Pint of No Return (12 page)

“What makes yours unique?” asked Callie.

“Let’s see if you can taste what it is.  If I’m such a good instructor, you should be able to tell what at least part of the beer is made from,” he said pulling out two glasses.  He opened a cooler behind the counter and from a small pony keg poured a dark brown brew.

He gave a glass to Callie.  She held it up to the light and said, “Well, it doesn’t seem to be something like a kolsch or a wheat beer – this one seems to have a darker undertone, so I’m guessing it’s got a different malt or is something like a stout.”

He said, “That was the easy part.  Keep going.”

Conscious of his gaze on her, she smelled the beer and was surprised by an aroma that was both floral and spicy.  “Ok, I’m definitely going to discount stout and say the primary flavoring agent is some sort of malt.”

He nodded and she took a drink.  The caramel sweetness of the malt was paired with what Callie thought was a sort of rose flavor.  Following that was a spicy sweet undertone she couldn’t quite identify.  The beer wasn’t strongly carbonated and Callie didn’t think it would taste good unless served icy cold.  “I’m thinking this is a rose, maybe from rosehips?  And the spice seems to be almost like cinnamon, but that’s not it.”

“Good girl,” he said smiling at her as she flushed red.  “This is my Rosehip Granola Ale and I think you’ll agree it’s very unique.  The granola I used in this batch is spiked with cardamom.”

She took another sip, enjoying the fullness with the low carbonation.  “Where do you get the granola spices? They can’t all be local.”

He sighed.  “No, they are pretty exotic, but I do purchase the granola itself from a producer here in Skinner.  They buy whole spices and oats and create their own mixtures.  The granola ingredients are still all organic.”  He sounded a bit irritated.  “I suppose it’s so rare that I use something out of the local area that would be the first thing you notice.”

She was immediately contrite.  “Chris, I didn’t mean anything by it.  I’m a patterns person and I notice anomalies.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.  “I’m a perfectionist person and I hate to be caught being imperfect.”  The smile he gave her caused a warm shock to zing down to her toes and back up to her head. 

“I may have cheated a little on guessing your beer,” she said.  “I was at Alterspice the other day and saw your order for rose hips.”

His eyebrows rose at that.  “It’s impressive all the same if you remembered parts of the order and were able to tie it together with the flavor of the beer.”  He paused for a second.  “Are you busy on Sunday?”

“Not that I know of.  What do you have in mind?”

“I’m going hiking on Sunday morning.  Nothing too far, just up the road to a trail near Salt Creek Falls.  Want to come with me?”

“I’d love to.  I haven’t been outside of Skinner much lately, so that sounds great.”

Callie gave him her mom’s address so he could pick her up.  He walked her out to her car.  Leaning over, he gave her a kiss on the cheek.  “I look forward to Sunday,” he said and walked back to the warehouse. 

Callie got in the car, feeling a warm burning sensation where his lips had landed on her skin.

Chapter Nine

Callie woke on Saturday morning to hear the sound of rain pattering on the roof and a scratching at the door.  Groaning, she pulled herself out of bed and went to the door.  A damp Hops bounded in and butted his wet head against her leg. 

“All right, all right, I’m getting dressed,” she muttered.  Hops sat on the entranceway rug to wait for her.  She’d had a somewhat sleepless night.  Her mind had been full of dreams where she saw Floyd Fillmer drowning in a vat of beer and she was rushing towards him, trying to save him, but was being held back. Those holding her alternated evenly between Scott McMillan and Chris Ashton.  Every time she would fall back asleep one of them would invade her thoughts. 

Brushing away the night’s anxieties, she pulled on her boots and work jeans.  This morning she added a sturdy North Face raincoat to the outfit and trudged off towards the barn. 

How did one tell a dog that his owner was dead?  She had called and left a message with Ethan Fillmer that she would take care of Hops for as long as needed.  He hadn’t called back, so she assumed she’d just keep Hops until he called.  The dog didn’t seem to miss his old life.  He had fit into the farm as if he’d always been a part of it.  Callie was glad to have the company of the dog as she did her work.

She fed the chickens, milked the goats, and was glad to see her mom hadn’t added any additional chores to the blackboard that were out in the garden proper.  Coral liked to let the rain do its work alone and start breaking up any plants left from the summer’s plantings to compost.

Callie didn’t want to wear her muddy boots into the kitchen, so she left the milk outside the back door and went to the cottage to change shoes and put on dry jeans. When she went inside, Grandma Minnie was reading the newspaper.  Noah wasn’t present, as he didn’t work on Saturdays or Sundays, so it was just Callie and Grandma Minnie.  “They already have an obituary on Floyd Fillmer,” she said. 

“He was in the hospital for a couple of days,” said Callie.  “They must have known early on he wasn’t going to make it.”

