To Brew or Not to Brew Read online

  The phone rang just then, and I picked it up.

  “Wonder of wonders, my baby sister is at home.” It was my oldest brother, Sean. Father Sean to his parishioners. Some people thought he had gone into the priesthood because he was the oldest Irish Catholic son, but it was truly a calling for him. He’d broken more than a few hearts when he decided on the seminary. We’d both inherited Mom’s black hair and blue eyes, and they gave him a debonair movie-star look, especially when he wore the collar. If Hollywood ever remade The Bells of St. Mary’s, he’d be a shoo-in to play Father O’Malley. Twelve years my senior, he was my favorite brother, although I’d never tell the others that. A little sister had been a novelty to him, and he became my protector from the day Mom and Dad brought me home from the hospital.

  “You can always call my cell phone if I’m not at home, you know.”

  “I missed you at Mass yesterday,” he said.

  He obviously couldn’t see me, but I felt my face flush anyway. I would have liked to tell him I went to another parish, but I couldn’t very well lie to a priest, even if he was my brother. “Sorry about that. I got tied up at the brewery.”

  “You’re working too hard. We missed you at dinner, too.”

  Sunday dinner was a long-standing family tradition. Most of the time I loved it. Since three of my five brothers were scattered across the country, Mom liked to keep the rest of us close. I often thought it was because Dad was a police officer. Even though he was a homicide detective now and not on the front lines as much as when he’d been in uniform, she still worried. I’d already talked to Mom that morning about missing dinner and she understood. At least, she’d told me she did.

  “With the opening so close, I had a lot to do,” I said.

  “Anything I can do to help? Believe it or not, I haven’t forgotten how to wield a hammer or a screwdriver.”

  “Don’t let your parishioners know you can do that. You don’t want the contributions to drop because they think you don’t need to pay a handyman.”

  Sean laughed.

  “Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but we’ll be fine if we stay on schedule. I’ll be sure to make it to dinner next week.”

  “And Mass, too?”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Maxie . . .”

  Sean was the only one who dared call me that. When I was five, I busted the next-door neighbor kid in the chops for doing it. “Fine. I’ll be there,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  I puttered around for a while and actually cleaned out a few boxes of kitchen items. It was nice to see the cabinets fill up. There was a small collection of German beer steins in one of the boxes, and I washed and arranged them on one of the built-in bookshelves in the living room. It was a nice touch, even though the rest of the shelves were almost empty. I vowed to make a better effort to get things unpacked. It was never going to look like home until I did.

  By ten o’clock, I was tired and decided to call it a night. The phone rang as I finished brushing my teeth. I almost didn’t answer it, and when I did, I was surprised to hear Kurt’s voice.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “I was right.”

  “About what? Your kirschtorte?”

  “No. The sabotage.”

  Not this again. “There is no—”

  “Yes, there is. I know what’s going on, and I know exactly who is doing it.”

  I would have argued more, but something in his voice stopped me. “What happened?”

  “I have proof. I heard a noise and found . . . You need to come down here. It’d be better if I showed it to you. Then we can turn it over to the police and get to the bottom of this whole thing.”

  I still wasn’t convinced anything was going on, but Kurt wouldn’t have called this late if he didn’t think it was urgent. So much for an early night. “I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  “Kurt?” I called as I dropped my purse on the bar. The lights were all on, but he wasn’t in the main room of the pub. Upset as he was, I thought he would have met me at the door. Maybe he was in the kitchen. I crossed the plank floor to the other side of the room and pushed open the swinging door. The scent of chocolate and cherries made my mouth water. His latest torte creation sat half-decorated on the stainless steel counter. A bowl of thickened tart cherries was beside it, along with a plastic piping bag that looked full of whipped cream. It was odd he’d walk away without putting it back into the refrigerator. I put the cherries and whipped cream in the fridge, then went looking for Kurt.

