A Deadly Draught

by Lesley A. Diehl

“I know enough about you, Missy, that I bet you don’t want your nice, new brew being tampered with, do you? There are a lot of things I can do to make this batch a failure, and that would put you in a pretty mess.” He looked around the brew barn as if searching for something.

  “Let’s see here. Should I throw all of your yeast into the kettle? Hmm? Or should I take this hose off here and dump the brew on the floor.” He reached for the valve at the bottom of the vessel.

  “Stop it!” My precious brew. I had to save it. Fearing less for myself than my brewery, I rushed at him when he grabbed for the hose. My sudden action took him by surprise. As he turned to ward off my attack, his foot slipped on a loose drain cover and down he went, hitting his elbow with a crack on the cement. I grabbed the pole I used for stirring wort and slammed it down on his head as hard as I could. He fell to the floor and lay there, not moving.

  Oh, God, now I did it. I killed him. I didn’t really feel bad that I’d done in someone who was threatening me and my property, but then again, I didn’t know what a murderer felt like. Until now, that is. I felt relieved and a little guilty, I guess.

  Damn. Now I’ll have to call Jake and tell him what I did. With trembling fingers, I picked up the phone in the barn and made the call.

  *

  “He’s not dead, but he’s still unconscious. He’s going to have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. You really gave it to him. What did you hit him with?” asked Jake. He had arrived in a little over five minutes from the time I made the phone call. The body on the floor gave forth a moan.

  “Looks like he’s waking up. Maybe now we can get some answers.” Jake propped him against the wall and stepped back. “What’s your name?”

  “Bernie Fisher. Who’re you? I was attacked. By her,” he said. He pointed a dirty finger in my direction.

  “You were trespassing, and you threatened her and her property.”

  “I was attacked,” Bernie repeated. “I want a doctor and a lawyer.”

  “You’re going to need both, Bernie boy,” Jake said. He cuffed the man and pulled him to his feet.

  *

  Early the next morning, I drove to the supermarket. It was humiliating having a common thief accuse me of being less than sociable. Having some food in my fridge and freezer gave me a sense of comfort and organization, a hedge against the financial insolvency about to overtake me. Pleased with my false feeling of satiety and with a stomach full of milk and Oreo cookies, I lay down for a short nap. A night of nabbing thieves really exhausts a person, I thought.

  I awoke with a start, realizing my rescheduled appointment with the bank was this afternoon. I had an hour to prepare myself. The truth was, I hated the idea of meeting with the bank president and asking for money. I knew I was procrastinating, but I decided to detour to Rafe’s place to say hello. I wanted to ask Rafe some questions about my unwanted visitor. Bernie professed to want information from me about Rafe, but I wasn’t buying that. Something told me Rafe knew this man. I pulled into the drive and wasn’t surprised to spy Bernie Fisher leaving the brew barn with Rafe.

  “Mr. Fisher. How’s the head? And the breaking and entering business?” I asked. Sarcasm colored my voice.

  “Sorry about that. I was in desperate straits, needed food bad. Kind of down on my luck, I was.” Bernie removed his dirty cap from his head and kept his eyes on the ground as he talked to me.

  “Rafe,” I said, “could we talk?”

  “I think you know the routine, Bernie. We’ll leave you to it,” Rafe said. He took my arm and walked me toward the house.

  “Don’t be so polite. Ask away,” Rafe said.

  “He’s working for you? Why? I got the impression he was a real rounder.”

  “I’m sure he is, but he knows brewing, and I can use a hand until Henry gets back on his feet.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” I said. I was missing part of Bernie’s story, but I could see Rafe was not.

  “He’s a hard worker, catches on fast,” Rafe insisted.

  “He’s a common criminal who has something up his sleeve, I think.”

  “That’s why I hired him. I want him close to keep an eye on him.”

  “He asked about you at my house last night. Why was that do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I found this conversation frustrating, as well as confusing.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked.

