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

hearing. "How on earth can you market a product you're completely ignorant of?"
                  "Listen," she said with a persistence of attitude that was starting grate on me, "your dear father hired me to keep the brand consistent. That's an abstract concept that has no room for personal opinions on the product. I'm here to ensure that Darby's keeps its reputation, whatever that reputation is. If the company is failing, then change is needed. If the company is doing well, then change is bad. That's all I need to know. The rest is just beer."
                  Maybe I was just tired of being lectured today. I don’t know. All I know is that I found myself collapsing into the chair behind my desk and laughing hysterically. There was something hilarious about this rigid woman in a too-tight suit talking about my father's beer as though it only existed on a spreadsheet, and having never tasted it. I couldn’t stop laughing as I pictured her with a glass of it, frowning and snarling into the foam.
                  "Are you quite through?" she said.
                  I opened the bottle with the bottle opener that my father had affixed to the desk and poured her a glass. "Just try it."
                  To her credit, she took the glass and raised it to her lips.
                  "Hold it," I said. "You should really smell it first. It's like wine. It has a bouquet. Cup your hand over the rim and give it a swirl. That excites the aromatic compounds."
                  She did exactly as I asked.
                  "Perfect," I said, "Now release your hand and take a sniff."
                  She did.
                  "What do you smell?"
                  She took a couple of sniffs. "Flowers." She sniffed again. "Grapefruit?"
                  "Correct on both accounts," I said. "Those aromas come from the hops. What else?"
                  Sniff . "Biscuits?"
                  I clapped my hands together. "Yes! That's the pale and Munich malts we use. Now you’re ready for a sip."
                  She took a reluctant sip and made a face as if she wasn't sure if she liked it. That was ok. I myself still make that face when I try new things.
                  "It's ok," she said. "Probably not something I'd drink. But it tastes better than I remember."
                  "There's your marketing angle," I said. "Just combine that with whatever you have. This isn’t your father's beer. Well, it is in my case. But where most people are concerned, craft beer is what their parents and grandparents had in cans after mowing the lawn. As far as I'm concerned, I would have poured it back into the lawnmower where it belonged. This is Darby's, and Darby's is Carl's Cove. That's what I'm here to make happen. And you’re going to help me."
                  Before you stand up and applaud, you need to realize that I was not fully conscious as I spoke. This was not me speaking, but the spirit of my father speaking through me. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe this literally, but I do believe my father's spirit is in everything connected to his brewery, myself included. I spoke these words, and then suddenly realized that I was in love with Darby's. It was a wonderful moment. And I saw it on Hildegaard's face. I swear it wouldn't have been any different had I just been shooting flames out of my mouth. She'd actually taken a step back as I spoke rapturously of a future flowing with my father's wonderful brews. At any moment I expected Hildy to take to the streets with a megaphone proclaiming that the Era of Darby's has arrived. She was wide-eyed, and now she was a true believer. She took another sip, and then downed the rest in one swig. She slammed the glass down on my desk and left the room without another word.
                  If only