A Deadly Draught (12 page)

“Well, as Jake said before, he’s not interested in lager or ale,” I said.

“I’ll bet he’s willing to get interested, especially if he’s going to be living and working in this area. Right?” Rafe looked at Jake for confirmation and then continued, “Brewing is a way of life here now.”
Rafe Oxley, you’re something,
I thought.

As I laid out my plans for the summer and the fall, I got more and more excited about the tastings and the new brews I might be creating. Soon, my ideas carried me away, and I was unaware of my audience, just of the images of golden lagers and brown, foamy ales filling my brain. When I paused for a breath, Jake’s face drew my attention. There was an odd expression on it, something close to respect for what I was saying. Maybe I was wrong. He dropped the look when he shoved his chair back and got up.

“I’ve got to be getting back. Thanks for the coffee and the, uh, stories.”

I approached him with my hand out. “No, no, thank you for doing those locks. Wait just a minute, and I’ll write you out a check for the cost of the equipment.”

He took my hand and shook it, then held on for just a moment too long for it to be a gentleman’s handshake. I pretended not to notice, but I bet Rafe did.

“I’ll get the check some other time,” Jake said.

“It won’t bounce.” I snatched my hand out of his and put both hands behind my back where I curled them into fists. It was stupid, but I seemed to react to his approaches with pugnaciousness.

“If it did, I’d know where to find you. Good evening, Mr. Oxley. Nice talking to you.” He closed the door behind him and left Rafe and me in the kitchen.

“I thought that went well, didn’t you?” Rafe asked.

“Soooo, no problems installing those new locks, I gather.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. That’s one smart man. Good looking too.”

“Oh, leave it alone. It’s water under the bridge. In fact, the stream is dry now,” I insisted.

“Oh, I don’t think so. The two of you had quite a thing going back then. Who’s to say it can’t start again?”

“Me, that’s who. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Money mostly. I mean to pay you for that yeast, you know.”

Rafe flapped his hand at me in dismissal.

“He told me he’d checked out all of us,” Rafe said.

“So he knows …”

“Pretty much everything. Not his fault. He’s just doing his job.” Rafe sighed. “I knew someday my past would catch up with me. It always does, you know.”

I let him out the back door and watched as he walked toward his car, his shoulders slumped forward in an attitude of dejection. This case seemed to be exposing more of the past than many of us wanted revealed.

Back in the house, I flopped down in a kitchen chair and realized the cookies I’d had with coffee were the only food I’d eaten all day. There was nothing in the fridge. I was tired out from the adrenalin rush I’d had with the yeast issue and physically exhausted from the wrestling match the bottler had given me. Too weary to go into town and shop, I ate the remainder of the box of cookies. Filled with sugar and chocolate, I thought they were certain to keep me up well into the night.

But I fell into a deep sleep and dreamed of bubbles as they rose in a pilsner glass of amber colored lager.
No, no, that’s not right. It’s not a lager, it’s an ale
, I was shouting to someone.
It’s poisoned
, the voice replied. I woke up with a start, sweat covering my body. The clock blinked three in the morning. It was too early to get up, but I knew I’d never get back to sleep.
I’ll check the ale,
I thought.

I grabbed the new keys off the hook in the kitchen and stepped out into the still night. Not quite still. I could hear frogs croaking from the pond on my property, and a night hawk flew across the fields on silent wings and into the woods beyond, offering his lonely cry. I turned my gaze skyward, looking for my favorite constellation, Orion, but clouds obscured most of the stars, forecasting a rainy day tomorrow. We needed rain, but I said a silent prayer to the thunder and lightning gods to put it off until Sunday.

The key slid into the new locks with hardly a catch or a sound. I turned on the lights and headed toward the fermentation kettle, but I never got there. A hand covered my mouth while another grabbed my arms. Garlic-infused breath whistled out of a mouth close to my ear, and I felt the scratch of an unshaven face on my cheek.

“Not a word, dearie. Not a word. It’s time you and me had a little talk.”

Eleven

My hand shook as I placed the teacup on the table in front of my unwelcome guest. For the second time in twenty-four hours, I was entertaining in my kitchen. This time tea, rather than coffee, was on the menu. A look of anger crossed his unshaven face when I said I had nothing to offer him with his drink.

