Deadly Brew: A Dewberry Farm Mystery

by MacInerney, Karen

  Deadly Brew

  A Dewberry Farm Mystery

  Karen MacInerney

  Gray Whale Press

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  More Books by Karen MacInerney

  Recipes

  Mulled Honey Wine

  Halloween Pumpkin Bars

  Lucy’s Apple Dumplings

  Spiced Pumpkin Butter

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Karen MacInerney

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Books in the Dewberry Farm Mystery Series

  Killer Jam

  Fatal Frost

  Deadly Brew

  Book 4, Title Forthcoming (Fall 2018)

  Created with Vellum

  Dedicated to Dorothy MacInerney, a talented author, grandmother extraordinaire, and the best mother-in-law in the world.

  I love you!

  1

  October in Texas, unfortunately, isn't a lot different from July in Texas—at least weather-wise. If you work in downtown Houston, it just means you keep the AC turned on, but it can be problematic if you live in Buttercup, Texas, and you're trying to keep two cows, four goats, a flock of chickens, a small peach orchard and several fields of vegetables alive in 100-degree heat with no rain.

  I looked out from my kitchen table at the cloudless sky, and began to fret again as my eyes dropped to the rows of wilting broccoli starts I'd put out two weeks ago. I was watering them twice a day, and they were still struggling; we'd had almost no rain for months. With the grass in the pastures bleached and dead, I was having to pay more than I'd budgeted to feed the goats and the cows, and my already-small bank account was rapidly dwindling. It was a good thing I had a well, I thought, as I pushed away from the line of figures I'd been writing out and headed out to move the hoses. If I had a water bill, it would sink me.

  I'd bought Dewberry Farm, which belonged to my grandmother when I was growing up, almost two years ago, and had been slowly bringing it back to life. I loved the yellow farmhouse, the rolling hills carpeted with bluebonnets in the spring, and the slow, friendly pace of life in Buttercup. I'd taken a big risk when I quit my job as a reporter in Houston and put my life savings into the farm. There had been ups and downs, but I'd really come to treasure the rhythm of life in the country. I took great satisfaction in eating cheese I'd made myself, in growing my own vegetables, in bringing life back to the farmstead I'd known as a girl. And it was wonderful being part of a small community.

  I just hoped I'd be able to keep things going.

  "I'll come see you in a minute!" I called to the goats, who had spotted me and were over at the edge of the fence. Hot Lips, as usual, was chewing on the wire, while her daughter, Carrot, stood at her side. Gidget and her daughter, Priscilla, were pushing their noses through the fence and bleating. My Jersey cow, Blossom, and her daughter, Peony, were eyeing me with interest, too. It was turning into quite a farm family, I thought with satisfaction.

  I scanned the tomato plants—I'd planted them in September, hoping for a fall crop—and was chagrined to see yellow, curling leaves on a few of them. When I looked closer, I spotted a few spider mites.

  Drat.

  I preferred to water tomato plants from below—water can spread viruses—but spider mites hate humidity and can be washed off leaves, so I decided to give it a shot. I grabbed the hose and prepared to give the leaves a dousing. As I pulled the trigger on the hose end, there were a few convulsive sprays of water and then the stream reduced to a trickle.

  I searched the hose back to the faucet, looking for a kink, but there was none. Was there something wrong with the faucet? Turning the handle did nothing. I detached the hose and walked over to the house to attach it to the hose bib by the kitchen. When I turned the faucet on, though, the same thing happened.

  My stomach twisted into a knot as I spun the handle again and again.

  Either there was a problem with my pump, or something much, much worse had happened.

  My well had run dry.

  * * *

  "You want the bad news, or the good news?" asked Lenny Froehlich when he walked out of the well house.

  "Bad news first," I said.

  "Well's run dry," he told me, his mouth sliding into a grimace.

  "Please tell me the good news is better," I said.

  "Good news is, if you go deeper, you should be okay," he said.

  "And how much will that cost?" I asked.

  "Depends," he said. "Shouldn't be that expensive, though."

  "No?" I asked, feeling hopeful.

  "Only a couple of thousand," he said. "I can't get out for a few weeks, though; wells going dry all over town."

  "A few weeks?" I asked. "How am I supposed to water things until then?"

  "Truck it in," he suggested.

  "And how much does that cost?" I asked, not wanting to know.

  He shrugged. "Have to talk to the county, I guess. I don't know the going rate."

  That's helpful, I thought, glancing up at the sky. Still cloudless. "What do I do in the meantime?" I asked.

  "Fill up some jugs at a neighbor's and see if you can keep things going," he suggested. "And pray for rain."

  * * *

  "Don't worry about it now," my best friend, Quinn Sloane, said when I called her. She owned the Blue Onion café on the square in town; I often came and helped her out to supplement my income. "I'll call around; we'll figure out a way to get you through until you get it going again. It probably won't be until tomorrow, though. Do the animals have enough water to make it until then?"

  "They do."

  "Well, stop worrying about it for now and go get gussied up for the Witches' Ball. It's good timing; people look out for each other here, and when they find out you're in a bind, maybe someone can help you figure something out."

