Deadly Brew (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 3) Page 5

  "Afraid I'm booked this afternoon," Mitch said. "Got some clients coming in. Can you get her there without me? I've got a trailer you can borrow."

  "That'll work," Tobias said.

  "Send me the bill," Mitch said blithely.

  I hoped Tobias would double it.

  5

  "Mitch Wharton's a jerk," I announced to Tobias once we'd gotten the oryx stitched up and settled. I'd helped him out with the surgery, scrubbing up and handing him tools as he needed them because his assistant was out on a call. It wasn't my favorite thing to do, but I'd learned a few things.

  "He is a jerk," Tobias agreed as he did a last check on the bandages, "but I try to take care of the animals."

  "Do you think he did in his brother?"

  He stood up and stepped away from the oryx, who was still sedated. "No way to know. But he didn't seem too broken up about it."

  "I wonder what Bug's will looks like."

  "You thinking about that conversation with the mystery woman?" Tobias asked as he let himself out of the oryx's stall.

  "I am. He told her he could give her anything she wanted now. I wonder who she was?"

  "Whoever it was, she certainly wasn't buying it, was she?"

  "No, but he has something she wanted."

  "All kinds of mystery," Tobias said. "And I'm sure you'll find out."

  "I hope so," I said. "I have a bad feeling about this."

  "Have you talked to the folks over at the winery since it happened?"

  "No," I said, "but I'm thinking about it."

  "It'd be worth looking in to," he said.

  "I think so, too. I just wish I knew what was in that will."

  "I'll bet Quinn could find out."

  He was probably right. "You don't think this was an accident either, do you?" I asked him.

  He shook his head. "I'm worried about Peter, to be honest. Rooster can't stand him—thinks he's an Austin hippie—and he and Bug had a shouting match at the protest just last week."

  "And then Aimee pulled that death card..." It wasn't looking good.

  "I'm not saying Rooster's going to arrest Peter—I'm not sure how you call anaphylactic shock murder—but I think it might be smart to ask around a little bit, just so there's some other plausible explanation in case he does."

  "If someone planted bees and tampered with the EpiPen, I'd say that sounds like murder."

  "I hadn't thought of that," Tobias said. "It would explain why it wouldn't work."

  "Was the truck locked?" I asked.

  "I have no idea," he said.

  "It doesn't matter that much, really; if someone knew he kept it in the glove compartment, they could have tampered with it at any time."

  Tobias nodded. "And then picked a good moment to make sure he got stung."

  "He was at the ball; the whole town was there. Everyone knew he and Peter had argued."

  "He and Serafine tangled, too," Tobias reminded me. "So, lots of options if you wanted to throw people off your scent."

  "I think I may need to go talk with Serafine and Aimee."

  "I'd go with you, but I need to keep an eye on her while she's recovering. Call when you get back, okay?."

  "I will. I still haven't dealt with the well, either," I realized suddenly.

  "Stop by Peter's on the way," he suggested. "Maybe he can fill up the pumper truck for you."

  "It's worth a shot," I said. "I'll do that."

  He gave me a kiss as I headed toward the door. "Keep me posted."

  Peter wasn't home, unfortunately, so I headed on to visit Serafine and Aimee.

  The Honeyed Moon winery looked just as magical in the daytime as it had at the ball. The cauldron was gone from the fire pit, but the pumpkins and straw bales remained in the courtyard between the barn and the farmhouse. Chrysanthemums spilled out of pots by the front door of the barn—the winery's main working space—and a tangle of queen's wreath climbed up the side of the building, a profusion of blooms swaying in the light breeze. Clumps of Mexican bush sage bloomed rich purple, and the soft, velvety flowers were buzzing with bees. A sweet, honeyed smell hung in the air, and I could hear the sound of humming from the barn.

  "Hello?" I called as I approached the big double doors, which were ajar.

  "Come in!" I recognized Serafine's voice.

  "It's Lucy," I said as I stepped into the cool, sweet-scented interior of the barn.