“Not much for hospitality, are ya,” he asked, “or are ya just stingy?” He looked in the fridge for himself and shook his head at my lack of supplies there and in the cupboards, which he also examined.

I was beginning to calm down after my initial shock that someone had broken into my newly secured barn. If he noticed my jitters, he didn’t mention it, probably too intent upon guzzling his drink.

While he slurped his tea, spilling as much down his chin as he managed to swallow, I took in his appearance. A black, long-sleeved sweater and black pants clothed a stocky body. He wasn’t much taller than I, but the sweater revealed the muscles of a weight lifter or fighter.

“Oh, sorry about that,” he said as he pulled a black knit watch cap off his head. His scalp showed pink in patches, either the results of a bad haircut, baldness, or some skin disorder.

His accent was English, but working class, not the polished speech used by Rafe.

“What do you want?” I asked. I’d said little from the time he grabbed me in the barn until now.

“Oh, I see. You’ve got a tongue, have you? Good. Now use it. Tell me about this Rafe Oxley.”

“Whatever you want to know about Rafe, you’ll have to ask him.”

His small, piggish eyes snapped in anger. He arose from the table, reached out, and grabbed me again. We headed out the door to the brew barn.

“I know enough about you, Missy, that I bet you don’t want your nice, new brew being tampered with, do you? There are a lot of things I can do to make this batch a failure, and that would put you in a pretty mess.” He looked around the brew barn as if searching for something.

“Let’s see here. Should I throw all of your yeast into the kettle? Hmm? Or should I take this hose off here and dump the brew on the floor.” He reached for the valve at the bottom of the vessel.

“Stop it!”
My precious brew.
I had to save it. Fearing less for myself than my brewery, I rushed at him when he grabbed for the hose. My sudden action took him by surprise. As he turned to ward off my attack, his foot slipped on a loose drain cover and down he went, hitting his elbow with a crack on the cement. I grabbed the pole I used for stirring wort and slammed it down on his head as hard as I could. He fell to the floor and lay there, not moving.

Oh, God, now I did it. I killed him.
I didn’t really feel bad that I’d done in someone who was threatening me and my property, but then again, I didn’t know what a murderer felt like. Until now, that is. I felt relieved and a little guilty, I guess.

Damn. Now I’ll have to call Jake and tell him what I did.
With trembling fingers, I picked up the phone in the barn and made the call.

*

“He’s not dead, but he’s still unconscious. He’s going to have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. You really gave it to him. What did you hit him with?” asked Jake. He had arrived in a little over five minutes from the time I made the phone call. The body on the floor gave forth a moan.

“Looks like he’s waking up. Maybe now we can get some answers.” Jake propped him against the wall and stepped back. “What’s your name?”

“Bernie Fisher. Who’re you? I was attacked. By her,” he said. He pointed a dirty finger in my direction.

“You were trespassing, and you threatened her and her property.”

“I was attacked,” Bernie repeated. “I want a doctor and a lawyer.”

“You’re going to need both, Bernie boy,” Jake said. He cuffed the man and pulled him to his feet.

*

Early the next morning, I drove to the supermarket. It was humiliating having a common thief accuse me of being less than sociable. Having some food in my fridge and freezer gave me a sense of comfort and organization, a hedge against the financial insolvency about to overtake me. Pleased with my false feeling of satiety and with a stomach full of milk and Oreo cookies, I lay down for a short nap.
A night of nabbing thieves really exhausts a person,
I thought.

I awoke with a start, realizing my rescheduled appointment with the bank was this afternoon. I had an hour to prepare myself. The truth was, I hated the idea of meeting with the bank president and asking for money. I knew I was procrastinating, but I decided to detour to Rafe’s place to say hello. I wanted to ask Rafe some questions about my unwanted visitor. Bernie professed to want information from me about Rafe, but I wasn’t buying that. Something told me Rafe knew this man. I pulled into the drive and wasn’t surprised to spy Bernie Fisher leaving the brew barn with Rafe.

“Mr. Fisher. How’s the head? And the breaking and entering business?” I asked. Sarcasm colored my voice.

