“Good point.” I thought about the fact the park was completely gated and that Sloan and I had had to show identification to get inside. “You don’t have any competitors who might want to sabotage you, by chance?” I looked at the crowd of brewers. Mac definitely stood out in his lederhosen and plaid shirt. The other brewers had the traditional Oregon vibe, with shaggy beards, funny beer T-shirts, and even a smattering of flannel.
“Not that I know of. The brewing world is really collaborative. We tend to help each other out.” She poured a taster of a beer so dark and thick I couldn’t see through it.
“Right.” I looked at Mac, who had rallied the brewers to go search the park with him. “Do you think someone stole the keg to copy your recipe like your husband suggested?”
Sloan waivered. “It’s possible. Proprietary hops have become big business. There’s a huge shortage of growers. Some hop varieties are sold out for decades. We personally cultivated this hops strand, so re-creating it will be a challenge. Even if you have a recipe and the specific hops used or what my father-in-law calls ‘the nose,’ it’s really hard to perfectly copy a beer. There are so many variables, from the equipment you use to the length of the boil.”
“The nose?” I asked.
She smiled. “Yes, some old-school brewers like Mac’s dad think that certain people have an innate ability to pick out each individual hop and flavor note in a beer based on one sniff.”
“Really?” The same was true for baking. Some chefs had natural palates that allowed them to identify spices and ingredients in a dish with their eyes blindfolded. “Does Mac have the nose?”
A twinkle lit up her eyes.
“Oh, you have it?”
She shrugged. “Maybe, but don’t mention that to Mac. It drives him crazy.”
“Husbands.” I laughed, trying to keep the mood light.
“It looks like my husband has mounted a search party,” Sloan noted as Mac took off with four other brewers. “Hopefully there aren’t any pitchforks lying around.”
I could hear Mac rallying his search crew—shouting orders and pointing toward the woods. “Don’t mess with beer, right?” I bit my bottom lip.
Sloan’s eyes narrowed. “Seriously.” She tucked her wavy curls behind her ears to reveal a pair of hop earrings.
“When’s the last time you saw the keg?” I shifted on the soggy grass, wishing that I had worn boots like Sloan. Water had begun to seep into my tennis shoes.
“We hooked everything up right before I came to Torte, so maybe a half hour ago.” She picked up the taster of dark beer that she had just poured and inspected it. “I connected the lines myself. The Spring Fling keg was right next to this chocolate porter.”
“Should we go check out the park ourselves?” I suggested. “I know a couple of popular teenage hangouts.”
Sloan unpacked the last of the tasting glasses and broke down the cardboard box. Then she dumped the taster of porter into a bucket under the bar. “Are you sure? I feel terrible ruining your afternoon.”
“And I feel terrible that this is the welcome you’ve had.” I pointed toward the back of the festival area. “Really, I want to help.”
She followed me out into the grassy area where brewers continued to unload kegs and put finishing touches on their booths. None were as elaborate as Der Keller’s. Most had brightly colored signage and banners with their brewery logos; a few had added extra touches to their tents like strings of fresh hops tied with twine and portable heaters. One of Ashland’s bigger breweries had constructed a dunk tank, where beer lovers could take aim and send the head brewer for a chilly afternoon swim. A band was warming up on a ten-by-ten platform stage on the opposite side of the grass, and dozens of festival staff worked on securing the fencing around the perimeter.
“Maybe the teens could have pulled it off,” I said to Sloan. “It’s kind of chaotic out here.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” She waited for a man wearing a neon green Ashland Brew Fest staff T-shirt to pass us. He was pushing an industrial cart stacked four-feet high with folding chairs.
“If they played it cool and looked like they knew what they were doing, maybe they could have blended in with all this activity,” I said, as a bee buzzed past my face, making me flinch.
Sloan nodded. “Yeah, but how would they have gotten in to begin with, and did they have a hand truck or something to move the keg?”
“True.” I sighed. “When I went to call Thomas, I saw a group of teens who are known around town for their pranks. They were hanging around across the street over by the Green Goblin, acting suspicious.”
