by Joyce Tremel
I looked at Jake and he nodded. He seemed to know what I was thinking.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’ll mention it to Dave if you do something for me.”
“Like ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’?” His grin was more like a leer.
Ew. I felt Jake tense beside me. “No,” I said. “I just need you to answer a question or two.”
“That’s it? No problem.” He drained his glass and pushed it aside. “Shoot.”
I leaned my elbows on the bar. “Why didn’t you mention that Reginald Mobley was your brother-in-law?”
If Dwayne’s jaw dropped any lower, he’d have to pick it up from the floor. “What? How did you . . . How do you know that?”
It was nice to see him almost speechless. “It wasn’t that hard to find out. I don’t understand why it was a big secret.”
“I had my reasons,” Dwayne said.
“Which were?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“I guess you don’t want me to talk to Dave about your membership, then.”
He picked up a paper napkin that was on the bar in front of him. “I do want you to talk to him. None of this has anything to do with Reggie’s death, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Whatever his reason, it was making him nervous. He was tearing the napkin into tiny pieces.
“How do I know that if you won’t talk to me?”
Dwayne tossed what was left of the napkin onto the bar and hopped off his stool. “Sorry. No can do. Forget I even asked about the Brewers Association. I don’t even want to belong anymore.” He headed for the door and turned around when he reached it. “By the way, your lager stinks.”
“That went well,” I said to Jake after the door closed behind Dwayne. “We didn’t learn anything.”
“Not true,” Jake said. “Something spooked him—enough for him to tell you to forget about something as important to him as talking to Dave about his membership.”
I went around the bar and took a seat on one of the stools. “I hoped to learn more than that. I wanted to ask him about his brother-in-law’s finances.”
“There are other ways to do that. You’ll figure it out. Give it some time.”
Jake was a lot more patient than I was. I turned around when I heard the door open. Vincent Falk entered, holding a folded piece of paper in his hand. He was accompanied by two uniformed officers.
Things seemed to have gone from bad to worse. First Dwayne and now my least favorite detective. It wasn’t a good sign that he wasn’t alone. I slid off the stool and looked at Jake. “What was that you said about giving it some time? It may have run out.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jake came around the bar and stood beside me as Vince headed our way. The uniforms parked themselves by the door. The customers at the lone occupied table watched in fascination, no doubt torn between staying to see what was going on and getting up and leaving.
I took a deep breath and relaxed my clenched fists before I was tempted to use them on Vinnie the Viper. “Detective Falk,” I said with false cheerfulness. “What can I do for you? Would you like a table? We have a delicious—”
“No,” he said. “I’m not here to eat.” He snapped open the paper he was holding, which was as stiff as the starched white shirt he wore. “I have a warrant to confiscate all your bottled water.”
A sense of relief went through me. I had thought it would be worse. With two uniformed officers accompanying him, I had expected it to be an arrest warrant. I took the paper from him. Jake and I read it together; then I handed it back to him.
“Why confiscate the water?” Jake asked.
Vince folded the warrant and slid it into the pocket of his suit coat. “You don’t need to know that.”
“Yes, we do,” Jake said.
Vince stepped toward Jake until they were almost nose to nose. “If I had my way, this would be a full-blown search warrant or, better yet, an arrest warrant. I know you killed that critic and I still mean to prove it.”
Jake’s whole body was tense. I touched his arm, but he didn’t relax. Before he did something he’d live to regret, I said, “Jake, why don’t you take those two officers back to the storeroom and show them where we keep the bottled water.”
He stared the detective down for a few more seconds, then took a step back. “Sure.” He waved to the patrolmen, who then followed him to the storeroom.
I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until I let it out.
“Is that the only place you keep bottled water?” Vince asked.
I showed him where we had some behind the bar. “I still don’t understand why you need these,” I said as I pulled bottles from the small refrigerator behind the bar.
“Maybe you should ask Daddy.”
I set one of the plastic bottles down on the bar top much harder than necessary. “What do you mean by that? My father doesn’t talk about his cases with me.” Not much, anyway.
“Right.”
“I’m going to ask again,” I said. I measured each word carefully, trying to keep my anger in check. “Why do you need these bottles? I have a right to know the reason.”
He was silent for a moment and I thought he wasn’t going to answer. “We’re looking for cyanide.”
“What?” I said. I knew Mobley had died from cyanide poisoning, but taking our bottled water made no sense to me.
“Cyanide was found in the victim’s water bottle. Until we find where that bottle came from, we’re taking all the bottles from anyone who had contact with him.”
“Shouldn’t you only confiscate bottles of the same brand? We don’t carry the same kind they had at the festival.”
“You could have changed the label.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard. I settled for “That’s ridiculous.”
“We’re done here,” he said. “That’s all I’m going to say.”
* * *
After the police cleared out with five cases of bottled water—Vince wasn’t happy that I demanded a receipt for them—I went back to my office. Jake headed for the kitchen to check on prep for the dinner rush. I paced back and forth trying to get my anger in check but hadn’t succeeded by the time Jake came in, carrying two plates holding chicken salad sandwiches. I’d forgotten all about eating lunch.
