that’s what I’m thinking too. Then again, I think it’s understandable Ronald is laying low. As a preteen, he got blamed for almost everything bad happening around here, whether he was involved in it or not. What a mess. I have so many pieces of this puzzle, but none of them fit together to make sense.”
“Isn’t that what Jake is supposed to do, make sense out of this stuff?”
“That’s not what I want to hear right now.”
“You know I’m right about this. However much animosity you have for him, this is a police matter. You’ve got to tell him everything. Besides, from your odd behavior, I’m beginning to think you have some kind of a thing for him.”
“I do not have a thing for him,” I yelled. “Okay,” I said, calming down, “maybe you’re right. I’d better stop by the department and talk to him.”
My cell phone rang. When I answered it, Jeremiah was on the line. Although his voice was calm, I could tell from the slow and determined way he strung together his words that he was worried, terribly worried about the fermentation.
“The yeast doesn’t want to work. I thought maybe our thermostat was giving us trouble again, so I bumped up the temperature to the top of the fermentation range, around fifty degrees to see if the mercury moved. Nothing. She’s not fermenting. It’s like the yeast is dead,” Jeremiah said.
Ten
That’s all I needed, a bad batch of yeast. Was it incorrect storage on my part, or did the manufacturer send me a degraded product? Damn, damn. I pounded on the steering wheel as I raced home. I should slow down. These country roads were tricky. A patch of gravel, and my truck could fly off the road, and it wouldn’t make any difference whether my yeast was dead or not. I would be.
I careened into my drive, floored it up the hill, and brought the truck to an abrupt halt in front of the barn. I jumped out, leaving the door open, and bolted into the brew house. The new man Brian, a slight, fair-haired college student, paused in his shoveling of the grain from the mash lauter and nodded to me as I entered.
“I told Brian this wasn’t the way things usually went,” said Jeremiah.
“No, it isn’t.” I climbed the metal steps to the top of the fermentation vessel, opened the hatch, and looked in. Nothing. The brew sat there still, not a bubble on the surface and no yeasty fermentation smell.
I checked the outlet valve and the temperature of the mash. “We’re not pulling carbon dioxide from the outlet valve. Hand me the yeast bottle again,” I said, holding out my hand. The bottle looked like our usual bottles. I smelled the residue left in the bottom and looked at the sludge still clinging to the inside. “It looks different somehow. Something’s not right with this yeast.” A growing suspicion began to work its way through my mind. I extracted my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Rafe’s number.
“I’d be glad to drop by and see if I can help,” Rafe said. “Be there in five.”
When Rafe’s tall frame entered my barn, I wasn’t sure I was happy to see him. When he confirmed my hunch about the yeast, I was horrified.
We cranked up the temperature of the liquid as he suggested and waited. At around seventy degrees, we began to see bubbles, and I could bleed off carbon dioxide, one of the by-products of fermentation—alcohol being the other—from the chamber.
“You’re making an ale,” Rafe announced. He sounded proud of me.
“I didn’t intend to make an ale and certainly not using your stolen yeast.”
“You don’t know that,” he said.
“Don’t be silly. You know it’s true also. Now what?”
“Your call,” he said, guessing what I would do.
I dialed the one number I’d been avoiding all day.
“Jake. You’d better get over here. I think I have the stolen yeast.”
*
“I suppose you intend to arrest me now,” I said. Rafe and I had explained about the yeast. “You could use that fancy DNA profiling to be sure, but
“Isn’t that what Jake is supposed to do, make sense out of this stuff?”
“That’s not what I want to hear right now.”
“You know I’m right about this. However much animosity you have for him, this is a police matter. You’ve got to tell him everything. Besides, from your odd behavior, I’m beginning to think you have some kind of a thing for him.”
“I do not have a thing for him,” I yelled. “Okay,” I said, calming down, “maybe you’re right. I’d better stop by the department and talk to him.”
My cell phone rang. When I answered it, Jeremiah was on the line. Although his voice was calm, I could tell from the slow and determined way he strung together his words that he was worried, terribly worried about the fermentation.
“The yeast doesn’t want to work. I thought maybe our thermostat was giving us trouble again, so I bumped up the temperature to the top of the fermentation range, around fifty degrees to see if the mercury moved. Nothing. She’s not fermenting. It’s like the yeast is dead,” Jeremiah said.
Ten
That’s all I needed, a bad batch of yeast. Was it incorrect storage on my part, or did the manufacturer send me a degraded product? Damn, damn. I pounded on the steering wheel as I raced home. I should slow down. These country roads were tricky. A patch of gravel, and my truck could fly off the road, and it wouldn’t make any difference whether my yeast was dead or not. I would be.
I careened into my drive, floored it up the hill, and brought the truck to an abrupt halt in front of the barn. I jumped out, leaving the door open, and bolted into the brew house. The new man Brian, a slight, fair-haired college student, paused in his shoveling of the grain from the mash lauter and nodded to me as I entered.
“I told Brian this wasn’t the way things usually went,” said Jeremiah.
“No, it isn’t.” I climbed the metal steps to the top of the fermentation vessel, opened the hatch, and looked in. Nothing. The brew sat there still, not a bubble on the surface and no yeasty fermentation smell.
I checked the outlet valve and the temperature of the mash. “We’re not pulling carbon dioxide from the outlet valve. Hand me the yeast bottle again,” I said, holding out my hand. The bottle looked like our usual bottles. I smelled the residue left in the bottom and looked at the sludge still clinging to the inside. “It looks different somehow. Something’s not right with this yeast.” A growing suspicion began to work its way through my mind. I extracted my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Rafe’s number.
“I’d be glad to drop by and see if I can help,” Rafe said. “Be there in five.”
When Rafe’s tall frame entered my barn, I wasn’t sure I was happy to see him. When he confirmed my hunch about the yeast, I was horrified.
We cranked up the temperature of the liquid as he suggested and waited. At around seventy degrees, we began to see bubbles, and I could bleed off carbon dioxide, one of the by-products of fermentation—alcohol being the other—from the chamber.
“You’re making an ale,” Rafe announced. He sounded proud of me.
“I didn’t intend to make an ale and certainly not using your stolen yeast.”
“You don’t know that,” he said.
“Don’t be silly. You know it’s true also. Now what?”
“Your call,” he said, guessing what I would do.
I dialed the one number I’d been avoiding all day.
“Jake. You’d better get over here. I think I have the stolen yeast.”
*
“I suppose you intend to arrest me now,” I said. Rafe and I had explained about the yeast. “You could use that fancy DNA profiling to be sure, but
Similar Books
