To Brew or Not to Brew (6 page)

As the daughter of a homicide detective, you'd think I'd
know how to go about it, but the truth was, I had no idea. Dad had never brought his work home with him and never talked about cases with my brothers or me. Only one of us followed him into law enforcement. Patrick, my second oldest brother, was a police officer in Richmond, Virginia. He and Dad talked shop when we all got together, but only until Mom and Pat's wife put a stop to it. I considered calling him, but I was pretty sure he'd squeal to Dad and I didn't want that. I guess I could start by asking some questions, like I had this afternoon. I hadn't learned much from Daisy, but maybe I'd have better luck with the others tomorrow.

With that much decided, there was one more thing I wanted to do before the day was over. I grabbed my purse and headed out again.

*   *   *

M
y brother, Sean, was the pastor of Most Holy Name of Jesus parish in the Troy Hill section of Pittsburgh. The church was one of the older in the city, built in the late 1860s. The parish included St. Anthony's Chapel, which had the largest collection of relics outside the Vatican. The neighborhood sat on a bluff overlooking the Allegheny River, so I crossed the Fortieth Street Bridge and took Route 28 to Rialto Street. Rialto was known as Pig Hill or Pig Alley by the old-timers, because it had been the route used to drive pigs to local slaughterhouses. Neither the pigs nor the slaughterhouses were around anymore, thank goodness. Rialto was also one of the steepest roads in the city, but it was a convenient shortcut to the top of the hill. It shaved at least ten minutes from the drive.

Troy Hill didn't look all that different from some of the
residential sections of Lawrenceville. There were a few businesses along the short main drag, but the area was mostly small single-family homes. Like many older, working-class sections of the city, the houses were built close together. Holy Name sat right smack in the middle of it all.

There were about a dozen cars in the asphalt parking lot, and I wondered if maybe I should have called Sean first. I knew there was a weekly novena in St. Anthony's Chapel, but I thought that was on Tuesday nights, and this was Wednesday. If it was tonight instead, I'd probably give Sean the shock of his life. I hadn't been to a novena since I was in high school. I went to the chapel first but found the door locked, so my brother was safe for now. When I reached the door of the main church, I heard singing. Inside, I discovered the choir practicing, and I went searching for Sean. I definitely should have called first—he could be anywhere.

He wasn't in the church, but before I could slip out, one of the choir members spotted me and asked if she could help me. She told me Sean was probably in the rectory, so that's where I headed. I probably should have gone there first. I was just about to ring the bell when the front door opened.

“Max!” Sean said. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything's fine. I just wanted to see my big brother.”

The expression of alarm on his face disappeared. “I was worried for a second. I don't think I've ever seen you here on a weeknight. As a matter of fact, I'm sure of it.” He put his arm around me. “I only have a few minutes. I'm heading down to Allegheny General. One of my parishioners is scheduled for heart surgery tomorrow and he asked for the Anointing of the Sick.”

“I only need a minute.” I walked with him to his car and
told him about Kurt's dad having him returned to Germany for burial. “Kurt wasn't Catholic, but I'd like to have some kind of memorial service for him. I thought maybe you could help.”

Sean nodded. “Definitely. Let me check my schedule and I'll get back to you either tonight or tomorrow sometime.”

“Thanks.”

He kissed me on the cheek and squeezed my shoulder. “And I
will
see you here on Sunday.”

I watched him drive away and returned to my Corolla. I'd just started the engine when my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number. I answered anyway, ready to yell at whatever telemarketer was calling me even though I was on the Do Not Call Registry. I was wrong about who the caller was. It was the alarm company. My motion detectors had been set off.

T
hankfully, traffic was light and I made it to the brew house in record time. A Pittsburgh Police Zone 2 squad car was double-parked on the street near the front entrance. I screeched into the lot beside the building and raced to meet the officer at the door.

“You the keyholder?” He looked me up and down like there was no way this place was mine.

I straightened in an attempt to make myself taller than my five-foot-two. “Yes. I'm the owner.”

“I checked the doors already,” he said. “They're all locked. No sign of forced entry. I'll check inside if you'd like.”

“I would. Thanks.” I unlocked the door and he went inside. I followed and punched in the alarm code.

“Wait there,” he said.

I did, taking deep breaths to slow down my heartbeat, which could have kept time with a Spanish flamenco. I couldn't help replaying Monday night in my mind. It seemed like hours before Officer What's His Name returned, but I knew it was only minutes.

“You're all clear, miss.”

“Are you sure?” I said. “The alarm company said the motion detectors were activated. Wouldn't that mean someone was in here? How did they get in? How did they get out?” I was rambling, but I couldn't stop.

“Probably just a glitch of some kind. It happens all the time.”