“Really?” Sloan looked in the direction where I had seen the Harrison kids. “How so?”
“It’s hard to say. They were all laughing and looking over here, but they’re teenagers, so that could be par for the course, right?” I tried to wink, but I felt my face twitch. I’ve never perfected the art of the wink. Somehow I always manage to look goofy.
“I know teenagers,” Sloan said with a half laugh. “So, yeah, it could be nothing. I can never exactly interpret my son’s behavior, especially when he’s with his friends.”
“These three—Forest, Meadow, and Lark—are quite the pranksters.” I paused as another crew member walked past us with a platter of barbecued chicken. The smell of the beautifully charred meat made my stomach lurch with hunger. “One year they forked the park,” I said, trying to resist the temptation to follow after the guy with the grilled chicken.
“Forked?” Sloan crinkled her brow.
“They stabbed hundreds of plastic forks into the grass and left a huge sign that read ‘May the Forks Be with You.’”
Sloan threw her head back and chuckled. “That’s funny.”
I stared above the tree tops at the back of the Elizabethan Theater, which sat like a mighty fortress at the top of the hill. “Exactly. They’re not really the types to do something destructive. I can imagine them streaking through an outdoor performance, but I don’t know why they would steal a keg.”
“Um, beer?” Sloan’s eyes widened.
“True, but I don’t think they’re big partiers.”
“But they were at the scene of the crime and acting suspicious, so that makes them our first suspect.”
“Right.” I appreciated Sloan’s thought process. “We’ll get to the bottom of this—who needs the police?”
She smiled. We continued past three more tents. It was interesting to see the vast difference between each brewery. The last booth won the award for most colorful. Tie-dyed banners and Tibetan prayer flags fluttered in the slight breeze. A hand-painted sign designed to resemble an ancient scroll read FREDDY SPELLGILLS. A young guy in his midtwenties with shoulder-length hair tied in a ponytail, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and a pointy beard waved us in. He reminded me of a wizard from a child’s fairy tale.
“Hey, come in, come in! You’re my first customers. Just tapped the keg, and I have to tell you, this is the best brew you’ll taste tonight.”
Sloan shook her head. “We’re sort of on a mission.”
“You’re at a brew fest, man. Come on, one taste?” He held up an amber-colored beer.
I hesitated. He picked up the beer and walked to the front of the tent. His feet were bare and covered with mud.
“Here, I’ll come to you.” He handed me a plastic taster glass and pointed to Sloan. “Hang on, I’ll grab one for you.”
She protested, but he ignored her and leapt to get her a glass. When he returned, he looked at us expectantly. “Are you going to taste it? That’s a Freddy Spellgills original—Rainbows and Unicorns.”
I had to stifle a laugh. “Great name.”
Sloan followed suit. “This is nice,” she said. “A good balance of malt and hops.”
The guy stroked his beard. “That’s legit beer right there. Not like anything you’re going to taste at some of the other tents here.”
Sloan didn’t react.
The guy continued. “I’m a real brew
er—a home brewer—that’s how I got my start. You’re not going to taste something as pure as Rainbows and Unicorns anywhere else. Everyone here is corporate beer. I can’t believe they allow that swill in here. Sellouts.” He shook his head.
“You must be Freddy,” I said, pointing to his painted sign after taking another taste. “I’m Jules. I own Torte, the bakery on the end of the plaza.”
“Right. Yeah, you guys do good stuff. Legit. I’m Jeremy. This is my baby—Freddy Spellgills.”
“What’s the reference?” Sloan asked.
Jeremy’s mouth hung open. “You don’t know Freddy Spellgills?”
We both shook our heads.
“He’s only the most famous character in cosplay history.”
Sloan looked at me and shrugged. I figured Jeremy would fit in with the mime group we’d seen on the plaza earlier. “Are you local?” I asked.
“I’m from Talent. I started brewing in my grandfather’s old barn; now I’ve converted it into a taproom. You should come check it out. We’re doing crazy stuff. I’m putting bacon in beer. I’m putting peanut butter in beer. You name it.”
