by Joyce Tremel
“Yep.”
“What’s in it?” I asked.
Jake grinned. “Eat it and find out.”
I dipped the pierogi in the dressing and took a bite. The flavor was familiar, yet not. I’d had buffalo chicken and the dip by the same name many times, but never stuffed in Polish pasta.
“Oh, wow. This is good,” Nicole said with a full mouth.
I agreed. The dough was crisp, but still tender. The filling was similar to buffalo chicken dip. I could taste cheddar cheese, and Neufchâtel gave it a nice creaminess. “Jake, this is fantastic. It’ll make a great addition to the appetizer menu.”
“I hoped you’d say that,” he said. “I’ve been racking my brain trying to come up with something different. I’ll confess I didn’t exactly invent these, but I did put my own twist on the recipe.”
We talked about how to add the new items to the menu without having to reprint everything and decided we’d put the new foods on a marker board at the entrance. Instead of adding everything at once, we’d run specials and have different ones each day.
By the end of the day, I had hired a waiter, and Jake hired another cook for the kitchen. I added another interview to the two I already had scheduled for tomorrow. Things were progressing nicely.
* * *
The memorial service for Kurt was to be held at my brother’s church, Most Holy Name. Afterward, I’d ask everyone to stop at the brewpub for a toast to Kurt. Jake had made enough appetizers that afternoon to feed a small army. It wasn’t exactly an Irish wake, but Kurt hadn’t been Irish. I figured he’d have approved anyway. After I left work at five, I’d gone home and fed Hops. I played with her for a while, and by the time I was ready to leave for the service, she was sound asleep on the bed next to my pillow.
There were about ten cars in the parking lot of the church when I arrived—more than I expected. Although I’d invited everyone in the vicinity of the pub, I hadn’t really expected them all to come. It warmed my heart to know that many people had cared about Kurt. On the way down the aisle, I thanked those I didn’t know all that well for coming. Candy, Kristie, and Daisy—sans Adam—sat together. Amanda Morgan and Elmer Fairbanks were in the pew in front of them. I was surprised to see Elmer and wondered if the book club members had twisted his arm to come. Elmer hated to miss anything, though, so that may have been reason enough for him to attend. Of course, Dominic Costello and Ralph Meehan were absent. I would have truly been shocked to see them here.
Mom and Dad were already seated in the first pew, and I slid in beside them. Mike and his family came in shortly afterward and took the pew behind us. Mike squeezed my shoulder and I reached up and patted his hand. I turned my head to give him a smile and saw it wasn’t Mike who’d squeezed my shoulder, it was Jake, who had slipped in beside my brother. He winked at me, and the feeling that shot through me was anything but churchlike. My cheeks started to burn and I faced front again before he noticed. Why was it I could be businesslike all day working with Jake, but as soon as we were out of the pub, a mere wink could turn me into mush? Thank goodness Candy was a few rows back, or I’d never have heard the end of it.
Sean appeared on the altar just then, which saved me from pondering Jake any further. The service was short—a few prayers and some hymns. I managed to make it through without crying. After it was over, I stood at the back of the church thanking everyone as they made their way out and inviting them back to the pub. Dad was at the rear of the line, but I didn’t see my mother.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked.
“She went with Jake. She’s going to give him a hand setting things up.”
Dad and I walked to the parking lot together. “Good,” I said. “It gives me a chance to tell you what I found out.” We stopped beside my car. “I’ve been asking my neighbors some questions.”
“What kind of questions?” Dad leaned against the hood and crossed his arms.
“About the vandalism. If anyone saw anything. Things like that.”
“And?” His tone of voice told me he wasn’t happy about it.
I filled him in on what Annie had told me that afternoon. “I’m sure it was Dominic Costello.”
Dad sighed. “Honey, that description could fit any number of men. Just because Costello kind of fits doesn’t mean it was him.”
“Maybe not, but combine that with the threats he made—”
“Threats?” Dad straightened up. “You didn’t tell me about any threats.”
“I’m telling you now.” Sort of. I was going to leave out some things. Most things. “Dominic doesn’t like me very much. He thinks I’m going to steal all his customers. I went to his bar to talk to him and he said he’d put me out of business. Then he threw me out.”
“He threw you out.”
“Not physically, of course.”
“Oh, of course.” Dad could do a sarcastic voice with the best of them. “Was this before or after you talked to your friend?”
“Before.” When he didn’t say anything right away, I said, “So, what do you think? It has to be him, right?”
Dad let out a long breath. “Not necessarily.” I opened my mouth to disagree and he put up his hand. “Hear me out. It could very well be that Costello is involved, but there’s also a chance he’s not. Just because he tried your door, doesn’t mean he broke in later. Maybe he wanted to stop and talk to you.”
“I’m the last person on earth he wants to talk to. He made that clear. I’m sure he’s the one breaking into the pub.”
“I know you are, sweetie.” He put his arm around me. “But like I said, there are dozens of bald men who wear jeans and white T-shirts. Unless I can prove it’s Costello, and prove that he broke in, there’s not much I can do about it.”
