Trouble Brewing by Paul Abercrombie

Author:Paul Abercrombie [Abercrombie, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780692309582
Google: 9z8VBQAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00OX4PUFY
Barnesnoble: B00OX4PUFY
Goodreads: 23452450
Publisher: Dark Alley Press
Published: 2014-10-13T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

“Yeah, I know. But Preston is busy right now. In an interview…I will. I’ll tell him. Yes. I know he’d like to chat with you…Yeah, he’s got your number. He’ll call you back just as soon as he’s free. I promise. Thank you very much. Okay. Bye.”

Incredible.

John was just talking with Piers Johnston. Only the most venerated beer scribbler in the entire world. Shit, John had all of the guy’s books a few feet away on his office bookshelf. Now the guy calls from Brussels, or wherever he said he was, says he plans to run a “little squib” about Beaver in his next newsletter, and says he needs to talk with Beaver’s brewmaster.

Piers-fucking-Johnston. In-fucking-credible.

And that wasn’t even counting the other press people who had called. Most of them weren’t brewery trade-magazine schmucks, either. These were mainstream daily reporters. Tampa Bay Times. Tampa Tribune. Miami Herald. Even a writer with The Wall Street Journal had left a voice message—something about a trend piece on the microbrew industry.

Harry might get his Page One story in The Wall Street Journal yet.

John logged onto RealBeer.com and read a review of Seminole Stout filed that morning by one of the beer writers who had covered the festival. The judge had described Seminole Stout as “wonderfully pruney, with mocha aromas and a meaty oiliness of body that manages to be delicate and savory, with a subtle salsa finish.”

John shuddered.

The writer went on to proclaim the beer “a dazzling interpretation of the standard stout.”

Pulling the pages from the printer and adding them to the rising news-clippings pile, John heard TV reporters mincing up and down brewery stairs in high heels, clomping feet of cameramen following, everyone yabbering at Preston. John looked out his office window at the live-feed vans sitting outside, their microwave dishes bristling like porcupine quills.

Beaver Brewery was on top of the beer world. Chloe had seen new orders jump by more than fivefold only a few hours after Beaver’s stunning win. Distributors from Portland to Pensacola were ringing up Harry to find out how to score pallets, kegs, cans, whatever, of Beaver brew. What wasn’t drained by the marauding BeerFesters was already on trucks bound for pubs around the state.

John had won, too, in a way. His job was probably secure, and he might even get a raise—hell, Harry would have a hard time denying pay increases for every Beaver employee.

How could Seminole Stout have possibly won? By all the laws of chemistry, the beer should have been shit. Or at least so-so. To win the biggest beer festival in the state was beyond bizarre.

Still, one person had to know something was up. Waldie, of the all-knowing beer nose, had to taste something funky about the batch, didn’t he? If anyone could, he would. Hell, the guy could divine the how and where and when of any beer on the planet.

John thought he could taste Ernesto in the beer up on stage not a few hours before. Maybe his taste buds were playing tricks on him.

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