A Deadly Draught (3 page)

Michael wandered over to my side.

“I told you I had a little surprise.”

“I thought you told your father this spring you had some new ideas for brews, and he rejected them. I don’t understand why you need Stanley now when you have the freedom to put your ideas into operation.”

“I have plenty of ideas, but when I thought about it, the ones I liked the most had nothing to do with brewing beer. Don’t look so upset. Because you do it and do it well, doesn’t mean I want to spend my days and nights smelling yeast and malt.”

“Okay, so Stanley designs the brews. Then what do you do?”

“I provide the cash and the equipment. Oh, right. Then I collect the money.”

Three

I pulled my truck into a parking space in front of the store, hoping it was just early enough in the morning for Sally to be at work, but before any customers came into her shop. She stood at the door and watched me slip a coin into the parking meter. I worried she’d reach for the “closed” sign and turn her back on me, but she waved me in. No hello, no smile. I followed her into the back room and watched as she extracted the last loaves of her bread from the oven. She gave them a quick tap and nodded. The aroma of hot bread filled my nose, and a sudden flood of saliva washed over my tongue.

“Coffee?” she asked. Without waiting for my reply, she picked up the pot, walked back out into the front of her shop, and poured me a cup. “Sit down. I’ll get preserves and fresh bread.”

“Yum,” I said. She placed the bread and jam on the table, and I reached for them with both hands. She slapped my fingers.

“The bread needs to cool. You know that.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“No reason to be,” she replied. We both knew neither of us was talking about bread and jam.

I nodded, drummed my nails on the table for several minutes, and inched my hand toward the loaf.

She gave in with a shake of her bright red curls and sliced the bread, releasing more of that I-can’t-wait-to-bite-into-it aroma as the knife cut through the crust and into the soft center. The two of us took one of the tables in the front of the bakery.

“How’s business?” I gestured with my head at the four small tables positioned around the tiny room. Sunlight shone through the storefront windows. Along with the smells of ginger, cinnamon, and yeast bread and rolls from the ovens, the place was like being in grandma’s kitchen, warm, welcoming, and certain to put five pounds on you if you didn’t restrain yourself. This morning, I was the only patron.

Sally ran floury fingers through her curls. Her gaze swept the empty room. “It’ll pick up soon.”

“Bad, huh?”

“You warned me. Told me not to set up the tea room in the winter months. You were right. Happy?” Her tone sounded more depressed than snappish.

“No, of course not, but come June, your business will get a shot in the arm when we begin the tastings on Saturdays.”

“You still want me at your Saturday festivals?”

“Don’t be a ninny. Of course. I can’t have people on the brewery tour swilling beer without the proper accompaniments. Because you had the bad taste to arrive at my Christmas Eve supper alone and leave drunk with Michael in tow doesn’t mean I don’t want you there to provide bread and rolls. Once they get a taste of your baking, you’ll sell out every Saturday.”

Her face turned red. “I have lousy taste in men, you know.”

“Yeah, well then, so do I. How long have I had a thing for Michael, and we’re still nothing but friends?”

Sally grabbed my hand across the table with one of hers. I looked down at her chubby, freckled arms and hands. They were so tiny and fragile looking.

“Ouch.”

“What?”

“For such small hands, you sure have a strong grip.”

“It’s all the kneading of bread I do. I still do it by hand. More authentic, you know.”

I stuffed another piece of jam-covered bread into my mouth with my free hand. Neither of us spoke. A tear fell onto the table between us. Then another. Both of us were crying.

“I thought you were jealous when you told me to be careful of Michael. Now I know you were right.” She picked up her apron and swiped at her face.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry he hurt you. And I’m sorry I tried to interfere,” I said.

We hugged across the small table and then wiped away the wetness on our cheeks and gulped our coffee.

“Did you get a chance to talk with Michael at the funeral?” I asked. I uttered my words through a full mouth. Sally laughed at me.

“If I heard you right, no, I didn’t talk to him, but I heard his announcement. Maybe what he’s doing is a good idea. I mean, he’ll be gone a lot promoting the business and stuff, and you won’t have to deal with him at all. Neither will I. It could help both of us.”

