I hate admitting that. It’s like being hurt by the comments of an online troll. That’s what she is—a real-life troll, someone whose only pleasure in life comes from dragging others down. I know that, and therefore, it does not reflect well on me to say that her words have any impact.
I know I’m not stupid. I know I’m not incompetent. I know that Shawn Sutherland cannot have killed two women years before he even arrived in Rockton. It does not make any logical sense.
Yet it bothers me enough that I put aside logic and assess the case otherwise, working through each aspect as if he could be the perpetrator.
I don’t finish the exercise. Anders comes in, and I check my watch, see that it’s been nearly forty-five minutes since Isabel left. I hurry off to meet her. The wild theories can wait.
FIFTY-NINE
The Roc is locked. I expected that and brought the master key. It’s one of the few places in town that’s kept well secured. The sheer quantity of booze on hand could make even the most upright citizen consider taking a free tipple if the door was left open.
The Roc used to be open afternoons, but since Isabel’s lover—Mick—died opening time was postponed to 5:00 P.M. during the week. She says she needs to train someone to take his place, but she’s ignored everyone who asks about the job. She’s still grieving, in her way, and that way means she’s in no rush to find a new bartender.
While the Roc has a bar, I’ve never come here to drink. That would be unwise. Guys have no problem coming by for a beer even if they don’t wish to partake of the other offerings, but any woman who does the same sets up a dangerous expectation.
Isabel and I argue about this. I call it discrimination, if in a town with only two bars, women can’t comfortably frequent one of them. Isabel says I could fix that by frequenting it myself. It’s not like anyone’s going to think my time is for sale. She might have a point. I’m just not willing to grant it yet.
Inside, the Roc looks like an old-west saloon, and I would like to have a drink here now and then, the atmosphere being more my style than the fussier Red Lion.
I walk behind the bar toward the storage room, presuming that’s where I’ll find Isabel. The door is locked. My key won’t open it, making it perhaps the one place off-limits even to us. The door is thick, as close to a vault as you get in Rockton. When I rap, the wood swallows the sound. I bang my fist against it.
“Hold on!” Isabel’s muffled voice calls.
A moment later, the door opens. And “vault” really is the word to describe what I walk into. It’s the size of a walk-in closet, thickly lined, each wall covered in shelves. And on those shelves? The true gold of the north. Booze. The curse of the north, too—of living in a place where entertainment options are limited, and this one easier to come by than most. Which is why it’s so tightly regulated, and why the council allowed Isabel to build this vault and not supply us with the key. Here is the real source of her wealth and power in Rockton. She controls the booze.
Dalton might gripe about that, but he never offers to take on the task himself. He’ll grudgingly admit Isabel does a good job and earns her profit. Alcohol is still a concern in Rockton, but it causes far fewer problems than in many isolated towns.
“Your growing collection of bottles is up there.” She points at the small collection of tequila. “Seems every time our sheriff does a supply run, I get another one. That boy is worse than a teenager with his first girlfriend. Except instead of flowers and candies and sappy Hallmarks, he brings you tequila and puppies and chocolate chip cookies.”
“I’m not arguing.”
She glances over her shoulder. “You would have four months ago. You’re making progress.”
“Thank you, Dr. Radcliffe, for the free psych eval.”
“Oh, it’s not free. You can pay your tab at the bar.”
She’s at another door, one that must lock on exit, because she’s using a key. She holds it open to usher me through. I step inside … and get my first look at the heart of the Roc. Isabel’s brewery.
Bottled alcohol is flown in, as evidenced by that stockroom. But booze takes up valuable cargo space on supply runs, space better used for staples. Our beer is locally brewed. By Isabel.
This room is more than twice the size of the one we just left. Vats line the walls, batches in progress. At the end, there’s an old hand-operated bottling press. Crates of recycled bottles wait beside it. Like the hard alcohol, beer is only available from the Roc and the Red Lion, sold in single servings. The exception would be the tequila bottle in Dalton’s house and the half dozen beers in his icebox. But he is the exception in almost everything here—the guy who is allowed to skirt the rules, partly because he can be trusted to and partly because no one dares refuse him. It’s good to be king. Or at least virtual dictator.
“Today, I’m bottling one keg of lager, one of pale ale, and my first-ever batch of stout. You get to sample the stout.”
“I’m not really a fan of—”
“Too bad,” Isabel says. “Your task then is to tell me whether it tastes even worse than stout you’ve had before.”
“And if it does, you’ll dump it?”
“I don’t dump anything, sugar. I just sell it at a discount. You’re going to test the lager, too. I’ve made an adjustment to the recipe.”
I hop up on a stool at a high table. “Eric won’t love that.”