  “Just a voice from my past,” said Rafe. “I know Bernie Fisher. He and I were good friends at one time, if you consider thieves can be buddies. Bernie’s the kind of friend you can buy. So I bought him for a while. Maybe I can find out what he’s up to. Don’t worry yourself about him, my dear. He won’t bother you again. That, I can promise you. Now, I must go. I’ve got a batch of ale I’m working on.” He looked up at the cloudless sky. “I hope we get some rain soon.” He walked off toward the barn with a smile and a wave. I was still puzzled at why he would hire such a man—a thief and scalawag.

  *

  “What’s that guy up to?” Jake’s hand curled around my arm as I hopped out of my truck. I brushed off his grasp and closed the door.

  “Hey, let go. If I don’t feed this thing, the local meter maid will ticket me.” I slipped two quarters into the slot.

  “Rafe. What’s going on with him and Bernie?”

  “I haven’t any idea. I have an appointment with the bank president, and I’m late already. If you want to know what’s going on, ask Rafe.”

  “I already did when he bailed out that piece of scum this morning. Then I saw the two of them drinking coffee at the diner, and they drove off together in Rafe’s Mercedes. Very suspicious.”

  “It’s Rafe’s business.” I opened the door to the bank, hoping I would spy Mr. Culler, the president, and could get away from Jake’s probing questions. I could tell Jake what Rafe told me, but it wasn’t my place to do that. Anyway, none of it made any sense to me.

  “The two of you are friends. You must know what’s going on.”

  “I don’t. Now leave me alone.” I saw Mr. Culler’s secretary Evelyn walking toward me, a scowl on her face.

  “Mr. Culler is waiting for you. You’re late.”

  “See? Gotta run.” I rushed after her sling-back heels in my work boots, our footsteps making a clack, clack, clump, clump across the marble floor. She paused halfway to the office and looked down at my shoes. She said nothing but shook her head and continued on her journey with me in tow. I felt like the ugly duckling, but it was unlikely that I would turn into a swan, at least not today.

  Mr. Culler may have been waiting for me, but it wasn’t in his office. Evelyn showed me into what looked like the board room, empty except for a long table surrounded by chairs. She told me Culler would be right in. I wandered around the table, then chose a chair facing the door. Bankers must have an odd sense of time. Mr. Culler walked in the door fifteen minutes later, offered me the smallest of smiles, and sank into a chair with the deepest of sighs.

  “You see, Miss Knightsbridge,” he began, “this is a very conservative bank with limited funds for lending.” I looked at him across the expanse of polished mahogany, bare except for a bottle of Maalox he’d set on the table when he sat. He caught me eyeing it and tucked it into his pocket. In all the years I’d interacted with him at the bank, I’d never seen the worry wrinkles on his forehead relax. The man looked permanently distressed. Perhaps he was. His complexion had the pasty grey-green color that comes from too little sunlight. Maybe he only left the bank at night and came in before dawn. Unless he was golfing, that is. His voice drew me back to the matter of my loan.

  “Also, the board is quite concerned about the recent death, er, murder, of Mr. Ramford. The county sheriff’s office is on the case.”

  Oh, oh. I think I know where this is heading.

  “So, given the status of the murder, we’re not prepared to take a chance on you as a client.”

  “But I’ve borrowed money here bef
ore. My record is spotless. I make my payments and on time.”

  “Who knows how long this case may drag on with no resolution? Someone in the brewing community is responsible for the death, er murder, and, although we don’t suspect you, we can’t take the risk given the, uh, situation.”

  He started to rise from his chair, but I reached out my hand to him.

  “I can assure you this will be wrapped up in no time. I know the officer in charge and he’s …” Words failed me. All I could see was Jake’s scowl every time he approached me about the case. “The officer is very dedicated and serious about making headway, and he’s relentless in his pursuit of the truth. We were in law school together.”

  I knew I had said the wrong thing by the look of skepticism that crossed Mr. Culler’s face.

  “In law school together. You’re friends?”

