Amateur sleuth and brewer Sloan Krause contends with her past—and a murder related to it—in The Cure for What Ales You, another delightful mystery from cozy writer Ellie Alexander.
After a long cold winter, spring is beginning to bloom in the alpine village of Leavenworth, Washington, where craft brewer Sloan Krause and her partner in crime Garrett Strong are putting the finishing touches on their bright and refreshing Lemon Kiss ale. They'll be debuting their new line at the Maifest celebration, which will bring visitors from near and far to dance around the Maipole and shop at the outdoor flower markets.
Despite the festive spirit in the air, Sloan is brewing over her past. She's spent months following leads that have turned into dead ends. But when she spots a woman who strongly resembles Marianne—a long lost contact who may be her only connection to piecing together her story—she hopes that things might be taking a turn in her favor. That hope is quickly smashed when Marianne is involved in the murder of a local housekeeper. To make matters worse, Marianne issues a dire warning that Sloan and her entire family are in danger. If Sloan can't figure out who the killer is and what happened in her past, she won't find any hoppy endings.
Release date:
October 5, 2021
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
304
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THE SCENT OF CITRUS enveloped the brewery as I dumped a bucket of Lemondrop hops into the brew. The new hop varietal had become an overnight sensation, with its notes of lemon, mint, melon, and green tea. Garrett Strong, my brewing partner, and I were using the new style of hop to enhance the fruit profile of one of our spring ales—the Lemon Kiss. Our first batch of the light and refreshing beer had been a huge hit. It was unlike anything we had brewed to date, thanks to the unique hop profiles. In addition to the Lemondrop hops, we had added two of the most popular varietals in the region—Calypso and Lotus—along with lemon zest and fresh squeezed lemon juice. The result was a bright and tangy IPA that reminded me of sipping iced lemonade on the back porch. It was perfect for spring. The only problem was keeping it on tap.
Luckily we had planned ahead for this weekend’s Maifest and brewed enough for the tourist crowds that would pack into the village for the traditional Maipole dance, Sip and Stroll, chainsaw carving, fun run, and outdoor spring markets. I knew that I was biased, but there really wasn’t a bad season to visit Leavenworth, Washington. Our charming version of Bavaria tucked into the northern Cascade Mountains was worth the trek through the Snoqualmie Pass in the dead of winter when everything was draped with a crystalline blanket of white. The trip through the winding narrow passage with spring in full bloom was the stuff of dreams.
I had recently moved into town after years living in a farmhouse with a small hop field on the outskirts of the village. Not a day passed that I didn’t feel a deep sense of gratitude for my decision to move. My “commute” to work now involved a short walk past the miniature golf course and rows of German-inspired buildings with their sand and limestone walls, tiled rooflines, half-timber framing, and balconies with window boxes overflowing with vibrant trailing geraniums, petunias, and ivy. No restaurant, delicatessen, shop, or hotel spared any expense when it came to colorful floral displays for Maifest. The abundant blooms dripped like a cascading waterfall from one story to the next.
Nitro, the nanobrewery where I had been working for nearly a year, sat just off Front Street, the main thoroughfare. I loved the scent of boiling grains and working up a sweat on brew days. Today was no exception. Garrett and I had gotten an early start. Maifest activities kicked off later, which meant the tasting room would be buzzing with activity by early afternoon.
With that deadline in mind, I turned my attention to the brew and used a large metal paddle to stir the hops.
Garrett tugged off a pair of rubber boots, placing them on a shoe rack next to the stainless steel tanks. He had finished hosing down the equipment. Prior to learning the trade myself, I had always thought brewing was simply like baking or cooking, where you mixed a few ingredients together. But I had come to understand it was so much more. At least 75 percent of our time in the brewery involved cleaning. “Man, it smells amazing, Sloan. I think this batch is going to be even better than our first round,” he said with a crooked grin.
That tended to be true. Garrett, like many brewmasters, took meticulous notes during each stage of the brewing process, from how long to steep the grains to ratios of hops and yeast. There was no way to identically craft the exact same beer each time. Often in second and third iterations of a beer, we would make minor adjustments to pull out specific flavors or reduce the bitterness. It was a constant tweaking and one of the reasons that brewing had turned into my dream job. It might be hard, physical labor, but it was never boring.
