Lies We Bury(7)

A thrill of excitement registers, seeing my work on a leading news outlet, before sobering anxiety resumes its grip. Someone set me up to take those. But was it an obsessed fan of Chet’s or a more sinister stalker? See you soon, Missy could be a threat, and one intended to do more than expose me. Did the author of the note kill the victim in the brewery?

According to a Post article written by an Oz Trainor, the Four Alarm victim was a local exotic dancer. She was employed at one of Portland’s many strip clubs and had been reported missing last week. The time stamp shows the article was published about thirty minutes ago; the final paragraph notes that the story will be updated as information becomes available.

What did this woman, this dancer, do that she deserved to die? The truncated sentences don’t elaborate. The body was found in the brewery’s basement. No cause of death has been identified yet, and the article doesn’t say whether she was killed there or moved to the location afterward.

Most importantly: given the hand-delivered note I received today, what does she have to do with me?

Find the name I most admire and you’ll find the next one first.

Suddenly filled with more questions, I open a new browser tab. Searching the words Portland brewery, I get dozens of results—features on local favorites, top-ten lists, and national statistics regarding breweries per capita.

Twenty years. Twenty beers. All named for leaders.

The phrase Portland brewery leader names provides just as many links, leaving me feeling more overwhelmed than hopeful. I jot down the addresses of three breweries that seem like a possible fit: McHale’s Brewery, Patriot Brewery, and Bridge City Brewpub; each of their websites boasts a list of beers that seem to be named for real people.

Navigating back to the tab with the Portland Post’s home page, I hit “Refresh.” No updates on the Four Alarm murder. By now, two hours have gone by since I locked the dead bolt.

Anyone with access to the internet could dig up the photo of me as a child outside the hospital, clinging to Petey. The author of the note must have known I would see it at the brewery entrance and stop. Then again, the toy was weathered, dingier than mine, since Rosemary was fastidious about our cleanliness belowground; it could have been there for days or weeks.

I hit “Refresh” again. No updates.

A woman cackles from the parking lot outside my window, and I jump.

I can’t stay here waiting for—anticipating—another threat to slip under my door, to wake up later tonight at the sound of my window being jimmied open by practiced, calloused hands.

Grabbing my keys and the list of breweries, I head out. A quick glance through the peephole confirms no one is hiding in the hall.

The drive back to Portland passes quickly. Most drivers stay to the far right, allowing me to zip along the ten-mile distance with barely enough time to wonder what the hell I’m doing.

Blue uniforms and blazers stream in and out of Four Alarm Brewery. A crowd forms across the street; yellow police tape ropes off the block, making it inaccessible to cars. I park on the next street south. A plain brick structure, Four Alarm is located in a part of downtown nicknamed the Pearl—a suggestion among Portlanders that there’s hidden treasure inside despite outward appearances. Watching law enforcement cross the threshold now, the word FORENSICS emblazoned across certain jackets, the irony is too fitting.

A trio of teenagers stands at the corner observing the scene. One of them clutches a sleeping bag and wears a sweatshirt with a retro Mickey Mouse design from the nineties—same as the one I used to own. With a jolt, I take a step toward the group as white-blonde hair turns the corner and joins them. Gia.

“Hey, do you mind?”

A man whose path I crossed gestures toward the brewery. “I’m working. You just stepped into my line of sight.” He returns to scribbling in a palm-size black notepad.

“Sorry.” I keep moving to the right, nearly colliding with a woman who’s stopped walking her dog.

“Hey,” the man says again from behind me. I turn. Recognition lightens his brooding expression as he points a finger at me. A flash of cold douses my neck.

He knows who I am. Shit.

“Claire. Right? You did those photos for Pauline—the photos of the brewery. I’m with the Post. Oz.”

Oz Trainor. The journalist whose article I read at home. Styled sandy-brown hair complements hypnotic green eyes that focus on my mouth, and suddenly I feel nervous for a different reason.

I release the panicky breath I’d sucked in. “Uh, yeah, that’s me. Are you covering this all day, then? Have the police confirmed other details?”

The woman with the dog looks our way, and I’m aware that mine isn’t the only inquiring mind.

Shouts come from the interior of the building, and Oz squints toward the noise. His gaze flits over our audience. “Just what you find on our home page,” he says, his voice raised.

To me, he shrugs. “I’m supposed to interview the chief of police in a bit, but she keeps pushing me and the other press reps off. Come to think of it”—he clicks his pen—“you would actually be good to interview. Since you saw Four Alarm the day before the body was discovered. Did anything look unusual to you?”

Several heads turn to us. Heat flushes my cheeks.

“Ah, no. Nothing did. Everything I saw you now have in the photos that Pauline bought. If she needs anything else, she knows how to contact me.” Spinning on my heel, I walk toward the corner, the teenagers, and Gia. Oz’s curious stare seems to drill into my back, and I hurry away from the throng of law enforcement and the possibility of actually being recognized, of being called a different name than Claire.