January Thaw (The Murder-By-Month Mysteries)

by Lourey, Jess

  “Who designs all your labels?” I asked over the din of the operating factory.

  “I do. I used to do graphic design for the carpeting company in Chicago, and now I design the labels, the marketing materials, everything.” He bowed. “And lead tours, of course. At least until we expand our line. Many of the employees here multitask.”

  “Cool,” I said, accepting the sample label Niall handed to me. It was for O’Callaghan’s seasonal beer, called Ice Castle. The image on the front looked familiar. It took me a few beats to recognize that it was a cartoon version of the O’Callaghan’s-sponsored ice castle on West Battle. I wondered how the bad publicity was affecting business, but it seemed rude to ask. Niall finished up the tour, fielding questions about beer flavors (they’d add more in the summer if the current stock sold well), whether they were hiring (not at this time, but applications were always welcome), and how long it took to brew a single bottle of beer from the malting stage to the bottling (twenty-two to forty days on average, depending on what type of beer it was). When all the questions had been answered, Niall asked who was ready to try some beer. Apparently, everyone but the two children had come for exactly that reason, and the group headed toward the exits en masse. I lagged behind so I could sing “Schlemiel, schlimazel, hasenpfeffer incorporated” under my breath and snatch another label from the on-deck machine feed, this one far more interesting to me.

  The colors had initially attracted me—deep blues and purples with a flash of silver—but it was the name that hitched my breath: Sutler’s Civil War Ale. I thought immediately of the Prospect House, and Orpheus Jackson. The label’s spidery font was old-fashioned, and the words were undercut by the sharp edge of a bayonet. The overall effect was a peculiar cross between edgy and quaint, but somehow it worked. On impulse, I stuffed the label into my coat pocket and caught up with the rest of the tour. I passed a door I hadn’t noticed before and tried the handle on impulse. Locked. The room must contain fragile materials, or be where they hid the garbage.

  The cold outside was bracing after the steamy closeness of the brew factory. A soft winter breeze had picked up, sending tiny eddies of snowdust over the frosted drifts and making the twinkle lights glitter magically. The tour group was nearly inside the building when I caught up with them. Niall was holding the door. He tapped my shoulder lightly as I passed by him.

  “Did you get lost?” His smile seemed genuine, but his eyes carried an emotion I couldn’t read, more than a question but not quite a warning.

  “Sorry,” I said. It wasn’t really an answer, but I’d discovered the word was a ticket out of most minor social infractions. I plucked my two beer coupons from his outstretched hand and made my way through the main lodge and into the bar in the rear. Although the lodge itself was one open room, the bar had been cleverly designed with open sides and its own faux-cobblestone roof to make it seem like a separate, authentic Irish pub within the larger space. My tour group had already bellied up to the buttery wood counter and were enjoying their first taste of beer. The kids were sucking down root beers.

  I considered whether I should imbibe. I absolutely loved beer, but I didn’t know if this counted as a social situation. Plus, I didn’t want to get schlitzy before I drove. A couple sips couldn’t hurt though, right? In fact, I was almost obligated as part of my research. I slid the blue coupon to the bartender when he strolled to my end of the bar. He was in his forties, too old to be Eric, and his name tag read Turlough.

  “A sample of the Civil War Ale, please.”

  He shot me a quizzical glance. “Excuse me?”

  I almost pulled out the label. “Sutler’s Civil War Ale. I saw the labels in the factory.”

  He smiled and handed me a menu. “I’m afraid that one will never see the light of day. Something in the recipe was off. Here’s a list of what we do offer.”

  Peculiar. You’d think they’d test the recipe before bothering to print out labels. I studied the menu. “I’ll try the chocolate stout, please.” Beer that tastes like chocolate? Hi, really good idea.

  He opened the tap into a miniature mug that I assumed they used only for tastings. The beer pulled out deep and creamy with a gorgeous head. When he set it in front of me, the smell hit me first: bitter, dark, and rich. I closed my eyes and inhaled. When I opened them, he was still standing there with his hands on his hips, watching me like a proud parent.

