Trouble Brewing: A Parker Lee Mystery, #3

1

O h, no, Ray groaned.

What? I asked.

Break-in.

He pointed to the front door of the Breeze. Someone had crowbarred the lock, shattering the surrounding wood.

Ray stepped away from the door and cursed.

They messed with the camera, too.

I looked up. A security camera perched on a brick ledge near the big sign that said, Lake Breeze Brewery & Restaurant. But the burglar had covered the lens with what looked like a giant wad of gum.

I’ll call Mom, I said, digging my phone out of my pocket.

Thanks, Ray said. I’ll call Roxie.

Roxie, Ray’s wife, was his business partner. She managed the Breeze, handling finances and marketing, while my brother Ray took care of day-to-day operations at the bar and brewery. He was both co-owner and brewmaster.

I’d joined him this morning to get ideas for an article I’d write for The Allington Gazette on the Breeze. It was Roxie’s idea. Part of a marketing campaign they were running, which included posters throughout town. The Gazette, being a local paper, wasn’t above giving local businesses a little extra love. Plus, it was my family. I wasn’t above giving my family a little extra love.

But now this might turn into a front-page story about burglary instead.

Mom answered her cell phone. Hey, Park.

In the background, I could hear voices, someone typing, and another phone ringing—the sounds of the Allington Police Department.

I told her about what happened and she promised to get down to the docks as quick as possible.

Ray said, Let’s go take a look at the damage.

They can’t have gotten away with much, I said, hoping to say something encouraging. They’d need a boat to transport anything valuable. And that would be pretty conspicuous.

I gestured at the lake behind us. The Breeze occupied a brick building that used to be a warehouse for the lake trade back when Allington’s biggest business was lumber. It was the town’s favorite restaurant and bar. The place was often packed with tourists, every table under the awnings on the docks occupied—and locals gathered for dates and sports games and even the occasional wedding reception.

But this early on a Wednesday morning, the docks were abandoned. Out on the lake, a fisherman sat in his rowboat, patiently waiting for a catch. A bird dove into the water near Gull Island and then bobbed up again. The water shimmered. The sky was cloudless and blue. As if scrubbed clean after last night’s rain.

Guess we’ll find out, Ray said, pulling open the door.

Inside, the bar and restaurant smelled of hardwood, beer, and barbecue. A good smell. As I followed Ray, I surveyed the space: the long wooden bar counter, the tables with the chairs stacked on top, and the booths. No sign of damage.

Ray went behind the bar and checked the liquor bottles.

The burglar’s been back here, he said. Took a couple of bottles of bourbon.

Expensive stuff?

Ray shook his head. I don’t carry the cheapest brands, but this wasn’t the premium stuff.

What about the cash register?

It’s open. Doesn’t matter, though. It’s empty. He shut the register with a bang. We empty it every night and put the cash in our safe. The burglar must’ve been pretty disappointed.

So the person just stole some bourbon and then bolted, I said. That’s not too bad.

No, not too bad. We just have to fix the front door. But I’d better check the brewery.

I followed him to the back of the bar. A big sign on the door said, DANGER: Staff Only. Ray pushed open the door. In the brewery, wooden floorboards gave way to white tile. A row of shiny metal tanks crowded the space. Pipes leading to each tank. More pipes criss-crossing the ceiling. On the side of each tank was a sign that said, Danger: HOT.

At the far end, the ceiling opened, and the building expanded upward, leaving space for a row of massive fermentation tanks. They reminded me of silos.

Everything was tidy and clean.

Looks fine, I said.

Ray rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncertain. I sure hope so. We’ve been brewing new batches and preparing for the weekend. We can hardly keep up with demand. Yesterday, we got everything ready for fermentation.

He wandered from tank to tank, checking gauges and looking behind the big metal kettles.

This looks good, he said.

He moved down the brewery toward the back, and I followed him into the high-ceilinged area with the fermentation tanks. Ray stopped. A dead stop.

Something’s not right.

What?

I looked around. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was obsessively clean. Just those massive silo-like metal tanks.

Ray climbed a ladder to a narrow walkway along the tanks. I stayed below.

No, he groaned, as he checked a set of gauges. No, no, no…

What?

He turned toward me. A look of despair on his face.

The burglar must’ve messed with the thermostats. He turned back around, moving down the walkway to the next tank. He cursed. This one, too. And this one, too.

Ray ran down the metal stairs and raced to a spigot at the bottom of one of the tanks. He grabbed a cup from a rack nearby and opened the spigot. Murky liquid spilled into the cup. He took a sip and grimaced.

This can’t be happening…

He ran to the next vat and opened the spigot and tasted the beer there, too. And grimaced again.

I don’t get it, I said. What happens if you tamper with the thermostats?

Ray faced me. He leaned against the vat, as if to steady himself.

It means trouble, Parker. The temperature’s too high, which causes the yeast to produce more esters and phenols. The taste is way off. Plus, there’s a risk of bacterial contamination.