Callie moved to the coffee maker she had unpacked from her New York boxes that was now in constant use.  She was trying not to unpack too much, but it would be a waste to buy a new coffee maker when she had a perfectly good, and expensive, one in her belongings.  She would just take it with her when she left, and they’d have to find some other way to give Noah his coffee.

Taking some scrambled eggs from the pan on the stove, she grabbed a slice of bread and the tub of goat cheese.  Breakfast was definitely her favorite meal here.

“Are you done with this section?” asked Callie.

“Sure.  Obits are on page four,” said Grandma Minnie handing it to her across the table, knowing Callie wouldn’t be able to keep herself from reading about Floyd Fillmer.

Although Callie knew Floyd had been around Skinner for all of his life, she hadn’t realized he had left town and lived elsewhere for several years during the time his father was running the brewery.  She had assumed he had always worked there with his dad.   Instead, Floyd had done what many young men in the valley had done and for a time worked at a lumber mill.  Apparently he hadn’t found that satisfying and in the early ‘60’s had joined the army.  Callie noted he had managed to avoid being stationed in Vietnam, and so had avoided the worst parts of the military of that era.  Instead, he had spent two years in South Korea as a cook’s assistant.

Callie made the connection instantly.  It had been percolating in the back of her mind as she had subconsciously kept wondering why Walt and Yuki Eckman were so distraught over Floyd’s death.  Callie remembered thinking that Floyd looked familiar.  It wasn’t just because he looked like Ethan.  She now realized that was because there was a resemblance between Floyd and Yuki as well.  Was she his daughter?  Her age was about right.  There was no doubt in Callie’s mind they were related in some way.

So, by the way Yuki had reacted, she was well aware of her relationship to Floyd, whatever it was.  Callie wondered if Floyd had known about it.  It wasn’t as if she had spent time talking to him about Walt and Yuki, but certainly if he knew she was his daughter he would have said something?  Especially as Yuki was one of the main organizers of Bru-topia. 

Keeping these thoughts in mind, Callie said goodbye to Grandma Minnie and went off to the cottage to get ready for the day.  Callie was hosting the main Bru-topia organizing group at the Johnson Pavilion.  Callie showered and debated her wardrobe.  Her navy blue Brooks Brothers suit would have been her choice in New York.  It always radiated a nice sense of confidence.  In Skinner, it would make her look like an overdressed control freak.  Callie grabbed a J. Crew soft charcoal wool pencil skirt and white blouse.  Over the blouse she wore a tailored darker gray cardigan and a skinny black belt.  She topped it off with a scarf, gray tights and a shoe with a moderate heel and felt both comfortable and confident.  Hopefully she also looked competent, but not overdressed.  She looked at herself in the mirror and wondered if she should join a gym.  She had been hoping her time in Coral’s garden would be an adequate substitute for her NYC routine of going to the gym three times a week.  Maybe she’d give it another month or two before making that call.

In New York, formality in dressing was a given.  She couldn’t believe how challenging it was negotiating what to wear in an informal environment.  Maybe the key was that in the informal environment, everyone agreed not to care what others were wearing.  She was pretty sure she’d never get to that state of dressing.

The location of the events center was about all it had going for it.  Johnson Pavilion had great parking and was accessible by bus as it was not far from the center of downtown.  As Callie stood outside of the round building though, she marveled, as she always did, at the visions architects must have had in the late ‘60’s when many of Skinner’s finest structures were built.

She wasn’t sure of the goal of the design of the pavilion.  It was a large round building decorated on the outside with alternating dark brown two-by-fours and a conical shake roof.  It looked almost like a hut built for camouflage somewhere deep in the Willamette National Forest.  The conical roof didn’t quite rise to a point, but was gathered around a central circular opening, almost like a wooden version of a teepee. 

She was a few minutes early, but the events center facility manager, Jackson Garner, was already waiting outside the door.

“Thanks for meeting us here, Mr. Garner,” said Callie reaching out to shake his hand.  “I’m Callie Stone.  I don’t think we met when I came by in October.”  Callie had taken a short tour of the facility, but as it was filled with another event she didn’t get the opportunity to meet the staff.  She had seen enough to know it would work for Bru-topia.  Now, she finally would have her chance to see all the details.

“If you call me Jackie, I’ll call you Callie,” he said, a faint Southern accent tingeing his words. 

“Jackie it is,” she said.  He was dressed in black khaki work pants and a pale tan collared shirt with a name badge, obviously the uniform of a county employee.  He wore several rings of keys, along with a various assortment of tools, and made a sort of jingle as he walked. 

“Would you like to go inside and see the space before the others arrive?” he asked.

“Definitely,” she said.  “I only got a quick look in October because of the tattoo convention.  Otherwise, I haven’t been in here since I came to the fair as a kid.”

“Ah, then you remember the open wooden beams that made it sort of feel like a hunting lodge inside,” said Jackie.  “We’ve made a few changes over the last few years I think you’ll like.”

