Tangled Up in a Brew

by Joyce Tremel

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  He grinned. “Nah. Only the ones who like to ruin their coffee by putting sugar in it.”

  “Ha. Very funny.”

  We sat side by side at the oak bar. I was halfway through my muffin when I noticed he hadn’t brought the newspaper back with him. “Where’s the paper? I want to take a look at it.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Of course I do.”

  Jake shook his head. “No. You don’t.”

  “Yes . . .” I suddenly remembered Mobley’s comment from yesterday. I slipped from my seat. “What did he say?”

  “You don’t want to know. Really. Take my word for it.”

  My blood pressure shot up a notch. “I need to see it, Jake. Good or bad. Stop trying to protect me.”

  He stood. “I threw it out. There’s no point in you reading what that jerk wrote. No one’s going to believe it anyway.”

  “I’m going to read it.” I stomped to the kitchen and retrieved the paper from the recycling bin. I didn’t go back into the pub. Instead I spread the paper on the stainless steel prep counter and flipped through until I found Reginald Mobley’s article. The title in big black letters read SWILL EVEN A SWINE WOULD HATE.

  The article was more or less a repeat of everything he’d said yesterday. He ripped apart every brewer at the festival with the exception of Dwayne, who got a rave review. I wasn’t mentioned until the last paragraph.

  Last but not least, there’s the girl brewer who wouldn’t know a good beer if she fell into one of her beer tanks. Oops. I believe someone did exactly that. Maybe that’s what gives Ms. O’Hara’s brews that distinctive flavor of Eau de Corpse.

  My stomach crashed to my knees. I read it again to be sure I’d read it right. The words didn’t change. No wonder Jake had tried to keep it from me. I slammed my fist down on the counter as Jake came through the swinging door. “I can’t believe he wrote that.” I felt tears forming in my eyes. “He has no right to bring that up. It’s over and done with. He makes it sound like Kurt’s death was my fault.”

  “I warned you it was bad.” Jake put his arm around me. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

  I blinked the tears away and forced myself to read on. If the beers aren’t bad enough, the food would make a starving person think twice about eating it. On my visit to the Allegheny Brew House on Sunday . . . I stopped reading and looked at Jake. “Wait a minute. We’re not even open on Sundays.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s making all this up. That jerk!” I read more. The oh-so-typical pub fare should be called sub fare, as in substandard. He went on to describe two dishes we didn’t even have on the menu. But would anyone else know that? The critic continued in the same vein and finished up by warning the public to avoid the festival. I couldn’t believe the Pittsburgh Times let him get away with blatantly lying to their readership. I’d gone from teary-eyed to livid in record time. I tossed the paper back into the recycle bin and turned to Jake. “I suppose the great Reginald Mobley will expect me to be in tears today, groveling at his feet.”

  “He obviously doesn’t know you very well.”

  “If he thinks he can bully me, he’s wrong. I don’t have to take this from anyone.”

  * * *

  We arrived at the festival grounds at ten thirty to set up and tap the kegs so the three judges could officially sample the beverages before the gates opened to the public at eleven. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Mobley again. It was going to be hard not to pour his samples over his head. Jake and I weren’t the only ones who felt that way.

  The article in the paper had been the talk of all the brewers so far. Dave had been livid. He had arrived before us and hustled over as soon as Jake pulled his truck up to our booth.

  “Did you see the paper this morning?” he asked as soon as I’d opened my door. “What a piece of sh—”

  “I saw it,” I said, cutting him off.

  “He’d better not come anywhere near me today,” Dave said. “I’ll be tempted to wrap my hands around his throat.”

  “You’ll have to get in line.” Jake climbed into the back of the truck and rolled a keg to the edge.

  Dave lifted it like it was nothing. “Where do you want this?”

