Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
A Leopard and Its Spots
Gideon
Thursday afternoon at The Den was the kind of day I enjoyed. Good conversation, steady orders, and the perfect level of busy where I could work the bar without having to manage anything more complicated than keeping up with the drinks.
I was pulling a pint when Beckett walked in.
Last I’d heard, Grady had picked him up, but apparently, he’d let him go.
The fury that had been running hot at the festival was banked down to something lower and more exhausted.
He dropped onto a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the other patrons, his posture making it clear he wanted to be left alone.
I finished the pour, delivered it, and made my way down to him.
"What can I get you, Beckett?”
He looked up. "Anything but the Ravenswood Red."
I pulled him a stout without comment and set it in front of him. He wrapped both hands around the glass and didn't drink it right away. Just held it.
"You were there. At the festival. When I—" He stopped. Rubbed the back of his neck. "When I made a complete idiot of myself in front of half the town."
"You said what you thought you needed to say," I said. I kept my voice neutral. Not dismissive, not encouraging. Just even.
He laughed, short and humorless. "Yeah, well. The whole town has decided that what I needed to say turned out to be a murder confession, so." He finally took a drink. Set the glass down. "Grady picked me up and questioned me."
"I heard."
“Everyone did. This is Ravenstone.” He shook his head.
"I didn't do it. I was angry. God, I was angry.
I still am." He turned the glass slowly.
"Roy stole from me. Not money. Something worse than money.
Three years of work. And he walked up those stage steps and collected a ribbon for it with no mention of my name.
" His jaw tightened. "So yeah, I said what I said. But I didn't kill him."
"Grady must agree if he let you go." I kept my comment casual, the way I did when I wanted the person on the other side of the bar to feel comfortable to keep talking.
Beckett's expression shifted slightly. Something complicated moved through it. A flash of something that might have been embarrassment, or irony, or both at once.
"I had an alibi," he said.
“That’s good for you.”
"Yeah." He took another drink, longer this time. "The guy doing publicity for Kettlebrook. We, uh—" He turned the glass again. "We ran into each other at the hotel bar after the festival wrapped up Monday night. Ended up talking for a while." A pause. "Among other things."
Among other things. I kept my face neutral, but my mind wasn’t.
Josh had spent Monday night with Beckett.
So much for his undying love for Declan.
You know what they say about leopards changing their spots.
I would have to make sure I was the one who told Declan because there was no way that would stay a secret in Ravenstone.
Not with half the town seeing Beckett arrested.
Everyone would want to know why he was released.
"Well, it’s good that someone can vouch for you," I said.
"It is." Beckett's voice had gone flat. "But you know how this town is.
Even though Grady cleared me and let me go, I'm still the guy who got arrested for it.
In a town I've lived my whole life." He pressed his thumb against a ring of condensation on the bar. "That’s what people remember, no matter what happens. No matter how many other people had even more reason to kill him.”
I didn't say anything because there wasn't much to say to that. He wasn't wrong about how these things worked. Arrested was a word that stuck even after it stopped being true. I was curious who else he thought had motive, though, but before I could ask, he went on.
"I just want my recipe back," he said quietly.
"That's all I wanted. I didn't want him dead.
I wanted him to stand up in front of the same crowd and admit what he'd done.
That's it." He exhaled. "And now he's dead and he never will, and I still don't have anything to show for three years of work, and everyone in town thinks I'm a murderer.
" He picked up his glass. "So. Great week.”
Someone down the bar motioned for a drink, so I decided to give him a minute while I took care of the other patrons before I circled back to see who he suspected.
He sat there, working through his beer, not talking to anyone, not looking for company—when the door opened and Fletcher came in.
He scanned the bar once, found Beckett, and headed straight for him. He pulled out the stool next to Beckett and sat down like he'd been expected, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t since Beckett looked at him the way you looked at something unpleasant you'd found on the bottom of your shoe.
"Fletcher."
"Beckett." Fletcher flagged me down and ordered a whiskey. Then turned back to Beckett before I'd finished pouring it. "I heard they let you go."
"Word travels fast."
"This is Ravenstone." Fletcher accepted his glass without looking at me. "I'm glad. Truly. None of this"—he gestured vaguely in a way that seemed to encompass Roy's death, the festival, the whole week—"is what any of us wanted."