  With all the well issues, I'd forgotten about the Witches' Ball, which had created quite a stir in Buttercup. "I'm not exactly in the partying mood," I said, surveying my limp broccoli plants and fretting. "It's like playing the violin while Rome burns."

  "That's the thing about farming," she said. "You gotta let go of what you can't control. Now, go put on your hat and I'll be there to pick you up in ten minutes."

  I hung up the phone and reached down to pat Chuck, my bald rescue poodle, who was much more concerned with whether I was going to slip him a piece of bacon than whether the well would miraculously recover. I'd managed to fill a gallon jug with water for him; I checked his water dish, gave him a kiss on the head, and headed into my bedroom to change.

  I surveyed myself in the mirror. The sun had browned my cheeks and
nose, and my hair had streaks I hadn't seen before. I was fitter than I'd been when I moved to the farm eighteen months ago, with biceps I hadn't known existed and new calluses on my hands. It felt good to use my body every day, and although I could read the worry in my eyes, I looked healthy. I pulled my hair back at the nape of my neck, swiped on a bit of mascara and lipstick—Tobias, the gorgeous vet I'd been dating, would be at the ball, after all—and shrugged into the long black dress I had picked up at Goodwill with Quinn. I tossed a belt around my waist and slipped into some pointy-toe boots, then added a crooked black hat.

  If nothing else, I told myself as I adjusted the brim over my eyes, at least I'd get to see Tobias tonight. Which made me decide to add a little eyeliner.

  I finished dressing and went to the back room to check on the goat soap I'd made a few weeks before; it was curing nicely. I'd been hoping to get some bees and harvest my own honey and beeswax, but if I needed to spend money on the well...

  I pushed the thought aside and put some kibble in Chuck's bowl. One thing at a time, Lucy. One thing at a time.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I was in the backseat of Quinn's truck, heading to the first-ever Buttercup Witches' Ball. Quinn's red, curly hair had been sprayed with glitter, and she was dressed in a sparkly dress she'd picked up on the same shopping trip; she was attending as Glinda the Good Witch. Flora Kocurek sat in the front seat; I'd forgotten we'd offered to have her join us. Her only concession to the theme was a purple sweatshirt with a pumpkin in a witch's hat appliquéd to the front of it. It hung loose on her bony frame.

  I surveyed the crowd as we pulled into the car-filled grassy field next to the Honeyed Moon Mead Winery. Despite the tongues wagging around town—a Witches' Ball, run by an actual Wiccan!—it appeared the whole town of Buttercup had gotten over any qualms about the winery's Halloween party. After all, the proceeds went toward the animal rescue organization the winery's owner ran on her property.

  "I think the whole town showed up," Flora said.

  "Molly's going to be sad she missed it," I said. My friend Molly Kramer was out of town for her sister's birthday party, and wouldn't be back until close to Halloween.

  "I love the decorations!" Quinn said. "It really does look magical!"

  I had to admit she was right. The Alexandre sisters had done it up right. The two had moved from New Orleans not long ago and set about turning an old farm into their dream business, the Honeyed Moon Mead Winery. Flickering lanterns had been strung up in the branches of spreading live oaks around a central clearing, which was ringed by tables filled with all kinds of ghoulish goodies. A wall of jack-o'-lanterns glowed near the entrance, and I could see several costumed people gathered around a steaming cauldron.

  "You think that's mead in the cauldron, or cider?" I asked.

  "I'm kind of hoping it's mead," Quinn said. "I don't know how she got it to steam like that, though." What appeared to be smoke poured over the rim of the cauldron and Serafine was ladling out cups of something and handing them to partygoers. "Have you tried Serafine's Moon Mead?"

  "Yes... it's addictive. Like liquid flowers, only with a touch of spice. I picked up a bottle last week when I was talking to Serafine about starting a hive of my own," I said. "It was a splurge, but I couldn't resist."

  "You're adding bees to Dewberry Farm?" Flora asked.

  I shrugged. "Why not? Assuming everything doesn't shrivel from drought, that is."

  "I'm sure it'll rain soon," Quinn reassured me.

  "Anyway, assuming I survive the coming winter, I plan to start a hive in the spring. I've got cows, goats, and chickens already. They don't take up too much room."

  Flora sucked in her breath. "I hope you're not allergic! My aunt got stung once; she ended up in the hospital with anaphylactic shock."

  I glanced at Flora. "That sounds horrible. I hope she made it through!"

  "She did, but she blew up like a balloon. Almost died. I hope there aren't any bees out tonight; if it's genetic, I could be allergic, too."

  "The hives are well away from the main area," Quinn said. "Besides, it'll be dark soon... and with the cold snap, they're probably all tucked up keeping warm anyway."

  "Here's hoping," Flora said ominously, and Quinn and I exchanged glances. We'd taken Flora with us because we were trying to help her mingle with the community; since the loss of her mother, she'd become something of a hermit.

  "It's too bad Mama didn't make it. She'd have been a natural here," Flora said as Quinn pulled into a grassy spot not too far from the main goings-on. Although she'd loved her mother, she was still bitter.

