“Oh! Okay.”
“So you’ll help me pick a big mess of dandelions on Friday this week? I need to call and make sure, but I imagine your Nana Tootie and Felix can come over for dinner.”
“I still want to go to the meadery.”
Erin sighed. So did I. And even though we’d left her alone at home for a few minutes here and there, I sure didn’t want to do that with Meghan gone.
“I mean, you’re not doing anything except going on a very, very interesting tour, right? It has nothing to do with those tapes, right? The ones you wouldn’t let me listen to? The ones you did listen to?”
No one that young should have a smile that evil. She had me.
“Let me call and see if they’ll let you come.”
The girlish voice who answered the phone at the meadery assured me children could participate in the tour; they just couldn’t sample any of the product in the tasting room.
Well, duh.
“Okay, Bug. You’re in.”
“Yay!” She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and jumped to her feet, notebook in hand.
Really? Well, okay.
_____
Glimpses of the Grendel Meadery flashed through the tree trunks, afternoon sunlight reflecting off banks of high windows set into the brick façade. I steered the Land Rover onto the winding driveway and into the paved parking lot. At least a dozen vehicles clustered at the far end, near the door, and another dozen or so sat at the opposite end. The place was bigger than I’d thought. Pulling in next to a white Passat wagon, I noted a group of people standing by the door. They chatted and gestured with small glasses filled with what had to be mead, faces turned toward the golden light like flowers seeking solar nutrition.
Erin hopped out and stood with hands on hips. “Come on, Sophie Mae. We’re going to miss it.”
I dragged my tote bag out from behind the back seat and shut the door. “Relax. See all those people? I bet they’re waiting to go on the tour, too.”
Joining her, I ruffled her dark curls. She frowned up at me as we started walking. Glenwood Swenson opened the big glass door. He said something, and everyone began filing in. Erin grabbed my hand and tugged. “Come on.”
We hurried and caught the door before it closed.
The lobby was large, with a glassed-in tasting room straight ahead. The roughened tongue-in-groove flooring, high beams overhead, and floor-to-ceiling windows provided a lodge-like feeling to the space. All it was missing was a moose head mounted on the wall. On the left a glass window exposed some of the meadery’s actual working equipment. Framed placards and photographs related fun facts about mead, as well as a bit of history.
One said mead was the drink of love. Apparently the word “honeymoon” came from the practice of supplying newlyweds a month’s worth of mead in the hope that it would aid in the conception of a child.
Fun fact, indeed.
Glenwood saw us and came over. “I had no idea I’d be honored with your presence so soon.” He flashed a smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes.
Beside me, Erin scowled. I squeezed her shoulder.
“You made everything about mead sound so interesting,” I said. “And the bottle we had list night with the crab and artichokes was delicious. I had to come and see how you make it.”
A cough by my side. I squeezed again. Harder.
“I see you brought a friend.” Glenwood kneeled in front of Erin and shoved his face up close to hers. “And how are you today?”
She leaned away. “Fine.”
“Ah, I think I see.” He nodded slowly like some ancient sage and stood.
“See what?” I asked.
“Mmm. You couldn’t get a sitter, so your daughter had to come.” Looked down his nose at her. “That’s it, isn’t it? Mom made you come, and you don’t want to be here.”
She bristled. I squeezed.
“Erin’s my friend, and she really wanted to come.”
He inclined his head. “Of course.” Topped it off with a condescending smirk. “Well, enjoy.”
“I’m sure we will,” I called after him. So far I’d seen him sexy as hell, nice as pie, cowed as a bad puppy, and now downright obnoxious. Maybe he just wasn’t any good with kids. Or maybe he was seriously schizophrenic.
“Sophie Mae?” Erin’s voice was small. “Let go.”
I stopped squeezing. “Sorry.”
She craned her neck to look up at me. “You don’t like him, do you?”
