“No.”
“I hold a session every Tuesday morning.”
“No.”
“Clothing optional.”
I knocked back a gulp of daiquiri and almost set off on another coughing fit.
Hello, tequila.
“Strong. Um…seven? Hold on, let me try to actually taste it.” I took a smaller sip, moving the icy liquid around on the tip of my tongue. “Change that to a four. It’s all tequila, no flavor. Good tequila, though.”
I looked over the crowd. Mostly happy faces. A few people were bored, others still staring at their phones. And of course there was Dan Perkin, the eternally simmering ball of anger seething in the front row.
If he didn’t die of a rage-induced stroke, I’d be amazed.
“Rhubarb wine,” Rossi said. “That sounds intriguing.”
I lifted the cup, gave it a swirl, and downed the single-ounce serving in one go.
“Okay. That was unexpectedly sweet. Nice dessert wine. Let’s give it a nine, and move on to the next.”
“Barberry Beer.”
I wasn’t supposed to know who had entered which drink into the contest. But it was a small town and people and creatures and deities liked to talk. A lot.
It was nearly impossible to create a blind tasting event. Bertie had done a fine job, as far as I was concerned. I hadn’t known any of the entrants’ items for the savory round, and I only knew two for sure in this round: Dan Perkin’s root beer and Chris Lagon’s barberry beer.
I made a point of not looking at Dan or Chris as I lifted the cup, glanced inside at a deep amber beer with just a hint of an almost fuchsia tint that was actually pretty. It smelled a little like blackberry or raspberry tones over the light scent of hops.
There was a reason Chris was such a respected brewer. He was good at it. I just hoped this beer held up.
I took a drink and quickly stuffed my smile under a neutral expression as I leaned toward Rossi. “Ten. I don’t know why I didn’t trust him. How does he make a vegetable as evil as rhubarb taste good?”
“It’s a fruit,” Travail said absently.
“Yes, it is. An evil fruit.”
“Except when it’s in beer, apparently,” he said with an easy smile.
“Apparently,” I agreed.
“Whiskey sour,” he said. “Guess what the sour is.”
“After this, probably not my mood.” I lifted another glass to my lips.
Chapter 21
“ARE YOU sure you can make it all the way to the top of the stairs?” Myra asked, parking the cruiser below my house.
“I’m not drunk.” I waved a hand at her before unbuckling my seatbelt. It took me two tries to get the button thingy right.
“Uh-huh. Maybe you should stay with me tonight.”
I sighed. “Okay, I’m a little tipsy, but not drunk. I am also a little sick to my stomach from all that rhubarb. I plan to drink half a bottle of Maalox, take a bath, and sleep.”
“You sure? I’m…” She chewed on the inside of her cheek and glanced up at the house. “I’m feeling like maybe I should go up there with you.”
