THE BOOKS

A DEADLY DRAUGHT

Trade Paperback April 2010
ISBN: 978-0-9825899-2-2

Hera crafts beer in a community of friendly competitors.  And then . . . brewing turns deadly.  Someone is both a master brewer and a killer and has targeted Hera as the next victim.


Read an excerpt from A Deadly Draught


Amazon ~ Kindle
Barnes & Noble ~ Nook
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"A stunning debut novel! Mysteries don’t get much better than A Deadly Draught. From the first page Hera Knightsbridge’s world of beer, brewing and murder keeps a reader not only enthralled but aching for a good ale to sip! The only regret I had when reading A Deadly Draught was it ended far too soon. Can’t wait to read the next adventure of Master Brewer Hera Knightsbridge."

--Mary Buckham – co-author of Break Into Fiction™: 11 Steps to Building a Story That Sells and award-winning Suspense author.
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"...As satisfying as a frosty mug of well-crafted beer.''

--Deborah Sharp, author of the Mace Bauer Mysteries
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"...Uses her background as a psychologist to create complex interrelationships of family and friends....  Anyone who has downed a beer will love it!"

--Sallie Dunham-Davis, MSW, Family and Individual Counseling Services, Oneonta, NY
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"...A cleverly-told story... I hope you'll give this brew a try."

Fran Stewart, author of the Biscuit McKee mystery series
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A DEADLY DRAUGHT: EXCERPT

When family members betray each other and abandon love, murder is possible...

The nutty smell of cracked barley and the warm milky aroma of yeast enveloped me as I walked through my brew barn.  It was an illusion, I knew, but I could almost taste the bitterness of hops on my tongue.  I paused next to a fermentation vat, wrapped my arms around the old vessel, and laid my cheek against its copper coolness.  My heart seemed to beat in time with the gurgle of the developing brew within.  Mr. Ramford would not take this away from me.  This was mine.  This was me.

“Get over here.  Now.”  His midnight call had come unexpectedly, sending a surge of hope through my heart but setting my stomach somersaulting with fear.  I could feel his hands reaching out for my business, twisting my product into his image of beer, mediocre beer, not the carefully crafted ales and lagers I envisioned.  I’d meet with him, because he had the money and I had nothing except my skill as a microbrewer.  I needed to make that work to my advantage.

I gave a final look around my small barn and pushed out into the spring night and jogged along the spruce-covered ridge separating our two properties.  My approach led me to the back of his brewery where I stopped for a minute to catch my breath, then pushed through the rusty gate.  

The only light in the barn came from the gift shop.  I entered expecting to find him, impatient, waiting for me. 

The room was empty. 

Leave, insisted a voice in my head, but I clamped my jaw tighter, determined to negotiate what I could.

“Mr. Ramford?  It’s Hera.  Where are you?” 

No answer. 

Someone must have been restocking shelves.  Half emptied boxes of mustards, pretzels, and salamis littered the floor.  I slipped through the rear door of the shop and hesitated.  The smells of chaff and yeasty wort greeted my entry into the cavernous brewing room. 

Through the dim light from the small, high windows I could  make out the fermenting tanks, looming over me like metal sentinels.  I felt around on the wall to the right of the door for a light switch but could not locate one.  A soft whooshing noise as if someone was out of breath came from the other side of the vats. 

“Hello?”  This time my voice reverberated off the tanks and walls.  I was certain someone was in the room and playing hide-and-seek with me.  Why? 

I began to pick my way through the barn, over the hoses leading from tank to tank and from the water purifier, careful to avoid stepping into one of the sunken grates covering the drains.  A shaft of light penetrated the dimness as the far door opened and then closed, enough light to warn me I was about to trip over someone lying face down on the floor. 

“Mr. Ramford?”  I knelt and touched a body.  It felt warm to my fingertips but didn’t move.  As I leaned in closer, my nose caught an unpleasant collection of odors, none of which had anything to do with brewing beer.  Oh, God.  This must be what death smells like.

I pulled back my hand and whirled around, my eyes searching the darkness of the barn.  I thought I could sense a presence in the room.

“Someone there?” I called.  “I need help.” 

Silence.  

A hissing from behind startled me.  I ran for the gift shop door and slammed it shut, then laughed at my fear.  Silly me.  That was only the sound of carbon dioxide escaping from an out-take valve in a fermenter.  But the body was real.