The plaza was abuzz with activity. The mimes were forming some sort of pyramid. I wasn’t sure if it was a political statement or if they were simply goofing around. A student a cappella group harmonized in front of the bubbling Lithia fountains. An older couple walking hand in hand stopped to take a drink from the famed fountains, which were supplied by a natural underwater sulfur spring. The mineral water boasted many healing properties but was an acquired taste, to say the least. I had to stifle a laugh as the man frantically fanned the scent of rotten eggs away from his face and spit out the water. Across the street, Ashland’s Elizabethan-themed shops and storefronts displayed playbills, costumes, and set designs for the upcoming season.
“This town is absolutely charming,” Sloan said as we passed Puck’s Pub. The building façade had been designed to resemble an old-world pub with sturdy wooden doors and keg barrels. “It reminds me of Leavenworth, actually.”
“I really have always wanted to visit.” I kept pace with her long stride.
“You should come.” She stopped and pointed across the street to the Merry Windsor. The hotel looked like it belonged in Tudor times. However I knew that, inside, it was run-down, with hideous green carpet and the scent of mildew invading every room. “Everything looks like this.” She swept her arm from the Merry Windsor to Puck’s Pub. “Only Bavarian—or as we say Beervarian. German architecture, cuckoo clocks, window boxes with lush geraniums, and of course—plenty of beer.”
“It sounds delightful,” I said, taking in the scent of blooming jasmine vine snaking up the side of the Green Goblin.
“I love it, but it is small.” A brief look of nostalgia flashed across her face.
“Smaller than Ashland?” I asked as we continued toward Lithia Park.
“Well, I think as of the last census, we came in at a whopping two thousand permanent residents.”
“Oh, that is small. For some reason I thought it was bigger than that.” Not that Ashland was a booming metropolis, but with a population of twenty thousand, we were ten times the size of Leavenworth.
“Nope. It’s tiny, which has its pros and cons.” Sloan smiled. “We have a huge influx of tourists for Oktoberfest, the holiday markets, winter light festival, and Maifest. Probably similar to what it’s like for you during the height of the theater season.”
“It’s a good balance, isn’t it?” I said as we crossed the intersection of Main and made our way to the brew fest entrance. Six-foot-high chain link fence sections had been constructed for the event. The grassy area beneath the Shakespeare stairs that led up to the theater complex had been blocked off for the festival. Lithia Park encompassed over ninety-three acres of lush forest with steep canyons and gushing creeks. It was Ashland’s version of Central Park, complete with duck ponds, walking paths, fountains, an amphitheater, children’s play structure, tennis courts, and miles of hilly unpaved trails.
Sloan showed her vendor badge to the security guard at the gate. “She’s with me,” she said, pointing my direction.
The guard let us through, but not before joking about needing to see our IDs to make sure we were of legal drinking age.
“Don’t I wish.” Sloan chuckled. “I have a teenager back at home.” She didn’t look old enough to have a teenager, maybe in part because she gave off such a youthful vibe.
We passed through the gates and stepped into the festival ground. Lithia Park had been completely transformed with white tents arranged in a semicircle. Distressed wood picnic tables and benches were set up in the middle, and a matching wooden stage at the far end. The trees had been draped in Edison bulb lights, creating a zigzagging pattern overhead. Rustic keg barrels were placed throughout the open air. Crews were still unloading sections of fencing and temporary lights as we walked farther inside.
It looked like there were at least twenty breweries represented, along with food vendors and even a couple of mead makers. The scent of grilled sausage, kettle corn, and jambalaya filled the air. My stomach growled in response. I just might have to taste my way through more than beer.
“Jules,” I heard a voice call from behind us.
I turned to see a familiar face, Ashton Alloway of Hillside Winery. Ashton’s family had owned the winery for three generations. His father had recently retired, and Ashton had taken over at the celebrated winery’s helm. “Hey, Ashton, it’s been a while,” I said, waiting for him to catch up to us.