  “The chocolate stout is my favorite,” he said.

  I smiled and held the glass to my lips, smelling it through my open mouth before tipping back the glass and letting it wash in. The flavor was transcendent, dark chocolate notes on my tongue, a light carbonation on the sides of my mouth, and a deeper, wiser flavor in the back of my throat. I swallowed and moaned. “Amazing,” I sighed.

  He nodded in satisfaction. “You can see why we guard the recipes so carefully.”

  “Where can I buy some?” I swiveled in my stool. I hadn’t noticed beer for sale amidst all the other O’Callaghan’s merchandise.

  He began wiping mugs, keeping one eye on his other customers. “Minnesota law. Breweries can’t sell their bottled beer on site.”

  “What?” I drew the chocolate stout closer to me. This might be all I got for a while.

  He shrugged. “Something about distribution lobbyists needing their cut, I think. You can buy it in the area liquor stores, but we can’t sell you anything but growlers, and we don’t have the space or license for that. Only samples.”

  A more ridiculous law I had yet to hear, but the delicious headiness of the beer might have been fueling my righteousness. Everyone should be able to drink this nectar wherever they wanted. It was filling my empty stomach with a nice bubbly bliss. Actually, I decided on the spot that it was dark and thick enough to count as a meal. I finished all four ounces and handed him the mug.

  “What would you like to try next? Our pale ale is very popular.”

  I shook my head. “No more for me, thanks. I have to drive.” I started to walk away and then turned back. “Oh, hey, I almost forgot. Can you give this to Eric Offerdahl for me?” I held out the first item I pulled out of my pocket, a Turtle Stew receipt for the hotdish I’d ordered the other night.

  Turlough smiled amiably and reached for it. He almost had his hands on the paper before his face tightened. He withdrew his fist and shot a glance toward Niall, who was talking to Aednat at the front door. Niall wasn’t looking, and Turlough turned his back to me to help another customer.

  That was all right. I’d gotten what I came for.

  Twenty-Seven

  I sat in my idling car outside the T Wrecks farmhouse and honked my horn. I wasn’t sure if Mrs. Berns would be back from her expedition or not, but I hoped so. I was relieved when she popped her head out, waved at me to hang tight, disappeared back inside the house, then ran to the car five minutes later with her arms full of books.

  “Holy moley,” she said, hopping in next to me. “What a busy afternoon!”

  “What’s that smell?” I sniffed around her hair. The odor reminded me of woodsmoke, but sweeter.

  She shrugged. “I’m an old lady. It could be any number of things. Check this out.” She held up the top book on a stack of seven. It’s ragged cover proclaimed Yoga Spirit! in a 1970s psychedelic font. “I’m gonna be a hippie!”

  “You’re only a few decades late for that train.” I took another whiff. “That’s it! You smell like pot. Were you smoking?”

  “I’m too old to start smoking anything. I have plans for these lungs. Bob and Vienna may have been partaking, though.”

  “What kind of name is Vienna for a person, anyhow?”

  “I had the same question. Her dad’s name was Vince and her mom’s name was Alenna, so they named her Vienna.”

  “Does Austria know?”

  “Why are you so crabby? Aren’t you happy that I have a new friend?”

  I found myself
pouting as I drove onto the icy blacktop. I performed a body scan and realized that I was tense all over. First it was Kennie with the greener thumb, and now it was Mrs. Berns making a new friend. But of course I wanted her to have as many people in her life as possible. I tried to turn my attitude around. “Sorry.”

  “You should be. That late husband of mine who was a drinker? He was a jealous one, too. Kept a tight rein on me, as if I went anywhere besides home and the grocery store. I vowed never to let anyone possess me again.”

  “You sound like a heroine of a romance novel.”

  “But you get my point.”

  I sighed. “I said I was sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  One of the many admirable things about Mrs. Berns is that if she accepted your apology, she meant it. I knew we wouldn’t be speaking of this again.

