“Or lower back problems from poor posture,” Mom points out.
“You have no imagination, Red.”
“I have realistic expectations.”
“Same thing.”
I watch the men’s table while they debate Conrad’s theoretical appeal. Piers sits at the far end, picking at a basket of wings with the enthusiasm of a con man whose mind is elsewhere. Conrad holds court in the middle, gesturing wildly while telling what I assume is a story designed to impress his audience. Jasper and Leo are deep in conversation, probably discussing the case—or the fact that Jasper couldn’t seem to shake his nosy wife tonight.
And here I sit studying them all like specimens in a lab.
“Look,” Georgie says suddenly, pointing toward the guys’ table with all the subtlety of a neon sign. “Conrad just flexed his bicepwhile reaching for his beer. That’s not an accident. That’s strategic masculine signaling. I think he’s flirting with me.”
“Or he’s having a muscle cramp.” Mom sighs.
“Why are you always so determined to crush my romantic fantasies?”
“Because someone needs to keep you grounded in reality.”
“Reality is overrated. Conrad could be my summer romance! My brewery boyfriend! My craft beer connection!”
“Your restraining order waiting to happen,” I mutter, but I’m grinning despite myself.
Our food arrives with impressive speed, and I realize I’m actually starving. The burger is perfectly charred and dripping with cheese, the sweet potato fries are crispy enough to give an audible crunch, and the loaded nachos are a masterpiece of melted orange goo, jalapeños, and what appears to be half a cow’s worth of toppings.
“This is why I love investigative work,” I declare around a bite of burger. “The snacks are always top-notch.”
“Your investigative work usually involves more running and less eating,” Mom points out.
“What can I say? I’m evolving my methods.”
About twenty minutes goes by of Georgie rating every man in the brewery on a scale of one to ten—that one is a solid eight, but his facial hair screams commitment issues—while Mom regales us with detailed reviews of everyone’s footwear choices—those are clearly expensive boots, but he’s wearing them all wrong, no arch support whatsoever, he’ll have back problems by forty.
From across the room, I hear the scrape of chairs and look up to see most of the guys standing up, beer bottles in hand. They’re migrating toward the pool hall visible through an archway, where I can see green felt tables, overhead lights, and girls in cutoff jeans and tube tops.
“And there they go,” I say, watching the bachelor party reduxmove en masse toward their next entertainment venue. “Like a herd of slightly intoxicated buffalo.”
But not all of them join the migration. Piers separates from the group and takes a seat at the bar with his shoulders hunched as if he needs a moment alone with his thoughts and his beer.
“Well, well,” I murmur, dabbing a napkin to my lips and sliding off my stool. “Looks like someone just volunteered for a private conversation.”
“Going in for the kill?” Georgie asks with approval.
“Going in for the truth,” I correct. “Much more satisfying in the long run.”
After all, the best confessions always happen when people think they’re just having a good time.
CHAPTER 13
The main bar at What Ales You feels like a confession booth made of polished wood and brass fixtures, with warm amber lighting that makes everything look golden and intimate despite the rock music still pounding from the main dining area.
The siren song of French fries and grilled burgers lights up my senses as I sidle up to the empty stool next to Piers, who’s nursing what appears to be his third beer while staring at the rows of bottles behind the bar like they hold the secrets to the universe. The bartender, a burly guy with a graying beard, nods at me as I settle in.
“Bizzy?” Piers looks genuinely delighted to see me, though his expression shifts to puzzled concern. “Are you here looking for Jasper? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, actually, on both counts,” I say, then realize I need a believable reason for tracking him down that doesn’t involve interrogation techniques. My brain scrambles for a moment before landing on something that sounds appropriately domestic. “I came to tell him that Ella saidDadatonight. Her first real word!Well, directed at her actual father anyway. She’s with my father and Jasper’s mother right now, completely knocked out from her sugar adventure this afternoon.”
I’m sure there’s a special place downstairs for mothers who lie about babies saying Dada for the very first time, but I choose not to dwell on that right now.