  “Uh, we were friends. Kind of lost touch since then. I just know the caliber of man he is, that’s all. He’s not the type to let friendship get in the way of examining evidence in a case.” Well, that was all too true. If Jake could figure out a way to do it, he’d love to slap me in jail for any number of legal and personal infractions—dumping him in law school, my acerbic personality, suspicious connections to the deceased’s family, and the yeast theft at Rafe’s. So perhaps he wasn’t entirely free from prejudice in his dealings with me. I decided to change the direction the conversation was going.

  “If you’re concerned about the future of my business, let’s go over my business plan together. I expect to add to my offerings. Why, right now, as we speak, I’m brewing up what I hope to be a truly outstanding …” Oh, oh, better not mention the ale in my fermentation vat, the product of stolen yeast, even if I didn’t steal it. “…brew,” I finished vaguely, “a great new brew.”

  “I’m sorry, but we cannot take a chance with our money where there is criminal activity involved. Once this murder and theft thing is cleared up by your outstanding friend, Officer Jake or whatever his name is, then come on back here and have a talk with me.”

  Now I was getting mad. How dare this little, rinky-dink bank with its balding, cowardly president deny me a loan.

  “I can go elsewhere, you know, and I will,” I said and arose from my chair.

  “Please do, but I think you’ll find all banks around here to be skittish when it comes to the brewing businesses in this valley. The story of the murder made local and state headlines. The banking industry knows about it. I doubt you’ll find a bank will take you on, but give it a try.” He seemed to look smug at the certainty I would be denied funds.

  “I suppose that applies to all the brewers around here?” I asked before I turned toward the door.

  “You’re the only one who’s applying for a loan that I know of,” he said. “Good day, Miss Knightsbridge.”

  *

  A rap on my truck window alerted me to the presence of Officer Williams, the most junior of the police on our local force. I lifted my head from my arms, which were draped across the steering wheel, and rolled down the window.

  “I’m gonna have to give you a ticket, if you don’t either move your truck or feed the meter,” he said. His tone was friendly, but firm. Just doing his job, I knew.

  I heard the knob on the meter twist with the insertion of a coin and raised my eyes to see Jake at the curb.

  “Thanks, sir,” said Officer Williams. He continued up the block, stopped at the next expired meter and looked back at us, a puzzled expression on his face.

  Jake stepped up to the driver’s side window.

  “They said no, right?” he asked.

  “I am so screwed,” I said.

  “How about a drink?” he asked.

  “Booze?”

  “I do drink from time to time. In moderation. I’m off duty. Come on. Follow me in your truck, and we’ll go to my place.”

  “Nope.”

  “No?”

  “No. This is not the time I want to drink in moderation. I want to get ugly drunk, just for a while, and I want to be home to do it. And I’d like to be alone. No, I take that back. It’s not good to drink alone. I’d like to get stinking drunk with a friend.”

  “I’ll be a friend tonight. We’ll go to your place, and if I get too drunk to drive, I’ll just sleep in your barn or something.”

  I looked at him carefully. He wasn’t kidding. No lopsided grin on his face, no sarcasm in his voice. Why the hell not? I didn’t feel like inflicting my poor old self on any of my friends. Jake would do.

  I started up my truck, backed up, and floored it. In my rearview mirror I watched Jake run for his car.

  No money, no money, no money. The reality of my financial jeopardy ran through my head as I drove. Oh, damn. I missed my turn. I looked in the rearview mirror to see Jake’s car pull into my drive and then stop. It crossed my mind to just keep driving, but I braked at the next lane and made a U-turn.

  What the hell. I might as well get drunk with an old lover and … and what? What difference did it make? My life is a shambles anyway.

  “So, are you ready for a little Rush?” I asked. I jumped from my truck and approached Jake. His face registered something like shock, and then he grinned his lopsided smile.

  “It’s the name of a lager, Dummy. This might be the last chance you get. I don’t have much stock left.” I grabbed his arm, and we headed for my fridge.

  Twelve

  “Hoppy, but not too hoppy.” Jake sipped the golden lager with a look of pleasure on his face. He sat in Dad’s old easy chair with his feet propped up on the ottoman.