“I only had the alarm installed today, so I wouldn't know.”

He suggested I follow up with the alarm company in the morning, then asked for my information for his report. When I told him my name, he looked at me again. “That name sounds familiar.” He snapped his fingers. “Wasn't there an incident here the other night? I think I saw something on the call log.”

I was not only jumpy, I was a little cranky by this point. I pulled myself up to my full height again, which was almost a foot shorter than he was. “My assistant was killed. I'm the one who found his body. So it was a lot more than an incident, as you put it.”

The officer had the good grace to blush and apologize to me. He even offered to do an extra drive-by before his shift was over. After he left, I locked the door behind him, then went to take a look around myself. Maybe I'd see something he missed.

Thirty minutes later, I hadn't found anything out of order.
Either the officer was right and there was a problem with the alarm, or my intruder was a magician. I went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. I turned the faucet on for the water to get cold while I retrieved a glass, and when I turned back to the sink, water was pouring out from the trap and onto the floor. I quickly shut off the water and grabbed a mop and some paper towels. After I dried the floor and under the sink, I inspected the trap. It was a good thing Sean wasn't within earshot, because I spat out every swear word I knew.

A nut on the trap had been loosened and there was a gap between the pipes. There was no problem with my motion detectors. They worked just fine. Someone really had broken in. But how in the world had he gotten in? And out? I was a little spooked about the whole thing, but I managed to put the trap back together and tighten the nut. I ran some water and there was no leak for now, so I washed my hands, reset the alarm, locked up, and headed home.

*   *   *

T
he more I thought about the break-in, the madder I got. Unable to sit still, I paced the floor in my living room. I really believed that, after Kurt's death, the vandalism would stop. Apparently, it wasn't enough that he'd killed Kurt. I didn't understand this person's motivation. If he was trying to keep me from opening, there were other—and probably better—ways to go about it. There were permits and inspections out the wazoo. Surely, a complaint or two—even a false complaint—to the right person would go further than messing with the plumbing.

And it totally baffled me how the person had gotten into the pub with no telltale signs. He hadn't set off any door or
window alarms, only the motion detector. So how had he done it? I suddenly had an idea. I picked up the phone and called my dad's cell.

“Hey, sweetie,” he said. “How are you?”

“I'm okay. I have a question. Do you happen to have Kurt's keys for the brewpub?”

“I can double-check, but I didn't see them in his personal effects. Why?”

I told him what happened. “I thought maybe someone stole his keys. That would explain how they got in.”

“I don't like this at all. You need to change your locks, just in case. I'll call a locksmith I know and have him get in touch with you,” he said. “I'm also going to see if a unit can do some extra drive-bys. And you shouldn't be there alone at night.”

“Do you believe me now that Kurt's death wasn't an accident?”

He paused before answering. “I won't go that far, but I do agree something is going on.”

He hadn't exactly said he'd keep Kurt's case open, but this was better than nothing. We talked a few more minutes, and I promised him I'd be careful. Five minutes later, the locksmith called and we agreed to meet first thing in the morning. Hopefully, between new locks and the alarm system, there would be no more vandalism. It didn't, however, get me any closer to figuring out who had killed Kurt.

*   *   *

T
he locksmith came as promised, and by nine a.m. I had brand-new locks and two sets of keys. I considered giving Candy a third set, since she was right next door, but
changed my mind. Until Kurt's murderer was behind bars, Jake and I would be the sole key holders. Only Kurt and I had access before, and even that didn't turn out well. There was no sense complicating things any further by giving out extras.

Jake arrived as the locksmith was leaving. Today he was dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair still looked damp from the shower. My stomach did a little flip. “Something going on I should know about?” he said.

“Sort of.” He worked here now, so it was time to tell him what was going on.

As he listened, his expression grew dark. When I finished, he said, “And you didn't think to tell me any of this before.”

“Well, I—”

He swore. “Let me get this straight. Someone's been breaking in, he may have killed your previous chef, and he broke in again last night.”

I felt my face flushing. “That pretty much sums it up.”

Jake ran a hand through his hair. “Great. Just great.”

“I understand perfectly if you want to quit. Maybe I should have told you—”

“Maybe? Maybe you should have told me?”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “In retrospect, I should have said something, but I honestly didn't think the vandalism would continue. I didn't want to scare you off. And my dad thinks Kurt's death was an accident.”

“But you don't.”

“I'm sure it wasn't. There are too many things that don't fit for his death to be an accident.” When Jake didn't say anything, I went over to the bar and picked up my purse.
“I'll pay you for yesterday of course, and today, for coming in.”

Jake sighed. “Put that thing away.”

“No, really. I want to pay you.”

He walked over, took my purse from me and placed it back on the bar. “I didn't say I was going to quit.”

