Instead, I waved a hand toward the mysteries below. “Pretty impressive.”
“I could give you a tour,” he offered, unenthusiastic, almost listless. “Nothing much ever happens here.”
“Another time I’d love it,” I assured him, and meant it. The place always fascinated me. “Right now I’ve come about a donation.”
Dave nodded. “The Dinner-in-the-Park. Yeah.” His lip curled. “Still can’t believe you actually got that old skinflint to give you some bottles.”
“Well, he came through with a few, last year,” I said.
Dave snorted. “Yeah, in exchange for some favor, I bet. He can be pretty free with the failed experimental batches, if there’s something in it for him. But I’ll bet he never offered one of the bottles with the Official Seal.” His tone capitalized the words. A single bottle with Brandywine Distillery’s official seal could sell anywhere from thirty dollars up to sixty, depending on the specific product. Those never got handed out
“Failures are fine, as long as they’re edible. Or do I mean potable?”
“The ones that aren’t, we just pour down the drain.” He turned away, his shoulders sagging even more. “Come on, let’s see what we can find for you.” He gestured for me to follow him through the doorway and onto the catwalk.
The metal grating clanged louder than ever under our combined four feet, but I looked straight ahead instead of down, and pretended I walked on something solid. It didn’t work very well. We rounded the inner corner, descended the open stairs-with me clinging to the railing-then passed through another doorway labeled “New Products”. I found myself in a large room lined with kegs, vats and shelves filled with bottles that bore only a large numbered colored dot in lieu of a label. One wall held a long countertop set at desk height, on which rested four computer monitors and keyboards.
“Experiments and trial batches,” he said. “That lot over there…” he gestured to a fifteen-liter stainless steel keg with several bottles standing on the shelf above, “not up to expectations. Tastes all right, but nothing spectacular. He gave orders it’s to be gotten rid of. Adam says it’s drinkable.”
“Sampled it, did he?”
Dave shrugged. “Why not? He’s swing-shift supervisor, he can do pretty much what he wants. Long as the bottles aren’t labeled, they’re fair game, I guess. So, want some?”
I eyed it with suspicion. They bore bright blue circular spots with “1-A” written on them. “What is it?”
“Cranberry orange. You can taste it first, if you like. From what I’ve been hearing,” he added with a sudden twisting of his lips that was almost a smile, “you could use a stiff drink. Or did you celebrate Brody’s death like the rest of us?”
“Not celebrate, exactly. It wasn’t fun, finding him.”
“Your poor aunt.” He shook his head, but nothing could diminish his obvious pleasure at Brody’s untimely-or was that timely?-demise.
I cast him a speculative glance. “At least you have nothing to worry about from that new sheriff. You’d have just come on duty when Brody was murdered.”
Dave hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t get here until almost seven, usually.” He sounded reluctant, as if he didn’t want to admit it even to me. As if he wanted to give himself an alibi? Why-unless he had some cause to want Brody dead and thought himself a suspect.
I studied his slumped shoulders, his morose demeanor, the undercurrents of anger and frustration. Something was seriously wrong with the man, but if it had to do with Brody, wouldn’t his problems be over, now? Or had he killed him?
Well, if Dave had gotten himself into some trouble here at the Still, Peggy O’Shaughnessy might know something about it. She did the books here. And Peggy involved herself in everybody’s life. If Peggy knew someone, even on a business footing, she ferreted out everything there was to know about them.
“Well?” Dave asked. “How many you need? There’s some peach almond, too,” he gestured toward a row of bottles with orange spots, “but you might want to warn people first, about that one.”
I considered. “Sounds good to me. A few bottles of each, maybe? Think that would be all right?”
He shrugged, obviously not caring. “Sure. Saturday for the clean-up? Then a few more for Sunday’s dinner? I’ll bring them over.” He turned on his heel and left the room.
I hurried after, thanking him as we remounted the clanging stairs. I’d have felt better if the bottles were actually in my possession, but if Dave said he’d bring them, that meant a few less items for me to lug around. And in spite of his offering them with such certainty, he might have to get approval before handing them out. I thanked him again at the front door and heard him lock it behind me as I turned to sprint for my car.
Once safe inside, I checked my lists. Other than phone calls about pies, I was doing pretty well. Which meant I could take a few minutes off and turn my attention to Cindy Brody’s catty comment about Sue Hinkel having some information about Aunt Gerda.
I eased Freya out of the parking lot and felt the tires slide on the drenched road. If I weren’t careful, we’d hydroplane right through that flimsy metal barrier, over the edge of the gulch and end up in the river. I crept along, grateful no one else was trying to negotiate this stretch of sharp curves.
It took me a good ten minutes to reach the bridge, then we were over it and headed toward our one set of stop signs and our miniature downtown. I turned onto Fallen Tree Road, then pulled into one of the empty spaces in front of The Salon, Sue Hinkel’s domain.
She really had done an amazing job on the place. It had been a very tiny house, vintage 1920, all tiny rooms, sagging front steps, and windows with half a ton of putty holding the panes in their warped frames. But Sue had given the exterior a coat of white paint, added a safety railing to the shallow steps, and generally made the best of a bad situation. She’d managed to make the interior country casual with a hint of
I opened the door, and the string of Tibetan temple bells that hung from it jingled, musical and not the least jarring. The aroma of flowers and herbs greeted me, nothing perfumey or chemical for Sue unless it was absolutely necessary-such as my perms. Whenever possible, she used only the finest natural products.
The woman who sat in the chair broke off whatever she was saying, turned to look at me, and waved in a friendly fashion. I waved back, but I had no idea who she was. Short and slender, she wore mud-splattered jeans and leather lace-up boots. The arms of an old flannel shirt protruded from beneath the voluminous pink and gray protector draped over her clothes. An earthy green mud pack slathered across her face, and all I could determine of her features consisted of a generous mouth with protruding teeth.
Sue grinned at me. “How’re you coping?”
I sank onto the spare salon chair. “Got you down for a dozen pies.”
Sue snorted. “Fat chance.” Then her gaze rested on my face and turned thoughtful. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I look that bad?” I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or merely depressed. But if it got the pies baked, maybe it was worth looking like something one of the cats left half-chewed on the rug.
“Did you just drop in to give me the good news, or is there something else I can do for you?” She picked up a cloth and wiped off a thick layer of the herbal green muck from her client’s face. The well-known features emerged of Judy Wharton, who ran the feed store along with her husband Gregg.
“When you have a few minutes,” I said.
Judy seemed to take that as her cue, and picked up where she had left off on her stream of local gossip. I was surprised at how many names I didn’t recognize, but then considering the litany of troubles attached to them, it was probably just as well. I let it roll over me, and came to the conclusion that chairing a SCOURGE project might not be the worst fate, after all. Just goes to show how gullible I was feeling. By the time Sue rinsed off the last of the mud and had added clarifying lotions and moisturizers, I felt myself well acquainted with all the newcomers to our tiny community.
Sue whipped off the towel that had protected Judy’s hair, revealing a highlighted brown blunt cut. She set to work restyling, producing her usual wizardry, completely transforming her customer. Delighted, Judy Wharton left, leaving a generous tip-and a promise to bake a dozen pies, if I’d drop the stuff by her house later that evening. I
