Chapter 12
An innkeeper, a woman obsessed with sensible footwear, and an overgrown hippie walk into a brewery. It sounds like the setup to a bad joke, but it just so happens to be my investigation strategy.
The punchline? I’m hoping to solve a case before last call.
What Ales You is a tall, boxy building the size of an airplane hangar, all steel and glass and really loud music.
As soon as we walk in, the place hits all the senses at once as its gleaming stainless steel fixtures catch the warm evening light streaming through industrial windows, rich dark wood beams stretch across the exposed brick ceiling, and the air is thick with the intoxicating aroma of crispy French fries and flame-grilled burgers.
Classic rock music pounds from speakers mounted near the wraparound bar, mixing with the cheerful chaos of clinking glasses and boisterous male laughter echoing from the dining area where at least fifteen guys have commandeered a section of long communal tables.
“Well, well, well,” I announce as we step through the heavy wooden doors. “If it isn’t every suspect I wanted to question, conveniently gathered in one alcohol-laden establishment.”
Mom and Georgie separate for a moment, each mumbling something about checking the place out. I’m about to do the same.
“Bizzy?”
I gasp hard as Jasper’s voice cuts through the din, and I turn to see my husband’s shocked expression as he spots us from across the room. His beer mug freezes halfway to his lips.
“Surprise!” I wave cheerfully.
He scoops up his beer and makes his way over, shaking his head with that mixture of resignation and admiration I’ve come to recognize as his default expression when I’m being particularly resourceful.
“I wondered why you didn’t ask where we were headed tonight.
” He frowns as he lands a kiss on my lips.
Is it wrong that I think his kisses are actually better when presented with a frown?
But I’ll be the last person to tell him this.
I sort of like them when he smiles, too.
And it’s true. He did phone to tell me that Piers was taking the groomsmen out for the night.
“I’ll answer for you.” His frown deepens. “Because you knew all along.” He tips his head and studies me with those sexy detective eyes. “You’re investigating, aren’t you?”
I shrug his way. What can I say? He’s a darn good and darn sexy detective.
Before I can formulate a response that’s technically not a lie, Leo appears and slaps Jasper’s shoulder with enough force to slosh his beer onto the dark wood floor.
“As if you had to ask.” Leo laughs as his entire face lights up with delight. “I, for one, am thrilled to watch Bizzy in her element. This is better than dinner theater.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say dryly, even though I know he means it.
“Anytime. Want me to point out which ones are acting suspicious? Because I’ve got opinions.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Mom appears at my elbow, looking around the brewery with a critical eye as if evaluating real estate. “This place has excellent acoustics for eavesdropping.”
“Mom,” I hiss.
“What? I’m being supportive of your hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby, it’s a calling,” I counter before wincing up at Jasper.
“Six of one, half dozen of the other,” Leo shoots back.
Georgie sidles up to us, already scanning the room for eligible bachelors and inappropriate conversation topics—I know her well.
“Would you look at all these handsome men?” she calls out so loud you’d think I was on Mars. “It’s like a bachelor buffet. Where do I even start?”
“How about you start by not referring to human beings as food?” Mom says.
“You’re no fun,” she pouts. “Speaking of fun, how was your foot date with my baby brother?”
Jasper raises an eyebrow. “Foot date? Do I want to ask?”
“Probably not,” I tell him, but Mom jumps in anyway.
“Ben arranged for us to get our feet professionally measured for custom shoes,” Mom explains with far too much enthusiasm. “It was actually quite romantic. Who knew foot measuring could be so intimate?”
Leo laughs so hard, his beer nearly slips out of his hand.
“Please tell me you’re talking about an actual shoe fitting,” Jasper says just below a whisper.
“Of course, we are,” Mom trills as if it were hilarious. “Although the measuring process was surprisingly... well, let’s just say it was thorough.”
Georgie gives a wicked grin. “Ben always was detail-oriented. I remember when he used to organize his Halloween candy by color, size, and flavor profile.”
“He said he did that when he was eight,” Mom protests.
“Eight, eighteen, fifty-eight—some things never change,” Georgie sings.
Jasper turns his attention back to me. “Thank you for not bringing the baby.”
“I tried, but your mother threatened legal action.”
He nods. “It’s sort of her go-to.”
I clear my throat before this conversation can venture into territory that requires marriage counseling.
“Jasper, why don’t you go back to the guys?
We’re not here to interrupt your good time.
Mom, Georgie, and I are going to grab that corner booth over there with the excellent sightlines of your table. ”
“Sightlines?” Jasper’s detective instincts are clearly pinging.
“For safety purposes,” I say as I bat my lashes. “You never know when a brawl might break out in a place like this.”
“It’s a craft brewery, not a biker bar.”