My appetite vanished as Jeremy touted his crazy beer pairings.
He pointed to his psychedelic T-shirt, which read DRINK LOCAL! DON’T SUPPORT CORPORATE BEER! “Like I said, I’m a local brewery, not like some of these corporate guys they have here, like Der Keller. Can you believe they’re here? Total crap. They’re not an Oregon brewery. They freakin’ brew German-style beers. What the hell are they doing at a Northwest brew fest?”
My pulse pounded in my throat. Some welcome Sloan was receiving. Not one but two people had blatantly offended her, and someone had stolen her keg.
She took it in stride. “I’m from Der Keller, and I can assure you that we aren’t corporate beer. We’re a family-owned brewery.”
Jeremy glared at her and stared at the glass she was holding. For a second, I thought he might rip it out of her hand. “Whatever. Der Keller is a mega producer. You’re not even classified as a microbrewery.”
I wanted to jump in and rescue her, but I was impressed by her composure. “I’ve worked for the Krause family for twenty years, and I assure you that Otto and Ursula are the kindest people on the planet. They came here from Germany and put Leavenworth on the map. They’ve helped launch and support a variety of start-ups in our region. We’re not in bed with big beer. We routinely provide extra grain to our competitors because we know it expands the craft. In fact, a number of Der Keller staff have gone on to start their own pubs, and Otto and Ursula are the first people to cheer them on. We’re just interested in making really good beer, like everyone else, and championing the industry.”
Jeremy looked disgusted. “Whatever. Tell yourself whatever you need to sleep at night. It’s all big-city beer. This is supposed to be a small brew fest, and there are brewers from Medford and now Leavenworth here. It’s ridiculous.”
“Big city?” Sloan laughed. “Leavenworth has a population of just under two thousand people.”
Her retort flustered Jeremy. He flushed. “Are you guys done with those? I need those glasses.” He pointed to our beers.
Sloan handed hers back first. “You’ve brewed a nice red. I like the finish, and I don’t taste any bitterness. You should come by our tent later, and I’ll give you a taste of our classic German Doppelbock. I think it will give you a sense of both the similarities and the differences in German versus Pacific Northwest beer styles.”
He took her taster and dumped what was left on the grass. It splashed on his feet, but he didn’t even flinch. “I’m going to be slammed here, but good luck. I hope the locals don’t turn on you for bringing corporate beer to Ashland.” With that, he turned and stormed to the folding table where he dumped our empty glasses into a plastic tub.
Sloan and I continued to the back exit. “I’m sorry about that,” I said once we were out of earshot. “You’re getting barraged today. I can’t believe it.”
“Don’t worry about it. Perceived competition can bring out the worst in people. I choose to believe in abundance. I think when we focus on the concept of scarcity, it closes us off, but I get that not everyone shares my view. It took me a long time and many hardships to come that understanding.”
“You are amazing. You’re so grounded.”
Sloan gave me a smile, but there was a sadness behind her eyes. “It didn’t come easy, but I’m happy to be in the space I’m in now, that’s for sure.”
I didn’t press her for more details. We had a keg to find.
Chapter Four
I had a pretty good idea where Meadow, Forest, and Lark might be hiding out. Sloan and I exited through the back gate and wound past the duck pond along a pressed pebble path that connected to the main walkway. Signs of spring were everywhere from the budding maple trees to bunches of yellow daffodils and irises pushing up from the ground. Ducks swam in the pond as we walked past, and kids whizzed to the playground on scooters and bikes.
“What a great space,” Sloan commented, watching a boy scale the rock-climbing structure.
“It’s one of my favorite places,” I agreed. Then I directed her to an unpaved path that led up the hillside and into the woods. The trails were popular with running clubs, and I knew from my teenage years that kids liked to sneak into the less-traveled areas of the park for parties and to escape their parents’ watchful eyes.