  He wasn’t in my office. I opened the door that led to the basement, but the lights were out. I stopped outside the men’s restroom and knocked on the door. Twice. I didn’t want to just barge in. Kurt was a good friend, but not that good. When he didn’t answer, I peeked in. It was empty. I stood in the hallway and tapped my foot. I went back down the hallway to the pub. I could see through the window that the brewery was dark. Where could he be? Surely he wouldn’t have taken off and left the place unlocked—especially after asking me to come down here. Could he have stepped out for a quick snack? I went back to the bar and sat down to wait.

  Fifteen minutes later, Kurt hadn’t returned. The longer I waited, the madder I got. Why had he bothered calling me if he was going to leave? Apparently, whatever he had to tell me wasn’t all that important after all. I snatched my cell phone from my purse and tapped his number on the speed dial with a lot more force than I needed. He’d better have a good explanation. Seconds later, the sound of his phone ringing made me jump. The sound was muffled, so I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. I got up, and as I crossed the room the sound got louder. The ringing seemed to be coming from the brewing area. It didn’t make sense that Kurt would leave his phone in the darkened brewery. I pushed the swinging door halfway open and paused. The ringing stopped, and Kurt’s voice mail picked up. There was another sound, however—the mash tun was operating. A prickly sensation went down my spine. Why was that tank running? We had cleaned out the spent mash earlier when I’d brewed a batch of hefeweizen. There was no reason for it to be turned on, especially at this time of night.

  “Kurt?” I fumbled for the light switch. My fingers found it and the overhead lights blazed on. I blinked a couple times at the sudden brightness and spotted Kurt on the platform bent over the large opening at the top of the mash tun. Something wasn’t right about that. I was about to call his name again when it registered. His feet weren’t touching the floor. Heart in my throat, I raced up the metal stairs, the clangs echoing through the room with each step. I reached for the switch beside the tank. My hands shook horribly. I missed the switch. I tried again and turned it off.

  It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d missed it again. There was a good reason why Kurt hadn’t been waiting for me or responded when I called him.

  He was dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kurt hung halfway into the tank opening. The neck piece of his kitchen apron was twisted tightly around his throat, and the rest of it was caught in the rake in the bottom of the tank. I gagged as I spun around and stumbled down the steps, my whole body shaking. I couldn’t catch my breath. Somehow I managed to make it into the pub and pull a chair down from one of the tables. I collapsed onto it. The room spun before my eyes. I bent down until my head was between my knees. When the feeling passed and I could breathe again, I called 911.

  I choked back a sob as I waited by the door for the police. If I cried now, I was afraid I’d never stop. Tears wouldn’t do me any good. They wouldn’t bring Kurt back. I stared out the window and concentrated on the Butler Street traffic. Even at this late hour, the street and sidewalks were busy. People going about their business, not knowing a good man was dead. I hadn’t known, either. Why hadn’t I looked harder for him when I arrived? All the time I’d spent waiting and complaining to myself that Kurt wasn’t here
, he’d been stuck in—oh God—what if Kurt was still alive when I got here? What if he had been caught in the rake and couldn’t call out for help? His death could be my fault. I could have saved him if only I’d thought to check the brewery. The tears I’d been holding back burst like a dam. I was still sobbing when the police arrived.

  * * *

  “Here, drink this.”

  I took the cup of tea offered to me. “Thanks, Dad.” I was sitting at one of the square wooden tables in the pub waiting for the investigators to finish. My father was the detective in charge. Dad could have retired when he’d turned fifty-five, but I didn’t think he ever would. He loved his job and he was good at it. I’d lost count of how many commendations he’d received over the years. Sean O’Hara Sr. looked like an older version of my brother, Michael. They both had red hair—although Dad’s was white now—and green eyes. I took a sip and made a face. “What did you put in here?”

  He pulled out a chair and sat down beside me. “I thought you could use a little something.”