  I showed him where I wanted the barrels set up. As soon as they were in place, I iced and tapped them. While Jake moved the truck to the parking area, Cory and Randy wandered over. I tried to tune out their conversation with Dave. It wasn’t going to do any of us any good to dwell on Mobley’s vitriol, especially when their words were just as nasty against the critic. Finally I had enough. “Can we just forget about Mobley for a while? I don’t know about you, but I’m here to show off my beers and have a good time. Are we really going to let one person spoil this event for us?”

  The three of them stared at me. Randy shook his head. “Think what you want, Max, but he’s already ruined this and a lot more. He’ll get what’s coming to him one of these days.”

  Just then Ginger’s voice came over the loudspeaker requesting that all brewers return to their respective areas because the judges would be around shortly. Thankfully that ended any more talk about Mobley. For now, anyway.

  * * *

  When Marshall Babcock and Leonard Wilson made the rounds, Reginald Mobley wasn’t with them. Instead they were accompanied by Ginger Alvarado.

  “Before you ask,” she said, “Mr. Mobley has decided he tasted enough beer yesterday, and he won’t be coming until later today for the burger competition.” Her hand shook when she placed the clipboard she’d been carrying down on the table beside a stack of plastic cups.

  Leonard patted her hand. “Ginger’s afraid no one will show up because of the article in the paper.”

  “We’ve told her that no one will believe anything he wrote and not to worry about it,” Marshall said. “I predict there will be large crowds.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said.

  Jake added, “Frankly, I think we’re better off without him.”

  Ginger smiled slightly. “I appreciate everyone’s support. If I had known what he was like, I never would have let him come aboard.” She picked up her clipboard. “Enough about that.”

  She recited the procedure and the rules again without looking at her clipboard. With fifty brewers to inform, she had them memorized. Any beer that the judges tasted yesterday—if any—was only to familiarize them with what each brewer had to offer. It wouldn’t be counted in the official judging.

  After what happened the day before, I was thankful for that. Mobley’s opinion wouldn’t be considered.

  Ginger went on to explain that the judges would be tasting the beer at various intervals throughout both weekends of the festival. One of the things they’d be judging would be the consistency of the products by sampling them more than once. The results would be tabulated along with the votes of festival attendees. The winner and the runners-up would be announced at a ceremony next Sunday near the end of the festival.

  I poured my three offerings—the citrus ale, the IPA, and the chocolate stout—into cups for Leonard and Marshall. Jake put his arm around me while we watched them sip. Unlike Mobley the day before, each of them took his time sipping.

  “Very nice aroma on the citrus ale,” Marshall said.

  “And the stout is exceptional,” Leonard said. “You can really taste the chocolate character of the roasted malt.”

  Neither one of them said anything about the IPA, which I took to mean it wasn’t the best they’d tasted. I was okay with that. IPAs weren’t my specialty.

  After I’d thanked them and they moved on, Jake pulled me into a hug. “I knew you’d wow them, O’Hara.”

  If he was right, maybe I had a chance to win the Golden Stein after all.

  * * *

  Despite Reginald Mobley’s false c
riticism in the paper and his recommendation that people skip going to the Three Rivers Brews and Burgers Festival, by three o’clock that afternoon it appeared the festival was a rousing success. The crowds were unbelievable and I had to call my brother Mike to stop at the pub and get another keg of each brew I was serving. Mike was going to cover for me later that afternoon so I could watch Jake’s portion of the burger competition. I hoped Mobley would go easier on the chefs than he had on the brewers, but I wasn’t counting on it.

  Jake had just left for the area set aside for the chefs to prepare their entries when Mike arrived with the three extra kegs and more ice. I wheeled a dolly over to his truck. He exited the driver’s side and kissed me on the cheek. “Big brother to the rescue once again,” he said.

  “And I appreciate it.” He opened the tailgate and I hopped up into the bed. I rolled a keg to the edge, then got down, and together we lifted it down and onto the dolly. We repeated this for the remaining kegs, and put them on ice. When we finished, I rewarded him with a sample.

