Beyond a Reasonable Stout

by Ellie Alexander

  Regardless of the size of their operations, brewers are often fanatical when it comes to guarding their recipes, and Nitro was no exception. Garrett kept our coveted recipes under lock and key (literally). Leavenworth isn’t the kind of place where most people lock their doors. Neighbors often pop into one another’s houses to borrow a cup of sugar and drop off a bundle of garden roses. Garrett had come from Seattle, a large city where he would have never considered not locking his front door. It had taken me a while to get in the habit.

  Kat breezed into the kitchen. “Garrett asked if the popcorn is ready.” Her youthful cheeks were dewy with sweat.

  “Yep.” I handed her the bowl.

  “Can I sneak a taste?” She took a big handful.

  “Absolutely.” I walked to the stove to stir the cranberries. “This needs to simmer. I’ll come help get the boil going for the Gose.”

  The remainder of the morning was hard physical labor. Brewing isn’t for the faint of heart. It requires stamina and plenty of arm strength. Lugging huge bags of grains and stirring the wort with a stainless-steel paddle always left my forearms aching, and yet somehow also left me energized. There’s something about working up a sweat that beats any other form of therapy.

  At Nitro we brewed the hard way. We didn’t have silos or augers like the big guys to avoid the heavy lifting. We worked our glutes lugging heavy bags of grain. In my opinion, the extra muscle was what made all the difference in flavor. Brewing by hand allowed you intimate control of the final product, and for me, it was a labor of love. The muscle aches were a reminder of pouring my heart and soul into a beer. Maybe I was biased, but the effort expended for each pint was what made our beer so much better than the mass brewers’. It was like comparing Ursula’s homemade cookies with a store-bought package.

  With cookies on my mind, I turned my attention to creating a pine shortbread. A mildly sweet, buttery cookie with touches of pine should be an excellent accompaniment for our hoppy beers. I’d never been much of a forager, although many brewers I knew trekked in the woods on the hunt for wild herbs and flowers. Since this was a test batch, I decided to snag some needles from one of the evergreen trees in Waterfront Park.

  Nitro was on Commercial Street, two blocks from the park. I wasn’t sure if picking pine needles from a city tree counted as foraging, but I was up for the adventure. I grabbed my scarf and swapped my boots for tennis shoes. As I headed down the hill toward the park, I passed the Underground. DO NOT ENTER and CLOSED signs had been posted in front of its stone façade entrance. Ross had said something about electrical issues.

  I thought about taking a closer look, but overheard voices.

  Ross stood next to a man holding a clipboard. “You’re not shutting us down. This is ludicrous! I’m not in violation of anything. This is all because of Kristopher Cooper.”

  I didn’t wait to hear the man’s response. This changed everything. If the Underground was being shut down, Ross had a very solid motive for murder.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  I HURRIED TO WATERFRONT PARK and took one of the trails that wound along the Wenatchee River. A single kayak cut through the water. Numerous walkways and trails shot off in every direction. One that connected to the Enchantment Trail system was littered with bear scat. Perhaps not that one, I thought to myself as I headed for a clump of evergreens nearby.

  Foraging a few pine needles was easy. I rubbed them between my fingers as I took a longer route back. The slow-moving water of the river and earthy scent of the pine needles helped center me. When I passed the Underground again, Ross was still pleading his case to keep the bar open. I made a mental note to follow up with Chief Meyers about the status of the bar.

  Baking, like brewing, was a welcome escape. I started by creaming butter, sugar, and flour together. Then I added a touch of salt and lemon zest. I blitzed the pine needles in a food processor until they were finely chopped into tiny pieces. Then I worked them into the dough. To add a touch of whimsy, I rolled the dough out and cut it into Christmas tree shapes. I finished each tree by dusting it with green sugar. The shortbread would bake for ten minutes or until it turned golden brown.

  As the first batch of cookies came out of the oven, Garrett came into the kitchen. “The next batch of hops in the hopper.”

  “In the hopper?” I scrunched my nose. “What’s the hopper?”

  “I was trying to be funny. Obviously, it didn’t work.” He made a time-out signal with his hands. “Stop the presses. Did you make pine cookies?”

  “Guilty as charged. Try one.”

  Garrett reached for a cookie and took a bite before I could warn him that they might be hot. “Sloan, these are amazing,” he mumbled through a mouthful of the buttery shortbread. “Where did you get pine needles?”

  “Waterfront Park. Foraging. We can get more for the beer once it’s ready for dry hopping.” I broke one of the cookies in half and tasted it. The pine flavor came through nicely, without being overpowering. I was pleased with the light, buttery finish and touch of sweetness.

  “You’re going to have to stop me, Sloan. I might eat the entire tray.”

  I gave him my best mom face. “You can eat the entire tray after lunch. We have more brewing to do.”

  We spent the next three hours sweating in the brewery. Garrett called for surrender sometime in the early afternoon. “I’m famished.”

  “Me too.” We’d been at it all morning. “Why don’t I run over to the German deli and pick us up some lunch? Kat can open the bar.”