I thought of his good looks, and how he’d made my stomach flutter before I met Barr. Funny: he didn’t seem all that handsome now. “Not like, like. Just, you know, don’t dislike. Mostly I can’t figure him out.”
“Well, I can. And he’s icky.”
Snort. “Get your notebook out.”
There were seven people on the tour. Most were from out of town, or hosting guests from out of town. The entertainment options in Cadyville were limited, especially in the spring. Soon enough there would be Kla Ha Ya Days and the demolition derbies at the fairgrounds in Monroe, but the meadery tour was probably the closest thing we had to a cultural scene.
The group consisted of everything from an elderly gentleman nattily dressed for the golf course in argyle and touring cap, to Erin, wide-eyed and notebook at the ready. From the short, rotund guy with the loud mouth—“I’m an attorney, you know, a litigator”—to the willowy brunette who announced in painfully nasal tones that she “didn’t drink anymore, I’m just here with my husband” about eighteen times before we even got started. But Glenwood zeroed in on a bright young thing in a yellow sundress. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four, and she ate up his charm and looks like the bonbons they were.
Erin wrote it all down.
Glenwood gathered us all together in front of the glass wall. Behind him, stainless-steel tanks ranged among pipes and tubes and gauges. “First,” he said. “We’ll have a little history lesson.”
Beside me, Erin sighed but scribbled away.
“Mead is the oldest alcoholic beverage in existence,” Glenwood intoned.
“That’s debatable,” someone muttered. I looked around but couldn’t identify the speaker.
Glenwood barreled on. “The theory is that it was discovered rather than invented. Paleolithic people came across a sweet, sticky substance in trees, made by bees. It became a food source, but happening upon it was rare, so they mixed it with plain water. Naturally occurring yeasts in the air occasionally fermented the honey-water mixture, creating a mood-elevating gift from the gods. They became better and better at creating the circumstances under which this ‘gift’ occurred, and the first brewers were born.”
I leaned down and whispered, “Kind of like school, Bug?”
She shrugged.
Well, she was the one who’d insisted on coming with me.
“Nomads settled down and developed hive systems. The Romans and Greeks did the same.” He went on to talk about the history of mead in Europe, of the references to mead in Beowulf that inspired the name of the Swenson meadery, the elite position of mead in the church and society when honey was rare, and the subsequent cycles of interest in the honey wine since then.
As someone who was naturally interested in all things handmade, normally I would have been hanging on his every word and struggling not to interrupt with questions. But something had caught my eye on the other side of the tanks and hoses: another glass wall. And that one appeared to open onto the garden of my dreams. Erin glanced up as I sidled to my left to get a better view.
The multitude of green—much of it made up of herbs I recognized even from the distance of three hundred feet or so—was interspersed with flowers and vines. From my vantage it appeared to be an enclosed brick courtyard. I wanted to ask why a meadery needed an elaborate garden like that. Perhaps it was simply for show.
Well, it was a show I was itching to get a good look at.
I became aware of Glenwood speaking again. “When the Spaniards began conquering the New World, they b
rought fermentation practices with them. Colonial settlers fermented their own honey wine when sugar was scarce—and even when it wasn’t.”
In the garden, Victoria Swenson walked slowly past the far window.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you how the magic begins.” He grinned at the group, flirting with us as a whole while managing to give special attention to the sweetie in the sundress. He pushed the door open. One by one, we shuffled into the space we’d been looking at through the glass wall behind him, gathering in an attentive cluster.
The equipment surrounding us lent a cold quality to the room, all shiny and scientific. The painted concrete floor beneath us offset that, offering the impression of texture and warmth. It captured my imagination, and I was thinking of how to accomplish the same thing on the dull poured concrete of my workroom floor when Erin tugged at my arm and pointed.
She’d seen the garden, too.
With a sweeping gesture, Glenwood indicated a huge steel tank. “This is where we mix water and honey. First the water is heated to 180 degrees, and then the honey is introduced in this.” He pointed to a smaller tank with holes in the sides. “It fits down inside and gradually the honey mixes with the hot water. The heat pasteurizes the mixture, killing the natural yeasts. Then we add specific yeast blends during the fermentation process. Since honey is a natural preservative, there is no need for the sulfates typically used in the production of fruit wines.”