  Mike picked up a paper napkin, wiped the sweat from his face, then ran a hand through his red hair. We chatted for a few minutes and I gave him some instructions on serving the samples—like making sure to ask to see ID and not serving anyone visibly intoxicated. He helped out in the brewpub on occasion—he knew the drill. He assured me he’d be fine, so I headed to the burger competition.

  The contest would be in two parts. Today’s was a preliminary elimination that took the twenty-five entrants down to ten. Then the last ten would be whittled down to five next weekend when the winner would be chosen and receive a check for a thousand dollars. Jake wasn’t interested in the money. He’d entered because he thought it would be a chance to prove to everyone that he was as serious about his new career as he’d been about his old one in the NHL. If he won, he planned to donate the money to the Mario Lemieux Foundation, which did a lot of good for sick kids in Children’s Hospital.

  When I reached the roped-off section, I showed my lanyard ID to the off-duty police officer working security, and he let me into the area designated for special guests. There was a large white canopy over three rows of banquet tables where the twenty-five chefs had been preparing their entries. The twenty-five had been broken into groups of five. Jake had been assigned to the last group of five. The chefs in the group before his were at the grills and the air was filled with the aroma of what they were cooking.

  The judges had taken a short break, but now Marshall Babcock and Leonard Wilson were seated at the judging table waiting for Reginald Mobley to return. Just as I crossed my fingers that maybe he’d left for the day, I heard him. As a matter of fact, everyone heard him, even though he wasn’t all that close.

  “Leave me alone, Linda,” Mobley bellowed. A woman grabbed hold of his arm. “Let me go, you witch.” He yanked his arm from her grip and walked away. He went only a few feet before she caught up with him. He spun on her. “Crawl back into that hole you crawled out of. You’re not getting another penny from me.”

  They were closer now and I got a better look at the woman. She had chin-length gray hair and was slightly overweight. She wore beige capris and a coral T-shirt. She grabbed his arm again. “The hell I’m not, you weasel,” she said. “I’ll take you to court.”

  Mobley let out a vicious laugh. “You tried that once, remember? It’s not going to work again.”

  “You’ll give me my due, or—”

  “Or what? You’ll kill me like you’ve threatened to do any number of times?” He started walking again. “Good luck with that.”

  “You’ll be sorry. You will be very sorry.” She stood clenching and unclenching her fists for a moment, then stalked off in the opposite direction, mumbling to herself. I watched her duck under the rope and she was gone, leaving me wondering who she was.

  I looked around for anyone I knew and spotted Dave Shipley in the crowd near the grills and headed in his direction. When I got closer, I noticed his son was at one of the grills. He looked calm and relaxed for a teen in his first cooking competition. I noticed Dwayne Tunstall coming toward me and pretended not to see him. I picked up my pace, hoping Dwayne would go away. Gloating over his glowing review was the last thing I wanted to hear.

  Dave was intent on watching his son and barely gave me a look when I said hello. “How is he doing?” I asked.

  “So far, so good. I think I’m more nervous than he is.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “I warned him about our favorite judge. He says he can handle it.” Dave grimaced. “I’m not sure I can, though.”

  Apparently Dwayne didn’t take my hint and took that moment to join us. “I, for one, have been hanging on every word that comes out of Reggie’s mouth.”

  Reggie. Like they were best friends.

  “I’m sure you are,” Dave said. “By the way, how much did you pay him to write that article in this morning’s paper? I hear he doesn’t come cheap.”

  Dwayne pursed his lips. “Not a thing.” He turned to me. “I feel bad he was so harsh to you, Maxine. I know the truth hurts, but—”

  I’d sworn I wasn’t going to get into it with him, but I couldn’t help myself. “Truth? Mobley wouldn’t know the truth if it slapped him in the face. There were so many inconsistencies in that piece it was ridiculous.”

  “I guess you didn’t notice that, did you, Dwayne?” Dave said.

  “You’re both just jealous,” Dwayne said. “There was nothing wrong with that article.”

  Dave snorted. “Right.” He turned to me. “What was that commotion before? Any idea who the woman was giving Mobley a piece of her mind? I’d kind of like to shake her hand.”

