Poisoned Pairings Read online

  I moved the mike closer to me. “Sparkling water and plain water are at each table to cleanse your palates and rinse your glasses, and a container is on the floor near the table to throw out any liquid you don’t want. Of course, I know that won’t be any of my beers.” The crowd laughed with me, and the tasting began as students moved from table to table with samples of my beers and food to try with each one.

  Risley and I moved among the guests, answering questions and making suggestions for other food that might go well with a beer. I encouraged them to experiment, trying a strong American blue cheese with Hera’s Honey, my more delicate golden lager, to see what they liked.

  “I know I’m not supposed to like these together, but I do,” said one woman. “I think it’s because I don’t much care for beer, and I’m just getting used to these more complex tastes and the heavy maltiness of the ales.”

  “But you’re not getting the balance you want,” said Risley. He took the glass out of her hand, dumped the lager into the container on the floor and poured my newest addition, Autumn Days, a stout, into her glass. “Now try this.”

  She did. When he turned his back on her to talk with another guest, she wrinkled up her nose.

  “I hate the combination,” she said to me.

  “Try the stout with the flourless chocolate cake,” I said. I didn’t want to get into any kind of an overt disagreement with Risley. After all, he knew more about the palate than I did.

  “Yummy,” she said. “I knew I’d love the cake, and this stuff, you call it a stout, is like liquid chocolate. Maybe that’s how it got its name. Drink enough of it with desserts, and you get stout.”

  I laughed at her joke and moved on to another table.

  Because the evening was dedicated to Bruce’s memory, the festivities were more subdued than one might have expected from an event pairing food and beer. However, everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.

  The interior of the barn was aglow with candles on all the tables. The students had done a fine job setting up despite last night’s trauma. There was no hint that someone had been poisoned here only twenty-four hours ago. However, I suspected the full house was due more to a kind of macabre curiosity than interest in learning about pairing food with beer. The only dish still remaining at the end of the night was at least half the chicken satay skewers. I hadn’t the stomach for them myself.

  Bruce’s parents excused themselves early. I didn’t blame them. I thought they were generous supporting their son’s interest, but it had to be difficult not having him here to share it with.

  Dean Wagner came over to say goodnight to me. “Well, this event was a success, despite, uh, everything. Anyway, it looks to me as if we should be scheduling these evenings throughout the winter months.”

  I’d invited all the valley brewers tonight including Rafe, Teddy, and Ronald Ramford, even though he was planning to convert the old Ramford brewery into a winery. Francine Ortega, who ran a winery down the road and had also considered a brew pub, declined my invitation, saying she was taking a short trip back to Spain to visit family. I was eager to make this relationship between the college and the breweries work. It tied us closer to the community.

  “I know others are interested in participating also,” I said.

  Rafe, standing at my side, nodded. “I can’t speak for Teddy. He’s involved in other things right now.”

  “Oh, right. Hosting the gas drillers tonight at his place, I heard. You two getting in on that too?” asked Wagner.

  “No, sir. At least I’ve no plans to,” I said.

  “Not until they can drill in a way that doesn’t contaminate the wells and ground water,” Rafe added.

  “They can ruin the entire valley,” said the dean.

  Ronald Ramford joined us.

  “We all have to realize people around here are crying out for some kind of economic security. The dairy herds are being sold off because there’s no money in milk for the small farmer. What are people going to do with all this acreage, some not fit for farming? We’re planning on growing grapes, but I’ve got money from my dad’s estate and the fire insurance on our property. My money came from misfortune, my father’s death and our brewery burning, and that’s not the way I’d recommend getting funds.”

  “You’re not supporting this drilling, are you?” Rafe’s handsome, angular face contorted with disgust at the idea.

  “I don’t have to, but I understand how others might. There are two sides to the issue.”

  Rafe stepped closer to Ronald. “You’ve been gone from the valley for many years, and now you’ve come back here. Maybe you don’t understand how we feel about this place.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Oxley, I was born here and lived in the Butternut Valley when I was growing up. I do understand the valley, maybe better than someone who migrated here to do business only recently.”

  I stepped between them. “Stop it, you two. That’s all we need. I saw it the other night. You did, too. People fighting with their neighbors. If the possibility of drilling has done nothing else, it’s pitted us against each other. We need to band together right now more than ever.”

  The two men stepped back from one another and looked down at their shoes. I didn’t expect an apology, given their strong feelings, but I wondered if every evening from now on in this community would end in anger.

  Ronald and Rafe raised their eyes to one another and both blinked. The showdown was over. For now.

  “Well, goodnight.” Rafe hesitated a moment as if he wanted to add something, but then turned and left, followed by Ronald. Fine, I thought, they can continue their argument outside. When I looked around I noticed most guests had gone, even Dean Wagner, who was the one to have brought up the topic of gas drilling. He obviously didn’t like conflict. I guess he got enough in his position at the college.