He continued talking about ratios and fermentation, focusing more and more on the young woman. Slowly, I stepped around to the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out upon the fifty-foot square patch of earth packed with luxuriant greenery. Erin shadowed my movements.
Glenwood’s words faded from my attention as I approached the window and practically put my nose up against the glass. A quaint rock path wound between precise beds of luxuriant herbs interplanted with marigolds and nasturtiums. A garden hose curled near the wall, and drops of water glittered from the tips of leaves in the full sunlight. A two-foot-tall rosemary topiary boasted tiny blue flowers. Purple chive blossoms peeked out from beneath tansy. Fuzzy mullein squatted, ready to send up its tall yellow flower spike later in the season. And against the far wall towered what I was pretty sure was valerian.
Turning, I waited for Glenwood to pause in the tour monologue long enough for me to ask him about the garden. He led the group toward the bottling room, now rambling about the difference between fruit-infused nectars and forced carbonation. In the corner of the fermentation room, I spied a door that led outside and headed toward it.
“Come on, Bug.”
Erin was right behind me. The door swung open at my touch, and we walked outside. I inhaled the intense combination of fragrant herbs.
Victoria Swenson approached from a shed on our left. Behind her, a woman followed on crutches, her left leg in a thick cast. Her short brunette hair revealed a peak over her forehead just like Glenwood’s. Her facial features were so similar to his that they could have been twins, had she not been at least five years older than his thirty-five.
“This is wonderful.” I held my arms out to encompass the courtyard. “We were on the tour, but when I saw this garden outside the window I couldn’t resist.”
Victoria frowned. “Well, this area isn’t generally open to the public.”
“But it’s spectacular. Keeping it behind glass is simply too tantalizing. We can’t be the only ones who have ventured out here.”
“It’s not on the tour.”
Not exactly the response I’d been hoping for from a fellow gardener. I remembered what Tootie had told me about seeing Victoria in the master gardener’s booth at the Northwest Garden Show in Seattle. So she wasn’t a run-of-the-mill gardener.
“But I am glad you like it. It’s my personal herb garden, though we use many of the things grown here to develop new flavors for Grendel methaglins. That’s my sister’s special skill, really.” She indicated the woman on crutches. “This is Willa.”
Willa Swenson did not smile, but when I walked up to her and stuck out my hand, she nodded pleasantly enough and leaned heavily on one crutch in order to grasp it. Her grip was firm, no-nonsense.
“I’m Sophie Mae Ambrose, and this is Erin.”
Victoria pointed. “Right. From Glen’s shop yesterday.” She smiled at Erin. “Hello.”
“Hi,” she piped.
“Right,” I said. “You mentioned the tours here at the meadery, and we wanted to come check it out. I’d never thought about how mead was made before, or all the different varieties available. We had some of your sage blossom mead the other night, and it was a big hit.”
Willa looked pleased. “I’m very happy with the results of that experiment.” Her voice was deep, warm.
“You seem to have been left behind,” Victoria said. “Don’t worry, another tour will start in about half an hour. You can go back to the tasting room and have something to drink while you wait.”
What a nice way to try and kick us out. I looked around with regret, not wanting to leave. Erin wrote something in her notebook.
Willa’s eyes cut to her sister and then back to us. “In the meantime perhaps you’d like to walk through and see a little more evidence of Vicky’s green thumb at work out here.”
I brightened. “I’d love to.”
Something passed between the two sisters. Victoria turned to me and one side of her mouth turned up. “Can’t deny a customer a tour now, can we?”
