Poisoned Pairings Read online

  Poisoned Pairings

  by

  Lesley A. Diehl

  Mainly Murder Press, LLC

  PO Box 290586

  Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

  www.mainlymurderpress.com

  Mainly Murder Press

  Copy Editor: Paula Knudson

  Executive Editor: Judith K. Ivie

  Cover Designer: Karen A. Phillips

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Copyright © 2012 by Lesley A. Diehl

  Trade Paperback ISBN 978-0-9836823-5-6

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9846666-2-1

  Published 2012 in the United States of America

  Mainly Murder Press

  PO Box 290586

  Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

  www.MainlyMurderPress.com

  To my dad

  I remember coming downstairs late at night

  to find you reading. Now I do the same, but

  I don’t have to get up to milk the cows at 5:00 a.m.

  ~

  Acknowledgments

  As always, my understanding of handcrafted beer is dependent upon my microbrewing sources, this time the generous input of Ed Canty, founder of the Florida Brewers Guild. He reviewed chapters as I wrote and read the entire manuscript before I submitted it. I count him as both my brewing guru and my friend.

  When I needed a name for a new brew, I ran a contest on my blog. My thanks to John Sullivan, who provided the name “Clear Creek” for Hera’s newest ale.

  Also by Lesley A. Diehl

  in the Hera Knightsbridge series:

  A Deadly Draught

  Author’s Note on Hydraulic Fracturing

  The controversy over fracking continues in New York State. The long-awaited Department of Environment Conservation’s draft Supplemental Impact Statement on hydraulic fracturing allows such drilling in the state except in the New York City watershed area and proposes distances of 2,000 feet from municipal water sources. The statement is up for review and input, although no meetings for public discussion were scheduled in the upstate New York, Marcellus Shale Field area.

  One

  Rafe Oxley, my closest brewing friend, and I sat next to each other in a darkened room in the county office building. My fellow microbrewers in the Butternut Valley and other interested members of the county gathered to watch a video portraying gas exploration using hydraulic fracturing or fracking, a horizontal drilling technique injecting water, sand and chemicals under pressure to shatter underground shale and release the gas trapped inside.

  Some individuals in our valley desperate for the income had already signed gas leases. Others worried the drilling would change the valley forever, destroying roads, polluting the air, poisoning our water.

  The image on the screen was that of a drilling rig juxtaposed against the verdant background of virgin forest. To its left, a Caterpillar tore a trench through a nearby meadow leaving a gash which ran straight through grass and wildflowers into the scrubby pines behind the site. The camera panned to a fracking pond where the water and chemicals used to force the gas to the surface collected in a landscaping tarp to prevent leakage back into the ground.

  The scene shifted to water tumbling over rocks in a small stream. A voice from off-camera said, “Let’s see if we can light this.”

  A hand flicked a butane lighter and touched the flame to the water. With a whoosh, the stream caught fire. The unexpected explosion startled me. I jumped and reached for Rafe’s hand.

  “Mrs. Attenby down the road had her well explode on Christmas Eve last year,” said the man who had lit the water.

  “The state has stopped the drilling, right?” asked the reporter covering the story.

  “Right, but now the water around here is undrinkable. The companies are trucking in safe drinking water to the people who signed drilling leases. ‘Course, since there’s no more gas being taken, the people don’t get their monthly checks.”

  Rafe and I glanced at one another, knowing what the other was thinking. Water was the lifeblood of micro brewing. We bought our malt, yeast and hops, shipped them in from other places. Some hops came from as far away as New Zealand. But the main ingredient in our beer, water, came from our wells.

  Rafe leaned toward me and whispered what all of us must have been thinking.

  “Our wells are connected. We saw that this summer. When one dried up, so did the others. If one well is contaminated, all of them will be. We have to stop this madness.”

  Rafe and I turned to look at Teddy Buser, the largest brewer in the valley. He was scowling and shaking his head, the only one of the Butternut brewers who thought making money from natural gas seemed like a good thing. Teddy could afford to buy water, but what of the rest of us? Rafe and I scowled back at him.

  My cell phone vibrated on my belt. I looked at the identity of the incoming caller.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to Rafe. “I’ve got to take this call.”

  I hurried outside and flipped open the cell.

  “Hera?”

  “Dr. Hurley. What’s wrong?”

  “Sally asked me to call you to let you know I’m admitting her to the hospital. It’s too early for the baby, but she’s spotting, and her blood pressure is low. I want to keep an eye on her for a few days. I know her mother and you are serving as her labor coaches.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “No, you stay put. She needs rest. You can see her tomorrow. Call her mother, would you?”

  “Whatever you say, Doc.”

  “I’ll talk with you then.” He disconnected.

  My best friend, Sally Granger, ran a bakery, tea room and catering service in our village, but of late, her pregnancy had forced her to slow down. Yesterday she had seemed more exhausted than usual.

