by Joyce Tremel
“Afraid so.”
I let out a sigh. “Great. I know he means well, but I can’t have him underfoot and following me around all day. It’s going to drive me nuts.”
“Just find something for him to do. Some busywork. Nicole will be in soon. Maybe he can help her.”
“Maybe.”
“I saw you leaving the store across the street. Did you learn anything?”
I filled him in on the Adam situation, then I picked up my bag. “I’ll be in the office if you need me. I have to get some paperwork done before the interviews this afternoon.”
Jake touched the shopping bag. “Are you going to tell me what you bought?” He had a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Some lacy getup, maybe?”
I yanked the bag out of his reach. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I spun around before he could see my flaming cheeks. I went down the hallway thinking maybe I should have bought something besides shoes.
The rest of the day passed quietly. Nicole and Elmer hit it off. It turned out her grandfather had been in Elmer’s unit during World War II, so they had a lot to talk about. My interviews went well, and I hired two more people. I now had enough to cover both lunch and dinner shifts, as well as into the evening. Since we wouldn’t have a full-service bar, I didn’t need to hire bartenders. I’d likely cover the taps myself with occasional help from Mike and my mom and dad. And Nicole, too. Between the kitchen staff Kurt had hired and more that Jake had, everything seemed to be under control.
Then why did I feel like it wasn’t?
The phone on my desk rang and I absentmindedly answered it.
“Hi, sweetie.” It was Mom. “I just wanted to check on you. Mike said he and Jake replaced your garage door yesterday.”
I hoped he hadn’t told her why I needed a new door.
“He also told me about the fire.”
Darn that brother of mine. What a tattletale.
“Max, you should have told me.”
“I didn’t want you to worry, especially after everything else.”
“I worry more when you keep things to yourself. Besides, I’m your mother. I’m going to worry no matter what.”
She had a point. To make up for trying to keep her in the dark, I told her about the conversation I’d had that morning with Adam. I asked if Dad had learned anything new, and she told me no, that he’d been working on two new homicides. After that, she brought up the meeting of Fran Donovan’s Save Our Lawrenceville group that evening and asked if I was planning to attend.
“Candy, Kristie, and I are going. Would you like to come with us?”
“I’d love to.” She said she’d meet us there. Right before I hung up, she said, “Did you ever notice the abbreviation for Save Our Lawrenceville is SOL?” I could hear the smile in her voice.
I laughed. One could only hope.
* * *
When Candy, Kristie, and I reached the meeting room at the library, we weren’t sure we were in the right place. There were only five people in a room that could have held thirty, and they were all crammed into the front row. We stepped through the doorway and I spotted my mother sitting on the left side in the back of the room. We took the seats beside her.
A man in the front row turned around, his eyes widening when he saw us. He quickly whispered to the woman beside him, who did the same to the woman next to her. It made me think of the kids’ game where the last person recites what they heard and it’s different than what the first person said. In this case, the last person didn’t recite anything—he turned around and stared.
“How rude,” Candy said, loud enough for the front-rowers to hear. The staring man faced front again.
Kristie shushed her. I wanted to melt into the floor. Mom squeezed my hand. “It’ll be all right,” she said. “We have a right to be here. It’s your neighborhood, too, and your brewery.”
I heard a distinct harrumph from someone up front. One of the women said, “Well, I never!”
“I’ll bet you haven’t,” Candy said.
I poked her with my elbow. “Stop that! We’re here to find out what’s going on, not to antagonize these people.”
“You’re no fun at all.”
I turned around as the door closed behind us. A tiny woman with dove-gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses marched to the front of the room. Her height was well below my five foot two, and a strong wind would likely blow her away. Her light blue gauzy skirt was almost ankle length and she wore white anklets and purple sneakers. Her pale yellow oxford shirt didn’t match either the skirt or the sneakers. Candy looked downright fashionable next to her.
She stepped onto a small stool at the podium. She took a piece of paper from her skirt pocket, unfolded it, and spread it out in front of her. “Welcome to this very important meeting of Save Our Lawrenceville. I expected a much bigger turnout, but thank you all for coming.”
Considering her appearance, I expected her voice to be squeaky and strident, but it was smooth and strong.
“There is a blight on this community and we must put a stop to it.”
“Blight my patootie,” Candy whispered.
I jabbed her with my elbow again.
“Every day we are losing more of our heritage. As the saying goes, those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it. We can’t let this happen.”
The front-rowers nodded in unison like bobbleheads.
“I need the support of each and every one of you. Call the mayor. Write letters to the editor. If we have to, we’ll march up and down Butler Street with signs.”
Kristie leaned across Candy so I could hear, and whispered, “I’d kind of like to see that.”
Fran Donovan folded the paper and put it back in her pocket. “Does anyone have any questions?”
Candy’s hand shot up.
Oh no.
Fran pointed at Candy. “You in the back row.”
Either Fran hadn’t spotted me, like her cohorts had, or she had no idea who we were.
