Poisoned Pairings Read online

  “You’ve talked with him tonight?”

  “Right after I found out. He’s considering calling off the event.”

  I felt like screaming into the phone. Cancelling in sympathy for the student’s death was understandable, but not as punishment for what the college thought was my negligence. And I was not negligent. I bit my tongue. I needed to be diplomatic.

  “I would certainly understand how the college might want to cancel out of respect for Bruce. Students might feel that way also; but you’ve got a lot of food in my coolers here, and the state requires you to cook it within a certain time frame. We need to do something about that.”

  “From the looks of things in your place when I left, it wouldn’t be a fitting venue for the event anyway.”

  “Deputy Sheriff Ryan assures me the crime scene people and the tape will be gone by tomorrow evening. Let me call the dean and see how he feels about going ahead.”

  “That’s my call, Ms. Knightsbridge. I’ll make it.” He hung up.

  Jake had been watching me as I walked around in circles talking to Risley.

  “So I guess you didn’t charm him out of any information.”

  “The event tomorrow may be cancelled, which is understandable, but Risley is trying to palm off the responsibility for Bruce’s death on me. I guess you heard my response to that.”

  “I thought Risley was a shifty-eyed bastard. How did he get to be head of the culinary arts program at the college anyway?”

  “I assume he has some fancy credentials.”

  “Or he knows some fancy people.”

  My cell bleeped. Caller ID said it was the dean.

  “Dean Wagner. I cannot tell you how saddened I am to hear of Bruce’s death.”

  “Yes, fine. Well, it would have been nice if some adult in charge had been there. Not that anything could have been done, I suppose.”

  “Uh, I was told the supervision for set-up was the college’s.” I knew I sounded defensive.

  There was silence on the line for a moment.

  “You’re correct. Still, you might have shown some interest in an event occurring on your property.”

  Here we go again with the responsibility thing. I was beginning to feel people thought I forced the satay chicken down Bruce’s throat.

  “Well,” Dean Wagner said, “lucky for you, Bruce’s parents are of the opinion that, since his education and work were so important to him, the event should continue as scheduled. I’ll say a few words in memoriam before the tasting. I think that’s all we’ll need. Of course, the parents will attend also.” He ended the call.

  Oh, great. Their presence would make me feel additionally at fault. I was good at harboring guilt, and now I’d get more practice with Bruce’s parents and their grief joining us tomorrow.

  We walked into the barn so I could do a last minute check on my brews. I told Jake what the dean had said.

  “Well, that gives me the opportunity to talk with the parents sooner rather than later. That’s good.”

  That’s where Jake and I disagreed. Good for solving crimes, bad for Hera’s unruly conscience.

  I locked up the barn, and we walked toward the house.

  “I need to get some sleep,” I said.

  In fact, there was little chance I would be able to tour dreamland tonight. I had too much on my mind—Sally and her baby, the gas drilling issue, Bruce’s suicide, the future plans for my brewery, and what plagued me most, the problems Jake and I were having. He wanted to marry and have children. I wasn’t ready for that yet. Our relationship was only months old. He understood, but what I hadn’t told him was that Michael, my childhood friend and the man I had loved for years, still invaded my sleep as well as my waking thoughts.

  “No, uh, you know, tonight then?” He gestured toward my bedroom window, then brought his hand down to make caressing circles on my back. It felt so good.

  I was tempted to give in to making love with him because bed was where we never disagreed, but I knew someone else would be there with us tonight, and nothing Jake might do would chase that ghost away.

  “Not tonight. No.” I saw the disappointment in his face and, for a moment, something else, impatience and a passing look that said he knew all too well what was going on in my head.

  “I’ll be over early tomorrow with the crime scene techs. Maybe the medical examiner will have something to tell us by then.”

  He used the term “us.” That was nice of him, as if letting me in on the details of the scene would help me move on.

  Impulsively, I threw my arms around his neck. “I love you, Jake. I do.”