  "You've got perfect timing," Serafine said as she fitted a small valve-looking object to the top of a big glass jug. The air smelled intoxicating; in addition to honey, there was a lingering scent of summer peaches. She was working at a big, wooden farm table in the middle of the barn. The space was outfitted with several tables, a variety of enormous pots, something that looked like a stove, an assortment of intimidating-looking—to me, anyway—equipment, and a few funnels. There were racks of empty bottles and several rolls of Serafine's hand-designed Honeyed Moon labels. "I'm just finishing up this batch of melomel."

  "What's melomel?"

  "It's a mead flavored with fruit," Serafine said as she stepped back to observe her work: a dozen glass jugs filled with amber liquid. Despite last night's fiasco, I was glad to see that she seemed to be in good spirits. She wiped her hands on her overalls, and I found myself envying her. Even with the old work boots and faded overalls, her gorgeous pile of braided hair and her flawless skin made her look exotic and beautiful. "We put up a lot of the peach harvest as puree in the spring so that we can make it all year round. It's one of my favorites," she said. "Customers like it, too; one of the stores in Austin sells out almost as fast as we can make it."

  "How long does it take to make?"

  "Now that it's mixed, it'll take three rackings—three or four months—before it's done," she said. "We keep everything in a climate-controlled room in the back of the barn and label it so we don't lose track of it. Here... come help me put these carboys in and I'll show you."

  "Carboys?"

  "That's what these glass containers are," she informed me as she lugged one onto a cart. "It's what we use to ferment the mead."

  I grasped one of the warm jugs and slid it onto the cart. "A lot of people use plastic, but we like to use glass. We're on the lookout for more used equipment; we're trying to expand."

  "That's great news," I said. "Are you sure you can spare me the bees in the spring?"

  "Of course," she said as she loaded another carboy onto the cart. "We've found a supplier for the honey; she's giving it to us at a really good price, and it's delicious stuff. All local."

  "Think she'd be interested in supplying beeswax, too?" I asked. Beeswax candles were one of my most popular market items.

  "I'll ask," she said.

  Together, we finished loading the carboys onto the cart, and I watched as Serafine tied a label to each of them. "What are those for?" I asked.

  "They tell me what it is and when it was made," she said. "When you make as much mead as we do, you have to keep track. I put it on my calendar, too, so I have a master list." She slid the last jug onto the cart, then walked over and opened the sealed door to the back half of the barn. "Ready?" she asked, switching on a light, and I followed her and the cart into the dark, wine-scented storage room.

  The walls were lined with jugs. Some were cloudy, some were clear, and the colors ranged from golden to deep berry red. "Wow," I said. "That's a lot of mead. What do you do when you bottle it?"

  "We keep it back here," she said, pointing to a stack of crates I hadn't noticed. "Most we bottle; we keep a few in carboys for events like the ball. Aimee is sanitizing the ones we used so we can use them again." She pulled a face. "And of course they took some of our stuff after what happened to Bug Wharton."

  "What?" I asked.

  "For evidence," she said, quirking her mouth to the side. "Although it doesn't make any sense to me. I heard he died of a bee sting. Just because you're allergic to bee stings doesn't mean you'll have a reaction to honey. Besides," she added, "if he was worried about
it, he shouldn't have had any."

  "You weren't too crazy about him, were you?"

  "No," she said shortly as she washed her hands at a big sink. "Our views on animals were about as opposite as you can get. He raises them as objects to be hunted. I try to save them from being mistreated."

  "I was just out there this morning. One of their animals was attacked by what looked like a coyote or a mountain lion," I told her. "I don't know if they go after dogs, but you might want to keep an eye out."

  "I did hear a ruckus the other night," she said, "but whatever spooked everyone was gone by the time I got outside. Speaking of dogs," she said, "I've got to feed everyone and medicate one of them. Aimee was supposed to be back by now, but there's no sign of her. Would you mind giving me a hand?"

  "I'd be happy to," I said, following her out of the barn, a little surprised when she locked the door behind her.

  "I know it's weird in Buttercup," she said, "but mead's alcoholic. Someone broke in not too long ago. Didn't do much damage, but a couple of things disappeared."

  "Nothing valuable, I hope?"

