Death & the Brewmaster's Widow

by Loretta Ross

  “Sir? Are you all right?”

  He looked up to find himself the focus of a concerned City of St. Louis police officer.

  “Oh, uh, yeah.” How to explain himself ? It was his grandmother’s voice that spoke in his head, dry and wry, repeating a phrase he’d heard from her a thousand times. Best go with the truth, dear. It’s the easiest story to keep straight.

  “My brother was a firefighter. He died in a fire here last summer. I just wanted to see where it happened.”

  “You mean Bogie?” And, of course, the cop knew him. Cops and firefighters worked together and often hung out together. “You must be Death.”

  “Yeah, that’s me.” He climbed to his feet with some difficulty and offered the other man his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Were you a friend of Randy’s?”

  “Everybody was a friend of Bogie’s. And boy, have we ever heard stories about you.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t believe half of them,” Death laughed ruefully. “Especially the ones that make me look bad.”

  The cop snorted derisively. “According to your brother, you walk on water.”

  “Now that I really wouldn’t believe! So, uh, listen, were you here the day it happened?”

  “No, I was off that day. Out on the river with my family. I heard about it on the radio, before they released his name, and then I heard through the grapevine that it was heart failure. I figured it was probably Lakeland at 18’s. Good old guy, but he does love his barbecue. Never in a million years would I have pegged it as your brother. I had no clue the kid had heart problems.”

  “Yeah, neither did we.” Death sighed and glanced around at the brick and concrete landscape, unforgiving in the summer’s heat. “See, the thing is, there’s something weird going on.”

  “Oh?”

  “Randy’s captain drew it to my attention. He was wearing a badge with another firefighter’s number on it when he shouldn’t have had any badge at all. He’d broken the back on his own that morning. Also, the helmet that got left behind where they were working on him wasn’t his. It matches the wrong badge.” He took out the close-up Duror had given him and showed it to the officer.

  “Okay, that’s—seriously weird. What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m doing here, looking for anything that might give me some clue as to what really went down. I was wondering—is there any way I could get inside? I’d like to see the spot where he collapsed.”

  “That’s not something I could help you with. It’s private property and locked up tight to try to keep kids and vagrants out. There are windows broken out and obviously you could climb through one, but I’d have to arrest you for trespassing if you did.”

  “Yeah, I was afraid of that. Do you happen to know who owns the building?”

  “No, but I could maybe find out for you.”

  The cop went back to his car and Death waited impatiently. It was only a few minutes before he returned, but it felt like hours.

  “We have contact information on file, in case something happens and we need to get a hold of the owners. The contact listed is for an attorney.” He gave Death a blank ticket with a name and phone number on the back. “The actual owner is a descendant of the Einstadt family, through a granddaughter. He and his wife live in one of those big, old houses across the road. His name’s Grey. Andrew Grey.”

  _____

  The television was on, but Andrew wasn’t paying any attention to it. The noise was a constant in the background, but, if asked, he couldn’t have said if it was a game show or a soap opera or a sporting event. The room he was in was beautiful, but it felt like a prison. His breath hitched in his throat and he hauled himself up, leaning heavily on his cane, and stumbled awkwardly to the window.

  His fingers felt thick and uncooperative and he had to struggle with the latch for several seconds before he was able to loosen it and open the sash. The air that came in was hot and moist and carried with it the scents of a city in the summertime: dust and hot asphalt and car exhaust. But they were familiar smells and he settled into a nearby chair and breathed them in. He couldn’t even remember the name of the maid who made his bed and brought his meals and his medicine. It seemed to surprise her that he even tried, and that just felt wrong.

  He was married—had been more than once, apparently, and his wife was a tiny beauty named Alaina. He’d written it down on a napkin and kept it in his pocket for when he forgot. She was kind and gentle, solicitous of his every need and her presence filled him with a rage that frightened him even more because he could not justify it. He knew she’d done something reprehensible. He just couldn’t remember what.

