Chapter 14
Turns out that hacking into a brewery’s security wasn’t impossible. Just not ideal.
“If we get caught, we’re all going to jail,” Benny pointed out. “Probably not the best thing for you, when you’re already
battling the financial aid office. Don’t think Harvard brags about making special accommodations for felons.”
I didn’t think so, either.
But even if I was just lost in the excitement when I formulated that plan, Benny and his cool, rational mind devised a better
one that involved less jail time.
“Remember the Kumaras, who live across the street from me? The mom’s an attorney; they have two boys?”
“The Sri Lankan family with the pool in their backyard?” Seb asked. “The younger brother was in the class ahead of us. What
was his name, Amal?”
“Yep,” Benny confirmed. “And the older brother is training to be a Cicerone at High Spirits’ taproom,” he reported over the
speaker on Seb’s phone.
Jazmine squinted. “What the hell is a . . . ?”
“Beer sommelier.”
“Whelp, I’ve heard it all now,” Seb said. “Maybe I’ve missed my calling.”
“I’ll talk to Amal and see what I can do,” Benny told us before hanging up.
We didn’t know how long it would take. Half an hour later, we’d repacked all the totes with Nana’s things and hauled them
back to the basement. As we headed back upstairs, Seb’s phone buzzed with an incoming call from Benny.
“What’s everyone doing around midnight?” his deep voice asked, a hint of victory and excitement beneath the monotone. “Our
boy can give us a little tour before closing time, if you’re game.”
Oh, we were game, all right. Most definitely game . . .
“You’re a genius, Ichabod,” Seb told Benny. “A certified genius.”
Boom, just like that, everything was forgotten but the treasure hunt. Jaz and Seb both had to work in the morning, but they
were willing to sacrifice sleep for this chance.
At half past eleven, we left Punkin sleeping on the living room sofa and piled into the Bronco. As we headed downtown to meet
up with Benny and Lulu, all of us were on edge. Personally, I was experiencing a nervous sort of eustress at a level I’d only
previously felt on the Shivering Timbers wooden roller coaster when my car was climbing the track of the first hill.
An intoxicating mix of joyful anticipation and extreme dread.
We passed Bean’s, which wasn’t busy anymore. On a weekday at the beginning of summer, crowds dwindled by this time of night.
So it was no surprise when we pulled up to High Spirits Brewing and found only a handful of people inside the taproom right
before closing. That was probably a good thing. Fewer eyes on us.
“We’re just going to take a little tour,” Seb said under his breath as he hunted a parking space. “Just a little tour . .
.”
We spotted Benny and Lulu waiting on the sidewalk as we pulled into a nearby spot.
None of the Wags were legal yet, drinking-wise, so I doubted any of us had been inside the brewery much.
A couple years ago, I picked up some donations for a school fundraiser from the bar.
But I did have one dramatic visit here, when I was thirteen.
Nana took me inside to protest the brewery’s ghost tours.
They claimed to be able to show patrons Mabel’s wandering spirit.
Nana said they were disrespecting our ancestors and went full-on righteous fury on the manager, threatening to sue the brewery.
They never hosted another ghost tour.
“Back in the day,” Seb said as we exited the Bronco, “if you knocked on the service door around back after midnight and asked
for Alex, they’d sell you growlers of their THC mocktails under the table. But Alex got fired, and the good times ended.”
He thumped his heart. “RIP to a real one.”
“Maybe,” Jazmine said, “you could’ve called up Alex and asked if he’s seen anything weird in the deep corners of this place.
How are we actually going to do this?”
With Lulu trailing behind him, Benny strolled up to us, hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie. He lifted his chin in greeting
and said, “Got it all covered. Just follow my lead inside. Ready?”
“No time like the present,” Seb said cheerfully, clapping Benny on the back good-naturedly, and we headed toward the entrance.
Big windows on either side of the front door glowed with warm light.
We stepped beneath the sculptural frieze crowning the door—the detail in the secret photo that pointed us here in the first place.
Once inside, we were greeted by muted indie music and the low din of the taproom.
Steel columns, wood walls, and copper brewing vats dominated the space—sort of “industrial brewpub” meets “upcycled contemporary.” A few college students and a smattering of tourists were placing orders for last call.
Two waiters casually leaned against the hostess podium, chatting aimlessly as they waited for the dregs of the night to tally
their tips and leave. They didn’t look eager to serve us when we approached and acted relieved when Benny asked for his friend’s
brother. A minute later, a young South Asian man appeared, dressed in chino shorts and Top-Siders, and sporting the most perfect
pompadour I’d ever seen. He shook our hands enthusiastically.