  “I know, babe. And I know you have ghosts parading around in your head. They’ll go away in time.”

  I hoped he was right.

  ~

  I was right. I didn’t sleep. A bright harvest moon shone in my windows, illuminating the back of the barn and the ridge to the west. If I were a more imaginative or flighty woman, I might have envisioned figures moving from my barn and up the hill into the woods beyond. But I wasn’t, and there were no visitors to cause me alarm. I had only my own overactive brain to blame for a night of no rest.

  I sat up in bed. Wait a minute. That chicken satay was uncooked, marinating and waiting to be put on the grill tomorrow for the event. Bruce wouldn’t have tried to eat uncooked chicken. None of them would.

  I looked at my clock. It was nearly 5:00 a.m. I got out of bed and decided to check again the summer ale in the fermenter, and while I was in the barn, why not take a peek at the contents of the coolers?

  The ale was fine. I imagined the yeast like the game Pac Man, the big mouth running around gobbling up the sugars and converting them into alcohol. The image usually made me smile, but not this morning.

  I used my flashlight to find my way to the coolers in the new section, the one that had been built this summer with the help of my neighbors and, of course, a loan from the local bank. I planned for an addition big enough to allow for expansion in the future, so I had space to host the pairings event.

  What to do about that crime scene tape? I hesitated a moment, thinking I should call Jake and tell him what I had in mind, but I was here and in my own barn. What did it matter if I opened the coolers with a glove on my hand, of course, walked in, and checked the shelves?

  I pulled open the heavy stainless steel door. The food sat in pans on the shelves of rolling bins. The chicken, covered by food wrap, took up twelve slots in one bin. A middle shelf contained only half a pan of chicken. Where was the rest of it?

  The lights came on in the barn.

  “If you’re wondering about the missing chicken, I was too. I noticed it last night and questioned all the students. I got no answers.” Jake was leaning against the wall of the barn near the light switch.

  That was another thing about Jake and me. He always seemed to appear when I was up to something I shouldn’t be.

  “Hi. Want some coffee?”

  “Sure. Want to go to jail for corrupting a crime scene before or after we have coffee?”

  “I’m sorry, Jake. I got carried away thinking about what happened. I couldn’t imagine anyone eating raw chicken.”

  “You’re right, and he didn’t eat half a pan of the stuff now, did he? So where’s the rest?”

  I walked out of the cooler and closed the door. “I’ve got an idea.”

  I moved past him and into the morning air, then out to the patio behind the barn. I opened the top of the grill standing there and sniffed.

  “Smells like peanut sauce to me. Half the charcoal is gone, too.” I held up a partially empty bag which sat near the grill.

  “No wonder the students wouldn’t tell me where the chicken had gone. They grilled up half a pan while Risley was absent and didn’t want anyone to know about it. I wonder who was responsible for doing the grilling.”

  “What difference does it make?” I asked.

  “The medical examiner called me not a half hour ago. He worked on the body last night.”
r />   “I never knew Dr. Devereaux to be so willing to put in overtime.”

  “The parents called him, and he felt compelled to respond to their concerns.”

  “Who are these parents? They seem to have an inordinate amount of pull around here with the college and now with the medical examiner’s office.”

  “Aren’t you interested in what he found? Jake asked.

  Oh, oh. I got a sick feeling I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

  “What?” The word came out of my mouth with reluctance.

  “Cooked chicken satay in his stomach. But as nearly as Devereaux can tell, Bruce’s death is not consistent with peanut allergies. Cause of death inconclusive, but it looks like some kind of poison. It could take some time to determine what poison.”

  “Jake, what are you trying to say?”

  “Devereaux believes Bruce was poisoned. He’s not sure what was used.”

  Murder.

  That brought up a lot of questions I didn’t want to entertain, but Jake was several steps ahead of me.

  “So was Bruce the intended victim? If so, why? Or did the killer goof, and the wrong person died? Since the other students didn’t get sick, that eliminates the food, but …”

  “But since neither Risley nor I was here to see what they were doing, did Bruce wash his chicken down with one of my brews? Could the poison have been in there?”