He was tall and lean with shaggy brown hair. His style was distinctly Ashland. He wore a pair of faded jeans, Birkenstocks, and a casual dress shirt, untucked. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I wouldn’t think of Torte at a brew fest.” His top lip curled up.
I started to respond, but Ashton shook his head and scowled as a young brewer walked past us, pulling a keg with a heavy-duty hand truck. “Isn’t it ridiculous? All of this for beer. Beer.” He repeated the word with disdain.
I could feel Sloan stiffen next to me. I wanted to introduce her, but Ashton had just begun his rant. “I’m sick of it. All these young self-described ‘brewers’ coming into town. Brewing isn’t an art, like wine making. It’s just dumping a bunch of grains and yeast together. I was working in the tasting room last night, and someone had the audacity to ask me if we had a beer on tap. At a winery. Can you believe that?” He barely took a breath before continuing. “Have you noticed how many longstanding wineries have been getting taken over by hop farms? Everywhere I look these days, it’s hops. It’s not the Ashland of our youth, and if you ask me, beer is for a different class of people—if you know what I mean?”
He looked at me for confirmation. I turned to Sloan and ignored his disparaging comments about beer. “Ashton, I don’t think you’ve met my new friend, Sloan.”
“Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand. “What brings you to Ashland?”
She glanced at me and then smiled. “The brew fest.”
He shook his head. “You want to spend a weekend drinking swill?” His eyes hardened when they landed on her beer-inspired T-shirt.
“Actually I’m going to spend the weekend serving it.” She nodded toward Der Keller’s booth, which was a few feet away.
The color drained from Ashton’s face. “You’re with that behemoth?”
“Yeah, my family owns Der Keller.” Her face held a kindness that surprised me, given Ashton’s attitude. “I wouldn’t call us a behemoth. We’re a family brewery.”
“A family brewery. HA!” He scoffed, and spit sprayed on both of us. I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand. What was Ashton’s problem?
“From what I’ve heard, you—along with the other breweries—are decimating century-old vineyards.” Ashton shook his head. “I don’t get how you guys think it’s okay to destroy an entire industry. You go in and tear out grapes brought here from some of the best regions in the world to plant flipping hops. Aren’t hops basically weeds?”
Sloan looked at me. I was astounded by Ashton’s behavior.
He didn’t give her a chance to respond. Instead, he shot her an icy glare and then stalked off toward the entrance.
“Someone’s not a fan,” Sloan said with a look of disbelief.
“No doubt.” I watched Ashton take off through the temporary gate. “That’s the first I’ve heard about hops taking over the area. Is there a big rivalry between the wineries and breweries in your area?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. At least not in Leavenworth. We partner with the wine industry all the time. It’s good for the region as a whole.”
“That’s what I thought.” I peered over the top of one of the tents to watch Ashton power walk across the street. “I wonder why Ashton is bent out of shape over the brew fest?”
“Maybe he thinks that the pubs are taking away a portion of his customer base.” Sloan shrugged. “Who knows. I’m not going to sweat it.”
“Good point.” I was impressed by her reaction, and still slightly stunned that Ashton had been so rude.
“The booth is over here.” She led me to Der Keller’s tent. Two giant wooden kegs flanked each side of the canvas. A massive family crest with two lions waving German flags hung above us. The inside of the tent was decorated in red, black, yellow, and white with a wooden bar and six giant black-walnut tap handles, each carved with the brewery’s crest.
“Wow. This feels like I’m stepping into Germany,” I said, staring at the dozens and dozens of medals and plaques that had been hung behind the bar. Der Keller had received several beer accolades. My mouth salivated at the thought of getting to taste their award-winning beers.
Sloan brushed off the compliment. “That’s what my husband, Mac, wants you to feel. He says, ‘If they can’t come to Germany, we’ll bring Germany to them.’”
There was a hint of irritation in her voice.