“Hey, Amal said you’d be coming. I’m Dinesh,” he said by way of introduction, looking us over with curiosity. “Which one of
you is the Harvard student?”
Uhh . . . I glanced at Benny, whose eyes widened dramatically, as if to say, Go on . . .
“That would be me,” I said.
He brightened and shot me double finger guns. “Terrific. Benny tells me you’re doing research for a school project—local folklore?
And that you’re actually related to the building’s original mistress, the Medium of Haven Beach.” He waggled his brows and
made spooky noises.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, flicking a dirty look at Benny. He could’ve at least prepared me, for the love of God. “Mabel Malone is my ancestor.”
“Wild! So cool to be a part of history, I really dig it,” Dinesh said, nodding appreciatively. “Yeah, so, you’re just wanting
to take a look around? There’s some pretty interesting old things in the brewhouse downstairs. Usually, when we give tours,
to corporate groups or YouTubers with travel shows, or whatever, we take them downstairs. There’s also Mabel’s office upstairs—where
they used to take people on the ghost tours a few years ago.”
“I definitely want to see that,” I said.
“No problem. It’s basically just an empty room with a couple pieces of furniture, so fair warning not to get your hopes up.
And, of course, you can’t leave without taking a photo at ‘Mabel’s Table’ . . .” He gestured with one arm, pointing toward
a booth beneath one of the front windows, and a round table there. A brass plaque attached to the wall announced its history:
Original séance table, 1901–1929
Owned and used by
Mabel Malone, spirit medium and wife of Wyrd Jack
I’d seen this same table when Nana brought me in here to yell at the manager. There wasn’t anything remarkable about it, other
than its presence being documented in several framed black-and-white photos hanging nearby on a wall. The photographs showed
Mabel sitting at the table, intensely staring at the camera with raccoon eyes while holding a crystal ball in her hands, tarot
cards fanned out around her. Currently, a server was bent over Mabel’s Table, wiping up ketchup and a basket of spilled fries.
Dinesh turned his head to one side and quietly spoke into an earpiece. Then he gave us an apologetic look. “Gotta step away
for a moment. We’re closing soon, so you can get started alone. I can’t really let you roam through here after we’re closed,
so you’ll need to make it quick.”
Benny raised both hands. “Not a problem. We appreciate you accommodating us.”
“Sure, man. A friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine,” he said, smiling. “Feel free to look and take pics for research. There’s nothing much else to see in the taproom besides the table, and it’s best to stay out of the kitchen at this time of night. Gets a little hectic, you know?”
“That’s fine,” Benny said.
“But you can go through that door back there and head to the brewhouse. Jeff’s down there, so just tell him you’re part of
the Harvard tour group. Also, if you want to poke around upstairs, feel free. It’s mostly just a couple banquet rooms, but
Mabel’s old office is up there, like I said. I’ll have to get the key from the manager. So I’ll meet back up with you in five.”
He flashed us another pair of finger guns and dashed away, leaving us all feeling a little awkward as we stood around with
patrons staring at us.
“Look,” I said. “We should probably split up. The taproom closes in, like, fifteen minutes.
“No way we can explore every corner in fifteen minutes,” Seb said.
Benny looked around. “Dude’s probably right about the taproom. They basically stripped it back to studs when they remodeled
in here. It’s new paint and plaster, so we can eliminate all this, right off the bat.”
“What are we even looking for? Deep corners?” Lulu said, still sporting the heart-shaped glasses atop her head that she’d
been wearing when I ran into her at Bean’s.
“Just like we discussed on the phone. Anything unusual. A mark, Morse code, secret panels . . .” Seb said. “Jaz, you take
Benny and Lulu downstairs to the brewhouse. Paige and I will head upstairs. Text if you see anything.”
Jazmine frowned at Seb, then at Lulu, and I started to protest, but Benny was already heading toward the door that led down to the brewhouse.
I mouthed “sorry” to Jazmine as Lulu merrily linked arms with her, provoking the most epic side-eye I’d seen in a long time.
God help Lulu. If Jazmine didn’t kill her first, I might take a crack at her.
As Benny, Jazmine, and Lulu went downstairs, Seb and I headed up an iron staircase to the second floor, where the taproom’s
jangly music faded along with the chatter. A dark landing didn’t hold much but a couple of potted palms and a couple of benches.