  The only people left in the barn were the students and Risley, who scurried about cleaning up the place, folding up tables and chairs, and piling linen into a cart near the door. I walked into their midst and started to help, but he stopped me.

  “This is not your job, not tonight. It’s mine and the students. You can leave, or if you’re worried we might not do it right, you can stand there and assess our work.”

  I guess I’d made an enemy by reminding him he shouldn’t have been absent last night. That was not my intention, but he’d abdicated his responsibility as head of the program, and he should know that, although he seemed eager to shift blame onto me. The problem was, I had to deal with him for the remainder of this year because of the college’s agreement with me on internships and pairings events.

  Everybody was out of sorts with everyone else these days.

  ~

  The college held a memorial service for Bruce three days after his death. His parents were in attendance, both looking as broken as they had the night of the pairings event. Since I hadn’t seen Jake in several days, I wondered if he’d informed them of the medical examiner’s suspicions about the manner of Bruce’s death. I nodded to them on the way into the service, but neither one returned my greeting.

  I saw Mr. Risley take a chair toward the back of the meeting room. The seat next to his was empty. Ah, well, I thought, I might as well be friendly. After all, we’ll be working together. I walked over and sat next to him.

  “Mr. Risley.”

  “I don’t think I want to sit anywhere near you, Ms. Knightsbridge. Your incompetence cost me my job.” He got out of his chair and walked with a stiff gait to a seat three rows over from me. What was that all about?

  Risley’s remarks were unsettling enough to take my mind away from the service. When it was over, I looked up in surprise, realizing I’d spent the time obsessing over his words. I decided I had to confront him about what he had said, but he rushed out of the room before I could grab him. Dean Wagner caught me, however.

  “If you have a moment, I’d like a word in my office.” He was polite enough, but his tone was cold.

  The two of
us walked down the hill from the student union to the administration building together in silence.

  “Hold my calls,” he said to his secretary.

  He gestured toward the chair sitting in front of his desk. He removed his coat jacket, placed it on a hanger and hung it on the back of his door, then walked over to the window, his back turned to me. He gazed out at the lawn, seemingly intent upon watching a squirrel run from one tree to another. Finally, he turned toward me and took his chair.

  “I regret having to do this, but the college cannot continue the pairings events with you.”

  “Not continue? But the evening went so well.” I gulped and bit back a sterner and angrier retort.

  “That evening went well. The one before it did not.”

  “You’re saying it was my fault? I had nothing to do with Bruce’s death, and the college knows that.” I made my voice sound reasonable and certain of my stance. Inside I was quivering with fury, at the college for punishing the students by taking away their program and at myself for not attending more closely to the preparation for the event.

  “Of course we don’t believe you had any fault in what happened. It just looks bad for the college to be engaged in an enterprise where one of its students died.”

  “What about the internship program with my brewery? Can we continue with that?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “That makes it look as if you are holding me responsible for what happened to Bruce and are punishing me by not allowing the students to have the opportunity to learn the brewing process.”

  “Ms. Knightsbridge, in case you haven’t noticed, you are not the only brewer around here. Our students can intern at another brewery.”

  “Rafe’s? Teddy’s?”

  “I’m not certain which one. We haven’t talked about it yet. I’m sure either place would be happy to continue with the pairings events. The college would like to consider an event where the breweries collaborated.”

  “Would I be included?”

  “Unfortunately, no, not until the circumstances around the student’s death are cleared up. Then we can reconsider.”

  I stood up, hands clenched at my side. It was this summer all over again, the kind of treatment I had received from the bank—denial of my loan because the institution presumed me to be one of the suspects in Mr. Ramford’s murder. I had been no more responsible for his death than I was for Bruce’s. Anger flared in my brain, making it difficult for me to think rationally. I wanted to strike out at someone, punish the college as it was punishing me for my perceived irresponsibility in Bruce’s death.

  “This is unfair.”

  “Perhaps it is, but we need to think about Bruce’s parents and how they feel.”

  Aha. Now I get it. I could understand what they were doing, thrashing around in pain and grief looking for anyone to hold responsible for their son’s death. I also had an inkling that money had been mentioned to the college, but I didn’t say so. As firm as he was being with me, I caught a look of embarrassment on the dean’s face, too.

  “Did you fire Risley?”

  “Not exactly, but we’re going to have Professor Martin Davis, another professor in the program, supervise the pairings—in fact, all the internships in the culinary arts program.

  “What about Risley? I know he’s yet another person along with you and Bruce’s parents who hold me responsible for what happened at my brew barn.”

  “Both of you should have been there. I heard from the sheriff’s office that the students took some of the chicken and cooked it on your grill. Irresponsible of them, of course, but I expect immature behavior from young adults. I was one myself, so I understand. It’s forgivable.”

  “Maybe, but it could have been criminal if one of them salted Bruce’s piece of chicken with poison.”

  Wagner looked shocked, and I realized in my anger at being dismissed from the pairings events that I had gone too far, revealed what I should not have.