Which means…?

Which means we’ve got to start over. We’ve got to empty all the vats, throwing everything out. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. This is a big blow to the business.

2

After Mom and Deputy Douglas arrived, I decided to leave Ray to cope with the disaster. He didn’t need my support, anyway. Roxie was on her way—although first she needed to drop off Wimsey, their Dalmatian, at a neighbor’s house.

I stepped outside to a gloriously sunny day. Several sailboats cut across Lake Allington and high above me, the single-propeller plane from Allington Tours made a circuit.

My stomach felt off-kilter. Like I was a little seasick. How could something so awful happen on such a beautiful day?

The Breeze would be fine. It would have to be. Roxie would sweep in and get everyone working twice as hard so they could catch up. And she’d make sure Ray was fine, too.

Of course she would.

Even so, I worried. Part of me could never forget the dark periods my brother had gone through when he was younger. I’d been a kid then, but I could still remember the weeks and weeks of Ray not talking to anyone. The closed door. The dark, brooding music vibrating through the wall.

Down at the end of the docks, my other brother, Scottie, was busy unrolling the awning over his ice cream shop. I was tempted to head over and say hello—mostly to tell him about the break-in—but the family grapevine would inform him soon enough.

Besides, I was late for work at The Gazette, and I had a deadline for another story today. If I could knock that one out quickly, I could get the burglary story started, too. It was important news. I only hoped that it wouldn’t do further damage to Ray and Roxie’s business.

I headed down the docks, away from the direction of Scottie’s Ice Cream Shop. My sneakers padded on the boards. Beneath them, the water sloshed against the pilings. I could see the water moving down there in the gloom and I could see⁠—

I stopped. What was that?

A card. I crouched down and picked it up.

It was about the size of a credit card. Heavy paper stock. Glossy. Bright colors, which was why it caught my eye. But it was frayed at the edges, and so badly rubbed and waterlogged that its print had worn out. Still, the image on the front was obviously an illustration of Jesus.

I straightened up, and flipping it over, saw a text printed on the back. Most of it had been ruined by the rain. It was difficult to read. God grant me—the next part was illegible—to accept the—illegible again—know the difference.

Must be a prayer of some sort.

Even I could work that out.

Down in the bottom right-hand corner, which was torn and frayed, it said, Concord. Though that might only be half of the text, since the other half was too frayed to read. Concord was a place, of course. Concord, New Hampshire. Concord, Massachusetts. Wasn’t there a Concord in California, too?

As I was considering the card, I glanced up and noticed that one of the old souvenir shops had closed. Now, signs announced a new business opening soon. A man in blue overalls on a ladder was hanging a sign that said, Wine Bar.

A new wine bar? I’d have to ask around about that.

Then this popped into my mind: Concord grapes.

I looked down at the card I’d found again. Did the Jesus card have something to do with the wine bar? I shook my head at myself. Concord grapes were used for juice, not wine. Not usually, anyway. Maybe a tourist dropped it. Probably just trash. But even small mysteries could keep me up at night—like a crossword puzzle left undone.

So I stuffed it into my pocket.

3

At the end of the docks, I turned up Main Street. Passing the municipal parking lot, I spotted Dani D’Angelo, and my heart sank.

I liked Dani. Brown buzzcut. Big brown eyes. Lots of piercings in her ears and nose, and a big yin-yang tattoo on her left shoulder. She had the kind of open, friendly face that made her instantly likable. At least to me.

But right now, I didn’t want to talk to her. She was an assistant brewer and bartender at the Breeze. And I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news.

As I hurried past the parking lot, she was halfway out of her car, a beat-up red Toyota Camry that must’ve changed hands a dozen times. She locked the car, actually turning a key in a lock (no bleep-bleep for this old clunker), and then looked up. Her eyes zeroing right in on me.

Parker—hey!

I froze.

There was a spring to her step. An eagerness as she headed toward me.

You’re sprightly this morning, I mumbled. Aren’t you, like, many hours early for work?

She laughed. Yeah, and I’m totally suffering from sleep deprivation. I was at the brewery late last night. Then got home and could hardly sleep. Not with the latest batch we’ve worked on being ready for testing. I wanted to get to the Breeze early so I could see how the beer’s doing.

I rubbed the back of my neck. I couldn’t pretend nothing had happened. I was about to write about it in The Gazette, for crying out loud. I shouldn’t be running away from Dani. A journalist’s job was to talk to people.

So talk I would.

I let out a long sigh. Nothing like delivering bad news to someone so happy.

Listen, Dani, I said. Something’s happened…

As I told her, she put a hand in front of her mouth. Her eyes went wide.

No, she said. That can’t be true. Why would someone do that? I mean, I get it if someone steals booze from the bar. But why would they tamper with our fermentation? Why would anyone—? She stopped. Looked off into the distance, frowning. If I find out who did this… Then shook her head and sighed.