I was pulling a pint when Beckett walked in. Last I’d heard, Grady had picked him up, but apparently, he’d let him go. The fury that had been running hot at the festival was banked down to something lower and more exhausted. He dropped onto a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the other patrons, his posture making it clear he wanted to be left alone.
I finished the pour, delivered it, and made my way down to him.
"What can I get you, Beckett?”
He looked up. "Anything but the Ravenswood Red."
I pulled him a stout without comment and set it in front of him. He wrapped both hands around the glass and didn't drink it right away. Just held it.
"You were there. At the festival. When I—" He stopped. Rubbed the back of his neck. "When I made a complete idiot of myself in front of half the town."
"You said what you thought you needed to say," I said. I kept my voice neutral. Not dismissive, not encouraging. Just even.
He laughed, short and humorless. "Yeah, well. The whole town has decided that what I needed to say turned out to be a murder confession, so." He finally took a drink. Set the glass down. "Grady picked me up and questioned me."
"I heard."
“Everyone did. This is Ravenstone.” He shook his head. "I didn't do it. I was angry. God, I was angry. I still am." He turned the glass slowly. "Roy stole from me. Not money. Something worse than money. Three years of work. And he walked up those stage steps and collected a ribbon for it with no mention of my name." His jaw tightened. "So yeah, I said what I said. But I didn't kill him."
"Grady must agree if he let you go." I kept my comment casual, the way I did when I wanted the person on the other side of the bar to feel comfortable to keep talking.
Beckett's expression shifted slightly. Something complicated moved through it. A flash of something that might have been embarrassment, or irony, or both at once.
"I had an alibi," he said.
“That’s good for you.”
"Yeah." He took another drink, longer this time. "The guy doing publicity for Kettlebrook. We, uh—" He turned the glass again. "We ran into each other at the hotel bar after the festival wrapped up Monday night. Ended up talking for a while." A pause. "Among other things."
Among other things. I kept my face neutral, but my mind wasn’t. Josh had spent Monday night with Beckett. So much for his undying love for Declan. You know what they say about leopards changing their spots. I would have to make sure I was the one who told Declan because there was no way that would stay a secret in Ravenstone. Not with half the town seeing Beckett arrested. Everyone would want to know why he was released.
"Well, it’s good that someone can vouch for you," I said.
"It is." Beckett's voice had gone flat. "But you know how this town is. Even though Grady cleared me and let me go, I'm still the guy who got arrested for it. In a town I've lived my whole life." He pressed his thumb against a ring of condensation on the bar. "That’s what people remember, no matter what happens. No matter how many other people had even more reason to kill him.”
I didn't say anything because there wasn't much to say to that. He wasn't wrong about how these things worked. Arrested was a word that stuck even after it stopped being true. I was curious who else he thought had motive, though, but before I could ask, he went on.
"I just want my recipe back," he said quietly. "That's all I wanted. I didn't want him dead. I wanted him to stand up in front of the same crowd and admit what he'd done. That's it." He exhaled. "And now he's dead and he never will, and I still don't have anything to show for three years of work, and everyone in town thinks I'm a murderer." He picked up his glass. "So. Great week.”
Someone down the bar motioned for a drink, so I decided to give him a minute while I took care of the other patrons before I circled back to see who he suspected.
He sat there, working through his beer, not talking to anyone, not looking for company—when the door opened and Fletcher came in.
He scanned the bar once, found Beckett, and headed straight for him. He pulled out the stool next to Beckett and sat down like he'd been expected, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t since Beckett looked at him the way you looked at something unpleasant you'd found on the bottom of your shoe.
"Fletcher."
"Beckett." Fletcher flagged me down and ordered a whiskey. Then turned back to Beckett before I'd finished pouring it. "I heard they let you go."
"Word travels fast."
"This is Ravenstone." Fletcher accepted his glass without looking at me. "I'm glad. Truly. None of this"—he gestured vaguely in a way that seemed to encompass Roy's death, the festival, the whole week—"is what any of us wanted."
"Mm," Beckett said, in a tone that conveyed very little agreement.
I moved down the bar. Far enough for a human to not overhear their conversation. My hearing, of course, didn’t have such limitations.
"I'll get right to it," Fletcher said. "With Roy gone, running Black Feather Brewery is up to me, and I need a brewer."