“Just around this next bend.” My breath caught when Sloan and I trekked up the steep incline only to be greeted by another steady slope. Pine needles slipped beneath my feet as we trudged up one switchback and then another. The woods smelled damp like it was still drying out from the winter’s rain. Sunlight filtered through the sturdy branches while we huffed and puffed onward.
When we crested the hill, I led her away from the main trail and to a small offshoot that ended under a cluster of redwood trees. The ancient trees created a natural canopy and made for a perfect hideout.
“No wonder kids come here,” Sloan said, sounding slightly winded.
“I know. We used to come up here after school when I was a senior. We’d bring snacks and a CD player with speakers and hang out under the trees.”
She crouched down and checked the dirt floor for any clues that the teens had been here recently. “Look at this,” she said, standing up and showing me a brew fest vendor pass.
“How did they get that?” I inhaled deeply through my nose, trying to steady my breathing.
Sloan handed me the laminated pass, which granted the wearer full access to all three days of the festival.
“Maybe their pranks have escalated after all.” I flipped the pass over. It appeared to be official and matched the badge Sloan wore around her neck.
“That’s a strange coincidence, but there’s no way they could have lugged a keg up here.” Sloan wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “I’m sweating, and we just walked up the hill.”
“Exactly.” I tucked the pass into my jeans pocket. “Maybe they stole the keg as a joke, but they aren’t planning to tap it.”
“Where would they have taken it?” Sloan glanced around the dense woods.
I thought back to seeing them laughing on the corner of Main Street. “When I saw them, they were on the other side of the fence. Maybe they managed to get it out of the gates and then stashed it behind one of the buildings across from the park? There’s an entire walkway next to Ashland Creek that doesn’t get much foot traffic right now.”
“We could look there next,” Sloan suggested.
“Let’s do it.” I said, wiping sweat from my brow. “At least it’s downhill from here.”
Sloan’s cheeks were bright with color. “Yeah, that was a brisk climb.” She loosened the thin scarf around her neck and used it to dab her face.
We headed down the hill at a faster pace and bypassed the brew fest, crossing Main Street to check out the area where I’d seen the Harrison kids. The Calle Guanajuato was a cobblestone path that paralleled the creek. Many
shops and restaurants along the plaza backed up to waterfront walk and offered seasonal creekside seating during the warmer summer months. The cobblestone path would be a good place to temporarily hide a keg, since businesses were just starting to prepare their outdoor spaces, and many had boxes, bistro tables, chairs, and electric heaters stored on their decks and patios.
“Hey, there’s a keg!” Sloan called pointing to a brick building with three kegs on its wrought-iron patio. The building was Puck’s Pub, so I guessed the kegs belonged to the bar, but then again, maybe Der Keller’s keg was hiding in plain sight.
We practically sprinted to the patio. Sloan checked each keg and then frowned. “Nope, none of these are ours.”
“How do you know?”
She pointed to a stamped label on the side of one of the kegs. “All of our kegs have Der Keller’s logo on them.”
“I thought we had solved the mystery for a second.” I stared up at temporary scaffolding that had been erected for a construction crew to repair crumbling bricks on the back of the pub.
“Me too.” Sloan sighed. “Where does that leave us? We know that someone—maybe the teenagers—stole a vendor pass, we know the keg is missing, but that’s about it.”
“That’s more than we knew an hour ago,” I said, trying to focus on the positive.
Sloan frowned. “What do you think about Jeremy? The barefoot brewer? He seems pretty bitter about big beer and having Der Keller here.”
“I was thinking that, too. And Ashton. He sounded very irritated that hops are encroaching into the wine biz, but what would either of them have gained by stealing your keg?”
She leaned against the rustic brick wall. “I’m not sure. Unless Mac is right about someone trying to steal his recipe, nothing makes sense.”
“I agree. It’s strange and so unlike Ashland.” The peaceful sound of the rushing creek nearby and the scent of lilacs blooming along the its banks were proof. “I swear, things are usually really tame here.”
Trouble Is Brewing--A Bakeshop Mini-Mystery Page 3