  “Now listen,” she continued. “Vienna is amazing. She’s sixty-nine and has the body of a fifty-year-old. She says it’s because of yoga and how she eats. She teaches classes and everything, and does most of the cooking for the kids who stay on at the brewery. I’m going to turn back the clock!” She pumped a tiny bird fist into the air, her smile lighting up her face in the dark of the car.

  “Too late,” I said fondly. I let her ramble on about all the ideas Vienna had given her and all the life changes she was going to make. In the back of my mind, though, I realized I was missing Johnny terribly, and maybe that’s why I was being so possessive of Mrs. Berns and my plants. It had been three days since I’d seen him, and that was too long. Rather than get grabby about things that weren’t mine, I should appreciate what I had.

  The owners of Bonnie & Clyde’s in Clitherall let Johnny’s band use the back half of their bar as practice space on Tuesdays. It was a slow night so no one minded if the music was a little rough. I could drop Mrs. Berns off, go watch Johnny practice, and maybe even see if Bonnie & Clyde’s was carrying O’Callaghan’s chocolate stout. Then, after Johnny was done working, he and I could slip back to his house and finish what we’d started the other night. The thought of it revved up my blood and sent it to all sorts of delicious places.

  “What?” I asked, becoming aware that Mrs. Berns was quietly watching me.

  “Have you heard a word I said?”

  “Several.”

  “You know how some people have faces like statues?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not one of them. Say hi to Johnny for me. And drop me off at the Rusty Nail. They’ve added karaoke on Tuesdays, and I have a hankering to sing ‘If I Could Turn Back Time.’”

  She didn’t wait to get out of the car to start practicing. I promised her I’d drop the borrowed books off at her apartment, and I did just that before heading east to Clitherall, another two-bars-and-a-church town four miles up the road from Battle Lake. Bonnie & Clyde’s was situated directly across the street from the Sportsman’s Bar. They were both decent dives to hang in, but Bonnie & Clyde’s had the bands and the feel. When I parked out front, I heard the jukebox playing “Crazy Train.” Johnny’s band must be taking a practice break.

  I left my car and glanced up at the crossed rifles on the Bonnie & Clyde’s sign, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I wasn’t wearing any make-up, which wasn’t unusual, but I also hadn’t combed my hair since this morning and was wearing everyday clothes. Plus, a string of sleepless nights had left dark bags under my eyes. Johnny would be with his friends and there would most certainly be a cadre of lady fans of all ages. He had his very own groupies, even on practice nights.

  I jogged back to the car, dragged a brush through my hair, and coated my lips with honey-flavored lip balm. That was the best I could do, though I decided to enter through the back so everyone wouldn’t stare as I entered. I made my way to the rear, passing the white equipment van used by The Thumbs. I heard some soft talk and giggling near Bonnie & Clyde’s back door and almost turned around to enter through the front. Instead, I peeked around the corner to make sure I wouldn’t be interrupting anything uncomfortable.

  I blinked for several seconds and still couldn’t make sense of what I saw: Johnny, his arms wrapped around a stunning blonde.

  Twenty-Eight

  No matter how much I stared, it just didn’t make sense. When my eyes began to fog, I realized it was tears and yanked myself back. Luckily, Johnny hadn’t spotted me. His attention was completely focused on the blonde. I speed-walked back to my car, my head down, my legs numb. I started the engine automatically and pointed the Toyota toward anywhere but here, taking the sharp corner known as the Clitherall Carwash so quickly that I started fishtailing.

  Breathe, I told myself. I pulled my car back into a straight line and began rationalizing. It was bound to happen. Johnny was gorgeous, smart, funny, kind, and in a band. How had I ever thought he’d want more than a fling? When I’d finally slept with him in December, I knew I’d put it off for so long because I was afraid this is exactly what would happen. I slammed my palm into my steering wheel. How could I have been so stupid?

  We hadn’t said we would be exclusive, though. Had we? I kept driving, but it was hard with the tears streaming down my face. I’d be okay. For sure I would. I’d survived worse. I should have known better than to get my hopes up in the first place, though. I was punching way above my weight class with Johnny.