  I thought about what dumping the recently bottled batches of beer would mean. Not only would it be money gone, but my precious beers would never find their way to customers, never be appreciated by those who loved a great craft brew.

  I shook my head.

  “Can you tell if any bottles are missing, Hera?”

  “I can. I keep a close inventory. I have what was bottled and what was shipped. I have a record of bottles remaining in the cooler. As for the beer still in the cooling vats, the students didn’t have access to any of that. It’s in the old part of the barn, and that door is always locked when Jeremiah or I aren’t here.”

  “As a double check, we can talk to the students. They may be willing to open up now,” said Jake.

  Right. Murder does loosen the tongue

  Jake left to have a cop-like chat on campus. I remembered I hadn’t contacted Sally’s mother. It was still too early in the morning to make the call, so I spent the next hour with my books, assuring myself that no bottled product was missing. The students were willing to steal from the college but not from me. Was there some significance to that?

  At seven I called Sally’s mother.

  “Oh, it’s you, Hera, dear. I tried to get in touch with Sally last night, and when she didn’t answer her cell, I thought something was wrong, so I called her doctor.”

  “Mrs. Granger, I am so sorry I didn’t contact you sooner, but things here have been, uh, a mess.”

  “Oh, I know. I heard it from a friend of mine who was over your way last night for that gas drilling meeting.”

  “That’s not all.”

  “She heard something about a death at your place. A student?”

  Good heavens. Sally’s mother knew almost everything I did, and she lived thirty miles away.

  “I’m packing a bag now. She’s doing better this morning. I guess he told you the same thing he did me, not to come yesterday.”

  “I’m leaving for the hospital right away. Meet you there,” I said.

  My barn was new, as was some of my equipment, but I kept my old truck. It still ran most of the time, and I couldn’t see the expense. Of course, I sometimes had to say a little prayer to the truck gods before she turned over. This morning the truck seemed eager to go and caught on the first try.

  The hospital sat on the hill across from the one on which Libertyville Community College was perched. In between these two high points, the Butternut Creek ran through the village in which Sally had her business. I drove through downtown, a small hamlet with tree-lined streets and quaint old buildings housing small, locally owned and operated businesses—a hardware store, appliance repair shop, the bank and several restaurants along with gift shops and a video store. One eatery was about to have a grand opening, having recently changed hands. I meant to stop by and see if I could convince them to carry a few of my brews.

  It looked as if someone was in there now, because the lights were on. I checked my watch. I didn’t have time for a visit. I’d do it later.

  The doctor was in Sally’s room when I entered.

  “I told her she needs to get more rest, stay off her feet, and slow down.”

  “And I told him I have a business to run.” Sally sounded like herself, spunky as usual, but I heard a tremor in her words. She was scared.

  “Now I’m telling both of you if she doesn’t do as I say, she’ll be back in here in a few days. She may even lose the baby.”

  “She’ll do what you recommend. I’ll see to it,” I said.

  He smiled and shook his finger at me. “It’s on your head then.”

  Oh, and I’m so responsible, I thought. That’s why a young man is lying in the morgue right now, because I was there for him. I mentally kicked myself. I was pushing my guilt button again.

  “What’s wrong, Hera?” asked Sally.

  “Nothing but my conscience being mean to me for no good reason.” I paused. “Your mom is coming soon. Make nice. She’s been so worried about you.”

  Guilt can work both ways, make you feel bad when you shouldn’t or make you behave yourself when you should. In this case I wanted Sally’s guilt to make her arrange her business affairs so her mother wouldn’t worry about her. It worked.

  She agreed to the tea shop being open only on Friday through Sunday. It was late enough in the season that tourist trade would be down during the week. Only the leaf peepers would be out, and they would appear on the weekends. Likewise the bakery would open those same days. Her assistant could manage with the help of an intern from the culinary arts program at the college. I would use my pull to arrange that, assuming I had any left after last night.