  “Oooh, I’m impressed. Where did you learn the lingo?”

  “I’ve been reading a little about the beer business. It’s pretty complicated, but interesting. Now I know there are several kinds of malt.”

  “More than several,” I said, then shut up and let him go on.

  “And hops give the brew bitterness, right?” His tone of voice reflected satisfaction at having mastered his homework. “Your hops come from the Pacific Northwest.”

  “You didn’t get that from a book. You’ve been snooping around in my barn.” There was no suspicion in my voice. I was feeling too mellow to be accusatory. I sat on the couch, feet up, slurping my second scotch. I could feel the liquor make its way into my stomach and produce a warm, curling glow there. Jake was on his first bottle of Ginseng Rush. If the small moans of delight emanating from his throat were any indication, he was enjoying it. I’d told him about my conversation with Mr. Culler.

  “You can wipe that look of phony concern and sympathy off your face. Be honest. You could care less about my business. If it goes down the tubes, so be it. In fact, you think I should find a more legitimate way to earn a living. Right?”

  With a slow, precise motion, he set his beer glass on the side table and leaned forward.

  “I was wrong to go off on your craft the way I did the other day. You were right. You’re a businesswoman, not the devil. My drinking, my problem. I’m sorry.”

  Jake offering an apology? This was a side of him I’d never seen before. Maybe I should re-evaluate my assessment of this man. I squinted at my drink. Or was that just the scotch muddling my judgment?

  Thunder sounded in the distance. I turned to look out the window. Clouds were gathering over the ridge, and lightening split the sky. The rumble that followed sounded closer.

  “Maybe we’ll get that much-needed rain.” He took up his glass again and sipped, turning it so the liquid caught the dim light through the window.

  I settled back into the couch with my scotch. I should go slow here, I thought. No sense in abusing good scotch or taking for granted the apology of a proud man. There’s been a bell weather change in our relationship in the past few days. Are we both mellowing, getting used to one another’s presence, leaving the past behind, what? Or does he want something from me? I waited.

  “So what are you going to do now? About the business, I mean?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve got enough pr
oduct to last the early part of the summer. The ale I’m working on now will help my sales, but once the season is over, I think I’m done. I can’t make enough money in the next few months to get through until the new year. I’m out of the brewing business unless I take up Michael and Stanley on their offer to go halfsies with me.”

  “Halfsies?”

  “I’m the brewer. I brew here, but they own half this operation. I don’t trust Stanley. I need that bank loan, no strings attached, and I’m my own boss. But the only way I’ll get it is if Ramford’s murderer is found.” I took another small sip of my scotch, my courage for what I was about to say.

  “Jake.” I shifted my butt around on the couch in discomfort. Jake’s face had the alert look of a feral cat being stalked by a coyote, convinced it could use its wits to outsmart its predator. “You know what I’m about to ask, I guess.”

  He leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees, and studied me.

  “It’s fine with me. I wouldn’t mind some inside scoop on this community of brewers. Your take on what’s going on could only help, unless you decide to snoop on your own,” Jake said.

  “I’d never do that. I promise you. I need to find out who killed Ramford, especially since you think his murder is tied up in my father’s death. It’s not just a matter of financial survival for me. I can’t carry around this load of guilt about Dad’s death forever.” Whoa here. The scotch must be loosening my tongue.

  “What guilt?”

  “I thought at first Dad killed himself because I didn’t do enough to help him get through Mom’s death, but now I know I was being selfish, focusing on my own feelings of inadequacy and not seeing the situation for what it was. You said it yourself. I knew my father didn’t own a gun, and I knew he wasn’t the kind of man who would take his own life. I was playing pitiful Hera and have been for these past five years. I need to pull myself together.”

  “You think scotch will help?” He accompanied his comment with a small smile, an obvious attempt to break through the tension of my confession.

  “Oh, crap, no.” I banged the glass down on the coffee table with a thunk.