“Photo,” I say, pointing. “Names. My grandfather presented a ‘heritage recipe’ at a guild event. Sutter and Delaney were also there, and they were in my bar yesterday.”
“Right,” she says. “And what do wenotknow?”
I huff. “Everything else.”
“Exactly. And until we know it, please do not rebrand your entire business because three assholes decided to bring up some shit from over forty years ago.”
“Two,” I mutter. “The third might have been Pennington or Mayes.”
“Fine. Two and a half.” She slides closer so our knees touch. “You built the Pint on your work. If the story needs correcting, we’ll correct it. But self-destruction? Not on the menu.”
I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling. “I hate not knowing,” I say.
“I know.” She nudges the book. “And we will find out, I promise you that.”
The handle on the front door jiggles, then opens, and Jason shoulders in with a cardboard carrier and a brown grocery sack balanced on his forearm.
“Food,” he announces, which is both a greeting and an olive branch in this family. “I didn’t order it, but I claim credit for picking it up.”
The living room fills with the scent of roast chicken, something herb-y, maybe a hint of chocolate? He sets everything on the coffee table, shoes already off like the civilized man Gwen raised.
“Hey,” I say, standing, because I’m not a monster; I can carry a bag. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, I did,” he says, not unkindly. “We are officially a multi-front operation: feed Paige, feed the grandkid, figure out what the hell is going on.”
Jason starts laying out takeout containers as if we’re at a field hospital: mashed potatoes, green beans with almonds, a liddedtub of salad, and a bakery box that he parks in front of Paige. “Mom said, and I quote, ‘If they’re researching, they need brain food.’ Also, she said not to forget forks. I forgot forks.”
“I can get forks,” Paige says, already pushing up.
“I’ll get forks,” I say, already moving.
“I’ll get forks,” Jason says, because apparently we’re racing now.
“Everyone sit down,” Paige orders, and because she’s the only one here with actual authority, we obey. She disappears into the kitchen, returns with forks, spoons, knives, and plates.
The first bite of delicious mashed potatoes makes me realize just how hungry I am. Paige has gone right in on a slice of chocolate cake. I wonder if she ever gets tired of eating sweets.
Jason watches her with the satisfied expression of a man who successfully executed a mission, then shovels chicken into his mouth.
“Report,” he says finally, mouth half full, nodding at the avalanche of books. “What do we have?”
Paige points at the photo, and he leans in, one forearm on the table. He’s quiet as he reads the caption and then the column of names.
“Grandpa Eddie,” he says, and his face does a small, involuntary soften at the sight. “Look at him. That tie. Dad’s going to lose it.”
My finger lands on the names. “Wm. Hoffman,” I say. “I think that’s my grandfather.”
Jason nods slowly. “He looks like you,” he says, same as Paige did. Then his gaze shifts one name down, and his mouth goes flat. “Paducah Brewer’s Guild.”
“I think these are the guys from the Pint,” I say and point to two of them. “This might be the third, but I’m not sure.”
“Buck Sutter and Frank Delaney,” Jason says. “Sound like assholes to me.”
“Obviously, they were all friends at some point,” Paige says.
Jason is still studying the picture. “Question is, what happened between this picture and yesterday?” He glances up. “Dad might know some of it. He and Grandpa Eddie were around for all the town’s petty dramas. Dad probably has opinions on it.”
“Paige thinks the museum might have a ledger,” I say. “We’re emailing tomorrow.”