  A “little something” was most likely a splash of Jameson. I didn’t need to ask where he’d gotten it. When I bought the place, he’d given me a bottle as a gift. It had sat unopened on a shelf in the office ever since. I often wondered if he gave it to me because he was disappointed that I’d turned to brewing—German-style no less—instead of distilling. When I went to Ireland after grad school with my masters in chemistry, my plan was to learn all there was to know about Irish whiskey. After a side trip to Germany, I discovered great beer and a new career. I took a large swallow of tea.

  “Feeling any better?” Dad asked.

  Ever since the tears stopped flowing, I’d been unable to stop shivering. I was finally warming up, thanks to the doctored tea. “Yes, I am.”

  “Good enough to answer a few questions?”

  I nodded. “Especially if it helps you catch whoever did this to him.”

  “Did what to him?”

  “Killed him,” I said. I’d done a lot of thinking while Dad and the others were back in the brewery and I’d been relegated to the pub. I thought about all the little things that had happened over the last few weeks and how Kurt had been convinced we were being sabotaged. I hadn’t believed him. If I had, and if I’d reported the incidents earlier, Kurt would be alive. It was no coincidence that he figured out who it was, and an hour later he was dead.

  Dad took my hand. “Honey, no one killed Kurt. This was a tragic accident. Nothing else.”

  I pushed my mug aside with my other hand. “It was no accident.” I told him about the vandalism and today’s cracked water line. “Kurt called me tonight and said he knew who was behind everything going on—what he called sabotage.” My voice caught, but I continued anyway. “I didn’t believe him. I didn’t believe someone would actually come in here and do those things to try and keep us from opening. I should have believed him.”

  “Even if someone was trying to keep you from opening, that doesn’t mean there was any foul play in Kurt’s death.”

  “But—”

  Dad put up a hand. “Wait a minute. You know why homicide gets called out when something like this happens.”

  “Of course I do.” It was to make sure the victim hadn’t been murdered.

  “Then trust me to do my job.”

  “I do, Dad, but I’m sure it wasn’t an accident. Kurt said he had proof. That’s why he called me to come down here. He had something to show me.”

  “Something in that tank? What did you call it?”

  “The mash tun. That’s where we mix the grain with water. Don’t you see? The tun was clean. There was absolutely no reason for it to be turned on.”

  He was quiet like he was thinking about that. “What did Kurt want to show you?”

  “That’s just it. I have no idea. He wouldn’t tell me over the phone—he said it would be better to show me.” I felt the tears coming again, and I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. “It’s all my fault. If only I’d believed Kurt sooner, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Honey, it’s not your fault. Don’t ever think that.” He put an arm around me. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll keep this open and won’t call it an accident just yet. But if the autopsy report doesn’t show anything suspicious, I’ll have to go by the medical examiner’s findings.”

  * * *

  It was four in the morning by the time I got back home. I knew I should try to get some sleep, but there was no way it was going to happen. I made a pot of coffee instead.

  Poor Kurt. What was I going to tell his father and his fiancée? Mr. Schmidt hadn’t been crazy about the idea of him coming over here. He’d wanted Kurt to follow in his footsteps and take over the family brewery, not come to America and work with me. His fiancée hadn’t minded, though. She’d been excited about the prospect. I told Dad I should be the one to call and tell them about Kurt, so he retrieved their phone numbers for me from Kurt’s cell. I smoothed the scrap of paper out on the table in front of me and stared at it, dreading making the calls. It was late morning in their time zone, so I’d probably reach at least one of them. I took a gulp of coffee and picked up the phone.

  An hour later I had no tears left. Both of them had answered their respective calls, and they’d gone exactly how I expected they would. Mr. Schmidt was angry and used every German cuss word I knew and some I didn’t. I kept silent and let him yell, partly because he was right. If Kurt hadn’t moved here to help me, he’d still be alive. He’d cooled off a bit by the time I hung up. I was grateful he hadn’t broken down. I couldn’t have taken that. Not with him.