Slowly, to accommodate Willa’s crutches and Victoria’s painful gait, we walked down the main path that meandered through the center of the garden, examining the different plants. There were borage and milk thistle and feverfew, horehound and several varieties of sage, chervil and chamomile and calendula. Celery peeped out from under a bush, and horseradish battled with mint for a final takeover of a back corner. Flowers backed up against the rear wall of the courtyard, along with belledonna and spires of foxglove.
“That’s goji berry,” Willa said, pointing to a small bush. “I bought some to eat and planted the seeds as a lark. It survived two years, so I guess it likes it here.”
“Will you use it to flavor a mead?”
“I’ll probably experiment with it.”
Erin followed a few steps behind us, still scribbling furiously
in her notebook. Was she making notes about the herbs? Or the people around her? She ignored me when I looked back. I shrugged and left her to it.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen oleander grown outside in this climate,” I said.
“We bring that one inside during the winter months,” Victoria explained.
“You have quite a few unusual herbs here. I know a bit about medicinal and aromatic plants, but several here I don’t recognize.” I indicated an innocuous sprig of green. “What’s this?”
“That’s black cohosh,” Victoria said. “Good for balancing hormones and an effective nervine, but I use it to treat arthritis. See, I’m a master herbalist, so I do grow several varieties of plants that many gardeners haven’t even heard about. I specialize in plants that can help with joint pain.”
“My sister keeps her own arthritis under control with herbs and other natural measures, a considerable victory considering the pain she used to have to deal with,” Willa said, fondness in her voice.
I glanced at Victoria, curious whether she was offended by her sister offering personal information to strangers.
But she seemed fine with it, nodding vigorously and pointing out bearberry, meadowsweet, yarrow, and bogbean. “And that’s sarsaparilla.” She pointed. “I dig it up and use the root.”
“Like for root beer,” I said, thinking of Barr’s story.
“My grandmother has arthritis, too,” Erin piped up. “It hurts a lot. Sometimes she uses a wheelchair.”
Victoria stopped walking and looked down at Erin. “I’m very sorry to hear that. You know, I’ve developed a combination of herbs that I grow, dry, and then make into a tea. If you’d like to tak
e some to your grandmother, I’ll be happy to give you a sample. Then if she likes it, your mom here could buy some.”
I said, “Erin is my friend’s daughter, and her grandmother, Tootie, really her great-grandmother, is a good friend of mine. I’d like to take you up on your arthritis cure offer. I can only hope it will help her.”
“Well, I don’t know that I’d call it a cure. But it’s helpful in reducing the pain and inflammation. I have some in the herb shed.” She slowly turned back.
“Can I come with you?” Erin asked.
Victoria smiled down at her. “I’d be delighted.” Together they returned to the shed.
“Are you a master herbalist as well?” I asked Willa.
She shook her head. “Naw. I mean, I know a fair amount about herbs, especially the ones that impart flavor. I like to experiment with creating new varieties of spiced and herbed methaglins.” She pronounced it ME-thu-glins.
“Now, tell me again what those are, as opposed to mead or wine.”
“Mead is honey wine. Methaglins are honey wine brewed with herbs and/or spices.”
“So all methaglins are mead, but not all mead is a methaglin.”
“Right. And then there are melomels, which is honey wine—mead—flavored with fruit.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Not really.” She shifted the crutches into a more comfortable position under her arms.
“That looks painful,” I said, indicating the cast on Willa’s lower leg.
She grimaced. “Itches like crazy. Cast’ll be on for another three weeks. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand it that long.”
“Bad break?” I asked.
“Yeah. Kind of a freak accident.”
“Here at the meadery?”
“Well, sort of. Several cases of mead fell on me in the warehouse. I’m sure someone simply stacked them in a hurry. We have an excellent safety record here,” she assured me. “That kind of thing is very unusual, and not something that could endanger the public.”
“Sounds like you’d definitely have to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
My words seemed to convince her I didn’t think Grendel was a dangerous place, but my mind was racing. That kind of accident could have done a lot more than break her leg. It could have killed her. So was it really an accident after all?
Wined and Died: A Home Crafting Mystery Page 8