everyone’s secrets. Her information network rivaled the NSA’s. Maybe it was the fact
she looked like Mrs. Claus—if Mrs. Claus were a devout Steelers fan, that is. In any case, she’d never failed to get the scoop on anything going on in our Lawrenceville neighborhood—until now.
Jake stuck his hands into the front pockets of his shorts. “Do you want me to start setting up?”
Before I answered, a model-thin woman with an auburn ponytail and carrying a clipboard came up to us. She was dressed less casually than we were, in white capris and a navy-and-white cotton blouse. She reached out her hand. “Ginger Alvarado. You must be Maxine O’Hara. We spoke on the phone.”
I shook her outstretched hand. “Call me Max. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.” I introduced her to Jake.
“The hockey player, right?” she said.
“Retired.” Jake smiled, although I was sure he knew the inevitable question was coming.
“Aren’t you a little young for that?”
“It just leaves me more time for my second career.” It had become his standard answer, even though it wasn’t the reason he’d had to quit a few years early.
“I’m looking forward to tasting whatever masterpiece you’ve come up with.” Ginger turned to me. “And tasting your beer. I’ve heard a lot of good things about your pub.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m happy to hear that.”
Ginger slid a paper from her clipboard and passed it to me. “These are some general suggestions on getting your tent up and situated today. You can pull your vehicle up to unload, but move it to the lot next door when you’re finished. If you’re going to tap your kegs today, I don’t recommend leaving them here overnight. We’ve hired some off-duty Pittsburgh police officers, but only for the festival itself. Definitely don’t leave anything valuable in your tent.” She pointed to an area behind us. “Most of the temporary electric you’ll need is set up, and by the end of the day we should have all of it in place.
“Jake, the kitchen is over there.” She pointed to a large white tent at the far end of the lot. “There are twenty-five chefs registered for the contest, so you’ll all be sharing the prep space under the tent. There are plenty of both charcoal and propane grills surrounding the tent, thanks to some generous donors. The burger tasting will begin tomorrow afternoon, and the field will be whittled down to ten finalists by four o’clock. Those ten will compete next weekend in the final, where it will be whittled down to five—a winner and four runners-up. Your time slot is on that paper I just gave you two.”
She reminded us that the festival hours would be this Saturday from eleven a.m. to nine p.m. and Sunday from noon to five p.m. The second week would be the same, with the addition of official Friday hours of eleven to eight.
“The beer judging will be ongoing, since there are so many brewers,” she continued, “and everyone attending the festival will get a scorecard to mark their favorites so they can vote online in addition to scoring by our three judges. Winners will be revealed next weekend at the festival’s conclusion.”
Ginger glanced at her clipboard. “Feel free to roam around and meet the other vendors. I know you probably know some of them, but there are quite a few from out of town. Give them a real Pittsburgh welcome. If you need anything, my cell phone number is at the bottom of the page.”
After she moved on to the next brewer who had arrived, Jake turned to me. “I’m a little nervous about the competition.”
“Maybe if you tell me about your burger, I can help you decide whether or not to back out.”
Jake grinned, showing the dimple I liked so much. “Oh no, you don’t. I know what you’re trying to do.”
I gave him my most innocent look. “I’m not trying to do anything. I just want to help my most trusted employee make the proper decision.”
“Right.” He laughed and a curl of Irish-stout-colored hair slipped onto his forehead, and I reached up and pushed it back. Not an easy feat, since at six foot three, he was a foot taller than me. He rested his hands on my shoulders. “I thought Nicole was your most trusted employee,” he said.
Nicole was my part-time hostess-waitress-bartender, recently promoted to manager. I was leaving the pub in her capable hands while we were at the festival. “She is. But you’re a close second,” I teased. “So. About this burger . . .”
Jake ruffled my hair just like he’d done when we were kids, and took a step back. “I’m not falling for it, O’Hara. You’ll have to wait to be awed by my creation like everyone else.”
I finger-combed my short black pixie into place. “Did anyone ever tell you how mean you are?”
“All the time.” He leaned over and picked up one of the metal tent poles. “Any idea how we put this thing together?”
* * *
An hour later we had the ten-by-ten-foot canopy tent up and Jake’s truck unloaded. We had a banquet-size folding table, which I covered with a white paper tablecloth. We weren’t bringing the kegs until tomorrow—the first official day of the festival—but I’d brought several large coolers filled with ice and growlers. We’d have plenty of beer for the other brewers, any festival workers, and the judges without having to lug the heavy kegs. With everything in order, I opened a package of plastic cups and placed them on top of the table.
