by Joyce Tremel
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yep.” She nodded her head toward the brewery. “Need any help in there?”
Nicole was studying for her master’s in chemistry at the University of Pittsburgh and she’d taken a shine to the brewing process. She reminded me a lot of myself, although I’d been more interested in distilling when I earned my degree. That changed to brewing only when I made a trip to Germany.
“Sure, as long as I’m not taking you from anything else.” Nicole followed me through the swinging door into the brewing area. The aroma of caramel malt was strong and I breathed in deeply.
Nicole had been assisting me with brewing more and more lately. As much as I liked having the brewery to myself most of the time, I appreciated the help. And it was fun being on the teaching end for a change. The next step in the process was to pump out the wort, then pump it back into the brew kettle through a nozzle that forced the solids and hops to move into the center, so when the tank was drained, the solids stayed. Then we cooled it quickly, added the yeast, and checked the initial specific gravity. It was lunchtime by then, so Nicole returned to the pub while I finished transferring the stout to the fermentation tank. I set the temperature on the tank to sixty-eight degrees, where it would ferment for approximately two weeks.
My stomach was screaming for food by this time, so I decided to get something to eat before I tackled the cleanup. Cleaning and sterilizing all the equipment took time and I needed to be properly fortified. Besides, I hadn’t seen Jake yet this morning.
The thought of seeing my chef brought a smile to my face. I’d known Jake Lambert practically all my life. He’d been my brother Mike’s best friend and I’d had a crush on him for years. When my former chef, Kurt, had been killed four months ago, Jake had walked back into my life. He’d just retired from playing professional hockey and happened to be a certified chef. One thing led to another and we were now what my mother called “an item.”
I crossed the pine-plank floor of the pub, stopping briefly to say hello to a few regulars. I liked that we had customers who kept coming back for the food as well as the beer. My stomach growled again as I went through the door to the kitchen. Two cooks plus Jake were in various stages of food preparation.
Jeannie Cross was assembling two grilled chicken salads and smiled when she noticed me. “Heads-up, everyone. The boss is on deck.”
“Uh-oh,” Kevin Bruno said without glancing up from where he was sautéing some vegetables while simultaneously grilling burgers. “She must be hungry.”
Jake was elbow deep in kneading some kind of dough. He looked up and winked at me. It never failed to make my stomach do that little flip and I felt my cheeks grow warm. “Either that or she’s here to fire your sorry behind,” he said.
I laughed. I loved the camaraderie of my employees. They’d become my second family. “Don’t worry, Kev. You’re safe. As long as I get something to eat, that is.”
Jake said, “Jeannie, fix Max one of those new turkey sandwiches we came up with.” He held up his flour-covered arms. “I’d do it myself, but I’m a little indisposed.”
“Coming right up.” She put the finishing touch on the chicken salads by tossing a handful of French fries on top, which was a Pittsburgh tradition. I wasn’t wild about it, but when customers kept asking for the fries, I gave in.
I followed Jeannie over to another stainless steel table, where she quickly assembled a sandwich on whole-grain bread with roasted turkey slices, a thick slice of cheddar, and baby spinach, and topped it with something that looked like a cranberry chutney or relish.
“Here you go, boss.” She handed me the plate.
I took a bite. It was an interesting combination of flavors. The cheddar and turkey were familiar. The cranberry chutney was what made the sandwich. I tasted a hit of orange, and there was a little bit of heat to it as well.
“Well?” Jeannie said.
“I like it. Especially the cranberries. I like the combination of sweet, tart, and heat.” I swallowed the second bite. “I’m not sure about the spinach on here, though.”
Jeannie looked smug. “That’s what I told Jake.”
Jake pushed the dough aside and went to the sink. “I guess I’m outnumbered—unless Kevin is going to back me up.”
Kevin raised a hand. “I’m staying out of it. I don’t even like cranberries.”
I took my lunch to my office and finished the sandwich in record time, then buckled down to do some paperwork and make some calls. There was still a good bit that needed to be done for our Oktoberfest celebration. Jake had already come up with a special menu full of German food for that weekend—three kinds of wurst, schnitzel, sauerkraut, potato pancakes, and German potato salad. I made a note to pick up the menus at the print shop before the end of next week. I made a few phone calls and after I updated my to-do list, I headed back to the brewery to clean up. A brewer’s work is never done.
* * *
The fire hall hosting the band I was hiring for our celebration was located just north of the city. Kristie drove, Candy rode shotgun, and Daisy and I white-knuckled it in the back. Kristie should have been a NASCAR driver. Thank goodness it was a short trip. I was tempted to make the sign of the cross when she screeched into the last empty parking space in the lot. I heard Daisy blow out air. She must have been holding her breath. Candy didn’t seem to be fazed one bit by Kristie’s driving. Then again, I’d been a passenger in Candy’s car. She drove like the streets were an obstacle course.
The sound of accordion and horn music drifted across the lot when we got out of the car. “This is going to be so much fun,” Candy said. Tonight she wore her best black-and-gold-sequined blouse, black pants, and gold ballet flats. “It’s been years since I heard this kind of music. It really takes me back.”
“Back where?” I asked.