  There was a memory there, hovering just at the edge of his subconscious, dark and tantalizing and constantly out of reach.

  His doctor—another name he couldn’t remember—was leaving the house through the front door. He locked it behind him and started down the brick path, but stopped when a gray vehicle drew up on the street and parked beside the lilac bushes, just out of Andrew’s line of sight. Andrew heard a car door slam, and then a conversation drifted up to him where he listened, unseen behind the curtains of his second-floor bedroom.

  “Excuse me, but are you Andrew Grey?”

  “Gregory. Dr. James Gregory. I’m Mr. Grey’s physician. Mr. Grey is indisposed, I’m afraid.”

  “I see,” there was disappointment in the tone.

  “May I ask what business you have with Mr. Grey?” There was a pause and then the doctor continued. “In addition to being his physician, I’m Andrew’s brother-in-law.”

  “Oh, right. Well, I was hoping to ask him for permission to go through the old brewery building. I called the attorney’s office that the police have for a contact, but his secretary said he’s in court today and won’t be available until at least Friday. I’ve made an appointment to see him, but I knew the Greys lived right over here, so—”

  “Well, Mr. Grey won’t be able to help you. He had a stroke a little more than a year ago now and is still completely incapacitated.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “You know, there’s nothing in that old building worth seeing anyway. I’ve been inside myself a time or two. Just a lot of dirt and rubbish.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine. But I’d like to see it just the same.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why?”

  “Because it’s where my brother died.”

  _____

  “You know, most people, and I think, especially most attorneys, would be really alarmed to learn their secretary had made them an appointment with Death.” The attorney who acted as contact for the Grey family was a charismatic man in his mid-fifties, with white hair and a light scruff of beard. The grin he gave them seemed genuine and Death wondered if it was or if he was simply a skilled actor.

  Death offered a polite if insincere smile for the inevitable joke about his name. “Most people, but not you?”

  “Actually, I’ve been expecting to hear from you. This thing with the helmet and the badges is just bizarre. Do you have any ideas about what might have happened?”

  “No, at this point I just, um, I’m sorry but—you know about the confusion with the badges and Randy’s helmet?”

  “Oh, sure. I read it in the paper.”

  Death and Wren exchanged a glance. “In the paper?” Wren asked.

  “Yeah. This morning. Didn’t you know?” The attorney took a folded newspaper from one of the drawers in his desk and offered it to Death across the expanse of polished wood that made up the surface.

  Franklin Barrows of Barrows, Fine, and Innsbruck, had the corner office on the thirty-first floor of an upscale office building less than three blocks from the Gateway Arch. The walls were a light shade of sage green, the floor was marble or a close approximation, and heavy, cream-colored drapes in an expensive weave let sunlight in through the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up an entire wall.

  Death took the paper, noted that it was opened to the fo
urth page of the metro section, and read the headline.

  “MYSTERY SURROUNDS FIREFIGHTER’S UNTIMELY DEATH”

  “What the hell?”

  Wren leaned in to read it with him, her cheek pressed against his upper arm.

  “They’ve got everything,” Death said. “The whole story. Even things I only just figured out, like the fire safety day picture and the helmet badge left at the scene.”

  “It must have been the photographer you talked to yesterday, don’t you think?” Wren asked.

  “I didn’t tell him all of this. I just asked him—”

  “You asked him about the fire safety day picture and then you asked for a copy of the picture with the helmet. All he had to do was look at those two pictures and he’d have gotten an idea what was going on. Newspaper people are good at that sort of thing. They’re kind of like detectives too.” She rubbed her small hand across his taut shoulder muscles. “Is this a bad thing?”

  Death thought about it, sighed. “No, I guess not. There’s really no reason for people not to know. It just seems, I dunno, like an invasion of privacy. He was my brother. It’s my business. It isn’t a curiosity for the world to goggle at.”