“I doubt it. You know what they say about absence and the heart, but I have to face the fact Michael and I are friends, only friends, and maybe not even that now. We used to talk a lot about business. That’s changed since his father’s death. We hardly talk at all.” I blew my nose on a napkin. “No. That’s not right. Michael started avoiding me before his father’s murder. I thought he was uncomfortable about the two of you, but I guess he thought I might have a few words to say about his dumping you and taking up with Cory. I did, but I never got to confront him.”

The taste of preserves on my tongue turned sour when I thought of Michael’s recent behavior. “Since the announcement at the funeral, I don’t know him anymore. Once, I might have solicited his opinion on what I was attempting in the way of new brews, but now, well, I don’t know.”

Sally opened the sugar bowl and began stirring the granules around with a spoon, patiently waiting for me to get to the point. She knew it was hard for me to ask her for anything. I was always the strong one from the time we first met in grade school, and I chased away all the bigger kids who taunted her with the name “midget.”

“So you see, I didn’t come here only to eat your bread and break down the wall we built between us. I need your help. I think there’s something terribly wrong with Michael. His mother noticed the change in him, too.”

Sally gave me a wry smile. “I think Michael would disagree with you. He thinks he’s doing fine. Apparently, so does everyone else. His mother appears to be going along with his plans, and the rest of the community is applauding him for his business acumen. Oh, I’m not saying I agree with them. I find his behavior strange, too, but then, maybe it’s merely jealously on my part. Of Cory, I mean.” Her blue eyes again filled with tears.

“Jealous of her? What does she have that you don’t? A Mercedes, you say? She has car payments. You don’t.”

“Right. My Ford pick-up is paid for except for the new transmission I need.”

“Oh, forget Cory. No more boo-hooing,” I said. “Despite the fact Michael hurt us, we both still care for him. The three of us grew up together, and we know him better than anyone. It must be grief. He told me he hated the brewery, and I know it’s not true. Now he’s turning the whole thing over to some stranger. I think he needs to get back to hand-crafting beer.”

Sally laughed. “You always think the solution to any problem is hard work, especially if it entails brewing beer. Maybe his father’s murder was an eye opener for him, and without his father hanging over him, he’s found out he doesn’t like beer making.”

I thought about what she said. There was truth in her words.

“I guess I’m being insensitive. When Dad died, I converted my grief into taking over the brewery. I know he didn’t want me to run it. He willed it to me, assuming I would find my calling in law school and, when he died, I would sell it to someone else, maybe Michael.” I heard a noise at the door and jerked my head around to see who was there.
My nemesis.

“Oh, oh. Here comes trouble,” Sally said, looking through the bakery window. Assistant Deputy Sheriff Jake Ryan stood there with his hands cupped around his eyes, trying to peer in.

“The bakery’s not open yet,” I yelled through the door, then got up, flipped the Open sign to Closed, and shot the deadbolt.

“What is it with you two? Rumor in the village has it you circle each other like boxers in the ring,” said Sally.

“Oh? What else does rumor say?”

Sally’s eyes danced, and she clasped her tiny hands together like a child eager to open a birthday present. “He’s the one, isn’t he? He’s the guy you told me about when you were in law school, the hunk.”

“He’s an insensitive jerk.”

“Well, if you don’t want him anymore, I kind of like his looks.” Sally clapped her hand across her mouth. “Oh, God, here I go once more, trying to take your guy.”

“You can have him with my blessing, but if you’re curious about him, I could fill you in on some details any smart girl would want to know. Oh, shit. We’re doing it again, letting a man interfere with our friendship.” We held each other’s gaze across the table, embarrassment and regret in our eyes.

Jake banged at the door. “I can see you in there. This is official business. Let me in.”

“Get a search warrant, official sheriff person.”
Me and my smart mouth.

“He’s kind of cute. He’s only been on the job for a few weeks, so why not give him a break? Maybe he’s different from when you knew him. Wasn’t that years ago? People change.”

“Not this one. This guy is the same as when we were in law school—a shark.” Sally ignored me and leaped for the door to let him in.

