by Lesley Diehl
“Hi, there,” said a voice from behind me. I jumped and whirled around. Martin Davis stood there, the usual cherubic smile on his face.
“How did you get in here? I always lock the door when I’m working alone.” I mentally kicked myself. He didn’t need to know there was no one else here.
“The door was locked, but I came around behind the barn and used the door into the tasting room.”
For someone who had never visited my operation, he seemed familiar with its layout.
He looked so harmless standing there like a chubby elf. I breathed a sigh of relief. In his hand was a plant, one of his orchids, which he held out to me. I turned back to the container of caustic and carefully set the pitcher below the spout, then turned once more to face him. I tried for a smile, but instead I felt my mouth tremble.
Before I could decide what to do about his unwelcome visit, Davis took another step forward. I backed up a bit, reaching my gloved hands back to steady myself. They made contact with the pitcher. I moved them away from it. I didn’t need to spill this stuff on the floor or me.
His smile broadened. “I thought you might like this. It would be a beginning for you, to get to know them. You might like having orchids.” He hesitated and his expression hardened. “They’re better than oleanders.”
I gulped and glanced at the clock on the barn wall. When would Jeremiah be back?
“Thanks. You can just set it over there. I’ve got my hands full right now.” I nodded to the far wall, then drew my hands out from behind me and gestured toward the bench sitting there. Take it slow, Hera. Be cool. Everyone’s heard about the oleander. No need to panic yet.
He glanced toward the bench but didn’t move from his position. Instead he stooped down and set the pot on the floor.
“You don’t like Risley any better than I do,” he said. “I was the one he tried to kill by cutting the brake lines on the truck. He thought I still owned it, but I got a better truck, a new one, because Risley got fired.” Davis got a faraway look in his eyes. “I had a hand in that, didn’t I?” He shifted his gaze from the wall behind me and nodded his head up and down.
“What are you trying to say, Mr. Davis?” Now why did I ask that? I really didn’t want to know.
“You’ve never tried any of my cooking have you, my dear?” His tone was so conversational, I almost invited him up to the house to pass judgment on my chicken dish. Almost, but it was bad enough having a killer in my brew barn. I didn’t need him in the house. I simply shook my head.
“It’s so much better than Risley’s, you know. Oh, I mean, he’s worked at all these fancy places and has great recommendations, but he’s so yesterday. You must have noticed that about him, hmm?”
“Uh, I’m not much of a cook myself, but …”
“Yesterday! But he gets the top position at the college. I fixed him but good.”
A look of pure happiness crossed his face for a nanosecond. “But the bastard gets a job at that fancy restaurant downtown, so I had to fix that too. Why does every Italian who slops together a sauce think he’s a chef?”
“Oh, but Tony can cook …”
“Shut up. Just shut up. What do you know? You brew beer. Beer. Disgusting stuff.”
He pulled something out of his jacket. A knife! Well, of course it was a knife. He was a chef. In a macabre way it should have been tiring, two chefs with knives in my brew barn threatening me with death, but it wasn’t. It was simply beyond terrifying with no one here to help me. I had to keep him talking.
“I don’t understand. What did you have against Bruce?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. I just needed someone to die so Risley would take the blame. Oh, maybe not for the actual murder, but I knew the college would run like crazy because of the bad publicity. Look what happened to you.”
“You killed an innocent person just to make trouble for your rival?”
“Bruce? Obnoxious little puke, he was. He deserved to die. Always questioning my methods. He was Risley’s little pet.”
I moved one hand behind me to assure myself the caustic pitcher still sat securely on the drain below the spigot.
“Enough talk. I guess you don’t want the orchid, do you? When I’m finished here, I’ll take it with me.” He brandished the knife toward me.
I grabbed the pitcher’s handle and tossed its contents under-handed at Davis.
He threw his hands up in front of his face, stopping much of the liquid from getting to his eyes. His hands took most of it. He dropped the knife and screamed.
“My hands! My hands! You’ve burned them.” He wiped his hands on his jacket while swiping at his face with the sleeve of his arm and looked frantically around the room, finally spying the wash sink in the corner by the door. He dashed for it, blocking my escape. I dived under my brew house and crawled toward the rear wall. I heard water running, then looked back to see Davis grab the knife, stoop down and follow me under the mash lauder tun and brew kettle. As he wiggled toward me, his ample body lodged itself under the mash tun and caught there. He could go neither forward nor backward, but continued to moan and wriggle in pain. His gyrations stuck him more tightly under the vessel. I kept my distance from him.
“You need a doctor,” I called to him. “Otherwise, you’ll never be able to use your hands again. Put down the knife, and I’ll help you out of there. If you don’t, I drop this hose onto the barn floor, and the cleaning solution from the tank floods over you. Then you’re burned twice.” I knew there was nothing but hot water in the tank, but he didn’t.
He hesitated, but the pain from the chemical burns must have been intense. He tossed the knife away from him. “Help me.”
I crawled past him, keeping my distance, then jumped up and headed for the barn phone.
“You said you’d get me out of here. You lied.” I heard a catch in his voice followed by sobbing. I dialed the sheriff’s department. When Cliff arrived he could extract the man from under my brew house. I didn’t want to get that close to him.
I sat in the tasting room, listening to the sobbing turn to a keening, wailing sound, too unpleasant for me to endure for long. I walked back into the barn and passed the orchid pot still sitting on the barn floor. I picked it up as I left and tossed it into the woods behind the barn. The sheriff’s cruiser skidded up my drive.