  “Nothing that can be done about it, I’m afraid,” Barrows offered. “It’s a legitimate news story. Freedom of the press and all that, you know?”

  Death set the paper on the desk, careful to put it down gently because he felt like slamming it down. “I know.”

  “I think, though, that maybe there is something I can help you with?”

  “Yeah, right. I’m sorry. We’re taking up your valuable time.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I have more than an hour until my next appointment. But I do know what you came here to ask me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. James Gregory called me. He tells me you’d like a chance to look through the Einstadt Brewery building.”

  “Yes, if it would be at all possible. I’d like to see where my brother died.”

  “It’s a big old monstrosity of a building. Do you think you’d be able to find the right place?”

  “Yes, sir,” Death said with certainty. “The fire department has floor plans for all the major structures in the city, and the firefighter who was working with Randy when he collapsed went over the brewery plans with me. He was able to show me exactly where it happened.”

  “I see. Well, Dr. Gregory encouraged me to tell you no. He’s concerned that you could get injured in there and sue Mr. Grey. Now, he has no actual say in the matter, nor, indeed, does his sister, Mrs. Grey, but I have to admit that his objection has merit.”

  “I promise you, that isn’t going to happen. And I’d be happy to sign a waiver, absolving the Grey family of any responsibility in the event that I were to be injured.”

  “So would I,” Wren added.

  Barrows gave her a slightly patronizing smile. “Oh, my dear! That dirty old building really is no place for a young lady such as yourself.”

  Wren smiled a brittle little smile and fingered her necklace and Death hastened to intervene.

  “Wren is as tough, as capable, and as intelligent as anyone I’ve ever known. Her participation, in any endeavor, is invaluable.”

  “Huh.” Barrows shrugged. “Very well. Suit yourselves.”

  “So you’ll give us permission to go in?”

  “Well, I can’t very well justify just handing over the keys to you,” the attorney said. “But, if you’ll both sign waivers as you’ve offered, I’d be willing to take you in myself after I finish at the office today.”

  “Could you do that? We’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure. I’d be glad to. Actually, truth be told, I’m awfully curious about the helmet and badge thing myself.”

  eight

  “Did you know that I’m psychic?” Wren asked.

  “Oh, really?”

  They were back at Randy’s, sharing a pizza for lunch and passing the time until they could meet Barrows that evening. Wren had set the table with Death’s grandmother’s best china and tossed a salad in her crystal salad bowl because, as she’d explained, “Things are meant to be used, not hoarded. You save them and save them for a special occasion and in the end they wind up sitting idle in a cabinet forever. Life is a special occasion, sometimes we just need to remember that.”

  Death had been brooding since they came back from the attorney’s office and she was trying to lighten his mood. “Really. Do you want me to tell you what you’re thinking?”

  “Try me.”

  “You’re thinking about the newspaper story. You’re annoyed they wrote about Randy, but you’re most upset because you think they must have talked to his friends—the guys at the station and maybe Sophie Depardieu. It hurts to think that Randy’s friends would gossip about him to a reporter, and you’re annoyed that they didn’t ask you first or even give you a heads up.”

  “Nah.”

  “Nah? Really?”

  “Okay, so I was at first. But then I reread the article. They actually don’t have everything, and they would have if they’d talked to Captain Cairn or any of the guys at 41’s. For example, they said Randy was wearing the wrong badge when he came out of the fire, but there’s nothing about how he shouldn’t have had a badge on at all. They talked to someone at HQ, but there’s actually nothing in here they couldn’t have gotten from public sources or their own archives. Even the stuff about how we lost Mom and Dad and the fact that Randy was my last remaining relative. There were stories in the paper back at the time of the accident plus, of course, the obituaries. All they had to do was search the name Bogart. It’s not like there’s gonna be another Baranduin Bogart who had a brother named Death.”

