Page 55 of Intoxicating Pursuit

The Visit

SAMMY

“ H ello?”

I pulled the key out of the door and called again.

“Hello?”

Only the subtle hum of the air conditioner responded. I held the heavy door open for Meghan, then let it fall closed and flipped the lock.

A tangle of emotion swelled in my chest as we stepped beneath the vaulted ceiling of the former warehouse. Meghan was an only child, but the breweries were my babies, too, in a way, and I’d never even seen this one in person. I’d been a neglectful parent.

Similar to the Chestnut Hill layout, a locally-harvested, live-edge bar and long rows of beer taps anchored the center of the space, while vintage tables and cushioned booths offered guests a comfy place to land.

A showstopping shiplap of reclaimed tobacco pine covered the rear wall, and a dozen handcrafted, wrought-iron lanterns hung from lofty, exposed beams. The construction and design looked sound—rustic, Southern, and elegant. Very well done.

A lantern had been carelessly left on over the bar, however, and as I examined the dining room more critically, the signs of operational neglect revealed themselves.

I waited to see if my daughter would spot them.

“Okay, sweetheart, we’ll go over things more formally today and meet with staff, but for now, let’s just do a walkthrough. Any first impressions?”

“Well—" Meghan studied the lofty space— “It’s different from the one at home. . . but really pretty.” She meandered through the seating area. “I can’t believe some of the tables aren’t bussed, though.”

“Me neither.” It was only a few coffee cups and place settings, but I couldn’t fathom leaving a mess overnight like that. I walked over to join her. “What else do you see?”

Meghan perused a bit further, peering under the chairs. “Well, it looks like no one has swept in a while. There’s crud and bits of food everywhere. I’m not super clean or anything, but that’s just gross, Mom. . . hope that’s not rude.”

“In this situation, being honest isn’t rude. I have the same reaction. And nightly close tasks should wind up on process checklists. It’s such a simple tool, but those are often the best kind. Plus, they drive consistency. Do you notice anything else?”

“Well, this is picky, but the chairs and barstools are sort of askew, like no one tucked them in last night.” She slid a couple back into place.

“Yup, that’s a good one.”

I helped her straighten a few strays, then we moved to the bar.

In addition to beer, Forbidden Brews offered cocktails, and someone had left stainless-steel dishes of maraschino cherries and sliced citrus out to wilt and oxidize.

Fruit flies swarmed the mess. “Ugh.” Meghan wrinkled her nose. “That’s disgusting.”

“A hundred percent.” My blood pressure rose as I chucked it in the trash.

“Wait here.” I beelined for the taps and sure enough, more of the tiny pests flitted about, alighting on the sticky drain and countertops.

“Hold on, Meghan. I can’t walk past this.

Give me a second.” I filled a pitcher with piping hot water, removed the drip tray, and rinsed everything, my annoyance mounting.

Fruit flies were so easy to prevent and so hard to get rid of once they set up camp.

Failing to wash things down at night was pure laziness. Damn it.

I grumbled and set the drain pan back in place, then returned to Meghan. “Well, what do you think overall?”

“I like the design, but it’s not very clean. Maybe people aren’t coming because it’s messy?”

“Sure seems like it.” I waited a beat, but Meghan grew quiet.

“Here’s another perspective. As an owner, I think a couple of unbussed tables and some fruit left on the bar could be just a lousy closing job, but the buildup of debris on the floor and the presence of bugs tells me maintenance has been poor for a while.

So, my read? This isn’t any one crew’s fault. Would you see it differently?”

She nodded in agreement. “I think that makes sense.”

We reached the far side of the dining area and headed for the bathrooms, tucked in a corner. The tobacco pine walls, porcelain tile, and antique bronze fixtures were gorgeous. Most of the surfaces needed a good scrub, though, and one of the stalls lacked toilet paper.

“So again,” I said. “Who’s keeping tabs on things here? If customers see dirty bathrooms, they wonder what else is filthy. People don’t want to eat in a place that isn’t kept up. Management needs to be leading the team and setting standards.”

My frustration built, but it was mostly self-directed. I’d been so na?ve.

Marco made regular trips during construction, but once we opened, we had attempted to train leadership remotely.

No one had been on site to make sure the messages got through and processes were followed.

It clearly hadn’t worked. We invested monumental amounts of cash when we set up a new location and couldn’t afford to have slovenly operations and poor communication ruin everything.