Candy stood. “How does restoring an old, abandoned building and returning it to its intended use destroy history? If you make it into a museum, you’d be doing the very thing you’re spouting off about.”
Two people in the front row whispered to each other.
“Something doesn’t need to be a museum to show history,” Candy continued. “There’s no better way for people to get a glimpse of the brewing history of our city than seeing an actual working brewery.”
I sat up straighter. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Fran pursed her lips. “That’s not the point.”
One of the whisperers in the front row said, “I think the cupcake lady made a good point. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Maybe she’s right.”
“Cupcake lady?” Fran said. Her gaze went back and forth across our row and finally rested on me. “You!” She hopped down from her step stool. “You’re the one who stole my brewery!”
Candy looked ready for a fight. I stood and touched her arm. “I appreciate your support,” I said to her, “but I need to handle this.”
She took her seat again.
“I didn’t steal your brewery. The Steel City Brewery has been gone a long time. I bought the only remaining building and restored it. Would you rather have it remain empty and abandoned?”
The front-rowers whispered among themselves.
“If your group really wants to save Lawrenceville and its history, you should be in favor of what I’m doing.”
“Get out.” Fran pointed to the door. “You’re not welcome here.”
“I’d really like to stay and talk to you,” I said as calmly as I could. “I’d like to know more about you and your group.”
“If you’re not leaving, then I am.” She marched to the door. “Meeting adjourned.”
“Ms. Donovan,” I said. “You don’t have to
leave.”
She did anyway, followed by her friends in the front row. The four of us looked at one another. Finally, Kristie said, “That went well, didn’t it?”
* * *
We stopped for ice cream, then went our separate ways. On the way home, I remembered I’d left my sandals in my office. I could have waited until tomorrow to get them, but since I was passing the brew house anyway, I figured I might as well pick them up. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Fran Donovan had acted when she discovered that I was present at her meeting. My grandma would have said she was one card shy of a full deck. I’d have to agree. There was no reason she couldn’t have stayed and talked things over in a reasonable manner. At least the meeting had been sparsely attended. If the people in that front row were her only supporters, I didn’t have anything to worry about.
I parked on the street in front of the pub and unlocked the door. Once inside, I disarmed the security system, then flicked on one of the wall sconces. As much as I loved the quiet of the place, the din of the crowds I hoped for would be even better. I couldn’t believe anyone in her right mind would want this to be a museum. It was exactly what it was supposed to be. Candy was right. There was no better way to honor the brewers of the past.
I went back to my office to retrieve my purchase. While I was there, I checked my to-do list for tomorrow. Not quite as busy as today, so I’d probably have time to get another batch ready to brew. I left the office, and as I crossed the pub I spotted something on top of the bar. Funny. I didn’t remember seeing anything there when I came in, but the lights had been dim. I just hadn’t noticed it, I guessed. I went closer. It was a paper lunch-sized bag with the top rolled down. I lifted it, unrolled the top, and peeked inside.
I dropped the bag, jumped back, and screamed.
There was a dead rat inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY
At least I hoped it was dead. I ran outside, fishing my cell phone from my purse as I went, and called 911. The dispatcher asked me to calm down three times before she understood what I said. I’m not sure she believed a dead rat was an emergency, but she promised to send a car right away. While I was talking, I scanned the street in search of whoever might have done this. The sidewalks were busy for a Thursday night. The bakery and coffee shop were closed, but Adam’s stores were open, as well as the deli and the card shop. I didn’t see anyone who looked like they’d just dropped a dead rat on my bar.
I opened my car door and sank down onto the passenger seat. I was sure that bag hadn’t been on the bar when I’d first gone inside. Whoever had done this had come in while I was back in my office. The realization that I could have ended up like Kurt and Dominic wasn’t lost on me. That someone could get so close and I didn’t even know they were there scared the crap out of me. I started shaking, and I was still shaking when the police arrived.
It was the same officer who’d responded the night the alarm had gone off, so he knew a little about what had been going on. When he told me to wait outside, I was perfectly happy to let him check the building alone.
It wasn’t long before he came out carrying the paper bag. “It’s all clear.” He reached into the bag and pulled the rat out.
I jumped back.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s not real. It’s only rubber.”
I swallowed the screech I’d almost let loose.
He laughed. “Someone’s idea of a practical joke, I guess.”
Some joke. It would take days for my heartbeat to return to normal. Rubber or not, it was disgusting. The fake rat was the kind you’d see in a Halloween display, complete with a knife sticking out of it and painted-on blood all in one piece.
“Wait. There’s something else in here.” He lifted out a slip of paper. His smile disappeared as he read what was written on the paper. “This may not be just a joke.”
“What do you mean? Can I see it?”
I expected him to pass it to me, but instead he held it up so I could read it. A chill went down my spine. It definitely wasn’t a joke. The note read, This could have been you.