  During the interim between festivals, we had scaled back our hours. Instead of opening by eleven or noon, we opened most days around one or two o’clock in the afternoon and stayed open until eight or nine, or whenever everyone wandered home. Since there were very few breaks throughout the year when it came to events in the village, most locals hunkered down when things were quiet. They tended to opt for dinners at home and early bedtimes.

  Garrett climbed off the ladder. “Great. As long as you don’t mind. I’ll finish cleaning up and making final notations in our tracking sheets.”

  “It’s a plan.” I brushed grain residue from my hands onto my jeans. “I could use a short walk.” That was true, but I had an ulterior motive. The police station was on the way to the German deli. I could stop in and see if Chief Meyers would let me see April.

  I pulled on my fleece. My skin felt damp. I went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face. My olive-toned skin was blotched with color. I tied my hair into a long, low ponytail and dabbed my cheeks with a towel. For a morning spent in the brewery, I didn’t look terrible, but then again, I’d never been much into makeup or jewelry.

  The one thing that I had been noticing lately was that the signs of age were beginning to show with circles under my eyes and fine lines on my brow. I blamed Mac. As I did for most things.

  Unfortunately, I knew that there was no fighting it. Stress aside, I was in my mid-forties. Aging was inevitable, and one incredibly valuable lesson that I had learned in watching Ursula evolve in her later years was to accept it. She hadn’t tried to run from the fact that her body was changing. She had embraced it with a happy heart and broad smile. Even though she was in her seventies, her bright eyes gave her a youthful appearance. She had taken a fall a while ago, leading to hip surgery. Ursula was feisty and had been back at Der Keller (with the help of a cane) the minute her doctor gave her permission to return to “light” activity.

  I twisted a black cashmere scarf around my neck and ran some lip gloss over my lips. Then I stood back and appraised my appearance. Not bad. My walnut eyes were bright, and the ponytail accentuated my Greek bone structure.

  The village was still relatively sleepy, but there were more people out and about than there had been earlier. Shop owners polished windows and worked on holiday displays. Overflowing flower baskets with fall foliage and red and yellow geraniums lined the street. I spotted Conrad, the owner of The Nutcracker Shoppe, in deep conversation with Ross. I
couldn’t be sure, but their body language didn’t appear to be overly friendly.

  Conrad held a two-foot-tall Santa Claus nutcracker in his arms. He seemed to be trying to get Ross to come into the shop. Ross wasn’t budging.

  Was Conrad trying to make a sale? Ross didn’t strike me as the nutcracker type. Or had something happened with Kristopher last night? They had both been with him after the fight at Der Keller. What if one of them killed him and asked the other to cover it up? Or what if they had teamed up? Could there be any connection with the Underground’s closure?

  Slow down, Sloan. I was spiraling into random theories without having learned any more details about the case or tangible evidence.

  I didn’t want to be Conrad’s next target, so I crossed the street and kept my head low.

  The police station was at the far end of Front Street. I walked through a scattering of dried leaves and past the park. Then I continued on until I reached the small building with a wooden sign carved with the word “Polizei” flanked by two beer barrels. To call it a station was a stretch. It was more of an office, with a long front desk that blocked entry to the back area. Leavenworth’s main police station was outside of the village core. This space was mainly used to deal with any minor issues like petty theft or drunk college students.

  Chief Meyers stood at the outdated oak desk that had been scratched and stained. It looked as if it had been in use since the 1970s. She was on the phone and held a finger up to me when I entered.

  April was seated in the very back of the office. Her head was buried in her hands, and it sounded like she was sobbing. I pretended to be very interested in an assortment of posters on the wall in order to avoid April seeing me. I studied a poster about motorcycle and biking safety with the tagline BE SAFE! BE SEEN and then turned my attention to a rack with brochures and flyers on the fines for littering in the village, encouraging pedestrians to cross the street in marked crosswalks, warnings about wildlife encounters, and information about the non-emergency contact line.

  “Sloan, what can I do for you?” the chief asked when she finished her call.

  “I was wondering if I could talk to April?” I kept my voice low so that April wouldn’t hear us. Her head was still buried in her hands. I didn’t think she had noticed me yet.

  Chief Meyers glanced over her shoulder. “Two minutes.” Then she stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled. “Ablin, you’ve got a visitor.”

  April looked up. Her makeup was streaked with tears, her braids had unraveled and were a twisted mess. Large rings of smeared mascara under her eyes made her look like a rabid raccoon. She rubbed her eyes. “Sloan? Oh, thank God. Is it really you?”

  I gave her a smile, trying to mask my shock at her appearance. The chief lifted the far corner of the desk, which was on a hinge. I ducked under and walked back to where April was seated.

  “How are you doing?” I sat next to her.

  She massaged her temples. “How do I look? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. I’m sure I’m hideous. Chief Meyers has had me locked in here like a common criminal for hours.”

  I kept my face passive and decided that it was probably best not to mention her mascara.

  “I’m sure it’s a formality. Chief Meyers is a consummate professional.”

  “A consummate professional who has tossed Leavenworth’s official ambassador in jail?” April wailed.