“To my much younger days.” She turned to Daisy. “I’m so glad you decided to come with us.”
Daisy smiled. “I am, too.”
By this time we were at the door. Two women were seated at a table with a steel cashbox and took our ten-dollar admission fees. There was a large sign welcoming us to their “Octoberfest.” I decided it wouldn’t be polite to point out that they were a little early, or that they’d misspelled it by using a c instead of a k. It gave me a bad feeling about the beer they’d be serving.
The hall was decorated with black, red, and yellow streamers that matched the tiny German flags on every table. Not exactly the traditional Oktoberfest colors. Daisy caught my eye and made a face. I smiled at her and shrugged.
Kristie pointed toward the far side of the hall. “There are some empty seats over there.” We followed her across the room and sat at the end of a large banquet table. “I’m buying tonight,” she hollered over the din. “What’s everyone drinking?”
Daisy wanted only bottled water and Candy said she’d have the same. I offered to help Kristie and we headed to the bar. I was surprised at the assortment of beverages on hand, and especially that they had bottles of Oktoberfest beer from a local brewery. That moved them up a notch in my eyes. Despite the selection, Kristie and I also chose water for now.
It was too noisy in the hall for much conversation—especially with the band playing—so we sat and listened. The Deutschmen were very good and hearing them play again made me glad I’d decided to hire them. The four musicians played accordion, trumpet, keyboard, and sousaphone. I had to admit I’d never seen a sousaphone except in a marching band. I thought it an odd choice when a tuba would have worked just as well—or better. Plus it wouldn’t have taken up half the stage.
There were only two couples on the dance floor until the band broke out in their version of the “Steelers Polka,” which was sung to the tune of the “Pennsylvania Polka.” A dozen people jumped to their feet, including Candy. She grabbed my hand. “Come on. You’re dancing with me.”
I tri
ed to pull my hand back with no luck. “I don’t know how to polka. I’m Irish. O’Haras don’t polka.”
“I won’t hold that against you,” she said. “It’s easy. It’s your basic one-two-three, one-two-three. Just follow me.”
“Do I have any choice?” I asked as she practically dragged me across the room. Everyone in the hall except me seemed to know the words to the song, but I was too busy trying not to trip over my own feet to sing anyway. By the time the song ended, I could reasonably say I knew how to polka, or at least fake my way through one. We stayed on the dance floor for the “Beer Barrel Polka,” but I drew the line when the band began playing the “Chicken Dance.” I had my pride after all.
I collapsed onto my folding chair and guzzled half of my water.
“Nice work,” Kristie said with a grin.
“I can’t keep up with her.” I pointed to where Candy was enthusiastically flapping her arms to the music. “I don’t know where she gets the energy.”
“I don’t, either,” Daisy said.
The Deutschmen finished the song and announced they were taking a break and would be back shortly. A few minutes later, I went over to the bar, where the members of the quartet were quenching their thirst with cold beers. I’d talked to only one of them on the phone and had never met them in person, so I introduced myself.
The keyboard player shook my hand. “I’m Bruce Hoffman.” He was in his mid to late fifties, with an obviously dyed crew cut that bordered on orange. He had a friendly smile that made up for his hair color faux pas. He introduced the others.
The trumpet player was Manny Levin, called “Toots” by his friends. Toots appeared to be in his sixties. He was bald and almost as wide as he was tall. The sousaphone player, Doodle Dowdy, was the youngest of the group—probably in his forties—with sandy hair that hadn’t seen a barber in a while. The last member of the band, the accordion player, was Felix Holt. Felix appeared to be the oldest—close to seventy, or possibly even older. He had gray hair, gray eyes, and the deeply wrinkled skin of a smoker or a former smoker.
I invited them over to our table, where we discussed my upcoming event and made the final arrangements. While we talked, I noticed Felix kept staring at Candy. Finally he said to her, “You look very familiar. Have we met before?” He spoke with a slight accent.
Candy shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
“I never forget a face,” he said. “Especially one as lovely as yours.”
I expected Candy to roll her eyes and make some smart remark. The man was obviously flirting with her. Instead of a witty comeback, she said, “You’re mistaken.”
“I don’t think I am,” Felix said. “I know you from somewhere.”
Daisy smiled at the man. “Maybe you’ve been to her bakery. It’s the best one in Pittsburgh.”
“Which bakery is that?” Felix asked.
“Cupcakes—”
Candy cut her off. “He’s never been to my bakery.”
“You’re probably right. I’m sure I would remember the bakery,” he said. “That’s not it. I know you from somewhere else. I am sure of it. It will come to me.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that you’re mistaken? I don’t know you, and you certainly don’t know me.” She rose quickly to her feet. “I need some air. I’ll be outside.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joyce Tremel is the author of To Brew or Not to Brew, the debut novel in the Brewing Trouble mystery series. For more than ten years, she was a police secretary. Her fiction has appeared in Mysterical-E, and her nonfiction has been published in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and the Pennsylvania Chiefs of Police magazine. She lives in a suburb of Pittsburgh with her husband and a spoiled cat. Visit joycetremel.com and facebook.com/joycetremel.
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