“I’ll get another cup and cut some more bread.” She dashed into the back room.

“Your best friend, isn’t she? Interesting person. Little, peppy,” Jake said. His gaze followed her retreating back.

“You like little and peppy?” I asked. “I thought you liked tall and thin.”
Now why did I have to make reference to our past relationship?

He looked my slender, almost boyish, body up and down making me mentally squirm at the inspection. “Tastes change with experience,” he said.

I was imagining the experiences that might alter his preferences in women.

“I need to talk with you.”

“Not about this murder again, I hope. I told you at the cemetery, I don’t know any more. Oh, and by the way, when it comes to Sally? If you’re interested, go slowly. The woman had her heart broken by …”

“By your boyfriend. Yeah, I know. The whole town knows. I’m not such an insensitive clod I’d use her that way.” I was about to ask him how he’d use her or any woman, but he cut me off before I could speak.

“I want to talk with you about your father’s death.”

My father’s ….

*

Jake turned down Sally’s offer of bread and jam, so she packed him two slices in a baggie and sent us out the door, like mama sending two teenagers off on a picnic. As Jake and I left, I shot her a look of disgust, and she returned it with a wink.

“What’s so important that I had to leave Sally’s and come with you?”

“My SUV’s across the street.” He grabbed my arm and steered me toward the vehicle.

“I only put a quarter in the meter.” I nodded at my truck.

“I already took care of it. C’mon.”

Imperious S.O.B.,
I thought to myself. “Taking me down to the station to sweat me again about Mr. Ramford?”

He ignored my testy tone. “This might be related to his murder or not, but when I first took the job here, I remembered the discussions we had about your father when we were in law school. I would have liked to have met him.” He started the engine and pulled out into traffic.

“That was a long time ago.” I hated remembering the day I got the call about Dad’s death. “I prefer focusing on the present.”

“Usually, I do, too, but this is unfinished business, business you should know about. Two brewers dying violent deaths in the short span of five years is too much coincidence for me, so I went back to the file on your father’s suicide, and something struck me as strange. Most of the officers working on the case then didn’t notice it, but I did, because you were his daughter and close to him. You knew his habits, and you knew the house. And what was in it.” He turned the vehicle onto the highway that led over Jefferson Mountain.

“’He didn’t own a gun,’ you said. Now, Mr. Ramford, he said your father did own a pistol. The two of them used it for target practice. Some of the men working for Ramford told the officers they had seen your father and him shooting at a target set up on Ramford’s property. They were using a pistol. But I think you were right. You would know if your father owned a gun. I thought the pistol had to be Ramford’s. I checked the serial number on the weapon found in your father’s hand and called gun shops in this area.”

Halfway up the long grade, Jake pulled into a driveway leading to a ranch-style house that had been converted to a business. Mossie’s Guns, the sign read.

“The guy who runs it now is the son of the man who was operating it back when your father died. He didn’t remember selling the gun used in his death, but I asked him if he could find the sales receipt for it. He’s been digging around in his father’s old business papers and hit pay dirt last night. I got the call this morning.”

“I don’t understand. Mr. Ramford wasn’t shot. He was hit over the head with something, right?”

Jake let me open my own door and catch up to him as he walked up the steps to the shop.

“Like I said, this isn’t about Ramford’s murder. It’s about your father’s.”

Four

A fully stuffed black bear standing on its rear legs greeted our entry into the shop. It towered over me, its mouth open, teeth displayed with a ferocity I found frightening despite its departure long ago from the living. I reached out and touched the claws on its paw and thought of the power in them, now stayed for the purposes of decoration. I gave a short snort of disgust, which the owner caught. He hurled it back at me by spitting his chaw of tobacco into a spittoon located at the end of the counter. The place had atmosphere, I had to give it that.

I’d never been in a gun shop before, but it was pretty much what I expected. Lots of weapons—guns, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, and rifles displayed in locked cases. On the wall behind the counter, mounted animal heads joined the bear at the door in a state of infinite captivity. A beaver losing some of its pelt stood on the counter. I didn’t like the place. It gave me the creeps, and that feeling emboldened me to speak before Jake had a chance.