  I started to tell him I didn’t, but Dwayne butted in.

  “She’s Reggie’s second ex-wife. A very bitter woman, from what I hear. She’s trying to get more money from him. She claims she needs it desperately and what he’s giving her now isn’t enough. I say she should get a better job.”

  I was still back on the fact the woman was his second ex-wife. I couldn’t imagine even one woman marrying him. “He’s been married twice?”

  “Three times, actually,” Dwayne said. “The first wife was Catherine. She remarried and lives in Ohio. Then there’s Linda—the one today. His current wife is Melody. She’s here someplace.”

  “How do you know so much about him?” Dave asked.

  Dwayne’s smile was like the Cheshire Cat’s. “I have my ways.”

  The cooks at the grills were plating their wares and Dave excused himself to cheer on his son. I pulled my phone from my pocket, and pretending I had a call, I wandered away from Dwayne. I’d heard quite enough about his idol.

  * * *

  The judging up until that point had gone as I expected. Mobley’s comments about the food were cruel and malicious. Marshall Babcock and Len Wilson tried their best to balance it out. Dave’s son took the comments in stride, since he’d been warned by his dad what to expect.

  Jake looked up and winked at me as he plated his burger. I still wasn’t sure exactly what he had done with it, but I spied mushrooms, green peppers, and onions, and it was on a pretzel bun. It looked like he might have gone with a more traditional take, unlike some of the others, who went overboard to be different.

  The five contestants lined up their plates on a table in front of the three food critics. They were graded first on presentation, then one by one they cut samples for each judge. Jake was the last to go in his group. Mobley had been the first in line to taste everyone’s offerings—on his insistence, I was sure. I was also sure that Leonard and Marshall were more complimentary than they would have been if Mobley hadn’t eviscerated every contestant.

  My heart was in my throat as Jake put a plate in front of Mobley. Mobley held the plate under his nose and sniffed dramatically. He coughed and waved his hand in front of his face. “I hope it tastes better than it smells.”
He placed it back on the table and looked around. “Where is my water?” he roared. “Who took my water?”

  Ginger rushed over and picked up a water bottle that was sitting on the ground beside his chair and handed it to him.

  He snatched it from her hand. “I don’t know what kind of a thing you’re running here. This bottle should have been on the table and readily available.” He twisted off the cap. “And it should have been opened for me already. And a cup of ice would have been nice.”

  “I’ll remember that for next year,” Ginger said.

  Mobley snorted. “I seriously doubt that there will be a next year. Not if I have anything to say about it. And I will have plenty to say.”

  Jake stood there calmly as Mobley poked at the burger with his fork and popped the top of the pretzel bun off. “Hmm. Peppers, onions.” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “And what is this? Common white mushrooms? How very ordinary. I should have expected that from you. You wouldn’t know a chanterelle from a shiitake.”

  “I like to keep things simple,” Jake said.

  “You’re simple, all right.” Mobley scraped the mushrooms off the sandwich, then forked a chunk of the hamburger and placed it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, almost like he was really evaluating it. After he swallowed that bite, he took a drink of his water. “That was the absolute worst thing I ever tasted. What did you marinate that in?”

  “A brown ale,” Jake said.

  “I suggest you don’t do it again,” Mobley said. While he spoke, beads of sweat formed on his face. “Somebody get me some ice. It’s sweltering hot here.” He lifted his water bottle and drank. His whole face reddened and the sweat that had formed there dripped onto his chest. He took another drink and some of the water dribbled from his lips. “Something’s wrong.” He tried to stand, but he didn’t seem to have the strength to push himself up. “Somebody help me.” His voice was weak and shaky. Nothing like the bombastic tone he’d been using.

  As Marshall and Leonard rose from their seats, the water bottle dropped from Mobley’s hand. He clutched at his throat and pulled at the neckline of his shirt. As he tried to stand again, he tipped his chair over and toppled to the ground.