To Brew or Not to Brew (10 page)

“W
hen can you start?” I asked Nicole Clark. She was my second interview of the day and I liked everything about her. The first interview had not gone well. The woman had reeked of cigarette smoke, and by the yellow stains on her fingers I could tell she was a chain-smoker. That would have meant frequent smoke breaks and neglected patrons. She hadn't even bothered to shower. Her hair was dirty and her jeans and T-shirt had seen better days. When she told me she would only work ten hours a week and insisted on full benefits, I thanked her and told her I'd be in touch.

Nicole was the complete opposite. Her shoulder-length light brown hair was clean and she was appropriately dressed in neat khakis and a pressed blouse. She was a junior at the University of Pittsburgh and happened to be a
chemistry major. She not only had waitress experience, she was interested in brewing. The restaurant where she currently worked had started limiting her hours and she'd decided it was time to move on. I told her she could work as much as she needed to as long as it didn't interfere with her studies. She was ecstatic.

“I can start now if you'd like,” Nicole said in answer to my question. “I was so hoping I'd get this job that I already gave my notice. My boss told me to not bother coming back.”

“Are you serious? That's no way to run a restaurant.”

“I couldn't believe it either at first. But now I'm glad he did it.”

We decided she'd come in on Monday. The others I'd hired weren't starting for another week, but the fact that she was without a paycheck changed my mind. She wouldn't need much in the way of training other than to learn the menu and the beers we'd be serving, but there was plenty she could help me with. With the extra help, it was possible I could start growler sales before the pub opened. Kurt and I had planned on doing just that, but with his death, I'd put the idea on hold. We had a good supply of the half-gallon glass jugs known as growlers and enough beer brewed. The licensing wasn't an issue, either—I'd received that a month ago. Growler sales would also get the buzz going for the pub.

After Nicole left, I went to my office and played with Hops, who was wide-awake and sitting on top of the paperwork on my desk. Having her leg in a cast didn't seem to faze her one bit. When she tired of trying to bite my hand and settled down again, I made some more phone calls and set up a few more interviews. I then talked to several suppliers and verified deliveries for the following week. It
seemed like everything was coming together for the opening. It was hard to believe it was only three weeks away. I called it a day after that, gathered up Hops and her belongings, and headed home.

*   *   *

I
should have been exhausted, since I hadn't slept well the previous night. Instead, I found myself pacing the living room in my apartment, the encounter with Dominic Costello on my mind. I'd been able to avoid thinking too much about it because I was busy all afternoon. And this evening I'd been on the phone, first with Mom, who wanted to make sure I was coming to dinner tomorrow, then with Candy, who was miffed I hadn't called and filled her in on what she referred to as the Big Date. I assured Mom I'd be there and offered to make dessert. Although I tried to convince Candy otherwise, she still insisted Jake was interested in me. I couldn't help but wonder if she'd have been so sure if Jake hadn't been a former sports figure.

But now there was nothing pressing to keep me occupied, so my thoughts were filled with what had happened at the Galaxy. Wearing a path on my floor wasn't going to accomplish anything. I found a notepad and a pen and plopped down on the sofa. I wrote down everything I remembered about both conversations with Dominic—if I could even call them that. The first instance in Candy's bakery hadn't scared me, but the one today certainly had. He'd not only threatened me verbally, he had grabbed my arm.

But what to do about it?

I could report the incident to the police, but there wasn't much they could do about it. They would advise me to stay
away from Dominic and warn him not to make threats. There was also the chance it would get back to my dad. Dad was pretty levelheaded except where his kids were concerned. I didn't want him confronting Dominic. I wanted to find proof that the bar owner was responsible for Kurt's death and the vandalism first.

The problem was, talking to Dominic myself again wasn't a good idea. I supposed I could take someone with me, but I wasn't willing to put anyone else in that situation. I thought about it awhile. The best approach might be to find out as much as I could about him, and why he was so sure I would be the cause of his business failing. I jotted down the names of neighboring business owners I could speak to.

I yawned as I stood and stretched. It was good to have a plan. Finally sleepy, I headed to bed.

*   *   *

M
y parents lived in an eighty-year-old, four bedroom, yellow-brick house on a double lot in the Highland Park section of Pittsburgh, not too far from the zoo and the reservoir. As I parked on the street, I could already hear the sounds of the pickup touch football game that broke out in the backyard just about every Sunday. It didn't matter what time of the year it was—rain, snow, cold, or hot didn't deter anyone. The number of participants varied depending on who was around. There was always a neighbor or two in addition to Dad and my brothers, and sometimes their friends. Mom preferred the sidelines, but I'd sure gotten my share of scraped knees and elbows growing up. During my years in Germany, I managed to enlist some friends to
play. My apartment had been near a local park, and we'd meet up there on Sunday afternoons. The Europeans in the group never quite got the hang of playing American football. It had been fun, but it wasn't the same.

I'd just gotten out of the car when the football came sailing over the top of the two-story house. I ran across the sidewalk and into the front yard and made the catch. A few seconds later, Mike trotted around the side of the house.

“It's about time you got here,” he said. “We need another running back.”

I tossed the ball back to him. “That was quite a throw. Any longer and it'd be down in the reservoir.” I walked back over to the car and retrieved the brownies I'd made after Mass that morning and handed a large box containing four growlers of stout to Mike. I wasn't sure how many people would be here, so I hoped four half-gallon jugs would be enough.

“I'd say I threw it, but I'd be lying. Jake hurled that one.”