  I returned to the meeting. The film was ending as I slid into my seat.

  “What did I miss?”

  Rafe leaned close to whisper in my ear. “More footage on the destruction around Dimock, Pennsylvania, an area that used to look much like this valley. Their roads are all torn up. Country lanes were not meant to be used by earth moving equipment and trucks hauling drilling rigs.”

  David Greenling, the country representative from our part of the valley who was responsible for setting up this meeting, introduced the newspaper reporter who had travelled to Dimock and shot the video we’d just seen. After the reporter confirmed the devastation we’d witnessed, Greenling opened up the floor to questions. A woman whom I’d seen often the past summer selling fruits and vegetables at our local farmers’ market held up her hand.

  “These chemicals are toxic. Surely they’re banned by the Clean Water Act.”

  “The fracking fluids are exempt. Back in 2005 a loophole was inserted into the Energy Policy Act. It’s called the “Halliburton Loophole,” said the reporter. Some of the audience members nodded, their laughs tinged by bitterness. “Fracking is exempted from regulation and oversight because the Act deemed the chemicals used were proprietary property.”

  “Greed. It’s always greed with these big companies,” somebody muttered.

  “There’s no evidence these materials end up in our water. Where’s the research?” another bellowed from the back of the room.

  Teddy rose t
o his feet, but before he could comment, the meeting erupted into a frenzied melee of people shouting, shaking their fists and pushing one another. Rafe drew me to one side, and we watched, horrified, as neighbors called names and threatened physical violence

  Teddy was about to tear one of the signs out of a protestor’s grasp, but Rafe intervened.

  “We need to get out of here, Teddy, before someone gets hurt or the cops come and arrest all of us.”

  Ronald Ramford, the son of the brewer killed earlier this summer, grabbed Teddy’s other arm, and he and Rafe walked him through the crowd. I followed, threading my way around two men nose-to-nose in a heated argument, one of them poking his finger in the other’s chest to make a point.

  We pushed through the crowd and were near the rear exit when I heard the sirens. Someone had called the authorities, and I knew who would be coming through that door—my lover, Assistant Deputy Sheriff Jake Ryan, whose bed I’d left earlier this evening with his prescient warning now echoing in my ears, “Try not to get into trouble, Hera.”

  He and two officers strode into the room. He signaled them to begin separating the combatants. Then his eye travelled around the crowd and came to rest on me. The look he gave me wasn’t filled with the fire of passion there earlier. Now the fire was replaced by icy, arctic anger. I shrugged and gave a tiny smile of contrition.

  He lifted a bull horn to his lips. “Settle down, or you’re all going to be eating sliced cheese sandwiches for breakfast tomorrow in county lock-up.”

  “Make me,” yelled someone from the crowd.

  “And the same for lunch and dinner. And when we lose your paperwork, we’ll start the cycle again.”

  The crowd quieted. Some people even had the decency to look embarrassed at how they were behaving. Others retained their combative stances but stepped back from their opponents.

  Jake sent everyone home, everyone except for me.

  “Who called it in?” I walked with Jake to his SUV.

  “I heard it on the police band on my way over here and called for backup.”

  “On your way here?”

  “To see you.”

  “Look, Jake, I know things are not going well just now.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “I’m real busy with my work, and …”

  “Just shut up a minute, will you, Hera?”

  “I’m worried sick about Sally, but …”

  He grabbed my shoulders and gave me a little shake.

  “One of the students prepping for the big pairings event tomorrow in your brewery died tonight.” Jake paused. “He died in your brewery.”

  I brought my hand up to my forehead and rubbed my temples. “Oh, my God. What kind of accident are we talking about? I’m such a dope. It’s my place. I should have been there to keep them out of trouble.”

  “Maybe so. You’ve been going in too many directions lately, but I don’t think you could have prevented it.”

  I had a chilling premonition Jake was going to tell me someone had murdered the student.

  “It looks like suicide.”

  I put my hand on my chest and sighed. “I’m relieved. I mean, I’m horrified that the student is dead, but I don’t think I could take another murder in this valley after Mr. Ramford.”

  Jake’s gaze softened, and he reached out, taking me into those powerful arms of his and drawing me close. I could smell his scent, nothing out of a bottle, just the scent of a man.

  We stood like that for a moment, then I stepped away from him.

  I didn’t want to ask but had to. “How did he, I mean, what …?

  “Death by satay sauce.”

  Two

  The student who died was Bruce Clement, and according to his friends prepping with him for the pairings event, he was highly allergic to peanuts. However, the students told Jake he made a point of eating some of the satay chicken prepared for the following evening’s event. They were too startled by his reckless act to stop him, and perhaps, given that he was unpopular with the others, they didn’t even try.

