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

dead.
                  And wet.
                  He'd come in from his run in the rain and had not bothered to change his clothes.
                  Amanda appeared in the doorway with her cell phone. She was in the midst of speaking with 911.
                  "Tell them it looks like a heart attack," I said.
    #
                  In the light of recent events, the Carl's Cove Police Department was forced to adopt Detective Lester Moore as their official homicide detective. He showed up, tall and handsome as always, his crystal blue eyes searching the room for clues while two officers assisted the medical examiner with the body.
                  Lester himself had been examining the body carefully. Now he stood up, snapped off his blue nitrile gloves, took out a pocket-sized memo pad, and began jotting.
                  "So," I said, "heart attack."
                  "Sure seems like it," he said to his pad, "but I'm not a doctor."
                  I had to remind myself that he could be awfully curt when working.
                  "The scene is telling," I said.
                  "Mm."
                  A moment passed as I watched him scribbling furiously on the pad, and then he said, almost under his breath, "Leaky ceiling in here?"
                  "What's that?"
                  He finally looked up at me and pointed to the ceiling with his pencil. "The rafters up there. You see them? There's one spot up there, see that? About a five-inch spot on the wood that's all wet."
                  "Oh, yeah," I said, pretending I'd noticed it. "Yeah, I was wondering about that."
                  "What do you make of it?"
                  "Not sure."
                  "Yeah? Me neither."
                  "The wet body has me concerned, though," I said.
                  "It's pouring out there. Didn't you say before that he'd just come in from a run?"
                  "Yes, and he'd been here for some time and didn’t bother to change his clothes. Don’t you think he'd change his clothes if he was going to be working?"
                  "Maybe he wasn't feeling well. Maybe he was in and out of consciousness."
                  "Listen," I said, glancing behind me to see if anyone was eavesdropping on our conversation, "can we talk about this downstairs?"
                  "I'll be down in a minute."
    #
                  "Ok, door was locked from the inside. No means of getting into the room. Physically fit man has heart attack. That last bit doesn’t fit into the equation very well. I'm not a doctor, but I'm not ruling out suicide."
                  "Suicide?" I said, disbelieving.
                  "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"
                  "Lester, this guy was meticulous with a capital M. Everything about him screamed routine. His desk, the placement of stuff on the desk – everything was done neatly and in an organized manner. Doesn't it strike you as a bit odd that a guy who had everything prepared with such exactitude would have neglected to...well, dress for the occasion?"
                  "What did you want him to wear? A black suit?"
                  "No, and I'm not joking here. And besides, why is a guy who’s planning suicide taking a run for his health in the first place?"
                  "Maybe he thought he'd think it over one last time."
                  I let the words turn over in my head, and then said, "No. And I still think he would have changed his clothes."
                  "That's your opinion. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll call you tomorrow morning?"
                  "Stay here."