“Jake's here?” I glanced down at my attire. Denim cutoffs and my old Lynn Swann jersey. Great way to make an impression. Then again, it didn't really matter. Jake had seen me dressed like this every Sunday growing up. Although, if I'd known he was going to be here, I probably would have worn something else.

“Of course he is,” Mike said as we headed to the house. “Thanks for hiring him, by the way. He probably didn't tell you, but no one else would even give him a shot. He must have applied at twenty places. He has the credentials, but no one took him seriously because he played hockey.”

“He didn't tell me any of that. Now I'm doubly glad I
hired him.” I held the front door for Mike, since he was carrying the beer, and we went inside. “He's a really good cook. It's a shame no one would give him a chance.”

“Well, you did.” We stopped in the center hallway. “So, are you holding up all right?” he asked. “Sean said there's a service tomorrow night?”

“I'm doing okay.” And I was. Every day got a little better. It helped that I was so busy. “Kurt wasn't Catholic, but I wanted to do something for him, since there wouldn't be a funeral here.”

“I'll try to make it,” Mike said. “By the way, how's that water line holding up?”

I told him it was fine, and we parted ways. Mike cut through the dining room on the right and out the French doors to the patio, where I was sure a cooler would be ready for the beer. Opposite the dining room that Mike passed through was the living room, and just beyond that was a stairway to the second floor. The hallway continued past the staircase to the kitchen, at the back of the house, which was where I headed.

My parents had recently remodeled their kitchen. They'd talked about it for ten years before Mom had finally decided to part with the birch cabinets that had survived six children. The kitchen now boasted dark cherry cabinets and a laminate countertop that looked like granite. Part of the money she'd saved by not installing granite had been put toward the farmhouse sink she'd always wanted. It was my favorite item in the kitchen as well.

Mom was at the sink rinsing some dishes and watching the football game through the picture window. She jumped when I came up behind her and kissed her on the cheek.

“You really shouldn't sneak up on me like that,” she said with a smile. She dried her hands and gave me a hug.

“How else am I going to keep you on your toes?” I put the pan of brownies on the counter. “What can I help with?”

“Not a thing. Dad's going to put some hamburgers on the grill. I already have a tossed salad and potato salad made.” She folded the towel she'd been holding and placed it on the counter. “I am so glad you came today. How are you?”

I thought I was done with tears, but there was something about Mom asking me how I was that made me swallow hard before answering. “I'm fine.”

“Are you sure about that?”

I nodded. “I won't say it's been easy, but it's getting better.”

“How is it working out with Jake?”

The kitchen door opened and Jake burst in. He wore an ancient Pirates T-shirt and even rattier shorts. It was nice to see him dressed worse than I was. Somehow he managed to make them look good.

“Uh-oh. I think I just heard my name. That can't be good.”

Mom and I laughed. “I was just about to tell Mom what a horrible employee you are,” I said.

“And you're a slave driver,” Jake said.

“Only because you're a slacker.”

Mom shook her head. “I see some things never change. Can I get you something, Jake?”

“No thanks,” he said. “I was really coming in to drag Max outside. Mike's team could use some help.”

“So your team's winning?” I said.

Jake grinned. “We're losing. I thought a handicap—”

“Are you calling me a handicap?”

“If the shoe fits . . .” He shrugged.

I poked him on the chest. “Prepare to lose, Lambert. Big-time.”

*   *   *

A
fter the game—which Mike's team won—we all sat on the patio with glasses of the stout I'd brought. A few of the neighbors who'd played ball with us hung around for a while, but at the moment it was just me, Mom, Dad, Jake, Sean, and Mike and his wife, Kate. Kate wasn't a tomboy like me and hadn't participated in the game, but she'd done her part cheering from the sidelines while keeping her two girls from trying to get in on the action. Right now, my nieces—Maire, who was four, and Fiona, who was two—were rolling the football around on the lawn. They looked like miniature Kates with their white-blond hair and blue eyes. We chatted about lots of things, but we only touched on Kurt's death briefly when Sean passed on the details of the memorial service the following evening. Maire and Fiona insisted I bring Hops to visit them, and I promised to do that as soon as her leg was healed. It was a peaceful afternoon and just what I needed. Surrounded by the cocoon of my family, I could almost forget the events of the past week.

At one point, I looked over at Jake, and for a second I thought I caught him watching me, but he turned his head so fast I wasn't sure. Wishful thinking on my part. I sighed inwardly and told myself to knock it off. Even when he got over whatever had happened with his fiancée, I was still Mike's kid sister. Eventually, I got up to use the powder
room. When I returned, Dad was putting the burgers on the grill and Mom and Kate were in the kitchen. Sean, Mike, and Jake were engrossed in some sports talk, so I ambled over to the grill. “Need some help, Dad?”

“Not really, but you can keep me company.” He put the last patty on the grate, closed the lid, and turned the heat down. “Any more vandalism at the brewery?”

There hadn't been, so I wasn't lying when I told him no. “Has the medical examiner said any more about Kurt?”

Dad shook his head. “He won't, sweetie.”

I knew that would be his answer. It didn't mean I had to like it. “I know you're sure Kurt's death was an accident, but I'm still convinced it wasn't. I'm not going to let it go. I can't.”

Dad put his arm around me and pulled me close. “I wouldn't expect any less of my little girl.”

*   *   *

J
ake and I were the last ones to leave that evening. Mike, Kate, and the girls left shortly after dinner and Sean took off right after that. I helped Mom in the kitchen while Jake and Dad redd up the patio and yard. When everything was spic-and-span, Jake helped me carry the empty growlers and the leftovers Mom insisted we take out to my car.