  Three

  Sally insisted on attending the pairings event. I told her no, her mother told her no, and her doctor told her he would put her right back in the hospital if she didn’t cooperate with us. I was certain the pregnancy was more difficult for her emotionally because the baby’s father was dead, and the fraternal grandmother was being held in a lock-up ward in a mental hospital farther upstate. Thank God Sally had her level-headed mother to rely on. And me. Most of the time, anyway.

  My business was doing well. The loan to build an addition onto my old brew barn meant I could craft more product, and the new relationship with the college to set up food and beverage pairings drew members of the community and tourists to my place. Things couldn’t be better for me, brewing wise, yet other worries plagued me.

  The thought of hydraulic gas exploration hung over the heads of all us brewers. For now, I shoved it to the back of my mind where it resided alongside questions about whether Michael might have been my father’s son and not a Ramford at all. Amniocentesis revealed Sally’s baby to be fine and a girl. She might be my niece. DNA could establish our relationship, but Sally seemed not to be interested, and I went along with her wishes.

  All of these problems rattled around in the back of my head as I greeted people entering the barn for the pairings event.

  Dean Wagner tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Bruce’s parents just arrived. I’d like to introduce you.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Clement made a handsome couple. He had wavy grey hair and wore a tailored suit that showed off an athletic build. Although she was petite and blonde, she, too, looked as if she spent time in a gym perfecting her well-toned upper arm and calf muscles. I remembered Bruce as having his father’s height and brown eyes, but his mouth was more like his mother’s, sensitive and expressive.

  “Bruce’s interest in the culinary arts program was the best thing that ever happened to him. We thought he was over his past craziness, but he obviously was no
t as happy as he appeared,” said Mr. Clement. From Clement’s comments it was clear Jake hadn’t told him the coroner hadn’t ruled the death a suicide yet.

  “I thought he was better.” His mother’s lips quivered as she tried not to give in to her grief.

  “Better?” I asked.

  “Well, we had to drag him away from that cult he got himself into and have him deprogrammed. That was tough on all of us. His sister Megan is still in the cult. She’s older. He was nineteen when we got him back.” Clement scowled when he pronounced his daughter’s name. “It costs a lot of money to snatch them away and then pay for the deprogramming, too. We’re lucky we had it. Other parents don’t.”

  Mrs. Clement took her husband’s arm. “Let’s not talk about that tonight. We’re here because Bruce finally found himself, and he would have wanted us to celebrate his choices by having this event go on.” She wiped away the tears filling her eyes.

  Mr. Risley interrupted us. “We’re about to begin the evening. Dean Wagner wants us to be seated. He has a few words.”

  The dean offered comments about Bruce’s death with grace and sensitivity, saying the evening was a tribute to Bruce’s commitment to his program. He then introduced Risley and me to the attendees who gathered around high-top tables set with bottles of sparkling water, water pitchers and glassware.

  “The beers you will be tasting tonight are from my brewery,” I began. “The food has been prepared by the students from the culinary arts program at Libertyville Community College. As Chef Risley will tell you, there are no hard and fast rules for putting together beer and food. It’s what tastes good to you.”

  Risley interrupted me. “Well, not hard and fast rules, but there are rules, if you want the best experience.” He smiled at me. The look might have appeared friendly to others in the room, but his hand on my shoulder pulling me away from the microphone felt condescending. He was an expert on food and beer, but I wanted the people who had come tonight to be comfortable in letting their individual palates lead them. I didn’t want them to feel too embarrassed to ask questions or give their opinions.

  “Match strength with strength, delicate dishes work best with delicate beers. In general, the sweetness of the malt goes well with spicy dishes, and the bitterness of the hops cuts the fat of heavier, richer dishes. Most of the finger foods here tonight are lower in fat to accommodate those of us who are watching our waistlines.” He chuckled and patted his flat stomach. He was correct in his pairings recommendations, but I hoped the guests would see them as guidelines, not rules.