by Joyce Tremel
“With the opening so close, I had a lot to do,” I said.
“Anything I can do to help? Believe it or not, I haven’t forgotten how to wield a hammer or a screwdriver.”
“Don’t let your parishioners know you can do that. You don’t want the contributions to drop because they think you don’t need to pay a handyman.”
Sean laughed.
“Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but we’ll be fine if we stay on schedule. I’ll be sure to make it to dinner next week.”
“And Mass, too?”
“Hopefully.”
“Maxie . . .”
Sean was the only one who dared call me that. When I was five, I busted the next-door neighbor kid in the chops for doing it. “Fine. I’ll be there,” I said.
“Good. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
I puttered around for a while and actually cleaned out a few boxes of kitchen items. It was nice to see the cabinets fill up. There was a small collection of German beer steins in one of the boxes, and I washed and arranged them on one of the built-in bookshelves in the living room. It was a nice touch, even though the rest of the shelves were almost empty. I vowed to make a better effort to get things unpacked. It was never going to look like home until I did.
By ten o’clock, I was tired and decided to call it a night. The phone rang as I finished brushing my teeth. I almost didn’t answer it, and when I did, I was surprised to hear Kurt’s voice.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“I was right.”
“About what? Your kirschtorte?”
“No. The sabotage.”
Not this again. “There is no—”
“Yes, there is. I know what’s going on, and I know exactly who is doing it.”
I would have argued more, but something in his voice stopped me. “What happened?”
“I have proof. I heard a noise and found . . . You need to come down here. It’d be better if I showed it to you. Then we can turn it over to the police and get to the bottom of this whole thing.”
I still wasn’t convinced anything was going on, but Kurt wouldn’t have called this late if he didn’t think it was urgent. So much for an early night. “I’ll be right there.”
• • •
“Kurt?” I called as I dropped my purse on the bar. The lights were all on, but he wasn’t in the main room of the pub. Upset as he was, I thought he would have met me at the door. Maybe he was in the kitchen. I crossed the plank floor to the other side of the room and pushed open the swinging door. The scent of chocolate and cherries made my mouth water. His latest torte creation sat half-decorated on the stainless steel counter. A bowl of thickened tart cherries was beside it, along with a plastic piping bag that looked full of whipped cream. It was odd he’d walk away without putting it back into the refrigerator. I put the cherries and whipped cream in the fridge, then went looking for Kurt.
He wasn’t in my office. I opened the door that led to the basement, but the lights were out. I stopped outside the men’s restroom and knocked on the door. Twice. I didn’t want to just barge in. Kurt was a good friend, but not that good. When he didn’t answer, I peeked in. It was empty. I stood in the hallway and tapped my foot. I went back down the hallway to the pub. I could see through the window that the brewery was dark. Where could he be? Surely he wouldn’t have taken off and left the place unlocked—especially after asking me to come down here. Could he have stepped out for a quick snack? I went back to the bar and sat down to wait.
Fifteen minutes later, Kurt hadn’t returned. The longer I waited, the madder I got. Why had he bothered calling me if he was going to leave? Apparently, whatever he had to tell me wasn’t all that important after all. I snatched my cell phone from my purse and tapped his number on the speed dial with a lot more force than I needed. He’d better have a good explanation. Seconds later, the sound of his phone ringing made me jump. The sound was muffled, so I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. I got up, and as I crossed the room the sound got louder. The ringing seemed to be coming from the brewing area. It didn’t make sense that Kurt would leave his phone in the darkened brewery. I pushed the swinging door halfway open and paused. The ringing stopped, and Kurt’s voice mail picked up. There was another sound, however—the mash tun was operating. A prickly sensation went down my spine. Why was that tank running? We had cleaned out the spent mash earlier when I’d brewed a batch of hefeweizen. There was no reason for it to be turned on, especially at this time of night.
“Kurt?” I fumbled for the light switch. My fingers found it and the overhead lights blazed on. I blinked a couple times at the sudden brightness and spotted Kurt on the platform bent over the large opening at the top of the mash tun. Something wasn’t right about that. I was about to call his name again when it registered. His feet weren’t touching the floor. Heart in my throat, I raced up the metal stairs, the clangs echoing through the room with each step. I reached for the switch beside the tank. My hands shook horribly. I missed the switch. I tried again and turned it off.
It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d missed it again. There was a good reason why Kurt hadn’t been waiting for me or responded when I called him.
He was dead.
Joyce Tremel is the author of Tangled Up in Brew and To Brew or Not to Brew. For more than ten years, she was a police secretary. Her fiction has appeared in Mysterical-e, and her nonfiction has been published in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and the Pennsylvania Chiefs of Police magazine. She lives in a suburb of Pittsburgh with her husband and a spoiled cat.
Visit her online at joycetremel.com and facebook.com/joycetremel.
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