  “So if it’s not the newspaper article, what is it? You’ve been a grumbly old bear all morning.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize! If you feel like a grumbly bear you’re allowed to act like a grumbly bear. I just don’t want you to feel like that.” That drew a smile from him.

  “I suppose it is the article a little,” he admitted. “It’s my brother and my mystery and my tragedy. I’m jealous about who I share it with. I’m kicking myself for not being more circumspect when I spoke with Duror. And, of course, I’m also kicking myself for being so caught up in all this that I didn’t even notice your necklace before. I wonder if Barrows will ever have any idea how close he came to losing an eye this morning.”

  Wren cackled a laugh.

  “That depends on if he talks down to me again. Do you like it?”

  “Very clever.”

  Her necklace was a simple length of black cord strung with polished rocks, with a “Y” of rough wood as the focal point, accentuating the gentle rise of her breasts. The effect was very primitive and artsy and it was only when he really looked at it that Death saw it for what it was. “So I see the handle and the ammo, where’s the sling?”

  “I’ve got it hidden in my bra,” she grinned.

  “Oh.” He gave her a sideways, speculative look. “Maybe I should strip search you, just to make sure it’s hidden well enough.”

  “You think that might be a good idea?”

  “Well, you said you wanted to improve my mood, didn’t you? I think that just might do the trick.”

  _____

  In Missouri, in the high summer, twilight lasts forever. A low sun shone in from across the river, gilding the western faces of the buildings even as it lengthened their shadows, long fingers of night reaching out to grasp the city. Light and dark stood in stark contrast. The Brewmaster’s Widow faced north. Death and Wren were parked near the entrance, caught in the never-never land between sun and shadow, waiting for Barrows to arrive as promised.

  “I’d rather we could go in alone and search the place without an audience,” Death said. “But I suppose this is better than nothing.”

  He was carrying a flashlight and a measuring tape and Wren had a good camera. Death had considered taking a crowbar in with them, in case the
fire crew that overhauled the building had scattered debris in their way. With Barrows along, though, he’d decided against it. If they were blocked, he’d deal with it when it happened.

  A busy road circled past to the west, between the brewery and the Mississippi. Shading his eyes with his hand, Death tracked a late-model, expensive sedan as it turned onto the web of smaller roads that lay like a net around the neighborhood. He lost it for a few seconds behind the line of tall, Italianate mansions that included the Grey home, and then it came down the street toward them and turned into the lot to park beside his Jeep.

  Barrows had changed into jeans and a polo shirt and he got out of his car with his alarm fob in his right hand and a bulky ring of keys in his left. Death approached him with his hand outstretched and Barrows beeped his car locked and pocketed the key before coming to meet him and shake his hand. “Sir,” Death said. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate this, really.”

  “Glad to do anything I can to help. Ms. Morgan,” he acknowledged Wren and nodded toward the building. “Shall we?”

  The heavy entry door was made of wood, gray and splintering, with paint that was bubbling and peeling away. The lock and handle were heavily rusted iron. The lock had been broken recently, probably by the fire department the previous summer, and a shiny new hasp and padlock were fitted above the handle. Barrows searched through his keys. He had probably twenty on the ring, each encased in a colored cover and labeled in a neat and impossibly tiny script. A tag on the ring read, “Grey.”

  “We have a few clients who have property we’re responsible for. We keep each client’s keys on a separate ring,” he explained, trying one key after another. “Normally, that’s not a problem, but Andrew Grey has vast holdings and right now I’m in charge of them all.”

  “You said his wife doesn’t even have a say?” Wren asked, curious and dismayed.

  “Ah, no.” He found the right key, pulled the padlock off, and pushed the door open. “I can’t go into details, naturally. Attorney/client privilege. But it’s been in the paper, so it’s hardly a secret. The current Mrs. Grey is Andrew’s fifth wife. She’s considerably younger than he is. He has a living will and according to the terms, as long as he is medically incapacitated, I am responsible for administering his estate.”