  "I don't think so, but they did lift a few cases of mead. Probably teenagers. So now I lock things up when I leave."

  She pocketed the key and headed to a small building next to the farmhouse. As she approached, there was a raucous chorus of barking, accompanied by a number of wagging tails. A three-legged yellow Lab, a scruffy-looking black Scottie, and a gray German shepherd trotted up to greet Serafine as she opened the gate and walked into the yard. The Scottie stood up on her hind legs, begging to be picked up; Serafine ruffled her head with a laugh. "She's small, but she holds her own with everyone," she said. "If I could, I'd have them all in the house, but there'd be no room for me on the bed!"

  "I understand," I said, thinking of Chuck, who took up an awful lot of space for a poodle. I often found myself relegated to six inches of bed—sometimes less.

  We walked into the small house, which was outfitted with an overstuffed couch, a chair, and a very basic kitchenette. A giant bin of dog food stood on the counter, along with a basket of various medications, and there were at least fifteen crates in the room, most unoccupied. I helped her feed everyone, then waited as she called the outside dogs in and sent out three more.

  "Where's the sick one?" I asked.

  "In the house," she said. "She's not ready for all this yet; she's still recovering."

  I followed her out of the sanctuary and across the yard to the farmhouse she shared with her sister. Like Serafine, the house was decorated in a fun, quirky manner, with a hanging string of crystals and mirrors and a gaily colored metal rooster on the front porch. I followed her into the house, which smelled of spices and roses—not, thankfully, dog—and into the kitchen, where the small white dog I'd seen the day before was curled on a fluffy dog bed.

  At least I think it was a dog; it was shaved, and looked more like a scabby goat.

  "Hey, Chiquis," she said in a soft voice. The little dog looked up at her with big brown eyes, trembling.

  "How did she end up with that horrible skin infection?" I asked.

  "Neglect," Serafine said. "The shelter called me last week to come and get her; she's got mange, secondary skin infections, worms, the works."

  "That's horrible," I said.

  "I know," she told me, picking up the little dog. "She's been this way for more than a year, too; the family tried to surrender her last September. I think they were just struggling to get by. The shelter gave them funds to use at a vet, but they only used sixty dollars of it, so she's suffered for at least twelve months."

  "Is it fixable?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said. "It's just time-consuming. She's worth it, though, aren't you?" she cooed as she lifted the little dog. "Can you hold her while I give her her medicine?"

  "Sure," I said as she handed me the little dog, who weighed maybe ten pounds. She had a mousy smell to her.

  "What's the smell?" I asked.

  "Unfortunately, it's the mange," she said, wrinkling her nose. "I'll give her another special bath tonight; it helps her skin heal and makes her feel more comfortable." As I watched, she measured out some fluid into a syringe and walked over to me.

  "There's a good girl," she cooed as she slipped it into Chiquis's mouth. "I know it tastes bad, but it will make you feel better." She put down the syringe and gave the little dog a bit of cheese, which she gulped down.

  Chiquis had just finished her treat when the door opened, and Serafine's sister, Aimee, walked in. "I talked to..." she started, then spotted me and stopped short. "Oh. Hi."

  "Hey, sis. Lucy was just helping me medicate Chiquis," Serafine told her. "And I just finished making the peach melomel," she added with an edge to her voice.

  "Sorry I was late getting back," Aimee said, her eyes sliding over to me. She wore a long blue gypsy-style skirt, a gray crop top, and a sparkly blue jacket; she looked more like she was dressed for a date in Austin than work at a winery in Buttercup.

  "No problem," Serafine said. "There's plenty more to do... I haven't cleaned out the chicken coop yet."

  Aimee let out a big sigh, sounding just like a teenager. She opened her mouth as if she were going to say something, then glanced at me and thought better of it. The kitchen seemed to fill up with unspoken words.

  "I'm going to show Lucy the hives," Serafine said, getting up abruptly. Chiquis trembled in my lap; she seemed to be fairly sensitive to what was going on around her. I stroked her scabby head, and she settled down. Poor thing; she really did look like a goat. She didn't smell so hot, either, but I knew it wasn't her fault.