  “See, I’m tempting the fates. Let’s see what they have in store for me tonight,” the others had reported him saying, then dancing around in a frenzy. He clutched his throat and fell to the cement floor. When they rushed over to him, he laughed and got up.

  “Joke’s on you guys. I’m going out for a cigarette. Anyone care to join me?”

  No one did. They turned their backs on him in disgust and went back to their work.

  When he didn’t return after half an hour, another student, Amy Farnell, went to look for him and found him lying behind the barn, his hand on his throat. She thought he was kidding again, so she kicked him. He didn’t move this time. Satay had done him in.

  I had gotten a ride to the drilling meeting with Rafe, so Jake was filling me in on the details as he drove me back home.

  “I knew Bruce but not well. I’d interviewed him for a winter internship in brewing. He was capable, had fabulous grades, and seemed enthusiastic about learning to craft beer. As for his social skills, he was polite with me, and Jeremiah seemed to like him.” Jeremiah was my assistant brewer.

  “I’d better get Jeremiah’s impression of him. Is he coming in to the barn tomorrow?” Jake asked.

  “Yes, we planned a short tour before we offered our food and beer event. Jeremiah was at the college also, so he may know more about Bruce from classes there.” I twisted my fingers together in my lap.

  “Stop that.” Jake reached over and grabbed my hands. “It’s not your fault. Sounds like the kid was a bit looney.”

  “Looney, huh? Is that a police term for suicidal?”

  “He was allergic, for God’s sake. Whatever would possess him to eat peanut sauce?”

  When we got to my place, the brew barn was dark.

  “I sent everyone home. Their instructor, Mr. Risley, was off doing something for the event and returned after I arrived. He wanted you to call him when you got in.”

  “He wasn’t here? He was supposed to be overseeing the work. When the college and I got together to set up this experience for the students, it was understood the supervision would be college responsibility. I would provide the space and the lagers and ales to be paired with the food offerings. Tomorrow, Risley and I were to share the commentary about product and food, although Risley knows more about what dishes to serve with which beers.”

  I fitted my lock in the barn door, opened it and flipped on the lights. The yellow crime tape snaking its way throughout the barn jumped out at me.

  “This was a suicide. Why the tape?”

  “Because, as looney as this kid was to announce his intention to commit suicide in front of his friends, it’s a suspicious death. It’s standard procedure to be cautious until we get the medical examiner’s report.”

  I walked the perimeter of the tape and into my tasting cellar. From there I could use the door to the outside of the barn. Once I stepped onto my newly constructed patio, the motion detector lights came on. Yellow crime tape glowed from beyond the area.

  “I don’t mean to be callous, Jake, but I’ve got an event here tomorrow. All the food is in the coolers waiting to be served. We can’t keep it, you know.”

  “I’ll have additional crime scene people out here early in the morning if I find it’s necessary.”

  I thought back to several months ago when Mr. Ramford, the brewer over the hill, was murdered, and his son died in a tragic accident. I still grappled with my conscience about whether I tried hard enough to save his son Michael. I shook the thought out of my head and turned to Jake.

  “I’d better call Risley. I wonder where the hell he was tonight.”

  “I’d like to know, too. He was vague about why he had to leave. Maybe you can play indignant colleague and find out.”

  “I don’t mean to sound uncooperative, but doesn’t this feel too much like the partnering we did this summer on Ramford’s murder? Maybe we should leave me out of this one.”

  I looked tow
ard the oak tree under which Bruce’s body had been found. Although it was late September, the night air was warm. Why I shivered, I didn’t know. Perhaps it was normal to get the willies when someone died on your property. Jake caught the shaking and put his arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him.

  “It’s silly, I know, but I’ve been feeling creepy lately. The past seems like it’s crawling up my spine. I’m having a hard time with Bruce’s death here. I don’t think I could stand it if we’re talking murder. I can almost not tolerate the idea of suicide.”

  Jake knew how I felt. For years I had thought my father’s death was a suicide. Finding out it was murder was little help. He was dead, and I still missed him just as I missed Michael. I wondered if Jake knew how often my thoughts turned to Michael.

  Too much wool gathering. I leaned harder into his caress, then reached up, gave him a peck on the cheek and flipped open my cell.

  “Time to find out why Risley wasn’t doing his job tonight.”

  Evan Risley sounded both terrified and defensive when I reached him. I suppose I was responsible for the latter reaction. After I told him how sorry I was to hear of Bruce’s death, I plunged ahead and asked him, “Where were you tonight?”

  “I had business at the college. A meeting I couldn’t cancel, unlike you. Obviously, your concerns about the gas drilling took precedence over your interest in the pairings event.”

  His response brought back my sense of guilt. I also tapped into that reservoir of anger that was never very far from the surface for me when I encountered blame shifters.

  “I told you about the meeting and asked you if it would be a problem. You said no.”

  “Given what happened at your place, I guess I was wrong. The dean thinks so, too.”