  Again, I didn’t mention the fact that we were miles away from the county jail. “What happened, April? You were pretty wound up last night with Kristopher.”

  “I know. I was furious with him. He’s such an ass. He was only at Der Keller to try and get everyone fuming. It worked.” Her eyes were wild with fear. “Sloan, you have to help me. It was awful. I found Kris’s body in my office, I showed up to find a dead body and the police at my building, and now Chief Meyers thinks that I killed him. How long have we been friends, Sloan?”

  Friends? My first instinct was to answer never. That was also the second time I had heard April call him Kris. Did she know him better than she was letting on?

  Luckily, April didn’t wait for me to answer. “Sloan, you’re my oldest and dearest friend, you have to help me. I’m begging you. Absolutely begging.”

  It was a challenge to keep from responding with a sarcastic comment. I twisted my scarf to keep quiet. April had never begged for anything in her life. She demanded.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  April laced her fingers together. “You have to help me. I didn’t kill Kris, but I think I know who did.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  “YOU KNOW WHO KILLED KRISTOPHER? Why didn’t you tell the chief?” I looked from April to the front, where Chief Meyers was instructing a young police officer on the proper protocol for filing reports.

  April scowled. Her lipstick had smeared across her chin, making her look like a drunk college student the morning after Oktoberfest. “Give me more credit than that, Sloan. I’m not an idiot. Of course, I told the chief my theory, but she doesn’t believe me. It looks bad. Really bad. Everyone saw me yelling at him last night and then he ends up dead in my office. It’s not good. We need to find evidence. Hard proof. And fast.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? I’m a brewer, April, not a detective.” I pointed to my outfit.

  “Sloan!” April wailed again, which made Chief Meyers whip her head around and stare at us.

  “One more minute, ladies,” the chief said, tapping a black exercise tracking watch on her wrist. Chief Meyers was old-school. I was surprised to see her wearing a fitness tracker.

  “Sloan,” April hissed, “you have to help me. I know that you’re not a detective, but I also know that you have an in with the chief. She admires you for some reason. I’ve never understood why, but she seems to take you into her confidence. I suppose it’s probably due to my high status in the village. You obviously don’t have the same kind of demands and pressures as I do.”

  Ah, there was the April I knew. My “dear” friend who always found a way to turn a compliment into an insult.

  “She trusts you,” April continued. “And I know that you and Garrett consulted with her on the unfortunate accident that happened at Nitro.” Her voice was laced with envy.

  The unfortunate accident that April was referring to was actually a murder, but in true April fashion, she had reworked the story to make it more palatable for tourists. No one wants to visit a charming village where there’s been a gruesome murder, Sloan, she had said not long after the case was closed. For the sake of Leavenworth, if the topic comes up in casual conversation, let’s just say that it was a little accident.

  Chief Meyers cleared her throat. “Okay, ladies. Let’s wrap it up.”

  April grabbed my arm. “Sloan, please. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything. I’ll owe you big time. Was I pissed at him? Yes. And I told him that to his face, but I did not kill him.”

  “But I saw you after Mac broke up the fight. You were with him and a few other people at The Nutcracker Shoppe.”

  She kept her hand on my arm and nodded frantically. “Yes. I was with him outside Conrad’s shop. That was the last time I saw him, I swear. I told him he had to stop this madness for the sake of Leavenworth. That was it.”

  I noticed for the first time that April’s freckled forearm was scratched and cut up. “What happened to your arm?”

  She yanked her arm away and covered the scratches with her other hand. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if one of the reasons that the chief was keeping April was due to the cuts and scratches on her arm. Had she been in a fight? Maybe Kristopher had struggled when she killed him. I studied her. Her frilly barmaid’s dress was torn at the seam, revealing a nasty bruise on her left leg. What wasn’t she telling me?

  “Look, I was supposed to meet Kris at my office early this morning,” April said, using her other hand to shield the physical evidence on her arm. “When I got there, he was
already dead.”

  “Okay.” The fluorescent lighting made April’s streaked makeup appear even more garish.

  “No, don’t look at me like that. I can tell that you don’t believe me.” April caught me staring at the tear in her skirt and shifted in her chair so I couldn’t see the bruise.

  “I didn’t say that.” However, I might have been thinking it. April’s behavior wasn’t exactly giving me confidence in her innocence.

  Chief Meyers started to walk toward us.

  “Sloan, please.” April clasped her hands in prayer. “Go talk to Ross. He and Kris were going at it when I left them last night. Ross is convinced that Kris was trying to get the Underground shutdown. I think he killed him. That’s a motive.”

  “All right. Time’s up.” Chief Meyers tapped on her watch.

  I stood. April shot me a final, pleading glance. “Talk to Ross,” she mouthed as the chief showed me to the door.

  Meyers grabbed a khaki-colored police jacket from a hook by the door and walked outside with me. “Well, what do you think?”

  “About April?” I shrugged. “She seems like her normal irritating self, but I did notice her arm is cut and scratched. She has a large bruise on her leg, and her dress is torn. She blew me off when I asked her about it.”

  The chief frowned. “I know.”

  I told her about April’s suggestion that Ross could be involved and asked her about the Underground.