  "I'll take her," Serafine said. I relinquished the little dog to her, and she gently replaced her on her bed. Chiquis looked up at me with scared brown eyes, then curled up in a tiny ball.

  "Poor baby," I said.

  "I know. It's terrible what people put animals through," Serafine said gently. "At any rate, let's go look at the hives!"

  Serafine paused to remind her sister about the chicken coop, but Aimee said nothing; she just pressed her lips together.

  "Man," Serafine said when the door closed behind us. "I don't know what's up with her lately."

  "What's wrong?"

  "For the past month or two, she hasn't been herself," Serafine told me. "Gone all the time. We started this whole thing as a partnership, but lately, I'm wondering if maybe the old advice about mixing business and family was something I should have paid more attention to."

  "What do you think is going on?" I asked as we walked away from the house toward the back of the property.

  "I don't know, but I wish she'd get past it," she said. "It's hard enough trying to keep the place going with two people; solo, it's next to impossible."

  "I hear you," I said. "Some days I'd love it if someone else would get up and milk the cow and do the chores."

  "Not a lot of vacation days for a farmer, are there?" Serafine asked as we approached the nearest hive.

  "No, not so much," I said. "Hey, did Rooster ask you any more questions about what happened to Bug Wharton the other night?"

  I felt the atmosphere change, and her response was clipped. "No. Why?"

  "Oh... He can be a total idiot, that's all."

  Her tone turned sharp. "I heard some people in town think I cast a spell on him, or poisoned him, or something."

  "Anytime something happens, the rumor mill starts going. People talk," I said, "but it doesn't mean anything. Honestly, I'm more worried about Rooster than anyone else. He doesn't like outsiders."

  "Or witches or people of color, either, I imagine." Her voice was bitter.

  I wasn't going to argue with her on that one; she was probably right. "Let's just take it a day at a time, Serafine. I believe in what you're doing here. You know you can count me as a friend."

  A small smile brightened her face. "Thanks. I'm sorry I overreacted. Most of the time I'm okay with it, but sometimes... well, sometimes it gets to me."

  "I imagine so," I said. "A
nd last night was kind of a nightmare."

  "Kind of?" She gave a wry laugh. "I keep handing things over to the goddess, trying not to worry about things I can't control, but some days it's hard."

  "I hear you," I said, thinking about my unsolved well problem as we approached the hives.

  "But enough about that," she said. "Let's talk about bees."

  She spent the next half hour introducing me to beekeeping and showing me how to set up a hive. When I left, it was with a block of beeswax and a chunk of honeycomb.

  I gave her a big hug; she smelled like spices and honey. "Thanks, Serafine."

  She grinned at me. "Happy to help. I'll e-mail you the hive info tonight."

  "I'll look for it." I hesitated. "Have you thought about having a rain date for the Witches' Ball, by the way? Halloween is next Saturday; Friday the thirtieth would be perfect."

  "I'll think about it," she said. "In the meantime, thanks for all your support." She squeezed my hand and I thanked her again for the tour—and the goodies.

  As I pulled out of the Honeyed Moon winery, I noticed a beat-up green Kia near the entrance, with a "Keep Austin Weird" sticker on the back. It looked awfully familiar.

  With a sinking feeling, I realized it was the same car I'd seen at the exotic game ranch earlier that day.

  6

  Peter still wasn't home when I left the winery, so I left a voicemail on his cell and headed home, where I spent the remainder of the afternoon in my kitchen. After making it through a long, blistering summer, the cool weather of autumn always left me wanting to bake. Using some leftover chicken I had in the fridge, I put together a chicken pot pie for dinner later with Quinn, Peter, and Tobias, making extra pie dough so I could whip up a batch of my grandmother's apple dumplings. Once the pie was ready to go, I tucked it into the fridge and checked to make sure I had everything ready for the Sunday afternoon market—it was delayed a day because of a high school event—and then retrieved my grandmother's cookbook from the top of the pie safe, turning to her apple dumpling recipe. I knew Quinn would be bringing pie, but I'd been thinking about those dumplings all week. Some of my fondest memories were of baking in the kitchen with her, and the way the week had gone, I was in need of some comfort.