Murder Brewed At Home (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 3) Read Free

a waitress. She was nice enough to wait on us without any of her usual snark about how because it was me she wasn't expecting any decent tip.
                  When we got back to the house, there was a note on the dining room table.
                  Working upstairs. Please try to respectfully keep your voices down. And please don’t bother me.
                  Candace huffed when she read it, then crumpled it up and threw it into the trash. "Fine," she said, "whatever. At least he won't bother us ."
                  "More beer for the girls," said Bernadette.
                  Amanda replied with a hearty, "Hear, hear."
                  I chose to remain silent this time. I felt like I hadn’t said enough, but I also felt there was nothing I could say that would help. Maybe more escape was what we all needed.
                  I was soon to find out how dangerous escape can be, for it has the ability to blind you to what's really going on – and what can be stopped.
                  Sorry to get all dramatic like that. I am a frustrated writer, after all. But hindsight is a funny thing. You look back and see all the signs that were so clear. I mean, the rain, the note, the fight, Candace's confession – I for one should have seen it coming.
                  I'd started out with a flight of four pale yellow to amber ales. They paired well against the rich buttery flavor of the burrata I'd brought along. Whey Cool on Main Street was the provider of this wonderful fare. The owner, Daisy, was supposed to have joined us, but a last-minute emergency prevented her from doing so. We’d coordinated our pairings beforehand and they were a resounding success.
                  I poured out our second flight – darker ales: a marzen, a porter, a Trappist ale, and an Imperial Stout. I was about to lay out a spread of aged Gouda and Époisses – two completely different cheeses with surprisingly complimentary flavors – when the noise made us all jump.
                  It was a heavy thud right above us: exactly where Kyle's office was located.
                  There was no mistaking it. This was the sound of a body hitting the floor – hard.
                  The four of us looked at each other.
                  Without a word between us, we rushed up the stairs.
                  I don’t know how it happened, but I was up there before anyone else. The door to the office was shut.
                  And locked.
                  We knocked on the door and called his name. Then we pounded on it.
                  "You don’t have a key?"
                  "No," said Candace. "It's a privacy lock. It locks from the inside and only someone on the other side can unlock it. Kyle?" She called again, and again there was no answer from within.
                  "Hold on," I said. "Let me grab my bag. I have a library card."
                  "No need," said Bernadette, holding out her own version of the very item.
                  I took the card and wedged it into the door by the knob. It was difficult, but I got it in after a moment. The latch slid back and the door opened.
                  Kyle Young was on the floor, dead.
                 
    #
     
                  The rest of the room was neatly organized: library shelves boasting an impressive assortment of reference books, an antique oak desk with a leather desk pad on top, a laptop, and assorted office ephemera. And the body, neatly crumpled up in front of the desk.
                  One of the girls, either Amanda or Bernadette, consoled Candace and took her downstairs, while the other called 911.
                  I bent down to observe, although there was no mistaking it: the man was