Beckett said nothing. Didn’t ask any questions. Which told me that, unlike most of us, he already knew about the partnership between Roy and Fletcher. That made sense, I guess, since he worked for Roy for years.
"The Kettlebrook contract is still on the table. That agreement doesn’t die just because he did. But it's no good if I can’t produce Ravenswood Red, and right now, I don't have any way to deliver that." He turned his glass. "You're the bestbrewmaster in the region. Everyone knows it. Roy knew it, that’s why he used your recipe.”
“You knew about that?”
"I found out after the fact." Fletcher's voice was even and unbothered in the way of someone who'd rehearsed this part. "I want you to know I had nothing to do with that. Roy handled the brewing; I was just the money guy."
"Silent partner," Beckett nodded. "Emphasis on silent."
"That was the plan, but things have changed. The brewery is still a viable business. The contract is real. And what happened to your recipe? That wrong can be corrected. Credit where it's due. Proper attribution. Roy isn't here to argue otherwise."
I watched Beckett's hands around his glass. Still. Too still.
"And the other brewers?" Beckett asked. "Rumor is Roy hexed their entries. Ivan? Malcolm? They’re saying they lost because Roy cheated. What happens to them?"
Fletcher shrugged—a small, precise motion. "The contest results stand. If they have issues with that, they can take it up with the festival committee." A beat. "You, on the other hand, have something worth taking up. A real claim. And I'm offering you the chance to do something with it."
Beckett looked at him for a long moment.
"Can I ask you something?" Beckett said.
"Of course."
"Do you think one of them did it?" His voice had shifted—something harder underneath it now. “Killed Roy? Ivan, Malcolm, whoever. Roy’s dead, and you're the one left with the brewery. So I'm curious what you actually think happened.”
Something moved behind Fletcher's eyes. Brief. Controlled. Gone before it became anything readable.
"I think Roy made some enemies," Fletcher said. "I think some of them were in that competition. And I think Grady will figure out which one of them couldn't let it go." He straightenedslightly. "What I know is that I'm left with a business that needs to keep running, and I'd rather build something with the best brewer available than watch it fall apart."
Beckett looked at him for another moment. Then he drained the last of his stout, set the glass down with a quiet, definitive click, and stood up.
"No," he said.
Fletcher blinked. "Beckett?—"
"I'm not interested." His voice was steady, the simmering anger still there but controlled now. "Not in working for Black Feather. Not in working for you. Not in any version of this where someone else’s name is on the building and I'm the one keeping the lights on." He pulled out his wallet and set some bills on the bar. “I won’t do that again.”
He picked up his jacket.
"You're making a mistake," Fletcher said.
"I don’t think so." Beckett glanced back at him, and there was something almost calm in his face now, like someone who'd made a decision and meant it. "I've made a few this week, but I don’t think this is another one.”
He walked out.
The door settled closed behind him.
Fletcher sat for a moment with his whiskey and his grim expression, then he finished the drink in one swallow, set the glass down, and left.
I picked up both glasses and wiped down the bar.
Tate appeared at my elbow twenty minutes later, collecting empties from the far end.
"That looked intense," he said, low enough not to carry.
"It was."
He shrugged. “At least they kept it civil. Sable’s not in the mood for a bar fight tonight.” He picked up his tray and went back to work.
