Tangled Up in a Brew

by Joyce Tremel

  Reggie? I’d heard the hated critic called lots of names, but never Reggie.

  “I’m happy they replaced that witch with someone of his caliber. It’ll bring a whole new dimension to this festival. It’s a dream come true.”

  “A nightmare is more like it,” I said.

  Dwayne waved his hand. “I, for one, don’t have anything to worry about. I expect to awe all three judges. I will definitely be taking home that trophy.”

  “How do you figure that?” Jake asked.

  Instead of answering, Dwayne leaned over the counter. “How about a sample of what you got in those coolers? I’m parched.”

  I was tempted to hand him a bottle of water. I didn’t want to give him anything I’d brewed, but I didn’t have a good reason to deny him again. I knew he didn’t have the ability or the ambition to figure out the ingredients by taking a taste. It wasn’t his style, and he didn’t have the background to do so. It was more the principle of the thing. I decided to pour him a few ounces of the IPA—the India pale ale—I’d brought. More than half the brewers here were entering IPAs in the competition and I didn’t think mine would win. I had a much better chance with my citrus ale or chocolate stout.

  Dwayne sipped the IPA and rolled it around his mouth before swallowing. He held the clear plastic cup up in the air, pretending he knew what he was doing. “Interesting,” he said. “Nice and clear, but not hoppy enough for my taste.” He downed the rest of it and smiled like the Cheshire Cat. “No competition for mine, of course.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  He turned and went back to his booth.

  Jake shook his head. “What a jackass.”

  I opened the cooler and placed the growler back in the ice. “That’s the general consensus. I can’t wait for Reginald Mobley to knock him off his self-imposed pedestal. That alone might be worth having to deal with Mobley.”

  “It almost makes you feel sorry for the guy.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” I picked up the dry-erase board and a fluorescent pink marker and wrote WELCOME near the top of the board. I then used a lime green marker to fill in the rest with ALLEGHENY BREW HOUSE and a list of the brews I’d brought. For a finishing touch, I added a few curlicues in a hot orange. I placed it in front of our booth and stood back to check out my handiwork.

  “Looks good,” Jake said.

  “It’s a little extra color, anyway.”

  I looked down the row of tents as I went back to my own and spotted Reginald Mobley at the booth on the far side of Dave Shipley’s. I’d only seen photographs of the critic, but I would have recognized him anywhere. I was sure no one else could possibly look the same. His snow-white hair was styled in a curly perm similar to an Afro. His stature resembled Danny DeVito’s and he wore khaki pants and a white polo shirt that stretched so tightly across his gut the seams could burst at any time. Unlike the other judges, he didn’t seem to be bothering with any preliminary introductions. He took the sample offered to him. I pointed him out to Jake and we both watched as Mobley took a sip. He then poured the rest out and threw the plastic cup onto the ground. I couldn’t hear the comment he made, but I was sure it wasn’t complimentary.

  When Mobley reached Dave’s booth, he stopped for a moment, then moved on. Either Dave refused to serve him, or Mobley decided to pass because of what had happened when he wrote his scathing review of Fourth Base. Next up was Dwayne Tunstall.

  “Mr. Mobley,” Dwayne said loudly, like he wanted everyone to hear him. “I am so thrilled that you are one of the judges—the only one who matters, in my opinion.” While he groveled, he placed three plastic cups on the counter and poured an inch of beer in each. “I’m entering all three of these in the competition. I just know you’ll love them.”

  Mobley smiled at Dwayne. “I’m sure I will.” He raised the first cup into the air and made a show of studying it. “Nice color.” He then sniffed it. “A pilsner?”

  Dwayne nodded like a bobblehead.

  Mobley took a sip, rolled it around his mouth, and swallowed. “Ah. Dry, but not too dry. Good mouthfeel. And a wonderful hop bitterness at the finish. Very nice. Very nice indeed.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder whose recipe it was that Dwayne had used. I doubted it could be one he’d developed himself. I hadn’t actually tried any of Dwayne’s brews, but I’d heard about them from those who had. If the one the critic tasted was from a recipe belonging to another brewer, I sincerely hoped Dwayne didn’t get the credit for it.