Immediate changes would have to be made.

Irritated, but satisfied that we’d seen enough of the front, we walked toward a gap in the back wall and followed a short hallway through to the kitchen.

When we rounded the corner, I gasped.

The kitchen lay in an absurd state of disarray.

The foul odor of trash wafted from overflowing bins no one had emptied.

Crates of clean dishes and glassware had been stacked high on rolling carts then simply left in a jumble by the dishwashing station.

I couldn’t imagine how anyone functioned back here.

Tall piles of sealed cardboard boxes crowded the back door, cluttered the side walls, and even blocked the cooks’ access to the expo station.

Completely unacceptable . We might need to shutter the business for a day or two, while we overhauled the mess and got everything organized.

We squeezed past the boxes toward the galley kitchen, noticing the manager's office, which housed the safe, hadn’t even been secured for the night.

I reached in to close the door—and found a man slumped over the desk.

He was collapsed between piles of paper and awkwardly stacked plates littered with aging food. He’d grown a scraggly beard and looked more gaunt than I’d last seen him, but with that shag of sandy brown hair, this was unmistakably our manager, Bobby Boone.

“Is he okay?” Meghan whispered.

“I don’t know,” I breathed.

He was as still as a corpse, and his arms and face looked sickly pale, almost bloodless.

Did he have a heart attack while working late ? I knew Bobby had been strained, but I had no idea it would come to this.

Bile stirred in my stomach, and I cringed reflexively. But my responsibilities included everything and everyone in this building. I forced myself to step closer, no matter how morbid the circumstances.

I leaned over the desk, laid my hand across his limp wrist, and fingered his veins gingerly for a pulse.

No heartbeat fluttered beneath my touch.

His skin still felt lukewarm, though. He wasn’t in rigor mortis.

Please, please be alive.

I concentrated, squeezing harder against the flesh of his wrist, feeling around for even the faintest quickening of blood.

He leapt back.

His red-rimmed eyes came to life, bulging over purple half-moons of skin in a puffy, unkempt face. Bobby’s gaze darted wildly between Meghan and me, his breath coming in quick huffs.

“ We scared you! I’m so sorry .” The words burst from my mouth. We must have given him a terrible fright. I tried to sound calmer. “It’s me, Sammy. . . You’re safe. . . It’s okay.”

As I took in the scene, however, I realized it was not okay at all. A tiny mirror lay where his face had been, and a dusting of white powder speckled the surface of the desk. Alarm bells clanged like mad in my brain.

He stood up, a manic toothy smile quivering at his lips. “Oh. . . I know who you are.”

Not good. Not good at all.

We needed to get out of there—and quickly. “This is a bad time. We’ll be going.”

He pounced, trying to yank open a desk drawer, swearing violently when it stuck.

“Meghan, go!” I turned to shove her out the door, but she was already ahead of me, sprinting down the long galley kitchen, straight for a dead end. “Wait, honey, no!”

She didn’t seem to hear me. She scrambled full tilt toward the traffic jam of rolling dish racks.

She shoved on the stacked crates, and they clattered together futilely.

She started to cry and dashed in a blind panic down the prep hallway behind the galley.

My heart hammered so hard I thought it would explode, and I ran after her, praying the boxes mounded by the back door weren’t actually blocking the exit.

I could hear Bobby swearing irate curses and fumbling around with the desk, before running across the kitchen tiles, his squeaky footsteps disappearing into the dining area.

“Quick, Meghan, help me.”

Boxes were stacked four deep around the emergency exit, and they proved impossibly heavy. We strained to shove them away but couldn’t clear a path before Bobby’s angry footfalls squeaked across the kitchen tiles again.

He was too close.

I motioned for Meghan to crouch down and be quiet, and we tucked ourselves silently behind the boxes and clutter, hoping beyond hope that he was too high to find us.

I looked around frantically for a weapon—a knife, a heavy iron pan, anything. I scanned the counters but only saw mixers, potato dicers, and huge bags of dry goods.

Then it dawned on me. The pepper spray!

Footsteps crashed through the kitchen, jostling the crates of glassware and finally rounding the corner toward the prep hall.

Desperately digging in my purse, I found the shape of the canister but couldn’t get it out.

Was it stuck below the lining? I clawed at it, panicked, almost in tears. Please come free. Please!