Murder Brewed At Home (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 3) by Belle Knudson Read Free Book Online Page B

fifty-pound sacks of grain? What a disgusting place!"
                  But no, I didn’t say that. Instead, I felt like I wanted to throw my arms around one of those giant stainless-steel tanks and coo to it: "Awww, my sweetheart, did you miss mommy?"
                  Alright, I'm exaggerating slightly.
                  But I did find that what I didn’t mean was the day-to-day numbers end of the business. It was all about the beer for me. Everyone here cared about the product. Somehow along the way I got turned around, and all I saw all day was figures and projections, and plans, and more plans and quotas and blah blah to the blah and blah.
                  This was a mixed blessing then. I was thoroughly obsessed with the Kyle Young case, but I needed to get back to the basics of the brew biz. I would in due time, I thought, and I suddenly felt a thousand times better. A knot that had been in my stomach for weeks had suddenly unraveled. It was exquisite.
                  With a renewed fervor, I dove into the backlog on my desk, tossing aside anything having to do with numbers and figures and projections, and only focusing on those things that were solely about the manufacture of great beer. There were folks out there who'd be glad to handle the corporate paperwork, I thought. I'll run an ad. We'll bring someone in.
                  I opened up my email inbox.
                  The latest in a long list of unanswered correspondence was an email from Kyle Young.
                  I blinked twice. It couldn’t be him. Kyle Young was dead.
                  The subject line was blank.
                  I clicked to open it and read it with my heart slightly racing.
     
    Third from the right in front of my house is a pine sapling. You saw them. Behind that look for newly dug earth. You'll need nothing more than a garden spade to quickly dig up the dirt. There's one there. Go at night. Keep digging until you find a cigar box. Take spade with you so I know you've been there when I get back.
     
    MC
     
                  I thought for a moment. MC. Maggie Childsworth. It had to be. I remembered the row of saplings in front of her house. How Maggie had gotten a hold of my email address was not an issue. Anyone searching around on our website would eventually find it. But why would she take such precautions to hide her identity?
                  It wasn't a very good job of hiding. Anyone with a little bit of computer savvy could hunt her down. She obviously wanted to hide for the time being, but not so well that I didn’t know who she was.
                  I called Gerry on the intercom and told him I'd be out for the rest of the day. I didn’t wait for his response.
    #
                  Maggie's house at night was a spooky place. There were no lights on the property, which meant that I'd be working by moonlight alone. I didn’t want to run the risk of anyone seeing me by using a flashlight.
                  Don’t think I didn't check to see if there was anyone home. I did and there wasn't. So I crept around to the right side of the house. It was hard to see, but I found the sapling she'd written of. It was about three feet high, standing sturdy in a man-made pile of rocks. I groped around behind it, and discovered the handle of a spade jutting out of the dirt.
                  It was a laborious task to say the least to be digging by the light of the moon and nothing else. But thankfully it wasn't long before I found the cigar box. My back aching, I stood up and opened the box.
                  Nothing in there. At all.
                  Now, life is full of uncertainties. I know that. But I also know that sometimes you reach a point where you're confronted with just one uncertainty too many. And that's when there's a problem, because