“Details.”
Leo grins and tugs Jasper’s arm. “Come on, Detective Killjoy. Let your wife do her thing. The faster she solves this murder, the faster we can all stop pretending we don’t notice Conrad hitting on every woman with a pulse.”
Georgie perks up. “And lucky me, I’ve still got a pulse.”
“For now,” Mom muses.
As Jasper and Leo head back to their testosterone-fueled gathering, I steer Mom and Georgie toward a high-top table positioned perfectly for surveillance.
The dark wood surface is scarred with years of beer rings and carved initials, and the elevated seats give us a clear view of the guys as they raise their beers and nosh on juicy steak dinners.
“This is perfect,” I declare, sliding onto a stool. “We can observe, eavesdrop, and eat overpriced pub food all at the same time.”
“Multitasking at its finest,” Mom agrees.
A server with multiple tattoos and a friendly smile approaches our table. “What can I get you ladies tonight?”
Mom grunts while looking at the menu. “Bizzy, would you order for me?”
“Me, too.” Georgie flings the menu back to the server as if it were a Frisbee. “I forgot my glasses.”
“We’ll all have the loaded nachos to share,” I tell him. “Then I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger with sweet potato fries; she’ll have the grilled salmon,” I point to Mom. “And she’ll have whatever has the most cheese and or fried components.” I gesture to Georgie.
“The mac and cheese burger with onion rings,” the waiter says with a nod.
“And a beer that doesn’t taste like sadness,” Georgie is quick to tell him.
“Coming right up.” The waiter grins and disappears into the controlled chaos of the kitchen.
“So,” I lean forward, “any observations on our suspects?”
Georgie perks up. “Conrad looks even better in casual clothes. Those jeans should be illegal in at least twelve states. And did you see the way he’s leaning back in his chair? That’s pure alpha male confidence on display.”
“Or lower back problems from poor posture,” Mom points out.
“You have no imagination, Red.”
“I have realistic expectations.”
“Same thing.”
I watch the men’s table while they debate Conrad’s theoretical appeal.
Piers sits at the far end, picking at a basket of wings with the enthusiasm of a con man whose mind is elsewhere.
Conrad holds court in the middle, gesturing wildly while telling what I assume is a story designed to impress his audience.
Jasper and Leo are deep in conversation, probably discussing the case—or the fact that Jasper couldn’t seem to shake his nosy wife tonight.
And here I sit studying them all like specimens in a lab.
“Look,” Georgie says suddenly, pointing toward the guys’ table with all the subtlety of a neon sign. “Conrad just flexed his bicep while reaching for his beer. That’s not an accident. That’s strategic masculine signaling. I think he’s flirting with me.”
“Or he’s having a muscle cramp.” Mom sighs.
“Why are you always so determined to crush my romantic fantasies?”
“Because someone needs to keep you grounded in reality.”
“Reality is overrated. Conrad could be my summer romance! My brewery boyfriend! My craft beer connection!”
“Your restraining order waiting to happen,” I mutter, but I’m grinning despite myself.
Our food arrives with impressive speed, and I realize I’m actually starving.
The burger is perfectly charred and dripping with cheese, the sweet potato fries are crispy enough to give an audible crunch, and the loaded nachos are a masterpiece of melted orange goo, jalapenos, and what appears to be half a cow’s worth of toppings.
“This is why I love investigative work,” I declare around a bite of burger. “The snacks are always top-notch.”
“Your investigative work usually involves more running and less eating,” Mom points out.
“What can I say? I’m evolving my methods.”
About twenty minutes goes by of Georgie rating every man in the brewery on a scale of one to ten—that one is a solid eight, but his facial hair screams commitment issues—while Mom regales us with detailed reviews of everyone’s footwear choices—those are clearly expensive boots, but he’s wearing them all wrong, no arch support whatsoever, he’ll have back problems by forty.
From across the room, I hear the scrape of chairs and look up to see most of the guys standing up, beer bottles in hand. They’re migrating toward the pool hall visible through an archway, where I can see green felt tables, overhead lights, and girls in cutoff jeans and tube tops.
“And there they go,” I say, watching the bachelor party redux move en masse toward their next entertainment venue. “Like a herd of slightly intoxicated buffalo.”
But not all of them join the migration. Piers separates from the group and takes a seat at the bar with his shoulders hunched as if he needs a moment alone with his thoughts and his beer.
“Well, well,” I murmur, dabbing a napkin to my lips and sliding off my stool. “Looks like someone just volunteered for a private conversation.”
“Going in for the kill?” Georgie asks with approval.
“Going in for the truth,” I correct. “Much more satisfying in the long run.”
After all, the best confessions always happen when people think they’re just having a good time.