Crossed-wires indeed…
They’d agreed to always discuss any kind of personnel shift, something Mel clearly hadn’t bothered with today. Still, Mel must have had his reasons, and Red was pretty damn anxious to hear them. And since Mel clearly wasn’t in the stillhouse, Red exited the room, then followed the maze of racks to the fermentation room, also set off by a series of halls and doors.
This was the room where yeast was added to the crushed grain and water mixture, then left to ferment in a process that increased the alcohol content, but also released carbon dioxide as a byproduct. Because high levels of the off-gas were potentially deadly, this was the most highly monitored room, with a complex series of vents coupled with a monitoring system that not only visually showed the level of the gas in the room, but also sounded an alarm—and automatically texted all personnel—whenever anything wasn’t within the proper parameters.
Red had received no such alert and the building was not rocking from the deafening sound of an alarm—which was why the fact that the visual indicator above the door was now showing a deadly-level concentration in that room scared the shit out of him.
Immediately, he grabbed an emergency breathing apparatus from a hook by the door. There were windows on either side, but as the gas was invisible, nothing seemed out of sorts, and he saw no sign of Mel. He pulled down on the lever designed to evacuate any gas from the room by increasing the suction from the constantly working filters while increasing the flow of clean air. An expert in all the ways a project could get fucked up, Red had insisted the distillery have safety protocols even beyond those that were required or typical in the industry.
He checked the gauges, saw that neither the filters nor blowers had kicked in. That’s when he aimed his gaze upward and was horrified to see that the ventilation system had been manually closed. And now, as he looked around the room at the floor-based scrubbers, he saw that each and every one of them had been unplugged.
Without hesitating, he donned his mask and rushed into the room. Right away, he plugged in each of the scrubbers, their noise immediately filling the space. He looked around, searching for Mel among the dozen waist-high tubs filled with bubbling mash. Not because they were sitting on heat high enough to boil, but because the yeast was doing its job.
He found no sign of his friend, though. He started to pull out his phone and call, then hesitated. Safety first, and he used the ladder to climb up and manually reopen every air vent.
Next, he went to the control panel, only to see that the alarm had been turned to mute, a feature that required the admin password that only he, Mel, and Jo had access to.
What the hell?
Worried and confused, he pulled his phone out again, then checked the gauge. The level was still too high to take off his mask, but was dropping rapidly. He called anyway, intending to talk through his mask. He anticipated hearing either Mel’s voice or his damn voicemail message. Instead, he heard an echoing sound. The distinctive refrain of Willie Nelson’s Whiskey River.
The song that Mel used as his ringtone. And it was coming from among the maze of tubs.
Something dark rumbled in his stomach, churning there like a living thing. Dread, rising and falling. Teasing and taunting. And before Red even knew that he was moving, he’d walked three lines of the grid of tubs that covered the cookhouse floor. He found Mel’s phone in the middle, wedged down near the base of one tub.
And there, marked on the tub’s plastic outer wall was scrawled a single word: Sorry.
Red’s chest tightened, fear stealing his breath. The phone’s lock screen showed messages from both him and Jo. And still, there was no sign of Mel.
“No. Oh, no, buddy. Tell me you didn’t.”
Moving as fast as he could, he raced to the wall where they kept the sterile stir sticks. But this wasn’t for stirring. Instead, he returned to the tub, then slowly prodded. And—as he’d feared—he hit something solid before the bottom of the tub.
Carefully, he used the stick to hook the solid thing—please don’t be Mel—of course it was Mel—and ease it up far enough so he could grab the familiar blue shirt with the Swift Red Distillery logo.
Forcing himself to stay calm, he hauled Mel up far enough to check his pulse. It wasn’t necessary, though. There was no doubt that his friend and partner was dead.
Despite the urge to pull his friend free, Red released the body, letting it slide back into the mash. He’d already disturbed the scene, and even though every sign pointed to suicide, Red knew enough about the process to know that there would have to be an investigation.
Suicide. Why the hell had his friend committed suicide?
And why hadn’t Red picked up on it? What kind of friend was he that he’d missed the warning signs? Sure, Mel had been acting off lately—tricky negotiations for a hotel supply contract was what he’d said, but Red had known that wasn’t all of it. There’d been something else on Mel’s mind, but Red had never pushed.
Dear God, he should have pushed…
He’d assumed the troubles were between Mel and Jo. They’d gotten married a few years before the grand opening, and he’d been the best man. Which had been both a pleasure and Red’s worst nightmare. Because though he would never tell another soul, and especially not the woman herself, the thought of Jo in another man’s bed just about killed him.
A totally ridiculous reaction since he couldn’t have her. Hell, he’d pushed her away with both hands.
A woman like Jo deserved better than a guy with Red’s fucked up issues. But ridiculous or not, his gut had been in knots the day of the wedding. And as he stood by his two friends’ side while they exchanged vows, Red had felt light-headed from the intensity of emotions warring within him. Blood red jealousy and, surprisingly, bittersweet relief. Because at least Jo would be happy. Something that would never happen if she’d ended up with a guy as screwed up as him.
Except now it looked like Mel had been screwed up, too. Everybody had their weak spots. Their vulnerabilities that could push them over the edge.
He ran his fingers through his hair and told himself to back off and get his shit together. He needed to call the cops and let them do their thing. He needed to call Jo and let her know what had happened.
Bottom line? He needed to put aside his anger and his confusion and his grief. There were things to handle, and he was the man at the rudder.
“Right.” He drew in a deep breath, then started to put the phone back where he found it. He stopped cold, though, when it rang, the screen showing no caller ID. He hesitated, but answered it.
“I would say that I’m sorry your friend is dead.” The voice was filtered, and Red couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. “But I’m not.”
“Who the hell—”
“He was a bad man. He made bad choices. He kept something that didn’t belong to him. Something that belongs to me.”
He looked around, trying to locate the speaker. They knew he’d found the body, so the person must be watching him. But watching from where?
“I’m listening,” he said as he slowly stood up, then walked to the windows that looked out onto the hall.
Whoever was at the other end chuckled. “That would be too easy.”
Cameras. But where were they mounted? A quick scan of the room revealed nothing.