No matter what my dad thought, I was convinced Dominic had been the one Annie had seen. Dad wanted proof—well, he was going to get it. Tomorrow I’d make another visit to the Galaxy.
* * *
By the time I got to the pub, Jake and my mother had appetizers and plates arranged on the bar. Candy must have made a trip next door, because there was also a platter of cookies. Mike had retrieved pint glasses from the kitchen and was placing them near the taps. I crossed the room and went behind the bar. He’d ditched the tie he’d worn to church and the sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled up to his elbows.
“It’s about time you got here,” Mike said. “Mom put me to work. That means I get the first brew, right?”
“Of course you do—after me.” I grabbed a glass and poured myself a lager. That afternoon I’d tapped a lager and a spring Maibock-style beer in addition to the stout that had already been tapped. By the time the brew house opened, I’d add the hefeweizen and the IPA. I handed Mike a glass. “You can even pour it yourself.”
“Gee, thanks. Next you’ll tell me I’m bartender for the night.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “What an excellent idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. You’ve got yourself a job.” I ducked out of the way before he swatted me like he used to when we were kids. He didn’t grumble too much so I knew he’d have fun with it, especially since he’d volunteered to man the taps a couple evenings a week. I made the rounds then, moving from table to table and made sure everyone had something to eat.
Mom and Dad were seated with Kate and my nieces. Fiona was on Mom’s lap paging through a picture book, and Maire stood behind her mother trying to braid her hair. It didn’t look all that bad considering it was being styled by a four-year-old. Kate grinned at me. “You’re next, Max.”
Maire stopped and put her hands on her little hips. “I can’t fix yours, Aunt Max. You have boy hair.”
“Maire! Aunt Max does not have boy hair,” Kate said.
I laughed and reached up and ran my fingers through my hair. “It’s not that short, Maire.”
“It’s not princess hair, like Mommy’s and mi
ne.” She sniffed and put her nose up in the air in a pretty good imitation of real royalty. “I like princess hair. You should get some.”
“Maybe someday,” I said, even though I couldn’t imagine it. The last time my hair had been past my shoulders was in grade school. Between Sister Anne telling me to get it out of my eyes and my brothers pulling on it, I’d decided short hair was the way to go.
Maire went back to playing with Kate’s hair, and I turned to my mother. “Thanks for helping Jake with the food.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Mom said. “He’s quite a cook. I was impressed.”
“He’s very impress—” I stopped myself and felt my face get hot.
Mom had a twinkle in her eye. “You two seem to be getting along nicely.”
Trying to save face, I said, “He’s an asset to the brew house.”
She smiled. “That’s not what I meant, but yes, he seems to be.” She squeezed my hand. “You should let him know.”
“I’ve already told him I’m glad I hired him.”
“Not that. Let him know how you feel. He likes you, Max.”
“Like a sister, maybe.” I spotted Jake coming our way. He’d not only ditched his tie like Mike had, he’d changed into a black T-shirt and tan khakis. “Let’s drop this, okay?” I said to Mom.
Dad finally spoke up. “You could do a lot worse, you know.”
Great. Did everyone know how I felt? I went to intercept Jake before Maire decided to start singing, Jake and Max sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
“Thanks for everything,” I said when I reached Jake. “Your food is a big hit.”
“You’re welcome. It was nice to have a little tryout.”
“Just like in training camp, huh?”
“Not quite. There’s no getting checked into the boards here.”
“That could be arranged, you know.”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “You can body check me any time.”
The temperature in the room went up about twenty degrees. That certainly wasn’t a brotherly remark. Could Mom be right? I didn’t want to get my hopes up. But I could still flirt with him. “You couldn’t handle it, Lambert.”
“Oh, really?”
I tried to hold back a grin. “Especially if you play hockey like you play football. As I recall, I pretty much kicked your butt.”
“Ouch. You really know how to hurt a guy,” Jake said with a laugh. “I think I’d better go see Mike before you damage my ego any further.”
I stood for a moment and watched him walk to the bar, then finally headed to the table where Candy was holding court. I took a seat in the empty chair next to Ken Butterfield and thanked him for coming.
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said. “Kurt was a good guy.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Amen,” Kristie said.
Ken waved an arm. “Your place is fabulous. Looking at it now, it’s hard to believe it was just an empty run-down shell. I’m so glad you decided to stay.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant. “Of course I’m staying. Why would you think otherwise?”
“Right around the time Kurt died, I heard you were putting the place up for sale.”
Candy chimed in. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Max isn’t going anywhere.”
“Where in the world did you hear that?” I asked. Daisy had mentioned something similar when I’d gone to see her last week. I glanced across the table at her and she was texting furiously on her cell phone.
Ken thought for a moment. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure where I heard it. It was probably someone talking about it in the deli.” He smiled. “I hear a lot of things that way.”