  While Mobley tasted Dwayne’s other samples—with much the same reaction—Jake helped me get mine ready. I hadn’t been nervous up until now, but my hands shook as I poured the citrus ale.

  Jake squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’s going to love it.”

  I didn’t believe him and neither did the butterflies in my stomach.

  As Mobley approached, I wiped my sweating palms on the front of my shorts and pasted a smile on my face when he reached the booth.

  “Allegheny Brew House.” His gaze moved from the dry-erase board to me. “You’re the lady brewer.”

  “Yes, I am,” I said. “I’m happy to finally meet you.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He looked at Jake. “And you’re the hockey player who thinks he can cook.”

  “I do a pretty good job,” Jake said.

  Mobley snorted. “I’m not counting on it.” He turned his attention to the three samples on the counter. He picked up the IPA and sniffed it. “Smells too hoppy.”

  Too hoppy? If anything, my IPA had fewer hops than most.

  He took a sip and made a face. “This is terrible.” He picked up the chocolate stout.

  He was going out of order. Just like with wine, it was best to taste from lightest to darkest. “Mr. Mobley, you should try the middle one before the stout.”

  He glared at me. “I know what I’m doing, young lady. I’ll taste them any way I want to.” He didn’t bother sipping this one. He downed it in one gulp and shuddered. “I realize a stout is supposed to have a roasted taste, but I can’t help but wonder what you roasted your barley with. My guess is Mr. Hockey’s old, smelly socks.”

  I clenched my hands into fists and somehow managed to keep the smile on my face.

  Mobley then picked up the cup with the citrus ale. He took the time to study it. “Interesting color.”

  That sounded promising. Maybe he’d like it.

  “Reminds me of the sample I left in a cup at the doctor’s office last week,” he said.

  Jake took a step forward. I put my hand on his arm and shook my head. Mobley would like nothing better than for someone to hit him. He probably had his attorney on speed dial.

  Mobley sniffed the cup. “Ugh. This stinks. Smells like grapefruit. It figures a girl would make a beer that smells like fruit.”

  I widened my artificial smile. My cheeks were beginning to hurt.

  He tilted his head back and poured the contents into his mouth. Instead of swirling it around or swallowing, he suddenly straightened and spit the beer out, spraying it all over my dry-erase board.

  “What swill! This is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted,” he bellowed, smashing the plastic cup onto the ground.

  Shocked, I watched the colors run together on my marker board. Jake swore, then rounded the table and went after Mobley, who was already moving on to his next victim across the aisle. I ran after him, hoping Jake wouldn’t do anything stupid.

  Jake grabbed Mobley’s arm and spun him around.

  “Get your hands off me,” Mobley said.

  “Not until you apologize to Miss O’Hara.”

  “Jake, let him go,” I said. “He’s not worth it.”

  He loosened his grip but didn’t let him go. “You still owe her an apology.”

  I saw Dave Shipley and Dwayne Tunstall heading our way.

  Mobley sniffed.
“If anyone owes an apology, it’s the person who made that slop.” He glared up at Jake. “And if you don’t release me at once, you will be hearing from my attorney, as well as the police. I will not be manhandled.”

  “Is there a problem here?” Dave asked.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Jake said.

  Several other brewers arrived and Dwayne went to stand beside Mobley, looking very smug. “I think what we have here is a sore loser, Mr. Mobley.”

  “No one’s lost anything yet, Tunstall,” Dave said. “If you need an assist, Jake, I wouldn’t mind taking a shot at him myself.”

  “That’s enough,” I said. I stepped between Jake and Mobley. “This is ridiculous. Let him go. I don’t need an apology.”

  Jake released him.

  Mobley rubbed his wrist, then shook his fist at the three of us. “You will all be sorry. No one messes with Reginald Mobley. I’ve ruined better people than you. You just wait.”