* * *
It took a while before I stopped shaking enough to drive home after the officer took my information for the report. The rat had been bad enough, but the fact that the person who’d killed Kurt and Dom had been that close to me really creeped me out. The note was right. It could have been me. I didn’t understand why the killer had let me off with a warning. As frightened as I was, I knew I couldn’t let my fear get the best of me. I pulled into my parking spot in the lot and turned off the ignition.
Maybe that was the point. Someone wanted me to be afraid. Scared enough to give up the brew house. It couldn’t be a coincidence that this happened right after the meeting tonight. Fran Donovan had accused me of stealing the brewery from her. Storming out of her own meeting wasn’t exactly normal behavior. A reasonable person would have stuck around to hear what I had to say. That’s how these meetings are supposed to work. And judging by the sparse turnout, she didn’t have a whole lot of support for her contention that what I was doing was a bad thing. Heck, Candy had almost convinced one of the guys in the front row that Fran was off base. Even so, Fran still had seemed convinced she was going to stop me—possibly by leaving that rat and the note for me to find. A Halloween prop didn’t equate to murder, however. I thought about that. She was small, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have killed two men, especially if she took them by surprise. I didn’t quite buy that theory, but it was all I had at the moment.
I pulled my phone out of my purse and Googled her name to get her address. Her home was only a half mile away, on a side street off Penn Avenue. I started up the car again. Fran Donovan was going to have a surprise visitor of her own.
* * *
The narrow one-way street was difficult to navigate even by Pittsburgh standards. Some cars were parked with two wheels on the sidewalk, probably to avoid having their side mirrors sheared off. The vehicles with owners brave enough to park correctly were mostly overly large trucks and SUVs. It was almost like they were saying, Go ahead and hit me. I’m bigger than you. See who comes out of this one unscathed. I was able to maneuver around them, and I made it to the end of the block without doing damage to my car or anyone else’s. I found a parking spot on nice, wide Penn Avenue instead, even though I had to walk a block.
The houses here weren’t row houses, but they may as well have been, since they were built so close together. Only a few had front yards, but almost all were well kept. It wouldn’t be a bad place to live unless you were claustrophobic. Fran Donovan’s house was one of those with a yard, but instead of grass, she’d filled it with perennials. Nothing was in full bloom yet, but in another month it would be lovely. I hadn’t envisioned her as a gardener. My first impression was of someone more at home in a dusty archive somewhere.
I went up the two steps to her small porch and rang the doorbell. For a split second I wondered if I was doing the right thing, but it was too late to turn back now. I waited and rang a second time.
“Hold your horses. I’m coming.” Seconds later she swung the door open. “You!”
“I know it’s late, but I need to talk to you,” I said.
Fran was already dressed for bed, and she pulled the neck of her pink chenille robe closer together, then yanked on the belt to make it tighter. “I have nothing to say to you. You have a lot of nerve invading my space like this.”
“Invading? Like how you invaded mine?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I want you to leave now or I’m calling the police.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why don’t you do that. Maybe you can explain to them why you put that bag with a rubber rat in it on my bar.”
Fran had the door half closed but she stopped. “What?”
“You put a fake rat in a paper bag with a threatening note and left it on top of the bar in my brew house.” I e
nunciated each word slowly.
The little bit of color in her face drained away. “I did no such thing!”
“I don’t believe you. It’s too much of a coincidence that it happened right after that meeting—the one you left early because you were so upset to see me there. You waited until I unlocked the door and turned the alarm off, then snuck inside when you saw me go back to my office.”
“I would never do anything like that,” she said. “That’s so . . . so . . .” Her voice faltered. “Mean.”
“Then talk to me. Please.”
She took a step back and I thought she was going to close the door, but instead she opened it all the way. “You’re right. We need to talk. Come in.”
I hesitated a moment. Her shock at what I’d told her seemed genuine, but what if it wasn’t? I couldn’t very well back down now, though. Just in case, I lifted my phone from my purse and clutched it in my hand as I went inside.
The door opened directly into her living room, which was bigger than I thought it would be considering how small the house looked from the outside. There were hardwood floors under a well-worn oriental rug. The furniture was similar to what I’d inherited from my grandmother, but unlike mine, hers actually looked like it belonged in the room. What really surprised me, though, were the items that filled display and bookcases plus the numerous photos on the walls. I felt like I’d just entered a museum, but not just any museum. This room showed the history of the former brewery that my building had once been part of.
One display case held beer bottles ranging from the 1800s all the way to the last ones produced by Steel City Brewing. Another case held cans, many of them decorated with Pirates and Steelers designs. There was assorted memorabilia in other cases. I turned to Fran. “This is fabulous.”
“Yes.”
She stepped aside when I moved to get a closer look at the photos on the walls. Every aspect of the brewing process was documented. There were photos of local celebrities of the past standing by stainless steel tanks. A few of the photos were autographed. Candy would be in seventh heaven if she saw the ones with her beloved Steel Curtain of the seventies Steelers, especially the one on which someone had written “DEFENSE!”