He opened the door and Callie stepped in.  What she saw before her was definitely not the Johnson Pavilion of her childhood memories.  The dark wooden openwork ceiling had been replaced by white vertical beams that met at a round central glass skylight, looking much like the inside of a circus tent.  New lighting and paint had been added, giving the space an ethereal feel. 

“Wow,” she said.  “This is amazing.  Changing the ceiling color gives the room a feeling of greater height.”

He nodded.  “It’s the other way ‘round.  It was the dark ceiling that made it feel so short.  The height has always been there, it was just hidden.  Now instead of just ski swaps and grange meetings, we host a lot of weddings and social events here.  It’s amazin’ what a little interior work’ll do.”

Callie noted that while the floor was still cement, it had been refinished and had a shine to it, like polished floor tiles.  Beautiful as it had become, Callie could definitely imagine doing great events here. 

“So what’s the back of the house look like?” she asked, referring to the non-public areas of the building. “Are there kitchen and storage facilities?”

“You think I’d let ‘em renovate without fixin’ all that up too?” he asked.  “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.” 

A full production kitchen, complete with several industrial size sinks and a commercial stove had been added to a square room off to the side of the main space.  A large storage room next to it held only a few tables and chairs, but Jackie assured her there were more stored off site.

They moved back out to the main floor.  “I’ve not had a brew fest in here before,” said Jackie.  “What’s the general layout?”

“It’s much like a trade show with individual spaces for booths,” said Callie.  “We’ll have about thirty-five booths around the perimeter of the room and then in the center, we’ll have a circle of five booths back to back.  On the side of the room where the kitchen is, we’ll be renting out space to one or two folks who want to sell food to the attendees.”

She changed topics.  “Have you had an event that was watched over by the OLCC before?”  Callie had spoken on the phone to the representative from the Oregon Liquor Control Commission, and although they allowed for brew fests, there were quite a few rules to keep up with.

“Just weddings and the sort.  Nothing where the main focus was alcohol,” he said.  “Why?  Is there gonna be a problem?”

“No, the permit for the event has been approved,” she said.  “But I want to make sure we stay on their good side.  I’d appreciate it if you could keep an eye on the OLCC rep during the event and, if it looks like she’s unhappy about something, call me immediately so I can get ahead of the problem.”

“That doesn’t sound illegal,” said Jackie.  “What sort of audio/visual support do you need?” he asked.

“I think in the center of the room, along with the five booths, we’ll set up a stage.  I’d like some spotlights for that and, of course, a sound system,” she said.  “Do I need to pay for individual speakers?”

“No, the room is wired for sound, but there can be a bit of an echo,” he said.  “It’s usually fine as long as you don’t want to have some sort of concert.”

She shook her head.  “No, we’ll just be making announcements, no musical accompaniment.”

She pulled a list of show requirements out of her bag and they were so deep into discussing it that they didn’t hear the door open.

Walt came in and to her surprise, he was followed by Scott.  She stood still as the two men approached. “Callie, I’d like to introduce you to Detective Scott McMillan with the Skinner Police Department,” said Walt.   “He’s this year’s chairperson of the Skinner Cops for Charities.”

Callie groaned silently to herself. Of course he was. Outwardly, she stuck out her hand, “Detective McMillan, nice to see you again.”

“Are you two already acquainted?” asked Walt.

Well enough, she thought, remembering his kisses. “Yes, we met during Skinner Days this summer.”

Scott’s blue gray eyes were dark as he reached out his hand. It felt warm and dry inside hers. “It’s nice to see you again, Miss Stone.”

“Oh, please. I’m sure we know each other well enough that you can call me Callie.”

Scott smiled tightly, the smile not reaching his eyes. “Certainly, Callie.”

She turned to Walt. “What led you to select this charity?”

“Well, for starters, we’re not just supporting our local law enforcement, but a whole bunch of organizations. The funds raised by Cops for Charities go to the Boys and Girls Club, our children’s ward at the hospital and to support new technology at the library. I know you said choosing the right group could add to our marketing potential and having all these groups seemed to fit the bill.”

Callie nodded.  “Good choice.  I think this will work out fine,” she said, not looking at Scott.

The door to the pavilion opened again.  Callie discarded the notion that no one in Skinner knew how to dress for New York.  She thought the crisp winter white suit the woman was wearing was a rather daring choice for sometimes rainy, muddy Skinner, but there was no doubt the suit was exceptionally flattering to its wearer.

Her long dark brown hair was shot through with blonde highlights and seemed to glow from within.  Her tan skin stood out in contrast to the white suit.  Her make-up was light and only accented her striking dark black eyes and general good looks.

The woman glanced at the assembled men, but had recognized, Callie hoped by her own outfit, who was in charge in the room.  “Callie Stone?  I’m Elena Suarez with the OLCC,” she said putting out her hand. 

Or, Callie thought, she recognized her as the only woman in the room and therefore the one she had spoken with on the phone.