I stood back to admire my handiwork. Many of the other vendors had arrived by that time, and the previously empty lot looked like a sea of colorful canopies against the backdrop of the Pittsburgh skyline and the bright yellow David McCullough Bridge (which everyone still called the Sixteenth Street Bridge). My booth was bright enough, but I needed to find something to make it stand out. I wasn’t sure what it would be, though. I had brought a printed list of my beers with me, but that wasn’t enough—everyone probably had one of those. Maybe I could make a colorful poster board with the list and put it in front of the tent.
Jake had already gone to check out the kitchen, so I decided to make the rounds and talk to the other brewers before the judges came around. I’d waved to a few friends while we were setting up, and I really looked forward to talking shop with them. Since the brewpub opened two months ago, I’d been too busy to do much else but run it. Not that I was complaining. I was thrilled the pub was a hit so far.
No one had set up in the space beside us yet, so I strolled over to the next one, where Dave Shipley was having a tug-of-war with the canopy as he tried to slip it over the metal corner. As I reached him, the opposite side of his tent swayed and I grabbed it and pulled. The tension was just enough for Dave to attach his end.
“Thanks, Max,” he said. “When the directions said pop-up, I didn’t think I’d need help putting it up.”
“Are you here by yourself?” I held the pole while he secured it with a stake.
“Yep. I couldn’t spare anyone today. The Pirates play tonight.” Dave owned Fourth Base, a popular brewpub on the North Shore, situated between PNC Park and Heinz Field. It was a prime location—he got baseball fans in the summer and football fans in the winter. He brewed pretty good beer, too. He was one of the first brewers I’d met when I moved back to town, and he’d been a big help when I had questions on starting up the brewery and the pub.
“What about tomorrow?” I said.
“Cindy and Tommy will be here.” Cindy was his wife and Tommy his eighteen-year-old son. “Tommy’s gonna enter that burger thing.”
“That’s great. I didn’t know Tommy could cook.”
Dave’s grin lit up his bearded face. “The kid’s never cooked a thing in his life, but he’s spent the last two weeks trying out different hamburgers on us. They’re not bad, either. Except for the one he stuffed with hot jalapeños and pepper jack cheese, then topped with hot sauce. My mouth didn’t cool off for days.”
I laughed. “I can imagine.”
He snapped open the legs on a folding table. “So, what’s Jake come up with for the competition?”
“I wish I knew. He’s keeping it top secret.”
&nbs
p; “Must be something pretty good, then.”
“I don’t doubt it. I just can’t stand not knowing,” I said. “He knows it’s driving me crazy, too.”
“You don’t have that much longer to wait.”
“Good thing.”
We talked for a few more minutes until a white cargo van pulled up to the empty space between our tents. I fought the urge to groan aloud when the driver got out of the vehicle. Dave mumbled an expletive.
Dwayne Tunstall was the last person I’d expected to see here. On second thought, maybe I wasn’t all that surprised. Dwayne had a habit of turning up where no one wanted him, which was pretty much everywhere he went. The man was a leech. He was well-known in the brewing community, and not in a good way.
Dwayne walked over to where we stood. “Well, if it isn’t my two favorite brewers.”
“I wish I could say the same,” Dave said, ignoring the hand Dwayne had extended.
Twelve years of Catholic school had taught me if I couldn’t say something nice to not say anything at all, so I stayed silent.
“I must say, I’m surprised to see you here, Maxine,” Dwayne said.
I gritted my teeth at his use of my given name. “It’s Max. Only my grandmother called me Maxine.” And the nuns, but he didn’t need to know that. “Why are you surprised? This is a brews and burgers event. Where else would I be?”
Dwayne ran a hand through his sandy-colored mullet. Between the hairstyle and the jeans and muscle shirt he wore, he looked like a wannabe Billy Ray Cyrus. Somehow he’d managed to find a barber who was stuck in the eighties. I was tempted to ask him who did his hair. He or she was someone to be avoided at all costs.
“I figured you’d be keeping an eye on your pub,” Dwayne said. “Not to mention that you’re new to this whole brewing gig. Not like me. And Dave here. You don’t have a snowball’s chance of winning anything.”
“Max has a better shot than you do,” Dave said.