  “Don’t pull anything with us,” Dave said, “or you’ll be the one who’s sorry.”

  “Are you threatening me, Shipley?” Mobley said.

  Dave shrugged. “I’d call it more of a promise.”

  “It sounds like a threat to me, Mr. Mobley,” Dwayne said. “I’ll be happy to escort you out of here.”

  “Don’t bother.” Mobley’s gaze rested on me. “I should have known a woman brewing beer could only mean trouble.” He grinned suddenly. “In the long run, though, this may be fun. Be sure to read the paper tomorrow.”

  He strode away and Randy Gregory, owner of Butler Brewing, shook his head. “I’m not sure what he meant by that, but it doesn’t sound good.”

  I was a little concerned, but I wasn’t about to show it. “It doesn’t matter what he says or even what he does. I’m not going to let that big windbag put a damper on this festival.”

  Jake put his arm around me. “I agree. We’re all here for the same reason—to show off our stuff and have a good time.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Dwayne said. “The only reason I’m here is to take home that trophy.”

  “Good luck with that,” Brandon Long said. Brandon owned a microbrewery just over the border in Ohio. He’d been an assistant brewer at Cory Dixon’s South Side Brew Works until he decided to branch out on his own. “I can’t wait to read Mobley’s review when he finds out you steal your stuff from everyone else.” Unlike Dwayne’s, Brandon’s brews were all original.

  Dwayne sniffed. “Sour grapes. You’re just mad that he loved mine and hated yours. I’m going to win. I can promise you that.” He stalked back to his booth.

  “Any idea what we can do about Mobley before he ruins this festival?” Cory Dixon asked.

  “I don’t think there’s much we can do,” I said. “We can talk to Ginger, but at this point I don’t know what good it will do. It was probably hard to get a replacement for Phoebe Atwell at the last minute. We’re just going to have to make the best of it and hope the other two judges can put Mobley in his place.”

  “I’d sure like to put him somewhere,” Cory Dixon said.

  Dave made a face. “You and everyone else. I’d say it’s a matter of time until a certain critic gets what’s coming to him.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Despite Reginald Mobley’s actions, we made the most of the rest of the day. By the time all the brewers packed up to leave later that afternoon, everyone was in better spirits. I was determined to not let him get to me. If he hated my beer, I was no worse off than anyone else.

  The next morning, I arrived at the brew house early. The festival didn’t begin until eleven, but I still had my other duties to take care of before then. Besides, early mornings in the brewery were my favorite. I still got a thrill when I unlocked the front door and entered my pub. Sometimes I couldn’t quite believe I actually owned the place. I stood inside the door for a moment to take it all in. The pine plank floors that I’d discovered under fifty-year-old linoleum shone with a satin luster, and the dark oak bar gleamed. I gave a lot of credit for this to my staff. All of them took great pride in the place and put as much effort into cleaning up as they did into serving customers. And as soon as I could afford it, every one of them would be getting a raise.

  After I dropped my purse and keys onto the old desk in my office, I headed for the brewery. I checked the fermentation tanks, then went to the supply room to inventory what I needed to order for the next couple of months. Although it was July, I’d already begun brewing some fall varieties. One was a dunkel, which is a dark lager, and my very own version of an Oktoberfest. I was planning a celebration in September to coincide with Germany’s Oktoberfest. There was nothing like the real thing, but I’d try my best to do it justice. But first, I had the Three Rivers Brews and Burgers Festival to get through.

  When we’d left the festival yesterday, I thought I had myself convinced that Mobley’s reaction to my brews didn’t bother me, but after I got home, it was all I could think about. It didn’t matter that he hated everyone’s else’s beer, too. Except for Dwayne Tunstall’s, of course. That surely didn’t make me feel any better about it. I looked at the clock—seven a.m. I decided a visit to Cupcakes N’at was in order. I could talk to Candy to see if she knew anything about Mobley and at the same time fix my growling stomach. Even though I was only going to the bakery next door, I locked the pub and set the alarm. I was a bit of a fanatic about it after everything that had happened two months ago. It didn’t matter that there had been no way I could have known how someone was getting into the pub without setting off the alarm. I wasn’t going to let anything like that happen ever again. I glanced over at the empty storefronts and hoped they’d be filled soon. Maybe then I’d stop being reminded of the best friend I’d lost.