Garrett mopped sweat from his brow and removed his chemistry goggles. “I think that’s it. Not bad for an early start. Now I need a coffee—or a pot of coffee.”
I smiled. Garrett and I had opposite rhythms, which worked well in our professional relationship. We had recently transformed the upper floor of the building he had inherited from his great-aunt Tess into “beercation” suites. Four guest rooms, themed after the four elements of beer—water, yeast, hops, and grains—offered visitors a unique immersive experience that included a beer-infused breakfast, brewery tours, and complimentary tastings. We had officially opened for guests in January and had seen steady bookings ever since. There wasn’t a weekend between now and Oktoberfest that we weren’t sold out. Garrett had wisely decided that it was time for another set of hands at Nitro and had hired two college students who were home for summer vacation, Casey and Jack, to help pour pints, wait tables, prep pub fare, and wash dishes. Our permanent hire, Kat, had taken on a larger role building out our social media presence, managing guest reservations, and being our go-to person in the taproom. She had mastered how to pour a perfect pint and the subtle nuances of each of our beer profiles in a short amount of time.
I finished stirring the hops and climbed down the stainless steel ladder. “I wouldn’t turn down a coffee. Kat should be done with breakfast cleanup. Then she and I are going to review the special Maifest weekend menu and make sure Casey and Jack are ready for the onslaught of beer enthusiasts.”
“Sounds good. I’ll go wash up and get ready to open the tasting room.” Garrett tossed his chemistry goggles into a bucket of cleaning solution. “After I down a cup of coffee.”
“I’m right behind you.” I chuckled, kicking off my boots. Then I wiped the paddle with cleaning solution and hung it on the rack on the far wall. I stopped in the bathroom to douse my face with water. My olive-toned cheeks were pink from exertion. I cooled them with a splash of cold water and retied my long dark hair into a high ponytail. I found myself staring in the mirror a minute too long.
I knew why. I was hoping that my reflection might hold the key to who I was.
Everything I had thought I knew about my past and my family here in Leavenworth had come into question recently.
I had grown up in the foster care system. Being bounced from house to house had come with challenges, but it had also made me the strong, independent woman I was today. When I met Mac, my soon-to-be ex-husband, the experience of feeling like it was me against the world had shifted. His family—Otto, Ursula, and his younger brother, Hans—had welcomed me without judgment or expectation. For the last two decades, I had been a Krause. Otto and Ursula had become my surrogate parents and doting grandparents to my son, Alex. Then everything fell apart. I caught Mac cheating on me with the beer wench at Der Keller, the Krause family brewery and Leavenworth’s largest employer. The shock of Mac’s infidelity was nothing compared with what I had learned about Otto and Ursula. The sweet German couple who adopted me as one of their own and taught me their brewing legacy had been living a lie.
Sally, my caseworker from my foster care days, had uncovered information that linked the Krauses with Nazi war criminals and flagged them as potential Nazi sympathizers. She had been convinced that Otto and Ursula had been funneling funds from Der Keller to Ernst, Otto’s uncle and one of the last living members of the Nazi regime who had escaped to America after the war. I had confronted them immediately. They admitted that they had changed their names when they fled Germany in the 1970s. However, they insisted their move to Leavenworth wasn’t because of any Nazi ties. The exact opposite. Otto’s uncle shared an unfortunate connection—the same name as a former member of the regime wanted for atrocities so dark it was impossible to fathom. I had wanted to believe them, but I had lost trust.
Fortunately, thanks to Sally and a friend of hers in the FBI, the Krauses had been exonerated. It had been a huge relief when Sally called a few weeks after my heart-to-heart with the Krauses to tell me the news.
“Sloan, I have an update for you,” she had said, her voice breathless and rushed on the call. “I was mistaken. We’ve been able to track down a cousin of Otto’s who is still living in Germany. The Krauses are telling the truth. Ernst, who has since passed away, was cleared of any misdoings. He did not fight with the Nazis. He had the misfortune of sharing a name identical to a war criminal and nothing more.”
I had told her it was a great relief to know that the surrogate parents who had taken me in and made me feel like one of them, and who had helped me raise Alex, were the people I believed them to be—kind, empathetic, and caring.
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