Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
AVERY
I stood in front of the small table beside the stainless-steel vat, where my flagship IPA was fermenting.
Beside that, my attempt at recreating the Fall brew was bottle conditioning, the process that added carbonation to the fermented beer.
One more day before I found out how close I’d come to the original.
It was hard to resist popping one open early, just to see.
Thanksgiving —I reminded myself. Tomorrow I’d see what I had.
Could be nothing. It probably wouldn’t be awful, but it could be just meh .
Or it could be amazing. And if it wasn’t, I’d try again.
Whatever Matthew had added—and I did believe he’d added something, his smugness had the ring of truth—I’d figure it out.
I looked down at the table in front of me. I’d set up a random-ish collection of flavors that could have been in that beer— dried orange peel, lemon peel, and one of grapefruit. A knuckle of ginger, a stick of cinnamon, and a slice of star anise.
I wasn’t sure. The orange and lemon were in the beer currently bottle conditioning, as was a hint of the cinnamon and ginger.
I’d used the star anise before, in a stout, but the flavor was too specific, too dense for this fall brew, and my memory of what Matt and I had bottled didn’t have that flavor profile. But the others—they were possible.
I didn’t know. Had there been a hint of lemon?
I thought so, but I wasn’t sure. The original recipe was no longer helpful, since I doubted he’d written down what he’d added.
Or maybe he had, and that’s why he’d had Cammie steal it.
I couldn’t be sure, and it didn’t matter anyway.
I had to figure this out on my own, for my own sake. I wanted this for myself.
I was trying not to obsess, but when I had a break or needed a distraction, I wandered this way and studied the table, thinking, tasting beer in my imagination.
I’d get it eventually. I glanced at my watch.
It was time to open the taproom. Dave had the day off to visit with family who’d come to town for the holiday, and since West had arrested Cammie, she wouldn’t be coming in to work.
That whole thing was a bummer. Cammie and I hadn’t been BFFs, and she hadn’t been a stellar employee, but I thought we’d been friends.
I didn’t think she’d steal from me or lie to me.
But she had, and now I was down a third of my staff. It sucked, but I could live with it.
I didn’t feel like manning the bar. I was more in the mood to do beer stuff than people stuff, but I didn’t have a choice.
Finn was coming in, which would be a good distraction.
Thanks to a few storms in the past week, most of the leaves were on the ground instead of in the trees, and fewer tourists crowded Sawyers Bend.
The Inn was packed full and would do a gorgeous Thanksgiving dinner the next day, but overall, the town was quieter than it had been. I didn’t mind the downturn in business.
My phone rang as I unlocked the front door of the taproom, propping it open to let in the crisp breeze. I pulled it from my pocket. Sterling.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked.
“I got a call from Emmett,” she said, her voice vibrating with excitement. “You know Emmett?”
“Emmett, who works with Sinclair Security? Mysterious friend of Hawk’s? That Emmett?” I asked to egg her on. Of course, I knew who Emmett was.
“That Emmett,” she confirmed. “He’s been looking into Dad’s murder.
Investigating the way...” She paused, as if searching for the right words.
“The way he specifically can investigate,” she said, which didn’t tell me anything, considering the only thing I really knew about Emmett, other than that he was friends with Hawk and worked at Sinclair Security, was that I didn’t know anything about Emmett.
And I had the feeling there was a lot to not know.
“So?” I prompted.
“He found something weird.”
“How weird?” I asked, interested on a whole new level. I wasn’t sure if weird was good, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing, which is what we’d had in our investigation since Anna Novak had been murdered and we’d agreed to stop poking around. It was frustrating, but?—
“Well,” Sterling said, her words coming slowly, as if she didn’t quite understand them yet, “he said that Dad created a trust over two years before he was killed, for someone named Caroline Sawyer.”
“Caroline Sawyer?” I repeated, moving behind the bar to check that the fridge was fully stocked with a few beers we didn’t have on tap and a selection of soft drinks.
“Are we related to someone named Caroline Sawyer? Do we know anyone named Caroline Sawyer?” I racked my brain, but the name wasn’t familiar.
“No,” Sterling said. “And Emmett searched—did a genealogy kind of thing—and he said there isn’t anyone in the family by that name.”
“That is weird. What does it mean?” I asked, not sure in this case whether weird was useful.