  It seemed like everyone in Lawrenceville had a sweet tooth this morning. The line reached to the bakery door. Candy and her assistant, Mary Louise, were behind the glass cases waiting on customers with their usual good humor. Mary Louise was a new addition to Cupcakes N’at. When I’d first suggested to Candy that she needed a full-time assistant at the bakery, she hadn’t been keen on the idea. Although Candy was a healthy and active seventy-two-year old, working twelve-hour days operating a busy bakery with only a couple of part-timers was running her ragged. She finally relented and hired Mary Louise, who was fifteen years younger and knew the bakery business almost as well as Candy. They got along like sisters.

  Candy spotted me and waved. Today she was decked out in a yellow apron over gold slacks and a black jersey that I was sure had a picture of one of her beloved Steelers on the front. She’d recently gotten new wire-rimmed glasses that made her look more like Mrs. Claus than ever. Mary Louise, on the other hand, was the spitting image of Olive Oyl from the old Popeye cartoons except she wore a pale pink apron with ruffles over a pair of worn blue jeans and a white blouse.

  The line moved quickly and in less than five minutes I was at the counter.

  “Good morning, Max,” Mary Louise said with a smile. “How is our favorite brewer today?”

  I returned her greeting and ordered two apple cinnamon muffins. I usually had a hard time deciding between the apple muffins and the double-chocolate ones. Today, however, the aroma of cinnamon filled the air, so it made my choice easy. I didn’t even have to think about it.

  “Are you all ready for the big festival?” Candy said. “I just know both you and Jake are going to take away the big prize.”

  “You have a lot more confidence than I do,” I said. I told them about what happened the day before.

  Mary Louise’s eyes grew wide when I got to the part where Reginald Mobley spit all over my display. “That’s horrible!” she said. “I don’t understand how anyone could be that mean.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” Candy said. “I’ve met the man. He’s a beast.”

  “So he’s always like that?” I asked.

  “As far as
I know,” she said. “I haven’t heard of anyone who’s had a good experience with him—except for that one brewer you just mentioned.”

  She passed the waxed bag containing my muffins over the top of the counter and I paid for my order. “That’s the really weird thing,” I said. “I understand how the guy is a jerk and doesn’t like anyone’s stuff. What I don’t get is how he could possibly rave about Dwayne’s beer, especially when it’s most likely not even his own recipe.”

  “Maybe they’re friends,” Mary Louise said.

  I almost laughed. “No way. I seriously doubt whether either one them has any friends at all.”

  Candy drummed her fingers on the glass case. “That might not be so far off base.”

  “What? That neither one of them has any friends?”

  “No, that maybe they are friends,” Candy said. “Stranger things have happened. Two outcasts nobody likes, so they kind of bond.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t buy it. Mobley may have been complimentary about Dwayne’s beer, but the way he looked at him was anything but. If Dwayne had been a bug, Mobley would have squashed him.”

  Candy smiled at me as another customer came in. “Looks like you have another mystery to solve, Max.”

  That was the last thing I needed, I thought as I walked back next door. I spotted Jake’s truck parked a few car lengths up the street and a little thrill went through me. “I brought breakfast,” I called out as I entered the pub.

  Jake stood behind the bar with the morning newspaper spread out in front of him. “Great. I’m starving. I’ll get the coffee.” He folded the paper, stuck it under his arm, and started for the kitchen.

  “Leave the paper,” I said.

  He kept walking. “I’ll be right back.”

  I pulled the muffins out of the bag and placed each of them on napkins. Some streusel topping fell off the muffins and I picked up a piece of it and popped it into my mouth as Jake returned, carrying two mugs. “Here you go. Nice and sweet. Just like you.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.