"Mm," Beckett said, in a tone that conveyed very little agreement.
I moved down the bar. Far enough for a human to not overhear their conversation. My hearing, of course, didn’t have such limitations.
"I'll get right to it," Fletcher said. "With Roy gone, running Black Feather Brewery is up to me, and I need a brewer."
Beckett said nothing. Didn’t ask any questions. Which told me that, unlike most of us, he already knew about the partnership between Roy and Fletcher. That made sense, I guess, since he worked for Roy for years.
"The Kettlebrook contract is still on the table. That agreement doesn’t die just because he did.
But it's no good if I can’t produce Ravenswood Red, and right now, I don't have any way to deliver that.
" He turned his glass. "You're the best brewmaster in the region. Everyone knows it. Roy knew it, that’s why he used your recipe.”
“You knew about that?”
"I found out after the fact." Fletcher's voice was even and unbothered in the way of someone who'd rehearsed this part. "I want you to know I had nothing to do with that. Roy handled the brewing; I was just the money guy."
"Silent partner," Beckett nodded. "Emphasis on silent."
"That was the plan, but things have changed. The brewery is still a viable business. The contract is real. And what happened to your recipe? That wrong can be corrected. Credit where it's due. Proper attribution. Roy isn't here to argue otherwise."
I watched Beckett's hands around his glass. Still. Too still.
"And the other brewers?" Beckett asked. "Rumor is Roy hexed their entries. Ivan? Malcolm? They’re saying they lost because Roy cheated. What happens to them?"
Fletcher shrugged—a small, precise motion. "The contest results stand. If they have issues with that, they can take it up with the festival committee." A beat. "You, on the other hand, have something worth taking up. A real claim. And I'm offering you the chance to do something with it."
Beckett looked at him for a long moment.
"Can I ask you something?" Beckett said.
"Of course."
"Do you think one of them did it?" His voice had shifted—something harder underneath it now. “Killed Roy? Ivan, Malcolm, whoever. Roy’s dead, and you're the one left with the brewery. So I'm curious what you actually think happened.”
Something moved behind Fletcher's eyes. Brief. Controlled. Gone before it became anything readable.
"I think Roy made some enemies," Fletcher said.
"I think some of them were in that competition.
And I think Grady will figure out which one of them couldn't let it go.
" He straightened slightly. "What I know is that I'm left with a business that needs to keep running, and I'd rather build something with the best brewer available than watch it fall apart. "
Beckett looked at him for another moment. Then he drained the last of his stout, set the glass down with a quiet, definitive click, and stood up.
"No," he said.
Fletcher blinked. "Beckett—"
"I'm not interested." His voice was steady, the simmering anger still there but controlled now.
"Not in working for Black Feather. Not in working for you. Not in any version of this where someone else’s name is on the building and I'm the one keeping the lights on.
" He pulled out his wallet and set some bills on the bar. “I won’t do that again.”
He picked up his jacket.
"You're making a mistake," Fletcher said.
"I don’t think so." Beckett glanced back at him, and there was something almost calm in his face now, like someone who'd made a decision and meant it. "I've made a few this week, but I don’t think this is another one.”
He walked out.
The door settled closed behind him.
Fletcher sat for a moment with his whiskey and his grim expression, then he finished the drink in one swallow, set the glass down, and left.
I picked up both glasses and wiped down the bar.
Tate appeared at my elbow twenty minutes later, collecting empties from the far end.
"That looked intense," he said, low enough not to carry.
"It was."
He shrugged. “At least they kept it civil. Sable’s not in the mood for a bar fight tonight.” He picked up his tray and went back to work.
I pulled out my phone and sent Declan a text.
Me: Fletcher just tried to recruit Beckett. Beckett turned him down. We need to talk.
The reply came back in under a minute.
Declan: We do. I have things to tell you, too. Also, I may have accidentally seen through Licorice's eyes today, and there’s a lot to unpack there.
Declan: Also I went to yoga and drank beer.
I stared at my phone for a moment.
Me: Come to the pub when you're ready.
Declan: Already on my way. Save me something to eat.
I pocketed my phone and looked around. The pub hummed along like normal.
People eating, drinking, and talking, but something in this situation was shifting.
I could feel it. Not with certainty, just a wolf who'd caught a scent and hadn't found the source.
I needed Declan to get here so we could compare notes.