  The call to Maura had been much worse. She was devastated. She’d just made airline reservations to visit Kurt and be here for our launch. All I could think about was how unfair it was—it was unimaginable that all the plans they’d made to be together for their whole lives could be snuffed out in an instant.

  And that fact made me angry. The more I thought about it, the madder I got. By the time I’d showered and dressed, I was determined to find out who was responsible for the incidents at the brewery. Even more so, I wanted to find Kurt’s killer. Despite what my father said, I knew his death wasn’t an accident. Kurt had been Mr. Cautious—sometimes to the point of driving me crazy. He’d double- and triple-check everything. He’d never in a million years do anything careless around the equipment.

  By the time I returned to the brew house, I felt energized with a renewed purpose. Unfortunately, that energy only lasted until I saw the aftermath of the investigation in the brewery area. Dad had released the scene to me when we left to go home, but I didn’t have the heart to go back there then. Now I wished I had. I would have locked the investigators in and insisted they clean up after themselves. My formerly immaculate sealed concrete floor was covered with dusty footprints, and there were smudges all over the stainless steel tanks. Not just on the mash tun, mind you. Every tank was dirty. Kurt would have had a conniption. Oh, Kurt, I miss you already.

  Before I started bawling again, I pulled out the hose and a bucket. I was halfway through my cleaning when Mike showed up to fix the water line to the new tank. I’d forgotten he was even coming until I spotted him heading my way. I dried my hands on my jeans, and when he reached me he folded me into a hug. His white T-shirt was soft and the scent of Ivory soap reminded me of racing him to the bathroom sink to wash up before dinner. Although he was married with two toddler girls, he still looked like that kid. Maybe it was the freckles and tousled red hair. Even the laugh lines from his near-perpetual grin didn’t seem to age him. He was thirty-two going on fifteen. I gave him a squeeze and stepped back.

  “How you holding up, baby sister?” he said. “Dad filled me in.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “Mom said she’ll stop by later.”

  “I meant to call her this morning, but after I called Kurt’s fiancée and his dad, I was all talked o
ut.”

  Mike nodded. “I can imagine. You sure you’re okay? You know, no one would care if you actually took some time off. You can delay the opening.”

  There was no way I was going to do that. Kurt and I had worked too hard to stay on schedule. If he had been in my place, he’d keep going. I wouldn’t dishonor my friend by wimping out just because I didn’t feel up to working.

  Mike must have seen my expression. “Yeah, I guess you don’t want to do that.” He glanced around. “So, where’s the cracked water line?”

  I showed it to him without mentioning Kurt’s suspicion. It wasn’t that I doubted him at this point, but I wanted verification from a professional, even if that said professional was my brother.

  “What the heck did you do? How did you manage to cut it like this?”

  “We didn’t.”

  “Someone sure did.”

  I wanted to tell him about Kurt’s—and now my—suspicions, but I held back. He’d not only go into big-brother mode, he’d get all my brothers to do the same. Even worse, he’d tell Mom. They’d find out sooner or later, but at the moment later sounded pretty good. “It doesn’t matter how it cracked. I just need you to fix it.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me something?” When I didn’t answer, he shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

  I patted him on the shoulder. “And don’t you forget it.”

  * * *

  “Yoo-hoo! Max?”

  I smelled Candy Sczypinski—or rather her treat of the day—before I saw her. I was in the office seated at the old oak teacher’s desk I’d picked up cheap at a local place that sold recycled building materials and household items. While Mike repaired the water line, I’d started making calls to reschedule the plumbing inspection and the new hires that Kurt had been training. Before Mike left, I told him I was concerned about training the kitchen staff, as that had been Kurt’s domain, and I didn’t know how I’d ever find another assistant. He said he had a great idea and not to worry. Knowing some of the ideas he’d come up with in the past, I was reasonably sure I had cause to worry.