  "She wasn't all bad," Quinn protested, although Flora's mother, Nettie, had never been particularly popular with either of us. The fact that she'd sold me Dewberry Farm and then turned around and tried to plant an oil well in my broccoli patch hadn't helped.

  "You didn't live with her for half a century," Flora objected. "I loved her, but she had her faults. Speaking of faults, look who else dropped in."

  "Oh, boy," Quinn said, following her pointing finger to where Bug Wharton and his brother, Mitch, were clambering out of his enormous extended king cab Dodge Ram.

  "There's enough chrome on that thing you can see it from space," I said, shielding my eyes as he slammed the door. The sun was setting, and the flash off the grille just about blinded me. "How much do you think that thing cost?"

  Quinn flipped down the mirror and inspected her sparkly hair. "More than your farm, most likely. Peter can't stand him."

  I glanced at my friend. "He's the one who started the exotic game ranch just down the road from Peter's place, isn't he?"

  "Exactly." She flipped the mirror shut and grimaced. "It's one of those terrible places where they raise endangered animals and sell the right to shoot them."

  I knew exotic game ranches were big business in Texas, and I'd occasionally driven past a high-fenced pasture with animals I'd only seen on nature specials and in zoos grazing behind the fence, but it was strange to think of one in Buttercup. "It sounds pretty awful."

  "Some people argue they're kind of like living arks... that they're saving endangered species," Flora piped up from the front seat. "Mother thought about starting one, actually."

  "With all due respect to your mother, it sounds pretty heartless," I said.

  Quinn flipped the mirror open again and wiped a bit of sparkle from her forehead. "Too much glitter, do you think?"

  "It's Halloween," I said. "Is there such a thing as too much glitter?"

  She glanced at me. "I guess you're right. Looks like Peter's already here," she said, pointing to a van with a verdant scene and "Green Haven Farm" painted on it. It was Buttercup's only fry-oil-powered vehicle, and belonged to Quinn's beau, local organic farmer Peter Swenson. Peter and Quinn had been seeing each other for several months, and were so happy I would have been jealous if I hadn't been seeing the handsome local vet, Tobias Brandt. Quinn glanced back up at the mirror and adjusted her hair; I could see a smile of anticipation on her glossed lips. "Ready?"

  "I am," I said, wondering when Tobias would arrive. My veterinarian boyfriend had had an urgent call out near La Grange; he said he'd get here as soon as he could. He was a frequent visitor at Honeyed Moon Mead Winery.

  The owner, Serafine, asked, "What's Peter going as, anyway?"

  "I think the Grim Reaper," she said as we walked through the pasture toward the wall of flickering jack-o'-lanterns. "He found a scythe in the barn, and he had some old burlap he was planning to dye black."

  "The Grim Reaper and Glinda the Good Witch. Quite a combo," I said, grinning.

  "I'm hoping to find a Grim Reaper of my own," Flora said, adjusting her sweatshirt.

  "I hope so too," I said.

  "I've got a date in La Grange this week," she admitted, blushing.

  "Good for you!" Quinn said.

  "I'm just afraid I'll make the same mistake again," Flora said. Her last boyfriend—fiancé, actually—had turned out to be something of a bad
egg.

  "I know what to watch for," Quinn said. "You can talk to me about red flags."

  "Oh, that's right... your ex," Flora said with a shiver. Jed Stadtler, Quinn's ex, had a history of assaulting my friend, and was, thankfully, spending some quality time behind bars for his offenses. "We don't have very good taste in men, do we?" Flora said with a sad smile.

  "Fortunately, that's changing," I said, spotting Peter, who was wearing a long black cloak and carrying a scythe. "Maybe your guy in La Grange will turn out to be a Prince Charming."

  "I'd settle for a Grim Reaper," Flora replied, looking at Peter. "So would Serafine's sister Aimee, from what I hear. Look... there she is now."

  Sure enough, Aimee's braids had been tucked up into a sparkly headdress, and her dark, almond-shaped eyes were accentuated with heavy eyeliner. Her coffee-colored skin glowed in the low light from the candles; she looked exotic and mysterious. Which was appropriate, since she'd set up a booth with tarot cards not far from the steaming cauldron. As we approached, she walked over and tugged on Peter's black sleeve, enticing him for a reading. Reluctantly, he let her drag him over to her booth and arrange him in a chair across from her.

  "I hate to spoil her moment," Quinn said as Aimee handed him the big cards to shuffle.

  We hung back as he gave them a perfunctory shuffle and set them on the table.

  "What's your question?" Aimee asked in a husky, seductive voice, leaning forward and fixing him with a penetrating gaze.

  "She is pretty gorgeous," Quinn murmured to me, biting her lip. "Should I be worried?"

  "I think you're fine," I reassured her in a low voice.

  "Question?" Peter told Aimee, looking uncomfortable. "I don't really have one."

  "Nothing about romance?" she asked, fluttering mascaraed lashes.

  "Subtle," Quinn whispered to me.

  "Ah, no," Peter said, glancing around as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Unfortunately for him, he inadvertently caught the eye of Teena Marburger, who also had a crush on him.