I practically heard Sterling shrug through the phone. “I don’t know. I was kind of hoping you would.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head as if she could see me. “Maybe—I don’t know. It seems like the woman he was seeing could have been pregnant, based on the stuff that Savannah found in the attic. So maybe the baby was going to be Caroline?”
“That’s what Emmett guessed,” Sterling said.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “That could be it. Though if he were setting up trusts for his children, which we know he did, because ours exist—and this was for a potential daughter, why wouldn’t Harvey have known about it?”
“Maybe Dad didn’t tell him,” I said. “Or maybe he did. But from what we can tell, there was never a newborn at Heartstone—none of the baby things were used—so maybe that’s why Harvey didn’t mention it.”
“Good point,” Sterling said. “This feels like big news and also nothing, because we have no idea what it means, or who the mother was.”
“I know,” I agreed. “Exciting and disappointing.”
“I’m going to ask Miss Martha,” Sterling said. “She and Aunt Ophelia know the most about our family. Aunt Ophelia is in New York with Nash’s mom, but if Miss Martha doesn’t know anything, I’ll call her.”
“Keep me posted.” I looked up as a shadow fell across the open door.
Finn stepped in, raising one hand in a wave.
I wasn’t expecting to see Ford right behind him, a foil to Finn.
Ford was taller, his hair darker, face somber, whereas Finn’s had an easy, open grin.
But then, everything was right in Finn’s world these days—he had an amazing wife, a cool kid, and a job he loved.
I’d never seen Finn smile this much. Not since before his mother died when we were kids.
And Ford—well, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him really smile.
Ford wasn’t living these days. He was just existing. Not the same at all.
“Finn just got here,” I said to Sterling. “If Miss Martha thinks of anything, call me back.”
“Definitely,” Sterling said, and hung up.
“What’s up?” Finn asked.
“Sterling,” I said in answer, but didn’t tell him why she’d called.
My brothers were not fans of Sterling’s and my interest in our father’s death.
And since I didn’t have any useful information, Finn didn’t need to know.
He knew even less Sawyer family lore than I did, having been away so many years.
If Miss Martha and Aunt Ophelia couldn’t think of anything, we’d open it up to the rest of the family—but not yet .
“I’m going to poke around.” Finn lifted his chin in the direction of the tiny kitchen off the bar.
“Go for it,” I said, and turned to Ford. “Hey, did you come to hang out?”
He shook his head. “Had to see Haywood about some old business. He was going to be in Sawyers Bend, so I grabbed a ride with Finn. Figured I’d take care of that and then hang out if Finn wasn’t done. Do you need any help behind the bar?”
“No,” I laughed. “Why, are you offering?”
“I can pull pints if you need a break later,” he said, his eyes lighting briefly with interest.
“I’ll let you know,” I said, intrigued at the idea of my staid older brother tending bar.
A dark figure stepped in front of the open door, and I stared for a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Ford turned, lifted a hand. “You want a beer?” he called.
Cole Haywood took a step out of the glare, his features coming into focus.
I blinked. Even dressed casually, in a sweater and jeans, he looked model-perfect.
Cole had always been almost painfully handsome, but oddly, not actually attractive.
At least not to me. There was something about him—like he was carved from marble, the cheekbones a little too sharp, his lower lip a little too full, his blue eyes cold.
I don’t know, maybe I just resented him for being the genius lawyer, but not genius enough to get Ford out of jail. Whatever. He was a friend of the family, and I could play nicely.
“Beer?” I asked with a smile as Cole approached the bar .
“Whatever Ford’s having,” he said.
I looked at Ford. “Ford hasn’t ordered yet.”
“I want that stout I had the other day.”
“Ah, the breakfast stout,” I said. “It’s a little late in the day for a breakfast beer, but a solid choice. That good for you?” I asked Cole.
“Sounds great,” he said, and I thought he would have said the exact same thing if Ford had ordered an IPA or a lager.
“I’ll bring them over in a minute,” I said.
“Thanks, Ave.” Ford led Cole across the room to his usual table. Too far away for me to eavesdrop, unfortunately. Both of them looked serious, but not particularly upset.
When I was done building their stouts, I carried them to the table, hoping to eavesdrop just a little, but Ford saw me coming and waited until I was back out of earshot to resume their conversation. He’d always been cagey, my older brother.
My phone buzzed with a text. West.