He put them down on the desk. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep that up.”
“I’m just so mad, I can’t sit still.” Jake pulled me into his arms and I rested my head on his chest. I was still angry, but this was definitely better than pacing. “I guess we can’t stay like this for the rest of the day.”
He kissed the top of my head. “Nope.”
We reluctantly separated and sat down at the desk. I didn’t think I was hungry until I bit into the sandwich. I devoured it in minutes.
Jake grinned. “That’s what I like to see. A girl with a healthy appetite.”
I balled up my napkin and threw it at him. “A bottle of water would hit the spot about now, but we don’t have any.”
“Forget about that jerk.”
I leaned back in my chair. “I wish I could. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why he’d confiscate all that water. He couldn’t possibly think there’s cyanide in any of them. It’s not even the same brand. If someone put it in Mobley’s bottle, it was put there for him—and only him.”
“It could be a random poisoning, like that Tylenol thing years ago,” Jake said.
“I don’t think so. Someone wouldn’t put it in only one bottle. There would be more victims.” That was a horrible thought. We went back and forth with some other ideas, none of which made sense. The only person who might be able to shed some light on this was my dad. At this point I was still angry and I really didn’t care if
Vince thought I was tattling. I’d had enough of him. I got Dad’s voice mail and asked him to call me when he got a chance.
* * *
Dad hadn’t returned my call by the time I left for the Brewers Association meeting. I was beginning to worry a little thinking about what Candy had said—that maybe my father was being forced out. I didn’t want to think it could be true. Dad was exactly what a cop should be—the complete opposite of Vincent Falk. By the time I reached Fourth Base, Dave’s brewpub on the North Shore, I’d convinced myself that my dad was just busy and he’d call me when he had a chance. After all, I hadn’t told him what I wanted to talk about. For all he knew, I was calling only to chat.
There was a Pirates game at PNC Park, so parking was at a premium. I drove around the block three times hoping for a spot on the street with no luck. I even resorted to the Saint Anthony lost-and-found prayer I had learned when I was a kid. I finally managed to find what had to be the last space in one of the parking garages. Whether it was Saint Anthony or just dumb luck was up for interpretation. I thanked the saint just in case. Needless to say, I was almost late for the meeting.
Other than good beer, Fourth Base didn’t have much in common with the Allegheny Brew House. Where I’d kept vintage touches and exposed brick, Dave had opted for the modern sports bar look. Because of its location between PNC Park and Heinz Field, most of its patrons were sports enthusiasts, so it worked. The place was packed and assorted ball games were on six large-screen televisions positioned around the room. I crossed the black-and-white tile floor to an industrial-looking steel staircase that led up to the banquet room on the second floor.
I was a little envious that Dave had a banquet room, although I don’t know how much use one would get in my brewpub. I planned to add a rathskeller in the basement eventually, but that was a couple of years down the road.
This was the first time I’d been upstairs at Fourth Base and when I opened the door to the room where the meeting was held, I was immediately struck by the view. The room had an entire wall of windows that showcased the downtown Pittsburgh skyline. The rest of the room was typical of one for large gatherings, with round tables, a bar, and a parquet dance floor. It would be a beautiful spot for a wedding. I imagined wearing a white dress, dancing with Jake in this room, the lights of the city reflecting off the river. I pushed the thought out of my mind before I got carried away and heard wedding bells.
A dozen or so of my fellow brewers were gathered around the bar, so I headed that way. Dave stood behind the bar, pouring beer from a half-gallon glass growler, and he passed a glass to me. One of the cool things about these meetings was that whoever was hosting usually came up with a new specialty brew without telling the others what it was, and we played Stump the Brewer. Attendees tried to guess the ingredient that made it so special. There were no prizes, but it was fun.
“You’ll never guess this one, Max,” Dave said. “So far, no one’s gotten it.”
I smiled. “I’ll give it my best shot.” I held the glass up to the light. It was definitely a light-colored lager, but it had a slight blue or purple tinge to it. I put the glass under my chin and used my other hand to wave the aroma toward my face, like I’d learned to do in Germany.
Cory Dixon laughed. “Hey, Max, that ain’t some fancy wine.”
Another brewer—I didn’t remember his name—said, “And your nose is a little higher on your face.”
I stuck my tongue out at both of them. Very adult of me, I know. I closed my eyes and breathed in. “Some kind of berry,” I said.
“Berries?” Randy Gregory said. “You’re making fruity beer now?”
“Hey, if you can make pumpkin beer, I can make fruity beer,” Dave said. “Max is right—it’s a berry. The big question is, what kind of berry?”
I studied it some more. Sniffed it again and tasted it a couple of times. It definitely wasn’t strawberry or raspberry. I finally settled on blueberry.
“You are so close,” Dave said. “But it’s not blueberry.”
“How about blackberry?” I said.
Dave shook his head. “And you only get one guess.”
“Drat,” I said. “It’s good, whatever it is.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Cory said. “What’s in it?”
