Murder By The Pint (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 1) by Belle Knudson

note?" I said, and I'll admit it was kind of abrupt.
                  This was the first time she looked away from me, as if she was embarrassed. "I was told to do it. I have no idea what that note said. But I was assured it wasn't anything harmful or threatening. It was my nephew's birthday party. A strange man came up to me sometime toward the end of the evening and asked if I would do him a favor. He gave me five hundred dollars and then told me there was another five in it if I would get my nephew to put this note in the sandwich container. I asked him what the catch was. He just said it was nothing harmful or threatening. He said it two more times. He even offered another two hundred if I didn’t ask any questions. He had a warm smile and a soft voice. I hate to say this, but he looked trustworthy enough, and I'm not usually a very trusting person. So I did it."
                  "What did this person look like?"
                  She shrugged. "Kind of beefy. Average height. Middle-aged, I guess." She stared at the glass coffee table before us, and then looked at me. "Madison, I'm going to make us some coffee. Would you like some?"
                  Not having slept well, I was a bit ragged, so I agreed. I followed her into the kitchen while she told me a bit about herself and her life in Carl's Cove. Being a masseuse was every bit as exotic as I thought it was, she said, and she implied that her particular practice carried with it an extra bit of intrigue. She had high-profile clients that preferred to remain anonymous. They held high office. They were town officials and men of great respect. She had no qualms about what she did, she said, because it afforded her great wealth and fine living. She was from a poor family, raised on a farm in Pennsylvania, and she spent the first half of her life trying to escape her roots. She spoke with great confidence and good grammar – the latter is instant points with me. And she made us our coffee with the strong, steady fingers of someone who uses their hands in their profession. Lola Tarkington was an interesting entity, to say the least. Observing her was like observing a dancer or a painter doing what they did best. I couldn’t figure out why.
                  We took our coffee back to the living room and sat.
                  "Something tells me," she said, "that the note I left – that my nephew left – said something that may not have been too nice."
                  I nodded while I sipped. The coffee was alright. I like it strong. This was like decaf. "You're right about that," I said. "I won’t go into details. But let's just say it was rather unwelcome. My intention was to find out, honestly, who you were."
                  She smiled. "This is who I am." She held up her arms to the room.
                  "You did these?"
                  She nodded. "Everything but the paintings. I'm a sculptor. I did all these and the pieces outside."
                  "Incredible," I said.
                  We sipped our coffee and talked about life in Carl's Cove. I told her about my childhood amongst the grains and the hops and the jars of yeast, and the smell of fermentation in the house. I told her about how I finally felt content in what I did, even if it had nothing to do with writing. I told her the secret to good beer was good sanitization practices and that I'd be proud to brew in her kitchen. She found that amusing. Before I knew it, my coffee cup was empty and so was hers. And we sat and talked some more. She mostly listened. Good listeners are hard to find.
                  It was getting close to dinnertime. I got up and stretched. She bade me farewell with an invitation to come and visit again. That was it. No email address given. No phone number. No Facebook request.
                  I got into my car and headed