“Sorry about that. I was in desperate straits, needed food bad. Kind of down on my luck, I was.” Bernie removed his dirty cap from his head and kept his eyes on the ground as he talked to me.

“Rafe,” I said, “could we talk?”

“I think you know the routine, Bernie. We’ll leave you to it,” Rafe said. He took my arm and walked me toward the house.

“Don’t be so polite. Ask away,” Rafe said.

“He’s working for you? Why? I got the impression he was a real rounder.”

“I’m sure he is, but he knows brewing, and I can use a hand until Henry gets back on his feet.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” I said. I was missing part of Bernie’s story, but I could see Rafe was not.

“He’s a hard worker, catches on fast,” Rafe insisted.

“He’s a common criminal who has something up his sleeve, I think.”

“That’s why I hired him. I want him close to keep an eye on him.”

“He asked about you at my house last night. Why was that do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

I found this conversation frustrating, as well as confusing.

“What’s going on here?” I asked.

“Just a voice from my past,” said Rafe. “I know Bernie Fisher. He and I were good friends at one time, if you consider thieves can be buddies. Bernie’s the kind of friend you can buy. So I bought him for a while. Maybe I can find out what he’s up to. Don’t worry yourself about him, my dear. He won’t bother you again. That, I can promise you. Now, I must go. I’ve got a batch of ale I’m working on.” He looked up at the cloudless sky. “I hope we get some rain soon.” He walked off toward the barn with a smile and a wave. I was still puzzled at why he would hire such a man—a thief and scalawag.

*

“What’s that guy up to?” Jake’s hand curled around my arm as I hopped out of my truck. I brushed off his grasp and closed the door.

“Hey, let go. If I don’t feed this thing, the local meter maid will ticket me.” I slipped two quarters into the slot.

“Rafe. What’s going on with him and Bernie?”

“I haven’t any idea. I have an appointment with the bank president, and I’m late already. If you want to know what’s going on, ask Rafe.”

“I already did when he bailed out that piece of scum this morning. Then I saw the two of them drinking coffee at the diner, and they drove off together in Rafe’s Mercedes. Very suspicious.”

“It’s Rafe’s business.” I opened the door to the bank, hoping I would spy Mr. Culler, the president, and could get away from Jake’s probing questions. I could tell Jake what Rafe told me, but it wasn’t my place to do that. Anyway, none of it made any sense to me.

“The two of you are friends. You must know what’s going on.”

“I don’t. Now leave me alone.” I saw Mr. Culler’s secretary Evelyn walking toward me, a scowl on her face.

“Mr. Culler is waiting for you. You’re late.”

“See? Gotta run.” I rushed after her sling-back heels in my work boots, our footsteps making a clack, clack, clump, clump across the marble floor. She paused halfway to the office and looked down at my shoes. She said nothing but shook her head and continued on her journey with me in tow. I felt like the ugly duckling, but it was unlikely that I would turn into a swan, at least not today.

Mr. Culler may have been waiting for me, but it wasn’t in his office. Evelyn showed me into what looked like the board room, empty except for a long table surrounded by chairs. She told me Culler would be right in. I wandered around the table, then chose a chair facing the door. Bankers must have an odd sense of time. Mr. Culler walked in the door fifteen minutes later, offered me the smallest of smiles, and sank into a chair with the deepest of sighs.

“You see, Miss Knightsbridge,” he began, “this is a very conservative bank with limited funds for lending.” I looked at him across the expanse of polished mahogany, bare except for a bottle of Maalox he’d set on the table when he sat. He caught me eyeing it and tucked it into his pocket. In all the years I’d interacted with him at the bank, I’d never seen the worry wrinkles on his forehead relax. The man looked permanently distressed. Perhaps he was. His complexion had the pasty grey-green color that comes from too little sunlight. Maybe he only left the bank at night and came in before dawn. Unless he was golfing, that is. His voice drew me back to the matter of my loan.

“Also, the board is quite concerned about the recent death, er, murder, of Mr. Ramford. The county sheriff’s office is on the case.”

Oh, oh. I think I know where this is heading
.

“So, given the status of the murder, we’re not prepared to take a chance on you as a client.”