“There’s a killer lodged under my brew house,” I said to Cliff. He nodded at me with a question on his face but headed to the barn. “I’ll join you and explain in a minute. I’ve got to stir my sauce.” Wasn’t I a cool one? I turned the stove off under the chicken and dumplings and walked into the bathroom, then bent over the toilet and threw up.
Twenty-Four
I should have cancelled dinner, but an entire pot of chicken and dumplings stared at me from the stove. I’d followed the directions carefully, and by God, I was serving it up. It didn’t taste half bad. My guests arrived with looks of consternation on their faces, but I assured them that, despite my encounter with yet another knife-wielding chef in my barn, I was fine.
Rafe got my telephone message and showed up with some of his Belgian ale. He seemed his old self, acting once more like a friend and not a suitor. I was relieved, and I knew by the look on his face that he sensed it.
He started the conversation at the table by raising his glass and proposing a toast. “Let’s drink to the future, to breathable air and clean water, and hope the DEC’s report this summer will keep this valley green forever by banning hydrofracking.”
Teddy wasn’t in attendance, having excused himself by pleading a commitment to a business meeting. I thought I knew just what that meant. The drilling lobby was marshalling its forces. With Teddy’s help.
“That gives me an idea.” I raised a glass of my IPA and held it up to the light. The liquid quivered with golden bubbles. “I’m going to brew an ale to celebrate clean air and water in our valley. I’ll call it Clear Creek.”
Everyone smiled and nodded.
“I don’t care if it’s
precipitous to do it before the Department of Environmental Conservation comes out with its statement this summer. I think we need to be positive about our future.” And what of my own future? Did I feel as positive about Jake and me?
“I know you don’t want to talk about Davis, but I’m shocked he was the one who killed Bruce,” said Sally. Next to her, Baby Michaela lay sleeping in Cliff’s arms. At the mention of her brother’s name, a tear slid down Megan’s cheek. She sat next to Sally, Jeremiah at her other side. Sally reached out and patted her hand.
I took a long swallow of my beer before I could say anything. “He didn’t care whom he killed as long as it created trouble for Risley. What a pair those two were.”
“Now the college has no one to head their culinary program,” said Ronald.
Tony laughed. “They might. Right before I left to come here, the dean called me and wanted us to have a little talk about my stepping in, at least on a temporary basis.”
“Will you do it?” I asked.
“I’m thinking about it, but only until spring.”
“Good, because we’ll need your input on the resort center then. I hope to break ground early summer. You’ll have your restaurant and the center to keep you busy.”
“I’ll train someone for the restaurant.”
“Who?” asked Cliff.
“From what Ronald says about her cooking, I think Deni might make a great sous chef.”
“They’re talking about you, Mom,” said Sara. Teasing, she pulled one of her mother’s dreadlocks. “Can I help, too?”
“Well, it seems as if all of us are either involved in brewing beer, making wine or cooking something,” I commented. “What a community. All we think about is our stomachs.”
Cliff cleared his throat.
“Oh, sorry, Cliff. Some of us do law enforcement to keep all the rest from danger.” I added.
Cliff’s face reddened. “No, I eat, too, but I thought you might like to know. Martin Davis confessed that he paid Father’s group to vandalize Tony’s restaurant, his way of getting at Risley, I expect. Father’s trying to make a deal with us by confessing he planted the oleander in Megan’s clothes. No deal. He’s in a world of trouble.” He smiled and gasped for breath after his long speech.
“I have an announcement of my own,” said Sally. “The DNA results came back early. Michaela is Michael’s daughter.”
“That’s good.” I paused and swallowed. “And?”
“You were right, Hera. That’s all anyone needs to know. That’s all I know, too. The past should remain in the past.”
I let out the breath I was holding. “Good.” I was happy not to find out more, but I wondered how Michael’s mother would feel about this. I didn’t think she’d be content to leave things as they were, and what of her power of attorney? I was curious to hear if it still rested in Marshall’s hands.
Sally must have sensed my concerns. She got up and came over to me. “Not now, Hera. There’s lots of time to worry, but not tonight.” She hugged me and whispered in my ear, “Auntie Hera.”
Shocked, I looked at her face to see if she was kidding. I couldn’t tell from her expression.
All heads turned toward the door at the sound of a car pulling into my drive. I got up and looked out.
“Uh, I’ll be right back.” With that, I rushed through the door and into the yard.
Jake got out of his truck, turned and opened the back door. A yellow lab jumped down from the back seat and ran up to me. She greeted me by nuzzling my knee. Jake walked over and stood close enough for me to feel the heat from his body.
“Her name is Sadie. I think she likes you. I hope you’ll feel the same about her.”
His green eyes met mine while Sadie’s brown ones eagerly explored my face.
I touched Jake’s shoulder and held my hand out to Sadie.
“I think I’m in love,” I said.
Meet Author Lesley A. Diehl
Lesley retired from her life as a professor of psychology and reclaimed her country roots by moving to a small cottage in the Butternut River Valley in upstate New York.
In the winter she migrates to old Florida—cowboys, scrub palmetto, and open fields of grazing cattle, a place where spurs still jingle in the post office.
Back north, she devotes her afternoons to writing and, when the sun sets, relaxing on the bank of her trout stream, sipping tea or a local microbrew.