“I think he’s succeeded.” I pointed to a twelve-inch pewter stein behind the bar. “You’re not going to serve everyone with those, are you?”
“Don’t give Mac any ideas.” She rolled her eyes. I got the sense that she wasn’t kidding.
“Who’s giving me ideas?” a voice boomed from behind the bar. A man wearing a red and white plaid shirt with Der Keller’s logo embroidered on the right pocket and lederhosen stood up. He was husky, with blondish hair and ruddy cheeks.
“What are you doing, Mac?” Sloan scolded him. “You can’t sneak up on us like that.”
“I wasn’t sneaking.” He held up a screwdriver. “I’m trying to fix the keg.”
They shared a look I couldn’t decipher. I wouldn’t have pegged them as a couple. Sloan’s dark hair and naturally tanned skin was the opposite of Mac’s fair hair and skin tone. Then again, people would probably have said the same thing about me and my estranged husband, Carlos. After all, opposites attract.
“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” Mac said, coming around the other side of the bar to introduce himself to me.
“Jules,” I said shaking his sweaty hand.
“She owns that adorable bakeshop I was eyeing earlier,” Sloan offered. “Her pastries are to die for. I brought you some pistachio bars, and thought we could make Jules our first official taster for Spring Fling.”
“You bet.” Mac nodded. “That is, if I can get the tap working.” He held my hand for a moment too long and then gave me a wink.
Sloan set the box of pastries on the bar. “What’s wrong with it?”
Mac shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s the only line that isn’t flowing. I thought maybe it had an air bubble, or there was something wrong with the pressure.”
“Let me take a look.” Sloan grabbed the screwdriver from Mac’s hand and went to investigate the tap. She started by reaching for a plastic tasting glass. She positioned it under the first tap, and pulled the handle forward slowly. Frothy beer poured from the tap into the glass. She repeated the process until she got to the tap labeled SPRING FLING. Nothing came out when she tugged the tap. She tried three times. “It doesn’t sound like the line is even connected to anything,” she said to Mac. “Did you check the actual keg?”
“Not yet. I was going to do that next.” He adjusted his suspenders. I had to give him credit for fully embracing his German heritage.
Sloan waved me back. “Hey, Jules, do you want to see our setup?”
“Sure.” The grass was squishy under my feet. I wondered how muddy things would get once the festival was hopping.
“We keep the actual kegs in a cooler behind the tent. That way we can maximize space in here.” She lifted the back flap on the tent, and we both ducked underneath it. I expected to find a glorified cooler, but instead there was a sleek brewery truck parked in the grass.
“The cooler is the truck?” I asked, gaping at the shiny black truck with Der Keller’s logo painted on the side. The paint job alone most have cost a small fortune.
Sloan nodded. “Yep. We can regulate the temperature that way, and this setup is completely portable. We do a lot of events off-site in Leavenworth and throughout western Washington. This is our first year coming this far south. Mac has big plans to branch out into California and Colorado.”
“It’s very impressive.” I wondered if their mobile kegerator cost as much as our basement renovation.
Sloan opened the truck and welcomed me in. She started to explain the tapping process, but stopped in midsentence and shouted, “It’s missing!”
“What’s missing?” My heart rate sped up as distress spread across her face.
“The keg. Our new beer—Spring Fling.”
“Really?” I glanced around the expensive interior, which reminded me of NASA’s mission control. There were computer screens and automated machines connected to each keg.
Mac must have heard Sloan’s frantic tone because he burst through the back of the tent. “What’s going on?”
Sloan pushed past me and stuck her head out the door of the truck. “The Spring Fling keg is gone.”
“Gone?” Mac hurdled the stairs two at a time. I squeezed against the opposite side of the truck. “How? It was there ten minutes ago.” He stared at the empty space where a keg should be. “Someone must have stolen it.”
That sounded like a big leap to me. “Stolen?” I asked, not really registering that I had spoken my thoughts aloud.