  “Someone poisoned him? It wasn’t suicide?”

  “The medical examiner doesn’t know exactly how he died.” Not the thing to say. Me and my big mouth. Jake had let me in on the medical examiner’s findings, and I should have kept them to myself.

  Dean Wagner arose from his chair. “I’m very busy right now. I need to make a phone call.”

  I knew to whom that call would be made … to Jake, and he was going to hand me my head when I saw him.

  Four

  I could see in the dean’s eyes there was nothing I could say to change his mind about my participation in the college’s program. I retreated from the office, knowing I had revealed too much to him about Bruce’s death. As I closed the door behind me and turned to proceed down the hallway, I collided with a man standing outside the office. He was so close to the doorway I had the feeling he was trying to eavesdrop.

  “Sorry,” he said. He was shorter than I but outweighed me by a good fifty pounds. His white chef’s jacket gave him away as a professor in culinary arts. How convenient. A target for all my anger and humiliation.

  “I suppose you heard everything. Now you can spread it around campus that the dean has booted me out of the program,” I said.

  His pink, round cheeks blanched at my sharp words. “Oh, my, no. I mean, I know about you and the college, but I’m not happy about it.” He twisted his pudgy fingers in consternation. “Oh, dear. I must not be making any sense. We haven’t been introduced, but I’ve heard about you. I mean, I heard what happened. At your place. Tragic. But I know about you anyway.”

  “What do you know?” Suspicion and more anger spilled over into my voice.

  “Oh, dear. I’m not doing this well, am I?” He looked at the dean’s door as if he expected a demon to emerge from it any minute.

  “I guess you don’t want the dean to see you talking to me. Right?”

  “Uh, right. I mean, no. I can talk to whom I wish.” He pulled himself up to his full height, just under the level of my chin.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Martin Davis.”

  “Oh, well, then. It wouldn’t be good for the dean to see his newest appointment to the head of the culinary program conversing with the brewer he just dismissed. Goodbye.” I turned toward the exit of the building.

  He caught up and accompanied me toward the outside door, his short legs taking two steps to my every one.

  “I’m very sorry the college won’t allow you to do internships or participate in the pairings. You have a nice place there, well run, and you make wonderful beer.”

  “How do you know? I’ve never seen you with any of the students at my place.”

  “The students who interned with you said so.”

  Maybe I had misjudged him. Maybe not everyone at the college held me responsible for Bruce’s death.

  He leaned forward and opened the door for me. “I could put a word in for you with the dean.”

  I laughed. “I don’t think it will do any good, but thanks.”

  I arrived at my truck. Next to it sat another truck as old and battered as my own. Professor Davis pulled open the door to the other vehicle. It creaked, sounding as if it might fall off its rusty hinges. He turned to me with a sheepish look on his face.

  “Professor Risley’s misfortune is my good luck. The raise that comes with my new position will pay for a better ride.”

  “We both could use one.” I waved at him and drove off. Funny little man. Was he eavesdropping? What was he trying to hear?

  I headed down the hill into Libertyville, muttering to myself as I drove. I passed the new restaurant and spotted the same car parked in front of it as I’d seen the other day. Most of the stores on Main Street closed at five, so there were few vehicles remaining in front of the shops. What the hey, I thought, and swung into the empty spot next to the car.

  “Hello. Anyone here?” I walked into the dining area. Chairs were upended on the tables. Shiny black bar stools stood in front of a bar which swung in a semicircle out into th
e room. I heard pounding from behind the bar, then a grunt. A man’s head popped up from behind it.

  “Hello there. We’re not open yet. Sorry.” He was a few inches taller than I, had a full head of shiny black hair which curled around his face and ears and over his collar. What caught my attention was his physique. He had the build of a swimmer or a diver, long, lean muscles, well defined. He was, well, downright sexy. I mentally kicked myself for engaging in fantasy drooling, but I couldn’t help it.

  “No, I know you’re not open yet. I’ve wanted to stop by and welcome you to town, but I only got the chance today. I own one of the breweries in the valley.”

  “Well, hi there.” He rushed out from behind the bar with his arm outstretched. “I’ve heard a lot about you but obviously not the best things.”

  What does he mean? I withdrew my hand.

  “Oh, damn. That’s not how I meant to say it. I mean, no one told me you were gorgeous as well as a master brewer.” His smile grew wider. What a line, I thought, but I liked it.

  We shook hands.

  “Sometimes I’m just plain clumsy with how I express myself.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re just plain charming.” I lowered my head hoping he wouldn’t see my schoolgirl blush.

  We both laughed. “That was awkward. Should we begin again? Hi. My name is Tony Cantrell.”

  “Hera Knightsbridge. Welcome to Libertyville. Where are you from?”

  “The City.”

  “You’re a long way from home, then.”

  “Not so far, only three hours or so.”

  “No, I mean, you’re a long way from any city. This is the Butternut Valley, rural upstate New York, city slicker.”