Dave grinned. “Huckleberry!”
The room erupted in laughter and comments ranged from “What the hell’s a huckleberry?” to “You mean like the dog in the old cartoons?” Finally everyone settled down and Dave called the meeting to order.
Dave went over the minutes from the last meeting and we discussed some changes in the liquor law that the state legislature had recently passed. It wasn’t long before the discussion moved on to the festival and the murder. Everyone had his own theory on who killed Reginald Mobley. I kept quiet, not only because I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to share about the little I knew, but I wanted to listen in case one of them revealed something important. None of them mentioned having their bottled water confiscated, which puzzled me. Vince had said that he was confiscating water from anyone who’d had contact with Mobley. Granted, most of them ran breweries and not brewpubs, but Dave’s son had been in the burger competition and had contact with the critic.
Randy Gregory noticed I wasn’t participating in the conversation. “So what’s your take on all this, Max? What’s your pop saying?”
“Not much,” I said. “He doesn’t talk about active cases.”
“I’m sure you have some kind of theory,” Randy said. “We all know you were the one who figured out who killed your assistant. You must know something.”
I didn’t say anything.
Randy wouldn’t ease up. “Come on. You know something. I can tell.”
I was becoming uncomfortable with his persistence. Why did he want to know so badly? Was he just being a neb-nose? Or was it more than that?
“Knock it off, dude,” Dave said sharply. “If Max knew anything important, she’d tell us.”
“Sheesh. Lighten up. I don’t mean anything by it. I’m just wondering, that’s all.” Randy got up from his chair. “I gotta get going anyway. See yinz guys the weekend.”
After that, the others left one by one until only Dave and I were left. “Sorry about Randy,” Dave said.
“You don’t need to apologize for him,” I said.
“You know I didn’t have any love for that jackass Mobley, but Randy and Cory practically foam at the mouth when anyone mentions him. Cory keeps saying someone did the world a favor when they offed the guy. I’m not exactly sad he’s dead, but . . .”
“They’re going overboard.”
“Yeah.” He screwed the cap onto a half-gallon growler that still had some beer left in it.
“Why do they hate him so much?” I asked.
Dave shrugged. “I don’t know. Neither Butler Brewing or the South Side Brew Works are brewpubs, so Mobley wouldn’t have reviewed either one of them. I had more reason to hate the guy than they do. Unless . . .”
“What?”
“It may be nothing, but Cory applied for a brewpub license about a year ago and got turned down.”
“Mobley was a food and beverage writer,” I said. “He didn’t work for the state.”
“No, but maybe he knew someone who did.” Dave picked up an empty growler.
“That’s a stretch, don’t you think?” I followed him to the adjacent kitchen.
Dave turned on the water at the sink. “Probably. It’s all I can think of, though.” He rinsed out the glass bottle and placed it on the counter.
I hated to ask my next question, but I had to. “Is there a chance that either Cory or Randy could have killed Mobley?” I half expected Dave to immediately come to their defense, but instead he seemed to consider my question.
He rubbed his bearded chin. “I’d like to say no, but to tell you the truth, I don’t know. I d
on’t think they did it, but that’s not the same thing, is it?”
“No, it’s not.” Unfortunately.
* * *
I would have kicked myself if I hadn’t been driving. I was almost to the Fortieth Street Bridge when I realized I’d forgotten to tell Dave about Dwayne’s visit that afternoon, or about Dwayne’s relationship with Melody. It wasn’t that I wanted to do Dwayne any favors, but he had worked for Dave. It was likely Dave knew more about him than his penchant for recipe theft. Then I remembered Dwayne had also worked for Cory at South Side Brew Works. I hadn’t had much of a chance to talk to Cory at the meeting. Maybe if I had time tomorrow, I could head to the South Side again. Not only would it be a good opportunity to ask about Dwayne, but I could try to find out why Cory hated Mobley so much. If only I’d known about Dwayne and Melody before I’d gone to the funeral home, I could have stopped by his brewery then. Of course, if I made another trip, I could check out the new shoe store on Carson I’d heard about.
While I was at the meeting, I’d gotten a voice mail from my dad, telling me he was returning my call and he’d be home all evening. Instead of taking the Fortieth Street Bridge to Lawrenceville, I stayed on Route 28 and took the Highland Park Bridge to my parents’ house. I parked on the street in front of the house. Despite Dad’s insistence that I keep the door locked at my apartment, he didn’t practice what he preached. The interior door was open and the screen door was unlocked. His excuse was always that it let a nice breeze through. If I had done the same, I’d never hear the end of it.
In the living room, Mom was sitting in one of the blue striped wing chairs reading a Nora Roberts novel and Dad was stretched out on the blue couch flipping through channels with the remote. Dad spotted me and he kind of looked like how my brother Patrick used to when he got caught sneaking into the house after curfew. It was hard to believe Pat was a cop in Richmond now after some of his youthful shenanigans. Dad quickly hit the off button on the remote.
I laughed. “You’re allowed to watch TV, Dad.”