A Deadly Draught (28 page)

I took in a quick breath. Yes, that was possible, but … “But that’s Sally’s call not mine.”

“Talk to her.”

*

On the way home, I passed Jeremiah on his bike. I stopped the truck and pulled over to the side of the road. We hadn’t spoken since I visited him after his bicycle accident.

“I see you got your bike fixed. Where are you heading?”

“Out to your place. I got fired from my position at Teddy’s. He said I was too particular and slow in my work, so I was wondering if you’d consider hiring me back?” He said this with his head down, not allowing his eyes to meet mine.

“That’s Teddy. Are you surprised? I was teaching you to be a brewer, not a hired hand at a brewery.”

“Teddy also said he had all the help he needed right now with Brian working for him.” That got a laugh out of me.

“You could have told me where you were going when you left me, you know. I would have understood the need for more money.”

He kept his eyes cast downward and gave a tiny nod of his head.

“I can’t pay you as much as Teddy, but I will give you an increase in pay now that I’ve got my bank loan.”

He raised his head and pumped his arm in the air. “Yes. What’s first on the agenda?”

“Cleaning out the mash tun.”

“No.”

*

Claudia was assigned to the psychiatric wing of the Women’s Correctional Institution in Payack. I heard she took up her quilt work again, stitching together blocks of fabric with the skill of a five-year-old. She acted more and more disturbed as the days went by, making up nonsensical tunes and only talking to the people her imagination created.

Jake said she seemed happy enough, but out of touch with any world but her own. It looked as if she would never leave the ward nor stand trial for the murder of her husband. Who was the true Claudia? This crazy woman, the cold, rational killer, or the perfect wife? Did anyone know? Did she?

Ronald and Deni planned to build on the Ramford property, but until Michael’s body was found, the court wouldn’t let them proceed.

It rained almost every day in the month since the incident at the hop house and mill. Early one morning, when the downpour threatened to wash away the road in front of my place, Jake’s car pulled into the river which once was my drive. His face was grim when he entered my kitchen.

“All this water finally washed Michael’s body down to the Susquehanna, where it caught on a pile of limbs and brush down near Chenango Forks.”

“That’s fifty miles from here. Could he have made it that far …? “

“He was dead in minutes after he went in at the mill. He didn’t suffer, Hera.”

“I’ll have to tell Sally.”

“I already did. She’s fine. Her mother came to visit yesterday, so she’s got someone with her.”

“Oh.” I turned my back to him and stared out the kitchen window. Through the pouring rain, I could just make out the new addition I was adding to my barn. Only the frame was up, progress hampered by the wet weather.

Jake came to the window and put his arms around me.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’ve got to increase my production, but this rain is preventing me from getting the addition finished. There are September and October tastings yet, and I need more product. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay about Michael. I knew he was dead.”

He nuzzled my neck.

“I’ve got the day off. How about we spend a quiet morning and afternoon here?”

“Maybe you’ve got the day off, but I don’t.”

But Jake could be so persuasive.

Early afternoon hunger pangs drove us out of my bedroom and down into the kitchen. The rain had stopped an hour before, and the sun shone in a blue sky devoid of any remaining clouds. Jake and I sat at the table devouring salami and cheese sandwiches accompanied by my newest ale, Summer Serendipity, when we heard a car turn into my lane, then another, and another. Soon the drive filled with vehicles I recognized, and people poured out of them and into the yard. Everyone seemed to be equipped with a tool of some sort, hammers, saws, both hand and electric, and other building paraphernalia such as tape measures, saw horses, and ladders.

“Barn raising, barn raising,” they chanted as they made their way toward my brew house. Jake and I ran out after them.

“Did we disturb something?” Rafe was brandishing a hammer and a smile saying he knew damn well what they disturbed but didn’t think we minded. Teddy leaned a ladder against the two-by-fours forming the walls and began to pull his ample frame upward. I held my breath, hoping the rungs would support him.

“This is great. We can do the same for you when you’re ready to start rebuilding your brew barn.” Jake addressed his remarks to Ronald and Deni who dragged sawhorses into place for the lumber needing to be cut.

“Not a brew barn. We’re going to set up a winery. We’re from California, and we’re more familiar with wine.” Deni and Ronald smiled into each other’s faces.

“Where do you want me to put these?” asked Francine. She jockeyed several two-by-fours toward the structure.

“No Marsh?” I asked.

“No Marsh. He moved on. Went back to the restaurant business. I’m looking for another brew master. Got any ideas?”

“Well, you can’t have him now, but in another year or so, Jeremiah might be your man.”

I was helping lift a rafter into place when I heard another car pull up. It was Sally and her mother. If pregnant women glow, then Sally would win the prize for illumination.

“The results of the amnio came back, and it’s a girl.” She set a basket of bread, pastries and muffins on one of the picnic tables we used for tastings. “You’re going to be an aunt.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I know it, and what difference does it make whether you’re the biological aunt or not? As far as I’m concerned, you’ll be babysitting a niece when I want to get out.”

Jake, bare-chested and looking very yummy, came up to me.

“Everything’s perfect, huh?” He threw his arms around me and hugged me, then followed the hug with a kiss.

I looked back toward the house and up at the bedroom window.

“Just about. But I think we could use more rain.”

Meet Author Lesley A. Diehl

Lesley retired from her life as a professor of psychology and reclaimed her country roots by moving to a small cottage in the Butternut River Valley in Upstate New York. In the winter she migrates to old Florida —cowboys, scrub palmetto, and open fields of grazing cattle, a place where spurs still jingle in the post office.  Back north, she devotes her afternoons to writing and, when the sun sets, relaxing on the bank of her trout stream, sipping tea or a local microbrew.

Lesley was the winner of the Sleuthfest 2009 short story contest. You can visit her on her website: www.lesleydiehl.com or on her blog, http://anotherdraught.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from her readers at [email protected].