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

Hormel chili). But in Max Bosch's scheme, it was a parcel addressed to one Dr. Henry H. Pokey, [this address].
    "I'm sorry; I'm not showing anyone with that name here."
    "Are you shaw, sweetheart? Maybe he's a new guy?"
    "I'll check again...no, I'm sorry, sir, there's no Henry H. Pokey here."
    "Huh. Isn't dat strange. I mean, I gotta package here and it's addressed to Dr. Henry H. Pokey. Dis address – Dis is one-faw-one-seven?"
    "It is."
    "And you got a fawteent flaws?"
    "We do."
    "Huh. Dis is very odd. Tell you what, may I use your phone to call my awffice?"
    Max Bosch dialed his 900 number and waited.
    "Dey got me on hold, dontcha hate it when dey do dat... I like your nails, dere."
    "Thank you."
    "Dey look like one a dem George Barris late sixties kinda candy-flecked – Hello? Yeah, dis is Barry Gertweller calling, I gotta package here and dey're saying dere's no such pi'son at dis address...yeah...yeah I checked it...yeah she's right here, would you like to tawk wit her? Alright...yeah, I'll hold..."
    Ten minutes later, Max Bosch, with a snap of Juicy Fruit whose flavor was as distant a memory as the face of the newsstand man he stole it from, hung up the phone and said, "Dey said just bring it back. Some idiot down dere got de names all screwed up. You know how it is. I'm sorry to waste your time, sweetheart. Take care o' yourself, and take care o' dem nails."
    He left the building $63.54 richer, for thirteen minutes of work. If you did your math right, that was $293.26 an hour. Dollar for dollar, it was a better con than a licensed chiropractor was.
                  Max eventually got picked up for this little scheme. He did a couple years for it, got time off for time served, and was released.
                  That's when my dad hired him.
                  Dad was a sucker for hard luck cases. He swore that Max was trying to better himself. Tried to convince us all of it. I was sixteen then and already a sassy little thing who had no patience for anything, least of all for supposed hard luck cases taking advantage of a business owner with a heart of gold.
                  Well, poor dad learned his lesson when the business suddenly started hemorrhaging money for no discernable reason. After a quick look at the books, my mother slammed them shut and yelled the name, "Max Bosch!" at the top of her lungs. The dogs went crazy, and Dad sunk in his easy chair, a glass of Darby's Citrus Wheat in his hand.
                  So why am I telling you this?
                  Simple: A week after the murder, Max Bosch came around looking for a job.
                  He looked...almost the same. It’s hard to explain. Max always looked old. But Max always had this peculiar face. It was a face like a piece of dry-cured meat. And he always looked tired, and he always looked like he’d just left his smile in whatever vehicle brought him to you. His hair, last I remembered, had been prematurely gray. Now it was a phony chestnut brown, thinner, and obviously spray-painted in where it refused to grow at all.
                  Here's what he said to me:
                  "Darling, your father was a beautiful man. A beautiful man. And I hurt him. I took advantage of the guy. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret hurting that beautiful man. I'm clean now. I can show you proof of it."
                  I hired him. I'm my father's daughter after all.
                  I gave him a job sweeping up, taking out the trash, all the assorted janitorial concerns.
                  A week later, he appeared in the doorway to my office.
                  "Knock knock," he said.
                  I hate it when people say, "Knock knock."
                  "Come on in, Max."
                  He took off his beret and held it in his hands. "Hope I'm not catching you at an inconvenient