  I found myself standing outside the Battle Lake Municipal Liquor store. The mirror of the glass door reflected a red, puffy face, a runny nose, tears glistening off my cheeks. I rubbed a mittened hand over my face and entered. I passed the display of O’Callaghan’s and went straight for the vodka. I kept my head down as I paid, not wanting to see the pity in the cashier’s eyes.

  I knew I wasn’t bringing this bottle home.

  For a crazy moment, I considered driving to Kennie’s house, but then it hit me. I knew exactly where I was going to sleep tonight.

  Twenty-Nine

  “Hey baby, you want waffles?”

  Whose voice was that? I opened my eyes and saw only blackness. I was blind! It was exactly what I deserved. I shifted my head slightly. My brain had a distinct lag behind my skull, and it hammered against its cage when it finally caught up. I groaned, but I realized that I had been face down. With my head now to the side, at least I could see.

  “Cuz if you do, you’ll need to go out and grab some waffle mix. Oh, and syrup. Butter, too, if they have it. Man, waffles sound good. And bacon.”

  Sweet Jesus, was that Bad Brad’s voice? I groaned again, this time sounding like a wounded whale. I could not begin to imagine the half-life on a mess-up like this. I slowly pulled myself into a sitting position and cracked my eyes wider. I was on his couch. Daylight was slicing through his dusty blinds like blades of fire. I rubbed at my face, feeling the imprint of his cheap stinky couch from forehead to chin. Maybe we could just pour syrup on my face. I sucked in a breath and let my hand fall lower, to where my clothes should be—dear god, please let me still be wearing clothes.

  Shirt, check. Bra, check. Underwear, never wore ’em. Pants, check. I almost cried in relief.

  “Hey, did you sleep in those clothes? Weirdo. Right before I crashed last night, I told you to make yourself comfortable, and you told me to make myself invisible. Ha! I forgot how much fun you are when you’ve been drinking.”

  I focused on Brad, who appeared to be wearing only tighty-had-once-been-whities. I held up my hand to shield my sight, and he slapped a cup of coffee into it.

  “Here you go. It’s instant, but you have got to need this. Man, I didn’t know you could sing.”

  Sing? My fifth-grade choir teacher had taken me aside after the first day of class and quietly asked me if I wouldn’t mind lip-syncing. I hadn’t warbled in public since. I took a tentative sniff of the coffee. It smelled like ashtrays and butt. Again, exactly what I deserved. I sipped it in penance.

  “Good thing I had my rec
ording equipment here. It’s still okay if I use it as a backing track for Iron Steel’s punk cover of ‘The Gambler,’ right? ‘You gotta know when to hold ’em!’” He screeched like a cat while air guitaring.

  “Brad.” It came out as a whisper so as not to unbalance the delicate gyroscope of my spinning brain. “Brad.” A little louder this time, but still not loud enough to break through. “Brad!”

  “You don’t need to yell, baby.”

  “Did we do anything last night?”

  “Yeah, totally. We recorded those tracks and played quarters and talked philosophy of life. Oh, we played hide and seek, but you kept trying to, you know, conceal yourself under the kitchen sink, except you didn’t fit.”

  That explained the egg-sized lump on my head. I hoped. “No, I mean, did we … make out?” The sip of coffee I’d swallowed threatened to return to its cup.

  “Naw, man, don’t be stupid. I’m with Samantha and you’re with Johnny. That’s what you kept telling me, anyhow, though I’m still confused about the part where you’re going to let him have multiple wives if that’s what he needs?”

  My pain dropped from my head and rose from my stomach, landing squarely in my heart. Johnny was seeing another woman. That’s why I’d come here in the first place. Scratch that. I’d come to Brad’s because I was weak and scared. Thank god the dumb monkey had been his best self last night. Maybe dating him wasn’t the worst mistake I’d ever made. Top five, no question, but no longer dead first. “I have to go.”

  “Bathroom’s right over there.”