He was close enough that I could smell the soap he'd used. I couldn't place the brand, but I liked it. I also liked the fact that he didn't feel the need to douse himself in cologne or one of those horrid body sprays. “You're not?” It came out like a squeak. So much for sounding like a boss. I was Max the teenager again.

“I'm not.” He pulled out two bar stools and we sat. “It just would have been nice to know everything that's been going on. I had no idea. Mike never mentioned anything, either.”

“Mike doesn't know, except for maybe the water line he had to fix. He saw that it had been cut, but I didn't explain anything about it. My dad knows, but that's it. And I'd kind of like to keep it that way. I don't want my mom to worry, and you know how my brothers get.”

“They just want to take care of their baby sister.”

“Yeah, well, baby sister is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

“I'll try to remember that.”

“You'd better.”

Jake grinned. “Yes, boss lady.” A serious look returned to his face. “But you have to promise me one thing.”

“What's that?”

“If Kurt really was murdered, you could be in danger,
too. Any time you're planning to be here late, tell me. I don't want anything to happen to you.”

The way he was looking at me made my stomach flip again. “I will.”

“Good.” He hopped off the stool and reached over and ruffled my hair. “Besides, I have no idea how to make beer. This place would flop without you running it.”

So much for any hope of a future romance between us. I was back to being his best friend's little sister. In his eyes, I guess I always would be.

*   *   *

J
ake was on the ball. By ten o'clock, he had talked to the kitchen staff Kurt had hired and scheduled two more interviews for that afternoon. He asked me to sit in on the interviews—he wanted me to have final approval. Although technically they'd be my employees, not his, he was the one who had to work with them day in and day out and I told him that. In the end, I agreed to sit in. It was a change from Kurt's way of working. He had preferred to do everything himself. Not a bad change, but it was one more thing for me to get used to.

Kurt had been very organized and Jake told me the files I'd given him the day before contained everything he needed. There were several recipes for each item on our menu, as well as names and numbers of all the restaurant suppliers. While Jake chose a few recipes to try out and made some calls to the various vendors, I decided it would be the perfect time to visit a few of my neighbors. I'd just gotten off the phone with Sean and we'd set up Kurt's
memorial service for Monday evening, so it would give me an opportunity to extend an invitation. And to question them about anything suspicious they may have noticed near the brewery.

Jump, Jive & Java, the coffee hotspot on the opposite side of the street and next door to one of Adam Greeley's boutiques, seemed like a logical place to start. It had nothing to do with the fact that I had a sudden craving for their mocha java topped with whipped cream and chocolate jimmies. Or maybe it did. The fragrance of freshly ground coffee beans and the sound of Benny Goodman playing the clarinet welcomed me as I stepped inside. The place wasn't quite as busy as it was on most mornings, but there was still a good crowd—a mix of senior citizens, college students, young mothers with children, and a writer or two.

Barista and owner, Kristie Brinkley, looked up from her spot behind the counter. She always introduced herself as “Kristie with a K,” although I'm sure no one would mistake her for the former supermodel. Not that she wasn't gorgeous—she was. She was African American and bore a striking resemblance to Halle Berry—if Ms. Berry wore dreadlocks, that is. Burgundy ones at that.

“Well, if it isn't my favorite brewmaster,” Kristie said with a grin as I reached the counter.

“And exactly how many other brewmasters do you know?”

She pretended to think about it. “Zero. You're the one and only.”

I laughed. “I thought so.”

She reached over and squeezed my hand. “How are you? You doing okay?”

“I'm all right.”

“I knew you would be. It's just such a shock.” She reached for a cup. “Do you want the usual?”

“Yep.”

While she fixed my mocha, I told her about the memorial service and she said she should be able to make it. No one else was in line after me, so she poured herself a cup of plain old coffee and joined me at the table next to a poster of
Casablanca
.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kristie had a master's degree in psychology, and although she'd chosen not to pursue her doctorate and hang out her shingle, she often threw in a bit of counseling along with a cup of java. “It's healthy to get your feelings out.”

“My feelings are out, believe me,” I said.

“That's good. Can I help you with anything?”

I spooned the last of the whipped cream from the top of my mocha, licked the spoon, and set it down on the table. “Maybe.” I told her about the vandalism, including the incident last night, and asked if she'd noticed anything out of the ordinary.

Kristie thought for a moment. “I can't say that I have, but I'm not usually here at night unless there's some neighborhood thing going on.”

The fact that no one was open all night was throwing a wrench into my strategy of asking my neighbors if they'd seen anything. They couldn't very well see anything if they weren't there. I thought I might have to rethink my strategy.

“I can ask around. Some of my early morning customers are out and about all night. Maybe one of them saw something.”