Murder With A Chaser (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 2) by Belle Knudson

he?"
                  Frankie Meatballs looked off to the side. "Yeah."
                  "What happened there?"
                  "You Googled it. You tell me."
                  "From what I gather, the two of you agreed to meet somewhere and have a cook-off. Surprise ingredients, one hour to cook, the whole nine."
                  He kept looking away, and began moving his bottom lip like he had something stuck on the inside of it. "Mm hm."
                  "And..." I leaned forward. "Frankie, how do I put this delicately?"
                  He looked me straight in the eye. "I choked hard."
                  "It certainly seemed like it."
                  "Not my fault."
                  "I didn’t say it was."
                  "That little weasel stacked the audience with his fans. And he had somebody tip him off to what the secret ingredient would be."
                  "What was it again?"
                  He looked off to the side again, breathed heavily through his nose, and then said quietly, "An etrog."
                  "What was it?"
                  He blinked slowly, looked at me, and said, "An etrog."
                  I had to laugh. He didn’t seem amused. "What the hell?"
                  "It's an Israeli fruit, kinda like a lemon. I had no idea what to do with it. I tried using it as a pizza topping. I think that may have been my downfall."
                  "I'm sorry."
                  "It wouldn’t have been so bad if Campbell wasn't such a sore winner. The challenge started because he insulted me over Twitter. Called me a fake chef. I had to rise to the challenge. But then after the cook-off, he took to Twitter and said I proved him right. He mocked my dishes, my meatballs, and my restaurants. Called my restaurants an Italian hillbilly playground, now what the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?"
                  I stifled a giggle. "I don’t know."
                  "Well, I don’t have to worry about him, no more, I guess." His face then changed, as if he'd said too much. "Uh, listen, not that I'm glad he died, or how he died, you know, I'm just... hey, how do ya like those meatballs, huh? They’re my specialty. Frankie Meatballs, that's what they call me!"
                  I choked down another bite of congealed pork fat and sawdust. "Scrumptious," I said with no saliva left.
                  He rocked back on his chair, put his hands behind his head, and smiled.
     
    #
     
                  I returned to my office and a stack of paperwork like the Freedom Tower sitting on my desk. You'd be surprised how much of running a brewery is wrapped up in paper like this.
                  I got a call from the front that there was a man there to see me.
                  "Oh, hey, listen, does he look like Chris Evans?"
                  "Excuse me?" said my girl.
                  "You know, is he cute? Kinda rugged? Flawless face? Nice abs."
                  "Umm... no."
                  "He's standing right in front of you, isn’t he?"
                  "Yeah."
                  "Get his name for me."
                  I heard my girl ask, "Who shall I say is calling?" and a heard a man mumble.
                  "He says his name is Ward? Daniel Ward?"
                  Maisie's father? What was he doing here? Paperwork could wait for this one. "Send him up."
                  I got up from my desk and paced nervously. Then came the knock at the door.
                  "Come in," I shouted.
                  What came through the door was someone who looked only a little like the guy I saw the other day in