The first person I thought of was Dominic Costello, but I didn’t think he’d say I was putting the brew house up for sale. His method was more hands-on than that. Then the lightbulb came on—Fran Donovan. She’d never wanted me to buy the building in the first place. If she started a rumor I was leaving, she’d be able to drum up support for her museum idea. “If you happen to remember,” I said to Ken, “would you let me know? I’d kind of like to set them straight.”
“Will do.” He stood. “I really have to get going.” I thanked him again and he promised me he’d be back for the opening.
Things wound down after that. Mom and Kate helped Jake clean up in the kitchen while Dad watched the kids. Mike and I put the pub and bar area back in order. Between the growlers I’d taken to my parents’ house and the popularity of the stout tonight, I needed to switch out the barrel. It could wait until tomorrow, but I figured I may as well get it over with. Especially since Mike offered to help me.
I pushed through the door into the brewery with Mike right behind me and switched on the light. I stopped so quickly he ran into me.
“Hey, next time warn me when you put the brakes on like that.”
I couldn’t answer. My heart was in my throat. Someone was lying on the concrete floor beside one of the fermentation tanks. That someone was a very dead Dominic Costello.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mike spotted him a second later. He stepped in front of me, and said, “Go get Dad.”
I was frozen in place. A hundred thoughts ping-ponged through my head, but none of them made any sense. Dominic was dead. In my brewery.
“Max!”
Mike’s tone was sharp enough to snap me out of my daze. “I’m going.” I went back through the door we just entered. Dad sat with a grandchild on each knee and looked up when he heard me come in.
“Can you get Kate to take the girls?” I sounded calmer than I felt. “We need you in the brewery.”
Dad studied my face. “Is something wrong?”
“You could say that.”
He seemed to know I didn’t want to say anything in front of Maire and Fiona. “Something to do with your latest issues?”
“Yep.”
Dad slipped the girls off his lap, took them by the hand, and led them to the kitchen. He returned seconds later. “Want to tell me what’s going on?” He fell into step beside me.
“Dominic Costello . . .” My voice caught.
“Honey, we had this conversation already.”
“Not this one, we haven’t.” I pushed open the door and pointed to where Mike stood near the body. “It’s Dominic Costello.”
Dad went into what can only be called cop mode. He ordered both Mike and me out of the brewing area, and told Mike to ask Mom to take Kate and the kids home. While my brother did as ordered, I considered it a mere suggestion. I hovered just inside the brewery door. Dad pulled out his cell phone and called it in.
“White male, approximately sixty to sixty-five years of age. Blunt force trauma to the head.”
To hear it described that way made my stomach lurch. No one deserved to have that happen to them. He requested the medical examiner and also asked dispatch not to send it out over the radio. I knew the reason for that was to keep the media away for as long as possible. It also kept all the neb-noses with scanners from listening in. Then he disconnected and made another call.
“Hey, Rich.” Richard Bailey was one of the other homicide detectives. He and Dad went back a long way. “Dispatch will be calling you.” As he explained what we’d found, he looked my way and spotted me. “I’ll fill you in on the rest when you get here.” He slipped the phone into his pocket and came toward me. “I thought I told you to wait in the pub.”
“You did. But this is my brewery and I need to know what’s going on.” My voice was steady. “I can’t do that from the other room.”
Dad put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m not trying to banish you. Like it or not, this is a crime scene.”
“I won’t touch anything.”
“That’s not the point. I can’t do my job if I’m looking over here every two minutes to see if you’re
all right. I don’t want to be distracted.” He pushed the swinging door and held it open. “Go. I promise I’ll keep you posted.”
I was tempted to stomp out like I had when I was sent to my room as a kid. Deep down, I knew being mad was dumb, but it was better than focusing on Dominic Costello lying on the floor. Mike sat at the bar and I crossed the room and took the stool beside him.
“Jake’s making coffee,” he said.
“Good.”
“You okay, sis?”
“Okay? There’s a dead person—the second one in a week, I might add—in my brewery and you ask me if I’m okay? I am definitely not okay.”
Mike stared at me. “Why are you so mad?”
“I have to be.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
“I’ll tell you what doesn’t make sense. Someone breaking in here and killing people. This is my brewery. My life. I don’t understand why this is happening. . . .” My voice cracked. “If I’m not angry, I’m going to fall apart.” I burst into tears.
Mike slid off his stool and folded me into his arms. It seemed like I cried for a long time, but it was probably only a few minutes. I was pulling myself back together when the front door opened and Rich Bailey entered, followed by a crew from the medical examiner’s office. I wiped my eyes with a paper napkin, and Mike and I went to greet them. Mike showed them to the brewing area while I went back to my seat at the bar.
Jake came in carrying a stack of take-out cups and a stainless steel pump pot that I assumed was filled with coffee and set them on the bar.
“I should have helped you with that,” I said.
“No way.” He poured coffee into two paper cups and passed one to me.
My hand shook when I took the cup from him. “Thanks.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “What else can I do?”
I liked that he didn’t ask me if I was okay. I couldn’t have handled it. “Nothing,” I said. “You’ve done enough. More than enough. You can go if you want.”