Mac’s face blotched with color. “I knew something like this would happen.” He sighed and punched his fist into the palm of his other hand so hard it made my hand sting in sympathy.
Sloan attempted to calm him by reaching for his shoulder, but he brushed her off and dropped down to his knees to study the area around the missing keg.
“Not to sound naive, but why would someone steal a keg?” I asked.
“Spring Fling is our newest beer. We’ve been working on this custom blend for over three years. We’re debuting it here at the festival. It’s made with proprietary hops,” Mac explained as he examined the empty keg line. “Brewers, especially the small guys, are always trying to get their hands on our recipes to clone them.”
“Clone?”
Sloan nodded. “It’s kind of a big deal in the brewing business. It’s nearly impossible to prove that a recipe has been copied. You can simply say that you changed one or two things, and suddenly it’s your own. Brewers are really guarded when they come out with a new beer.”
“Actually that makes sense,” I said. “We have the same issue in baking. Someone could copy our recipe for cherry almond scones, but use walnuts instead, and suddenly it’s unique.”
“Exactly.” Mac tossed the keg lines to the ground. “We have to find that keg.”
“How?” Sloan asked.
“Maybe I can help,” I offered. I felt terrible that their keg had been stolen. “One of my good friends, Thomas, is a local police officer. If you want, I can give him a call.”
Sloan looked to Mac. Mac stood, still holding the keg line. “If you don’t mind. That would be great.”
“No problem.” I stepped off the truck. “I’ll give him a call right now.” I left them discussing who might have stolen the keg and walked to the far edge of the temporary gate. I removed my phone from my pocket and called Thomas.
He answered on the third ring, although his voice sounded hushed as if he was trying to whisper. “Hello, Jules?”
“Thomas, hey, I need your help.”
“Hang on a sec,” he said, in a muffled tone.
I waited for a minute, watching the other breweries setting up their tents. Silver kegs flashed in the sunlight all around me. Was one of them Der Keller’s?
“Sorry about that,” he finally said. “I had to step outside. What’s up?”
“I need your help,” I repeated.
“Jules, don’t tell me that you found another body.”
“Ha ha! Very funny.” It was a touchy subject. “No, fortunately this time it’s a missing keg.”
“A keg? You’re calling me for help with a missing keg?”
I explained the situation.
He chuckled. “That’s a good one, Jules. It’s probably a bunch of teenagers who are planning a party in the forest or something. You haven’t seen any teens hanging around?”
I scanned the park. As if on cue, laughter broke out nearby. I turned in the direction and spotted three teenagers huddled together giggling on the opposite side of the fence. I recognized them. They came into the bakeshop and were all named after the outdoors—Forest, Meadow, and Lark Harrison. When they caught me staring at them, their eyes widened and they sprinted toward the plaza.
“You know what? The Harrison kids were just across the street,” I said to Thomas.
“Really?”
“Yeah, do you think they could have stolen Der Keller’s keg?”
Thomas paused for a minute before responding. “Maybe. But they don’t seem like the types. They’re pranksters. Remember that time the Lithia fountains were green for Saint Paddy’s Day?”
“Was that them?” I asked, remembering the prank. Everyone had gotten a good chuckle watching the sulfur fountain bubble green.
“We never had definitive proof, but yeah, I think so.”
Turning a fountain green and stealing a keg were two different things.
Thomas voiced my thoughts out loud. “I don’t know, Jules. Stealing a keg doesn’t seem like something they would do, but then again, I did some stupid things in my teen years too.”
“Can you talk to them or something?”
“Look, I’m in a training all day. I can’t get away anytime soon. At least not for something like a stolen keg. Sorry. As soon as the training is done, I’ll come by the brew fest. In the meantime, have a beer for me.” He chuckled and hung up.
I couldn’t very well have a beer if Der Keller’s keg was missing. If Thomas couldn’t help, then I would have to take matters into my own hands. I had really enjoyed getting to meet Sloan, and I couldn’t let her first impression of my beloved Ashland be something so negative.